who: @anya-snow when and where: karhold, the merchant guild's represenative makes an expected visit to karhold where the sun of winter is found most of these days. context: lord halder ryswell has stalled anya's trade route, claiming that increased bandit activity makes the roads unsafe. in truth, he resents the growing influence of foreign goods and wants higher tariffs. anya, frustrated, asks brandon to step in.
brandon karstark rubbed a hand over his face as he walked into the intimate crackling hall of karhold, the dim light of the evening stretching long shadows over the stone floor as his dark grey hues remained heavy with sleep. he hadn't expected company, not tonight, but there anya stood, back straight as a spear, dressed in those fine yitish silks that always looked out of place in the north, even with the furs she wrapped around herself - though a part of him wondered if she felt as though she tried to fit in with the north anymore. did she owe it anything, considering the yearsof mistreatment? still, she always found a way to make her attire fit her - and he pretended not to notice her dark eyes flicked over him, sharp as they ever were, catching every detail—how he hadn’t shaved, how his tunic was wrinkled like he'd just rolled out of bed, which wasn’t far from the truth.
he sighed, running a hand through his unkempt hair that had grew far longer than it had ever been before, strings falling from the bun he wore to keep it out of his face. "didn’t expect ye this late," he said, voice rough from a day spent saying little. "but i reckon it’s important, else ye wouldn’t have come all this way yerself." he eyed her, noting the stiffness in her posture. she was never one to waste time on pleasantries, not with him, and yet he knew not why he felt a strange sense of shame at the notion of her looking upon him in this way. he were doing nothing out of the ordinary, not taking to drinks or women to aid the growing hole that seemed to spread from the pit of his stomach, but he slept. and he slept, and he slept; it were as though he could sleep the entire day away and emerge from his chambers when the winter sun had begun to set.
she cut straight to it, as he knew she would. ryswell. tariffs. her goods rotting on the road while some stubborn old bastard played gatekeeper. he exhaled sharply, shaking his head, hearing the rhetoric - hearing of foreign taxes, foreign goods flooding the market where his beer could instead have been brewed. and somewhere, he heard the voice of edrick bolton in the back of his mind, going on and on about the true north. did it root from that? as much as he'd hate to admit it, the lord had a point - the way he went about it was something else though. "aye, i heard some news of issue on the roads." he moved toward the table, dragging a chair back before lowering himself into it, feeling the weight of the day settle in his bones. "halder ryswell's always been a petty cunt though anya, you don't need to be worryin' that this is somethin' bigger than it is. most the lords still think o’ yer trade as a luxury, not a need."
he looked at her then, properly, his grey eyes steady, but there remained the bags that seemed to have imprinted onto his face, which appeared darker and more hollow. "and i know ye well enough to guess ye ain’t askin’ me just to have a chat about it." his lips twitched in something that wasn’t quite a smile, but close enough as he let out a low exhale, his hand resting on the back of his neck the way it always did when he let out a low scoff. "so what is it, anya? ye want me to ride out there meself, make him see sense? or is this the part where ye ask me to remind him what happens when a ryswell picks a fight they can’t win?"
her silence stretched for a beat too long, and he knew then that she’d been counting on him to help before she ever set foot in karhold. it was a strange thing, that unspoken trust between them, even after everything. maybe because of everything. maybe because once upon a time, a young brandon karstark had dreamed of some possibility where she could be his wife. it was nothing but a dream, a foolish one, and even if such feelings had waned it still meant he cared. a great deal. he sighed again, heavier this time. "i’ll handle it," he said, rubbing at his tired eyes before reaching for the cup of ale left from earlier. it was warm now, but he drank anyway. "reckon he needs remindin’ that the north don’t stand still just ‘cause he don’t like the direction it’s goin’." he set the cup down with a dull thud.