[ Stiles Stilinski of house Tully had been told that his mother had been part wildling by one of the cooks when he was six years old and sneaking down to steal lemon cakes from the kitchen. He didn't really care, because his mother was amazing, but the fact stuck with him that he had the blood of the wildlings in him.
And Stiles acted like it. He had always been a little too rowdy, a little too hyperactive. And apparently his father had taken notice, because a matchup had been arranged (without Stiles' permission, but what else was new), and the young prince of house Tully was bundled up in every piece of warm clothing and sent off to the North to meet up with the lead of a rogue group of men--supposedly, wargs--and to stay with them and become the "second" of their group; a supposedly advantageous position.
Stiles thought this was supposedly an excuse to send him off so he didn't embarrass the house at another Stark family dinner but you know what. Whatever.
So he's standing outside in the ice cold snow, shivering like a leaf, wrapped in only his cloak fastened with a silver trout. Derek Hale. Even the name sounded kind of terrifying.
Needless to say half the quaking was from cold; the other half was probably from nerves, anxiety and fright. Seven hells. He was supposed to basically get married to a bunch of people who were literally raised by wolves.]
[ Though there are many men and women alike in the North that are worthy matches for Derek, he's not interested in any of them. The only reasons, really, that he agreed to take on the boy from Riverrun are encouragement and a good standing with House Tully. It means allies in a distant place, should they ever find themselves in need of one. He can't really argue with that, despite his disinterest in actually having a lupa.
Hopefully this potential one is at least quick to learn.
Growing up in the North the way he has, he's used to the feeling of the chill against his skin. They all are, like true wolves in the tundra.
With one look at the southerner, Derek immediately wonders why no one thought to actually prepare him for the northern 'spring.' He might be bundled up as best as he can be, in their terms, but it just isn't enough, especially not for someone unaccustomed to their weather. Nevermind that even members of his pack are cold simply looking at him, as he moves about without a shirt on underneath his wolf-skin cloak.
Tipping the head of the cloak back, he approaches, followed by a few betas that regard Stiles with varying levels of interest and welcome. ]
[ Oh god. There are like four of them. Wolves are pack animals, his brain reminds him sweetly, and he tries to shove his hands in his pockets, to look a little more prepared. He hadn't come with an escort--simply a horse, who he'd been told to send off once he got close to the point of rendevouz. This entire plan felt. Well to be totally honest to Stiles it kind of felt like a death trap. He was pretty sure one of said four wildlings was literally going to eat him--as he went from beta, to beta, his eyes finally caught on the one that must have been the leader. ]
Holy god, it's a giant.
[....was what his traitorous mouth decided to spit out. He turned pink at the ears, even despite the chill, and stared at the giant man. Great, insulting the ""alpha"" from day one. His blood is about to make a lovely compliment to all this goddamn snow.
Derek Hale himself, aside from being giant and intimidating and apparently immune to the cold (what in seven hells), is actually decently attractive for Northern standards; dark hair, square jaw covered in stubble, ridiculous muscles. But what caught Stiles almost immediately were his eyes, ridiculously piercing and practically multicolored.
Needless to say, despite his less than wonderful insult, his mouth's still hanging open. ]
[ Slowly raising an eyebrow in response to the comment, Derek reaches his hand up to untie the chord keeping the cloak around his shoulders. Bringing it around with a faint, disdainful chuff, he comes closer to Stiles. Rather than give him retribution for what is, essentially, an insult, he pulls the cloak around his shoulders and ties it securely at his throat. He even goes so far as to bring the headed hood up, lined in rabbit fur, so that now-flushed ears are covered and hidden from the cold.
Gruff and obviously annoyed as he is, he's not about to let this idiot Southerner freeze to death. ]
You won't find giants so far this south.
