owenstark

[owenstark]

This is how he remembered it starting. Brandon not wrong but not right, not right because Owen said he wasn't and so did the law. Yes, Owen should have let him have his grief. He did not. He could not. He would not. But the other looked at him with that look, the other spoke to him with that voice and things around the table were tense. Laughter was starting to die, and there was a grumbling at the Northern table. This was going to grow and for a moment he heard the booming voice of his father. He felt the table shake from the fist of a ghost who demanded they act like men but there was no one there. There was no one to talk sense into and there was no one to pull them apart.

And Owen just looked at him, something around them vibrated, something turned to a froze noise that was similar to the sound of ice showers. Owen could suddenly hear steel and screams and his eyes darkened on the man before because he missed him. He was desperate to turn to his brother beg, to tell him he needed him but the hurt overtook the anger and it made him want to collapse but he didn't collapse, he didn't give in the weight of pain and emotion and urges to cry.

Instead, he hit him.

He grabbed the man and punched. And he wanted Brandon to fight back and he knew that he would fight back and he knew that he was putting on a show for the realm and they would whisper but they were Northmen and Northmen did not care about rumor. Owen didn't take the time to notice the fight happening around them, the men jumping over the shared table and the uneasy feelings now on full display.

All around them, Northman were unraveling, men screamed for order and others begged for peace but Owen did not want peace. He wanted to feel something other than pain. Something other the emotional weight that was crushing his chest as he fought with the other. Tears fell freely from his eyes in the scuffle, the fray and ruckus of chaos started by a king. A king using a peace gathering to let it all out. He was only glad there were no blade for he had he enough mind to worry about what those around them would do.

♞

brandon’s fingers curled round the goblet until the chill of the metal cut into the bones of his hand, but he didn’t drink. didn’t blink. not even when owen’s fists slammed down on the table with the kind of force that made the southerners blink and flinch and straighten their backs like dogs half-expecting to be struck. the old rage — the kind that crept in through the ribs and climbed up the throat — stirred before he could stop it. he clenched his jaw tight, tongue against his teeth. the words came anyway, with the slow churn of a storm rolling down from the mountains. not shouted. but sharp, edged, and more northern than the wind itself.

“reckon i made meself clear.” he said, his voice low but growing in its weight, like snow beginning to crack the roofbeams. “no word came ‘cause there were no bloody word to give. weren’t different from last you asked. i weren’t comin’. you knew that.” the table between them might as well have been ice, just thick enough to stop their hands from reaching, just thin enough to see the cracks forming beneath. brandon didn’t rise, but the set of his shoulders changed. no longer hunched from the road, but braced now. steel beneath the furs. not court furs, not dyed or lined or perfumed, but worn things.

thick with wolf hair and smoke, still marked with salt from where snow had melted and dried again and again.

he didn’t raise his voice. it wasn’t needed. “you think i sit in karhold and brood? that i mope?” he leaned forward a little now, not much, but enough to make his meaning clear. “you know nothing of what it is to hold a keep like that in winter, one that don't have comfortable hot springs like you lot. i’ve buried children this year, owen. held a boy not ten winters old in my arms, still blue round the mouth, and dug through six feet of snow with my own fucking hands because the village tools had snapped clean in half. don’t you talk to me about silence.”

the urge to call him owen again sat bitter at the back of his throat. yer grace, he corrected silently, just before it broke past his teeth. but it was harder now. with every breath, harder. the crown on owen’s head felt thinner than the skin over an old wound. “what is it you want from me, aye?” he asked, the words slow and hard. “you wear a crown now, and i know what that means. but don’t pretend the summons weren’t personal. if you’d any shame left in you, you’d have left me to it. to my grief. to my hall. to the north.” the anger in him twisted, bitter and dry, but it didn’t burn like owen’s did. it froze. brandon didn’t move. didn’t flinch. he held the king’s stare like he always had — before the crown, before meera, before the ghosts. and in that moment, he knew that owen stark could bark and growl like his father all he wants - but he knew what was there too. perhaps he would leave this with his face blackened and blue, but he would leave alive.

he looked down to his wine then, and finally drank, slow and long, letting it bite. he had no fear. not of this. not of him. "instead, you summon, and you summon. so what is it?"

[owenstark]

"Do not." Owen spoke with a barely contained rage. A northman was characterized as still as winter by people who never seen the rages of a northern winter, the rages of a blizzard and ice cutting at the faces and eyes. Anger always associated with fire and brimstone when it was just a furious in colds that see a man's limbs blacken and fall to the ground. His brother hated him and the weight of the crown made it no better to know that he brother hated him. And still. He would not be a fool by anyone. "You were summoned. More than once." Owen spoke so Brandon would hear and feel the weight of his words. Were they not in a crowd he would clear the table.

He still might.

"And you said nothing. You send no fucking word. Who do you think you are?" Owen asked him flat out now because this was a game to Brandon. Clearly he played at something and it made Owen want to flight him. It made him want to raise his chair over his head and slam it down on the other until he saw to reason. "Our personal issue have nothing to do with when I call you to court." If Karhold were so dear he would have answered and yet he stayed in his shit keep and moped because his witch wife got herself killed. A demon who shouldn't have risen from the dead to begin with. A wight. An other. Whatever it was, it was not Meera any longer but he couldn't say those words.

The differences in men who lost their wives, men who lost their way. Owen was lost long before he lost his wife whom he was not in love with nor did he think he would say his missing of her went beyond the great respect he held for her as his queen and mother of their children. Brandon was a man who loved and lost that love and for some reason he would hate Owen forever. Brandon could have killed Ren. All knew it. He could have driven his blade into the man's chest and it would have been the end but no. He demanded justice that is carried out beyond the hands of the King.

But it wasn't. For the grief he felt for Meera's first death was not present in her second. Whatever she had been…she was it no longer.

