#crownless:start

[forrestcr]

An axe in his hands would perhaps always be the thing to bring the Lord of Ironrath some peace of mind when the rhythmic swings of it deep into the ironwood was almost the melody of his childhood. Hands were long since calloused enough that hour upon hour could be spent in the Wolfswood, venting his frustrating and loosing himself in the task at hand and this day was no different when his anger was only building over time rather than fading after what he had seen at Winterfell despite his late arrival to the tourney. 

Death came for them all but in Garrick’s mind everyone, though mostly Northerners, deserved an honourable death. One in battle or defending something, not to have their life stolen by cowardly shadows and then be died the chance of a proper burial. His temper had only just been kept in check in what remained of his time in Winterfell and after discussions with the King he had taken his leave early when whispers of insults had reached his ears and he had been in no fit state to hold back the swing of his axe or sword had any such words been uttered in front of him. 

It  was almost impossible for him to accept that there was little he could do except increase training and drills among those he was responsible and so the icy chasm of his fury only increased. Today it had taken him deep into the Wolfswood, set on finding some kind of solution when surrounded by the peace in the forest. Breaks were not something he took regularly but even the strongest of men grew weary and so his back was resting against a tree, blade in hand as he made quick work of what little food he had taken with him. Footsteps catch his attention and he looks up to see if it’s friend or foe.

[astridxstark-blog]

It always fascinated Astrid to get to see all of the other nobles and people from all over Westeros. This was truly the biggest event, peaceful anyways, in which she got to see so many different people from many different houses. She wasn't the most social, or charming, and didn't really care to be, but she thought she might have her fun while she could.

Astrid looked her best for the event, a rarity for her as a woman who prefered to dress as she pleased and more often in armor or clothing in which she could easily move and hunt in. Today was an exception and she waltzed around like the true lady she never really cared to be, turning go grab a cup of ale from a servant, accidentally bumping someone in the process. "Oh, sorry." She said, in the nicest voice she could muster, a smile coming about her face. "Would you like some ale, too?"

[saeraxtargaryen-blog]

"Mother, you have to at least try to pretend you're happy to be here." Saera explained in a kind and hushed voice, although inside she was frustrated. Her mother, a powerful dragon queen, was exposing her weakness, and was crumbling right before her. The princesses words were met with silence and after a moment, she sighed. "Fine, I'll go get us something to drink then." She said, taking off.

Saera felt a bit lost, completely unsure of where to even go as it was her first time in not just Winterfell, but all of the North. The grand room was bustling with people, but she seemed to be unable to find anyone for help, so she attempted to catch the attention of a nearby person, who looked kind enough to ask. "Pardon, do you know who I should ask for some refreshments? I can't seem to find anyone here."

[commandcrsnow]

There was a strong sense of urgency for Desmond to arrive at Winterfell once the news of the deaths at the festivities had reached the Dreadfort. If he hadn't already been sent to meet with Reyanna and the remainder of House Bolton, Desmond would have gone anyway to see for himself whether the house he was serving was safe. If the others in The North were safe.

The halls were quiet, not in the least unsettling to him. He was used to seeing death, seeing how it could affect people. But this wasn't a battlefield, this wasn't war. Not one he was familiar with. The enemy was present, clear as day, not there one moment and then gone the next. No one could just disappear out of thin air. But they were left with the aftermath, left to face the losses of each of the houses. For now, though, he would have to do what he detested: wait. Waiting for the next move. Desmond had arrived, and now he was waiting for his next command from Lord Bolton. Though he understood given the unusual circumstances, there wasn't much that could be done yet. Nothing but waiting.

Desmond resorted to wandering the halls, mostly to grow accustomed to the new surroundings, and to keep himself from getting too apprehensive. Desmond wasn't one for sitting patiently; he was a man of action. And if he was going to be waiting, he could at least be doing something, instead of standing in one place. So he took to wandering and quietly observing the goings on in the halls, quietly letting his own thoughts run wild on what he heard of the bloody coronation.

