A Pup Becomes the Wolf (Starting Event)

[Lucius Malfoy]

The horses heave deeply as their riders urged them on. It had been almost a full days ride through the thick trees of the Wolfswood, occasionally halting to look back, the riders attentive to their surroundings and making sure they were not followed. Their faces were grim, bruised and bloodied, the strength of their mounts spent. They were only numbering a few thousand, now there was only a handful left. The lead rider, a man whose black hairs were turning white, his face smeared with dried blood, snorts slightly as they checked once more before leaving the Wolfswood.

To Winterfell! We must ride for Winterfell!! Heee-yah!!

Pushing his steed just what little distance was left, the bloodied Errold Stark rode towards the ancestral halls of his forefathers. Today, he would become the bearer of the worst news to have befallen the Kingdom in decades.

Among those with him rode Lord Cerwyn and Ridder Mormont as well as soldiers and retainers of Winterfell, Torrhen's Square, King's Course, Castle Cerwyn and Dawnforest... or what remained of such a force.

=================================

Not a couple days before Errold rode hard for Winterfell had word come that King Jon Stark, the First of His Name, King in the North and Lord of Winterfell, had sent news that the raiding party of Ironborn that had been harassing the Wolfswood for some time now had been defeated. Word flew across the Kingdom, requesting the presence of the many Lords and Sers that served the King so that they may welcome him and celebrate his victory over the seaborn raiders with a grand feast. Even though this was a small feat compared to many other battles of past Kings, the Ironborn were a treacherous and fierce lot, having harassed the shores of the North for eons. Jon's reign had been relatively calm with few incidents that troubled their peace, so for this clash with the raiders to be declared a victory was something worthy to celebrate about. Especially as the King's birthday was just around the corner.

Winterfell was abuzz with servants, soldiers and all sorts of people who decorated the halls and prepared a grand feast in honor of their King. Lords and Sers from across the realm came forth to join in the festivities. The guards upon the ramparts kept watch for the King's host, knowing they would issue from the Wolfswood shortly. The atmosphere was alive with the King's victory. All were anxious to see what the King may bring as trophies of his victory.

OOC: Those that joined King Stark were only his most direct vassals as I listed. All are welcomed to join in on this event!

So Ridder is an Old Norse term for Horseman/Knight. Figured it would be the best way to denote Mormont as a 'knight' of House Stark.

[Pontifex Maximus]

Rickard dressed himself for the feast, a rider having been sent several days past from his father ordered him to open the gates of their stronghold and prepare for a grand feasting to celebrate their victories over the Ironborn men to the west. Their power had not been broken, but it had been reduced. And with the end of the campaigning season, he knew his father and his men would be returning within the turn of the moon. He was unsurprised when the rider came. He remembered his father's stern order when he had pleaded to travel west with them. "There must always be a Stark in Winterfell." he had said. Wouldn't his brother, Theon, be enough for that? He resented his father for that - he needed to prove himself in battles. He would one day be the bannerman of his elder brother and the warriors sworn to his House would need to see him in battle alongside them, to see that he shared their hardships. But he had put plate and sword aside for velvets and furs, and waited to welcome his father and brother home from the campaign. His velvet doublet bore the sigil of his house, the snarling Direwolf of Stark. It was trimmed in fur. He wore a knife at his belt and fur lined boots. Even in the autumn Winterfell was cold, such was the north. He walked down the wooden steps from his quarters into the expansive mead hall of Winterfell, walking to take his place among the high tabled of the hall.

-------------------------

Lilith fastened the amber necklace about her neck and checked herself in the looking glass once more. She looked beautiful, her cheeks were a rosy red as were her lips, accentuated by the paleness of her skin. Her black hair was pulled back into a tight bun, fastened by silver pins. Her elegant grey dress accentuated the natural curves of her body and the clear jewels she wore contrasted with the darkness of her eyes. Satisfied with her appearance, finally, she excused her hand maiden and made to join her brothers in the hall.

[Poach]

Donnel

Donnel was in his second year at Winterfell, having arrived after his fourteenth nameday and saw his fifteenth and sixteenth pass in the capital, sent to serve Prince Rickard Stark as a shieldbearer. Donnel had long petitioned his father, heir to the Wolf's Den, and his Lordly Grandfather to be sent to Winterfell, as he sought to experience the courtly life and earn a name for himself among his cousins in the royal line.

