does it howl inside ?

❝ the dance was just about fifty years ago, yes. ❞ opinions differed, of course, depending on what was considered to be the true end to the civil war between the house of dragons, but that was a quarrel for the historians. her brow furrowed as the northerner persisted and she hummed, picking out a few locations from his spirited retelling ─ enough to know that it was the dornish war that he spoke of, not the dance. ❝ you are not the only one to misunderstand him. that is a dornish tune he is butchering, so i hope there are no dornishmen nearby. ❞ catelyn did not fancy being in the center of that conflict. ❝ you were too young for that ? apologies, i do not know your name either. ❞

one  hand  interlocked  with  that  of  her  handmaiden,  the  sheer  amount  of  bodies  allowing  for  the  threat  of  separation.  idle  chatter  and  called  attention  towards  wares  kept  the  air  humming  with  activity,  though  the  ruling  tully's  mind  focused  on  everything  but.  what  the  unrest  could  mean  for  the  realm,  if  tempers  would  flare  with  it  all  —  if  the  royal  family  understood  how  precarious  it  was.  “  my  apologies  !  ”  elbow  bumped  into  another,  reach  to  steady  them  immediate.  “  i  was  not  paying  attention  to  where  i  was  going.  silly,  when  there  are  this  many  around.  are  you  harmed  ?  ”

she had sat in the belly of the ship that had taken them from seagard to flint's finger in the north, watchful of the bottles of fine fruit wines that house mallister had brought to peddle in the marketplace. catelyn was not ashamed to admit that some closeness with house stark allowed them to possess a good spot at the turning point between wintertown and winterfell, though this also meant that the snow on the ground in front of their stall was muddied, melted by the amount of foot traffic on the path back towards the castle keep. she had been forced to purchase some bolts of roughspun cloth from another stall to lay out on that patch of ground just so no one slipped from the cold mud, though catelyn carried little caution herself, gasping quietly as a little elbow to the back almost made her topple over. ❝ please, no harm has bee --- my lady ! ❞ realistically, she knew she would eventually stumble upon a tully, but catelyn was not expecting it to be quite literally a collision. over at the stall, a few mallister guards rise, their brows furrowed and she narrows her eyes at them in silent warning before turning to grasp minisa by the forearm. ( friendly, she reminds herself. friendly, ignoring the fact that the only reason house mallister had to peddle their wares like beggars was because of the actions of house tully. ) ❝ do mind your step, my lady ... there is an unfortunate mud puddle in front of our stall that could take the wind out of your sails, should you fall because of it. ❞ catelyn had witnessed a great many southerners with mud on their bottoms after falling due to the snow. ❝ i wanted to thank you for the invitation to travel with house tully on the road up north ... ❞ an invitation that her older sibling had chucked into the fire. ❝ but we had to take to the seas, to minimize the damage on our bottles. will you sample some wine ? ❞

elanur isn't much of a drinker, she never has been, but she can't deny that she is deeply curious and ever committed to always doing as the locals do on her travels. it's how she finds herself staring down at a most generous cup of black beer, her eyes widening with apprehension as she swirls it a bit, noting its thickness. gods, she thinks. do they really drink this? and enjoy it, too? not wanting to risk chickening out — or worse: be a bad guest — elanur brings the cup to her lips at last and takes one brave mouthful.

which, of course, is the greatest mistake she's made yet.

immediately, no. she will not be swallowing this. she cannot swallow this. seven hells, she could practically fucking chew it if she wanted to. eugh. northerners and their endless curiosities — no wonder they are the way they are. she looks around, fully intending to spit it back in her cup, when she catches someone's eye.

great. now she has to swallow it.

which, actually, turns out to be an even bigger mistake.

it had not been her intention to focus so intently ( but without actual purpose ) on the lady tyrell and it was not until their eyes met over the rim of her cup that catelyn realizes that she has been staring, though her gaze does not avert quickly enough, seemingly responsible for shaming the lady tyrell into swallowing her mouthful of black beer, delicate features twisting in a sharp, genuine response to the taste. catelyn, too, grimaces along with her, immediately rising from where she had been seated by the mallister stall, fingers grasping for a sweet persimmon wine from astapor as a peace offering. ❝ i would not have faulted you for spitting it back out. ❞ a quiet murmur, as she holds a hand out for the cup of black beer. ❝ i am not ashamed to admit that it took me several months of marching alongside northerners to adapt to the taste and even then ... i find it easier to close my eyes and swallow. ❞ the drink was the better option when one's stomach was empty, filling and warming in ways a thin broth could not do when on a war march. ❝ allow me to pour you something sweeter ? we received this shipment of persimmon wine just before travel between regions became difficult due to the plague. age has only refined the taste, i feel. ❞

