“Ought to be enough to make some proper gloves, don’t you think?” He hoisted up the two brown rabbits he’d managed to kill on his morning hunt, a cheeky sort of grin plastered on his face. “Maybe you’ll be needin’ some if winter is really coming.”
Courtesy faltered, stumbling over the bloodied, matted fur hanging in triumph from an Ironborn fist. Only Arya desired to know every gruesome detail of a hunt; her elder sister remained quite content with cooked meat and clean pelts. “Father never lies,” she told him delicately, head craning in appraisal. “I suppose they will do quite nicely Theon, thank you. Of course, a tanner shall have to properly tend them first.” At her side fingers drummed, rejecting any notion of handling the creatures themselves.
Theon thumbed over the kraken embroidered over his doublet, it wasn’t often he wore one with any sigil, but that day he’d felt nearly sentimental. Missing the rock and salt, the high winds that tore across the sea and whipped his hair back. It was a small token, one gifted to him by Lord Stark, but it was all he had left to remind him of his home other than his reflection. Was it truly home, he often thought, or simply a collection of memories, sensations, and scents? He had more to call home within the walls of Winterfell.
Still thumbing over his own embroidered piece, he wondered how long it must’ve taken. To match each stitch so perfectly as Sansa was doing on her own needle-point. “Stars on Lady’s collar?” He questioned, looking around for the direwolf. “Why have you chosen stars?” It was an innocent question, one asked out of curiosity rather than to patronize. “You may be a little right,” Theon went on to laugh, Bran was not as skilled with a bow. “Perhaps it’s not about difficulty, but rather, what we excel at. I confess I cannot climb the way your brother does and he cannot shoot a bow as well as I can.
Sansa chose stars because they pleased her, an excuse to use the thread she had so prettily pleaded with her lady mother to acquire. A great many choices she made with no calculation, no set end envisioned — her mockery of Arya alongside Jeyne a notable example, actions oft born out of irritation or boredom rather than abject hatred. Though this was not to say Lord Stark’s eldest daughter lacked sufficient wit; only that, as children were wont to do, she often selected whichever path offered the least resistance. And Sansa could hardly admit such whimsy to her father’s ward, so swiftly did her mind turn, examining all possible explanations for one suitably impressive.
“They mean to stand in representation of the gods,” she told him sagely. “For surely no other power could have guided you to Lady’s litter, nor be more deserving in recognition of their blessing.” Iron Islanders worshiped the Drowned God, Sansa knew from her lessons. At times she pitied the elder boy, in a soft, regretful way, saddened to imagine a time when she might no longer know home’s comforts, its steadiness and protection. “A sword is truly what he ought practice in.” All within Winterfell’s walls knew of the boy’s wish to become a knight. “Although certainly Ser Rodrik knows better than I what Bran requires improvement in. Or perhaps,” she told him with a faint smile, “he merely hopes another might challenge your skill at the bow.”
qhorin nods. so soon indeed. the watch is not what it once was && there are rangers gone missing. not to mention the old bear SUSPECTS mance rayder is plotting a thing, and mormont’s usually right.
❛ no. lord commander mormont intends to STRENGTHEN the numbers on the wall. ❜
they don’t have the numbers, nor the resources to open another castle. a PAINFUL thing && if it depended on him, he would’ve done something. but he knows the old bear is trying his best.
❛ there are many, all sealed, but it consumes many resources to put them in use again. resources we do not have. ❜
Bran would delight to hear such tales; if this black brother stayed to sup at Winterfell no doubt the young boy would spend hours pleading for another gruff regaling of those stories Old Nan had told a thousand times. Yet even she felt important now, privy to an officer’s plans, no matter how trivial or public such knowledge might prove to be.
“Oh, but Father would find great displeasure in hearing of the Watch’s woes.” Every Starkling knew the men who manned the Wall stood great friends to the realm, and to Winterfell in turn; though Sansa suspected such great respect came partly from knowing her half-brother would one day take his solemn vows amongst their number, she revered them all the same. “We Starks have ever considered ourselves staunch allies to the Watch; he would wish to give whatever aid he could.”
she’s a PERFECT lady, ‘t is obvious to him from the first second. despite being SURROUNDED by criminals, lowborn SCUM and plenty of things he dare not name in the presence of lady sansa stark, he has not forgotten how to behave properly in the presence of lords && ladies.
not a man to talk often, the halfhand solemnly nods, acknowledging his name && the compliment.wary he is when in these LORDLY courts. they are not his HOME, nor will they ever be.
❛ the night’s watch needs more men.❜
Not privy to chatter on the Watch’s current state, she could not fathom how different Winterfell must seem to one whose life revolved about a castle decidedly less noble. Though some thieves and unwanted bastards donned cloth of raven’s wing still Sansa believed in what ancient goodness ran through that brotherhood, espoused so prettily in songs of heroes and fair maids. Half-brother though he was, Lord Eddard would not condemn poor Jon to a fate at all terrible in nature.
