Eddard Stark (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
learned_to_die) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
sixthiterationlogs2017-11-16 12:02 pm
learned_to_die) wrote in sixthiterationlogs2017-11-16 12:02 pm
[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.
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.
no subject
"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!"
no subject
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."
no subject
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?"
no subject
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."
no subject
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."
no subject
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."
no subject
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.
no subject