the winter's sun

torrhen karstark for blood & glory. Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, Scots, wham Bruce has aften led, Welcome to your gory bed, Or to victory

[torrhenkarstarks-blog]

✆ → alys karstark [september 19th]

[alys-karstark]

[Incredulously,] You were going to London with Daryn?  How could he not tell me that?  Why was he going anyway?  He wouldn’t even fucking tell me.  You should have heard him the other day, obnoxiously bragging in my kitchen about his secrets.  Ugh.  

[Alys gulps a sip of wine and makes a face as it hits the back of her throat, then continues, chattering on loudly and quickly, incapable of being interrupted.]  You know he’s been fucking my flatmate.  And no one thought to tell me.  So fucking polite.  I could wring his neck. I mean maybe I shouldn’t have slept with him at Christmas but I was pretty drunk, and where does he get off being all high and mighty about how I acted, I wasn’t the only one who made that decision.  He promised we could give friendship a go when I got here, and I guess I was sort of drunk then too, I never should have told him, well, whatever.  Whatever!

[A beat,] Still there, Torr?  Sorry, I guess I’m a bit angry still.

[torrhenkarstarks-blog]

[Torrhen listens to Alys' rant awkwardly. She didn't seem upset that Torrhen hadn't told her about his London plans, only that it had been Daryn to neglect doing so. It was probably a wise call on Daryn's part, leaving it to Torr. Her complaints go rather in one ear, out the other. He doesn't want to witness another Alys vs. Daryn situation concerning their relationship, concerning their friendship or whatever they were now. That's between them, not Torrhen, their mutual party.]

Yeah, [he half laughs, walking over to his sidetable for his pack], you definitely still are. Daryn's going... for his own reasons. I was going for mine. It's not just about our oil, though I would've tried my damnest to get it back.

[He stubs out the cigarette, fumbling with his lighter - a graduation gift from Harry - emblazoned with the Karstark sun sigil before his second cigarette flares to life with his quick inhale. It spurns his next words.]

He told me about Eddie. He's promised to help. So I was gonna go find out what I could.

[His voice grates out as slightly defensive, and he takes his anger out on his cigarette, biting and rearranging it in his mouth, inhaling the nicotine as fast as he can. He still wonders how Alys could keep it from him, from the rest of their family. Eddie was his brother too.]

[redhelm]

when i am king you will be first against the wall | september 23rd | torrhen karstark & ramsay bolton

The Bastard’s life had relaxed into an uneasy rhythm. Walk, work, drink, pay, sleep. Over and over. Ramsay hated the pendulous weight of his days. In spite of it, he knew that this was the build - the crescendo to a cataclysmic fortissimo. Coax Luton and Damon and Skinner into a feeling of support and security, line their pockets with silver and give them cause to fear. But he was a creature of staccatos and dissonance and he fidgeted within himself as the days grew closer. 

Alys Karstark had been a purge of the distaste and discomfit and it had been all too fleeting, even. The blackened, bitter thing within him had been allowed to crawl out a little and scratch at her, but now it had to be contained. He had to be patient. He had to wait, let Theon Greyjoy grow enamoured of his attention, and the Dreadfort accustomed to his shadow. 

He had to be still as a statue, letting the mushrooms and mould grow over his flesh until all the little birds and creatures came crawling into his outstretched hands. 

For the third time in a week, he was summoned like an errand boy to the Holyrood to have Roose bark something at him and send him off again. The glassy rooms flowed with people: aids, interns, assistants and juniors, decked in their uniform of Oxfords and ties. The board of SGOC directors had called on their well-trained and educated sons like cavalry to assist in the heavy lifting and paperwork that was required of a fledgling government. The North was calling in its debts to its children. And Tywin Lannister was about to call in his debt with the North. 

Ramsay ran his pass through the security exit and turned left down the eastern flank of the building, opting to leave via the green lawns than through the Canongate and the thatch of journalists. It had become something of a covert highway - a way to pass in and out of the government without being recognised. If a Manderly was seen coming in, then that meant communications was the topic of the day in Parliament. If an Umber, it was commerce. A Bolton: economy. A Karstark: legislature.

