Winter is Coming

By battle’s end all had been accounted. The light of the day faded slowly in the west, filling the sky with a bloody spread of colors. Deep purples bruised the horizon beneath rusty red, a warrior’s farewell if he had ever seen one. It was as it’d been told, a prophecy of legend passed down from father to son for as long as House Stark had claimed stewardship over the North The walls of Winterfell had never seemed so warm, so safe, in comparison with the frozen wood beyond. The city had never seemed so quiet.

The stink of death lay upon them all. It was unnerving for some, particularly those of Lannister, whom had been separated from true bloodshed for so long that their knowledge of war had slipped to the handling of bandits and roguish elements upon their many merchant’s trails. He saw it in their eyes. Weariness. Shock. To be fair, it was in all of their faces in some form or another and there was no blame to cast. All of the armies had made a true accounting of their purpose. It occurred to him that they had, together, made a stand that would live on in the ages. Still, the mood was grim. The day’s events had been marked by a series of horrors, one stretching from another, until some had become a blur within the tremendous scope of their work.

They had, at great and terrible cost, achieved what some had called impossible. Like a wave, they’d fallen upon The Others and their husk-like wights, shedding dead blood across the snow until finally, after many terrible hours, the ranks of the crystal-wielding nightmares had thinned and they had begun to slowly, reluctantly pull back towards The Wall. It was there, with only a few portcullis’ left open for them to retreat behind, that the armies of the Seven Kingdoms had trapped them.

There, lingering to close, Domnall had quietly ordered the men of Westeros to hold fast and regroup. It was not weariness that had drawn him to do so, but suspicion. He had found it strange that the great wall’s few portals had been closed after their breach. The massive stretch of The Wall, never a welcomed sight, had all at once become more foreign than he remembered. The Others, horrible blue eyes glinting from their black faces, had reformed as well. Waited until they the patience that Domnall had preached paid off and the enemy advanced once again.

From within the Wall’s fortifications The Others were joined by further hordes of their abominations. Wildlings butchered, mostly, and left to strengthen their counter-attack.

Now, amongst his own, Domnall counted himself lucky to have survived it. They had used the ground to help thin the undead ranks, to let them stretch rather than drive as a hammer. The snow had stained with blood, thickly so, and been trampled until it was a fetid swamp of cold mud, blood, and flesh. In the end, the very end, it was the fire that secured The Wall and the fortifications along it. The Great Gates, even the fouled halls of Castle Black, lay cleansed and locked. Hordes of his builders, both masons and carpenters, were now joined by hundreds of soldiers and tasked with locking down the ancient barrier once and for all.

Still, he did not feel restful and there was no rejoicing within Winterfell. The Warrior’s Farewell faded to darkness, left them in shadow, as was fitting given the cost of what they had achieved. While his guard lingered close to him at the walls the rest of the city, the rest of the forces that had gathered here, now mourned the fallen King laid upon a gurney in their midst.

“He had no heir.” Spoke the man beside him.

Craven Reed was a broad-shouldered, barrel-chested man whom Domnall had known since infancy. His head was a cropped mane of fire-red, his beard was long and full, and his armors were soaked in the gore of the enemy. He rested his powerful arms across the head of a Great Axe, green eyes intent in their appraisal of Domnall’s features and weighted with the gravity of his words.

“No.” He agreed.

“They will bicker now.” Craven spoke, turning his eyes from Domnall and onto the crowd around the King’s prone form.

“That is their business.”

“And ours?” The man asked.

What was his business now? The King that he served was dead. The Throne suddenly empty, vacant, for those of the South to lay claim upon. A million worries sprang from one great relief. Those of the Iron Islands, and those of Haven, were of particular concern. Yet, despite it all, Domnall knew only that he had his city to see to. His people. His attention turned towards Craven, towards his Captains beside him, and his words cut through the concern etched on their noble faces.

“I will keep you, Craven, in Winterfell along with two of your Captains. The rest of yours must return to The Neck and see it secure. Borthas, take the third guard and lay order to the city. Instruct the Captains of the Southern Armies that their men may take up camp no closer than one league from the city walls and reward them in barrels of grog for seeing to it quickly.

“Jonathon, Tagris; You’ve done all that I have asked. Forgive me, there is still more work upon the field. Run your mounted elements across the plains and through the villages, warn the militia to be wary of any straggling wights. Do not panic them. Alert them. And burn anything that you find that no longer moves. Do this last thing and you will earn a much deserved break.

“After you are finished with your men, Craven, join me within the Keep. We will feast to our victory, and to our loss, and I would have you in the Dining Hall when the Council convenes.”

It was the most he had spoken, at once, in some time, and he was glad to be done with it. The men upon whom he had relied did not waste breath and did not complain, they moved, cutting past the crowd with purpose in their strides. He was thankful for them, for all of them, and watched them as they passed. Throughout his body lay the ache of fatigue, of dark bruises, and the desire to be rid of the chainmail that bound him and the stench of death that hung thick upon him.

The City, -his- city, lay besieged now from within. Nobles of all walks, and their personal guard, lay within residence of Winterfell. Their armies lay in camps beyond the city gates, upon the planes, in battered and tattered hordes. None were unscathed, without grievous loss. None were without horrors to hold. For a moment, if however short, Domnall Stark had witnessed those of the King’s Banner put aside their ambitions and stand as men. It was a horror to believe that in the wake of the King’s death he may not live to see such a day again.

This, and other thoughts, distracted him from her presence. Kept it away from his senses until he turned, and nearly collided, with the beauty from the Iron Islands. She turned with him as he made to move past her, matching his strides, and accompanying him as he made towards the keep and his home within.

“Lady.” The address formal and brisque.

The mail that wrapped him was heavy, made so by the weariness of the day. It’s links, once polished, were now interwoven with bits of flesh and gore to which even a talented surgeon would find difficult to recognize. It was a fool’s hope that they might leave quickly, that the few councils that he would take part in would be ripe with the warmth that brotherhood in battle inspired. Yet, he knew otherwise. Even as his hands found the stained ruin of his Tabard and dragged across its front, the machinations were beginning. They would play their game for the throne, even now in his home.

The interior wall of Winterfell’s keep was over a hundred feet tall of solid stone, smooth and dark as night fell. From windows, and awnings, the lights of torches stretched to find hanging sconces and fill the city with the gentle glow of flames. Domnall looked once past his rugged shoulder, cut his pale eyes through the crowd to the man that lay before them. He saw only his boots between the shapes of those closest and prayed that by the mercy of the Gods that their next king be worthy of service.


This thread will be a collaborative effort. You can speak with the players and inquire about joining by visiting this link. Winter is Coming - OOC

Boots trudged wearily through the snow, capes and pelts dragging behind. Wooden cart wheels made straight lines. Dogs padded along, leaving pockets in the snow where bits of drool slipped out. Everywhere his downcast eyes looked there wasn't a fresh patch of snow to be found. All of it had been trampled, dirtied, and bloodied. Sullen brown orbs lifted up, past the dark horizon, high up to the stars above. They sparkled brightly, somehow distancing themselves from the perils of his world. The stars never had these kinds of problems. They had to be bright, and so they were. Easy. Simple.

He opened the crumpled up piece of paper once again to read what he'd already read a dozen times before. Brief and to the point. His father had died in the night and that his mother had gone missing while his sister took stewardship over the kingdom in his absence. The note had come by raven. He glanced up from the paper and once again peered up at the brilliant night sky.

“Do your fathers die, your mothers vanish? Do they little stars?”

He laughed quietly to himself and closed his eyes, lowering his head.

“Heh... no. No, of course not.”

He sniffed and cleared his throat, wiping the single tear from his cheek. Then with slight hesitation, he dropped the note into the fire. There would be no more of that. He was a man and he had outgrown crying. No matter how deep the wound.

His camp was set furthest from the walls of Winterfell, atop one of the many hills overseeing the rolling grasslands that made up the North. He had only brought a small company with him. No large army was required of the scouts. That was what his band was needed for. He scouted and tracked for the King. Their tents were tall and circular with domed tops, quite different from the others. As was their darker skin, Ryoshish accent, and their clothing. The Dornishmen favored lighter armor for more fluid movement. No heavy, full platemail armors like the others of Westeros. Even their horses were thinner, lighter on their legs than the bigger war horses.

He leaned on his long spear, a favored weapon of the warriors from Dorne. On his hip sat a curved dagger. Opposite the smaller blade, a scimitar. He wore a heavy faded crimson cloak. Over his shoulders lay a golden pelt belonging to the only shaggy creatures in his lands, the Dornish mountain lions. Beneath the fur and cloak, he wore a simple lightly armored and tanned tunic, belt, and leggings. A pair of leather boots kept his feet warm.

He glanced over his shoulder at the soldiers, around the large campfire, and smirked. They were singing an old Dornish tavern song. With food and ale in hand, they barely noticed him. A battle won and they couldn't be happier. The sentiment was spread throughout Winterfell it seemed. His feet carried him through the snow and up the pathways to the walls of the Northern castle. He passed through the large gate and glanced up once more, noticing that it had started to snow again.

Among the night sky, he noticed a shadow passing in front of the stars.

“Ah, there you are.”

His hawk, Nymeria, soared high above the towers of Winterfell. She would come back later, it was her turn to hunt. He smirked, running a gloved hand through his beard, brushing some of the snow flakes away. His gaze lowered towards the humble building before him, his destination for the night. A few drunken soldiers stumbled out of the doors. He disappeared inside the brothel intent on forgetting his troubles for the night... and maybe most of the morning too.

It had been a long journey. But unlike with most journeys, the worst part would be the end of it. And it would be silent, devoid of joy or happiness for the majority of the entourage.

Lady Linia rode at the head of the column, with her most trusted guards, in a black tunic and matching fur coat, as well as a scarf. She felt like in a dream, warm and somewhat numb. Compared to the other delegations and armies, the Arryn convoy was fairly comfortable with the temperature. They did not need to wrap themselves up in coats and fur as much as the others. They came from a land not unlike the North, where cold was common, among other things. No, it was not too much cold or too much warmth that made Lady Linia´s mind retreat into a lethargic rest as she lazily gazed at the landscape around her. It was the events that had assaulted her in the last few months much like an army besieging the Eyrie.