With word abuzz that King Jon was soon to return victorious from the battle with Ironborn raiding parties, Donnel had set about his duty and stood attentive as Prince Rickard was dressed in his armour to welcome the army back.

Greystarks

Rarely did the entire Greystark family travel to one place, but a victory feast had been called and those were always good occasions. Carried up the White Knife on Greystark ships commanded by his brother and heir, Lord Harrion headed up the family delegation, looking forward to seeing his King and cousin, Jon.

With him came his heir Raymar, Raymar's second son Ryon, 13, and daughter Kyra, 11, his second and fourth sons Tormund and Sigorn, and his ageing brother Uthor with his wife and son Merlon, 17.

Young Donnel, Raymar's firstborn, was already in Winterfell, serving the Prince as an attendant these past two years.

[Pontifex Maximus]

Yoren, known as the Glint-Fist, bustled among the tables, scolding serving girls and guards alike. Shine your armor, tie back your hair, stand up straighter. He would not have his King say that he had mismanaged the household while he was in the field. He hurried up to Harrion Greystark. "M'lords" he said by way of greeting to the entire party. "My Prince Rickard bids you join him at the high table at a place befitting his kin." It was an expected courtesy he knew, but one best delivered immediately. The short, plump man had already begun to sweat profusely, even thought the large log fires had not been lit yet in the hall. He blotted his brow with a bit of brown cloth.

[Oznerol]

Lord Cerwyn rode with his two twins, a pair of rather tall and brawny men. The disaster had struck the North most unexpectedly at their moment of greatest joy. Cedrik's ass was peeled from the long time spent on the saddle and his legs were two burning limbs, aching from the prolonged ride. His sons fared better, but one of them (Cedrik had no idea who with the helmets on), had been wounded during the last skirmish. The horses trampled everything as they furiously approached Stark's ancestral seat, the army limping behind them. Many men from Castle Cerwyn now laid dead in a bloody battlefield, including Mors Longaxe, a long-time friend and shieldbearer of his who gave up his own horse to Lord Cedrik, saving him. Every was bloodied, exhausted and grim.

----------------------------------------

Lady Bolton arrived a week after the victory was triumphally proclaimed all over the realm. Lady Cerenna had to honor her uncle's victory; moreso considering his day of the name was closeby. Bolton wore a fur-lined pink gown, soft leathern shoes and golden jewelry, inlaid with intricate geometric designs. Her hair was carefully combed by a pair of maidservants. Cerenna nodded with approval as she glanced her reflection on a polished branze mirror held by Lady Overton. His son was dressed for the ocassion, with a spotted, pink, ermine trimmed cape. Harrion wore a small golden brooch.

[Jokern]

The clans of the northern mountains were a people rarely seen outside their lands, but when the Stark called for a great feast, who were they to decline their noble king? Especially when it was after a great victory over the hated Ironborn, who would raid and reave their homes and holds whenever they could. Morgan Flint, better known as the Flint, had arrived at Winterfell a few days earlier with his family and some of his closest retinue, now seating themselves in the meadhall at one of the longtables. The usual stone-faced man was smiling and chuckling while humming a little song, cheeks red from a bit of mead. He was dressed in the more primitive and traditional garb of the clans, shunning the more comfortable fabrics from the south. Only the hardiest of clothes could protect you once winter comes, he mused to himself and took another swig of mead, feeling its warmth spread throughout his body. If this was the merely the preparations, the Morgan could not wait for when the Stark arrived.

[Gandalfus]

Theon never found himself comfortable in these great gatherings of Lords great and small, but such was the life of a King's son. Thus, when news reached Winterfell of a party of Ironmen, he would have rather rode to war, with father and Torrhen, but both Theon and Rickard had been given the same mantra about a Stark always being in Winterfell. After the news came of their inevitable victory, Theon anticipated the imminent return of his father along with his trusted bannermen. No doubt there would be much drinking and empty boasting, as was the wont of the proud Lords who sat at the high table. Choosing simple, practical furs over finery, the youngest Stark brother finally emerged in the great hall. Looking as solemn as ever, his steel-grey gaze studied the early arrivals from under a mop of unruly dark hair. He was neither comely nor plain, with his father's long, guarded face, albeit Theon was clean shaven. Stalking down towards the high table, he found himself too restless to take a seat, instead hovering around waiting for the return of his father.