He streaked past the final line of security and through the glass doors. Someone struck his shoulder as he went, passing him at some speed and cuffing him by mistake. Ramsay stopped short when he heard no apology. It sent a jolt through him, made a crack sound in his neck, and that was a new punch to the rhythm. 

He turned back to where the building climbed up over the city’s low lines. Torrhen Karstark, he recognised. A pity his elder brother was in London and the younger was deceased. He could have had the full set. 

[torrhenkarstarks-blog]

The funeral had been two days before. Torrhen had pulled out his black suit from the closet, had laid it out on his bed, staring at the stark contrast of the suits to his crumpled white bedsheets. Murdered, the papers had declared. Conspiracy, the websites whispered. Icarus, Torrhen thought. Daryn had dug too deep or too fast, had made too many waves, had learned too much, and was killed for it.

Brothers shouldn't go it alone, Daryn had said. Except now Torrhen was.

Eddie, dead. Daryn, dead. Harry, south. Alys, playing her own game. Torrhen had had plenty of time to mull over everything Daryn had said. Was Daryn killed because he was looking into Eddie's death? Because he was going to London to investigate?

Torrhen had always thought he could trust his countrymen. Alba gu bràth. But with the border sealed, the other men slain for having connections to the great English families, could it had been a Scotsman to join in?

Questions, questions, and more questions. Torrhen could think only of them, of Daryn, of the catch in his throat that wouldn't go away, of the wetness that would sting his cheeks, his vision going blurry. Everything weighed on him, thick and heavy, his limbs leaden. 

He's thrown himself into his work, to give his mind no time to think, to speculate, no rest. It's with single-minded determination that Torrhen works on bringing forth papers, bringing contracts and negotiations and working on the financial strength of Karhold Coal, speculating with a worried tug of his lips at the future of Scotland. 

Torrhen's shoulder collides with someone as he hurries down the steps, lost in a whirl of contract language, and he turns his head to throw out an apology before hurrying on, when it dies in his throat. Domeric, he thinks at first, wildly, for only the briefest of moments before the large differences in mannerisms, in features, are brought forth. The man glares at him, and Torrhen can only describe his eyes as unsettling. 

Alys' fractured words echo in his ears, and Torrhen clenches his jaw, before inclining his head, "Hear you've been doing your father's business lately. Bolton, right? Or is your surname different?"

[torrhenkarstarks-blog]

✆ → alys karstark [september 19th]

[alys-karstark]

[She blurts out before thinking,] Yes, wait, no, no don’t do that, I don’t want the Boltons to think I can’t take care of myself.  [But how satisfying would it feel to know that bastard Ramsay Bolton had blood running down his cheeks and blackened eyes he’d need to explain away, or cover up.  Her heart swells with satisfaction at the thought.]

Well, maybe.  [Then something he says registers and her jaw drops.]

London?  Why were you going to London?  How were you going to London?

[torrhenkarstarks-blog]

Uh - [Torrhen catches himself, leaning against the kitchen counter at the snap in his sister's voice] - getting permission through the government, is how I planned it. To try and open up negotiations with the Greyjoys for our oil.

[he notes how Alys declines his offer of - well, retribution, and then hedges towards slight acceptance. Regardless, if Torrhen ever runs across the Bolton bastard, he can't be expected to just small talk with a man who assaulted his sister. Bruised, she had said.]

Couldn't get mine though, surprised Daryn's not rubbing in my face.

[torrhenkarstarks-blog]

✆ → alys karstark [september 19th]

[alys-karstark]

[It’s silly, but there’s a certain amount of satisfaction Alys gets from knowing her brothers look out for her.  Had it been Eddie on the phone, and not Torr, Alys would have told him everything all at once.  She would have told him days ago, and Ramsay Bolton would be sporting a black eye and some bruised ribs, but she didn’t know what to expect from Torr.  They’ve never been that close.  For all Alys knew, he could have told her to buck up.

This feels better.  She finds she’s relieved that Torr would jump to defend her, and then ashamed of herself for doubting it.  It’s just, without Eddie, Alys sometimes feels like she doesn’t know where she stands anymore.  He’s the gaping hole between them, between her and her father, too, and Alys is still learning how to walk around it, how not to fall in. 