Her parents´ death, and then, this. With her father and mother dead, it was Linia who had to accept the Starks´ call for help, and now hundreds of her subjects lay dead in the snow after fighting against the Others. Linia could not say she regretted aiding the Starks. It was good to have done so from both the political, and the moral point of view, nevermind the practical. She simply wished it had not had to be done. Or at least, that it did not have to be her that did it.

She would have to live with it, anyway...

"They are on that hill, my lady." Robrann, the head of her bodyguard, pointed at the banners fluttering in the wind, marking the position of the Arryns´ camp. Lady Linia had sent a thousand men, and the camp was small, but she noticed little activity from afar. Robrann seemed nervous as his eyes fixated upon the camp. Linia had only been told of a few of the nobles killed in the battle by raven, but nearly half of them had died, and Robrann´s father was there in the camp, in one way or another. Linia spoiled her horse softly and it trudged through the snow with some effort. She did not like the idea of having to find out who was dead, but she did not like so many things that she had had to do since she became the head of House Arryn... and at least she knew her own parents were dead. Robrann, and nearly all those who had volunteered to go with her, had come along precisely to find out if their fathers, brothers or sons were still alive. Linia had not become so jaded by her own problems that she did not care about the feelings of her subjects.

She was the first to enter the camp, and the last to feel any joy or sadness about it. Soon, there were knights and soldiers hugging, shaking hands, laughing and whooping as they met relatives or comrades... and men with somber expressions asking for details about the death of a loved one, crying to themselves, covering their faces, or simply sitting down and staring at the ground, unable to say or do anything and sinking into their memories or feelings.

But Lady Linia... she waited, still on her horse, watching in silence, as if from afar, until the commander of the soldiers approached. That is, their third commander, the first two dying in battle. Sir Borrick had fallen in the first battle, and Sir Lodev had died during the charge that finally made the Others start their retreat. Sir Manqis began telling her the list of wounded and dead, and Lady Linia listened silently as she had an aide write down the names. It was a... fairly long list. Longer than she would have wished it to be even at the cost of the nobles of the other houses.

"I see." That was all she could say to the list as she thought. A lot of minor houses had lost their first sons or heads of house, and there would be a lot of turmoil because of discrepancies in bloodlines. Upon returning to the Eyrie, Linia would have to bear with the petty complaints of young men seeking to usurp their better fathers and fathers bitching about having lost a son for someone else´s war. Lady Arryn could not help putting her hand to her forehead and rubbing her temples, imagining all the stupid, selfish in-fighting she would have to end when she returned. The knights around her expressed their concern for her, thinking that perhaps she was going to start crying or something else properly womanly, but Lady Linia simply didn´t have the tears for it. She was too busy thinking about all the other problems this would bring.

"Take the dead and bury them in snow near the camp. I shall ask for the Starks´ permission to bury them here if possible. If not, we can fill carts with snow and take them back to the Eyrie. While I talk with them... I think you have earned a good, proper rest. Tend to your wounded, and feast to your hearts´ content."

Lady Linia´s fairly monotone voice was met with cheers all around. Most of the carts Linia had ordered brought with her were full of food and drink, which she had considered not only a nice detail, but necessary for the soldiers of House Arryn. The sudden cheerfulness and celebration erupting in the camp managed to barely draw a gentle smile from her, that lasted only a few seconds. For a moment, she had felt good about the whole affair. A battle had been won, and the living would celebrate. It was appropriate, at least. But it was her job to take care of everything else. She waited for a few minutes, until her bodyguards had taken a few drinks and eaten something, then gestured at them to follow her into Winterfell. It was time to pay her respects to the man her people had shed blood for, and she already felt exhausted. No wonder, since night had fallen. But it had been some time since Linia really cared about the difference between day and night.

This land was foreign to her, so very different from the islands she'd grown on her whole life. There were many differences between Pyke and Winterfell - but the most prominent of them was the bitter cold. The snow had forced the Lady Callisto Greyjoy into warmer dresses that were heavy on her small frame, it had forced her into furs that she was not used to wearing. She was wearing once such dress now, dark blues meant to compliment both the fiery red of her hair and the shockingly bright green of her eyes. It was made of thick wool, but it was also made to suit a Lady - complimenting the curve of her hips beneath the fabric.

The snow was sullied with mud, flesh and blood - but this did not stop her from kneeling in it beside the body of a man that wore the insignia of House Greyjoy. The boy was no more than seventeen and not yet suited for the horrors of war - but then was any man, even the most hardened of warriors, really prepared for the horrors of such a war? Extending a hand, her fingers lingered inches from the boys eyelids as if intent on closing them, to give him some last brief respite.

"Lady Greyjoy, you shouldn't touch them." The voice was low-toned and steady, so she knew it wasn't the young untrained boy they'd left with her during the course of the war. No, that voice could only belong to the guard who'd been seeing to her safety since she was but a child.

Tucking her hand back into her body, she uses it to provide leverage against her knees so that she can stand up and turn to put a face to the voice.

"Captain. I wasn't going to touch him." Clasping her hands in front of her, she watches as the Captain kneels and does exactly what she was going to do seconds ago, sliding the boys eyes closed. He gave a slight shake of his head as he stood and faced her.

"I know you well enough to know that was a lie, Callisto." He addressed her without formality, because there were no others around to hear him. "And you know just how bad of an idea it would be for you to touch him, or any of the others."

A frown creased her brow, slight but present, and she found herself looking out over the bodies that extended far beyond where she could get a clear look. There were many, many bodies out there that belonged to her House, many men and boys that would never be returning to their families alive. It pained her each time her eyes raked over the body wearing the insignia of House Greyjoy, causing her frown to deepen until she had to force herself to look away. Dragging those green eyes past her guard, Captain Aramir, she settled her gaze on the camp that was made up of soldiers left from the Iron Islands, the banner of House Greyjoy dancing in the wind high above them.

She could not go to address them - it was her father that they wanted to hear from, that they needed to hear from. And they would not hear from him this day - he was a great coward when it came to battle, preferring to have others do his fighting for him. In an unprecedented move, he'd sent word overnight that he would not be joining in the meetings after the war. He expected his daughter to engage in the conversations before him. He added it to the list of responsibilities he'd already set upon her when he'd sent her to this cold and foreign place.

Lord Greyjoy was known for being very good at deception - this made him exceptionally good at politics. His daughter, on the other hand, was far more honest than he was ever known for being. She had a keen mind and had grown up around the politics - and had grown weary of arguing men and rambling Lords. Her father's requirement that she represent House Greyjoy and the Iron Islands in these meetings was an unpleasant bit of news that she had not yet come to terms with.

She still had to speak with Lord Stark and inform him of her exact reasons for being here.

Callisto had been within the walls of Castle Black for nearly a week - but she'd yet to have a moment with Domnall Stark where she could explain why her father had sent her.

And then, as if answering some silent plea, Lord Stark was there - nearly colliding with her no less. His greeting is formal and short and her own is equally as formal.

"Lord Stark. We need to speak, immediately." Her voice is quiet - the business she needs to discuss with him is the business of nobody else until after it is discussed. Aramir takes up stride behind her, resuming his post as her accompanying guard, and remains silent but fully aware of their surroundings.

Callisto did not look forward to the councils looming before them, and she wished to discuss this important matter with Domnall before they convened, if possible. In an attempt to make time for the conversation, she makes an offer.

"Allow me to help you from your armor, Lord Stark, that we may speak while I do so." Though raised by a politician, and formerly married off to a man equally as manipulative and political as her father - Lady Greyjoy had also been raised with a soldier for a brother, and Captain Aramir as her constant protector since childhood. She had become very skilled at removing armors, and knew well the desire to get out of the armor after a long and weary battle.

Briefly, she follows Lord Stark's gaze to the boots of the former king. She is quietly thoughtful as she waits for the Lord of the Keep to answer her - thoughts of her father's political plans playing through her head. Of course he would want her here instead of himself - this promised him the chance to make some strong political moves without much resistance - so many other House leaders were here in Winterfell, leaving so many places open and ripe for the taking. The mere thought of it has her frowning and cringing inwardly.

Standing on the battlements, looking out over the land and to the river nearby, there is a sense of accomplishment that fills Teagan. Her guardianship over The Reach fills her with pride as well.

“Milady, Milady,” the eager young voice of her page broke into her reverie. The lad stood panting, as if he had run miles instead of simply up to the battlements. Turning her attention away from the view, she regarded the child.

“What is it, Robert?” For surely it was of some import. The child knew she did not wish to be disturbed whenever she was up here.

“Milady, a raven has come,” he held out the folded note to her, “I was told to bring it directly to you.” She ruffled his hair as she took the note from his fingers.

“You did right, lad. Now go. Have Cook give you a cookie and be sure to tell her I told you so.”

“Thank you, Milady.” The child bowed awkwardly, but then, boy children were awkward at that age. He raced off.

“Mindful of the steps, Robert!” She called after him and watched him slow down as he approached the way back down.

Unfolding the note, she read it. So. It was time. A Call To Arms. She gathered her skirt in both hands, it was time to seek out her Commander.


In the flickering firelight, her skin took on a rosy gleam. She lay on her stomach as strong fingers kneaded the muscles in her back.

“So, how many men do you wish to take to Winterfell, Milady?”

His question came after she felt his weight lean over her back and his lips pressed between her shoulder blades before moving down an inch or so and repeating the gesture. She felt his hardness press against her buttocks as he leaned forward. She made to turn over to face him, but strong hands pressed her back down. His lips resumed their journey.

“I was thinking a hundred men should do. That still leaves enough here to see to the castle and lands. I want the King to know that the House of Tyrell is represented.”

His hands paused in her lower back as he leaned up against her to kiss the side of her neck. Once more she felt the pulsing hot strength of him pressed against her buttocks as he did so.

“Someone surely wasn’t sated with our tryst just a moment ago,” she teased then drew in a long breath as she felt his hips rise, pull back and felt him slide into her from behind. One long steady stroke, easily done since she was still slick and wet from before. His whisper was in her ear, even while stroking inside her.

“I will see to the troops, Milady.”