----

Lord Brandon Dustin and his household arrived at Winterfell following a long ride from Barrowton, in the south. Silently, Brandon praised the Old Gods that the snows had not delayed them too much - although they were heavy, it was not yet winter, and thus travel to Winterfell would only be delayed rather than perilously dangerous. News had come from the Wolfswood of the Ironborn defeat, which did bode well - although the Wolfswood was much further North than Barrowton, the setback meant that the Ironmen would not be so eager to test Northern blades again so soon. Still, he had ensured Barrowton was well defended before his departure - they had been caught off guard before.

[Pontifex Maximus]

Lord Cerwyn rode with his two twins, a pair of rather tall and brawny men. The disaster had struck the North most unexpectedly at their moment of greatest joy. Cedrik's ass was peeled from the long time spent on the saddle and his legs were two burning limbs, aching from the prolonged ride. His sons fared better, but one of them (Cedrik had no idea who with the helmets on), had been wounded during the last skirmish. The horses trampled everything as they furiously approached Stark's ancestral seat, the army limping behind them. Many men from Castle Cerwyn now laid dead in a bloody battlefield, including Mors Longaxe, a long-time friend and shieldbearer of his who gave up his own horse to Lord Cedrik, saving him. Every was bloodied, exhausted and grim.

ooc: I'll defer on answering this RP until LM officially posts the arrival of the defeated host bearing the news of the King

Lady Bolton arrived a week after the victory was triumphally proclaimed all over the realm. Lady Cerenna had to honor her uncle's victory; moreso considering his day of the name was closeby. Bolton wore a fur-lined pink gown, soft leathern shoes and golden jewelry, inlaid with intricate geometric designs. Her hair was carefully combed by a pair of maidservants. Cerenna nodded with approval as she glanced her reflection on a polished branze mirror held by Lady Overton. His son was dressed for the ocassion, with a spotted, pink, ermine trimmed cape. Harrion wore a small golden brooch.

A special seat had been set aside for Cerenna Bolton, the Lady of the Dreadfort, between Theon and Rickard. Their aunt was not only one of the most powerful women in the realm, but one of the single most dynamic of women Rickard had known. Rickard descended the dais to greet his aunt with a kiss to the hand. "My Lady Cerenna, we have prepared a seat for you at the high table." the Prince began, taking her hand in his rough, calloused hand. "Please join us."

The clans of the northern mountains were a people rarely seen outside their lands, but when the Stark called for a great feast, who were they to decline their noble king? Especially when it was after a great victory over the hated Ironborn, who would raid and reave their homes and holds whenever they could. Morgan Flint, better known as the Flint, had arrived at Winterfell a few days earlier with his family and some of his closest retinue, now seating themselves in the meadhall at one of the longtables. The usual stone-faced man was smiling and chuckling while humming a little song, cheeks red from a bit of mead. He was dressed in the more primitive and traditional garb of the clans, shunning the more comfortable fabrics from the south. Only the hardiest of clothes could protect you once winter comes, he mused to himself and took another swig of mead, feeling its warmth spread throughout his body. If this was the merely the preparations, the Morgan could not wait for when the Stark arrived.

The Glint-Fist could hardly believe his eyes upon sighting the Flint party. He approached them and bowed respectfully. "My chieftains!" he began "Welcome to Winterfell, we shall not allow your drinking horns to be dry." he snapped his fingers, and serving women appeared with pitchers of ale, refilling their horns. "The hospitality of Winterfell is yours."

