Action: but you never tire of dreams

[ofthebeast]

Characters: Any willing dreamers
Open? Yes
Where: In your minds
When: After the party
What: Part two of the dream plot!
Warnings:


The party went on, with the beast's head on display. A proud, twisted thing. Behind false ruby eyes, it waited. And as the music became slower and the wine less plentiful, it waited still.

Those who had gazed upon it at the ball. Those who had seen it once living in the forest. All heroes who dared to look upon its face and dream still that they would be able to live another day...

There are all sorts of ways of living. In waking. In sleep. Perhaps, now, they would find one in between.

(ooc: Feel free to keep tagging into the party post! Once your characters go home and go to sleep of their own accord, that is when the dreaming will begin. Remember, it is up to you to set up what kind of world your character is trapped in and how best to help them. Plotting post is here, make use of it!

The beast's power will wane once the bulk of the dreamers have escaped his curse. If your character was not at the party but you still want to involve them in the dream plot, that is fine! They can either help get people out or have seen the beast wandering in the woods before it was killed and have caught its attention that way.

Comments

[brosif]

Time here – and Sif is aware enough, in some moments, to recognize here as someplace very wrong – seems to move without regard to any sort of natural narrative. It touches in some moments, and she can see herself as farmer’s wife, offering a young girl a roof. In others, it is miles apart. She stands guard over her farm, without regard to anything that may exist outside of it. She has roots in the earth and the sky, branching out in ways that only dreams are capable of.

Such roots are hard to cut.

Here, now, in the dangerous place: she walks into a stone keep, dressed in clothes that speak to her station. High born for the north, nothing for the south. She knows that she would die for Lord Eddard just as soon as she knows that name means nothing to her.

In the receiving room, she kneels, a fist to her chest. Here to represent her father’s family, as he has no sons to send.

[ladysarmour]

"The lord is away," says the woman who stands beside the great stone seat. She is tall and still beautiful in her years, with soft auburn hair and kind blue eyes. "I welcome you on his behalf to Winterfell."

[brosif]

Some might scoff at being welcomed by the lady rather than the lord, but Sif sees something in this woman that she likes very much. A sort of nobility not borne of title alone. After a respectful amount of time has passed, she stands.

"I thank you for the welcome, Lady Stark. I bring word from my father."

[ladysarmour]

"He is well, I hope?" The lady's tone is grave with concern. "Your father has ever been a loyal friend of our House."

[brosif]

“My lady is ever kind to our house.”

A pause, there. Two realities: that her father is in Asgard, and rarely speaks his daughter’s name. That he is here in the north, and proud. Both are vital, both are needed. The thoughts – the uncertainty – settle on her face before she can push them away. She was not trained for this. It is a son’s duty, and it had been realized far too late that Sif is to be an only child.

“My father is well, given his age and utter inability to rest. But such may not be the case for long.” She pulls a roll of parchment out, but will not approach Lady Stark without permission.

[ladysarmour]

There is something of a sense of perfection about the Lady Stark: in the way she moves, clasps her hands at her middle, the soft fall of her hair, how her lips curve into a comforting almost-smile. An artist, and yet a genuine one.

"You have my leave to approach," she says.

[brosif]

A girl’s memory, then. Sif remembers the best of her mother as well. She approaches with a bow, and sets the parchment before Lady Stark.

“As you may know, my father’s land lies closer to the south than most.” Meaning that it has been first on the battle lines for centuries. Sif’s family has hardened in response.

“It has long been entitled to pass to the first born son of each generation. The deed says nothing about sons through marriage.” If it did, Sif would be married already. The conflict then, is clear.

“My father intends to amend the entitlement to include first born daughters. He cannot do so without consent from the Lord of Winterfell.”

[ladysarmour]

"As you know Lord Stark is Warden of the North, but he may need the approval of the king as well," the lady warns in grave tones, for a family's survival necessitates gravity. "There is no reassurance I can provide you but that my lord will endeavor in all ways to do justice by you in accordance with the king's law."

Now would be a time to turn her away, to see her horse resaddled and the gates shut and barred once she's set on her way. But Winterfell is a place of honor, and this is a guest of worth. The lady raises her hand. "Poole, see to it that Lady Sif is given a warm bed. We have dined already this night, but set a place for her to break her fast with us next morning."

Outside the dirty windows, the high noon sun still shines.

[brosif]

Hang the King’s law, Sif wants to say. What does he know of northern borders, sitting comfortably in the stronghold of the South?