Swallowing a gulp of wine,]  I’m fine now.  He scared me a bit.  Bruised my wrist a bit, too.  [Shaking her head, Alys finds once she’s started telling the story, she can’t stop herself.]  I went to talk to him, and he was nothing but cruel the whole time, making horrible comments, accusations, about me only getting the job because I’d slept around, told me he wanted to name a dog after me so he’d have two bitches he could tell to shut up…

[She shudders and a half laugh bubbles through her lips.] I may have slapped him for that one.

[torrhenkarstarks-blog]

[There is small satisfaction that the Bolton bastard earned a slap from Alys for what he did, for what he said, but to Torrhen it's not enough. What sort of man would hurt a woman in the middle of a PR meeting? The answer is there in front of him: no man at all.]

That fucker. Why the fuck is Bolton letting him run around on business if he's like that? Fucker,

[he says for emphasis. There's not much Torrhen can do here, pacing the length of his flat and leaving trails of ash in his wake. All he can do is talk, and Torrhen would rather be talking with his fists than anything else. All the pent up irritation from the last weeks start to boil, and Torrhen clears his throat]

Want me to talk to him? Or Bolton? I got the time, I'm not going down to London like I thought.

[torrhenkarstarks-blog]

✆ → alys karstark [september 19th]

[alys-karstark]

[Alys sighs, placing the wine glass down.  Her thumb rubs idly over the place where Ramsay Bolton had grabbed her.  The marks had faded, it was almost a week ago after all, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t still terrify her.]

I don’t know.  [Nervously she picks up her cigarette again, sucking in a breath and then another before flicking it between her fingers, watching the ash trickle down.]  Shit.  I wasn’t planning on saying anything.  I didn’t expect you to call.

[She flicks the cigarette so hard it snaps, and Alys groans, shifting the phone against her ear again as she lights up another.]  He grabbed me.  Well, grabbed my arm.  And then my wrist.  Called me a whore and a bitch.  [She laughs nervously,] it was worse than that, actually, I don’t really know how to explain.

[torrhenkarstarks-blog]

[He'd expected Alys to simply say that the Bolton boy was rude. Rude and unattractive and nothing like Domeric at all. Perhaps his sister would throw out the idea that the guy was jealous of his legitimate brother and his former flame. 

Torrhen had not expected Alys to say that the guy assaulted her, insulted her, and he may not be close to his sister, but he can hear the lingering traces of fear in her voice.

His own is low and gutteral as he struggles to keep from yelling, to keep from reaching out through his phone and demanding more of an explanation. But that never got him anywhere, so Torr struggles for control]

He what? Did - did he hurt you?

[He paces through his flat now, the cigarette leaving ash along the floorboards. It's much too small for him and his long legs]

Are you alright?

[alys-karstark]

FLASHBACK // Your oldest fears are the worst [Closed to Torrhen; October 1996]

[alys-karstark]

“Donwannagotobed,” Alys whines into Torr’s collar, her snotty tears staining the white fabric in a long streak. “Donwanna!!!”

But she doesn’t want to go down to the party, either.  Everyone there is old and they smell funny and three ladies have pinched her cheeks already and every time she wanders through the sea of legs and midriffs, a wake of doesn’t she look just like and the very picture of and poor Rickard and growing up without a mother follows her.  She may not be very old but she knows better than to invite pity.  That’s something a Karstark doesn’t do.

“Want ice cream” Alys says suddenly, pulling away from Torrhen to look at his face.  Her middle brother was super tall and old, not as old as Harry of course, but definitely old enough to give her ice cream.  He could even reach the bowls out of the tall cabinet  and scoop it without getting chocolate all over the floor, which Alys was still struggling with.

“Can i please please please have some ice cream?”

[torrhenkarstarks-blog]

Torr tries to shift Alys in his arms, a heavy weight that's growing heavier and he's already off-balance as is. He wouldn't want to drop Alys and it's with a sigh he lowers her to the floor, letting go once her feet hit the carpet. He runs a hand through his hair, grabbing the bottle he'd left on the table, and nods. "Sure."

Dad isn't paying attention now, not with the guests to attend to. And why shouldn't Alys have ice cream with all the shit's that happened? Late night ice cream never killed anyone and if he could make Alys brighten with just a bowl of three scoops, well he'd take that.