♞

brandon karstark did not flinch beneath the weight of his king’s gaze, though he felt it all the same - biting, a quiet chill which crept down the back of his neck and along his spine. gods knew, he had faced worse than owen stark’s fury — not including a real pack of wolves as a boy, and yet still, there was a silence he let settle between them like snow. fine, quiet, inevitable. the kind that blanketed whole forests before a man knew he’d lost his path. he raised the goblet again, but this time did not drink. the stem rested against his knuckles, cool and slick.

he watched the fire instead of owen — the way it caught the edge of the golden breadbasket, the flicker across some hightower boy’s chain, the dance in the thick wine that stained his cup. anything, but at owen.

when he finally spoke, it was slow and low, roughened by wind and disuse, as if the words had to be dug out from under frost. “there’s naught to explain, yer grace. i was at home.” the name that should have come out would have been too familiar, and too soft, and so it were impossible for it to spill from the tip of his tongue. his eyes drifted, not meeting the king’s, but close — the table’s edge, the pale linen caught in his brother’s sleeve. brother? how could they still be considered brothers? there was no manner in which they could be; not anymore.

there had been a time where winterfell too could have been considered home, but this? this was beyond even that, it were now court, and nothing more.

he shifted in his chair, the weight of the hall pressing on his shoulders like he wore the roof itself. southern heat clung to him like breath against glass, thick and perfumed. he didn’t belong here, in halls carved like wedding cakes, where lords drank from jewel-crusted goblets and the air reeked of roses and politicking. he’d passed a woman on his way in with golden leaves sewn into her hair. another with a dove perched on her shoulder. absurd. but most of all, this conversation and this interaction did not belong here; they were never supposed to be finally speaking about it in the south of all places.

some form of twisted, stupid entertainment, mere puppets on a string and being told to dance for the amusement of others.

“karhold needed me,” he said, and now his voice firmed, like hoarfrost forming along a sill. and it were not something he would feel ashamed, or guilty for; and he knew this would be the thing they would clash over. his lack of accountability, the lack of care in his voice: not smug, but not remorseful. “the mountain roads near swallowed two villages these months. three of my best men near died pulling out children from the ice. little to collect from the crop yield, less than the usual - sorting through the stocks."

[owenstark]

"Lady Rhaena Velaryon." Owen made an overdramatic gesture of bowing before he straightened and looked out toward the wrestlers preparing for what would surely be a short match, unless the younger man proved himself worthy and managed to pull out a win. And Owen knew that such a win would lead to some grudge, older Northmen never liked to be showed up. Many of them still looked upon their King and saw the little boy who used to climb of his wolf's back and ride around the courtyard. He was a man, more than that he was the king. And as his thoughts ran he wandered he debated on who he should support.

"Sturdy men fall hard." Owen finished his drink, sitting it down on the arm rest of his throne. When it came to Velaryons, they lot of them were stunning. He recalled seeing Naelys Velaryon and having to remind himself she was the sister of Deimos. And he oft needed to remind himself as he stood here. Yes, his mind wandered to the other woman he invited to stay in his court, still, only a blind man would not see Rhaena's beauty. But Deimos was his friend and therefore Rhaena was just that, his good friends sister.

"Tell me, what brings a seadragon to the North? Surely it's more than my favorite day of the year." The King smiled before he reached over and grabbed the mug off his throne, refilled by some passing servant and he was grateful. The King liked to keep a watchful eye on his staff, they worked harder than any in the realm when it was time to deal with the king and his love of sport and drink. The halls would flow with food, drink, and blood until the coals were finally allowed to dim.

"Oh, I must make mention of this but I am sorry to hear your king survived the death of your houses great dragon." There was sincerity and mirth, he made no secret of his hatred for Jaehaerys Targaryen and at every chance he would mock the "conqueror" for his many, many failures. "Like father, like son aye?"

she didn't think anywhere could mimic the tensions of a room full of crownlanders and stormlanders, but standing in winterfell's great hall, she almost could swear she was home. she'd heard mutterings of the splits between old way and older way, the gods and the men who followed them. house velaryon maintained a good relationship with house stark, so she paid attention when someone spoke of the schism, half wondering what would come of it all eventually. she kept opinions to herself, as always. it wasn't her circus nor her monkeys.

but she did come north after visiting the vale for the king's celebrations. she hardly had to give excuses to deimos anymore for going places, though she did mention to him that it would be good for someone in the family to show their face, keep up relations. her loving elder brother just told her not to start a war, which she always took for his enthusiastic approval of her plans. so she packed up the present she commissioned in the name of house velaryon and went off on her trips.

and while she knew the north was far rougher in manners than any keep south of the neck, she did not expect literal half naked wrestling in the main hall. but, when in the north, she supposed. she'd even made bets like others in the crowd, despite the fact a few mentioned that a valyrian like her must be used to that. no doubt it was a reference to the gladiators, a sport she found distasteful, but she let it go because those fools would have to come back and present whatever sum they promised her. she still had yet to make a bad decision.

she'd been lounging near the dais that held the northern throne, watching the ruckus and making notes of who was who with a horn of cider, happy that the hall was warm enough that she didn't need to be buried in furs. there was nothing like the northern cold, and no amount of being used to the cold sea air on driftmark could prepare her for it. but here, in winterfell, she was able to get away with her heavy velvet and some wool as well. the thrill of winning helped too, and she expected her latest poor fool to come soon with metaphorical tail between his legs and the silver coins he owed.

she didn't expect the king of the north to come close first by mere happenstance. she ducked her head and bent just so at the knee, knowing that the north didn't require the sweeping curtsies she needed to give elsewhere. practical folk and all that. "your grace." she greeted with a gentle smile, as this was the man that her brother called friend of house velaryon. kindness was the least thing owed to him. her eyes trailed to the two newest wrestlers as owen did, taking them in. "he's a lad, no doubt. barely looks older than i, i think." he seemed overly eager to her, like a green soldier looking for his first blood. his competitor was greying, perhaps smaller but honed by life in the north. a veteran, no doubt. less energy but he'd know where to put it. "i'd put some silver on the older man. he's sturdy, experienced, probably used to putting green boys in their place." rhaena shrugged before looking around for her debtor. no sign of him yet, probably scared to admit he bet against the king with him right there. "but i'm waiting on my last bet to be paid out, so i can't put money where my mouth is, or however the saying goes."

[owenstark]

There was one truth about Owen that many of the Northman would agree with and it was his lust for women. Which was what struck him as odd with this woman. When he asked her to say he didn't think of how he could get her in his bed, he thought of how she could provide some help and guidance. It would be good to unite his people under someone else who understood them, under someone from a House that was greatly respected, even if it was a mountain clan the clans were as old as House Stark if not older.

He nodded his head, steel grey eyes flickering to the purse before meeting the blue eyes. "Pride is a fickle thing, man can strength or, if it's hurt too badly, it deepens the weakness." The king smiled as he focused on her, blocking out the world around them. A pretty face was the kings greatest weakness. He liked to bed southron women, to charm them with his rough edges but when in the presence of Northern women, something else dragged him, pulled him close, perhaps it was the boldness.