ELEANOR TOMLINSON as Lady Isabel Neville

besides,  what  could  they  really  have  done?  would  the  crown's  interference  truly  have  made  a  difference?  she  is  not  so  sure.

daenys  is  pulled  from  her  thoughts  by  a  familiar  voice  at  her  side  and  turns  her  head  to  face  her.  coryanne.  her  goodsister,  the  mother  of  her  nephews.  “i  know…”  she  sighs.  can  anyone  really  blame  them?

“it  will  stay  between  us  then.”  she  smiles  gently  and  nods  her  head.  “i  suppose  they  hoped  for  some  kind  of  miracle,  one  not  even  we  could  not  provide.”

daenys  moves  closer  to  her,  offering  out  her  arm  for  the  two  to  link  them  together.  as  they  make  their  way  inside,  she  smiles  at  the  thought  of  her  children.  “yes,  well,  little  nymor  had  been  counting  down  the  days  until  he  could  see  his  cousins  again.  he  loves  them  dearly,  you  know.  and  rhaena..  she's  still  coming  into  her  own,  but  i  know  she  will  be  happy  to  see  them  as  well.  and  you,  how  do  you  fare,  my  dear?”

the targaryen princess ( for that was what daenys would always be to her, no matter how many dornish babes she bore for akshay, just as coryanne would always be the martell princess ) was something of a mystery to her ─ in many ways, they mirrored each other in that they had been forced to serve as pawns to ensure the peace between their people. love had blossomed, slowly but surely, between coryanne and gaemon, but she had never been comfortable enough to prod her siblings about their own love lives, and the idea of akshay, softening for his targaryen bride, sat uneasily in the gut. was this how the rest of westeros saw her ? an outsider, one that would sway their king into making wrong decisions ? it made her sympathetic to daenys for a brief moment, enough that she accepts the arm that is offered, leaning into her goodsister for warmth. coryanne hated that they had been forced so far north for a dead man she cared naught for, but perhaps something good might come from this. ❝ it is times like these when i do not envy your brother for the burden he carries ... king, conciliator and miracle worker. ❞ coryanne rolled her eyes, allowing the conversation to flow towards more pleasant topics. she groaned as she thought of her pregnancy, the weight of the babe heavy on her back. ❝ well enough, all things considered. i am trying to make my peace with the fact that i will likely have this baby in the north or gods forbid, the riverlands. ❞ she grimaced. ❝ we've brought all three of the boys ... it will be good for baelon to see his future kingdom and well ... if baelon goes, then aeryn must go. ❞ and she would not be parted from rhaegar, though that needn't mention. ❝ if you need some time to yourself, please feel free to drop nymor and rhaena off with me ... i intend to stay inside whenever possible, and rhaegar could use the company. his brothers are ... less patient with him. ❞

the world around them seemed to settle like snow on the ground ─ dulled into a silence as she remained hidden against the furs that covered them both, held within his warm embrace. catelyn came to a dangerous realization that no matter the years that had passed, peace and purpose could still be found by his side and now, with her duty to her family fulfilled and her worth in the eyes of westeros dismissed, she was loathe to be parted from him. from a distance, she had assumed very little had changed with him but up close, her eyes devouring every inch of him with a greediness that rivaled a starving fox, catelyn could see the heaviness in his features. he had aged, not because of passing time, but because of all that had happened since they last laid eyes on each other, and she was almost compelled to inquire about his old injury, to see if he had been taking care of himself in her absence. ( a small part of her that was aware of distance and what might have developed in that time kept her from fussing over him as she once might have, however. ) ❝ catelyn ... ? ❞ she hummed softly, attempting a small smile, lip quivering. ❝ am i no longer your kit ? ❞ perhaps she was not ─ it was a foolish thing to say and she regretted it almost immediately, eyes squeezing shut as she shook her head, as though to convince herself ( and him ) to pay her words no mind. there was a wetness to her eyes when she reopened them, though catelyn would excuse it on emotion, if asked. she longed to seize his palms and press kisses to his knuckles, to tuck his hand against her side and keep him warm, but instead, she reached up, tentative, to trail a finger along his jaw before her touch skittered away. ❝ ... i wish i could have met her. ❞ they had spoken of it before, along with a great many other things. bryndon's hut had become a memorial of their dreams, just as it had become a memorial of her brother's talent. ❝ i should have been there ... like you were for me, after the war. ❞ the strong hands that had picked her up from the ground and set her onto a chair, packing away or burning things when she could not. her brow furrowed deeper and she pulled away a little, fingers clutching at his arms, reluctant to fully relinquish her hold on him. she shook her head at the mention of her husband, her child ─ her shame. she had been a poor wife, constantly comparing her deceased husband to the memory of beron and when she had looked down at her child, for however long the boy had lived, catelyn could only lament the times she had lined her stomach with moontea ─ ever the practical one. ( it should have been beron, as her husband. the gods knew her thoughts and punished her by taking them both away from her. they were her shame and she could never confess it for fear of judgment. ) ❝ my only comfort was that it had been quick ... the child ... my son, he knew no pain. only that he was loved. ❞ or so she hoped. her eyes closed and she swallowed a sigh, feeling a weight loosen, however little, in her chest. ❝ better, now that i am here. now that i can see for myself that you are well. you are well ? how is your leg ? ❞

