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lord beron umber, of the last hearth.
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𖠰 slaining a dependent and private muse blog created for the world of cognati … features characters crafted and loved by is (she/her). do not interact unless affiliated, mature themes will be present.
lord beron umber, of the last hearth.
the world around them seemed to settle like snow on the ground ─ dulled into a silence as she remained hidden against the furs that covered them both, held within his warm embrace. catelyn came to a dangerous realization that no matter the years that had passed, peace and purpose could still be found by his side and now, with her duty to her family fulfilled and her worth in the eyes of westeros dismissed, she was loathe to be parted from him. from a distance, she had assumed very little had changed with him but up close, her eyes devouring every inch of him with a greediness that rivaled a starving fox, catelyn could see the heaviness in his features. he had aged, not because of passing time, but because of all that had happened since they last laid eyes on each other, and she was almost compelled to inquire about his old injury, to see if he had been taking care of himself in her absence. ( a small part of her that was aware of distance and what might have developed in that time kept her from fussing over him as she once might have, however. ) ❝ catelyn ... ? ❞ she hummed softly, attempting a small smile, lip quivering. ❝ am i no longer your kit ? ❞ perhaps she was not ─ it was a foolish thing to say and she regretted it almost immediately, eyes squeezing shut as she shook her head, as though to convince herself ( and him ) to pay her words no mind. there was a wetness to her eyes when she reopened them, though catelyn would excuse it on emotion, if asked. she longed to seize his palms and press kisses to his knuckles, to tuck his hand against her side and keep him warm, but instead, she reached up, tentative, to trail a finger along his jaw before her touch skittered away. ❝ ... i wish i could have met her. ❞ they had spoken of it before, along with a great many other things. bryndon's hut had become a memorial of their dreams, just as it had become a memorial of her brother's talent. ❝ i should have been there ... like you were for me, after the war. ❞ the strong hands that had picked her up from the ground and set her onto a chair, packing away or burning things when she could not. her brow furrowed deeper and she pulled away a little, fingers clutching at his arms, reluctant to fully relinquish her hold on him. she shook her head at the mention of her husband, her child ─ her shame. she had been a poor wife, constantly comparing her deceased husband to the memory of beron and when she had looked down at her child, for however long the boy had lived, catelyn could only lament the times she had lined her stomach with moontea ─ ever the practical one. ( it should have been beron, as her husband. the gods knew her thoughts and punished her by taking them both away from her. they were her shame and she could never confess it for fear of judgment. ) ❝ my only comfort was that it had been quick ... the child ... my son, he knew no pain. only that he was loved. ❞ or so she hoped. her eyes closed and she swallowed a sigh, feeling a weight loosen, however little, in her chest. ❝ better, now that i am here. now that i can see for myself that you are well. you are well ? how is your leg ? ❞
beron is taken back to a field of trees, tall grass lining the outskirts of them, and a little cottage he had made himself home in for a year's turn. he thinks of the close proximity him and lady mallister had, the tender touches, and warmth blooming in between them as time passed and the ache in his hip ceased only for an ache in his heart to grow. she had been everything that beron had ever wished for, still is now as he gazes upon her in the present. yet, it does not come without the knowledge that their lives had changed since the last time they had seen each other. catelyn had been married, had a child, and grieved them in a short time. the selfish part of beron wishes he had been the one her family had chose. he thinks of the news his father had gotten, the talks that he had tried not to seem to eager about as he told him it would have been a good match, anything to get him closer to the love he was not ready to let go of. only for it to fall apart and never come to fruition. when beron had learned she was to be wed, he had sent a letter in congratulations, even if something bitter and angry set within his chest. (why could it not have been him?) had sent another when he heard of a child being born. (why could it not have been his own? did he not wish every time they coupled in that cottage for her to fall with child? for their lives to be intertwined more than they already were?) each time a piece of his heart left with him until it had no longer sat within his chest, but was within seagard. "you have not been mine for a long time now, m'lady." it stings to say so, to admit it out loud to himself that catelyn had never truly been his to have. his sister had known how he had felt, the one person who truly did besides perhaps gilliane. she had seen what it had done to him over time. it makes her absence worse. "she would have adored you," like i have, sits on the tip of his tongue and stays there. "you were exactly where you needed to be, you had a family and people that needed you." when she pulled away from him, beron could feel his heart seize. his fingers clutching into her furs for barely a second, his body clenching before he realizes she is not his to keep close. the thought is sobering as his grip eases, feels her body sink away from him. (it felt so wrong.) "painless is peaceful, i am sure he knew peace and will know it in death too." there is a silent prayer he thinks into the wind, lets it float to where his gods could hear. "good thing you are here when the worst of the winter has passed, that fur you are wearing looks much too thin, you need to bundle up more. i shall leave you with mine and use the other i had brought." the concern in the lord umber's eyes is palpable as his sky colored eyes check her over. "i am well as i can be. the cold has become an ache, but i am managing to the best of my ability." not as well as she ever had, that was something beron knew for certain. "has the rest of your family joined you?"
