sixthiterationlogs | [the dire wolf collects his due while the boys sing 'round the fire]

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[the dire wolf collects his due while the boys sing 'round the fire]

WHO: Eddard Stark
WHERE: Around the village
WHEN: November 16, the beginning of the ice storm
OPEN TO: OTA!
WARNINGS: Will update as needed

The steadily dropping temperatures has filled Ned with a certain vigor, one he has not felt for quite some time. He has yet to experience a winter within the village, and while he has come to expect short and fleeting seasons here, unlike the seasons of Westeros, he cannot deny anticipating the frigid temperatures with which he's so intimately familiar. He will therefore enjoy the impending winter as deeply as he is able, for long as he is able.

It is in the early morning hours, when the village is still cloaked in darkness, that Ned is stirred awake by the sounds of rain pelting the roof of the cabin. No, it must be something harder than rain, given the noise and percussion of the sound; perhaps ice? He thinks to check on the others but, as he always is, he is concerned with being too overbearing and too meddling with their lives. None of them are children any longer, and though he does not anticipate having his usefulness wear out with them, he does not need to treat them as though they were still the children running around the yard at Winterfell.

He attempts to find slumber again but finds it impossible with the noise. He goes to the window to glance outside and, indeed, it seems as though ice is falling and crashing against all that lay on the earth. He busies himself until first light, donning the Westerosi outfit he'd received as a gift some time ago, as well as the heavier of the two fur-lined cloaks he'd also received as gifts. Quietly, he slips out of the house and out into what feels like a transformed world.

The village he knew as of the night prior has been turned into a wintry, sparkling land reminiscent of the North - the trees cocooned in layers of ice, the rain and ice falling from above. There is a particular smell in the air that always follows these colder, more frigid conditions, and if he closes his eyes and inhales deeply through his nostrils, he can almost convince himself that he's been transported back to the Godswood.

The thought of it reminds him of the small Weirwood sapling just south of the cabin and, after checking on it, he decides that perhaps he should build some sort of shelter for it, to protect it from the dagger-like ice.

He can be seen wandering about the village, checking the inventory at the Inn, trying to figure out a way to shield the small, white-barked tree from nature's harsher elements.

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Baze has finally broken out the coat that came in his backpack, and the overalls as well, packed in now with several layers as he trudges out into the frozen village first thing in the morning. Ice everywhere like this is not particularly familiar to him, but the cold is-- his moon may be a desert, but it's a desert just on the edge of habitable distance from its star. So he's dressed as appropriately as he can with the supplies he's been given.

And he's walking very carefully, using Chirrut's staff both for support and to dig into the ice where it's the most slippery to break it up and make sure it won't crack on its own under his weight.

He spots Ned at the small tree and crunches his way over there. "A young tree?" he says, a little skeptical about what is keeping the man's attention so about it. It's just a tree.

"Aye," Ned replies, recognizing the voice before turning his head to lay eyes on Baze's face with a pleasant expression. It isn't quite a smile, but it isn't anything more dour than that. He is attempting to use some spare cloth, sticks, and improvised rope to keep it sheltered. Although the Weirwood flourishes in Northern climates, this isn't The North, no matter the similarities in temperature. "It's a sapling I received as a gift some time ago," he explains, trying to maneuver all of the things together to create some sort of haphazard lean-to. "A tree from my home called a Weirwood."

That explains that. Baze huffs a sigh, supposing if some flowering desert plant from Jedha showed up here he'd be equally protective of it, and moves to help, pulling a frozen branch that fell from another nearby tree to act as a support for the windbreak. "Bodhi has also received gifts from our home," he comments. "I have yet to receive anything. I almost dread the idea of it." Anything from Jedha would just remind him of what he's lost, he's sure.

The name Bodhi takes a moment to register, but Ned remembers him from when the fireflies had come and chased the villagers all about. He'd been one of the ones bitten, blurting all sorts of nonsense that Ned couldn't quite understand. Though he'd seen him about the village since the fireflies had come and gone, he hasn't had an opportunity to speak with him. It has been many, many moons since then.

"I met Bodhi once, a great deal of time ago. Did you know each other before you arrived here?" he asks, nodding gratefully at Baze's assistance. "The gifts are .. jarring, no matter how welcomed the items themselves might be. I don't blame your feeling of dread."

