𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐆𝐀𝐑𝐘𝐄𝐍 𝐓𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐒

𝐱𝐯𝐢 𝕿𝐡𝐞 𝕹𝐞𝐰𝐬 𝕱𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝕾𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐡

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐖𝐨𝐥𝐟 𝐃𝐢𝐞𝐬, 𝐖𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐒𝐮𝐫𝐯𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐬
________________________

____ The sweet kisses of a delicate breeze drifting across the Northerners camp, some miles beyond the ancient castle known as Riverrun, dances with the banners of the Northern Houses, whom joined together to ride South and save Lord Stark and his daughters. The sun burns bright high above the camp, the bright star some worship as a God ready to begin it's decent into the lands below and sleep through the night. The Northern soldiers walk about the camp, consisting of numerous gray tents, sprinkled with the light morning squall, spread atop the bright green grass, as the ambiance of horses nickering and smiths crafting new swords from the steel of the fallen Lannisters from the night before echoes across the camp.

Meanwhile, a Northern soldier, dressed in the armor of House Starks warriors, walks towards one of the larger of the tents pitched in the middle of the entirety of the encampment, a cream parchment held within his grasp.. with news from the South.

Inside of the gray tent, a handful of Northern Lords & Ladies stand around a wooden table, a map of Westeros placed upon it with the pawns of Houses Stark & Lannister atop it, with the Stark brothers standing at the head of the table, their backs to the entrance flap of the large tent.

The Lady of House Stark sits on the bench closer to her secondborn son, whose arms are crossed over his chest as his handsome features hold a tense look of silent thought, his Northern features sprinkled with bruises and cuts from the battle the night prior, which she noticed didn't seem to bother him as much as whatever was going on in his mind.

The eldest of the Stark brothers' voice is distant to the secondborn's ears, even though he stands beside him, as his thoughts rampage across his aching head.

The thoughts of the dream he had the night before.

The dream had felt so real to him, as if Rikson Stark were actually standing in the crowd of people as Lord Eddard Stark, his father, was beheaded in the capital of Westeros, the land of the Seven Kingdoms.

The secondborn Stark could feel the sea breeze from Blackwater Bay caressing his brunette locks, his cracked heart pounding against the cage of ribs in his heaving chest.. could smell the revolting stench of the overpopulated capital city, the salty waves crashing against the shores of the bay of black water, the fresh blood that oozed from his father's headless corpse like a waterfall of crimson.. could hear the echo of the people's cheering at the death of the treasonous Lord Stark, the culling of the ignorant seagulls above the bay, the broken beat of sorrow in his heart, the desperate wailing of his despaired sweet sister.. could see the ravens soaring away from the slaughter, every drop of blood that leaked from the sword of the executioner's, the smirk of arrogance and pride on the Golden Stag's lips as the executioner held his father's head for all to see.. before all fell into darkness as the young Stark boy's eyes rolled into the back of his head as he collapsed unto the cold stones of the capital's floors, his head hitting the stones with a dull thud.