He withdrew from her body as his hands slowly slid up her sides to takes her fingers in his and squeezing them, his front just barely touching her back. His hips rose again, this time his aim was an entirely different place. She felt him pressing between the rounded mounds of her buttocks, the tip of him, pressing against her tight portal. The sound from deep in her throat was guttural, husky. His fingers tightened around hers as his hips continued pressing forward, opening her for the rest of him that would soon follow. His lips found the back of her neck; his teeth clamping down on that tender, vulnerable spot. Retreat. Press forward. His own buttocks flexed in the firelight. With each forward press, he sunk deeper inside her until fully seated within her heated, tight core.

The Commander was hardly done with the lady. It wasn’t often she summoned him for this and he was determined to momentarily sate his thirst for her, for it appeared that it would be sometime before he did so again.


Winterfell.

She stood up from another wounded solider, brushing back a stray tendril of hair with the back of her hand, the seemingly only place on her hands that wasn’t bloody, oddly enough. She straightened her spine, hearing it ‘crack’ as she did so. Her head lifted as she inhaled, searching for air that lacked the stench of blood and finding none. So many wounded. So many more dead. The air was growing cold, winter was coming.

She leaned down to tuck a blanket tighter around another wounded solider. She wasn’t one just to sit around and do needlework and gossip about other nobles, not while people lie dying or gravely injured. This fight had called for all people to come together and do their part to help succeed. She did hers. Having brought a cart filled with trunks of herbs and bandages, she had set about helping the healers as best as her knowledge allowed for.

Jakram Mallister

Bio

Jakram could feel his men beginning to relax as they saw the towers of Winterfell beginning to rise in the distance. "Stay sharp!" he warned. "We're not home yet!" Surely Domnall Stark had to sense to maintain regular patrols within the few miles surrounding the the fortress, but the blasted Wights could seemingly rise up out of anywhere. If he'd learned anything over the past several days, it was that they there were still dead walking south of the Wall. He didn't want the abominations to fall upon his men unawares because they let they guard down within sight of their destination.

Jak pushed his destrier forward, riding up to the head of the column. He passed by the carts which held what wounded were returning, with more of those strapped across the backs of horses. He had been unwilling to leave any wounded behind, no matter how severely. Wights were just too horrible to face for him to leave any man to that fate. Jak hadn't had a reputation for compassion, but in this case, he'd not hesitated to order even some of his noble followers to unhorse so they could bring back all the wounded.

He almost regretted having volunteered to lead his reconnaissance in force. He'd taken a mixed force of horsemen and infantry from Winterfell all the way up to the Wall. It had become clearer than ever the importance of the Wall remaining intact, and his man had moved to make sure the road remained clear. It had not been. But as far as he knew, it was now. He allowed him a brief smile, as well. The trip had not been totally without gains, for him. Rolan Tully had fully. Rolan was an elder cousin to Bryan Tully, Lord of Riverrun, and one of his most trusted captains. A very large man, strong, and a fearsome opponent, both in the lists and on the battlefield. His loss would weaken House Tully, and it secretly strengthened his ambitions for House Mallister. He'd already dispatched a raven to Riverrun, informing Lord Tully of his cousin's brave demise, and how he'd salvaged a situation which Jak called "untenable." A lot of generous language to express his regret at their loss. Jakram decided that his trip North had been an overall success.

It had been a blessedly short campaign. Wights were fearsome enough-even the bravest were unmanned when they realized the bodies attacking them belonged to their fallen comrades. The damned things didn't even bleed properly. Chopping away at them was near useless, only fire stopped them. His men had gone through so much pitch burning the damn creatures out-a significant portion of woods south of the wall were going to take decades to recover. And the Others...Jak shuddered, remember matching swords with one of them. He'd felt so cold, and it had moved so quick so irresistibly. It was fortunate that the few survivors of the Watch who'd fled had stumbled upon a secret to relay. Dragonlass, "obsidian" as the maesters knew it, undid them. Very fortunate for Jak. His weapon had shattered, and he had been cringing away from the deathblow, when an archer with a dragonglass tipped arrow had taken the thing in the side. It had simply ceased to be, after that.

He'd done his part, though. He'd done his best to the aid of Domnall Stark, willingly accepting the command of the Warden of the North. He'd done everything to be as useful as lieutenant as he could be. It befit his standing, and the fact that he was defending Dom's territory, even though he knew he was as skilled a commander as the head of Stark. That was why he'd been given the command of the forces from the Riverlands, despite the presence of Rolan Tully. And under his command, they'd accounted themselves very well. Men of the Riverlands might not have the reputation of warriors from the North or the Vale, but their contributions here had been noticed. Jak's star was on the rise.

As they reached the outer camps, he sent the two carts carrying the dead over to the still-burning bonfires. No one was going to be burying their corpses here, after seeing so many dead rise up again. Even a man as noble as Rolan Tully must meet the fires, much as his family would love to have his remains interred at Riverrun. He was passing through the outer camps now. His men began to disperse, making their way around to the south of the castle, where his brother had encamped with the rest of his forces whom he had not taken to the Wall. There would be wine, there, for his men. He walked his horse toward the fortress, passing through a camp that had been set up for the wounded. As he did, he spotted Teagan Tyrell moving about, helping the healers. He smiled, watching her for a moment as she walked away from him. Now there was a fine one. Ferocious, obviously, else she wouldn't be here, but she also cut a striking figure. Plus she was nearly as wealthy as any Lord or Lady in the Seven Kingdoms.

He saw Po, then, as he entered the main courtyard. Podram graciously took his mount's bridle as Jak dismounted, but Po looked up at him expectantly. "There's been news." Jak met his friend's gaze, searching them as he dismounted. A stable boy arrived to take his mount, and Jak walked with Po toward the entrance of the main hall.

"My father?" Jakram asked.

"No. King Baratheon. He perished, leaving no heir." Jak stopped shot at that. The great door swung closed behind them ponderously slow as they stood in the entry chamber. He saw his own thoughts reflected in Po's face-Po was a kindred spirit to him, just as ambitious, and nearly as clever. A void on the Iron Throne would mean chaos, anarchy, even. An ambitious man could do well in such times. Suddenly Jak cursed himself for having taken his men north to the Wall. He wanted to begin taking his men south as soon as possible, to secure his own holdings, to begin the opening moves in the game of thrones. Within his own army he had a force of men exceedingly loyal to him. There was a second faction, smaller-now much smaller after having been whittled by battle-which was unaware of the first, merely doing their duty to the Lord Tully. At the head of nearly 4,000 survivors-veterans-he could be a real force in a world of anarchy. He smiled at his friend.

"Come. We have plans to make." He began walking toward his apartments, in the West Wing. He passed a contingent of Greyjoys from the Iron Islands. His eyes narrowed. He'd been their ally in the battle, and he'd remained civil, but even now he had to keep from spitting in their direction. Fucking raiders, is what they were, those damned Ironmen in their longships. He had little regard for them. They were following a lovely lady, though, on her way to the Keep. No doubt to speak to the Lord Stark about this development as soon as possible.

He sent a messenger out to run to the camps to fetch his brother. His day would arrive sooner than he had expected.

The roar of laughter erupted from the camp, Thero himself leading a howling praise to the fighting trio before the fires with a sloshing horn of wine hoisted into the air. The Captain's arm reached out suddenly, gripping onto the young woman at his side, hauling her in for a tight embrace and a drunken kiss, his laughter growing even louder as he finally released her lips.

The young woman seemed so out of place around these men. Their skin was so darkened, dyed by the sun. Her own was fair, barely starting to take on traces of darker hues, her blonde hair easily spotted among the brown braids of the others. She would always be different. But she was slowly becoming like them. Her new family...

But traces of the old remained. Reasons to hold onto the way she once was.

"Your brother waits," Thero growled into his young wife's ear, his teeth gently nipping it as he held her.

"He can wait longer," Phaelae replied flatly, her own use of the Dothraki tongue holding a curious accent that still made the men laugh. "He disgusts me..."

"A contract was made. Our agreements must be kept." His arm moved up, hand clutching her breast as he pulled her closer, his teeth grasping her neck for a moment. "But that is for he and I, my Bloody Fae."

She smiled as he released her, slowly moving off from the gathered group to instead head for the large tent situated at the furthest point of the camp. The various decorations of deep reds and braids of brown, collections of trinkets and spoils gained in her husband's travels and conquests. Once, they had frightened her as much as the man himself. His voice was gruff, his words, foreign to her ears, were horrifying. The gleam in his eye when he looked upon her seemed the same as a vulture contemplating a rabbit near death.

Phaelae had thought she was to die. To be the food for this vulture.
But the vulture reinvigorated the rabbit. Gave it life upon its wings.

The other rabbit...
The one who left its sister to the vulture...

Her eyes narrowed as she opened the flap of the tent, finding her brother sprawled upon the couch inside. A disgusted look rested on Aellin's face, his nose wrinkling even more as his younger sister stepped inside. "Oh, there you are. I was beginning to think you wouldn't show. Ugh, that stench. I-" He paused, recoiling slightly as she moved closer. "It's on you too! What were you doing? Disgusting! You need to bathe before I will even consider having my way with you!," He demanded, one hand resting over his nose as he stabbed the fingers of the other furiously at the bucket of water across the way. "You reek of wild dogs!"

"And you are lower than the shit of dogs," she hissed in her husband's native tongue, lowering her eyes as she moved to the water.

"Don't snarl like a beast around me, Phaelae. You know I cannot stand the sound of that horrific language." He stood as she began to wash herself, slowly working his way over to her. "That's better. Keep going. You are still a Lady, despite all... this. And once I have the Throne, you will need to act one once more. You should be thanking me for these visits, Little Sister. It helps to remind you of who you truly are. Why, if it weren't for me, you'd be no better than these beasts." He slipped his hands up over her shoulders, pushing the fabric of her dress back down before gently kissing the skin once hidden beneath. "Another bitch, licking at her lips." Aellin's wandering hands continued to roam, now undoing the thin leather twine holding the back of her dress closed as he chuckled to himself. "And I do not mean the lips of your mouth, you deprived little whore."

Phaelae's eye twitched. Her brother could not see. "Yes. Thank you, Brother," she replied softly, forcing the sweetness to her voice.