He holds out his hand to his little sister, waiting for her to take it or not, before opening up the study door, stumbling a bit as his feet hit the differently textured carpet. "What flavors do we have here? You want chocolate syrup on yours?"

[torrhenkarstarks-blog]

deaddaryn reblogged your post: my ears are blown to bits from rifle hits but still i crave that sound | september 2nd, glasgow | torrhen & daryn

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[torrhenkarstarks-blog]

✆ → alys karstark [september 19th]

[alys-karstark]

[Alys coughs in surprise, the air around her clouding with white smoke.] Did you know him?  I didn’t even know he existed until today. [Alys ashes her cigarette with a flick of her finger, then rests it against the ash tray so she can pick up her wine again.]

Don’t get all older brother voice on me, he just shook me up a bit.  Started off the meeting with a lewd comment about overhearing… well about me and Dom anyway, and it all sort of went downhill from there.

[torrhenkarstarks-blog]

[Torrhen mumbles a noncommittal mmmmmm in response, walking to his nightstand and pulling out his lighter and cigarette pack. A moment later he's inhaling, nicotine filling his lungs as he processes his sister's words.]

Nah, never met him. Bolton never had him around from what Dom said. He only mentioned him a couple times.

[His frown deepens and he inhales deeply, letting the smoke filter out slowly as he tries to tap down the urge to find the bastard and rough him up.]

Why the fuck would he bring that up?

[rickardkarstark]

little soldier, little insect, you know war it has no heart. | rickard and torrhen [september 2]

[rickardkarstark]

Rickard grips the edge of the counter. Torrhen truly doesn’t understand how these things work, how they must work. Stark Group is as unified as it can get, but still with differentiating opinions on how things should be handled, on how the name of traitor on their Prime Minster and family should be dealt with, it is all very complex and difficult.

He is hardly the man to speak to the press, in recent discussions, he doesn’t recall any press release, or conference at all. He has to give it to him though, silence on the front of the independence could send out all sorts of mixed messages. Some, perhaps none too positive. He grumbles and takes another sip of his coffee. “Peaceful separation is all we want, though Stannis Baratheon is quick to call us traitors, it’s a fair thing to say that man would be just like his brother.”  He looks at his son and offers a hard laugh.

Nodding his head curtly, he places the mug back on the counter, “The last thing any of us wants is a war, and it’ll never come to Culloden. Ned is a man of peace, of honour, and he’ll be damned if he lets anyone declare war without having negotiations. But really, what can you do with a Baratheon eh?” 

[torrhenkarstarks-blog]

Torrhen grits his teeth. His father circles and hedges and takes Torrhen's words for his own. It's not quite an agreement either, and it feels rather like an instruction and a lecture than a spirited debate.

"Are negotiations even happening?" he leans against the counter, cup long forgotten, "I mean, Baratheon seems to think that he can declare everyone a traitor for unknowingly breaking martial law, and everyone who let them safely land. And before even demanding they present themselves in court. He's tried and convicted all of us already.

There's gonna be a war." Torr looks at his father, trying to see himself in his father's face. Did he share the same haunted look of grief from Eddie's death in his own eyes? "Baratheon and Stark aren't the only ones with voices. With power."

[torrhenkarstarks-blog]

✆ → alys karstark [september 19th]

[alys-karstark]

[Alys takes the time that Torr speaks to retrieve her ash tray off the terrace floor and pulls a packet of cigarettes out of her robe pocket.  Tapping out a cigarette, she slides it back into the silk.] Prickly as always.  You know Rickard, it’s like no matter what I accomplish it’s never quite good enough.  One sec-

[There’s a lighter in the tray, and she flicks it once, twice, to no avail, the wind carrying the flame away each time.  Sighing she shrugs her phone to her ear and cups her hands over her cigarette, successfully lighting it at last.]  Where was I?  Oh, right, Rickard.  Yeah, I saw him.  Actually I met a bunch of the Stark Group CEOs, including the mysterious second Bolton kid.  

[Alys shudders as she exhales, thinking of that meeting.  Casually,] He’s a real creep.  Made some nasty comments about me.