Theon never found himself comfortable in these great gatherings of Lords great and small, but such was the life of a King's son. Thus, when news reached Winterfell of a party of Ironmen, he would have rather rode to war, with father and Torrhen, but both Theon and Rickard had been given the same mantra about a Stark always being in Winterfell. After the news came of their inevitable victory, Theon anticipated the imminent return of his father along with his trusted bannermen. No doubt there would be much drinking and empty boasting, as was the wont of the proud Lords who sat at the high table. Choosing simple, practical furs over finery, the youngest Stark brother finally emerged in the great hall. Looking as solemn as ever, his steel-grey gaze studied the early arrivals from under a mop of unruly dark hair. He was neither comely nor plain, with his father's long, guarded face, albeit Theon was clean shaven. Stalking down towards the high table, he found himself too restless to take a seat, instead hovering around waiting for the return of his father.

Rickard turned to his brother, having just called for a serving girl to fill their horns. "Once father is back I will have the kennel master prepare the hounds. We'll go for a hunt and finally flush out that massive wild hog, eh? We'll have us a bit of fun and Torrhen can get back to kinging." In his advanced age, King Jon had increasingly let his son and heir handle minor, day to day tasks of court. "Maybe we'll bring that serving girl along for the sport of it." he added with a wink as he drained his horn.

Lord Brandon Dustin and his household arrived at Winterfell following a long ride from Barrowton, in the south. Silently, Brandon praised the Old Gods that the snows had not delayed them too much - although they were heavy, it was not yet winter, and thus travel to Winterfell would only be delayed rather than perilously dangerous. News had come from the Wolfswood of the Ironborn defeat, which did bode well - although the Wolfswood was much further North than Barrowton, the setback meant that the Ironmen would not be so eager to test Northern blades again so soon. Still, he had ensured Barrowton was well defended before his departure - they had been caught off guard before.

Rickard ordered the Glint-Fist to bring the Dustins before the High Table.

"Aye." growled Harrion at the man. The Lord had, in his growing years, become a rarely spoken man, his voice gruff and laboured. The seven men and four women made their way up the hall towards the Prince's table, with Harrion and Raymar joining the Prince and the rest of the family sat at one of the closest tables.

"Prince Rickard." rasped Harrion with a nod towards the young man as he took his seat, ​"Donnel serving you well?"

Rickard looked to young Donnel, only seven or eight years his junior, and nodded. "Aye my lord Harrion." he replied. "The lad served me well, though I fear he's been as bored as I of late." Maybe it wasn't proper to express his exasperation with being left behind in the raid, but he did not care. Soon enough he would be relieved of these tedious duties. "I only hope I've been a good choice for his training, I'm in the yard every day but my father seems more content to keep me at home than fighting our common foes." He winked at Donnel, despite the rhetoric he knew that he had done more to make Donnel a man than Rickard would admit to Donnel's father. It was only in his third week at Winterfell that Rickard had arranged for the buxom daughter of the kennel master to service Donnel in his chambers, this after the lad had admitted he had never known a woman. But the gods were good, and Donnel did not put a bastard in the girl's belly.

[Oznerol]

A special seat had been set aside for Cerenna Bolton, the Lady of the Dreadfort, between Theon and Rickard. Their aunt was not only one of the most powerful women in the realm, but one of the single most dynamic of women Rickard had known. Rickard descended the dais to greet his aunt with a kiss to the hand. "My Lady Cerenna, we have prepared a seat for you at the high table." the Prince began, taking her hand in his rough, calloused hand. "Please join us."

"What a gallant and corteous prince have you become, cousin"

Lady Bolton curtsied. Her presence was inmediately noticed by everyone on the great hall, not only she was undoubtedly beautiful, but she also was very elegant, possessing a nuanced strenght that no-one could miss. Lady Cerenna's voice was particularly soothing, a voice one could hardly forget. Her manners were exquisite, as expected from such a highborn lady.

"I will gladly join you both"

She smiled. Harrion, her son and heir, is accompanied by a diligent servant to smaller table, where other lordlings were sitting, including Lord Cerwyn's grandchildren.

--------------------

Lady Maegelle Cerwyn, nee Umber, and her husband's family had arrived from Castle Cerwyn that very afternoon. Her sole daughter, Maege, was already there, as Errold Stark's wife and mother to his children. Lord Cedrik's grandchildren had come as well, including Cedrik 'the Young', Cimbre 'the Fair', Brandon Cerwyn and Cedrik 'the Younger', son of the aforementioned Maege Cerwyn and stepbrother to both Jorelle and Jon Stark.