"But of course. The madness that must overtake you from being without me for so long- I could quite understand the need to sate yourself in some manner. Perhaps I should increase my visits, hm? A proper fuck more often?" He circled her then, a hand reaching to grasp her chin. "You used to have such a beautiful face, Phaelae. A pity it has become so... disfigured among these dogs." He sighed, letting go of her before closing his eyes a moment, a brief solemn second holding him- only to spark back with a smile, his finger twirling in the air. "But your face is not what I require at the moment! What luck!"

The sounds leaving the tent were few, mostly the grunts and pleased cries from Aellin himself; Phaelae, however, merely grimaced and clutched at the earth beneath her fingers.

"You will be pleased, Dear Sister... To know.... that progress has been made.... in your absence," he relayed between thrusts, fingertips clinging harshly against her hips. "Dragonstone is- once again mine, and... gnn... and with the help of your Dogs, I should- be able to... t-to..."

His struggle was barely noticed by the young woman beneath him, her focus more on his words than his actions. Dragonstone?

...His?

"How wonderful for you, Brother...." She scowled into the earth, clawing at it once again. "You disgust me..."

He froze. "The bitch whines again." Aellin withdrew quickly, the sudden motion bringing the first cry from Phaelae's lips as he clamped a hand upon her shoulder, forcing her to turn over. "Keep speaking that way, you may lose that tongue, dear Sister. The bark of a dog is not welcome in my chambers." He laid back, pulling her atop him. "Amuse me, little one."

Phaelae closed her eyes, rocking down against him, the anger seething inside guiding her motions. A peek between veiled eyelids revealed him to be closing his own, enjoying the passing glide she made. His attention was elsewhere, wrapped in his greed and pride, his arrogance. The woman herself was not in his thoughts.

But she should have been.

"The bitch will rule...," she hissed, her hand darting beneath the couch beside them, withdrawing the dagger hidden beneath. Her brother's eyes opened at the offending unknown words, fury starting to cross his features-

-replaced by shock.
Pain.
Fear.

The dagger drove down, inward- piercing his heart. Phaelae said nothing, holding still her position on her brother's hips as she twisted the blade, unwavering until his body went limp. She finally stooped, kissing him lovingly on lifeless lips as she removed the dagger.

"For our glory, Dear Brother..."

"I dare say, Lady Linia, that Lord Stark could wait one more night before we trouble him with such eerie business. He must be tired from battling the Walkers, too."

The words of Master Swordsman Jorick were true, but Lady Linia dismissed them shaking her head gently.

The head and servants of House Arryn rode toward Winterfell at a calm pace. Lady Linia in the front, Sir Robrann at her right and Sir Jorick at her left. Jorick looked as underfed as he always did, though looks were tricky. None who looked upon him would recognize the Storm Knight at first sight, which suited him just fine. As proud of his fame as he was, Jorick was a pragmatic man who would rather stab a thousand men in the back than fight a single one face-to-face. And yet, he was one of the best fighters the Seven Kingdoms currently knew.

"This business can´t wait long, Jorick. It´s not just our dead, we also have to think about the future. What if the Others return? We do not know where they come from."

"Well, they come from over the Wall..." Young Sir Robrann commented absent-mindedly as he looked on Winterfell analytically. He rode without his helmet on, enjoying the fresh winter breeze of the North. It was not unlike that which caressed the Eyrie. But Lady Linia knew it was not the weather that had him so unfocused.

"What my Lady means, I believe..." Jorick replied with an amused smile at Sir Robrann´s childish comment. "... is that we do not know the origin of the Others. How are they born? Does someone or something create them? How soon can we expect another attack like this?"

"That is right, Sir Jorick. A great battle has been won, but what is its actual impact on our enemy? Against any other opponent, we could send scouts to watch their settlements and trade routes, or infiltrate spies in their towns to count the soldiers left or tell us about the mood of their leaders. But against the Others, we have no way of knowing what damage we have caused them."

"You are worried that our victory is not as decisive as the men think..." Sir Robrann sighed, worried. Lady Linia glanced at him. She had not given him the chance of finding out about his father yet. He was dead, of that they were all sure, but although Lady Linia doubted Robrann´s father had fallen in dishonour, she intended to know about it before Robrann did, and do or say whatever was necessary to avoid him losing confidence. House Arryn could not afford to lose a single knight to doubts. Not now. And the Lady Arryn already had men doing inquiries.

"Lord Stark is the Warden of the North. If anyone is in position to provide us with information, or to request more help from the other Houses, it is him. And besides, my father knew him well, so much that he risked his life and that of his family for him and for King Robert. I should get to know him well, too."

"Hmmm... I see." Sir Jorick grinned gleefully, and somewhat naughtily. Being a man with a mind as sharp as his sword, he had a clear suspicion of what Linia could have meant with that. The problem was Linia was not sure what she meant, herself. And as the group approached Winterfell, Robrann riding ahead to inform the guards of Lady Linia´s intentions to meet Lord Stark, Linia grew increasingly worried. House Arryn had to secure itself with a male heir, and that would mean a political marriage. Either Lady Linia found someone to marry with, someone worthy of the House Arryn´s seat, or it would have to be one of her sisters. And Linia had no intention of... selling one of her sisters. If it had to be done, it had to be done, but Lady Linia was still the head of House Arryn. She was young, as beautiful a wife as any noble in the Seven Kingdoms could ask for, and the key to ruling one of the most powerful Houses in Westeros. Linia hoped she had as much room to decide in as she thought she had, because she may not have learned how to use a sword, but Jon Arryn did not leave his eldest daughter in Fortune´s hands. He had educated her in the ways of politics and war, as a leader, and she could tell that the aftermath of the battle against the Others could be much more terrible than the battle itself. She needed allies, a powerful husband among them. And the sooner, the better.

Teagan had done as she always had. Early morning hours, two at the most, were spent in sword training with her commander. Then she spent most of the day seeing to the wounded and the dying. Her day’s supply of herbs had slowly dwindled into nothingness. She moved quietly from man to man, checking wounds, talking softly with others or held the hands of dying. No man should go to meet his death alone. She would simply take their hand in hers as she sat with them and just talked. The conversation really didn’t matter. The fear in their eyes, did. They didn’t wish to die alone, as if they didn’t matter or no one cared. She cared. When one soul departed, she pulled the blanket over their head and said a small prayer for them.

She had just stood up, stretching her back yet again when her eyes fell upon Jakram Mallister walking his horse past the camp. They had not met formally, but she knew who he was. Her eyes were thoughtful as she watched him become swallowed up in the scores of people walking about. Her attention was then claimed by another solider. Thoughts of one Jakram Mallister were shelved for the time being.




As she soaked in a tub before a blazing fire washing the stench of blood and death from her skin. Her eyes idly watched the dancing flames contained in the huge fireplace that warmed her room. She had been at the camp for the wounded and dying and could have been there all day and it wouldn’t have been long enough. The sounds of pain and of dying still rung in her ears.

The King is dead. She contemplated what that meant to all the kingdoms. Lawlessness would ensue unless the strong could beat it down, but even then, that would only be a temporary measure. Amongst the kingdoms there were strong men and women to see to the matter, but it also meant that there was a throne to fill. Who would be King? Even now, she was sure there were some ambitious men who had their eyes on the throne. Some who were already eyeing others in hopes that, that, person, could further chances toward the ultimate prize. Which among them were doing so for the betterment of the Kingdoms and which were doing it for the power and avarice? Ideally, she wanted it all. The betterment of the Kingdoms, granted. But even moreso, the power it would bring. She had no legitimate claim to the Throne and even if a female had that claim, seeing her to the Throne would be difficult at best. No, for Teagan, the way lie through a man. Nothing new there. Ambitious women throughout history had obtained their goals in such a fashion.




Dressed in a dark forest green gown, a black laced veil graced her head and fell to her shoulders. A warm thick cloak of black graced her shoulders, held in place across her chest by a gold rose. Even though it grew late, she would be remiss if she didn’t pay her respects to their dead king, who laid in state in an open courtyard within the walls of Winterfell‘s Keep, Lord Stark’s domain. She moved quietly through the vast courtyard, one lady-in-waiting in tow. Her personal guard close behind. She had argued with her commander for needing one, they both knowing she was quite capable of taking care of herself. That being as it may, he made valid points for having a personal guard and she had acquiesced to his request. She just didn’t have to like it.

As she drew closer to the body, she turned slightly to both Cedric and Celia, motioning for them both to remain where they were. Cedric, she saw, was not happy about it. He felt his job was to stick close to her, in case his protection was needed. She sighed as she turned back toward the body that lie on a bier not far away. She kept a dagger strapped to her inner thigh. She wasn’t totally defenseless. She proceeded to move closer. The sweet smell of herbs reached her. They were embedded in the bier upon which the dead king lie.

He had been a strong man in life, commanding obedience, service and loyalty from his subjects. The lines etched into his face, the faint scars and more recent ones, all giving story to his rule. How strange life was that a man who had ruled as long as he had, one they had anticipated would continue to do so, was now lying before her.

“Rest well, My King. May the afterlife bring you the peace this life could not.”

The air in the courtyard was still and smelled of impending snow. Soon. The flickering torches gave off a measure of warmth but the cooling temperatures would soon drive her back indoors. One last look at a good man, for all his faults, he had been a good man. Truly sorrowful for his loss, for the kingdoms and his family, she couldn’t help but think that now, her ambitions had a chance of coming to fruition. For the Throne could not remain empty long.

Around him, in all directions, lay the ruinous ripples of their victory. There was no training for the vision of wailing wives turned widows, orphaned children, and the blood-stained compliment of guardsmen that began their steady retreat back to the soothing arms that waited for them at home. The people of the North had long been accustomed to loss. Grief, and mourning, took a prominent role in their lives. It was necessary to become adapt at expressing loss in a world where so many things could become killers. It was not a place for the faint of heart. It was not forgiving.

There was pride, too. It welled up in him as his eyes tracked the faces that he passed. It was necessary to be tough in a country that's summer still saw snow. It was harder, though, to be resolute and proud of the losses that could so swiftly pile up here. It was that hint of pride, even amongst those grieving actively, that measured with it some small modicum of relief for Domnall.