[ It's a dry comment, as he assesses this... Stiles Stilinski. There's familiarity in some features of his face, traits from his wildling mother that Derek barely knew. A perked nose, full mouth, and the smattering of spots along his face. But his attention is drawn almost immediately by the wide, brown eyes, a strange warmth in the North.
He cocks his head slightly, ignoring the betas behind him as they murmur amongst one another in response to Stiles-- in general, and his outburst. ]
[ Oh. Oh god. Oh god that was basically just the marriage thing. When Stiles thought about his marriage someday he imagined himself swinging the house Tully cloak around the highborn princess from house Arryn (Hello, Lydia Arryn.)'s tiny shoulders and romancing her gallantly off her feet.
This was definitely not even close to that. This was a dead wolf getting flung around his shoulders by a huge, hulking dude who probably had more wolf than human in him.
And seriously, you'd think he could look a little happier, or something. The cloak is admittedly warm, but Derek definitely isn't the only one who's irritated. This sucks, and it's getting worse by the second, he's literally been left to live with the wolves. And so, when he snaps, it's almost unsurprising. ]
Really? Because you look about as brutish as one. [ And it just keeps coming. Stiles is pretty much the king of foot in mouth syndrome, but he's justified some damn anger here.
Even if he's about ten times warmer now than he was five minutes ago. ]
[ There's a pause, for a moment, as Derek takes note of his reaction just before the snap. The customs of the seven kingdoms are completely lost on someone from the wilds, so he can only briefly furrow his brows before he simply looks at Stiles with that comeback. Of course the betas bristle, he can tell without looking at them, but he simply chuffs and leans in towards Stiles a little, a predatory tilt to his head. ]
Funny, I make them seem nice. [ It's said in a low rumble, more growled than spoken, and likely further emphasizes that he's literally amongst men that are more wolf than human.
But he doesn't raise a hand to silence him, and rather uses it to hook his fingers in the cloak to guide him towards the path that he'd taken to come up to the rendezvous point. Though it's not much of a path now, in the snowfall around them, that doesn't change the fact they know exactly where they need to go. ]
[ Oh merciful Mother he is not going to survive the night. Stiles is mentally wincing at his stupid mouth that is probably going to have him skinned and turned into one of these cloaks himself. At least his stupid spots'll make nice ornamentation.
However, despite the fact that Derek's up in his face? He's mad, and hell yes it's scary, but he's not that intimidated. Stiles has stood up to his fair share of bullies in his life, and he snipes right back--] Do you make them look competent, too? [ Before he gets grabbed. That does elict a "holy gods!" out of him, but he stumbles forward and shoves his hands in the pockets of his jerkin, starting to make his way down the path a little warily.
[ That elicits a start of a snarl from at least one beta, the others looking between Derek and Stiles warily, but Derek just raises his other hand dismissively. Right now, they don't have time for this. Posturing and growling in front of the Tully prince isn't going to get them any nearer to where the pack has set up camp, much further into the wilds. They need to be moving, if they intend to survive the night with all members intact.
Including this grating, smart mouthed idiot. ]
Few things can make a giant look competent. You, however, might be able to do the trick nicely. [ His attention shifts ahead again, and he begins to make his way through the snow with very little effort. ]
That, or we can use you to barter with them. You're just enough to be used as a toothpick.
How exactly are you planning on doing that? Someone has to be the brains of the operation. [ And yet he continues to snipe right back at him, seemingly unbothered by the posturing. In fact, this is kind of...weirdly enjoyable? It's hard to explain. Either way, he's more than happy to mouth right off to Derek, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets and trying to stay warm. Even with the cloak, he's shivering hard enough that he has to keep his teeth from chattering, and he shrinks back a little into the massive hooded cloak.
And you're assuming that's you. [ Though Derek is, oddly, fine with the shooting exchange beyond finding it grating in some aspects, he thinks it might be best for Stiles to conserve the energy he's exerting for the trek ahead of them. For them, it's nothing. For him? ] When you're the one opening your mouth in foreign territory, where we can just leave you in the middle of the snow.