It was no surprise to see the north's lady consort walking through the wintertown markets. Even during the time when there were no southerner in sight, she would bring the children down to visit. To get to know their people and how they lived like. To know what important role they played. They were still young and rowdy, but she had hoped it would at least spark an interest to them. Though this she was here alone, her children having stayed back in their chambers as the ever so present crowd served as a reminder why she disliked those south of the Vale.
"Lord Umber do you not think so highly of your work then? I was prepared to offer much for a couple of your wooden figurines for my two little ones and some of the pelts." She questioned softly.
it is always a pleasure to be in the company of the starks. beron had grown with them, been through war with them, and seen the atrocities of winter with them — a bond that has not been broken through the many years his family has held fealty. though the lady consort was newer to his life, it was not as if he was less fond of her. "it is not that, m'lady," though a blush does rise upon his cheeks at the insinuation she believed his work was worth more. "it is just—" and he has to pause, gather himself for a moment before he gets too worked up. "i do not peg the southerners to willingly give their coin to us, but if they can offer anything, it would be more than we have had in years." a bitter feeling floods through him, though he does his best to show. he should not act this way in front of the lady consort, she deserved more respect than that. "but anything you shall want, please do not pay more than a fair share or even any at all, i would not feel right taking it from you. which catch your eye?"
contrary to popular belief, dornishmen did know shame. while coryanne agreed that nothing could have been done to help the north ( and the riverlands and the vale ) without also risking the rest of the regions during the last five years, she was also of the opinion that coming here was not the right decision. throwing coin at a problem rarely ever fixed it but she would do her part as a senseless southerner, if that promised a quick end to the theatrics and a swift return to the crownlands or anywhere that was warm, so that her babe could be born beneath a shining sun rather than a grey sky. the boys ran ahead ─ baelon and aeryn each followed by a flustered member of the kingsguard, but rhaegar stuck with her, only trailing off when something caught his eye. coryanne paused, frowning as the boy attempted to climb over a stack of chopped logs to peer at the ludicrously large man in a small chair. ( was the chair small or was he simply big ? why did northerners have to overcompensate for everything ? she thought they were supposed to be starving. ) ❝ rhaegar, stop that. ❞ she scooped the boy up, grunting as he squirmed. it was not so easy to lift him with another growing in her belly, especially when he had his eye on something. ❝ my apologies, did he mess anything up ? he still thinks he is a babe. ❞ and likely will for life, but she tried not to think of that now. ❝ ... do you only do animals ? this is fine work, you should not undercharge for it. ❞ she did not mean to sound that surprised, as though to imply that she believed all northern work to be poorly. ❝ i would pay, if you did commissions. ❞
while beron had never been fond of southerners (only one, though she was northern in his heart... or head, whichever one made up for the fact he wished her to be), there could never be a dislike for children. in fact, a bubbling fondness lights up within him as he watches the small child do his best to climb onto the logs his family had set up in the snow. he remembers himself as a child, discovering the world for the first time and all that it had to offer. trysts in the snowy wood of the last hearth before being scolded and running back with a pelt full of caked snow and cuts along his hands from attempting to climb a tree. it is that fondness that has him watching the child with a twinkle in his eye. the idea of children had always been something on his mind. not because he wished to pass along his family's legacy, but because he wished for a family, one he could love and cherish in the way he had never been when he was younger. "there is no need for apologies, your grace." beron does his best to sound as regal as he can, though it is no doubt he is a true northman with the accent that leaves with his words. "he is welcome to climb as he pleases, i would say it is a right of passage for a babe where i come from," he gives the babe a small wave, a gentle smile on his face, "and i would not wish harm to come to you from carrying him," his attention turned from his mother to the child once more, "you are a strong one, aren't you, little one? i can tell you will grow up and give your mother much trouble." meant only as a jest, for he did not wish to step over bounds with the royal family. at least not now and surely not with a mother and her child. "that is kind of you to say, your grace. i do make them myself, i have been doing it since i was a boy." beron remembers the times with his sister, them sneaking into each other's chambers because they could not be without each other during the night. ellara teaching beron the gentle motions of carving while he struggled because of his large and clumsy hands. it is a fond memory to look back on, even if the thought of her stings in places beron had yet to discover could hurt. "mostly animals, yes, there are very few people i come across long enough to carve. i have never done a commission, but for you, your grace, i would be most willing."