[torrhenkarstarks-blog]

[Torrhen had heard about Bolton's bastard son a couple times from Domeric. It had been a bit of a family secret, hush hush, nothing like Ned Stark bringing up his son alongside his wife and children. In their childhood, when Roose and Dad talked business or made a day of it at their estates, Torrhen would invariably be thrown in with Eddie and Domeric. The Bolton boy was closer to Eddie's age, but Torr preferred wandering the woods with the two mutton heads clambering about, scaring off all the game to talking dry business in a stuffy library, dry words slipping out of his ears as soon as they entered.

It had been, at most, an off-handed mention once or twice that Torr had filed away. He'd never met the boy, not even when driving Alys a few times over to meet up with Dom. It always seemed Bolton never kept him around, content to let the mother raise him. But Dom had always been nice enough, and Alys hadn't seemed fazed when whatever they had had ended.

Frowning at Alys' words, and at her chilled tone, Torr replies]

Roose's bastard? Didn't know he was being moved into the business. [his voice gets a little tight] What'd he say?

[torrhenkarstarks-blog]

✆ → alys karstark [september 19th]

[alys-karstark]

[If she was to be perfectly honest with herself, Alys has been avoiding her family the past few days.  Between running into a mostly naked Daryn in her kitchen (and realizing he was really, truly over her this time), and the incredibly disturbing meeting she’d had with Ramsay Bolton, she doesn’t much feel like talking to anyone.  Not when she knows she’ll end up spilling one or both, and end up looking like an incompetent little girl.

(As much as she’s paid to keep others’ secrets, Alys finds she can never keep her own.  Things don’t feel real when she’s the only one that knows them.)

Swallowing a large gulp of wine, Alys picks up her ringing phone.]

Hey Torr.  Edinburgh is… well, it certainly exists, now doesn’t it?  [She laughs awkwardly, and picks up her wine to take to the terrace that leads off the kitchen, enjoying the late summer breeze, the one that whistles with hints of winter to come.]  How are you?  [She pauses to take another sip before placing her wine on the terrace fence.]  You know I saw Rickard last week.

[torrhenkarstarks-blog]

I'm good [Torr shrugs, his action carrying over into his words, or lack thereof]. Been better but, can't complain right now.

[He shifts his phone to his other ear, frowning at Alys' use of Dad's first name. Did she always reference to him by Rickard? As far as Torr could recall, he and his brothers had used Dad and Mum, Alys Daddy and Mummy. He wonders for a moment when that shifted.] How was Dad?

[torrhenkarstarks-blog]

✆ → alys karstark [september 19th]

[After over two weeks of trying to argue his way through the border, it abruptly falls flat. "Your request is denied," he was told, and Torrhen had to swallow back the argument that had been at the tip of his tongue. England, it appeared, did not even want the pretense of the Scots negotiating oil away from their precious economy. 

Torrhen had been prepared to go, and it stings. Daryn instead will get to investigate and uncover Eddie's death, the intrepid reporter, instead of Eddie's own flesh and blood. He's talked Harry and Alys (his sister only briefly) in the weeks since his declaration of camaraderie in the pub, but as his thumb slides through his contacts, Torr decides it might be best o let Alys know the real reason behind Daryn's visit over the border. It wasn't all just he could write another article condemning the English while firing up Scottish nationalism.

The phone rings and Alys picks up after the second or third one, and Torr clears his throat]

Hey Al [a beat] How's Edinburgh treating you?

[deaddaryn]

my ears are blown to bits from rifle hits but still i crave that sound | september 2nd, glasgow | torrhen & daryn

[deaddaryn]

It’s the thing he’d dreaded and hoped Torrhen might say, and presented with it, Daryn balks, takes a moment to finish his pint and think it over. Truthfully, he’d love not to go alone. It’s been five years since he was in the city for anything longer than a few days and all his old haunts have probably shifted like glaciers, taking on new regulars and new atmospheres. Having a friend there to help tap on the veneers, well, it’d certainly have practical uses rather than just emotional ones. Alternatively, there are practical difficulties too. Swimming through London like a burred Starsky and Hutch (that is: Taggart and Livingstone) investigating ‘a mur-durh’, means twice the risk and half the speed. 