Mm, definite brains. [ Eying him as he shivers, he lifts his hand up to set between his shoulders and guide him forward. It's not much, but he still radiates heat much more than the other packmates do. Or anything else up in the North, for that matter. ]
I'm already assuming that I'm going to be dead by the end of the day so it's a moot point, might as well go down swinging. [ Well it's true. The hand between his shoulderblades makes him jump and his muscles twitch involuntarily; it's obvious that he's jumpy as hell. The hand's surprisingly warm, even through the thick fur, and he tries not to lean back into it.
Still, despite that, he can't seem to stop opening his mouth. As Derek might learn quickly, it's nearly impossible. ] And for the record, my mouth is my only defense in a world of. [ And that's when he notices the uh. ] Teeth.
At the rate you're going? [ At some point, he's likely to snap and take Stiles down a peg, but right now Derek doesn't feel a particular inclination towards it. This is new-- very few members of the pack really stand up to him in this sort of way, and Stiles is so very different from them in so many different ways.
Cocking an eyebrow at him, he glances down at the ring of teeth around his neck on a leather chord. There's a good number of them, all canines belonging to predators they've found in the North. It's amusing, to say the least. ] You'll learn who sits where in the pack based on the teeth.
So that puts me in a snowdrift. [Well it probably does. He makes a face that's pretty horrified at the number of teeth, because ew, those were in something's mouth and the worst he's ever dealt with at Riverrun were fish.
Which didn't have teeth.
(Or the occasional squirrel. God he would kill to see a squirrel right now. Or something that wasn't cold, frozen death.)
Either way, he's seemingly a little less on edge. For now. Derek could probably stab him in half a second if he felt like it but he's starting to relax a little--being warmer is helping his nerves.]
More than likely. [ They were in something's mouth, but they've been cleaned and polished since then. There's a whole process to this, Stiles, and you'll come to learn that, too. But Derek isn't particularly bothered by the look he gets for the teeth, and instead continues to follow after the betas in front of them.
The frozen trees are hardly different in appearance, but they still know that they're heading in the right direction. They don't need indicators, not when it's so ingrained into their instincts. He has doubts, that this southern-born prince will be able to pick up that same instinct even with a supposedly wildling mother, but only time will tell.
For now, he doesn't seem particularly inclined towards stabbing him yet. ]
I'm going to die by the end of the night. [ That he says a little morosely, and shifts his small pack over his shoulder. There's nothing exciting in it--just an old book of stories from Riverrun. It had been a gift from his father before he'd set off on his journey, and Stiles was pretty sure that it was going to be his last salvation of actual civilization; not to mention, a memory from back home. He brings it around front and clutches it under the cloak, holding tight.
Yeah, okay. This is really scary. He's starting to regret opening his stupid damn mouth, and the slight tremor in his hands against the book is definitely not just from the cold. Stiles is too young to die. There are too many things he hasn't done.
Even when he stops paying attention, however, he keeps up with the group, sharp brown eyes darting around and trying to remember their path. He wouldn't call it instinct--observant, maybe. ]
I didn't say that, specifically. But, the day's still young. [ Where Stiles is observant of their surroundings, Derek is observing him. He looks at the bag, considering him and his grip on the book. It certainly isn't the last piece of civilization in the North, but they don't exactly have libraries where they could use the books for warmth.
Still, once he finds out... ]
What's that you've got.
[ He's calm, when he asks, versus his quiet dryness and annoyance from before. ]
Oh no. [ No you are not taking his book. Reflexively, his arms tighten around the satchel, but he reluctantly lets his grip ease and lifts the top open, as carefully as possible to keep the new-falling snow from landing on the pages. The tome is old as anything, and he opens it just enough for Derek to see the cover--Songs and Histories of the Seven Kingdoms--before he shuts it again. ] The last vestiges of my humanity.