dacey continues to admire the little figures before her. this little interaction is helping her to ignore her own mixed feelings at the loss of her grandfather, the whole reason everyone is even gathered. “i am between the doe and the direwolf,” she tells him with a gentle smile. “your work is truly something, beron,” mismatched eyes flit upwards to greet his own. “and you know i couldn't possibly do that… whatever i choose, i shall pay for it.” dacey picks up both figures in each hand, feeling the weight of them. “you know what? i think i'll take both… if i may, that is.”
"both fitting for you, little wolf," a nickname of childhood slipping out of beron's lips. fondness that hardly existed within the harsh climate of the north, even harsher within the stone castle of the last hearth. "beauty of a doe and strength of the direwolf." the smile he offers her is one few get to see, even fewer during the winter that had ravaged their home and left many for dead. "i do hope something is a compliment," he jests with her. the days leading up to the procession, to the south coming and invading a place they did not even pretend to care for, had been tough. even tougher with his father in his ear and his sister's death looming over him like a cloud he could not clear. "shall we strike a deal then? you pay for one and i will give the other as a gift, as—" beron has to pause, swallowing down a lump in his throat, "condolences... i offer them greatly, dacey."
the ground crunched beneath her feet as she passed all the stalls. nothing stood out, everything blended in. that was best for such people. being one with the land, with the best, bright colors would make it hard for a hunter to claim its prey. however she came from a house of colors, wine red and purple, even blue. house massey would have stood out here, easy to find on a hunt. she was once told that the most beautiful things are the most dangerous. and she would hold to that.
then she paused. in front of lord beron’s stall, yet her eyes wasn’t on him but on a wooden craving. and it brought her back to that letter. to her father, her real one, if one could call him that. can a man whom you have only known for three years of your life be a father? he did not get to see your rise to ladyship. the trials and tribulations of being a foolish girl. and he didn’t get to see that foolish girl become a woman. become the heir of a house that took her in so willingly. it’s almost as if she didn’t deserve it. does a babe that lost it all deserve the position that she’s in? would one ask such questions? yet she knows others have and haven’t got so lucky, so why her?
her eyes fluttered closed as she rolled her neck, calming herself. then she looked at the craving once more. it was a frog, one that reminded her of father, lord jorwen marsh. as a northerner, he must have been a tough man … just not tough enough to win the fight that cost him his life. impostors, all of them.
fighting the urge to roll her eyes, not only at her thought but also at having to bargain. a mere wooden frog wasn’t worth fighting for, but she took a step closer to the stand anyway, a polite smile on her lips. “ i have a gold ring to offer you … for that frog up there. ” she pointed at the item. “ do you make these yourself? ”
beron had tried, throughout the day to be as kind as he could. his father had told him to do so, even if the man's own dislike of the south ran rampant through his children, he had told them this was an opportunity to take what was owed to them by the people that cared for them the least. that if they were to come into their land and pretend to care, they could at least put a smile on their faces and do the same. it is not what beron is doing now, but the sentiment is there... in some capacity. "gold is gold, m'lady." beron shrugs, a man of few words would not make a good spare and it's a thought that has crossed his mind more often than not in the last year since his sister had died. though, he does his best to not think of her, not think of what her death has caused. it does him no when that happens. "aye, i do make them myself — something to give my hands purpose." he sets down what he was working on to reach for the figurine in question — it was not a hard reach, beron was the size of the trees that grew in the last hearth's forest — to set it in front of her. "is there a particular reason the frog calls to you, m'lady?"
