[Within the home and district of those lovely, peaceful humanitarians, there lays a nefarious beast, a man who doesn't quite belong, or so he thinks. His face needs a shave, his hair needs a cut, and his clothes really could be less thrift shopping, but he doesn't seem to care so much. This is his person suit, this guy who looks scruffy and a little awkward, just some guy who doesn't have a sense of fashion to speak of. For all intents and purposes, he'd be better off in a small cabin with a boat he made himself. There's nothing dangerous in him, or so it seems. But his person suit? Just so happens to contain a jacket, and that jacket has the true design of this monstrous creature of fear and murderous intent: an inner pocket that is never without a small bag of bacon nestled on the inside, right next to his beating, pounding, not-yet-on-the-menu heart.
He's so used to putting it there he no longer thinks about it. Putting it in his jacket is just like putting on the rest of his clothes, a cologne of eau de where are the dogs and dog-like creatures I have not yet stolen found that people might just assume was Will having spent time making breakfast before he went out. To him, this subtle method of wooing other people's companions is about on par with cooking breakfast. Easy. Part of a regular day.
Whether or not he realizes his design attracts animals the same as he can use it to feed them if he comes across them isn't so easy.
What is easy to see? A direwolf (he can tell that much by now, having been such good bacon-swapping friends with Grey Wind and adorning him with flower crowns during a fiery funeral) bounding up next to him, whimpering, tail thumping around him, circling him and making him stop. Fear? Will has fear, has it in buckets and jars and vats, a house made of fear, hallucinations that give him nightmares following his every step, but for the new direwolf nipping the air in front of his heart? He doesn't have or feel any of it. He doesn't have eyes for anyone but her, either, and it's not until he's pulled that baggie out of his jacket and squatted down to feed her out of his hand without worrying if he'll keep any fingers that he hears the sound of a girl shouting behind him. He looks over his shoulder, still feeding her, still seemingly not at all afraid to have one of those vicious creatures nipping at his fingers. His fingers! No fear!]
She yours? [It's friendly, unfazed by the entire situation, it's like he's talking about a puppy for all the terror he shows.] That makes you one of Robb Stark's sisters, right?
[Still not bothered when she gingerly gnaws at the hand holding that bag, nope. No fear.]
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He's so used to putting it there he no longer thinks about it. Putting it in his jacket is just like putting on the rest of his clothes, a cologne of eau de where are the dogs and dog-like creatures I have not yet
stolenfound that people might just assume was Will having spent time making breakfast before he went out. To him, this subtle method of wooing other people's companions is about on par with cooking breakfast. Easy. Part of a regular day.Whether or not he realizes his design attracts animals the same as he can use it to feed them if he comes across them isn't so easy.
What is easy to see? A direwolf (he can tell that much by now, having been such good bacon-swapping friends with Grey Wind and adorning him with flower crowns during a fiery funeral) bounding up next to him, whimpering, tail thumping around him, circling him and making him stop. Fear? Will has fear, has it in buckets and jars and vats, a house made of fear, hallucinations that give him nightmares following his every step, but for the new direwolf nipping the air in front of his heart? He doesn't have or feel any of it. He doesn't have eyes for anyone but her, either, and it's not until he's pulled that baggie out of his jacket and squatted down to feed her out of his hand without worrying if he'll keep any fingers that he hears the sound of a girl shouting behind him. He looks over his shoulder, still feeding her, still seemingly not at all afraid to have one of those vicious creatures nipping at his fingers. His fingers! No fear!]
She yours? [It's friendly, unfazed by the entire situation, it's like he's talking about a puppy for all the terror he shows.] That makes you one of Robb Stark's sisters, right?
[Still not bothered when she gingerly gnaws at the hand holding that bag, nope. No fear.]