I don't plan on taking it, relax. [ He says it flatly, watching him and dropping his eyes down to look at the book with interest and quiet curiosity. An idle thought plants itself in his mind, to collect the books they have and bring them to his tent. As gruff as he is, and reluctant about everything as he feels, he's not cruel. Not really. ] Keep it covered.
That's exactly what I was trying to do, thanks. [ And you get your first Stiles Eyeroll (tm), head motion fully included. Naturally that makes the hood flop back off his head but you know what. Worth it.
He tucks the book carefully back under his arm, adjusting the strap. Man. This is going to be great. G r e a t.]
But with only an annoyed rumble, Derek reaches his hand up from between Stiles' shoulders to grab hold of the hood's head. He brings it roughly up to smack onto Stiles' head again, admonishing his response with restrained irritation.
It's going to be a long couple of hours back to camp. ]
[ The walk does take hours. It's hours of bickering and snapping and Stiles will admit it, the whole idea of probably dying in the next twelve hours is making him kinda bitchy.
Every barb seems to get deeper and more personal, and he snipes something about an inability to inspire much confidence as they finally make their way up to camp. It's a bitchy enough comment that he doesn't even take his time to marvel upon the camp itself. ]
[ The continued bickering and snapping and bitching really isn't working well in Stiles' favor at the moment, leaving Derek's nerves frayed and tension seeping into every muscle and bone in his body. A part of him really wants to just dump the southernborn down in a snowdrift and leave him there. He notices the betas moving further and further ahead of them the longer that the exchange goes on, almost as if they're skittish.
Not that he blames them, the anger is slowly surfacing beneath the idle aggravation.
Finally, Stiles makes one snipe too many, and he snaps his hand up to take hold of the back of his neck, pinning him against the nearest surface. It's rough, but it isn't nearly as violent as it could be. ]
[ And there it is, the moment of aggression and violence he'd honestly been expecting the whole time. Stiles' heartbeat ratchets up as he practically gets a mouth full of tree bark, already feeling it scratch up at his face, and seven hells, he's probably going to die right this very second.
Despite the fact that he's scared half out of his wits, his brow furrows and he matches Derek's expression with an impressively harsh one of his own, defiant almost, eyes brighter than ever. ]
Go ahead, kill me now, you're just gonna prove my point. [ He was right...But he would really like it if Derek didn't kill him. ]
[ Leaning in close to get a good view of Stiles' face and his reaction-- though he can smell the fear on him, Derek can see the defiance clear as day there in his eyes. His own seem to change, but for all anyone knows it's a trick of the firelights that surround the camp in spitting torches and fogged lanterns.
He scans his face, jaw set and brow furrowed as he visibly bristles, lip curling in what's initially a silent snarl. But his words come out more growled than spoken again, and his grip tightens through the thick fur of his cloak against the shape of Stiles' neck through it. ]
You know nothing. [ But just like that, his hand is gone and he lets Stiles stand on his feet properly. ] If I wanted you dead, I would have left you out in the wilds for the strays to take care of.
[ Red, red, he swore he saw it. The mere sight is enough to make Stiles swallow a lump in his throat, but he still doesn't shrink back, even at the suddenly tighter grip at his hand--
And then he's righted back to normal, and he brushes himself off. It's kind of a curious thing, really, that Derek hasn't completely offed him yet, and he's feeling a little. Confident? Underneath what is a lot of shellshock and terror.
Huh.
Before he can respond again, he just manages a "yeah", and takes a step forward to look at the camp, obviously curious.]
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IT BEGINS.
And Stiles acted like it. He had always been a little too rowdy, a little too hyperactive. And apparently his father had taken notice, because a matchup had been arranged (without Stiles' permission, but what else was new), and the young prince of house Tully was bundled up in every piece of warm clothing and sent off to the North to meet up with the lead of a rogue group of men--supposedly, wargs--and to stay with them and become the "second" of their group; a supposedly advantageous position.
