[slaining]

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.

[rihtuals]

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 ? ❞

[slaining]

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?"

[beautifulsnares]

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.

[slaining]

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?"

[rihtuals]

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. ❞

[slaining]

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."

[oflcgends]

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.”

[slaining]

"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."

[ruinedsong]

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?  ”

[slaining]

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?"

[belcvd]

“  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.  ”

[slaining]

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."

[oflcgends]

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.”

[slaining]

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."

[rihtuals]

↪ 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.

[slaining]

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?"

[emberedfrost]

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.

[slaining]

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."

[parthenopaed]

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.

[slaining]

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.

[slaining]

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."

[slaining]

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?

please  click  here  for  his  information  page.

[nixscriptum]

[keyfili]

PETER CLAFFEY as SER DUNCAN THE TALL A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms S1.E4 "Seven"