For a long moment he walked without answering the woman beside him, neglecting her company for the vision that surrounded him. Winterfell was hurting. The words of the King's Death would spread quickly, and with it, the fears of uncertainty. Tonight, in a display few from the Kingdoms had ever seen, all the windows would be lit by a solitary candle. It was a tradition that dated far beyond the breadth of Domnall's time and could be harkened back to the very origins of the Stark dominion over the North.

It was a beautiful and solemn token.

Understated.

It was Winterfell.

The earth beneath his feet was beaten down, thick with mud. It clung to the treads of his boots and churned beneath his purposeful strides. For her part, the Lady betrayed no struggle in keeping pace, slicing with grace along the narrow causeway that would soon widen into the Keep's exterior courtyard. The inner sanctum of Winterfell was its defensive heart, built to withstand armies and siege weapons with towering walls a hundred feet high and measured fifteen men across. Stone, smooth and dark despite the assault of the ages, betrayed craftsmanship long lost to the realm of Westeros. Ancient hands, ancient wisdom, and ancient resolve which could be found everywhere within the city's walls because the Keep had not been constructed to defend -just- the city.

It had been built to defend the way of Old, entire, from what even then the people of the North had seen as a changing world.

Callisto Greyjoy, however, was not deterred. She did not see with her bright green eyes what he saw, around him, and she could not see it as he saw it. There, upon the opening of the Courtyard and before the massive maw of the Keep's heavy gates, Domnall slowed to consider her.

"Briefly." He agreed, his voice level. "I've business tonight."

And that business did not lay within the Keep's halls, twisted up with the other Great Houses within the greater Dining Hall. Domnall Stark would gather them, yield to their eagerness to begin their efforts to bicker at one another about the future of the Iron Throne, and then abandon them there. The conversations that were to be had there were not the ones he wished to have this evening. Domnall cut his eyes to Craven, finding the man's eyes and holding them.

"See that the Dining Hall is prepared. You're going to stand in for me tonight." He said as he looked at his old friend.

"My Lord." Craven answered, though his eyes betrayed the man's discontent.

It did not surprise Domnall. As was the case with most of his Captains; Craven did not enjoy politics. Craven enjoyed work and the trials of Stewardship. But he was forced to wonder if Craven saw as he saw, felt as he felt. Jostling the weight of his helm beneath a maille-clad arm, Domnall considered him, oblivious to the sounds of shifting soldiers and the clammer from the city beyond.

"My Lord, what is it?" Craven asked.

"Winter is coming."

To this Craven only inclined his head before moving on, taking swift strides that soon filtered him amidst the shifting crowd. His attention straying quickly to the Lady of Greyjoy, Domnall began to lead her through the High Arch and beyond. She would find that the Keepers of the North did not live in abject luxury. There were no gilded halls or great feasts laying about.

There were only well-kept rooms, such as the bath house, which they soon entered together. A massive stone chamber with a bath the size of a small pond, water steaming in the cooler air, heated by the Spring beneath the Castle's bones. It was a spartanly decorated but noble place.

Domnall began unbuckling the heavy iron clasp of his belt as he, again, cautioned the young Lady of Greyjoy.

"Now, Lady, what is it that I can do for you?"

Callisto found the silence between herself and the Lord Stark to be a refreshing and welcome thing. She did not expect him to answer quickly, and deep down - in truth - she did not want him to answer quickly. Her gaze was caught by the candles being lit, one by one, in the windows all around Winterfell. Candle by candle they were ignited as the darkness fell around them. It was beautiful and awe-inspiring.

It was a heartfelt way to send off all the soldiers Winterfell had lost.

When Domnall Stark did speak to her, however, she snapped her bright gaze back to his face and nodded her head understandingly, and continued to stride alongside him as Captain Aramir kept his distance but remained behind them nonetheless, dutifully. Each step down the hall shows her that this is not a place made up of unnecessary luxury. The sort of luxury that her father had made sure their home had. The sort of luxury that Callisto considered showing off. Though she would not admit it to the other Lords and Ladies present - the Lady Greyjoy found that this place was a breath of fresh air.

Castle Black, like the rest of Winterfell it seemed, was a breath of fresh air. It was honest and understated and to the point. A room does not need to be overly decorated or overly adorned in order to be a room. It simply must have the fundamental pieces that make up the room, to make it comfortable. This place, it was not for the high-and-mighty, the extremely wealthy with assumptions and expectations. No, this place was clearly meant for a Warrior-Lord and the Lady that he would have stand beside him and support him when he returned from battle. Though Castle Black was large, and she had seen very little of it, Callisto could already feel a warmer, more homely, more welcoming feeling coming from within it's walls.

The bathhouse was no exception. It was large, noble, and welcoming. Outside the doorway to the bathhouse, she had to stop and caution Captain Aramir, giving a shake of her head when he opened his mouth likely with some insistence that he accompany her.

"Stay here and stand guard, Captain." Though she so rarely did it, this was not a request but an order.

Captain Ararmir did not like the idea of sending Callisto, unattended, into the bathhouse with a man. But he let her go anyways, turning to watch the hallway. The business to be discussed between the Lady Greyjoy and the Lord Stark was exactly that - between them. It would be the Captain's job to ensure it stayed that way until either of them wished otherwise.

The bathhouse feels welcome, not only because of the atmosphere, but also because of the warm water that heats up the room. The heat warms Callisto to the bones, and she stands very still for a moment to simply enjoy it - enjoy the view the water and the room together create. The heat flushes her cheeks a soft pink, and she becomes warm enough that she's forced to remove the furs that she wears around her shoulders, dropping them to the ground. Her eyes seem brighter in here, away from too many lights and lanterns. And those eyes settle on Domnall and hold his gaze steadily.

"My father has sent me to you, Lord Stark."

Her voice remains steady, though she is unsure how he will receive the news. Furthermore, she's not exactly the happiest camper that her father is using her like a political pawn, again. Her voice remains neutral, her face remains neutral - save for her eyes. There is a fire, and a spark there, like a dare. It shows that she's very good at taking orders from her father, like a good daughter, but it also shows that she's got a will of her own, and a fire to help her fight if need be. Realizing that her explanation may need more, well, explaining, she continues.

"Lord Greyjoy wishes for House Greyjoy and House Stark to become politically tied. He has sent me, his only daughter and heir to House Greyjoy, to wed you."

There is so much more to be said than that. Something about a dowry, how the political ties would be advantageous to House Stark, how Lady Greyjoy is so tired of being used like a pawn, being used to do her father's dirty work. But she doesn't say any of it. Instead, she tucks a hand across her face, sweeping fingers into the red of her hair and swiping it off both her cheek and her forehead in a couple of moves. The hair wants to cling to her skin - the heat of the bathhouse dampens her skin and makes it so.

Finally stepping toward Domnall, closing the gap between them, Callisto reaches small hands to assist him in removing what bits of armor he wears, helping him while she waits for his response to what she's said. This was truly the last thing any of them needed. Truthfully, her father was one of the only Lords to be so tactless as to send a political bride in the time of war.

Standing so near him, small hands hurrying along his abdomen in order to undo armor fasteners and ease the burden of the armor from him, she allows herself a closer look at the plane of his chest, the muscles of his shoulders and neck, the strength of his jaw. She lets her eyes skim up over the angles of his cheeks, the line of his nose, until they finally settle on his eyes once more.

"What say you, Lord Stark, to the proposition?" She is conflicted in how she wants him to answer.

If he says that he is not interested - she has no place else to go. Her father has made it abundantly clear that she is not welcome back within the Iron Islands if she is not successful. He'd made it abundantly clear that he would not accept failure. And part of her wants to be a good daughter. She wants to do as her father wishes. Another part of her very clearly wants to rebel against her father. She wants to spit in his face and tell him that he does now own her simply because they are father and daughter. And another part, still, a part that surprises her a little as she inwardly explores it, finds Lord Stark to be an intriguing possibility.

Jakram doubted that his father would approve of his plans. He knew Ser Rygar would not approve. He was uncertain about whether his brother would approve, when he learned everything. But Podram Frey, his most trusted lieutenant, his long time companion-Po approved wholeheartedly. Of course, he would, since the plan fulfilled his ambitions as well as Jak's. He almost had to thank the Seven that his opportunity had come so soon, and was so ideal. He had an army which was faithful to his command, and with no comparable commander from House Tully to rival him. He had reaped the glory in the fight against the White Walkers, forcing the Seven Kingdoms to acknowledge him as an stalwart commander in addition to being a great knight. The vacancy on the Iron Throne had opened a power void just as he'd reached the peak of his prominence. Sure, the lion share of credit had gone to Dom Stark, who, rightfully, had taken charge of the defense of his own lands, but there had been sufficient glory to spread around, and Jak had done his part to claim it.

Jak strolled over to the window, glancing out. He had been quartered high in one of the southern facing towers, at his own request. The rooms were hardly appropriate for a lord of his stature, but he hadn't complained. He understood that the typical guest capacity of Winterfell was exceeded with all the greater and lesser nobles who were presently staying there. From here, Jak could see, in the distance, the fires belonging to the camp of his men. They were flanked on one side, the East, by the men of the Vale. He had to sigh-his men would not be able to move out on the morrow; they would either be hungover or still drunk. They did deserve their celebration, and a commander who enforced excessive discipline was not long a commander. Two days, at the soonest. Winter was approaching, and he would convince his men that their place was south of the neck before the weather really set in. Not that, he thought, observing the thin sheet of snow already on the ground, Summer isn't cold enough in the blasted north.

He glanced to the door as Connor entered his quarters. They were sufficiently small that having three people in them made them feel cramped, but he gestured to a chair, indicating for his brother to sit. He smiled at Connor, who'd come fresh from the camps. He knew that his brother was often compared, unfavorably, to himself, a great fighter and a famous tournament knight, but he had also acquitted himself well in the battle. He'd shown he didn't panic easily, and he was capable enough with a sword. "I'm glad you're here, Brother," said Jak, "we have much to discuss."

He didn't fill his brother in on the full plan. He simply wasn't ready for that, and Jak did not want to overwhelm Connor with all that was coming. Connor did agree that it was wise to move their forces south as soon as possible. He did agree that House Mallister had greatly distinguished themselves in the battle, and that they were rising to prominence. He also agreed to aid his brother in any way he could.

