The Long Night is Coming [Open]

[thekittenqueen]

WHO: Margaery Tyrell
WHERE: The front porch of the Stark Home
WHEN: Dec 15th
OPEN TO: All
WARNINGS: Nothing so far
STATUS: Open

---

Winter is coming.

She heard those words enough during those education, but never understood the true meaning until coming to this place. Unlike the Starks, she had never lived in the cold or around snow. At first, it had been lovely, a wonderful thing to wake up to (even if it was frustrating to work in). But with the temperature dropping and everything seemingly becoming hardened, she was beginning to show that side of her that had been spoiled by the southron heat.

She tried to endure and hide her discomfort. She wrapped herself in her woolen cloak, buried herself beneath the blankets and huddled in front of the furnace. It didn't do much to heat her blood.

I suppose the Tyrells are not as hot blooded as I thought.

Despite this, she soldiered on, hoping to at least earn some respect from her northern countrymen. She worked as she always did and planted herself on the front porch to spin and weave. She even sang, no matter how her voice quivered and her teeth chattered. If she was going to be a northern lord's wife, she was going to manage through the cold, godsdammit.

She pulled her gloves off, gently spinning her wool into yarn. Maybe with enough of a distraction, she could forget how miserable this was. She would sing of heat and warmer things. The mind could be fooled that way, couldn't it?


" The Dornishman's wife was as fair as the sun,

and her kisses were warmer than spring.

But the Dornishman's blade was made of black steel,

and its kiss was a terrible thing.

The Dornishman's wife would sing as she bathed,

in a voice that was sweet as a peach,

But the Dornishman's blade had a song of its own,

and a bite sharp and cold as a leech.

As he lay on the ground with the darkness around,

and the taste of his blood on his tongue,

His brothers knelt by him and prayed him a prayer,

and he smiled and he laughed and he sung,

"Brothers, oh brothers, my days here are done,

the Dornishman's taken my life,

But what does it matter, for all men must die,

and I've tasted the Dornishman's wife!"

Comments

[repressings]

Credence walks because he's not sure what else to do. Of course since arriving he's helped--most know him as the quiet boy in the inn who stays in a corner unless he's needed, or the one that disappears swiftly to his room when things get too loud or raucous. The hunting party was a perfect display of that, save for when he and Alex went sprinting down the roads to get everyone gathered.

The fact of the matter is that he's here, and he's stuck in such a profound way. It's different than being stuck in the church, and it's different from the itching hot feeling under his skin begging for release. He couldn't do anything about those, sure, but Credence feels that extra mile of utter helplessness that comes with the fact that no one here can get out, either. They're all stuck. Every single one of them.

Some make the best of it, he's learning. There's pretty Kate Kelly in the inn, and Alex, and even Jess Brightwell who makes sure he's armed and ready in his own special way. Every single person is carving something in this settlement for themselves. He'd find it beautiful if he didn't find it sad, too. So Credence helps, and Credence walks, and Credence dreams like he used to when he was forced to go to bed early for misbehaving.

He's so far in his thoughts--eyes sure to scan every alley though, thanks to the British boy at the inn who pressed a makeshift knife in his hand the day they met--that he thinks he's imagining someone singing. The only tip off is the very end, where he realizes that there's no way his imagination would let him think up of something so bawdy. He's unconsciously followed the pretty voice, one foot after the other, and when he looks over he finds a girl with brown hair and a spinning wheel.

He wonders, very briefly, if she knows about Sleeping Beauty or Rumpelstilskin. That's until his gaze sweeps over her hands, soft and elegant and long, and he decides he's alright to say something.

"Miss?" His voice is soft, barely above a whisper. He's staring at her hands, not her face: a pointed gesture, purposeful in it's intent. He can never look people in the eye.

"You might get frostbite if you're out here like that for too long. Your--um. Your fingers."

[thekittenqueen]

She almost misses his comment, his voice soft and hidden against the cold wind. It was only when she paused in her work that she noticed Credence in her peripheral. She stopped her spinning, regarding him with curiosity. Given that she didn't recognize him, it was easy to assume that he was a new arrival. She rubbed her hands together, trying to summon the feeling back in her fingers. The skin of her hands was red and angry.

"I try to return inside when I become too numb," she replied, smiling gently at him. "Spinning with gloves isn't exactly wise. I need the wool to become thin strands of yarn." Because she paused in her work, she stuck her hands back in her gloves.

"I'm Margaery."

[repressings]

He wonders why she doesn't do it outside. Maybe she has an aversion? Credence's mind races, but all that's happening is his thoughts tracing back to the beautiful fairytale about a princess pricking her thumb on a spinning wheel. He wonders if Margaery knows that witchcraft like that exists.

He wonders if Margaery knows that witches and wizards aren't bad. Not really, not like what he's been taught all his life.

Margaery--Margaery, a strange name to go with strange mannerisms, outside and singing despite the cold, doing work despite the temperature. He feels a slight pang of envy, too--he wants to be that brave, that bold, that brazen. Instead, he hunches down on himself and says Margaery over in his mind a few times, just to commit it to memory.

"Credence. It's nice to meet you, miss." That's genuine, even if his gaze never leaves the wheel and never flicks to her face. "What if you moved everything inside?"

It seems like the logical choice.

[thekittenqueen]

If those sorts of stories exist in her world, she doesn't think of them at moments like this. Her focus is entirely on her work and the callouses that she was building from the spinning and weaving. It was hard to lend herself to fantasy when she was trying to keep from making mistakes. The wool was precious and couldn't be wasted.

This entire place was magic in a way, but she tried not to judge where others came from and who they were. It didn't always work, but she tried nonetheless.

"Credence?" It was a strange name, but that was no different than a number of things here. "I could, I prefer to sit on the porch and watch my animals graze." She pointed across the way to where her sheep, goats and cows where. They would be herded back inside once she finished. "The work will warm me soon, as long as I keep moving."

[repressings]

He supposes she's right, but he'd been there--not weaving wool, but standing on stairs of banks and important buildings, or at a corner passing things out. Snow falling, not wearing any gloves, handing out flyer after pamphlet after card. We need a second Salem! they'd often say. Fight against witches! He kept busy moving, yes, but his hands were still cold and stiff and he could never quite get warm on those winter days.

He hopes Margaery can.

More importantly--or perhaps just on the forefront of his mind--Margaery has animals. Actual animals. He wonders if it would be childish to ask to pet one, and immediately chides himself. Of course it is; he's a grown man.

"How did you get them? And so many?"

[thekittenqueen]

If there is discomfort, she's accustomed to pushing it from her mind and focus instead on the task ahead. She begins spinning again, glancing back at Credence every now and then in an effort to show that she wished to continue the conversation. The movements at least kept the blood flowing in her fingers.

Given that one of the cows had a garland of dried flowers around her neck, it wouldn't be silly in the slightest in Margaery's eyes. She often hugged she sheep after shearing them.

"It took a great deal of effort and several trips into the forest."