"We come from the same moon, and we died in the same battle, working for the same cause," Baze says with a shrug, still working. "Our home has been destroyed, so anything that comes from there must be fake." And would hurt to see, since he'd know it had to be re-created, probably from his and Bodhi's own memories. Besides, what could he possibly get? Most of his belongings were weapons and armor.

Raleigh's thought about the weirwood too, if only because he knows it's important to Sansa. He has one of the ubiquitous snuggies from the Inn and when he sees Ned there, he offers it over. The ice is just beginning to pelt them and he thinks if they can get it wrapped now, it'll be safe.

"Best to try and wrap it up, right? It might not be perfect but it'll keep the worst of the ice off."

Ned receives the offer with humbled gratitude, nodding his head in appreciation towards Raleigh. He considers the strange cloth before unravelling it and holding it out in front of him. With a quizzical glance from the item to Raleigh, Ned's brows furrow with confusion.

"Is it a .. cloak?" he asks, eyes sweeping over the robe-like shape of the thing. "Or perhaps .. vestments from .. Well, I'm not sure what from," he laughs. He bundles it up again and tucks it under his arm. "Yes, that is my thought, as well. I appreciate your concern for the small sapling; I know it is of no obligation for you to feel as such."

"It's a...really bad cloak," Raleigh says. "I have a better one that Sansa gave me last year but this got left behind by someone else. Apparently it's called a snuggie, but we don't have them where I'm from either."

He looks at the weirwood, so small in the ice that's rapidly piling up around it. It looked fragile and he didn't want it to bend and break; who knew if they could get another one here?

"It's important to your family and important to Sansa. I'm going to do anything I can to keep it safe. I have a tree, too. It's called a sakura, it comes from a place called Japan. It's got little white blossoms in the spring and it means something to me. It isn't as strange to me as you might think to want to keep it safe."

Ned isn't quite sure what to make of that. What a ridiculous name, he thinks, and the slight contortion of his face mimics the sentiment. He glances from Raleigh to the snuggie to give it a better inspection, as though the thing might've changed now that it's got a name, however .. ridiculous and silly it might be. Still, the fabric seems to be thick and insulating; it would, despite its absurd state, be better than leaving the poor sapling to fend for itself. Even if it is a tree of the North, the circumstances are all together different. Ned has never planted or raised a Weirwood on his own, with nothing to say of the difference of soil and all other elements.

He kneels to take away as much of the ice collected at the base of the tree as he can before replacing it all with the coiled and strategically wrapped snuggie. He isn't sure if he'll ever be able to say the word aloud, but at least he knows what it's called. He might have to come up with a better name, though.

"Thank you, for assisting me," he says, standing and dusting the ice from his knees. Ned sizes Raleigh up for a moment or two before softening a bit. "It is of great comfort to me that you understand the importance of symbols such as these. Of course, we need not the Weirwood - or this Sakura, as you say - to remind us of our strength or resilience or of home, but that doesn't lessen the importance of them or their meaning."

"No, but having the tree helps us remember what it means, keeps it up in the front of our minds," Raleigh says. He likes Ned a lot, actually, and thinks he would even if he wasn't dating Sansa. As it is, he is dating Sansa and so the fact that he likes Ned is a very good thing. He just hopes it's mutual.

"Do you think it will be okay in all the ice? Sansa says it gets cold where you're from but this is a pretty young tree so..."

"Aye, that is my worry," Ned says, glancing down at the warm fleece wrapped around its base. "The tree is of the North, however, and it is my hope that it will flourish here as it does back home." He raises his eyes to the sky overhead, then to the foliage surrounding them, all of it covered with snow and ice. "I believe that helping to keep it protected from the worst of what the weather has to offer will ensure its survival."

"I'll do what I can. I don't want you guys to lose what's important to you. From what I understand from Sansa, you guys have lost enough. You don't need to go and lose something that reminds you of home."

He thinks he'll be coming out to check on this tree as often as he can and if it looks like its floundering a little, he'll go see Mark and see what he thinks about making it survive the winter - even if it means taking it up and potting it like Raleigh has his sakura.

Ned doesn't quite verbalize a response to that bit of information, instead letting his gaze travel over to Raleigh's face. He seems sincere, honest, true. It seems as though he speaks not out of wanting to appear as though he knows all there is to know about the Starks or their lives prior to arrival in the village, but rather out of empathy and kindness. After his time in King's Landing, being betrayed by almost everyone around him, Ned's come to sniff them out like his house's sigil, and he's come to recognize them easily in other people.