"Let us see if the old Gods keep me in their favor." Owen did not care much for the sport happening any longer, he wanted more than coin but he respected her and once again it was an odd position for a King to find himself in. It wasn't that he didn't respect women. It was just, who did not enjoy the soft touch of a woman. But, instead of letting his mind linger he looked back toward the fight, tightening the leather cord as the fighting started.

And as the smaller man dodge one punch after another, Owen couldn't help but smile. "Look at that, the Old Gods turn their favor to the SMALL ONE!" The King shouted along with the crowd, his hands going up in the air.

Vilde Harclay stood just beyond the circle of witnesses to the wrestling, seeing it all from some distance. Her features were painted with golden light and shadow as the hearth's fire flickered close by. Her usual cold stillness had softened, though not entirely melted. The sálþyrja wore no furs tonight, just a simple dress of deep smoke-blue wool with a ceremonial Moon Circle leather bodice, as if even now, part of her stayed armored.

Her ice blue eyes tracked the two new fighters entering the cleared space. She stood steady, quietly relishing her presence in this hall, even if she didn’t quite belong among the noble and the crowned. Vilde continued to feel a wicked satisfaction going against her father's wishes and having remained in Winterfell for the past weeks. The Harclay would never approve of having a daughter stand with the Stark king. Yet had stayed. Not for politics. Not for alliances. She stayed because the man had asked for guidance —for himself and his people— and the sin-eater of the clans agreed.

As if invoked by her thought, Owen Stark appeared by her side. She too held a horn filled with ale and glanced at the Northern king as she took a sip. “I’ve got mine on the smaller one,” she replied, her voice low but unhesitant as she turned toward the man celebrating his nameday. “He lost earlier, so his pride’s been pricked,” she said with an air of certainty. She'd seen that amongst her clanspeople: a man with a wounded ego fought harder. She couldn't know for sure, though. Even if others regarded her as some kind of seiðkona or sorceress, Vilde did not have the gift of prophecy. What the future held was a mystery for her, too.

Her gaze met Owen's as she reached into the pouch at her belt, pulling out a few coins she'd won earlier from a grumbling Locke. She held them in her open palm before him. “Place your bet against me, Owen Stark,” she said as she turned slightly toward him, the firelight painting a shadow along the thin scar on her cheek. “You've won so much today, you must feel favored by the gods. Do you trust them one more time?” the sálþyrja spoke in subtle teasing, taking advantage of how her words were often taken with the ritual-tinged weight of her role, of her place in this world. But she was just a woman posing a simple challenge for a man with a wolf's spirit inside him, a simple bet shared in the space between celebration and shadow.

[owenstark]

Owen did not notice him at first. He sat at the high table, speaking quietly to a Riverlands lord, one hand loose around the stem of his goblet. It was not the sort of hall he belonged to, but a king went where duty called, even if he had to drag his dignity behind him through ivy-draped corridors and gardens perfumed to mask the stench of old power.

The scrape of a chair broke through the music and laughter. A small sound — quick, insignificant. But Owen’s head turned, sharply, instinct carving through distraction like a blade. He saw him then.

Brandon Karstark.

Worn from the road, travel-dirt still clinging to his boots, hair untamed, face rough with days of unshaven stubble. He looked like a man who had ridden through storm and sorrow to get here, yet wore it with the same stubborn defiance he had always carried. He poured himself wine, the movement casual, careless, as if the long months of silence, of unanswered letters and broken oaths, had never passed between them.

Owen set his goblet down, the metal clinking softly against the hardwood table. His fingers curled against the edge of the chair, knuckles whitening. Every Northman at the table seemed to sense the shift in the air. Laughter softened. Forks lowered. Conversations trailed into uncomfortable pauses. One by one, the banners of the North quieted, tension drawing them tighter than any drawn bowstring.

Owen turned, the motion steady, deliberate, with the weight of a winter storm gathering behind it. He did not glance toward the southern lords who whispered behind their sleeves, nor toward the Reach knights who exchanged wary glances. His attention was solely fixed on the man beside him, the ghost of a brother who had once stood shoulder to shoulder with him against the world.

“Explain yourself,” Owen said, low and commanding. The words dropped like a stone into a frozen lake. He did not shout. He did not posture. It was the simple expectation of a king wronged, of a man who had waited too long for a loyalty that never came.

His grey eyes, hard as northern stone, bore into Brandon without mercy. Months of anger, grief, and betrayal twisted in the spaces between them — old brothers divided by new crowns, a kingdom splintered not by war but by silence.

There would be no easy escape from this. Not tonight. Not here. Owen would have his answer. One way or another.

who: @owenstark when and where: the verdant concord, the reach context: brandon hasn't been at court for months, and did not reply to owen's letters or royal summons. context: i have no clue where this is going i just did this on impulse lol

he hadn’t ridden south with the rest of them. let the banners fly and the horns sound in white harbour or winterfell—karhold had remained quiet. the snows had begun to thin, but the cold hadn’t, and brandon karstark had stayed in his hall, dreaming of blackwood eyes and the silver gleam of a girl who no longer stood beside her brothers. dreams twisted in root and stone. he’d woken with his jaw clenched and the taste of smoke in his mouth. ben’s name on the wind. alysanne’s laughter in the trees. never his wife. he’d left three days later, without pageantry, just a satchel and a blade at his back.

the verdant concord was a southern thing. gardens, and wine, and soft robes; not meant for him. nor his people.

but he knew the last place alysanne had been seen was on route to highgarden, able to pass through the thickness of woods of the neck.. he wasn’t fool enough to think he'd find her—but he wasn't fool enough to ignore what pulled at him either. the feasting hall had been set like a painting. long golden tables, the smell of honey and roast drifting through the high ceilings, ivy wound up the stone like it belonged there. there were thousands. or it felt like it. reachlords with their pearls, dornishmen in silk, ironborn with salt still crusted in their beards. he’d meant to slide in at the edge somewhere, vanish into a corner.

but the southern scribes had no sense for northern politics. placecards were a southern disease, and this one, tucked neat into the table just left of the high seat, had his name on it. his brother had seen it first. gave him a look across the table, a slow nod that said don’t, but also said go on. the chair beside it was empty. not for long. brandon stepped forward. the click of his boots on tile was quiet, but it might as well have been a hammer. the hall noticed. they always noticed. they’d seen the king of the north sit five minutes ago. seen no one take the place beside him. he hadn't realised. neither had owen, he could tell.