Wordlessly she forgave the black brother his lack of further flattery. Northern men had not the flowered tongues of southron knights. Driven half to tears by waiting, the girl knew better than ever to reprimand another for her failed expectations, least of all a guest awaiting her father’s audience. “So soon?” she quearied, not at all aware of when last they might have asked. “Do you mean to open another castle? Septa Mordane taught us that several stand abandoned all along the Wall.”
it’s no secret he rather stays on the wall, but he’s one of the few familiar enough
— save for benjen
—
with the stark lords to convince them once again it’s WINTERFELL&& the WATCH that must defend the realm from whatever that lurks beyond.
not lord stark he finds, but SANSA. she has the tully eyes, but still lord eddard stark’s look. the HALFHAND takes off his hood in honor, maimed hand visible under the ragged grays (once it had been BLACK) he dons. ❛ are you sansa stark?❜
Recognition ever delighted eldest Stark daughter, come it from commoner or lord alike. In her resemblance to fair mother she took great satisfaction, knowing well what beauty Lady Catelyn held in youth and continued to boast of long after removing herself to the frigid North.
Smiling, already delighted by one who so clearly serves with an uncle atop the Wall, Sansa offered the stranger a perfect curtsy. “Indeed, ‘tis so. And I must guess that you are no other than the valiant Qhorin, ranger of the Night’s Watch.” Though she knew far batter than to stare, ‘twas obvious what wound he bore upon one hand. “What is it that had brought you so far south?”
“ Because… I am far too TIRED to deal with lions and stags—“
{ a lie }
” You mean the Crown Prince? I am certain his… grace will be most smitten with you. “
“Oh but then you must rest, princess! If not for the royal party’s arrival then surely for what feast shall follow. I — I could not presume to understand how their visit must call to mind your house’s pain, though I must hope you do not think there stands any intention to continue it.”
“ Would that I could stay inside until the king’s party left. “
“Whyever should you wish for that, hm? He shall only pay us a moment’s attention before lumbering off with Father; ‘tis the queen whom I should most like to meet…and her son.”
Theon continued to stare, something he was sure to be shouted at if caught by the ever looming presence of Septa Mordane. Had he not come to gain a slight CHILL from the weather, he would be out in the yard practicing with his bow, or simply milling about seeking the attention that young women offered. Yet, he was ILL and very much not in the mood to do either of those things.
“You make it look so very EASY,” he answered softly. Not wishing to arise any suspicion. “What exactly is it that you are creating? A sky at dusk?” From the distance apart that they were seated and the angle at which she held the cloth she worked upon, he could barely make out the small gold stars that etched across the cloth. “Archery is MUCH easier than what you are working on, m’lady, that much I assure you.” A smile mimicked Sansa’s when their eyes met for the briefest of moments as she looked up. He wasn’t TRYING to distract her at all.
Whilst quietly assured of her own superiority to wild-blooded sister, Sansa nonetheless felt perplexed whenever one of the boys — other than Robb — saw fit to seek her out. She shared none of their boisterous whims nor their aspirations towards valor, as Arya often did; with all her lady mother’s poise the girl instead strove to remain a measured observer, unswayed by the fluctuating humors of men. Though such gentility might render her stoic or aloof towards all activity, indeed Sansa found great joy in her daily occupations, be they lessons, frolicsome jaunts, or sessions of twittering gossip shared with Jeyne. Yet none of those necessitated the presence of Theon, now so studiously bent over one shoulder.
Her smile faltered, then brightened ever the more, for Sansa had considered nothing other than how thread and ribbon complimented one another. Had Arya asked, in her belligerent way, what the girl was sewing she would have, of course, spun some fantastic vision held all along. For warded kraken to take such swift, imaginative notice momentarily surprised the girl, courtesy swiftly smoothing over impolite astonishment. “Merely stars,” she admitted sheepishly, tilting the ribbon further for his inspection. “Lady’s collar has grown quite tattered, and I finished septa’s assignment earlier than all the others!” Of course it is, if Arya might excel at it. Yet Sansa stayed her tongue. “Nonsense, for I have seen Bran work quite doggedly with his bow. It must be near as difficult as the sword to master.”
❛ Are you done ? ❜ Her tone was filled with annoyance. Twisted words cross her lips ( muttering them to herself ), patience slipping from her fingertips, as the young Stark paced across the room.Balled up fists press against her hips , loosing herself within demon’s grip. She never quite understood the need to spend so much time on one’s appearance.Time is gone in these loathsome acts, when it’s nothing but a false pretense for her.