cerelle can't say travel by road is ever pleasant, but the gold road is much better than the one they've been on for a while now – so long that the time has begun to lapse. some of the ladies of their caravan distracts themselves by embroidering, and while she may pretend to have no interest in it, she's left without a choice but to indulge in the activity.

the woman that occupies the seat beside her tuts loudly at the language but coryanne only laughs, low and a little exhausted ─ her amusement seems to temper the rebuke on the tongues of the others, all eager to scold and prove their worthiness to the queen of the seven kingdoms and she shoos the woman beside her to make space for the bastard girl. ( the woman, some crownlander or another, has ambition to see one of her mealy - mouthed daughters wed to baelon and coryanne has been looking for an excuse to be rid of her. ) ❝ oh, please, do not feel the need to censor yourself now, cerelle. ❞ it would be a kindness to call her lady cerelle ─ it might inspire the others to do the same, if their queen deigned to entertain the farce of having a bastard in her presence, but coryanne was not feel so magnanimous today. ❝ come sit here and whisper the word to me. leave behind your embroidery hoop, i've had enough of needles and threads for the day. ❞

contrary to popular belief, dornishmen did know shame. while coryanne agreed that nothing could have been done to help the north ( and the riverlands and the vale ) without also risking the rest of the regions during the last five years, she was also of the opinion that coming here was not the right decision. throwing coin at a problem rarely ever fixed it but she would do her part as a senseless southerner, if that promised a quick end to the theatrics and a swift return to the crownlands or anywhere that was warm, so that her babe could be born beneath a shining sun rather than a grey sky. the boys ran ahead ─ baelon and aeryn each followed by a flustered member of the kingsguard, but rhaegar stuck with her, only trailing off when something caught his eye. coryanne paused, frowning as the boy attempted to climb over a stack of chopped logs to peer at the ludicrously large man in a small chair. ( was the chair small or was he simply big ? why did northerners have to overcompensate for everything ? she thought they were supposed to be starving. ) ❝ rhaegar, stop that. ❞ she scooped the boy up, grunting as he squirmed. it was not so easy to lift him with another growing in her belly, especially when he had his eye on something. ❝ my apologies, did he mess anything up ? he still thinks he is a babe. ❞ and likely will for life, but she tried not to think of that now. ❝ ... do you only do animals ? this is fine work, you should not undercharge for it. ❞ she did not mean to sound that surprised, as though to imply that she believed all northern work to be poorly. ❝ i would pay, if you did commissions. ❞

when:  day one, the funeral of the former ruling lord stark cregan stark, midnight

with:  open

it  was  the  hour  of  the  ghosts.

the  procession  for  alaric's  late  grandsire  had  long  since  ended.  most  retreated  to  their  bed  chambers  while  those  who  still  felt  the  need  to  celebrate  the  old  man  drifted  towards  the  tavern.  alaric  remained  behind  standing  at  the  feet  of  the  great  lord  cregan  stark—  or  rather,  a  very  grotesque  imitation  of  the  wolf  of  the  north.

the  statue  looming  above  him  was  gargutuan,  ostentatious  and  entirely  out  of  place.  in  wintertown,  it  felt  like  an  intruder.  a  trespasser  on  what  is  now  his  lands.