he sat slow, his limbs stiff from travel and sleep he hadn’t had. he looked scruffier than he liked. hadn’t shaved proper in days. hadn’t planned to be seen. the chair creaked faint when he sank into it. he didn’t look at owen at first. poured himself a drink instead, letting the wine bite his lip. fruit and fire.

were they doing this in front of everyone? the firelight hit owen’s crown like it meant something. king. that’s what he was now. not the boy who’d bloodied his nose wrestling behind the kennels. not the man who’d sworn to hold the north with him, shoulder to shoulder. brandon didn’t mention alysanne. didn’t ask about her. wouldn’t. the king in the north saw fit to behave as though he had no sisters - all whilst his brother had robbed him of his.

he just drank again, throat tight. the wine didn’t help. but he stayed sitting. didn’t run. and for now, that was enough. he would allow the king to make the first move.

[owenstark]

who: open starter where: winterfell, owen's birthday ball notes: takes place before the reach gathering.

The Great Hall of Winterfell roared with life. The longtables groaned under the weight of roasted boar, venison pies, and trenches of steaming stews thick with barley and herbs. Horns of ale and spiced cider passed from hand to hand, and the music—pipes, drums, and old Northern fiddles—rolled through the rafters like a storm threatening to never end. The fires were high in the hearths, casting golden light across the faces of warriors and lords, ladies and singers, even the occasional knight who bore no love for snow yet found themselves drawn north for the name day of a king.

King Owen Stark stood at the center of it all, shirt discarded, sweat at his brow, and a grin spread wide across his face. A goblet of dark beer was raised in one hand, while the other was being shaken by a red-faced northern knight who had just been bested in a wrestling match.

“Next time, Ser Harwin, keep your knees under you!” Owen laughed, clapping the man on the back with enough force to stagger a lesser soul. “You almost had me before your arse kissed the flagstones!”

Owen Stark had sent invitations far and wide. To bannermen and strangers, allies and rivals—even the lion’s kin, should they dare enter the heart of the wolf’s den. His message had been clear:

"All are welcome, if they come in peace. I was born in winter. Let’s see if fire and frost can drink from the same cup."

There was no crown on his brow tonight, no heavy cloak about his shoulders. Just the man, the king, and the wolf in him all laid bare for the feast. His dark hair was tousled, his beard damp with drink, and his laughter came easily—too easily, some might say, for a man with enemies watching from the shadows of his hall.

Owen grabbed a fresh horn of ale and found a place close to the dias but not on it, he didn't want to feel apart from it all, he wanted to be in the thick of it. "I've coin on the big lad there, who do you think will win?" Owen asked as he watched two new fighters enter the open space.

[owenstark]

Owen exhaled slowly, his breath curling in the cool evening air as he considered Ravi’s words. The weight of them was not lost on him. Trust was a fragile thing, stretched thin between two lands that had never needed each other before. But need was a fickle thing, and the world had a way of changing faster than men were willing to accept.

"No, we cannot stand alone. Not in this. Not when madness holds power and danger in feeble hands."

His jaw tightened at the thought of it—of the boy he had known, the one who wore a crown now. Jaehaerys had always been a reckless thing, a fire left unchecked, dangerous not for the strength he wielded but for the weakness in his grasp. Owen had seen it in him since they were young, in the arrogance, in the entitlement that festered beneath his skin. He remembered traveling south in his father’s shadow, meeting the prince of the dragons in the halls of the Red Keep, knowing even then that Jaehaerys believed himself untouchable.

That kind of delusion made a man desperate. And desperate men burned the world.

Owen's gaze returned to Ravi, steady, measured. “The realms around us are not so foolish as to travel beyond your marches or past the Neck. Rarely do they make it. Our lands are not easily conquered.” His tone was even, matter-of-fact. “What we offer is security. Knowledge that support from the North is steadfast. Nothing stops us.” He let the words settle, the weight of history behind them. The North had endured every storm, every war. They did not break.

“But peace,” he continued after a pause, his voice quieter now, more thoughtful, “true peace… that is harder won. It is not built on words alone, nor on promises made in passing. It is built in knowing that when the worst comes, when fire rises or the tide turns against us, neither of us will stand alone.”

He studied Ravi carefully. The man was perceptive, sharper than most. He would understand the unspoken truth. Alliances were not just about shared enemies—they were about proving, time and again, that when the moment of reckoning came, the bond would hold.

“What does trust look like?” Owen finally asked, his lips curving into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “It looks like knowing, without doubt, that when the time comes, the viper will strike beside the wolf—not against it.”

ravi stood at the edge of the courtyard, the golden hues of lannisport’s evening light casting long shadows across stone polished smooth by centuries of power. the faint sounds of celebration echoed from within the walls—the laughter of lords, the clinking of goblets raised to the future of house lannister. the birth of a prince.

but out here, the air was clearer. quieter.

ravi listened to owen’s words, each one steady, deliberate, like hammer strikes on iron. solidarity. respect. strength. it was an offer that stirred something within him—hope, perhaps, but tempered by the weight of history.

his gaze drifted from the gardens to the man before him, noting the stern lines etched into his face, the steel beneath his courtesy. the north was distant, its winters as foreign to ravi as the brutal sun would be to these wolves. and yet, their burdens were not so different.

the prince's expression was thoughtful, measured. “your words carry weight, your grace,” ravi said, his tone quiet but sincere. “the fire may have dimmed, but embers remain. we both know it takes only a breath of wind to rouse flames anew. when that day comes… none of us can afford to stand alone.”

he paused, his gaze lowering briefly to the grass at his feet before rising once more. “but the road between dorne and the north is long… and we are strangers still, bound more by caution than trust. how does a viper know that a wolf’s teeth will not one day seek its throat? or that our sands will not swallow you whole?”

a faint smile touched ravi’s lips—wary, but not unkind. “i will carry your offer to my kin. but i ask you… what binds two such distant lands beyond words? what act could turn this promise of strength into something lasting—something real?”

his voice softened, as much a question as an invitation. “what does trust look like, between a wolf and a viper?”

