Only A Northern Song ~ Game of Thrones / Willas Tyrell ~

Chapter One Hundred and Six: The Seven

Eddmina Stark decided wholeheartedly that she did not like Septs.

Septs were not as cold as a godwood, but they were not as comfortable either.

Perhaps that was because the Seven were strangers to her, and the smell of insence made her want to sneeze. Perhaps because it was dark and lit only by the multitude of candles rather than the stars above, or because of how the stained glass cast strange shadows on the floor. Every other sept she had visited had been decorated with great stone statues taller than any man, eyes fixed straight ahead so they never deemed to look at their subjects, each of them having their own altars and dedication table, but Winterfell's sept was much smaller, and featured only one altar, with one stone carving of all seven faces. There was one table for the dedication candles, set right before the carving, with twenty years worth of candles melted across the stone surface.

She supposed most septs also didn't feature slight fire damage from where the Boltons had tried to burn it down, but Eddmina had instructed the builders to focus on restoring the place, knowing her mother had loved it. Her mother still spent considerably long stretches of time knelt before the altar, praying for people either alive or gone, though Eddmina had never dared ask who or what was specifically in her prayers. Sansa liked the sept too, finding it a nicer religion than the old gods. They were perhaps the first generation of Starks that accepted both religions, but even so, Eddmina did not like the sept.

She didn't like the sept, she didn't know the Seven. So, why was she there?

Anywhere was better than the hall, she supposed, full of people and noise, and memories she wanted to bury away. It was rare her mother was not knelt by the table, and she wanted to take advantage of the quiet and solitude. Then, of course, there was the truth, so painful she couldn't admit it even to herself without having to clench her jaw to stop the threat of tears.

She wouldn't cry, even if she was on her own. Though, as she looked up at the carving from the candles, she wanted to cry again, because the Seven were not a weirwood.

She closed her eyes, placing her elbows on the edge of the table, and let out a long sigh as she buried her head in her hands.

Uther had asked her over and over why she wasn't sat with his father. What answer could she give him that wouldn't upset him or confuse him more? How could she tell her two-and-a-half year old that she couldn't find the strength to invite Willas up to the top table, even if she remembered how good company he was at formal events, how he was a constant comfort when having to deal with social situations? How could she tell him that even if Honour had fled to her, the wolf was no true replacement, and she had wanted nothing more than to go back in time and have her first husband walk in the hall with her? Then how could she tell him that all of that was in battle against the desire to protect herself and her nerves? Instead she had just remarked about them needing to sit apart for that dinner due to politics, and quickly changed the topic to ask him about his pony.

That had distracted him enough, until she looked out across the hall and saw how easy everyone else found the event. None of them had to stand outside and take deep breaths before they went in, none of them had their fist permanently clenched to combat how nervous they felt, none of them had to keep glancing down at their belt to check their daggers were still there. The northerners were all talking, reminiscing, enjoying each others company. What the war had stolen from her, had reinforced in them. They all seemed happy enough to follow her advice of celebrating being alive, but the statement had felt like a cruel joke to her, to the point she was sure they would have seen it as the sarcasm it was.

Then she had seen Lord Baelish. Her aunt's husband, talking to Willas like they were old friends. Willas had been frowning, that usual expression he pulled when talking to someone who was making him think deep. He had nodded too, and the sight of him talking to a man she instinctually distrusted had been the final straw, unable to pretend in her discomfort anymore. She had handed Uther off to his aunts and tried not to be disappointed in herself when he called her name, but she knew it was still far better leaving him than him seeing her spiral.