Though she offered no biting retort to filial impatience a careful observer might note how the elder girl’s hands tightened nigh imperceptibly about brush’s handle, how her jaw squared more firmly, mouth set in a determined line to hear such puerile moaning. Mayhaps one’s hair matter little when an afternoon ride turned into a careening gallop through the woods, as Arya was often wont to do, but Sansa conducted herself with more decorum. “I told you — just a minute longer! Perhaps if you brushed your hair more often it would come back full of brambles and tangles less often, hm?”
Robb was speaking with his lady mother, talking with her on some matter that Theon could care less for at the moment. He was far too mesmerized by the quick, methodical movements that the eldest Stark girl held within her hands. Nimble and delicate.
“How do you focus intently on such a boring task?” The words surprised even the Greyjoy, for he had not meant to speak them aloud. It was too late though for him to take them back, he tried instead to cover with a poor compliment. “It’s very pretty.”
Septa Mordane rather misliked when her charges mingled, girls and boys both distracted from their lessons by the childish imperative of socializing. Stark’s eldest daughter took such disapproval to heart, pointedly abstaining when others might dare to try the woman’s patience, sneaking off for treats or to watch the young men spar. Yet not even fear of hissed censure could force the girl into uncouth silence, no matter that Theon truly oughtn’t be there at all.
“These stitches prove themselves more challenging than you might believe,” Sansa assured him mildly, eyes still fixed upon her work. Though now her wolf wore discarded ribbons about its collar once meant for her hair, she meant for Lady to bear far more dignified trappings by the time King Robert came to call. Along a festive length of peach cloth she had already sewn several stars in thread-of-gold, whilst many remained before Sansa might progress to another pattern. “Though not so difficult as archery,” she conceding, looking up long enough to grace him with a smile, “of course.”
Rodrik walked in the deserted courtyard with lazy steps, the only sound to be heard around him being rustling of leaves and the crunching of the summer snows beneath his boots. The sun was yet to rise, but by the colour of the sky, he judged it couldn’t be too far away. A sudden gust of wind and appearance of a dry chill made him tighten his cloak around his body and grimace in distaste. He was used to wind, he grew up with its howls outside of Pyke. But the chill here was different. It didn’t carry the smell of salt with it, and it was so fierce that it settled in one’s bones.
Near ten years of being a ‘ward’ of Winterfell, Rodrik still loathed its smells, its grounds and most of its people. People here were full of scorn and prickly in their honour, and even the smallest of bawdy jests made one receive a look of disdain and pursed lips. Robb wasn’t so bad, neither was Jory Cassel, and lately he’d come to notice that the youngest Stark girl was amusing in her own way. Had she been ironborn, she’d grow up to crew her own ship like they say Asha does, I wager. She’d end up being wasted in some fat, old lordling’s bed, like it or not. These greenlanders. Who can understand them?
Still, Rodrik knew he was accorded more comfort than most hostages were across the kingdoms, and he was ever grateful for Lord Stark’s tendency to ignore him, and the presence of a certain ‘inn’ in Winter Town. Elsewise this place would be even more unbearable than it already was. It was from the said place he was returning now, and from the way a guard hailed him with a knowing smirk on his face, it was hardly an uncommon knowledge. He returned the guard’s greeting with a curt nod, not even bothering to slow down his walk. His eyes darted left and right, more out of habit than anything else. It was very rare to see anyone but a few guardsmen and even fewer servants at this hour. People of this land liked to sleep in more than the ironborn, he’d discovered, no doubt to prevent from getting their body parts freze and fall off from their damned weather.
That’s why it came as a great surprise to him to spy a small figure darting out of the First Keep, her auburn hair streaming behind her. He actually came to a halt as he watched the familiar girl look this way and that nervously, hurrying towards the side-gate that was usually reserved for kitchen servants. He would have laughed if he dared – it wasn’t in this perfect little lady to break her parents’ rules about bedtimes like this. It was usually the younger girl they found hiding and wandering in places she shouldn’t. She was off giggling and gossipping somewhere with the steward’s whelp, he judged. Though by the way she’s acting you’d think she sold her sister to the Others.
“Sansa,” Rodrik made his presence known loudly, his face adorned with his trademark grin, “What brings you out of your chambers so early? A little lady shouldn’t wander about by her own in at this hour.”
Through no choice of her own Sansa tip-toed along corridors warmed by smoldering grates, latent heat rising up from self-same hearths which kept the godswood springs steaming even at Winter’s height. While silvery direwolf remained far better behaved than her sibling’s companions — mayhaps, if fairness required, with the exception of her eldest brother’s wolf, already possessed of the lordly poise Robb would one day wield in their father’s stead — there were times when an enticing scruffle of paws or talons just on the edge of her hearing beckoned Lady to prowl.