In a show of respect, he reaches out and places a hand on Raleigh's shoulder.

"You're a good man, Raleigh. And I'm glad Sansa's found a partner in you."

She was at the inn, assembling one of the multiple gifts she received, putting together what looked like a harp. It was similar in build and design to what Rhaegar had once played, though it would never compare to his silver harp with dragons engraved across it. This was simply wooden and plain, but perhaps that was for the best? She had no skill and would likely make the instrument suffer in the attempt.

Ned was distracted, rushing between the inn and outside. It didn't take much to gather what was on his mind. The ice storm was a threat to the Weirwood sapling, still so small and fragile. She had seen larger branches broken under the weight of the ice. What that could do to the weirwood sapling was no small thing.

"Did you find something to shield it?" She asked during one of his return trips to the inn.

Lyanna's voice is like a beam of sunlight in the fog, and it takes a moment for Ned to adjust to the brightness of it amidst the dimly lit Inn. He blinks a few times before turning towards her, almost squinting, before catching sight of what appears to be some kind of instrument. A harp, perhaps? His gaze sweeps over it with some consideration before rising to meet her face again.

"I believe so. There are some scraps of thick burlap that I've propped up on some pieces of thick twigs and tied together with some makeshift cord." Moana had taught him how to weave reeds and grass into a sort of rope. It has proven to be more than handy on many an occasion. "But it seems that is not the most interesting event in the Stark family," he says, motioning towards the items in front of her. "What've you received?"

The strings were the most difficult to assemble, needing to be taught and tuned. She shifted, struggling to have the instrument sit right on her lap as she tried to hold it close to her, winding the string around a knob. Rhaegar made it look so simple. If he broke a string, it didn't take much for him to reattach it. It was almost like a gentle weave of an embroidery needle. Threaded through once and he was done. All Lyanna could do was bite her lower lip and fight her impatience as she tried to recreate his movements.

"I have some burlap too, but you can't have that." She smirked up at him playfully. "I'll be using that to make targets for hunters and warriors. We need something to train against." But he had the right idea to protect the Weirwood sapling. "It will survive the winter, Ned. It was born in snow and thrives in the cold."

She wasn't sure if it was the most interesting news, but she lifted up the harp for him to see. "It's a harp! I have to put it together myself, but it should play nicely."

"Might you let me assist you?" Ned asks, gesturing towards the large, cumbersome instrument with which his sister seems to be struggling. There's a slightly amused glint in his eyes, perhaps accented with an equal measure of teasing. "Once the youngest and always so impatient to see things completed. Some things cannot be rushed through with a flaming sword. Here." Ned takes a knee and takes hold of the wooden harp, angling it just so on her lap so as to give her better access to the knobs.

"And here I thought you'd want to help you dear, older brother," he comments with feigned disappointment in his voice. His eyes flick from the harp to her gaze to further prove he means none of what he implies. "Aye, but we are far from the place we all once called home." It's true, of course, that the Weirwood was borne of The North, but despite his months in the village, he feels he is no more knowledgable on its agricultural abilities than he'd been in the spring. Perhaps there is someone to speak to about that, beyond the husbandry and crop-tending Margaery has been kind enough to show him.

"I shudder at the thought of you attempting to tune and play this. Or, rather, I shudder on behalf of Jon, as he's the one who'll have to listen to it."

"What do you know about stringing a harp?" She asked him slyly. "I don't recall you ever playing an instrument. If I give it to you, how do I know that you're not going to break it? You don't exactly have delicate fingers." Still, she grinned at him and offered out the harp, curious to see if he could do any better than her. The sad fact was that they fell short of the dexterous dragon prince.

"Why should I help you? What do I get out of it?" He was teasing her, she knew that in the same way she knew that he would understand she was teasing him back. "We are, but that doesn't mean the tree won't be able to grow and thrive here. Weirwoods are the eyes of the Old Gods. I don't doubt they can find us here. It's cold enough for the sapling to thrive." This winter had already matched the chilled winds and frozen ground that they knew in the North.

She gave him a smack on the arm. "Just for that, you are going to have to listen to my first attempt!"

