light from the bright moon above shone through the open spaces between the treetops, practically dripping off the leaves and onto the ground below. visions of war plagued vickon’s dreams, visions that left him in a cold sweat, waking him with the moon still high in the sky. this night brought him the image of his brother’s mangled body and his sister’s head on a spike, blood on his hands. every time he closed his eyes, he could still see the look of pure horror and fear in his siblings’ eyes. so he walked. he walked as the nocturnal predators stalked their prey, as moonlight dripped onto the dark soil. he walked as silently as he could, not wanting to disturb the life around him.
never in his life had he feared something so intensely. he had never feared death for himself. he had become the man he was because of death, he would treat death as if it were an old friend, but the death of the only people he cared deeply about, despite their quarrels, their arguments, their rivalries. the death of his blood he couldn’t fear more.
he stopped right on the cusp of a pool of moonlight, eyes watching the cold breeze shake the world around him, though no shiver ran down his spine. he held his breath as he listened for something, anything. the lack of sound was what gave the warrior goosebumps, not the breath of winter. he drew his bow almost silently, the soft hiss of the arrow against the wood putting him to ease, his bright eyes practically darkening as he focused towards the sound. his body twisted quickly as he heard the rustle of leaves, taking a calculated, quiet step towards the sound.
“do you wish to die?” he murmured, slicing the silence as if cutting butter with a heated knife.
A hunt so long that is followed past sundown that is how the prince heir of Winterfell spent most of his days. As if the a boar could soothe his guilt. Harald knew better, that his place was by his father but the man laid in Winterfell all but dead and with no wits to speak of. His father, his king could now only help of help in death. Part of him wished he would be hurt, grieving as all men do when they lose their father. But Cregan Stark had been dead to him long before his illness. He wasn’t certain who changed it was that changed, if at all or if it was the disillusion of becoming a man that destroyed who he was.
Kept locked in his chambers, away from prying eyes and though he wished nothing more for it to be something a kin to a precious gem it was it was more or less within the realm of a highborn lady birthing a bastard ... all whispers and nothing to show for it . The proud King of Winter withered into a secret to be kept among his children.
Too intent on bringing his prey home, Harald has become careless. Choosing to follow the animal by horse rather than by foot, despite the fact it had been wounded and otherwise a matter of time before his death. It was the thrill of the chase that made for to sport, not the off chance of it becoming food. Minutes into the game he was met upon by a familiar face.
❛ STRIKE HARD AND TRUE, LORD VICKON FOR IF YOU MISS I WOULD NOT GIFT YOU THE CHANCE TO TRY ONCE MORE. You are quite a the warrior for a Karstark, I think it would be such a shame to have to take your head. ❜ Harald circled around the man just once, before pulling the reins of his mare for a full halt. Though he doubted the encounter happened by anything more than chance he mustered a grin of self satisfaction … Knowing all too well the Lord would not even if he wanted to.
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