[owenstark]

Owen watched her, his expression unreadable save for the faint gleam of something amused, something keen in his grey eyes. He let her words settle, the warmth of the room pressing around them, the flickering firelight playing off the edge of her smirk. She was good—he could respect that.

The cards sat easy in his hands, familiar, well-worn. Much like this game. Not just the one on the table, but the one played in glances, in words sharpened just enough to test the edge of another. Matilda Tyrell knew how to wield both.

"Frost doesn’t melt so easily in the North," he murmured, his voice carrying the weight of someone who had seen many winters, some colder than others. He let the words sit before tilting his head, a slow smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "But I’ve heard that summer roses are the stubborn sort. Climbing where they shouldn’t, taking root in unexpected places." He tapped a single finger against the top of the deck, thoughtful. "Maybe that’s what makes them dangerous."

He dealt the cards, movements smooth and practiced, the shuffle near-silent beneath the hum of the room. His gaze flicked up to hers, considering.

"As for losing to you," Owen mused, placing the final card before them, "I suppose we’ll see who’s playing for what by the end of the night."

And just like that, the game began.

matilda’s smile deepened, a slow, measured thing that carried the promise of amusement laced with something sharper beneath. she reached for the deck, her fingers brushing over the worn edges of the cards as she cut them with effortless grace.

"well, your grace," she mused, tilting her head just so, the flickering firelight catching in her hazel eyes. "frost can be quite lovely, in the right hands. it settles over the world, quiet and soft, hiding the thorns until—" she let the cards slip from her grasp, sliding neatly back into his waiting hands, "—it melts."

she leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the table, her presence a study in careful ease. "the real question is, when the thaw comes, will the wolf find himself tangled in the briars?" her voice was honeyed, playful, but the weight behind it was deliberate, a gentle push to see if he would lean in or step back.

the game room hummed around them, laughter spilling from another table, the distant trill of a lute drifting in from the main hall. but in this space, this little pocket of courtly intrigue, it was just the two of them; the game set, the stakes unspoken.

matilda let the moment stretch before she reached for her goblet, taking a slow sip, letting the silence work for her. when she set it down, she sighed, feigning a reluctant amusement. "i do admire your persistence, your grace," she admitted, tapping a single fingertip against the table. "though i must wonder, are you here for the game, or for the pleasure of losing to me again?"

her smirk was quick, cutting, but softened by the warmth in her gaze. she did not mind the game, the lives they lived were made up of such things, after all, but she minded men who were predictable, who thought themselves clever without knowing how to wield it. the king of winter, for all his northern steel, did not strike her as a man easily dulled.

"come then," she urged, gesturing to the freshly shuffled deck. "let’s see if winter fares any better against summer tonight. though i must warn you—" she leaned in, voice lowering just enough that he would have to pay attention, "—i never play to lose."

[owenstark]

The silence stretched between them, but Owen did not rush to fill it. He let her words settle, let them seep into the marrow of his thoughts like cold creeping through stone. You are just a man, King in the North. A simple truth, yet spoken with the kind of certainty that left no room for contest. Just a man, yet bound in ways no other man was. Just a man, yet expected to be more.

She spoke without hesitation, without fear of title or crown, and there was something in that which made Owen uneasy. Not because he was unused to honesty—he had men who told him hard truths when they must—but because she spoke as if she had already seen the marrow of him. A man stripped bare, standing in the wake of grief, holding onto things he did not yet know the weight of.

"Our children". His thoughts turned to them then, to the legacy he would leave behind. He did not think of crowns, nor banners, nor the wars history would tell of his reign. He thought of their laughter, of small hands reaching for his, of stories told in candlelight when he still had Rosalyn to share in the telling. "They will rule this kingdom one day, and their mother’s kindness will make them true". They would know the weight of duty, yes, but not at the cost of the goodness Rosalyn had instilled in them. She had carried it with ease, where he struggled, where he let the crown make a creature of him instead of a man. If there was any kindness left in their father, it would be because of their mother.

His gaze lifted from the snow, and he found Vilde watching him, sharp and knowing, waiting.

“I would have you stay,” Owen said at last, the words coming without forethought, as so many of his choices did. “At court.” His tone was steady, but something flickered beneath it. “There are those in this keep who seek answers, those who wish to understand the journey from this life to the next, the path to the old gods and what waits beyond.” His breath curled into the cold, and he studied her as he spoke. “You could guide them.”

It was an impulsive offer, but not a careless one. Owen had spent years surrounded by men who worshipped steel, by lords who sought nothing beyond the weight of their coin or the edge of their swords. His fingers curled slightly at his sides, as if grasping at something unseen, something just beyond reach. He did not know what he was searching for. But he knew that, in this moment, he would rather look for it with someone unafraid to stand in front of a king and remind him he was only a man.

“You are just a man, King in the North,” the woman said. Her words were simple, matter of fact. Nothing in her tone or demeanor indicated she'd spoken to challenge or offend him. It was the mere observation of reality: even a king was, in the mortal ways that mattered, just a man. Vilde’s lips then curved into the faintest hint of a smile, though it was not born of amusement but of recognition, of a burden she understood too well. “It is never easy,” she admitted, her tone lower, “Death is familiar to me, but it is never easy”.

She shifted her weight slightly and then got up, her fingers brushing idly against the furs of her cloak. “You’re not so lost. A man who knows he's searching is never truly lost,” she said softly, the words a quiet counterpoint to the weight in his voice. There was a hint of something in her usual direct tone, a respect for his self-awareness, perhaps. Or maybe a silent, unexpected sense of kinship in their shared navigation of the unseen and the unbearable.

“What remains of the dead are the echoes they leave behind,” Vilde’s gaze remained steady on Owen. “Their mistakes, their sins —those, I cleanse and take upon myself, so they do not linger. Everything else is for their loved ones to carry, to remember. In the end, everyone becomes only memories,” she added, as if reciting the creed that was etched into her bones. Such were the beliefs that shaped her.

Her head tilted slightly as she regarded him again, the sharpness of her ice-blue eyes tempered by an unexpected warmth. “It’s the living who are caught, Owen Stark, not the dead. The dead are beyond any struggle”. Vilde did not know if the Stark king might find comfort in those words or not, or if he would share that belief after hearing a sálþyrja say it. It wasn't compassion or thoughts of easing his grief that guided her answers, but just the truth as she knew it. “What I do think —what I know, is that what we choose to carry will always say more about us than it does about the ones who died”. A cleanser, a sin-eater, knew all too well what it said about her that she did what she did.

