misereres (misereres) wrote in usurper, @ 2011-06-07 01:30:00 |
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Entry tags: | ! house stark, brandon stark, ned stark |
brandon & ned.
who: brandon & ned stark
where: winterfell
when: during ned's v. brief visit
what: carved wolves and a brotherly chat
Ned knew that he would curse himself when he returned to the Eyrie if he slept through almost half of his stay at home in the familiar wooden bed that was his own in Winterfell. The empty rooms that he walked through were undoubtedly colder, but the fur over his shoulders and the hot spring water that heated the castle kept him warm enough, and the small hours in Winterfell had a comfortable weight to them.
In the Great Keep the dying embers gave a low glow to the far corner of the small hall; Ned put aside his candle on one of the wooden long wooden tables nearby, settling on a bench next to the hearth. It was not difficult to find wood of the right size in the basket of kindling and smaller pieces set out ready for the morning, and his sharp knife (not Valyrian steel, but good) was soon whittling it away to something approaching the shape of a wolf. He paid little attention to the noises of the castle, save to give a nod of greeting to the guardsmen who occasionally passed through -- they were as familiar as the old stone itself.
“Birds are bloody well overrated.”
This was Brandon’s greeting; he whose arms had been hard upon Lyanna’s punishment for the insolence regarding the stallion, who had taken her grief over his secret with barely repressed sadness of his own and whose ale now, with a push, settled in front of Ned at the end of the long table. Several moments of reflection had already been given in the measure of his brother. Tall and lean of limb, he was lithe where Brandon was broad. And still growing …
His grin fell wide across his face as, with crossed arms, he leaned forward.
“You. Bird boy. Where is my brother?”
“I don’t see” -- another shaving of wood fell to the table -- “any birds.” Ned looked up with a smile dancing at the corner of his mouth in the flickering light. Of Brandon’s troubles he knew only the punishment set by their father which he took on in place of Lyanna, but his eldest sibling was always a welcome sight. “A brother, though, I do see.”
He reached across to clap Brandon’s shoulder affectionately, taking the moment to properly assess the changes since his last visit. More of the man there, less of the boy -- though that was always the way, it seemed. Ned wondered for a brief moment if any sons he might have would age so between one moment and the next, before casting the thought aside and returning to the present.
“Hullo Brandon. It’s a wolf, bird-for-brains.”
“Here I thought they turned you into a shitting bird at that Eyrie.”
Brandon, however, wrapped both arms tight to Ned’s shoulders and held for several moments as he hid a secret, unbidden smile behind the screen of his brother’s hair. All of the Starks belonged in Winterfell, within the grasp of their brother’s long-reaching and greedy arms. “Could it be -- ? A brother? Truly?” Finally letting go, he slid into the seat across from Ned and gave a nod to the wolf which formed beneath his knife.
“Hullo Ned. Another howler for the wolfswood.”
His hug was returned, almost too tightly (you have been too long away from home, a voice in his head supplied, away from your own blood kin), and Ned’s grin when released was wider than before. “They try and try but it just won’t take.”
Picking up his knife once more the wolf quickly began to gain further shape. “You lot can have this one if it doesn’t run to the wood; the children of the bannerman of Arryn have more wolves than they know what to do with, and I can’t for the life of me do anything else except a rabbit, which is apparently not at all what they want.”.
“As for shitting birds though, done in the rookery? I would have come join you but father was having none of it tonight.”
A quick sip of the flagon he sat before Ned was taken before he pushed it back toward his brother. “Done in the rookery,” he confirmed, motioning with his index finger toward the wolf in question. “I want that one. It’s mine. And our father wanted you for himself. Lyanna came, scrubbed herself a particularly hard spot and then lead me down for dinner. Cheers to Ben for felling such a singularly delicious hart.” He did not, Brandon supposed, need to know the particulars of their sibling spat. He breathed once -- “What do you think, Ned? Will Father give her the horse and let me teach her to ride at rings?”
“‘s yours,” Ned agreed, taking his own sip of the ale. His knife he held caught between his fingers (not nearly so clever as their younger brother’s, but quite deft enough at this, through long practise of an evening in the Eyrie) as he thought over Brandon’s query. “He will. He was half persuaded after dinner, but it was not the time to press. Despite himself, he admires what she did -- or rather, he admires her sheer bloodymindedness.” The brief flash of a wider smile brightened Ned’s face before his expression returned once more to contented concentration, whittling away again.
“I’ll ask again before I head off; she’ll have the horse. I hope you’ll have her at the rings before I’m back again. And Ben will have maps, the better to find us more good venison.” He looked up, meeting Brandon’s eyes. “This is your lucky charm, then. I shall try and make it look dour.”
A long moment passed. “Be careful, when you teach her to ride at the rings. You will, I know.”
“Caution. As much as I may, brother. I won’t lack it for her sake.” He took a breath, then, offering a grin at the mention of Ben’s maps. Their silent, ghostly brother who slipped through the undulating shadows as if he were a part of them. Maps were the perfect gift. “They’ll soon love you even more than they love me. And we shall be locked in a perpetual battle of one-upsmanship --” was said with a thickened amusement in his voice, chin resting upon the heel of his hand as he watched Ned at work. Even if his fingers were not as nimble as Ben’s, they were thrice as deft as his own.
“I’ll sleep with it beneath my pillow so that I remember the cool mornings when I boil in the riverlands. Humidity, Ned. Heat. What is that?”
“I don’t have the energy for battles of favour brother, I cede to you in advance.” Ned gave half a chuckle, adding definition to the wolf’s features unselfconsciously (being watched at work was nothing new). “Anyhow, they have to remember me somehow.”