[Poach]

"Aye." growled Harrion at the man. The Lord had, in his growing years, become a rarely spoken man, his voice gruff and laboured. The seven men and four women made their way up the hall towards the Prince's table, with Harrion and Raymar joining the Prince and the rest of the family sat at one of the closest tables.

"Prince Rickard." rasped Harrion with a nod towards the young man as he took his seat, ​"Donnel serving you well?"

[Gandalfus]

Theon chuckled at his brothers words, his eyes looking down at his recently filled drinking horn, and then flitting for a brief moment to the serving girl as she wandered away. "You know Father wouldn't approve of us bedding his servants." He stated wryly, taking a large swig from the horn as his gaze turned back to his brother. It tasted bitter on his tongue, but it was enough to get a man drunk, and that was perhaps just what he needed. "He wants me to take the Black, you know." There had been a brief silence before he had deigned to speak again, as though the subject clouded his mind. "I suppose I should enjoy some sport while I can." With a sad smile, he took another gulp of the ale. "An honourable calling" Were his father's words, and it had long been a tradition in the North to send the youngest son off to the Watch. But the thought of freezing to death at the end of the world presented little appeal.

-----

"Young Wolf." Lord Dustin called in greeting, red-faced even though he had not yet touched any ale, as he took his seat at the High Table. His eldest son, a dark haired youth of sixteen, followed suit with a boyish grin.
"I'm glad I haven't missed your father's return." Gulping down a horn of ale, Dustin called for a serving maid to bring another, finding himself with a mighty thirst after so long a ride. "I hear the bastard Ironmen took quite the thrashing."

[Trot]

Beron's right eye was covered in a bandage dark with blood and dirt, a spare arrow at grazed his eye early in the combat, and the bandage was all he had been able to do for now. He flashed back to the ambush, Ironborn coming out of the wood had surprised them all. He saw King Jon falling as the Iron Born rushed out and surrounded the party. It had been all Beron could do to rally the remaining men and break through the lines. It had been his fault, he had failed, he should have put more scouts out more men should have been there. His job had been to protect the King and he had failed.

[Pontifex Maximus]

"What a gallant and corteous prince have you become, cousin"

Lady Bolton curtsied. Her presence was inmediately noticed by everyone on the great hall, not only she was undoubtedly beautiful, but she also was very elegant, possessing a nuanced strenght that no-one could miss. Lady Cerenna's voice was particularly soothing, a voice one could hardly forget. Her manners were exquisite, as expected from such a highborn lady.

"I will gladly join you both"

She smiled. Harrion, her son and heir, is accompanied by a diligent servant to smaller table, where other lordlings were sitting, including Lord Cerwyn's grandchildren.

Rickard offered Lady Cerenna his arm to escort her to the high table. "We were very grateful when you offered men to aid my father, the King." he began. More courtesies that would be expected. The friendship of the Dreadfort was not lightly set aside, and neither was the fact that Rickard himself was half-Bolton. "How fares cousin Harrion?"

Theon chuckled at his brothers words, his eyes looking down at his recently filled drinking horn, and then flitting for a brief moment to the serving girl as she wandered away. "You know Father wouldn't approve of us bedding his servants." He stated wryly, taking a large swig from the horn as his gaze turned back to his brother. It tasted bitter on his tongue, but it was enough to get a man drunk, and that was perhaps just what he needed. "He wants me to take the Black, you know." There had been a brief silence before he had deigned to speak again, as though the subject clouded his mind. "I suppose I should enjoy some sport while I can." With a sad smile, he took another gulp of the ale. "An honourable calling" Were his father's words, and it had long been a tradition in the North to send the youngest son off to the Watch. But the thought of freezing to death at the end of the world presented little appeal.

Rickard allowed himself a long laugh after he had chugged his first horn of ale, calling for a second. "Father gave me the same speech, you know." he held his horn aloft, allowing the servers to fill it again. "That night, I went and ed one of the smith's daughters. He found out of course, and the next week in the yard left me covered in bruises." He took a light sip "it didn't change anything." he surveyed the hall. It wouldn't do to become more drunk than the guests this early, that courtesy enough was one he would respect. He became serious, something rare for him. "The Night's Watch is an honorable calling." The tales of the Long Winter were not lost on him. They were as real as anything. "But the Watch is well garrisoned, and well led. The Others will be kept at bay by those currently present." He did not wish his brother to leave. Torrhen had once been his companion in crim: hunting in the Wolf's Wood and wenching, but Torrhen had become recently pious as he prepared to rule: his brother Theon, regardless of how severe and dolorous he could be, had replaced Torrhen and become a constant source of entertainment. "I would not so easily lose you." he concluded.

