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
"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."
no subject
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."
no subject
"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."
no subject
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."