[lecnis-blog]

more death. it coated her tongue and throat like ash and stole the voice from her. it had not been house cassel alone who sustained such loss. nor was it relegated to the tragedy of her mother’s death that haunted her like the whistling winds of winterfell. whatever had taken the lives of so many people was no fault of hers after all, but the machinations of some other sinister force. somehow it was worse. worse that more people had died senselessly and worse that she could not blame herself. with a frustrated huff let loose a barrage of fists upon the training dummy in the dark, deserted courtyard. there were few things that brought her comfort over violent physicality.

the sound of her own fists, rattling the man made of wood and cloth, drowned out the footsteps of the other as they made their way across the courtyard. it was not until she turned to wipe her brow that she laid her eyes upon them, annoyance clear in her stiff smile--a greeting and a reflex. “i did not realize anyone was awake at this hour.” the changes in time had not evened out harmoniously within her yet and she still found herself still sleeping during the day and up at all hours of the night, pacing in her restlessness. “i cannot adjust to the time here near as easily as the weather.” it had not been an easy transition either, by any means. “what is it that troubles you at this late hour?” an intrigued brow punctuated her question, serena did not care for the sensibilities that kept curiosity at bay.

[kcrstxrks]

          Many weeks had passed before the ache in her bones and the pain in her mind subsided, her throat had been coarse and her state not suitable for company. While she had spoken often with her handmaiden and own dear brother, her visitors had been few. Many wished to see Lyanna, or so her handmaiden had informed her, but all were turned away. The lady had an appearance to keep up, and even those concerned for her welfare could not see her so weak. The taste for Dornish wine had dwindled, leaving a blandness on her tongue whenever she’d hoped to soothe the aches with her favoured beverage.  

Lyanna was relieved to be over her illness, the last remnants of flu-like symptoms fading away with last night’s meal. She had dressed in white, ethereal and beautiful as she travelled from Karhold to Wintertown. It was there she met the poor and afflicted, who once again showered her with love and kindness - all too beguiled by her beauty and honeyed words to notice all her sins. 

“I have missed being among the people,” she proclaimed, breathing the cool fresh air. 

[facelessbast]

       THE FLEET CAPTAIN’S LEGS BUCKLED beneath his dead weight, and his blood-slick form slipped from Bast’s strong hold. Bent knees met hollow deck with a final knock, and the rest of him followed — limbs unfolding, weight sinking to the lowest points in a symphony of thuds and creaks. Rills of angry red slithered away from his victim’s grinning throat, following the wood grain faithfully. The skin would discolor where the dead blood pooled leaving an unrecognizable mass of meat, pitted and sallow and stinking in the hazy glow of the sun.

Bast took the silver purse tied to his belt, his gleaming daggers and cured leather sheathes. He took the polished, wooden lockbox from his death-stiff fingers, and the gilded little key he’d sewn into the layers of his coat. Lastly, the Faceless Man gifted his target’s deathly visage to the god he served; it belonged to him anyway.

As he slipped to the docks from the shrouded deck of that lonesome ship, he heard the sound of a serving girl’s scream. The crowd rushed the groaning pier, parting around him like sheets of water around an unmoving stone. He watched them with little interest, having collected what he’d come for. Another contract completed, but the guild would send another to greet him by morning’s unfailing light. With discerning eyes, he surveyed the grim faces of Pyke, those who had gathered at the water’s edge, and wondered how he might feasibly pass a night in such a PLACE.

[laenahs-archive]

Upon arrival at the tourney, Laenah had felt a sense of regret that she had been unable to get away from her home soon enough to take part in the archery tournament as she had so desired but she had reconciled herself with that fact when she realised there was still much to see and do. Everything about the North both fascinated her and set her almost horribly off guard when it was a stark difference to the Westerlands that she was so used to. Her sense of regret had faded to wonder and then just as she was beginning to feel at ease came the stabbing of despair. Death was something of a fact of life for her but the brutality of the murders and the suddenness of them had struck her to her core.

Since then she had tried to keep to herself and help where she could but there seemed little that House Sarsfield could do other than offer support and a listening ear. There had been no need for her to ask sympathetic or remind herself to keep up her crafted facade when her heart went out to each and every one of the victims. Death might have been familiar to her, an unwavering constant in her life when it had been so full of upheaval, but that did not mean that it was ever welcome. The solace of her room was what she craved after a few hours of comforting the grieving.

Second left, first right, third door down. In the maze of Winterfell that was how she made sure that she had found the correct room. Except when she pushed the door it was not empty as she had expected but occupied. Dark eyes widened and lips curved into an o of surprise. “Please forgive me.” Eyes get cast downwards to give the occupant some privacy and a step back is taken as she gives some sort of explanation for her intrusion. “I am still trying to find my way around and while I have never had cause to doubt it before, my sense of direction seems to have abandoned me.”