"Young Wolf."

Lord Dustin called in greeting, red-faced even though he had not yet touched any ale, as he took his seat at the High Table. His eldest son, a dark haired youth of sixteen, followed suit with a boyish grin.
"I'm glad I haven't missed your father's return." Gulping down a horn of ale, Dustin called for a serving maid to bring another, finding himself with a mighty thirst after so long a ride. "I hear the bastard Ironmen took quite the thrashing."

Rickard smiled, his eyes dancing "As they ever do when we face them equally on solid ground!" The Iron-Men were fearsome on the seas, but once ashore it soon became obvious they could hardly match the strength of the lords of this northern land. "Soon Cape Kraken will be ours." he concluded "and then we shall rename it."

[Oznerol]

"It was my duty, Rickard. I had to support my kinsmen in such endeavours"

She took seat between the Stark brothers, she nodded and smiled to her cousin Theon, acknowledging his presence. Her alluring beauty had only matured with the pass of time.

"He fares quite well. My cousin, his grandfather, is nowadays training him with sword and axe. But, I am reluctant to let Old Harras push him too hard. He is a bright and charming boy; mayhaps too sweet for the Dreadfort"

The castle itself had an ominous reputation, as the bloodline that ruled it. Harrion was rather short, but seemed quite healthy and ruddy.

[Pontifex Maximus]

"It was my duty, Rickard. I had to support my kinsmen in such endeavours"

She took seat between the Stark brothers, she nodded and smiled to her cousin Theon, acknowledging his presence. Her alluring beauty had only matured with the pass of time.

"He fares quite well. My cousin, his grandfather, is nowadays training him with sword and axe. But, I am reluctant to let Old Harras push him too hard. He is a bright and charming boy; mayhaps too sweet for the Dreadfort"

The castle itself had an ominous reputation, as the bloodline that ruled it. Harrion was rather short, but seemed quite healthy and ruddy.

Rickard smiled wolfishly. "I am sure he will harden." Rickard responded. And if he did not, then who's to care? If the Bolton line failed under Cerenna, he may well inherit the Dreadfort. It was an enticing notion.

[Gandalfus]

Rickard allowed himself a long laugh after he had chugged his first horn of ale, calling for a second. "Father gave me the same speech, you know." he held his horn aloft, allowing the servers to fill it again. "That night, I went and ed one of the smith's daughters. He found out of course, and the next week in the yard left me covered in bruises." He took a light sip "it didn't change anything." he surveyed the hall. It wouldn't do to become more drunk than the guests this early, that courtesy enough was one he would respect. He became serious, something rare for him. "The Night's Watch is an honorable calling." The tales of the Long Winter were not lost on him. They were as real as anything. "But the Watch is well garrisoned, and well led. The Others will be kept at bay by those currently present." He did not wish his brother to leave. Torrhen had once been his companion in crim: hunting in the Wolf's Wood and wenching, but Torrhen had become recently pious as he prepared to rule: his brother Theon, regardless of how severe and dolorous he could be, had replaced Torrhen and become a constant source of entertainment. "I would not so easily lose you." he concluded.

"Of course he found out." Theon laughed, and shook his head. Their father seemed to find out every wrong they ever did, somehow. Although, it wasn't difficult to with Rickard, considering he often relayed his ribald tales of carousing to the entire castle, amusing the servants and lords alike. He should be envious and resentful of him for that, Theon thought, for his easy charm. But he could never bring himself to be so. "Honourable, aye, and a convenient way to get rid of a third son." Although it was half a jape, it came out more serious than he intended, and so he offered his brother an apologetic frown. "But if he commands me to go, it is my duty. At least Black is my colour."

"It was my duty, Rickard. I had to support my kinsmen in such endeavours"

She took seat between the Stark brothers, she nodded and smiled to her cousin Theon, acknowledging his presence. Her alluring beauty had only matured with the pass of time.