“ i want that one. ” eyes remain resting on the man that looks almost as large as the bear whittled between his fingers. sheer size enough to capture her interest, drifting from the rest of the stalls towards one looking both too small, too large, that she had wished to see them closer. sansa has yet to reconcile what it is that looked odd — perhaps the stall itself looking as though its smaller than its counterparts scattered about the path, or some sort of kindred knowledge in an expression that matched her own dour one once the procession had ended. one worn upon features of the vale and north in silent shared acknowledgment of what this all was : that knowledge outweighing her curiosity of those she was told were kin.
“ the bear in your hand, ” sansa clarifies, as nothing previously stated suggested such. “ i tried to make one on my own some time ago. it became such a mess that i was made to promise not to attempt one by myself again, and … the person who was to make one never got the chance to. ” words start to slow with the knowledge as to why the request had gone unfinished, the slightest droop to her smile that sansa catches and then forced away. “ how much ? since you are still finishing it, i do not wish to not offer enough. ”
it catches beron off guard for a moment, so much so that his eyes lift from where they are focused on his hands to meet the dark brown of the lady before him. normally people did not have an interest in what he did, they would look for a moment and then move on. they had no need for the little figurines he could craft with his eyes closed, no need for decoration that was made by someone who was not important enough to remember most of the time. sure, his stature left people looking, but it was rare that he was remembered for anything else. though it is not that he wishes to be remembered, no at all. beron would prefer to fade into obscurity than have the realm keep his name in their history books, but there is a sort of gentle thrill that runs through him at the thought of his carvings sittings on tabletops and mantles throughout the kingdoms. "do you like bears then, m'lady?" beron continues his work while attempting to keep eye contact with the woman before him, carving lines of texture to mimic the fur that the creatures of his home possessed. "they are plenty where i am from — my favorite." it feels like too much information to share with someone he does not know and he can feel the embarrassment of doing so creep up on him. "i would accept just a handful of coppers, but i would not feel right even taking that when i have yet to finish." a sheepish look sets on his features, "is there anything else you like? or maybe—" beron pauses, wondering why he is even thinking of offering the suggestion in the first place, but like most things that beron does, the words tumble out clumsily anyways. "i could teach you to do it yourself? in a safe way that will not become a mess."
the lady of winterfell is wrapped tightly in her furs as she makes her way about the market stalls. though she is used to the chill in the air, she is enjoying the warmth they provide. she walks slowly, examining each and every stall until she comes upon a familiar face in the form of beron umber – a man of a house who has shown the utmost loyalty to her own.
she walks over, examining the various pieces out on display. they are finely made, though she would expect nothing less from a northern craftsman. she smiles softly as she leans down, eyeing a figurine of a doe. just beside it, a direwolf.
“they're beautiful,” she says softly, still bent over to look at each piece more closely. “i can hardly choose.”
the coldness manages to seep out of him at the sight of an old friend. it is rare these days that it does that, but the young stark lady had been apart of his life for as long as he can remember and she, like only few others, managed to slip past the icy exterior that beron had kept up. even if now, that barrier made itself more known even to those people. loss would do that to someone, harden them until even an ax could not pick its way through. "thank you, m'lady." there is a smile beginning to curl up his lips, but it is something subdued that does not reach the eyes. "is there anything that would particularly catch your eye? perhaps i can help you choose." an offer that sends a blush through his cheeks, but is masked by the nip of the northern air, "anything and it shall be yours as a gift from my house to you."
↪ closed starter for beron umber ( @slaining ) in wintertown after the statue unveiling and procession, on the first day.
even after all this time apart, he was singular in the way that he captivated her attention from across the square ─ catelyn had not even glanced at the statue properly once she had picked beron out in the crowd of northerners, towering over the rest in his furs. her heart lurched, as did her body, as though tugged by some invisible force and it was only the fact that she had been standing slightly behind her older sibling that kept her from running through the gathered crowd to get to him. it had been a feat in itself to keep herself rooted to one spot, gaze focused on the features of the ruling lord stark and the targaryen king as they spoke in turns, just so she was not constantly staring at beron. had he noticed her ? catelyn could not be certain, though she knew that she had not changed much from when he saw her last. what little weight she had gained had been lost during the plague, though she bemoaned the plainness of her dress before scolding herself for the thought. when had beron ever cared about that ? ( but perhaps he did now ? perhaps the years had turned him into a man of refinement. ) waving her siblings off as they began their journey back to the inn, she allowed her eyes to lift, finally, seeing him standing at the opposite end of the square. catelyn took a hesitant step forward, then plucked up her skirts to run over to him, uncaring of how wild she would seem to those that still lingered behind as she slammed into his chest with a soft grunt. ❝ ... beron. ❞ relief coated her voice, years of distance thawing out into something that almost choked her. how terrified she had been when the plague hit ... how much she had grieved on his behalf when she heard news of his twin sister's death. her head lifted from where it had been hiding against the fur of his cloak, studying his features. ❝ oh ... ❞ oh, her sweet boy. ❝ ... i'm so sorry, beron. ❞ what else could she say ? she should have ridden north, seagard and the riverlands be damned.