"But," Connor objected, "we cannot be seen to be slinking very quickly after the battle. We do not want our erstwhile allies to believe we are up to something sinister. We must exercise due caution." Jak really had to repress the urge to laugh at his brother's comments. Connor did make a valid point...but then, they actually WERE planning something sinister, and the idea was to be so far along in their plans that no one could respond in time, once they were in motion. Be swift or die-that might be the essence of playing the game of thrones.

"You are right, brother, I will take this into consideration," he answer. "I will handle the political elements, though-over the next two days, I'll have plenty of opportunities to lay a bit of groundwork." Internally, Jakram was bemoaning slightly. He did need allies, and he knew the political currents well enough to know which quarters in which he would NOT find them, but those who weren't threatened by prowess would, at the moment, continue to look down on him. No sense attempting to ingratiate himself to the Starks, and utterly refused to look to the blasted Greyjoys of the Iron Islands. They were a scourge on the kingdom, in his own estimation. Dorne was too unpredictable to be relied upon. There was much to think on.

"Well, Brother, Po," he said, looking at his companions. "I think it is time that I pay respects to our fallen King. I do not want to appear disrespectful. Brother, I would appreciate it if you would inform the rest of the captains that we hope to strike camp in two days. Po, I bid you a good evening-we'll speak more tomorrow." Having dismissed the two of them, he found some suitable dark garb, dressing himself quickly as he prepared to make his journey down to the courtyard. He found young Ander out in the hallway. "Come," he said to his squire. "It is time to visit our King."

He began descending back down the stairs of the tower out toward the entry hall. Ander followed along, quietly, like a dutiful squire. He knew the boy idolized him, to some extent, but all Jak really cared about was whether he had his father in his pocket. The Pipers were another significant house in the Riverlands...he continued to run through the scenarios in his head as he moved through the dark hallways of Winterfell. They were sparsely covered, very spartan. It must be really dreary to actually live in such a place. The Starks had no sense of comfort at all, that he could discern. The North suited them well enough.

He strode through the main hall and into the courtyard, where the King lay on his bier. There were candles burning around his lifeless body. He strode across to the King's side, where he found the Lady Tyrell already paying her respects. He looked down at the King, studying him. He'd been a strong man, in life. He still looked lively enough to rise up and grasp a sword. Jak was thoughtful for a moment, before he spoke a silent prayer.

The Gods had seen fit to give this world some measure of balance. Though, that which had been seen fit to serve as the scale's point of zero had always been a question to which Domnall had wondered. There was irony in this moment. She had so skillfully assisted him in shedding the weight of his armor before so bluntly burdening him with the weight of her father's intentions. The lack of heart within her request did not surprise him. He was a Stark. There were few women within the Iron Isles, he imagined, who would ever fancy themselves a wife to a Stark. Domnall, himself, had established himself as his father's son. Cold. Curt. It was the Stark's way to live simply, honestly, and unfoolishly. These were not the aspirations of young noble women outside the frigid North.

He was no fucking Lannister.

The burden was unwanted. There was a King to lay to rest. Around his walls, tent-bound and undoubtably saddled with drink, there were soldiers of a half-dozen Houses celebrating the preservation of the Iron Throne (vacant as it may be) and their improbable survival. These were burdens to which Domnall already found his thoughts dedicated. In his mind lay the plain reality of his position without the King at his side. The House Stark, keepers of the North for thousands of years, had never been the most fashionable of Houses. It was an uncomfortable mantle to hold, to host, when his people and his family were so blatantly considered archaic.

Without the King, without that strength at his side, it were as though the glue that held these families together had fallen away. Already, not an hour since his return to Winterfell, and he was wading through the ambitions of the Greyjoys and they were in many ways the very least of his concerns.

Domnall stepped down into the waters. The warmth circled him like an embrace and the waters began to cloud as they soaked his undergarments. It was only under the water's cover that he stripped them free, revealed the new assortment of bruises, cuts, and abrasions that marred his ruggedly fashioned torso, and tossed them aside.

If the girl's cheeks colored he did not see it, focusing instead on claiming the simple bar of Bay Rum soap from a servant that approached and on washing quickly, and thoroughly.

"Send Squires, any and all that you may find, to each House. They are not to abandon their search until each is found. Relay news that they are invited to dine, drink; a tribute to our fallen dead." He said to the girl.

She nodded. "Yes, M'Lord."

And was gone. Fleet of foot, slender, slipping out the door and into the colder corridors of the Keep's under-chambers.

Concerns embraced his heart. They crept, like serpents, and coiled around his resolve. The cold truth was that Winter was soon to be upon them. It was impossible to speculate just how long his country would be locked in snow and who would live through it. To the North the wall was being remanned and the Castles cleansed and refortified. His forces would be stretched perilously thin. His coffers guarded to survive the cost of the battle, to which the other Houses had contributed men but not materials.

Domnall did not blame them for it. It was impossible to not be thankful for their presence and their willingness to stand against the darkness with him. They had taken his call seriously. They had not shrunk away. He was grateful and much relieved to have seen them take up arms on his call.

But that did not change the simple fact that the war had cost the House Stark, and all those sworn to their banner, a great deal of money. He knew it. The other Houses knew it.

Domnall considered the Lady of the Isles, considered her with his typical lack of apology. She was beautiful. Soft. There was little to say for whether or not her manner was genuine, only to say that she seemed sincerely uncomfortable and uncertain. She seemed, quite simply, as though she did not belong or care to belong.

"And do you wish it?" He answered her with a question. Breaking the long silence between them as his hand briskly ran the bar beneath one rugged arm, thick froth beginning to coat the bath's top and the masculine scent of bay rum creeping through the room's humid confines.

Domnall Stark placed her in an interesting predicament with his questioning of her. Where she came from, her opinion and her wishes certainly weren't seen as important or necessary. Where she came from, it didn't really matter whether or not she wanted to be sent all the way to the North to be made to marry the Lord Stark. Where she came from, what she wished didn't matter at all.

Her gaze, vibrant and bright in the dim atmosphere of the room, had remained steady on him as he'd entered the water. She'd lowered that gaze to the ground at her feet as he removed his undergarments - not because she was some blushing maiden who was embarrassed or uncomfortable with his nudity. She did it because where she came from, she'd been raised to be a proper Lady. Being a proper Lady did not stop her from peering at him through her eyelashes, though, and it certainly didn't stop her cheeks from coloring a little due to the exposed expanse of his torso and back. She wrote it off as the heat in the room, the humidity, and she forced her eyes away from him so that she could turn and be polite, giving him his privacy essentially. Because that's what the Ladies did where she came from.

Where she came from.

Such an interesting little thought to keep jumping through her mind, at now of all times. Like it mattered. Did it matter? Or rather, the question was, did she really care about where she came from? This place that she'd come from, this place that she'd been raised in - was it really something she wanted in her future, or was it a past she wanted to get rid of, to forget?

Pyke was a place where fathers sold their daughters to the highest bidders just to get a little bit more political power. It was a place where soldiers gathered and swore their loyalties not to the King, but to the warped political leaders of the Islands. It was a place she wasn't really looking forward to returning to, truthfully.

But at the same time, she was a dutiful daughter. She had followed her father's orders from the first day she'd been old enough to understand what he'd ordered her to do. Everything she'd ever wanted to do, she gave up because there were things he wanted her to do and he'd ordered her to do them. She'd married a man she'd been sold to, entered into a loveless marriage, because her father ordered her to. She'd come all the way to the North, and offered herself to Domnall Stark, because her father had ordered her to.

So, the question caught her off guard. It caught her unawares and she was left trying to figure out if it was what she wished. Or if what she wished really even mattered.

She knew that she did not really want to return to Pyke, but she knew that she did not want to be isolated either. If she married Domnall Stark and she did not want to - she was giving in to her father's will and she was entering into another loveless marriage that would help her father and his political career. But if she did not marry Domnall Stark, she would be disowned by her father - she would be left without anything and left with nowhere to go. Both prospects were frightening, both prospects would have scared a lesser woman into lying.

But she wasn't a meek little maiden who would shy away from having a say in her own life. Where she came from, she might not have been allowed to make a decision for herself.

But this wasn't where she came from.

This was Winterfell, and it was Domnall Stark giving her a chance to have a say in her own life.

"I don't know how to answer that question." She'd let a long silence linger between them while she let her thoughts run rampant in her head. She moved around the pool, taking in everything around her, and then stopped exactly where the servant girl had stood a handful of moments ago. She turned her gaze down to the Lord Stark and watched him in further silence for a few minutes, once more enjoying the quiet between them. And then she knelt, her dress covering her legs modestly so there was still only a flash of covered feet and then the whole of her warmly dressed body presumably in his direct line of sight.

She can smell the Bay Rum as it permeates the air, and she finds that she likes the scent. It's strong and masculine and though she does not know him well enough to make the assumption, she finds that she feels it suits him and the rugged masculinity that he embodies.

"I could try and fill your head with lots of notions about the marriage, Lord Stark. I could spend a good while going on about my large dowry, or the political ties it would afford you and the rest of the House Stark if we were to wed. But I'm relatively certain that you're fully aware of those things already and I'm not a repetitive person. I could tell you of my good qualities, of all the things you would have to look forward to if you were to agree to marry me. But I am not a boastful person."

There was a pause, a momentarily lapse of her voice where her teeth worried at her bottom lip and she just watched him - trying to gauge his reaction, perhaps. There was so very much that she could tell him, that she could have said to him.

But could she give him an answer to the one question that he'd asked of her?

"So this is what I will tell you. I don't know if I wish to marry you. I don't know. How could I know when I do not even know you? I know only that I am here, in the Great North, and I am presenting myself to you at my father's behest. And I know that if you would like for me to give you a more accurate answer to your question, I will need more time to get to know you so that I may give you an honest, informed opinion on the matter. And, unfortunately, I know that you and I are both aware that when it comes to a political proposition of this magnitude - there is not much time to be had."

The slightest of frowns creased her brow and she let her gaze traverse the length of his torso until it met the water, and then danced her eyes back up to his face.

"So please pardon the ill-timed proposition and pardon the abruptness of my necessity for an answer - but there simply is not time to be had for thinking about answers or getting to know one another. I'm afraid we'll both have to be rushed on this, this night."