Should Septa Mordane hear tell of such misbehavior she would surely order the beast confined to her mistress’ chambers, or worse, the kennels. Though he knew more of hounds than wolves, Farlen assured those six expectant faces gazing up at him that firm training, alongside a measure of patient oftentimes lacking in those of such young age, would soon see their wild pups as loyal as any hunting dog. Until Lady settled from her skittish ways, Sansa determined to hide such small indiscretions from those who hoped for any excuse to remove what they believed were dangerous creatures. She would still come when called, sit docilely as the girl worked at her stitches, never wandered the keep with a muddied, brier-studded coat like some of her siblings. Lady was good.
From across frost-bitten yard Sansa spied a swishing tail, stationary, just before the distant gate into hallowed ground; a squirrel or bird, perchance, had captured lupine attention. Yet as she crept forward, fingers splayed with anticipation in the furred sleeve of her dressing gown, jaunty voice caused girl and wolf alike to jump. Rodrik. Taking after a mother’s skepticism, Sansa looked on the ward with a mixture of mistrust and tolerance; in many ways Lord Stark treated the boy as if of his own blood, yet the specter of rebellion, of Northern death, lingered well after krakens returned to shadowy depths, leaving behind one of their own in offering of peace.
“Might I not enjoy a morning walk just as you do, my lord?” Arya once dared blurt out rumors of where the young man spent some of his nights, hushed with a venomous hiss before she could speak any true foulness; yet as Sansa understood the truth of their half-brother’s blood, so too did she know that it was no innocent jaunt which brought Rodrik into the purple-grey light of dawn. “I see no cause — ” A yip interrupted her, Lady trotting over from her momentary distraction to sit dutifully at the girl’s side. “ — for concern.”
arms tuck neath the mantle of serratus muscles, as sparse enough as they are for a boy his age, a vestige of amusement prickling at youthful features—he watches at the doorway, hip nudged into the frame, until she notices him.
“ what’s it tha’ septa mordane’s got you sewing? ”
he’s curious. coincidentally, robb is as talented with a needle as he is with his blade—he prefers the latter to be his main pastime, but he has been known to make sporadic appearances to the girls, typically to coax arya into attempting to sew rather than hover about his other baby sister.
While other boys might find it of great amusement to toy with a lady’s sewing, pulling on her hair or hiding her thread whilst she sat busy at her task, Robb ever behaved with enviable decorum. Septa rarely failed to cluck over his visits; though wise enough to save her disapproval until after Lord Stark’s son bid them farewell, ‘twas clear she found it passing odd that he might find such fulfillment in coming to call on those engaged in feminine pursuits.
"A stag,“ Sansa told him, beaming proudly, "for when King Robert arrives.” Not the simplistic creature born on banners and hammered into breastplates — a proper animal, broad of chest and possessing an impressive set of antlers, striding nobly through green woods. Though she had only begun, little more than four hooves and the beginnings of legs, the eldest Stark girl knew 'twould be a gift worthy of royal presentation. "Have you been practicing in the yard? No doubt Prince Joffrey shall wish to spar.“
Typical of younger brother, so fixated upon the terrors and shadows of the world. At times she stood amazed that such stories had not swallowed him whole, yet Bran remained ever a cheerful, rambunctious boy. Bright demeanor did not keep him from ruining countless nighttime stories, though, begging for giants and ice spiders when all she and Jeyne wished for was Florian. Arya only made matters worse, always flopping onto her belly with a pleased grin at more tales of dragons and pirates. Their brother remained young enough yet, a child, such fascination excused by age alone; Sansa, however, felt no more inclined to indulge morbid curiosity. Soon he must needs leave all of it behind, should wishes of knighthood or a gentle wife still tempt.
“Come now, Bran, you mustn’t speak of such things. Such gruesome thoughts as those have no place in a little boy’s mind. Mother truly ought to speak with Old Nan; there lies no good cause for her to fill your head with stories of dead men and monsters, not when it affects you so. Shall we hear one of Ser Duncan instead? He went on plenty of adventures, without any awful sentiments on drowning.”
« of course, your time will come. it did for me & for my sister, & so shall you meet a dashing man & make a great home. but so you will understand what i’m telling you, or so i hope, young daughter of mine.
perhaps, who knows? the eyrie is as beautiful as you’ve read & heard. so is riverrun, my home. oh, how i miss it… »
“There are nodashing men living in the North! ‘Tis the south and the capital which host all the knights and princes and fine lords; none of them would dare bother with such lands as these. Father shan’t even send for singers or host dances.” A scowl only accentuated the girl’s recalcitrance; Lysa Tully had been given to an old man, old enough, indeed, to be her father. Such a fate put Sansa’s stomach in knots.
“Surely he does not expect me to remain here forever? Whatever could I possibly amount to, trapped in such a wild place?” At least her mother had come of age below the Neck.
should an exclusive partner go inactive for 1+ month, then i will become tentatively open to interactions with duplicates. when/if they return then exclusivity may resume.