"He fares quite well. My cousin, his grandfather, is nowadays training him with sword and axe. But, I am reluctant to let Old Harras push him too hard. He is a bright and charming boy; mayhaps too sweet for the Dreadfort"

The castle itself had an ominous reputation, as the bloodline that ruled it. Harrion was rather short, but seemed quite healthy and ruddy.

Theon returned the gesture with a curt nod, and deemed it unseemly to let his gaze linger for too long, despite his cousin's allure. Clearing his throat and sipping the horn of mead, he decided to let Rickard do all the talking.

Rickard smiled, his eyes dancing "As they ever do when we face them equally on solid ground!" The Iron-Men were fearsome on the seas, but once ashore it soon became obvious they could hardly match the strength of the lords of this northern land. "Soon Cape Kraken will be ours." he concluded "and then we shall rename it."

"Aye, and we'll hang every bloody raider who comes near from the cliffs, cocks shoved in their mouths. That'll scare the bastards good." A cruel laugh escaped Brandon's lips, revealing his teeth, many of which were broken or missing. "That way we can call it the Kraken's Cock." Rodrik glanced at his father and grinned, finding the older man awfully amusing when he began to drink - he often made a fool of himself, something which would never be seen back at Barrowton.

[Poach]

Rickard looked to young Donnel, only seven or eight years his junior, and nodded. "Aye my lord Harrion." he replied. "The lad served me well, though I fear he's been as bored as I of late." Maybe it wasn't proper to express his exasperation with being left behind in the raid, but he did not care. Soon enough he would be relieved of these tedious duties. "I only hope I've been a good choice for his training, I'm in the yard every day but my father seems more content to keep me at home than fighting our common foes." He winked at Donnel, despite the rhetoric he knew that he had done more to make Donnel a man than Rickard would admit to Donnel's father. It was only in his third week at Winterfell that Rickard had arranged for the buxom daughter of the kennel master to service Donnel in his chambers, this after the lad had admitted he had never known a woman. But the gods were good, and Donnel did not put a bastard in the girl's belly.

Donnel allowed himself a brief smile, knowing that to hold it would invite questions. When he'd went to Winterfell he expected serious men engaged in Kingly affairs and strategic thought, and while that was largely true of Crown Prince Torrhen, the Princes Rickard and Theon were altogether different, taking great pleasure in being boisterous and daring. With Donnel given to Rickard as a shieldbearer, that had sometimes caught him up in their adventures. While at first this was a shock to the young Greystark he had come to appreciate that there was more to courtly life and politics than the questions of state as a result.

Growing up in the Wolf's Den had been a different life: the place was more of a garrison than a seat of power and going outside at night remained dangerous even within sight of the walls, as the purpose of the Wolf's Den as a pacifying force highlighted well that the surrounding countryside wasn't safe. Winterfell, and Winter Town outside it, were a sharp contrast to the southern shores of House Stark's realm.

"Good, good." growled Harrion with a few nods, "The boy will rule the Den one day, needs a good education. Enemies abound down south, the lad must come home strong."

[Pontifex Maximus]

"Of course he found out." Theon laughed, and shook his head. Their father seemed to find out every wrong they ever did, somehow. Although, it wasn't difficult to with Rickard, considering he often relayed his ribald tales of carousing to the entire castle, amusing the servants and lords alike. He should be envious and resentful of him for that, Theon thought for his easy charm. But he could never bring himself to be so. "Honourable, aye, and a convenient way to get rid of a third son." Although it was half a jape, it came out more serious than he intended, and so he offered his brother an apologetic frown. "But if he commands me to go, it is my duty. At least Black is my colour."

Rickard nodded sadly. If his brother went to the wall, he would be lost to House Stark forever. Taking the black meant forsaking your old family and assuming a new one: that of the watch. Your companions became your brothers and your past brothers became dust and memory. "Perhaps he won't" Rickard said with hope "It may be that next we are to go and fight the enemies of the Realm." It seemed unlikely, but it was a hopeful thought nonetheless. His brother was of the depressive sort. after all. "And if he does send you, before you go, I will have to arrange for you to meet the brewer's daughter."