it seems a mockery, to stand there amidst southerners who did not know what the wolf of the north truly did for everyone. that he had fought and died for a realm — a crown — that could not do the same for him and the people that lived under him. it made beron sick to watch the king stand forth with the new ruling lord, talks of peace and sorrow as if they had not caused the destruction of the first and the emotion of the last. coldness simmers beneath his bones, something that does not feel right nor does it belong in his body, but over the years as the northern wind in the last hearth got worse, the ice within him solidified. it would melt for nothing as eyes reminiscent of the brutal chill of the north stayed rooted upon the statue. at least, that is what he believed to be true. except, it had once... melted. for a woman who had stayed within his heart for the many moons after he had left her. through the letters he sent — even as she had gotten married, even as she had a child. it is a wonder if he will see her now, if she will be amongst the people of wintertown. he could hope, but not let it show. if he let it show then it would invite something in that he was not sure he wanted. (a reminder of a love that he would most likely never have again.) it is with that, he does not look around himself. beron keeps his eyes forward, too afraid to face something like he usually was. yet, when her voice is heard through the howling wind and small chatters of people milling about, the hope blooms. catelyn is just as breathtaking as beron had remembered, if not more so. she is dressed in the furs of his home, but the purples of her own and he can picture her in all of her glory even from years ago. except, now he sees her in his home, one he had hoped to take her with him to someday, and it makes his heart ache in the worst way. "catelyn." her voice leaves beron in a breathless tone: husky from the cold, but so tender from what he still feels towards her. his arms wrap around her despite his mind telling him not to, that she had a husband she was likely still grieving. had he not been her's at one point too? perhaps not on paper and in the eyes of the old gods, but in the spirit of their time together. "it is—" was he supposed to say okay? when it wasn't? that his sister was gone and he had grieved her like his world was falling out underneath him. that he wished for one thing and that was the steadiness of arms wrapped around him in support, of catelyn's doing so. yet, he cannot say it, not when he had not been able to do the same for her. "she will be missed, but her spirit will live within the hearth as it was meant to." one of his hands itches to reach to her face, cup her cheeks in his palm as he would have done so long ago, "and your — your husband," beron chokes out, "your child." that one stings even more. "i offer my apologies, m'lady. it must have been difficult for you... do you fare better at least?"
where: wintertown, winterfell
when: day one, the funeral of the former ruling lord stark cregan stark, midnight
with: open
it was the hour of the ghosts.
the procession for alaric's late grandsire had long since ended. most retreated to their bed chambers while those who still felt the need to celebrate the old man drifted towards the tavern. alaric remained behind standing at the feet of the great lord cregan stark— or rather, a very grotesque imitation of the wolf of the north.
the statue looming above him was gargutuan, ostentatious and entirely out of place. in wintertown, it felt like an intruder. a trespasser on what is now his lands.
this was not his grandfather. and he despised it.
at its unveiling, alaric had bitten his tongue as to not offend the king and those who accompanied him, but the bitter taste left him shuddering. It was an affront to his family name. Deep down, he wanted nothing more than to take a hammer to it and watch the stone crack.
the crunch of leaves beneath approaching boots shattered his solitude. whoever had come to pay their respects had enough sense not to speak before being spoken to. the fist clenched at his side slowly relaxed, "it does not belong here," he murmured, unable to conceal the edge in his voice, but his gaze never left the statue, "i do not like it."
his grandfather had already been laid to rest where he belonged—in the crypts beneath winterfell, alongside his father and mother. one day, Alaric would join them there, as would his wife and children, and their children after them.
that was the way of house stark, not this.