this  was  not  his  grandfather.  and  he  despised  it.

at  its  unveiling,  alaric  had  bitten  his  tongue  as  to  not  offend  the  king  and  those  who  accompanied  him,  but  the  bitter  taste  left  him  shuddering.  It  was  an  affront  to  his  family  name.  Deep  down,  he  wanted  nothing  more  than  to  take  a  hammer  to  it  and  watch  the  stone  crack.

the  crunch  of  leaves  beneath  approaching  boots  shattered  his  solitude.  whoever  had  come  to  pay  their  respects  had  enough  sense  not  to  speak  before  being  spoken  to.  the  fist  clenched  at  his  side  slowly  relaxed,  "it  does  not  belong  here,"  he  murmured,  unable  to  conceal  the  edge  in  his  voice,  but  his  gaze  never  left  the  statue,  "i  do  not  like  it."

his  grandfather  had  already  been  laid  to  rest  where  he  belonged—in  the  crypts  beneath  winterfell,  alongside  his  father  and  mother.  one  day,  Alaric  would  join  them  there,  as  would  his  wife  and  children,  and  their  children  after  them.

much had been prepared for little jorella. knitted things that catelyn believed her own son might have enjoyed, had he been allowed to live to the age, as well as some pressed flowers from the riverlands that she had entrusted into the hands of the girl's mother to lay at her crypt. very little had been prepared for the old man of the north, however, and though catelyn had only met cregan stark once, when he was truly an old man and not a legend, far larger than retelling, she felt a slight twinge of guilt for not laying something at the foot of his statue. it seemed performative to do so with so many people around, so she had waited until night fell and the streets quietened, though perhaps it was her fault for assuming no one else would be around either. inwardly scolding herself ─ because of course the starks would want to come when no one else could witness their grief ─, she made to leave the new ruling lord stark to his peace when his voice broke through the silence, edged with something that made her halt in her step. it reminded her, briefly, of how her older sibling sounded when speaking of house tully. aggrieved, yes, but also angry. ❝ ... you need only tolerate it for a moment longer, my lord. ❞ she said quietly, coming to stand beside him, fingers clenched around the small bundle of river rocks, herbs and feathers she had compiled together. ( something she learned from her lothston mother ─ a little bit of the river, the earth and the sky to take into the afterlife. ) ❝ far be it from me to give you any ideas but the king cannot blame you if an accident were to occur that required the statue to be moved. ❞ a small, coaxing smile played at the corners of her mouth, hoping to inspire some lightness in his mood.

when:  the  first  day,  just  after  the  procession  has  ended

who:  open  !

the  craftsmanship  is  impeccable,  really.  daenys  cannot  help  but  to  think  that  her  brother  has  outdone  himself  by  doing  such  a  thing,  though  part  of  her  wonders  somewhat  on  the  choice  of  location.  why  not  back  at  winterfell,  or  perhaps  somewhere  just  outside  her  gates?  she  doesn't  think  on  it  long,  though,  for  the  honoring  has  nothing  to  do  with  her  or  her  family.

she  looks  up,  wondering  exactly  what  kind  of  man  cregan  stark  was.  she  had  met  him  before,  however  briefly,  so  she  doesn't  really  know.  her  head  tilts  to  the  side  with  curiosity,  before  the  sound  of  approaching  footsteps  draws  away  her  attention.

“marvelous,  isn't  it?”  she  says  with  a  smile.  “i  know  it  likely  pales  in  comparison  to  the  man,  but  it  truly  is  something.  the  procession  was  beautiful  as  well,  don't  you  think?”

for weeks, coryanne had been forced to share a part of her space with cregan stark ─ or rather, the ghost of the man, etched in sketches for the approval of the king as it was targaryen coin that had erected the rather large likeness of the old man of the north in the middle of wintertown. ( her nose twitched in the cold. wintertown. did the northerners have no creativity at all ? ) rhaegar had been transfixed by the statue which was the only reason why she had even lingered back for so long, allowing the boy to coo over the marble before the nursemaid took him inside as she came to stand beside her goodsister, a dark brow raised. ❝ the northerners hated it. ❞ coryanne knew bitterness when it was forced down the throat. she had swallowed her fair share of hatred and injustice upon marriage, and still did whenever one of the stormlords or reachermen whispered derogatory things behind her back. it did not bother her, if the words were solely about her, but after the boys had been born, the attacks had landed on them as well, which was a pain that no one seemed to understand. ❝ do not tell your brother i said as much ... this is not enough for them to forget the silence from the crown over the past five years, but i do not know what else they expected us to do. ❞ open the borders and willingly allow illness to spread further ? she shook her head slightly. ❝ come, sister ... let us start our own procession back into warmth and you can tell me about the children. ❞