A forked wire of sentiment burns bright hot in his chest. There’s the no, this is mine, Torrhen, and there’s the but I know he was your brother. He avoids Torr’s eye, tracking through the glass’s condensation ring with a finger. He adds rays to the circle without thinking. The sun in winter. 

I’ve worked with Greyjoy Group a bit before, Torrhen said. 

And that’s just the issue. It probably wouldn’t work. Border passage was for justified press or political business only. You needed reasons. You needed references. Greyjoy Group would have to confirm Torrhen’s reason for going. And Theon Greyjoy’s in the country, anyway - if Torr when to Holyrood with that excuse looking for a border pass they’d probably pass it off as non-essential when there’s one of them right there.

And besides, Daryn’s not sure Torrhen would jump through that many hoops anyway. He’s the one with a month’s worth of work already behind this. He’s the one who went to Bolton and Dustin and got the powerhouse backing and support. He’s the one with the near-dawn appointments at the embassy, at the Parliament building. He’s the one calling up Ned Stark’s office five times a day (“Yeah, I get he’s busy - he’s the Prime Minister, after all - but I just need-” Dial tone) waiting on an appointment. He’s the one wondering if it’s worth seeing if Robb Stark wants to help; he’s the one that drew that ire in the first place, writing that article was a risk. Mention family and now Torrhen decides he wants to take a risk too. But: I could pretend I’m going down to London to work on some kind of negotiation. 

Oh, it’s always like that. Active and passive. Daryn works, Torrhen gets given.

But… I know he was your brother. 

“Maybe,” he lets out, cradling his head in his hands, elbows to the table-top, fingers lacing into his hairline. In the end, it’s always like that. He never can deny Torrhen anything. You look after that boy, his mother had said. No, he looks after me.

“I’m going on the twentieth,” Daryn sighs, looking up. “It’s a press pass, if I get it. There are only thirty being released. I don’t know what the situation’s like for the political passes. I don’t know how long it’s going to take. I’ll stay there until I have an answer though. 

If you start pulling strings, maybe you can come meet me down there at the end of the month?”

[torrhenkarstarks-blog]

It's a start. Torrhen thrums more with split energy, wanting to get up and run, run through the city of his bones, to make his heart pound and breath short; the other wants to stay with Daryn, to drink in the quiet thoughts and musings, to rest heavy with grief and discovery.

He nods, "I'll see what I can do." Perhaps he can get a pass. Even if he doesn't, Torrhen is sure that Daryn could unearth something. He makes a note to pull up all the names of Eddie's Marine friends, men who might still be in London, men who could point them to a reason for his brother's death. He was killed for something, he sighs, head heavy and full.

Daryn seems exhausted across the table, running his hands through his hair as if finding the line of a fracture, and Torrhen is thankful Daryn told him. Daryn, despite his flaws and faults, is a friend to the last. If he couldn't have him at his side for this, Torrhen wouldn't have anyone. Not Tallhart or Glover. Not his father. Not even Harry.

His mate had waited and watched after his mother's death, had slowly pulled him out into the winter cold, the clouds rolling overhead, back to the harshness of living and exams and girls and movie dates, all the harshness and brightness there was to it. They had been brash and sure and arrogant in their youth, fit to take on the world, to shake it by its shoulders and right it the way they wanted. 

"I'm -" the words get caught in his throat and Torr swallows them, before they rise to his tongue again, "I'm glad you're doing this. I wouldn't trust anyone else with this."

A Scotsman investigating another Scotman's death, with the promise of knowledge and the weight of friendship on his shoulders. Torrhen knows Daryn better than he knows his siblings. He'll succeed.

[deaddaryn]

my ears are blown to bits from rifle hits but still i crave that sound | september 2nd, glasgow | torrhen & daryn

[deaddaryn]

Daryn can see where this is going. He’s reignited the grief and the ire and the confusion when he had hoped to help tamp the sensations instead. Torr follows his supposings close to the bone, revealing the holes in his thinking and the things he hadn’t realised sounded quite so preposterous. 

Gently, he puts out a hand against Torrhen’s arm. 