“Have you chosen what you'll carry?” she asked, wondering if the king knew which memories of his late wife he'd take with him to echo through time. There was always something to carry, like she'd said. Vilde knew there was also the possibility that the burden might choose him and not the other way around if he wasn't careful. Her question had been asked with the faintest turn of her lips, not a full smile but a trace of something else, something unspoken yet undeniably present. A kind of curiosity, perhaps, or an interest that hadn't presented itself before.

[owenstark]

“I’ve a few tricks of the trade up these sleeves of mine.” Owen flexed his fingers, giving the cards a casual shuffle before setting them back down with an easy grin. “A good card game’s like a long winter—you learn to make the best of what’s in your hand.”

The room was warm with drink and laughter, a pleasant shift from the weight of duty that so often clung to his shoulders. The Riverlands had a way of drawing him in, making him feel less like a king and more like any other man at the table. That was why he liked it here—their spirit, their fondness for song, their knack for finding joy in the simplest things. He understood the North, knew its silences and shadows, but here? Here was a different kind of life. And he could appreciate that.

He leaned forward slightly, watching Fiadh make her choice with an amused gleam in his eyes. “Bold play,” he said, just as she turned the card over. There was a beat of anticipation, the sort that made these games worth playing. And then—

“It looks as if we’ve a winner… and a loser.” Owen’s grin widened as he turned his gaze to Lord Blanetree, whose face had gone a shade that suggested he’d either lost his gold or swallowed his pride. Possibly both. “I heard a king grants wishes, and I’ve always wanted to try.” He raised a brow, pausing just long enough to let the table settle into curiosity. “Make a wish, and let’s see where fortune falls.”

The laughter that followed was easy, the drinks flowed, and for a little while longer, Owen Stark was simply a man enjoying the game.

the air was light and joyful, the card games fiadh was partaking in a source of entertainment rather than one with any serious stakes. the atmosphere at the table was relaxed, so much so that fiadh would not be surprised if half the players had forgotten they were in the presence of a king, even as owen stark was near impossible to ignore, even as he seemed to fit right in with the spirit of the riverlands in yule.

in truth, she was only half paying attention to what game they were actually playing, her mind instead caught on the chatter around the table. a lull in conversation with the lady next to her had fiadh turning to look at the king in the north as he arranged the cards with hands that suggested this was not new to him. "better than i could do. you look like you've done this before, your grace," she said, her good cheer evident in her tone.

"oh, so no pressure or anything," fiadh's clover accent was thick as she leaned forward on the table, studying the cards owen had laid down as though she might find some clue in their identical backs. "how will i know if it's the right card or not, though?" she glanced up at him, her fingers finding a card and turning it over, making her final choice.

"don't leave us in suspense, your highness. lord blanetree here is starting to look quite red in the face, i think another second might finish him off."

[owenstark]

Owen listened in silence, his grey eyes drifting between each of his siblings as they spoke. It was a rare thing, all of them gathered here like this. No council meetings, no war rooms, no expectations—just the godswood, the old trees, and the ghosts they carried.

Smoke paced at his side, his massive head turning between the voices, but Owen remained still. He thought of what Adam said—brings back memories—and it did. Childhood felt like another life, a different man’s story. A secret cave with Jon and Alys. A pack that once felt unbreakable. It was a cruel thing, to be reminded of what time had taken.

He exhaled, steady and even. “Too often, we only come together when we bury our own.” His voice was low, but it carried. “I’d rather not wait for the next grave.”

His gaze flickered toward Cyrene, then Cassana, before settling on Dacey. He saw the way she withdrew, the way her shoulders tensed. Owen knew that weight well. He let the moment pass without remark, but he saw it.

“I won’t make speeches about family,” he said simply. “But the gods brought us here, and I’ll take it for what it is.” A pause. “Even if I’m still the only one putting food on the table.” A small, brief smirk. His way of lightening the moment. His way of saying this is good.

| @cassvstark |

the moment cassana placed her head upon dacey's shoulder, her reaction was instinctual, one hand coming up to gently smooth across cassana's cheek, as though to check that she was all right without using words to do so, before letting her hand drop to her side again. it was unreserved in it's warmth in a way that was rare for daey for all but the youngest of her siblings.

there was no such warmth for cyrene. dacey did not miss the way cyrene's smile froze at the sight of her, and she responded by doing what she always did - by drawing back, away from what it was that was making her feel as though she did not belong here, in this place, where countless generations of starks had walked before. their reunion had been a tense one, and it seemed to have lingered.

and yet, she tried not to make it evident upon her face, tried not to spoil the peace the rest of them seemed to feel upon this reunion. cassana still stood by her side, and she allowed herself to draw strength from her presence, as she often did without the other knowing it. it was enough to paint a smile on her face, swallow down that knot of anxiety, and respond to what adam was saying, reminding herself that moment like these, when they got to be together like this, were a rare gift for them all.

"it does," she replied softly to adam, surprising even herself with the fact she were the first to speak. "i don't think i can recall the last time so many of us were here at once. it is usually quieter in the godswood, now life has taken us in our own directions." but for a moment, she could hear the shades of their childhood around them, laughter that had begun to echo long ago, and she felt a strange longing in her chest for it now. "but i have missed it. and i am glad the old gods saw fit to bring us together here again." even with those missing. even with those lost.

@owenstark

[owenstark]

Owen’s jaw tightened as Cyrene’s words filled the space between them, her tone light but her meaning anything but. His hand gripped the edge of his chair, the leather of his gloves creaking faintly as he resisted the urge to slam his palm down on the table. She spoke as though she understood the weight he bore, as though she had insight into the struggles he faced daily. But all he could hear were riddles, Southron riddles, spoken by someone who had spent far too much time away from the North.

He exhaled sharply through his nose, his voice low and clipped as he replied. “Speak plainly, Cyrene. You’ve been in the South too long, wrapping meaning in riddles like they do. We are Northmen. We speak what needs to be said.”

Her words about Brandon hit like a blow, and Owen’s expression darkened, anger flashing across his face. “Brandon Karstark,” he said, his voice laced with a bitterness he rarely allowed others to see. “I love him as a brother, and he abandoned me. I allow him to grieve, and he ignores me. You dare speak of him retreating as though I’ve not felt the knife twist every time he turns his back? You know nothing of what is happening in the North, Cyrene.”