Ned shares a displeased glance with her before waving a dismissive hand purposefully close to her face, just to annoy her. He answers precisely none of her questions, instead bringing his attention and focus to the harp at-hand. It's true, of course, that he'd never been properly taught how to play an instrument; they were considered more delicate and thusly more feminine in most cases, except for the travelling bards he'd encountered throughout his travels. But such pursuits were too lowly for a high-born lord. He'd instead been inundated with the ways of the sword, of battle, of war.

Stringing a harp is out of his jurisdiction of knowledge, though he makes a good attempt. He finds that, just as with strategic battle tactics and the deft agility required to expertly wield a sword, the harp demands something similar. Patience, dexterity, skill, precision. It takes him a bit of fumbling with it, but he does manage to get one of the strings somewhat properly wound around the tuning peg at the top. He has no idea what sound the string should make, but he's done his duty - namely, to show up his sister's harp stringing abilities.

"You get the satisfaction of knowing you helped your brother!" he argues in return, as though it is the most obvious thing in the world. "That should be enough!"

He reaches up to pinch her cheek in his fingers. He doesn't do it too hard, but he does it harder than he normally would if he were truly being affectionate and not bratty.

"That's it, I rescind my offer of the fur-lined cloak. You will have to find your own warmth this winter."

She hesitates, clutching the arms of her chair as she watched her brother string the harp. Each time it seemed like he would pull it too taut or missed the knob, she held her breath. It was difficult to describe how much that harp meant to her. It wasn't Rhaegar's, it wasn't anything like his beloved instrument, but it was a link to him and a reminder. It was all she would have in this world that would ever connect her to her dead lover. She needed it, if only to ease her heart.

She knew enough about the instrument to at least be able to tell if it was in tune or not. When they had been in the Tower, she had watched and listened to Rhaegar tune his harp. Once, he had even taught her to do it herself. She hadn't thought much of it at the time, only a bit of a game like when she would wear his clothes. Now, it would at least let her learn how to play the gift from the Observers.

"That's no satisfaction at all. You could at least try to bribe me." But she intended to give him what he wanted, if he really did want the burlap.

She shakes him off, trying to push away his hand as he pinched her. Lyanna gave him a sour look. "Fine, then I'll steal yours when you aren't looking. That will teach you to be cruel to your sister." But she accepted the harp with a thankful look, running her fingers over the strings.

"Do you remember when Rhaegar played at the tourney of Harrenhall?"

"Excuse me, but I am very busy and concentrating very hard to get this thing properly taken care of, I'd appreciate silence," Ned teases, brows furrowing as he attempts to string another piece. This one goes more smoothly than the last, now more familiar with the mechanics and whereabouts of the different holes and pegs, and in a short enough time, he's gotten a handful of strings done. He wipes his hands on his trouser legs as he looks to her expectantly. "Think you can manage from here? Or should I do it for you in an attempt to bribe you?"

He lifts himself from the ground and pulls over a chair, positioning it next to her.

There's still a flicker of upset in his eyes at mention of Rhaegar, though he's done his best to try and quell those immediate feelings for his sister's sake, now that he knows her true feelings about him. He still sets his jaw slightly to the sound of the man's name, unable to fully shake the habit of blaming Rhaegar for his sister's untimely death.

"Aye, I do."

She shushed him gently as she twisted the knobs of her harp, plucking at the strings as she listened for it to be in tune. It took a few minutes, but finally it sounded like Rhaegar's harp, as melodic and sweet sounding as when she last heard him play. She cradled the harp against her, holding it as though he were here, as if it could connect her to her long dead lover.

It was hard to miss the look in his eyes. Lyanna frowned at him in disapproval. While she knew Ned's reservations and the reason he was apprehensive about Rhaegar, she didn't want to see her favorite brother expressing disapproval about someone so important to her.

"I will need to talk about him sometimes and you are the only one here who knew him." She murmured to him, letting her fingers run over the strings, a whisper of music following her movements. "He was a good man, Ned and I think you know that. Whatever was said of him, he never hurt anyone intentionally or used people for his own gains."

Ned wouldn't admit it aloud, though the sound of the harp - now in-tune - relaxes him a bit. He knows such a peace won't last for long, given how his sister will fumble about in her attempts to learn it, but he also knows her skill when it comes to things to which she sets her mind. She'll master the harp in little time, and she'll fill the village with beautiful melodies. He's sure of it. Perhaps he might even put in a request for a song from home.