Stiles thought this was supposedly an excuse to send him off so he didn't embarrass the house at another Stark family dinner but you know what. Whatever.
So he's standing outside in the ice cold snow, shivering like a leaf, wrapped in only his cloak fastened with a silver trout. Derek Hale. Even the name sounded kind of terrifying.
Needless to say half the quaking was from cold; the other half was probably from nerves, anxiety and fright. Seven hells. He was supposed to basically get married to a bunch of people who were literally raised by wolves.]
WELCOME TO THE NORTH.
Hopefully this potential one is at least quick to learn.
Growing up in the North the way he has, he's used to the feeling of the chill against his skin. They all are, like true wolves in the tundra.
With one look at the southerner, Derek immediately wonders why no one thought to actually prepare him for the northern 'spring.' He might be bundled up as best as he can be, in their terms, but it just isn't enough, especially not for someone unaccustomed to their weather. Nevermind that even members of his pack are cold simply looking at him, as he moves about without a shirt on underneath his wolf-skin cloak.
Tipping the head of the cloak back, he approaches, followed by a few betas that regard Stiles with varying levels of interest and welcome. ]
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Holy god, it's a giant.
[....was what his traitorous mouth decided to spit out. He turned pink at the ears, even despite the chill, and stared at the
giantman. Great, insulting the ""alpha"" from day one. His blood is about to make a lovely compliment to all this goddamn snow.Derek Hale himself, aside from being giant and intimidating and apparently immune to the cold (what in seven hells), is actually decently attractive for Northern standards; dark hair, square jaw covered in stubble, ridiculous muscles. But what caught Stiles almost immediately were his eyes, ridiculously piercing and practically multicolored.
Needless to say, despite his less than wonderful insult, his mouth's still hanging open. ]
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Gruff and obviously annoyed as he is, he's not about to let this idiot Southerner freeze to death. ]
You won't find giants so far this south.
[ It's a dry comment, as he assesses this... Stiles Stilinski. There's familiarity in some features of his face, traits from his wildling mother that Derek barely knew. A perked nose, full mouth, and the smattering of spots along his face. But his attention is drawn almost immediately by the wide, brown eyes, a strange warmth in the North.
He cocks his head slightly, ignoring the betas behind him as they murmur amongst one another in response to Stiles-- in general, and his outburst. ]
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This was definitely not even close to that. This was a dead wolf getting flung around his shoulders by a huge, hulking dude who probably had more wolf than human in him.
And seriously, you'd think he could look a little happier, or something. The cloak is admittedly warm, but Derek definitely isn't the only one who's irritated. This sucks, and it's getting worse by the second, he's literally been left to live with the wolves. And so, when he snaps, it's almost unsurprising. ]
Really? Because you look about as brutish as one. [ And it just keeps coming. Stiles is pretty much the king of foot in mouth syndrome, but he's justified some damn anger here.
Even if he's about ten times warmer now than he was five minutes ago. ]
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Funny, I make them seem nice. [ It's said in a low rumble, more growled than spoken, and likely further emphasizes that he's literally amongst men that are more wolf than human.
But he doesn't raise a hand to silence him, and rather uses it to hook his fingers in the cloak to guide him towards the path that he'd taken to come up to the rendezvous point. Though it's not much of a path now, in the snowfall around them, that doesn't change the fact they know exactly where they need to go. ]
Go, before you freeze.
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However, despite the fact that Derek's up in his face? He's mad, and hell yes it's scary, but he's not that intimidated. Stiles has stood up to his fair share of bullies in his life, and he snipes right back--] Do you make them look competent, too? [ Before he gets grabbed. That does elict a "holy gods!" out of him, but he stumbles forward and shoves his hands in the pockets of his jerkin, starting to make his way down the path a little warily.
He's so dead. He is so dead.]