Word had come from Lord Stark. A meal to pay tribute to the fallen. Teagan had sent return word with the squire that she would be attending. Her dress was lying on the bed, ready to don. It was a deep royal blue, off the shoulder and cut low enough that a fine showing of her bosom would be displayed. The sapphire around her neck would showcase nicely.

Sitting upon a simple, sturdy, straight backed chair, she continued to dress. One shapely leg was extended slightly off the floor as she donned her stocking, pulling it up over a shapely calf and smoothed over a finely toned thigh to be tightened and tied off there with a pert little bow. With one leg encased, she set about the other as Celia brushed her hair.

Jakram Mallister. Their initial contact over the body of the dead King had been interesting. Their walk together indoors and subsequent conversation had proved to further interest her. There was a possibility in the making. The Riverlands and The Reach. Allies. She wasn’t so foolish as to think Jakram had only one iron in the fire, so to speak. He was far more intelligent and cunning than that.

She tied off the other stocking and stood up, stretching. There wasn’t one ounce of consciousness in her by doing so. She ran her hands lightly over her own body. It was an instrument, finely tuned and ready to be played. Stepping close to her bed, Celia gathered up the dress and helped Teagan step into it, tugging the material upward over Teagan’s curves. The dress itself was made of a heavier material to accommodate the colder weather. Celia laced her into it.

“Where are my shoes, Celia?” The young lady went scurrying to find them, leaving Teagan with her thoughts once more.

At the moment, she saw little by way in which Jakram Mallister could be of true use to her. True, allied forces of Riverlands and the Reach would be formidable. His current circumstances held little interest to her in the long run but he had a point and his father was ailing after all. With his support and that of the Riverlands, the numbers lessened who would consider challenging her claim as Warden of the Reach. Each Kingdom would be scrutinized to see what could be gained in taking them or becoming an ally thereof in furthering thirsty ambitions of claiming the Throne. No. Jakram Mallister was not to be dismissed lightly. Circumstances changed. He wasn’t hard on the eyes either. A renown swordsman and lancer. She wondered briefly what else he could wield with stamina and strength.

She had seen the way he looked at her. Greedy. Predatorily even. Good. She was under no illusions. Her wealth, her lands and to a lesser degree, her body, was an enticing mix. They would come to understand each other sooner or later. There was that joint ride part of the way back to their homelands to look forward to.

In the meantime, she would go to dine with the other noble houses and raise a glass to the fallen of this horrid war. She would quietly observe the noblemen and see who she could use to further her goals.


(Author’s Note: Jakram Mallister was added in a collaboration of private rp between his author and myself)

Jak smiled thoughtfully as he returned to his chambers once again. He was almost regretting that he'd requested these rooms that involved walking up and such a long stair repeatedly. He could almost have wished he hadn't gone down to pay his respects to the deceased King Baratheon. But no, it had paid off for him. It was important that whatever else he did, he at least appear to be honoring the memory of the King. Not to mention that he'd had the opportunity to discuss politics with the Lady Teagan Tyrell. He had a much better measure of her now-an ambitious woman. She would know how to seize advantage where she could. Her friendship, or at least support, would be an excellent first step if it could be secured.

There was a young boy waiting outside his quarters when he reached them. He thought he recognized the lad as a squire from house Karstark, but he could not say for certain. He was younger even than Ander. He looked somewhat nervously at him as Jak's hand had reflexively darted down toward his blade.

"M-my Lord...er...Lord St-Stark has s-s-summoned all the the high lords to a f-Feast. A tribute to the fallen. Your p-p-presence is....required." Jakram wanted to roll his eyes. Apparently the youth was not used to relaying messages to people of rank...it would turn out that his messenger turned out to be some shy neophyte. It irked him that, despite his achievements, despite his rising fame, he could still be reminded of his status with little barbs like this. Oh, sure, it wasn't intentional, it was, in fact, entirely proper, but he knew that he would not forever be a lower ranking noble to be used, ordered, and discarded as it suited. He forced himself to smile.

"Yes, thank you for relaying the message. You may return to your Lord now." With a quick wave to dismiss the youth, he ducked into his chambers once again. It was past time that Domnall Stark finally had gotten around to his preparations as host. He looked down at his current dour raiment and pondered. A feast to honor the fallen, the boy had said. Was this a solemn occasion, to mourn the passing of the King, or a proper feast to celebrate their hard-fought victory? He experienced a moment of indecision. Best to make sure that he did not offend anyone's sensibilities. His current attire would do. He turned to Ander.

"Ander, a quick task for you. I need to find my brother. If he has not been informed of the feast, see that he has, and tell him I need him to attend. Brin him back here. Now, go, quickly."

"Yes, Sir!" Ander piped enthusiastically. Then the boy hesitated. "Will I be allowed to attend as well, Sir Jakram?" Ander, at least, addressed him properly as Sir, though he would truthfully be Lord Mallister in just a matter of time.

"Yes, of course-a knight should be accompanied by his squire. Now go."

Jak waited in his quarters, stewing. He was eager to be off-this feast was more than just a meal-it was going to be an important discussion that perhaps shaped the politics of the Seven Kingdoms. Nowhere else would so many of the High Lords and Ladies be assembled so soon after receiving the news about the King. Sure, there would be other opportunities, but few were as ripe for picking as this one. Finally, his brother and Ander arrived. Jak nodded quickly to each before marching them down toward the feasthall. Little needed to be said to either...he was alone with his thoughts for the moment.

The wind of the North was cold and fast as it blew, flowing through the world of white snow that slowly became swallowed in the darkness of the falling night. That same snow crunched and gave way to the horses that rode across it, flying through the night as they headed towards castle Winterfell. These riders were tired, having spent many days away from the castle and the camps that now surrounded it. They had been farther north, scouring the land for the Wights that still roamed, fighting and killing the people of Westeros. Most of the riders seemed to be clothed similarly, in furs, leather and mail that covered their bodies, protecting them from the cold and from the blades of the Wights they had been fighting. The lead rider was dressed similarly, though her hood was down, showing a woman, black hair flowing behind her in the night sky as her eyes focused on the castle in front of her.

Fayanora looked behind herself, dark eyes no longer looking at the castle but at her fellow riders now. Most of the riders bore the mark of House Martell, proud fighters and kinsmen that had ridden with her for many years. A few northern men had joined Fayanora on her outing to fight the Wights, their knowledge of the land helping find ways through this foreign land. A sigh escaped her lips, mouth parting open slightly as she scanned them all. There were fewer then she had originally set out with, the Wights having cut them down in the couple weeks that they had been gone. The cost of war was high, yet Fayanora pushed the thought of these men out of her head as she turned her head back towards the castle. Having been gone, she knew she had missed what had been going on with her brother and with the dealings of the Kingdom's politics.

Her hand rested lightly on the spear next to her, hanging from her stallion. She had grown up with the weapon and many of the others that were now either attached to her, or her horse. Two carved swords hung from her back as a similar bow to the one her brother used sat on the other side of the horse, opposite of that spear. She seemed to stroke it subconsciously, clearly comfortable with just being close to the weapon.

“Hellfire, shall we join you to the castle, or head for our camp?” Spoke out a Martell rider as he rode up closer to Fayanora, snapping the woman out of her own thoughts and back into reality. She turned her head to him, those ever watchful dark eyes scanning him over. Even under the rags and leather, one could tell this was a strong warrior, ready and eager to spill blood in battle, yet now he was bundled up to stay away from the cold.

Fayanora's lips turned up in a small, sly smile, nodding her head off towards the camps. “Take the men Harak, see that they are well rested and fed. I'll head to the castle myself to report on what we saw and see what is going on now. May the blaze of Hellfire keep you warm, my kinsman.” She said, before bowing her saddle to him.

Harak bowed her head in turn. “May the blaze of Hellfire do the same to you, my Lady Hellfire.” He said with a deep chuckle, before giving a sharp cry to the riders. All of the House Martell riders came to a stop, before turning and riding through the camps, headed for their own tents. Fayanora headed onwards, evermore to that castle in front of her, now only escorted with a few of Winterfell's riders. It took them only a few more moments to finally reach the castle, gliding in through the gates.

Moving with them, she found herself at the stables, quickly jumping off of her horse and onto the ground. Patting it warmly, she'd pull off her large spear from the beast before nodding to the stablemen to take her horse. At last, Fayanora found herself at Winterfell once more, spear held in one arm, leaning against her right shoulder. Standing before the castle, she cast her eyes up, scanning over the place once more, before looking down and heading in through the main doors to the keep.

It was still dark out. How long had he been asleep? Torchlight shone through the window as a guard patrol passed by. He pulled a hand down his face and let out a tired sigh. Dark eyes peered around the room. His spear was leaning up against the far wall, the rest of his clothes and weapons scattered about. He gave his spear a defeated look and just laid his head back down on the furs. Triston was sandwiched between two naked pale bodies. He smirked to himself, eyes falling upon their curves. The girls of the North were tough, hard like ice. He liked that. Triston never could back down from a challenge. Even now, they slept naked and without a fur or sheet over them. He buried himself in the furs, this place being a sharp contrast to his homeland.

The brothel was busy even now. He could still hear the screams and moans through the thick stone walls. It made sense, with so many more bodies in Winterfell, some of them would find their way here. His girls were sound asleep. A hand scratched at his beard. It was starting to grey, peppered here and there. He was about to close his eyes when he heard a loud noise. He sat up, trying not to wake the girls. Heavy foot falls, boots. The screams and moans stopped. Everyone was listening now. The march of steps that started below, moved upstairs to where he was. It roared along until it stopped infront of his door. His eyes narrowed, glancing quickly to his sheathed dagger hanging on one of the bed posts. His eyes shot back to the door, he could see the shadows through the crack by the floor.
There were hushed whispers on the other side, he couldn't make them out. Then silence for a moment followed by three knocks at the door. Triston paused and raised his brow.

Well that's not what he was expecting at all.

"Yes?"

A voice from the other side, gruff and awkward, replied.

"Lord Martell, you have been invited to a feast at the main hall by Lord Stark. We were sent to escort you."