He nods, trying to soften the harshness of his expression - for her sake.

"You must understand that I fought my way through the entirety of Westeros thanks to the fire at my heels at the news of him kidnapping you," Ned replies, voice soft but stern. "It was the only thing that kept me alive, the only thing that enabled me to fight my way to the Tower door. It will - take some time, to dissolve that thought of him, now that I've the truth."

She would master the harp, so long as she had the patience to learn. For now, her desire to have something to remind her of Rhaegar trumped her restless energy. It was a bit different to learn how to play an instrument rather than how to swing a sword. Those were easy skills for her to learn, but these more gentle talents had always been a bit beyond her.

He is trying for her sake and she recognizes that, offering a thankful smile.

"It's my fault that you believed it." She said, toying with a few of the strings. "I should have written you, sent a raven or something. I didn't think, I was too swept up in everything. By the time we reached the Tower, it was already too late. I suppose I hoped that you would know I wouldn't be kidnapped." She would die first.

"Yes, it -- it seems foolish now, to think you'd allow yourself to be taken if you'd not wanted to be," Ned admits, eyes settling softly on her face before flitting upwards towards the ceiling as he exhales some weight off of his shoulders. "You wouldn't have gone without a fight, and I know you'd've been .. extreme in your measures, if it were truly someone you loathed." He brings his gaze back to her. "Of course, it is easier to say this now, after everything."

For days now, Robb's irritation had been like a living thing, twisting around in his belly and souring his thoughts even while he'd managed to hold his tongue. It had taken Jon's revelation to make him realize that he'd been holding a deep, secret anger against his father for a very long time — Perhaps, even, since Ned had left Winterfell, leaving Robb to console a grieving mother and shoulder alone the burden of the entire North. He had borne up, of course — It was what he was raised to do. But now he could understand the simmering resentment that had underpinned it all, and why, when he had learned of his father's death, his sorrow and rage had been mixed with a shameful, hot-burning anger toward not the people who had cut down Ned Stark, but the man himself.

He's older now, of course, and ostensibly some degree wiser, but the anger has bubbled up again, tasting like iron in his mouth. He cannot stop thinking about how different things might have been if only his father had trusted Jon enough to not doom him to a life of hard-scrabble servitude at the Wall.

He's using a broomstick to knock iciscicles free from the eaves of the house when he hears the crunch of footsteps up the walk. His stomach twists, gloved fingers clutching tighter against the stick as he lowers it and looks to his father.

"Jon told me," Robb says, the words coming out in opaque puffs in the chilled air. This is likely not the time nor place for this particular conversation, but between Jon and Margaery, he thinks if he holds in his feelings much longer, he may burst.

It isn't the content of Robb's statement that stops Ned in his tracks, burlap and twine in-hand, but rather the tone. It carries the sharpness of the edge of a blade, set squarely to slice through Ned at his core. It is a tone he's heard before, though it was often done in tantrum or upset when Robb was young and felt like being particularly rebellious at something, wanting to use something foul or perhaps a bit unkind to try and get back at his father for a slight, real or imagined. But it's been many years since he's heard the whip of his son's tongue, and it's only after he's managed to get past that that he allows the words themselves to infiltrate his mind.

So. He's been told. Jon felt comfortable enough to reveal the secret Ned had kept for all those years. Part of him is glad for it, not only for the fact that it need not be a secret any longer but that he felt comfortable enough to share it with his brother. Or, well, his cousin, in truth. There is only a breath's worth of time to allow himself this quiet happiness, which is clouded and darkened by the insinuation in his son's voice.

He turns, slowly, adjusting the contents of his hands slightly before allowing his hands to lower to his sides. A sign of no confrontation, of no defensiveness. He isn't here to fight - and he's certainly not here to fight his eldest son.

"Aye," is what he manages to say after a time. Gods, how much Tully Robb's got in him. "You sound as though you'd rather he hadn't."

Would he have rather Jon not told him? If Robb was truthful, it was hard to say. Living in oblivion would certainly have been easier, however much he had felt briefly betrayed being left in the dark. In the end, he wouldn't have Jon carry that burden alone, but there was an undeniable comfort in the status quo.