reverence  towards  a  man  deserved  entreated  the  connington  in  joining  the  processional,  yet  the  same  could  not  be  said  of  the  games.  he  saw  nothing  to  be  of  celebration,  the  mingling  and  comraderies  something  he  believed  to  be  shared  between  those  of  the  north  and  those  chosen  by  the  starks  themselves.  their  presences  in  the  north  another  cost  for  them  to  bear,  the  ostentatious  display  of  wealth  the  king  offered  too  grandiose  for  him  to  have  felt  comfortable  lingering  close  by.  “  there  is  a  better  view  to  the  right  to  you.  ”  view  and  company  that  would,  likely,  engage  should  there  be  conversation  offered,  whereas,  lyonel  barely  offered  a  turn  of  his  attention  from  the  people  lining  for  the  game.  

location:  the  shinty  games,  day  two  of  the  northern  games

she had been persuaded into joining the shinty by a few old friends from the dornish war who had been glad enough, in their drunken state, to explain the rules of the game to her when they had gathered together the evening prior to cajole her into putting her name down on the list. naturally, none of them were present this morning, nursing off their headaches while catelyn shivered in the morning air, blinking as a rather large man ended up in her straight path to the game fields. scratching behind her ear, she tilted her head and peered at him with a small smile. ❝ is there ? ❞ she glanced to the right, finding only stands and seats, slowly filling with bodies, as well as a rather large muddy puddle, before she turned back to him with an amused knit to her brow. ❝ i would disagree but then again, you are also in my way, ser. does the line start from here ? surely not ... we'd be hitting balls around the field for days. ❞

“  oh  shit  …  sorry  !  ”  the  chuckles  started  not  a  second  after,  hands  out  to  brace  herself  against  the  invisible  pull  of  gravity.  “  truly,  i  do  apologize.  i  had  not  realized  the  distance  down  was  as  far  as  it  was.  ”  the  scamper  up  into  a  nearby  tree  impulsive,  the  desire  to  see  both  statue  and  winter  market  from  a  vantage  not  allowed  by  someone  of  her  stature.  close  to  a  couple  of  hours  now  sat  tucked  away  upon  one  of  the  largest  branches  that  had  been  close  enough  to  the  ground  —  still  too  high  to  have  released  her  grasp  when  she  had,  learned  as  most  lessons  in  life  were.  the  difficult  way.  “  are  you  well  ?  i  did  not  hit  you  did  i  ?  ”  

the quick thinking of her guard saw coryanne safely out of the path of falling maidens, though she shrugged off the firm hand that had wrapped around her upper arm to pull her to one side, brow furrowing as she glanced up at the branch that the young woman must have slid off from, wondering if there would be another to follow. satisfied that there was none and that the woman meant no harm, coryanne waved off her guard, bristling like a dog on high alert for an attack ─ she was still dornish, for the gods' sake. she could handle an assassin, especially in the north, where fur and armor alone would give them away. ( no subtlety at all, these northerners. ) ❝ you almost did. you ought to thank my guard, else you might be in trouble for assaulting a member of the royal family. ❞ coryanne would not have allowed it to get that far, if she had been entangled with the other woman, but her leniency depended on how bored she was as well. ❝ why were you in the tree ? what is up there that is not available down here ? ❞

promise of strong, northern ale had tempted her away from the marketplace and into the grand hall where she sat close enough to the hearth that catelyn had shed her furs, draping it over her legs to stave off the cold gust of air that blew through the hall whenever someone opened the great oak doors. she had not been listening, truly, to the stories told, more preoccupied with watching the body language of those gathered in the north to decide whether the trip would prove fruitful or disastrous, when a voice broke through her observation, drawing the eye to the girl seated nearby. ❝ ... not quite as glorious as that, my sweet. ❞ her gaze flickered up to where the northerner was boasting of the winter wolves, brow furrowing. ❝ and i doubt he was old enough to be alive when the winter wolves rode south for queen rhaenyra. tales grow in the retelling, but he is a fine storyteller for it, i suppose. ❞