The Flower In The White Snow. [ Under Construction ]

Chapter I. The Stark Sigil

              ･*.ﾟ☆━CHAPTER 1━☆ﾟ.*･ 

     

                 

                         

                      

   The morning sun ascended high into the orange sky, concealed behind a thick layer of mist rolling in, bringing with it a chill that cut through the air. The crisp air blew through Amaryllis' ginger strands, wavering like the ocean. Her cheeks and ears were rosy from the kiss of the cold, her breath fog each time she breathed, but she stood tall and static up on that hilltop. She was a lady of The North. Beside her stood Bran, her younger brother, and a few feet before her stood her older brother Robb and her bastard brother Jon, and twenty north men in all surround. 

It was unusual for a lady to be amongst men in these affairs. Forsooth, her Lord father didn't want her here but Amary fought. She had heard words of her father beheading a man before daybreak, it did not take long for her to find him in the godswood, praying to his old gods. She stood tall, chin high, and her shoulders back — she did not mind to the storm in her stomach that felt like flattering death moths. Amary's wolf-gray eyes stared down at her father and she argued that she should be allowed to go with the north men, that Bran was years younger and he was allowed to. He had declared that she was a lady. She had screamed THAT IS SHIT and contended that she should be entitled to know the ways of The North Men — HER MEN. She had claimed not to go to lay witness to a man's loss of head, but to witness the history of northern men with her eyes. And so her father did not fight with her longer; he permitted her to follow. 

Surrounded by mist and men, Amary breathes in the crisp air. She knew it was no easy task to witness a man's death. She had seen it in her father's eyes; though his eyes storm gray and his face froze listlessly, she could always see it in him after he had taken a life. Eddard Stark held duty and honor above all else — besides family — but he has never taken joy in killing; perhaps that was one of his reasons for not wanting Amaryllis to follow. But he held his tongue; she wanted to know the way of the North men. She will. 

The mist had cleared a bit when two guardsmen led the man toward the hill and her gray sights watched him. Her skin ran chill and tiny pimples raised on her arms. Amary knew it was not the cold, her body was a friend of the northern cold. This chill was something different: excitement, fear. 

She had not known. 

At that moment she asked, "Was I ready to face death?" But it was far too late to doubt now.

The man was halted a few feet from her father and there began the inquest, and as it flowed Amary proceeded to eye him. She had taken heed of his body: he dressed in black, the brother of The Night Watch color. He was tall and meager. Dirt coated his hair — only a few blonde strands peeked through. His ice-wounded lips mutter words her ears could not hear amidst the harsh wind and the flailing of her house banner. Once answers were given and questions were done Eddard Stark nodded his head shortly; two guardsmen dragged the meager man towards the ironwood stump, forcing his head atop the blackwood. 

Eddard ward; Theon Greyjoy brought forth "Ice". A name it bore from the age of heroes, spell-forged from Valyrian steel; before the Doom came to the old Freehold. Four hundred years old it held as sharp as the day it was forged. It carried long and wide, as wide across as a man's hand and taller than Robb. 

"Forgive me, Lord." The man's final words were. 

Eddard Stark closed his eyes with a tilt of his chin down, giving the meager man a second of silence. When Eddard's eyes opened again he peeled off his gloves, handing them to Jory Cassel, head of the household guard. He took hold of Ice with both hands, bowing his head over the sword. "In the name of Robert of the House Baratheon, First of his name. . ." Bran twists his head, peeking up at his sister, gazing at her hair stirred with the wind. He wished to be like her at that very moment. It was Amary's first death — like his — to lay witnesses to, but she looked as if she had seen it a thousand times. It was as if she had taken their father's face: still and bored.