beron had not been happy about the south's intrusion of his home. they had chosen now, of all times, to make themselves known? not when they needed it. not when people were dying of famine and chill. not when help was needed to keep their region prosperous beyond what it already lacked. it made a fire quell in his belly, something low and deep that did not belong there, but was taking root anyways. to see them hoist a statue felt like another kick when they were already down. time and coin that could have gone into helping rather than trying to boast a union that had seemed to fail within the last five years. it is ridiculous, he thinks as he stares at the statue from across the square. the procession having ended hours ago and the night of the moon high in the sky, but beron had been restless, unable to sleep knowing that southerners were doing so a mere stones throw away. he knew his father would have words for him come morning when he did not find his third — second — child in the bed he had forced him into, but beron for once did not seem to care. not when the statue is staring at him like it's meant to strike him down. some cruel reminder of everything they had lost in a few short, yet long, years. he is not shocked to see the eldest stark standing where beron was heading, it would only seem right to him that they looked upon their grandfather the way others did. though the words that he says makes a small huff of a laugh leave beron's lips, "i can not say i like it much either, m'lord." his voice rough from the disuse of the day, "the craft of the south is a disgrace to our home."
setting: first night of the festivities, in the grand hall of winterfell, open (0/3).
sat close to the hearth, one can almost forget what a dreadful place this region is – almost. she still feels a shiver as sweat runs down cold her back under the weight of furs, and she feels tempted to lower them from her shoulders, only to tremble once more at the measured action – something that could pass as enraptument to the tale that is told by a loud voice with a northern brogue. "so this is what war was like?" she can barely tell if the man spoke of the dance or the dornish war, but she'd have been too young to know of either anyways.
beron is not privy to festivities. he would rather be away from them, tucked into a place where people did not marvel at his height when he entered a room or where his father could berate him for acting like a fool. he was no fool... or at least he hoped he was not, but many had believed him to be, so it must have been the truth. "do you speak of the tale? or the desolation it has caused my home?" there is a bite to his tone, something cold and rough as he speaks. she had looked like a southerner, beron could smell them from a mile away, could see the way the cold chilled them to their bones, and a sick satisfaction makes its way to his heart. they would learn what the cold did to others and hopefully it would claim some of them like it had many in his home.
open. for everyone. location. the wintertown markets, a stall set up by house umber that features pelts skinned by them that are made to last, handcrafted wooden figurines, and logs to keep the hearths warm.
a cold chill in the air stings beron's nose, red flushing against his cheeks as his large frame is sat in a chair that's much too small for his size. he's hunched over, a knife he had smithed himself is encased by his hand while the blade shaves down a piece of wood that is held in his other. he did not wish to be there, truly he would have rather liked to be anywhere else, likely camped in the woods away from all the noise that the southerners were making within his home. but he could not, not when his father's voice pounds in his head, they are here and they have coin, they have nothing else to offer us besides that. he knows this, but it did not make the fact better. it somehow makes it worse. knowing that there is no other reason for them to be here besides for some bare-boned idea of honoring someone they did not care to help when he had helped plenty in the past. it is about the coin, he hears again, his father's voice unable to disappear from his mind as he whittles a bear that should have broken in his large fist. would that have been a fantastic metaphor or what? beron shakes the thought from his head, not bothering to look up when he hears the crunch of approaching footsteps. his bedside manner had never been the best. "there is no set price." a rough tone, as if his voice had not been used in many moons, "you are free to offer if something catches your eye."
peter claffey. umber b. 29. cisman. he/him 𖠰 the king welcomes beron of house umber of the last hearth! all of court has heard that they are tenderhearted and astute, but whispers claim that they are also detached and intimidating when no one is looking … how much of that is true, we will soon find out. asking around, we are told that they remind people of a biting cold that seeps through layers, claiming a beating heart inside of a chest and encasing it within ice; the feeling of a blade in hand, heavy with generations of warriors, something that feels wrong but something that cannot be let go of; warm wools that are stuck heavy with fresh snowfall, clumping onto the fibers and melting on heated skin ─ that should give the bards something to sing about! unbeknown by most, bringing prosperity back to the north and his home is the real reason why they answered the call of the king, but with so many rumors flying around, who is to say what the truth is?
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PETER CLAFFEY as SER DUNCAN THE TALL A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms S1.E4 "Seven"