“I don’t know,” he reiterates, softly. “I don’t know if it even was the ‘government’,” he pulls back to make the air commas, “or maybe it’s something I can’t even fathom yet. But I’ll find out.”

He half-wishes he hadn’t said anything at all, but then the idea of disappearing without due cause would have filled him up with too much guilt to keep his focus once he was back south in London. 

“When your sister told me, I offered to look into it but she said no. It was only after I wrote the piece on the Young Wolf and talked to Dacey about it all that I thought there might be something worth looking into.”

He sighs heavily. 

“Please… don’t tell her, Torr. She’s angry enough, she might be inspired to kill me if she finds out.”

[torrhenkarstarks-blog]

Part of Torr bristles as Daryn exaggerates - the government - using air quotes and he blinks with how paranoid it must sound. How he must sound. But how else should he sound like, when the very neat puzzle he had been presented with it now scattered in pieces across the floor? A neatly completed puzzle of his brother's death; now it's in disarray. Murder, and the sour taste of copper fills his mouth.

Daryn begs off, invoking the Right of Alys, but Torrhen can't shake it. He doesn't want to, he doesn't want to consider his sister's feelings at this moment. His chest is fit to burst and Alys still wants to keep secrets, still wants Eddie's death to remain undisturbed and unprobed.

"We," he meets Daryn's gaze steadily, "Eddie was my brother too. I wouldn't let her kill you," he shrugs, trying to inject some levitiy into the stale air of grief and anger, "and she can't kill you if we're in London."

Perhaps he could help out some. He is a solicitor, he might be able to put some legal pressure to uncover more evidence, more weight to throw around now that the grief isn't so fresh, now that the hotel is more concerned about martial law hitting their pockets than a brother's investigation.

Torrhen feels odd letting his friend go off investigating his brother's death on his own. Eddie was a Karstark and Daryn had barely known him. Daryn had always been overeager with his journalism career, overeager in everything, really, from relationships to football matches to nights out at the pub (Torrhen dragging him by the cuff of his jacket home most nights). The memories bled together after all the years spent in each other's company. The cut of the roof edge through his jeans as they sat upon Stewart Melville, taking in the lights of Edinburgh; the scratch of pencils as they sat for another exam, awkward double dates melting into crowding into the football stands to watch a match, the quiet Daryn had given him after Mum's death. They swirl and tug and push at Torrhen's thoughts, one crystal thought cutting through them. Torrhen would be a fool to let Daryn go alone. 

He folds his arms and leans over the table. "I've worked with Greyjoy Group a bit before, could - pretend I'm going down to London to work on some type of negotiation. Free up our oil. Something."

Lies to uncover the truth. Wasn't there something poetic in that?

[deaddaryn]

my ears are blown to bits from rifle hits but still i crave that sound | september 2nd, glasgow | torrhen & daryn

[torrhenkarstarks-blog]

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[deaddaryn]

“I don’t know,” he says, by way of answering each question. 

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[torrhenkarstarks-blog]

Torrhen lets his hand cup the side of his pint, condensation pooling to form a ring on the stained oak wood, as Daryn talks, voice low even though the pub is far from crowded. It feels conspiratory, hushed voices and dark topics, except Torr feels a twist in his gut wretch sharper.

Daryn's speculation makes him halt, lowering a fist slowly to the table in measured anger. "You think - the government killed Eddie?"

The gears spin in his head. Eddie was a Marine, Robb Stark and Dacey Mormont had nearly been shot down for trying to land weeks later, but that was after martial law had been declared. Eddie had just been on leave, ready to ship out after a couple days at home. If they were targeting the sons - then who else would be next? Glover? Celwyn?

"Eddie was a Marine, he fought for them. Why would they take him out?" he leans over the table, hissing low at Daryn. Wasn't he the reporter? Hadn't he been attempting an investigation? He had known about this for what, a month? He had more answers, more speculation, more time to turn it over looking for holes, for impressions, that Torrhen had.

[rickardkarstark]

little soldier, little insect, you know war it has no heart. | rickard and torrhen [september 2]

[rickardkarstark]

The look he gives his son isn’t pleasant. Was he not taking his word for it, and only Daryn’s? Rickard is anything but a liar. He had given the boy careful guidelines to follow, but in the end, he’d wrote it with or without his approval. What anyone thought he had to do with it was sorely mistaken.