He leaned forward slightly, his voice growing harsher. “Cracks are showing? No, sister. Men are rebelling because I wish to see us grow beyond legend and ages long gone. Roads, towns, more than ice and snow. I am trying to build something greater, something lasting, and they would rather drown in the past than see the future.”

Owen leaned back again, his anger simmering but controlled. “And no,” he said firmly, his tone softening just enough to hold conviction. “You’re not a Frey. You’re a wolf in Frey clothing. Never doubt that.”

He let silence hang between them for a moment, the crackle of the hearth the only sound filling the space. Then, with a deep breath, he softened further. “We are celebrating the end of a war, Cyrene. The beginning of a new age. A chance to see if the Northmen will accept a new queen after losing one they loved so.” And that was if he were able to find a queen from all presented. He missed his mother. She was good at this. Better than him.

His gaze lingered on her, a rare flicker of something tender breaking through the hardened lines of his face. “I am happy you’ve returned home, sister. The North has missed you.”

Cyrene adjusted her posture, leaning just slightly back in her chair, her fingers tracing an idle pattern along the rim of her chalice. Around her, the air buzzed with the quiet conversation of the Lords and Ladies present, the looks of quiet uncertainty they shared, and the crackle of the fire in the hearth. But her focus was squarely on her brother, who sat at the head of the table as he should - confident, stoic, and maddeningly inscrutable.

“Just a dinner, Owen?” she murmured, her voice low enough that only he could hear, though there was enough bite in her tone. Her lips curved in a faint smile, deceptively pleasant, as if they weren’t standing at the edge of an argument. “You’re telling me that this whole assembly is simply for bread and ale? Do you honestly expect me to believe that?”

Her eyes flicked briefly to those of the King's council that were gathered here. “If this is a dinner, brother, it’s a dinner with a purpose. Don’t insult me by pretending otherwise.”

She took a sip of her wine, her gaze steady over the rim of her chalice before setting it down with deliberate care. “And speaking of things that don’t sit right, let’s talk about Brandon Karstark. His decision to abandon Winterfell and retreat to Karhold. It doesn’t bode well, does it? A man like him doesn’t simply walk away from the position of Hand of the King unless he’s lost faith in the crown… or the man who wears it.”

Cyrene’s tone remained conversational, but there was no mistaking the sharpness beneath it. “I know grief changes a man, and losing his wife was a heavy blow. But I also know Brandon. He’s not just mourning. He’s retreating. And the timing - well, let’s just say it doesn’t exactly inspire confidence. Not when the North is as restless as it is.”

She folded her hands before her, the movement calm, measured, though her eyes gleamed with a challenge as they locked onto her brother’s. “You feel it too, don’t you? The tension. The whispers. The way these halls seem colder, even with every hearth lit. The North is stirring, Owen, and not in a way that makes me think peace will hold for long.”

Her voice dropped slightly, a note of genuine concern threading through her words. “If Brandon’s departure is a symptom of something larger, then you need to face it. Quickly. The North can’t afford to splinter, not again. And whatever you called these lords and ladies here to discuss, you’d better make them believe you have a plan. Because right now, the cracks are showing.”

Cyrene’s lips quirked into a faint, sardonic smile, though her gaze remained unwavering. “But perhaps I’m overstepping. After all, what would I know? I’ve been away too long, haven’t I? Just a Frey in wolf’s clothing, sniffing around where I don’t belong.”

She lifted her chalice in a silent toast, her expression unreadable. “Still, Owen, if this dinner is only what you say it is, then I suppose I’ll eat my words.”

[owenstark]

Lord Karstark,

I will not spend another letter to be ignored. Join your brother at court. Allow him a chance to see you've seen sense, you've reached an understanding about being so godsdamned stubborn.

I am your king. This is an order.

Do not make me come to you.

The King in the North.

Note: Owen wrote this letter himself instead of having his scribe do is, his hand writing is sloppy compared to most of his status but his words are clear and personal. \ @wintervsuns \

[owenstark]

who: @fiadhvance what: while in the riverlands for their festival owen decides to make more friends where: a game room

The air in the card room was thick with laughter, smoke, and the quiet shuffle of cards as the Yule festivities raged on around him. King Owen Stark, though far from home, found himself enjoying the lively atmosphere of Iona Tully’s festival. The Riverlands were vibrant this time of year—more so than he’d anticipated—and even a king of the North couldn’t help but be swept up in the easy camaraderie of the games.

He sat at a low table surrounded by a mix of noble men and women, his large hands expertly laying down cards as if it were second nature, a small smile tugging at his lips as he exchanged banter with his opponents. Despite his status, Owen knew how to keep things light and casual, never allowing the weight of the crown to overshadow the joy of the moment.

“Not bad for a king,” Owen said with a chuckle, his voice carrying a warmth that was rare for one so accustomed to solemn duty. He glanced at the others gathered around the table, his gaze lingering just a moment longer on Lady Fiadh Vance. “My lady, pick any card. And should she pick the right one, my lord, you will leave with more silver and gold in your purse."

[owenstark]

Owen’s jaw tightened at her words, his fingers curling into the fabric of his cloak as though trying to keep the weight of it all from bearing down too heavily on him. Vilde’s words rang true—death did strip people bare, but there was something unnerving in her observation, as though she saw him more clearly than even he allowed himself to see. She was right; grief was a familiar cloak, one he had worn so long it was no longer just a weight but a part of him.

“I’ve never wished to be anything but a man,” he said quietly, his voice softer now, though still carrying the weight of authority that had shaped him into the king he was. “But this—this thing, this crown… it makes a man wear things he doesn’t know how to shed.” He stepped closer, his boots leaving marks in the snow as he moved, though he still kept a respectful distance. “Maybe it’s easier for you, to carry death like an old friend. For me, it’s a constant reminder that I’m no longer just a man."

He hesitated for a moment, his gaze dropping to the snow beneath their feet, his mind drifting to the distant shadows of his past. When his eyes lifted again, they met hers with an intensity that spoke of something deeper than simple grief. "And as for searching... maybe I am. Or maybe I’m simply lost."

The king gave a small, wry smile, but it was tired—more an acknowledgment of his own disarray than any mirth. His gaze softened again as he looked at Vilde, almost imperceptibly, as if seeing her for the first time, beyond the rituals and the cold. How was a woman from the clans so beautiful."