"Why did you let him go to the Wall?" Robb finally asked, seeing no method or sense in being delicate about it. Likely it would only frustrate them both to dance around what he really wanted to know. "He was old enough to be a Ranger, to fight Wildlings and gods only knows what else, but he wasn't old enough to know something that might have changed his mind about it?"

Ned's jaw tightens for a moment as his son's words come barrelling out like daggers, though he knows they're well-earned on his own end. There had been many nights, particularly when Jon was but a child, in which Ned had spent the dark hours lying away or walking about the Godswood in an attempt to find answers as to what he should do. He'd made a promise to his sister, he'd promised her as she took her final breaths and drenched him in the blood she'd lost from her body. And the words she'd spoken had been true; Ned knew as well as anyone what Robert would do, had he found out about Jon's true lineage.

So he'd ultimately decided to keep his promise, to keep the secret, to carry the burden and watch as his sister's child bore a weight no child should ever have to bear. He'd carried as much of it as he could, but he knew he couldn't shield the boy from everything. And, by the time he'd expressed a desire to join his uncle at The Wall, Ned knew too much time had passed for him to bring the topic up again. Parting ways on the King's Road was no time to tell Jon the truth.

"A boy might wield a sword better than a man, but his heart and mind will not yet be galvanized to withstand the truths of the world." Ned's voice isn't brusque, exactly, but it is lacking some of its familiar warmth. "It was not my secret to share."

"No," Robb replied after a beat. "It was his." And that, bitterly, was perhaps all there was to say about it. His father couldn't have changed his decision anymore than he could have made the days wind back. But for Robb, this ran much deeper than any single deed.

"I'm tired, Father," he admitted after a moment, cutting Ned a look brimming with weary resignation. "I'm tired of secrets and holding to vows that do no one any good, simply for the sake of it. I'm tired of trying to justify holding to them when it's clear to anyone that all of our lives would have been a great deal less bloody without them."

Ned knows that Robb's indignant attitude comes from his love and protectiveness over Jon, who Ned suspects will always be considered a brother, instead of a cousin. Similarly, Ned will always think of Jon as his own, though he'll know when and how to bow out of the light of fatherhood, now that his sister has a chance to make up for lost time. He lingers, wondering whether to end the conversation here, when his son continues speaking.

The sight of the defeat in Robb's eyes makes Ned's heart ache, and he feels his expression softening as he listens.

He knows Robb has a point, that he speaks truth. Retrospectively, Ned would have, more than likely, broken many of the vows that he'd kept to if it meant keeping his family safe. He'd have never agreed to be Robert's Hand, not even in light of the claims from Lysa that Jon Arryn had been poisoned by the Lannisters. He'd have listened to his wife, who pleaded with him to turn the offer down and stay home with his family. He'd have never held his feelings of responsibility, duty, and obligation to his friend override the same feelings he had toward his family.

But, of course, things always appear with greater clarity after the moment's over.

"Aye," he responds, voice heavy and laden with the same sort of resignation as his son. "I suppose it makes little sense to adhere to them now, so far outside of home."

"It made little enough sense to adhere to many of them back home," Robb pointed out. All of the Starks all might be alive yet were it not for the folly of their Northern honor. "I only wish I'd been wise enough to see that at the time." He certainly wouldn't have called himself wise now, but death had been a swift and ruthless teacher, that much was for certain.

"I don't want to be cross with you—" he began again, and then stopped. "I'm not, really. But there are a great many things I think we all might change had we the opportunity to live them again."

"The past is always clearer once it's behind us." Ned won't argue about adherence to honor, tradition, and custom - even if they've been plucked from Westerosi lands and brought here, wherever it might be. Ned regrets many things in his last life, having learnt the truth of what fates befell his family - and he does believe he'd have made his decisions differently, if he could have foreseen the future. And yet ..

Who is he without his honor? Who is he without his code of ethics? His morality? How could he ever truly abandon them all, even if they proved to be folly? It's a precarious path, that line of thinking, and it isn't one he wishes to travel down. Not now.

"You've every right to be, if you are. I take no offense at the sentiment." His lips purse together, the corners tugging downwards. "We do the best we can in the moment, with the information we have and are given. None of us could've known how things would change after I'd left for King's Landing."

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[the dire wolf collects his due while the boys sing 'round the fire]

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JESUS TAKE THE WHEEL HERE WE GO

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