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#𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐲 is a private compendium of characters as written by robin . please refrain from interacting if not part of the group . affiliated with cognatihq .

. 𝑙𝑎𝑑𝑦 𝑑𝑒𝑓𝑛𝑒 𝑡𝑦𝑟𝑒𝑙𝑙 ; intro . tags .

. 𝑙𝑜𝑟𝑑 𝑡𝑜𝑟𝑟ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑟𝑘 ; intro . tags .

#◞ ❛ 👑 ⋮ 𝐫𝐨𝐛𝐢𝐧 : 30. he + they.#dni

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where : second tyrell wheelhouse , the king's road when : half a day's ride from winterfell with : lady elanur tyrell / @gildedscage

the road north grew worse with every cold mile. as if the land itself were losing interest in being crossed. the wheelhouse rattled over old ruts and frozen mud, and even the horses seemed to walk with less patience than they did in the reach.

" and lady vance's cousin, people say she's been lying about being with child for over a year... a year, elanur — they say she keeps changing the moon she's due in so no one notices. "

her sister did not look at her, defne watched her for a moment, waiting, and when no answer came she went on anyway. her voice was bright, as it always was when she had something to say and no one to interrupt her.

she did not mind the travel as much as she thought she might have. there were always people on the road: septas, merchants, knights with tired faces, ladies traveling between keeps — they told her things without seeming to mean to, little pieces of gossip and half-finished scandals that she could keep.

by the time they had reached the north, she had heard so many stories that she no longer remembered which ones had remained as they were in earnest and which ones she had made better in telling.

" some say that she had a lover once. a noble bastard, or an ironborn raider, or something of the kind — regardless, they say one day he just ... disappeared. just like that. " she made a small motion with her hand. " and so she began saying she was with child because, truly, no one else will marry her if she is ... and she thinks that if he hears about it, he might come back for it. "

no reaction: nothing. elanur tyrell sat very still in the corner of the wheelhouse. her face turned to the narrow window. the glass was filmed with cold. beyond the carriage window and into the barren northern landscapes, a long dull sweep of grey and brown could not look more unremarkable. yet her own sister would rather give it her whole attention. " by the gods, elanur, you're not even listening to me ! "

#◞ ❛ 🏵️ ⋮ 𝐝𝐞𝐟𝐧𝐞 𝐭𝐲𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐥 : starter .#ft : elanur tyrell #gildedscage #im so sorry #defne “yappy” tyrell

where : central square , wintertown when : first day, the procession with : lady gilliane stark / @parthenopaed

the cloth came down to a scattering of applause . torrhen stared. the statue towered over the winter town, pale creamy stone. too fine. too expensive. too southern. one could tell it did not belong against the grey of the wintertown, and the walls of winterfell. even though whomstever had carved it had been skilled enough. the fur cloak looked almost real enough to warm a man. the sword was handsome. the face was handsome too. that was the problem.

his grandfather had never been handsome. cregan stark had posessed a long face lined with age, weather, and stubbornness. he had looked like the north. this man looked as though he belonged in a song.

around him, a group of southeners smiled politely as he felt his mouth flatten. " it doesn't look like him. " he said to gilly, standing beside him with her children, and karlon on the other side. not taking his eyes off the stone. the statue gazed nobly towards the horizon. with a certain softness in his features, as though reminiscing, or contemplating wisdom. nothing of the sharp-tongued wolf that had demanded ravens be sent south every day during the winter. nothing of the man who had often complained that half the realm had been born fools.

" they've made him look ... pleasant. " his voice low, as to not be overheard. for a moment, he wonders if the sculptor had ever seen cregan stark at all. it was the eyes that bothered him the most. they were calm eyes. gentle eyes. soft. torrhen let a quiet hybrid of a breath and incredulous laughter through his nose. " gods ... he would have hated it. "

#◞ ❛ 🐺 ⋮ 𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐤 : starter .#ft : gilliane stark #parthenopaed #let me know if i should change anything !#cognati:event1

the king welcomes defne of house tyrell of highgarden ! all of court has heard that they are + audacious and + charismatic, but whispers claim that they are also - stubborn and - manipulative when no one is looking … how much of that is true, we will soon find out. asking around, we are told that they remind people of a spoiled daughter of springtime’s excess: soft brown curls framing a sharpened gaze, the scent of jasmine and rosemary, green silks trimmed with myrish lace slipping off sun - kissed shoulders ─ that should give the bards something to sing about !

#◞ ❛ 🏵️ ⋮ 𝐝𝐞𝐟𝐧𝐞 𝐭𝐲𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐥 : intro .#cognati:intro #cognati.intro

the king welcomes lord torrhen of house stark ! all of court has heard that they are + perceptive and + steadfast, but whispers claim that they are also - blunt and - resentful when no one is looking … how much of that is true, we will soon find out. asking around, we are told that they remind people of controlled irritation rather than visible anger, snowflakes landing upon dark hair, the scent of cedar and smoke, a dull silver direwolf brooch over a black wool doublet. ─ that should give the bards something to sing about !

winterfell remembers him first as a boy who was happy in the uncomplicated way children are happy when they have not yet been asked to understand what they are missing. he had no mother he could remember, only the careful way her absence was spoken around him, and he grew close to his father in the space that remained. that begins to shift in late childhood, when he starts to look outward in a different way. he drifts quietly from the centre of winterfell towards the idea of something else: towards the south, towards the stories of his mother’s people, towards courts he has only heard of, where lords and ladies sound through song better than they are in real life, where knighthood means something pure and certain. nothing dramatic marks the change, only distance forming in him, a boy learning to dream of elsewhere. his father’s death breaks that imagining. torrhen is barely fifteen when the war takes him, and what remains is not grief he knows how to name, but the unromantic clarity that life does not behave like the stories he had been building inside himself. it simply continues, and you are required to continue with it. then winter comes properly, and with it the second lesson. the south he had once turned toward does not exist. it does not arrive as salvation or order, but as distance. taxes. delay. indifference that does not need to explain itself. people in the north starve and die, and the language of honour and knighthood starts to feel thin and strained in retrospect, almost embarrassing in its simplicity. whatever softness remained in his belief in it does not last. by the time his grandfather dies, something in him has already settled into recognition. not cruelty, but refusal to be moved by what is said when it does not match what has happened. it is not loud. it simply stays. when the ravens come announcing that the southern houses are on their journey north for the funeral, torrhen does not react at once. it takes him a moment to understand what has been set in motion again: they are coming. that they have chosen now. that it is being framed as respect, as if the winter had not already decided the shape of things.