"Aye, and we'll hang every bloody raider who comes near from the cliffs, cocks shoved in their mouths. That'll scare the bastards good."

A cruel laugh escaped Brandon's lips, revealing his teeth, many of which were broken or missing. "That way we can call it the Kraken's Cock." Rodrik glanced at his father and grinned, finding the older man awfully amusing when he began to drink - he often made a fool of himself, something which would never be seen back at Barrowton.

Rickard raised his horn "I will drink to that!" he replied with a laugh "They will be pushed from our shores soon enough." The only reason they hadn't been was due to the other threats facing the Realm
.

Donnel allowed himself a brief smile, knowing that to hold it would invite questions. When he'd went to Winterfell he expected serious men engaged in Kingly affairs and strategic thought, and while that was largely true of Crown Prince Torrhen, the Princes Rickard and Theon were altogether different, taking great pleasure in being boisterous and daring. With Donnel given to Rickard as a shieldbearer, that had sometimes caught him up in their adventures. While at first this was a shock to the young Greystark he had come to appreciate that there was more to courtly life and politics than the questions of state as a result.

Growing up in the Wolf's Den had been a different life: the place was more of a garrison than a seat of power and going outside at night remained dangerous even within sight of the walls, as the purpose of the Wolf's Den as a pacifying force highlighted well that the surrounding countryside wasn't safe. Winterfell, and Winter Town outside it, were a sharp contrast to the southern shores of House Stark's realm.

"Good, good." growled Harrion with a few nods, "The boy will rule the Den one day, needs a good education. Enemies abound down south, the lad must come home strong."

"Agreed." Rickard replied with a feigned seriousness. "Education, and toughness." he glowered at Donnel "Winter is coming." he concluded. He wondered how long Donnel could meet his gaze without laughing, so he broke it away and glanced towards the door. His father would be arriving at any moment.

[Gandalfus]

Rickard nodded sadly. If his brother went to the wall, he would be lost to House Stark forever. Taking the black meant forsaking your old family and assuming a new one: that of the watch. Your companions became your brothers and your past brothers became dust and memory. "Perhaps he won't" Rickard said with hope "It may be that next we are to go and fight the enemies of the Realm." It seemed unlikely, but it was a hopeful thought nonetheless. His brother was of the depressive sort. after all. "And if he does send you, before you go, I will have to arrange for you to meet the brewer's daughter."

Theon gave a desolate, thin smile, and finished off his horn of ale. Perhaps his brother's sentiment was right - he should enjoy the pleasures Winter Town had to offer while they were still available to him. Surely it would not be long before his father made a decision. Not tonight, certainly, that would be unseemly, but better to be prepared. "I'll take you up on that, when I am blind drunk."

---

Dustin finished off another horn, and continued to make crude jests to all who would listen as he became more and more intoxicated. Surely the King would arrive soon, and the real merriment could begin.

[Lucius Malfoy]

Abruptly, the door into the main hall slams open, causing all commotion to instantly cease. All eyes would be upon the source within seconds as Errold walked quietly into the hall. Following him were Lord Cerwyn, Ser Mormont, a few other retainers and some soldiers that managed to escape. The older Stark male walked in, his armor chipped and bloodied, his face cut and bruised, his grey and black hairs sticky with blood. The uncle of Rickard continues to walk silently towards his nephew, pausing for not a moment as he walks up to Rickard, looking directly into his eyes for a long time. Silence would fall instantly as Errold stands only a few feet from Rickard.

Then, he falls to his knees, looking up at the spitting image of his deceased brother, Jon. His mind remembered clearly the final command of the King before they were forced to leave both King and heir behind as the Ironborn swarmed them. Slowly, Errold reaches into his fur coat, pulling out the crown of Jon which he managed to recover from the carnage. The crown was untouched by the blood and grim that covered themselves. It was as pristine as the day Jon was given the crown upon the death of their father, who died peacefully in his sleep. He holds out the crown to Rickard, giving him a determined look.

There is still a Stark in Winterfell... There is still a King in the North... There is still a King in the North!

He then fell silent, watching his nephew. Come on, Rickard, he thought, take up the crown. Take up the crown and become the wolf you were meant to be!