Owen did not feel less hollow, if anything he felt more hollow, he felt exposed. He felt that it was an example of why men missed Brandon as hand with the way he handled things and stilled them. Where other men would worry about the whispers it would bring, for Owen it only meant that he was not whole without the man before him. Owen didn't have the temperament to rule alone. He was every part of the North that maesters wrote in their books. The wolf's blood ran wild in him; he was quick to fight any in his way. He would celebrate with wine and wrestling and then he fuck wives and sisters and his court stayed full but he was empty. He missed his father and his mother and his fucking, frustrating sister who in the end was the only one he could turn to and hear the truth even when he hated it.
The King did not wipe at his face, the heat of shame was not new to someone as public as him. There would be stories and jokes, men would laugh in their cups and others would declare him weak and grow weary that he would not get them through the winter as if he hadn't got them through harder times as the Dance raged and fight carried on. Owen stared at the man in front of him. There was a moment when he weighed out the best options for what he'd done. And somewhere in him a laugh ripped through and he spread his arms.
"Forgive me, I have lost myself in the wine and thought myself still in the North where a few fist thrown can be a sign of a fine affair." The laughter started uneasy. "After all, we all know the song of Owen Stark. More wolf than man." He smiled again as the laughter came easier, the smile did not reach his eyes but men who wish to be rid of the tension would not look to see. "Crown or no, wolves tend to bite. Only if you ladies be asking." And now the laughter was louder and Owen didn't feel so exposed.
Owen stood there for a time longer, allowing his mind to wander briefly, offer smiles to those that passed and patted him on the shoulder. Some people would know the king was not as drunk as he played but it mattered not at all. This wasn't a fight between brother, a fight between lords. This wasn't a fight between equals in the eyes of law and man. It was a king battering his lord or a lord antagonizing his king depending upon who told the tale. And while north was not weak, it only took one story to panic men and lead them to believing in tales. Another rebellion. Some upjumped lord. Someone funded by his enemies. Why was he so bad at this?
The King in the North walked away, he did not know if the other would follow and he did not look back to invite. Perhaps the boy that lived within him and wept so openly hoped the other would follow but the man did not know, he did not dare to wish for this but he crowned the Targaryen or led him to be crown. The Hour of the Wolf was still told and he was the shadow of whatever that hour had been.
Owen sat down on the edge of the fountain he saw and stared at the flame in the braiser before him. The Old Gods did not reach him and he did not know what to do or what to go or who to turn to because everything relied on him being about to know the answers. Owen Stark feared the truth. And the truth was, he had no idea what he was doing and by the time the choice was made, it was far too late to do anything else.
â
somewhere within the thumping of his heart and the sound of his own blood coursing through his ears, the lord of karhold realised that he had remained silent amongst the sound of thunderous cheers and owen stark's roar of laughter that only he knew sounded more like a howl than that of any truth. he felt his knuckles were raw from the deep, primal urge to wish he could defend himself: it was a part of him he was ashamed of, at least for wishing to rear its head toward him of all people - but could he blame himself? could he blame anyone else? a part of him wished to allow his head to sink in his hands, before all the men - and yet he knew if he were to do such a thing there was no way he would, or could be called a man in the north.
the utter feeling of nothing, and nobody; was enough to send any man to spiral - to have nobody within those hallowed halls and nobody to exchange discussion and talk with that was not the attending servants. as much as he loved his home, there was no denying the karhold had become an icy prison he had made for himself: it entrapped him on a frozen mold, as though it were awaiting him to descend into madness and trace the silhouette of a ghost on his walls. a ghost with vivid green eyes, and a strange laugh; he knew she was no longer there, and yet it took until this moment for him to truly realise that somewhere along the line, he had gone with her. perhaps he wanted to go with her.Â
karhold was his home, but no longer were it the place where he was happiest: but rather it was where he had banished himself.
and so it was for his own consideration and thoughts that he thought of what he needed - what did any man need in this situation? they were raised to defend - himself, and his own. his keep. his family. his sister. his wife. brandon karstark had failed to defend them at all; and there was no denying the fact that it all seemed to follow an unnatural current back to winterfell. he had barely realised that owen was no longer entertaining the masses with roaring laughter as he remained where he stood - all it would take was for one to look upon the face of brandon karstark to realise that this was no mistake. no northern wrestling match. it had been something deeper than that, something he did not think they would have resorted to - but violence was a part of their custom. a part of their way. it should not have engulfed him the way it did, and yet he continued to hear the sound of his own heart thuming as though it were desperate to stop. to explode.
to be scattered across the floor; what was a man meant to do if he could not honour those who had crossed him? those who had cost him everything? was he to go mad with anger and regret? with fury?
he did not know, and yet, at some point he found himself feeling the outside cold air on his face - when had he even started walking? he could not recall pushing his way through the crowds, not even attempting to make some form of conversation with those who roared beside him and clambered him on his towering back - only continued to follow that which he would hunt, like a mad man. for a man who could not avenge his wife would doomed to become a madman. a man who could not settle his cores was doomed; so rare was it a thing for them, for where they belonged. brandon karstark never once considered himself a man that would not be able to do what he needed - and yet, in this moment, he found himself willing to beg. there was a dark silhouette in the background, and he knew whose it was merely by his stature and the width of his shoulders.Â
he stopped a few strides short of him, boots planted wide in the churned earth as if the ground itself might give way. the cold bit through wool and leather, sharp enough to clear his head, but not enough to still the shake in his chest. brandon kept his hands low, fists clenched, jaw tight. when he spoke, it was rough and steady, dragged up from somewhere deep. âthis has gone far enough,â he said. âiâm done with it. you're - done with it.â he drew a breath through his nose, slow, measured, like he was forcing a blade back into its sheath. âiâve stood quiet. iâve taken the looks, the whispers. iâve bent where i could.â his voice hardened; though it were obvious he were a man at his lowest. it was not in the grief, or the heartbreak - but rather, the desperation.
he stepped closer, enough that his shadow brushed owenâs. âjin renshu killed my wife,â he said plainly, no heat, no tremor. there was nothing more to it than that, and that alone. âmeeraâs dead because of him. and he still draws breath.â his throat worked, but he did not falter. âthatâs a wrong i canât live with. not in the north. not as a man.â his shoulders squared, broad and unyielding. âiâm not askinâ for favour. iâm not askinâ you to love me for it,â brandon went on. âiâm askinâ you to let me do what shouldâve been done. give him to me. let me carry it out myself.â his eyes burned, not with tears, but with something harder. how had it come to this? how had he neede to beg? âiâll see it finished, clean and final. no more blood after. no more noise.â
there was a beat. "do you need me to beg you?"















