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“They say a dragon sleeps under Winterfell,” Tallis said, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper and mischief glinting in her eyes. “Thats where the heat for the hot springs comes from. Of course, it doesn’t explain why our dragon friend hasn’t woken in the past thousand years and gobbled us all up yet.” She tucked a wild lock of dark hair behind her ear, cocking her head as she surveyed her new companion. “But what of your home? What stories do they tell of it?”
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The food had been eaten, the tables cleared. In a corner, a bard and his accompanying band of minstrels were starting to work a tune. With a cup of wine in his hand, Gareth had found himself drawing from the center of the room to the fringes, standing underneath tall, wooden arches. He watched as the floor was cleared, tables moved. The sound of voices ringing overhead, filling the room, impregnating the air. The laughter, whispers, tall tales. He had brought his son to bed a few minutes after the banquet had been finished. Now, he was ready to mingle.
The music picked up as the work died down, and the room was cleared. There were those, still sat, drinking and talking, while others tentatively found their way to the floor.
He brought the cup to his lips as his eyes scanned over the crowd. He would dazzle later. When the wine had climbed to his head, when he’d found Cedric. When he felt a little braver than he did now.
The lute was struck, a jig was played, and Gareth found himself accompanied in the shade of a large column. With a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, he let his eyes glance sideways, without moving his head. “Quite a spectacle,” he started, “it seems the cold does nothing to firm the Northern heart.”
Darkness had fallen well before he finally rode through the gates of Winterfell on a horse that would’ve been better suited pulling a plough. The beast was enormous, but when its rider dismounted, it became clear exactly why. Towering over most men, Rodrik Forrester had arrived. The horse was set in the stables, where he lingered only a moment longer than one might have expected, taking in the sights and scents. As soon as the moment had happened, it was gone, and the cloaked giant moved towards one of the less obvious side entrances. He entered quietly, leaving his cloak on a pile that he knew from experience belonged to the servants. No other used these doors. He pressed through a small corridor, while the sound of voices grew louder.
Through the door, a cacophony greeted him. It was dim, with fires and sconces lighting the enormous hall. After getting used to the lack of light, he pushed past a few of the men standing by the edge of the crowd and made his way further in. It was hard to go unnoticed. A bear of a man with a thick, rough beard and arms with coils of rope for muscle was a sight and a half. Those that recognised him greeted him, though he had wished that they didn’t. He’d have much rather slipped by unnoticed. Being late as he was, he felt guilty. He had always considered Harlon a friend.
The food had long gone, which was a shame. The ride had made him ravenous, and his stomach growled in protest. But he would endure. Atleast he had finally arrived. He found himself a chair as the crowds shifted, and music began playing. The thing creaked loudly when he went to sit on it, but held true.
It was as he reached out to take a mug of ale that his eyes crossed the approaching party. With a sheepish smile he raised his mug up and then set it on the end of a table. “Do you think anyone noticed me?” He muttered, entirely aware that it must’ve been the most obvious entrance in the history of late entrances.
the north was an adjustment katherynne had scarcely prepared for. the climate was like nothing she had experienced , and the landscape was vastly different to the home she had left ( where was the sea ? where was the rain ? ) . nor had she prepared for the emotional implications of the voyage : the ghosts of her past all converging at once , the looming threat of whispers ( the baratheon failure , now close at her brother’s heels ) . her nerves frayed & heart tired , katherynne had bid the pardon of her family and sought out the one place she might find solace . how many times she had sat in front of the weirwoods at storm’s end , learning of gods that were not hers & wondering if they were kinder than her own. heavy furs encumber her , making her walk strange and uneven . still , she ventures forward , light eyes transfixed on the deep red hues , the stark white of the heart tree. it is only then that she realizes she has disrupted another . she stops , dips her head. her fingers smooth the fabric of her skirts , ❛❛ forgive me , i had no intention of disrupting your prayers or your quiet . i’ve never seen a weirwood in its true home . it looks more right here - more true, somehow , than anywhere else. it makes the godswood of my home seem a farce. ❜❜
A CORONATION DOES NOT WARRANT THE CESSATION of tireless work . in fact , times like these are the most productive for ALL of her business ventures. men loosen their tongues & open their pockets around wine , and she is sure to reap the benefit of it. it is for this reason that she does not shy away from the messenger boy that comes with a scroll in his hand ❝ were you seen ? ❞ she murmurs , receiving the immediate a small , emphatic shake of his head. she nods her approval before procuring a coin from somewhere within her skirts , and pressing it into his palm. ❝ hurry home now. ❞ she does not read the message in great length before tucking it in her bodice, away from PRYING EYES. she realizes too late that she has acquired company, but makes no real sign of distress. instead , she cants her head , placid smile settling on bowed lips before a lie flows from them.