“We all think we know what Scotland needs, don’t we boy?” He curls his lip in a grimace turned smile. Everyone from Dumfries to Aberdeen had their opinion on what should be done, and how it should be done. It’s difficult ground to tread, if anything. Rickard says nothing and drinks from his mug, brooding. 

More mediating voices, he’d said. Well, out of the Stark Group he suspected himself and perhaps Howland Reed to be the most sensible. Ned Stark was all about honour, while Roose sat there clicking his teeth. Out of them all, a Stark took up the mantle, but how long could a man such as Eddard hold it? 

He puts down his mug, and looks at his son again. Was his son suggest…no, implying that Rickard merely sat by and said nothing in their meetings? That he didn’t object to their ideas, pointing out the radicalness and what is unnecessary  No, maybe he should’ve agreed with Roose Bolton about needing an army, and throwing out the weeds. No, maybe he should’ve let them crown Robb Stark as the face of the nation instead of nudging the scope towards Eddard.

“I’ve been saying plenty, not to much note, but believe me, I’ve done my part. Though doesn’t mean that I’m finished.” Would it be so bold as to say, without Rickard, without his stance on things, the country would probably be brewing war itself? “What else do you want me to say?”

[torrhenkarstarks-blog]

"You're saying it behind closed doors," he throws back. While it does have its advantages (presenting Stark Group as unified force is a front against infighting or the English attempting to pick at any weaknesses), the board has been ineffectual in its press presence. "Stark Group needs to speak up. Say something - anything. Or you'll let the papers run with anything any idiot wants to say."

"We should be managing our - our -" Torrhen stutters, trying to find the right word. Alys would know. This was more of her arena anyways. " - how the public sees us. What has Ned Stark been doing to try and moderate for a peaceful separation?" He holds his hands out, "Nothing that I've seen reported in the press. What else are you doing? I want to know. I don't want another Culloden. I don't want a war."

[deaddaryn]

my ears are blown to bits from rifle hits but still i crave that sound | september 2nd, glasgow | torrhen & daryn

[deaddaryn]

The bitterness of beer turns sour in his throat. Shit, he thinks. It hadn’t even begun to cross his mind that Alys wouldn’t have told him. He knew, intrinsically that the Karstark siblings fell into bylines of allegiance at the drop of a hat separated by who was educated where and with whom. Alys with Eddie; Torr with Harry. But it hadn’t for a moment occurred to him that his sister would have kept it from him - family first was still family first where Karstark’s were concerned and hadn’t Alys made sure he knew that once. Daryn pushes the heels of his palms over his closed his eyes and squeezes up his face in momentary dread. 

“Shit,” he says, finally, aloud. “I thought she… she made out like she said but-” but maybe she just said it to Rickard and he’d shut her down so completely she’d never mentioned it again? He did have that sort of effect on people. 

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[torrhenkarstarks-blog]

Torrhen shrugs. What can he really say? Alys trusted you more than me. Alys thought I wouldn't believe. It's not like he wants to justify or provide a solid reasoning for Alys' silence, but it stings. Alys knew, suspected, worried, and didn't tell him. There were chances too, at his funeral, her first night home, all the weeks since her return. Daryn stumbles and falters, words rushed and a chorus of shit shit shit running through his head as he explains himself.

His tongue moves slowly over the words, "I saw a city burn down." Eddie had been in the Marines but as far as Torr knew, never saw combat that involved a burning city.

Perhaps if Eddie's death had been after the bombing of the Olympic Stadium, Torrhen would've considered that ramification. But as it happened weeks after, it slides by, stuck as he is on the language of the sentence. I saw a city burn down.

"He died in London. London has burned down, what, four, five times?" He worries at his lip, trying to make sense of it. "But it's standing, whoever wrote that wrote 'saw'. Doesn't make sense. Why write that? Why would Eddie's murderer take the time to fucking set up the scene but then write that?"

Anger is building, clipping into his words until he reaches the end and, ordinarily Torrhen would slump inside his seat after a diatribe, but this is Eddie, this is his brother, and anger keeps his spine straight and his gaze measured.

"Where were you thinking of starting?"