"You’ve seen more of the dead than most," Owen continued, his tone thoughtful but direct. "Do you ever wonder if they know more than we think? Or are they just shadows, like us, caught between what was and what is to come?"

Vilde’s ice-blue gaze lingered on the king, steady and unyielding. The way he spoke was raw and honest, stripped bare of the nobility of one who called himself king. Death allowed her to see that often —the reality of people beneath the armor, the gowns, and the crowns. The weight of death was a familiar burden to her, of course, a constant shadow that clung to her soul and made itself at home in her thoughts. The unwanted yet familiar visitor who resided with her always.

“Death does not discriminate, it strips us all bare,” she replied, her voice low and even, stating an equally unchangeable truth as that which he uttered. Her fingers softly pressed into the snow, letting the cold seep into her skin. It grounded her, reminded her that she was alive, tethered still to the realm of the living even as she carried the weight of countless dead.

“You wear it well. Grief,” she added, not unkindly. Her words were not meant to wound or offend, only to recognize what she saw in the Northern king. “Most let it devour them. You carry it like a familiar cloak”. And Vilde knew it was. His dead wife did not reside alone in the Stark's crypt, after all. “Your wife's load was not heavy,” the sálþyrja added after a beat. It wasn't something she said to offer comfort, merely something that was still resonating with her after finishing Rosalyn's ritual. “There was... a lightness I rarely encounter”.

For a moment, silence settled between them, heavy but not uncomfortable. She broke eye contact first, her gaze shifting to the snow falling in a gentle dance around them. Vilde’s haunted eyes fell on him again, and she tilted her head slightly, studying him anew. “You look like a man searching for something, Owen Stark”. Her tone was calm, matter-of-fact, and tinged only by her observations. She wondered if there was more he hoped to find out here besides solitude, or a moment to think. Vilde lifted her hand from the snow then, her palm drained of color except for the fingertips that had gained a purple hue from the cold.

[owenstark]

Owen Stark’s smile softened as Naija approached, her familiar presence bringing a sense of comfort in the bustling chaos of the celebration. He took a moment to appreciate the warmth of the Manderlys, those who had become family to him during his time as a foster child in White Harbor. Nasir, Amir, and even their late sister, Manal, had been constants during his years there—people he trusted with his life. He was still haunted by Manal’s untimely passing; the memory of her vibrant spirit and the sharp grief her death brought to the Manderly family weighed heavily on him.

“Naija,” Owen greeted warmly, his tone inviting, “There is no need for thanks. The honor is mine. House Manderly has stood by me through everything, and I will always have a deep affection for your family.”

He gave her a small, reassuring smile, the weight of their shared history adding an unspoken depth to his words. “And of course, you have my time, Naija. You are family, and I can never turn that away. What is it you wish to speak of? I am more than happy to listen, as always.”

−−−  ꧁  closed starter for @owenstark . naija takes an opportunity to speak with the king during the celebration for nasir about the possibility of expanding her curriculum past white harbor.

moment taken from the presence of her brothers sees the youngest manderly wading through a sea of dancing bodies. pleasantries exchanged are fleeting along her brief walk towards their king. pride in his growth as a leader nips at the heels of what she feels for her brothers. he spent a significant time as a ward of their house, after all, and she remembers the adolescent that once joined the chaos of the manderly siblings in the halls of white harbor. strong hope that this connection will sway in her favor fuels her decision to request audience on such short notice. talks of nasir taking his place at the court of winterfell for more extended periods has her on edge, and bringing her talent as an instructor to this very place may just be her guise to keep a protecting eye on the eldest manderly.

"your grace," muscle memory takes over voluntary motion in the form of a curtsy. "i haven't yet found the opportunity to offer my gratitude. you've given house manderly a great honor and a celebration to match." idle hands find home behind her back, nervous digits falling into their habit of toying with ends of coiled curls. "i wonder if a moment of your time might be an extension of your generosity? i won't keep you from the festivities too long, i swear it."

[owenstark]

Owen’s gaze remained steady, his expression measured as Ravi spoke. The Martell prince’s frankness was a welcome reprieve from the veiled games of courtiers and lords. When Ravi finished, Owen gave a faint nod, acknowledging the man’s words with the gravity they deserved.

“A wolf in endless summer wouldn’t fare well,” Owen admitted, his voice calm but firm, his tone like the steady weight of a shield. “But a wolf doesn’t seek to claim the sands, just as I imagine the viper wouldn’t stray north to hunt in the snow. We belong to our own lands, and we defend them fiercely. That’s a bond even wolves and vipers should understand.”

“You say you are but one voice, and I respect that honesty. But one voice can carry further than you think, Prince. Especially when the threat of fire looms over all of us. No dragon rules these lands outright, not anymore. But even a solitary dragon’s shadow is long, and it darkens every corner of Westeros. The question is, will we stand divided in that shadow, or will we answer it together?”

Owen’s gray eyes locked with Ravi’s, sharp and unyielding. “I offer Dorne something no dragon ever will: solidarity. Respect. The promise that when the dragon’s madness boils over and the fire spills south, you won’t face it alone. Deliver that message to your council, and let them weigh it for what it is—an alliance forged not by submission, but by mutual strength.”

the prince of house martell was not expecting the king of the north to request to meet with him, though it was entirely due to ravi not being entirely aware of the matters of his elder brothers rule. he had found himself overseas in essos for a time, and it were not due to some deep-seeded hatred of his family or his homeland, but rather because he felt he was unable to make much difference there, had a voice that spoke and yet no sound seemed to be heard. he loved his brother, but they were as different as day and night. and now, the winter king spoke to him, and ravi listened, intrigued.

"i do not think any would dare ask such a thing." he stated in response to crossing the realm in war, for dorne had sat out entirely, ten years war raged to the north of them, and while the sands were not entirely unsettled in that time, they remained more comfortably than those in the other kingdoms of westeros. the king's forwardness was interesting, if anything, refreshing.

a small chuckle escaped him. "we know of no true winters, just as i imagine you do not know a true summer. how would a wolf far in such season?" he questioned, rhetorically, of course, but only to emphasize the mere fact that whatever were to come of this conversation, it would not result in anyone moving to a place where they did not inherently belong. "i've heard much of northman's loyalty, that, i will certainly commend you on." he stated. "i know not what my brother heard, or denied, but i am willing to deliver the message, hear the offer, but know, i am only one voice." of course, the other's were not known to the realm, perhaps suspected, but for certain? not.