The mention of the riverlands caused him to raise both brows, a touch of sympathy in his tone -- the Eyrie grew uncomfortable enough for him in the summer, and further south would be far worse. “That far down? You really will boil, Brandon. Dreaming of snow won’t help at all. You’ll have to write and tell me if you freckle.” Another chuckle, fuller this time. “What takes you so far away from home?”
“Energy, you speak of. Ned, don’t get old before your time. Promise to always fight with me. It’ll keep the both of us young. Especially when you come down from your mountain and live where you belong again.” The dream Brandon dreamed; all his siblings under his roof, smiling and happy, together as they feasted and told their tales. Let my hands hold as long as they dare. And then, a deep breath, and he smiled tentatively. “I must meet my betrothed.”
His thoughts of the man overtaking the boy in Brandon were confirmed at these words, but if Ned felt a sense of regret at him passing beyond boyhood to the years beyond it was tempered by a knowledge that it was as things were meant to be, and would be for all the Stark children in different ways.
“We’ll always fight, if you like. I conserve energy, ‘m not that old yet.” A moment, then, for a smile to match Brandon’s own to grow. “And are you pleased?” Smile turned to grin. “The fact that she is from the hot Riverlands is unfortunate, of course, but the poor lady hardly had control over that.”
“Not yet you’re not, no. And while you have youth, I’ll be the handsome one.” He grinned out his jest before the subject of Catelyn was further broached. We ally the Riverlands with the North; a nice slice of the Southern Kingdoms.
“She is younger,” he admitted, drumming the tips of his fingers along the scarred wooden board before them before his shoulders rose. “ … and will have to come a long way for me, Ned. I want her to love me. Catelyn Tully of Riverrun.”
Ned’s humour turned to seriousness immediately, though he took a moment before responding, toying with the wooden wolf in his hands. “How could she not, Brandon Stark? Love grows over time, I think, but show me the person close who says that they do not love you and I will show you a liar.” He set the wolf down directly in front of his brother, taking a pull from the flagon before continuing.
“Riverrun is a long way, true, but Winterfell has its charms. Even, I imagine, for a summer daughter of the Riverlands.”
The wolf, pulled into the protective circle of his arms, received a press of his index finger to the tip of the snout. “What should I call this wolf?” he asked his brother, the cant of his smile going crooked as they spoke of Catelyn. “I will write you at the Eyrie and give you my impression of her. They say she is quick witted and -- well, they say she is the comeliest of the two Tully girls. Red hair.” He laughed. “Good colour, yes?”
He shrugged, his lips quirked in a half smile. “I just make them, the names are for others. Though perhaps Wolf is as good a name as any other.”
Though Ned’s tastes-- what he knew of them -- ran a little fairer, red was indeed a good colour. “Pretty and clever -- if Catelyn is as warm as her hair, you two should make a good match.” For as Ned had told Brandon, he did not see how it was possible for anyone who spent much time in his presence not to grow to love him; caring for the warm-hearted eldest Stark was inevitable. “I look forward to a very interesting letter.”
“Wolf. Seven hells, Ned. I hope that your wife shall name your future children if your prowess with the naming of wooden animals is any evidence of what is to come.” He paused, then, fitting his nail within the smooth groove of the carving’s fur, following it along the ridge of its back.
“Lyanna has already demanded peaches of me so I suppose that, with said letter, I shall send you one as well. That is, unless you prefer trout.” He smiled. “A letter you shall have. And a promise: if Robert wants our sister, he has to unhorse me.”
“I’ll be sure to let her take charge of that, yes,” he replied, lightly enough. Marriage would come at some point, Ned was sure (Starks gave their spare sons bannerhouses, as a general rule, and kept them close), but it was not a pressing concern as it was for Brandon. His own children belonged to some vague future hardly thought of. “And a peach would be welcome.”
Even the best of friends would have to prove himself above and beyond the usual for the hand of their sister, that was a given. “Robert also trains for the melee,” Ned replied mildly.
“I have some great appreciation for the way in which you chose to take this news, Ned. Lyanna was not so staid in the receiving. You may get more than a peach from the riverlands.” He waited a beat. “I’ll see what I can do.” That was a brief, if earnest, confession from Brandon as his fingertips spun the wolf in a three-hundred and sixty degree turn. “The melee? What is his weapon of choice?”
“I can quite imagine.” A smile. “Robert is dear, but we only have one sister and she is also most dear. He must show his mettle.” Ned did not doubt that Robert would pass muster; quite aside from their close friendship, he knew him to possess many good and noble qualities. But there would still be three different Stark brothers who would test him, friendship or no, and three Stark brothers to face should he ever prove unworthy.
“He favours the axe. I’ll match him with sword, I think.”
Brandon’s doubts were an entirely different matter. He knew of Robert’s reputation with women and his love (his great love, one could argue) of drink. While it would be a fine quality to have in a fellow knight, he would maintain his reservations when it came to the man who would be his sister’s intended. “Your sword, my lance, Benjen’s bow.” A nod before, for Ned, he offered a sly grin. “We’ll make him work for it.”
“Aye, Brandon, we will.” Ned was matter-of-fact as he tested the sharpness of his knife against his thumb, finding it now wanting (it would need a whetstone, before he rode out back to the Eyrie with the two Arryn men at arms who had accompanied him northwards). Robert required grounding at times, that was undeniable, but he also required matching -- if Lyanna would have him (for in the end hers would be the final word on this matter, as far as Ned was concerned) then Ned was of the opinion that it was his friend who must endeavour to keep pace with her.
He took a sip from the flagon, before pushing what remained over to his elder brother. “Year’s end will be eventful, then, if nothing else; I’ll remember to have my fill of peace at the Eyrie.”