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Including this grating, smart mouthed idiot. ]
Few things can make a giant look competent. You, however, might be able to do the trick nicely. [ His attention shifts ahead again, and he begins to make his way through the snow with very little effort. ]
That, or we can use you to barter with them. You're just enough to be used as a toothpick.
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Man this place sucks.]
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Mm, definite brains. [ Eying him as he shivers, he lifts his hand up to set between his shoulders and guide him forward. It's not much, but he still radiates heat much more than the other packmates do. Or anything else up in the North, for that matter. ]
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Still, despite that, he can't seem to stop opening his mouth. As Derek might learn quickly, it's nearly impossible. ] And for the record, my mouth is my only defense in a world of. [ And that's when he notices the uh. ] Teeth.
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Cocking an eyebrow at him, he glances down at the ring of teeth around his neck on a leather chord. There's a good number of them, all canines belonging to predators they've found in the North. It's amusing, to say the least. ] You'll learn who sits where in the pack based on the teeth.
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Which didn't have teeth.
(Or the occasional squirrel. God he would kill to see a squirrel right now. Or something that wasn't cold, frozen death.)
Either way, he's seemingly a little less on edge. For now. Derek could probably stab him in half a second if he felt like it but he's starting to relax a little--being warmer is helping his nerves.]
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The frozen trees are hardly different in appearance, but they still know that they're heading in the right direction. They don't need indicators, not when it's so ingrained into their instincts. He has doubts, that this southern-born prince will be able to pick up that same instinct even with a supposedly wildling mother, but only time will tell.
For now, he doesn't seem particularly inclined towards stabbing him yet. ]
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Yeah, okay. This is really scary. He's starting to regret opening his stupid damn mouth, and the slight tremor in his hands against the book is definitely not just from the cold. Stiles is too young to die. There are too many things he hasn't done.
Even when he stops paying attention, however, he keeps up with the group, sharp brown eyes darting around and trying to remember their path. He wouldn't call it instinct--observant, maybe. ]
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Still, once he finds out... ]
What's that you've got.
[ He's calm, when he asks, versus his quiet dryness and annoyance from before. ]
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He tucks the book carefully back under his arm, adjusting the strap. Man. This is going to be great. G r e a t.]
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But with only an annoyed rumble, Derek reaches his hand up from between Stiles' shoulders to grab hold of the hood's head. He brings it roughly up to smack onto Stiles' head again, admonishing his response with restrained irritation.
It's going to be a long couple of hours back to camp. ]
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Every barb seems to get deeper and more personal, and he snipes something about an inability to inspire much confidence as they finally make their way up to camp. It's a bitchy enough comment that he doesn't even take his time to marvel upon the camp itself. ]
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Not that he blames them, the anger is slowly surfacing beneath the idle aggravation.
Finally, Stiles makes one snipe too many, and he snaps his hand up to take hold of the back of his neck, pinning him against the nearest surface. It's rough, but it isn't nearly as violent as it could be. ]
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Despite the fact that he's scared half out of his wits, his brow furrows and he matches Derek's expression with an impressively harsh one of his own, defiant almost, eyes brighter than ever. ]
Go ahead, kill me now, you're just gonna prove my point. [ He was right...But he would really like it if Derek didn't kill him. ]
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He scans his face, jaw set and brow furrowed as he visibly bristles, lip curling in what's initially a silent snarl. But his words come out more growled than spoken again, and his grip tightens through the thick fur of his cloak against the shape of Stiles' neck through it. ]
You know nothing. [ But just like that, his hand is gone and he lets Stiles stand on his feet properly. ] If I wanted you dead, I would have left you out in the wilds for the strays to take care of.
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And then he's righted back to normal, and he brushes himself off. It's kind of a curious thing, really, that Derek hasn't completely offed him yet, and he's feeling a little. Confident? Underneath what is a lot of shellshock and terror.
Huh.
Before he can respond again, he just manages a "yeah", and takes a step forward to look at the camp, obviously curious.]
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