Triston gave the door an awkward look. Well this was certainly unbecoming. He ran a hand along the back of his neck and then up through his hair.

"Wait outside... I'll... be there shortly."

A couple minutes later and Triston was stepping back out into the cold night air, his hands were busy knotting his belt. He looked up at the men, Winterfell soldiers, and nodded towards the keep. They turned and started the short march up to the castle. He let out a sigh and looked back over his shoulder at the brothel, already a warm memory in a cold place.

As he turned to look back he noticed someone familiar just ahead of them. She carried a spear and bow like his. A smile returned to his face as he strode past the escort of soldiers and came up beside his sister.

"Fay, I'm glad your hunt returned you unharmed."

He offered her his smile, but it soon dropped away as he remembered the note from Dorne.

"Sister... we need to talk."

She had prepared to move into the Keep on her own, ready to find what news she could. Instead another group of soldiers approached from behind, causing her to take a glance behind. A small smirk spread across her lips as she saw her brother approaching, escorted by men of Winterfell. She stopped moving, waiting for him at the grand doors before pushing them open just as he reached her. Her eyes quickly darted forward, sweeping the entrance hall before stepping in with him.

“Brother, it is good to see you!” She moved to give him a hug, avoiding hitting him with the spear she still carried. Breathing in deeply, she let out a small giggle.

“Heh, the smell of sex clings to you, my Brother. These Northern women treating you well, or do you need a reminder of what Dorne has to offer?”

"Fay, I'm glad your hunt returned you unharmed."

That small giggle of her's erupted into laughter as she slapped her brother on the back. “Aye, I return from the hunt, and happily unharmed." She shrugged her shoulders, her arm curling about his side as she looked at him.

"Though the same can't be said about some of our Kinsman. Damn the Others for bringing this frozen hell down upon us."

"Sister... we need to talk."

She frowned slightly as he spoke. “Something to speak of? What have I been missing while I have been gone then?” Fayanora asked, casting her eyes about the Entrance Hall once again, worried for a moment at the world she had just entered.

“Is there something I should be worried about? Shall I call for our men?”

While her eyes darted about, she had naturally moved herself in front of her brother, arm falling away from her brother and landing on her spear as she defensively stood next to him, ready to defend him with her life. She truly was Captain of his Guard, ready to give her life for him, even though there seemed to be no apparent threat as they stood there, just the odd Winterfell soldier giving them an odd glance as they stood there together.

Those dark eyes finally found themselves back on Triston, trying to read him, trying to understand just what was going on here. "Tell me brother, what have I missed?"

There were moments in his life when he was certain that the North was an animal of its own. Even now, amidst the celebration and mourning that the Seven Kingdoms should know together, it seemed undeniable that his home and his people were somehow estranged from the customs and considerations of its peers. The cut of his eyes upon the Lady of House Greyjoy revealed that beyond her beauty, the elegant and refined visage of an heir, she harbored no insincerity. Lies, nomatter how well told, left their marks on the face. They forged lines and subtle indescribable blemishes. She was pure. Like the snow that was falling and would continue to fall outside, she was pure and she was fair.

A man could do worse than to wed a Greyjoy. He could do worse to wed a woman, scarcely more than a girl, that had her beauty. She'd give him strong sons and great comfort, the people would love her. The House Greyjoy would make the Starks richer, their titles would eventually expand, and on the surface it seemed a reasonable enough union.

Except, The House Greyjoy was lead by a treacherous man who lived without honor or even the means to fake it. It was this, beyond all the temptations, that dictated Domnall Stark's intentions. He reached without hesitation then to close his strong fingers against her bare ankle, the length of his digits slick with hot water. It was an attempt to turn her, for the water concealed what it must, and give him the necessary means to look into the girl's face.

"You are beautiful." He started. His tone lead to what his words would eventually confirm. "And I believe you to be honest. Your father is a thief and a brigand whose greed has meant misery to thousands of his own people. He would have us wed so that his intentions, through you, could entangle the honor of my House in his ambitions with the burden of duty to you. He sends you here to tie my hands under your skirts."

He exhaled, determined now that he would make his own feast. A room full of snake-eyed nobles and throne-hungry rivals seemed like a sudden, welcomed escape from the girl's beauty and the machinations of her father. He found it incredibly difficult to turn her aside. The ache in his chest forging itself as the soft flesh beneath her slender ankle ran beneath his slick fingers; a reminder of a longing he had been determined to never feel.

"The reason that the answer is no, Lady of the Isles, is that I have known love in my life and would not suffer a marriage without it."

The hand upon her ankle would lift, gesturing once to the rack besides the bath.

"A towel, if you would be so kind, so that I might dress and escort you to the dining hall. The others will be waiting."

The jape about the Northern women made the corner of his mouth curve up slightly. It was true, the women of the North were tough, hard to the cold... but they lacked the raw sensuality and... hunger of the Southern women. They could not be any further from Dornish women if they were men. He took two of them to bed that night when one good Dornish girl would have been enough in the South. The Prince had put them away raw and exhausted. Both at the same time and yet he craved more. Sometimes he was amazed at how well his sister knew him. It was enough for him to not dwell too much on the underlining meaning at the tail end to her little joke. After all, she was the only Dornish woman in Winterfell...

His thoughts changed hands, back to the matter at hand actually. He watched as she slipped off her casual demeanor and took up arms to protect him without another word. The curve of his lip turned into a warm smile as he brought his hand up and set it on her spear, lowering the long weapon. He put his other hand on her shoulder and leaned in, gently touching his forehead to hers. His eyes closed as he spoke again.

"It's not that Fay... it is about Mother and Father."

Triston told her all about the note and what it's story entailed. How their Mother was missing and that their Father had died. Her older sister was ruling Dorne in his stead and he even told her about how torn he was. He hadn't decided on whether to stay or go. With all that to take in he took a step back to let her have some space. He knew how tough she was, but he wasn't sure what she would need after such news. Did he hug her? No, let her come to him. He glanced around at some of the Northmen and various other citizens of Winterfell coming and going. Most of them were staring at the two. He furrowed his brow. No, he didn't care what they all thought. He was the Prince of Dorne and he would be damned if he didn't do as he pleased, when it pleased him. With one step he wrapped his arms around her and held her tightly.

"I'm sorry..."

Jakram entered the Grand Hall where the feast was soon to be held. Unsurprisingly, given how slow the man had been in actually organizing and inviting his guests, Dom Stark was nowhere to be seen. He was probably still occupied with that Greyjoy witch. If the Starks were cooperating with the men of the Iron Islands, it could cause trouble. The Riverlands were always vulnerable to longship raiders coming out of Pyke and Harlaw. Even Seagard, where they had strength of ships and strong coastal defenses, could be threatened on occasion. The raiders never dared appear to be too organized, or easily traced back to their ruler, since the men of the Iron Islands did not have a strong field army, and could ill afford draw the ire of the King. Now, with no king, and a potential alliance with the Northmen? The Riverlands would truly need to be on high alert.

The long tables stretched out, with the high seat for Lord Stark at one end, and a corner for servants, low-born, and dogs at the far end, down near the door. Jak realized that Dom Stark was not the only significant character missing, as almost none of the other High Lords and Ladies had arrived yet. The Prince of Dorne was nowhere to be seen, nor was the Lady Arryn. Jakram glanced to his brother, who had walked in him, and narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. Connor did not seem to realize at first what was on Jak's mind, but then he nodded his acknowledgment as he caught up to his brother. He did want to appear to be overreaching his station by seating himself too close to the Lord Stark, but he did want to make sure he was not relegated to seats surrounded by those of the minor nobles.

It was then that he caught sight of the Lady Tyrell. She was off to the right side of the room, standing near one of the large, roaring fireplaces that kept the room heated. She appeared to be keeping her attention trained on the door. He caught her eye, and his mouth quirked up in a half smile, and he nodded a greeting in her direction before turning back to his brother. "We shall sit here," he indicated, nodding toward the central table, about three seats down from the prime seating area. He indicated for his brother to sit opposite him, and for Ander, his squire, to take the next seat down from him on this side. Bringing a squire was a calculated decision. He was an important Lord in the Riverlands, but he was also representing himself as a knight, and it was important for others to remember that when they dealt with him.

It would have been tempting to invite Pod to sit with his party, but there were many who might object to sharing a seat with such an insignificant Frey. Besides, Podram could be more a useful tool sitting elsewhere, associating with other branches, as he was as much Jakram's man as anyone could be. Jakram hailed a servant to fetch wine for his party, impatient for the proceedings to be underway. This was definitely a night of opportunity.

The spear may had been lowered, but her grip upon the shaft had not lessened. She was Captain of the Guard, and she was to see her brother safe. That was till the words he spoke finally drifted into her ears. She turned her head to face him, her dark eyes focusing on his.

“Its about Mother and Father.”

Her face was dark as Triston told her what happened. Their father dead, their mother missing, and Triston the new Lord of the Dornish people. The news spilled across her, that mind of her's trying to make sense of the whole situation. Yet she seemed to be grasping at straws. Politics were never her liking, she was born to handle the spear and blade. As her brother finished, she looked at him. She knew it had changed him. It had to have changed him, he was leading their people now. As those arms wrapped about her and hugged her, she brought her free arm around to squeeze her brother back.

“I'm sorry...”

She shook her head, squeezing him warmly as she looked at him. Her face seemed to show no saddness, just a blank stone. Disentangling herself from him, she patted Triston on the back, standing still close to him if he wanted to find some comfort in her arms once more, even if she was his sister.

“Do not be sorry for me brother... you are the one that we should feel sorry for. You must lead our people now, especially in these trying times. What shall you have us do? Our sister will hold Dorne for us, but for how long? Will we stay here for a while to see what happens, or head back to our grieving people? I can't say I'd be sorry to go back. I miss Dorne. I miss our people... the men and the women both....”

The words seemed to flow out of her mouth, quickly trying to keep her brother focused. The end seemed a bit of a jest as she offered him a small smile. She did not know when word had reached them of tragedy, or what her brother had been thinking up to this point. All she knew was that action was needed now, more so then ever. She relaxed herself, no longer poised on an attack. Instead trying to be the comforting sister, though how to do that, Fay had little idea. She was a beast of war, not of flowers and courtesies.