❛❛ a mother can never be too invested in the wellbeing of their child when she is away from them , can she ? ❜❜
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her eldest son at four years was hoisted at her hip, clapping his hands eagerly at the sight of a sparring match down on the ground below. her son’s usual light weight was made heavy by the pile of furs she had wrapped him up in, fearful that he might succumb to illness if he was exposed to the cold too much. she shifted him slightly, as he grew more enthused, ❛ are you enjoying that, sweetling? ❜ she cooed at him, turning her head when she noticed another observer.
it was clear from her son’s nature, that unlike her second-born, who was a reserved & brooding boy, he looked forward to being able to play fight. but wasn’t that a mother’s worst fear? when it all stopped being a game. the thought made her hug him closer, ❛ i think my boy would rather be down there with a wooden sword in hand than clinched at my side, ❜ she jested, as triston’s legs continued to wiggle enthusiastically.
Setting: Wintertown
Timeframe: Midday
It had become almost customary - that whenever he had left Casterly Rock to attend to his business as Warden of the West, he would go to the merchants to find the most beautiful things that were on sale to bring home to his wife. Now standing in Wintertown, appraising the various wares that the vendor had promised him were absolutely genuine - bright and colorful jewels, golden necklaces, silver wristlets - Eliar could only mull lightly as a light chill overcame him.
Ah, the cold - no matter how many times he had gone to Winterfell, both with his father and on his own, he had never been able to grown accustomed to the chilling temperatures. Not when the weather at the rock was almost always calm and fair, the winters mild compared to the near sub-zero temperatures of the frigid north.
Grabbing the lapels of his furs, he moved to enclose them further over his chest in the hopes to shield himself from the brisk temperature as he moved along the tables, gaze stumbling upon a fine piece of jewelry. A necklace imbued with sapphires - almost perfect for the Lady of the Rock. “Tell me,” Eliar spoke almost suddenly, turning to look at the nearest body to him to gain their opinion on the jewels he now picked up, watching as the sun gleaned off of the golden fixtures. “What do you make of this? Beautiful, is it not?”
As long as she didn’t have to stay outside in it for too long, Amerei didn’t mind the cold very much. She had, after all, grown up in the Stormlands, between the mountains and the sea, where fierce winds and angered thunder were the norm. Compared to that, the North, though frigid, was stiller, quieter, and far more manageable.
Unfortunately for Ami, she had been outside far past the point of it being comfortable. Her quest to take in some of the more historic sights of Winterfell- it was her first time in the North, after all, and for all she knew, her last- had led her to the Godswood. Of course, they had them in the South, but not like this. This Godswood felt primal, steeped in history Ami could barely imagine. She stopped by every tree, hardly daring to touch the bark, making mental notes that she could sketch out later when she had returned to the warmth of the castle.
She wasn’t sure how long had passed before the heard a disturbance in the undergrowth, and turned curiously to the source of the sound. The Godswood felt so far from anything human that she had half expected to spot a deer approaching through the trees, and was almost surprised at the sight of a living, breathing person. “Come to brave the cold?” she called out. “I can’t imagine what this place was like in winter. I’d imagine you couldn’t get here without growing icicles on your eyelashes first.”