But such words would be treason, and would be excuse enough for the men eyeing her father’s land (Lannisters, all of them) to claim it for themselves. She rises, honestly grateful for the welcome.

“My house thanks you for your consideration, Lady Stark.”

[ladysarmour]

"It is within our duty," the lady says. She motions with the hand to Sif. An entreaty to follow, and an order.The guards fall in around them.

"Now come walk with me, and tell me of your true purpose here."

[brosif]

"My true purpose?"

Her tone does not imply that she thinks Lady Stark to be misinformed. Only that if there is a second purpose -- of course, there is a second purpose -- Sif is only just becoming aware of it. She thinks, as she follows the Lady.

"I believe I am here to help."

[ladysarmour]

"I have played your game and let you speak," she says as the guards close in, their faces shadowed and unfriendly. In the lady's voice there is cold mistrust.

"You do not belong here. I know every lord of every holdfast, every knight with a keep in this vast North. And yet you have slithered in like some snake and made yourself a place here where there is none for you, and to what end?"

[brosif]

Sif does not fear the guards, nor Lady Stark. One of her would be enough of a match for all the guards of this keep. Yet her tone is nothing but respectful. When she looks at Cat, time shifts around her, in a way that available only to the very old.

She sees Alayne, stilled by terror in her courtesies. She sees what this castle must have been, that the girl remembers it so perfectly. There are no foul smells here, which would be etched in even the best kept of manors. Everyone is quiet, at the command of the Lady – no guards are as well trained as that, even the most loyal. Everyone is content.

Alayne remembers this place perfectly. Which means that wherever it stands in this world, it stands broken.

“Your story is set.” A sadness there, but everything about Alayne screams that she is without a mother. “I have lived longer than your oldest scribes, than their own ancestors, and your story is set. But hers is not. That is why I am here. To save your daughter.”

[ladysarmour]

Two guards approach, and each grasps Sif tightly round an elbow to restrain her. Lady Catelyn's face is as cold and smooth as frozen water.

"What do you know of my daughter? You speak of stories and yet you know not hers; you speak of safety as if such a thing exists." Somewhere outside wolves begin to howl, but it's as if their voices seep through the very stones, so near do they sound. "Nowhere is safer for her than here; no place is happier."

[brosif]

"This place no longer exists."

When Sif is ever in doubt, she holds the truth to be a shield. Here, it is no different. But her face is kind, in the midst of what some might consider to be a battle. That is different.

"You speak of safety. Of happiness. But would you really have your daughter live here? In the past? Have you ever seen what happens to men that live in the past? What lives they lead?"

Truth, as she looks Lady Stark in the eye:

"You would not wish that for your daughter. No mother would."

[ladysarmour]

In this moment, time freezes; a hush settles over the castle as thick and impenetrable as its stones. Lady Stark meets Sif's gaze without flinching, deep and blue as the Trident.

"Yet who will protect her if she leaves? I cannot; these men cannot. She is alone."

[brosif]

Sif meets Lady Stark's gaze, unblinking. Though it isn't really Lady Stark, is it? Lady Stark’s true eyes are long dead, long clouded over. Sif knows this, but doesn't know how.

Just as she knows, in her bones, that she is speaking to some of the strongest parts of Sansa. The parts that would see her protected. They have kept her head on her shoulders, so far.

"Yes. She is. And she must learn to protect herself, alone. Parents die before their children. Retainers can be bought. Good men can turn evil. To be protected, truly, is to protect yourself."

She leans in. Every word she says is true. But so is this:

"I can show her how. I cannot promise to protect her forever, but I can promise that."

[ladysarmour]

"Very well," the lady says. Suddenly they are alone, the guards disappeared. Footsteps approach Sif from behind (and when she turns, Catelyn will be gone too).

A girl advances down the opposite length of the hall: small, dark and pale, clad in a simple dress of soft-spun wool. At her heels a wolf treads, immensely huge and brown as tree bark. "That's better than nothing," the girl says without preamble. Her face has a sullen, impertinent look. "She's completely useless as is."

[brosif]

Doubt, then. Or loathing. Or a space between the two. She fixes the girl with a curious look.

"Why do you name her useless?"

[ladysarmour]

"Because she is. She always has to be a polite, helpless little lady, and she thinks her life's some stupid song." There is nothing ladylike about this child: not the tangled, braided mess of unruly dark hair, nor the direct, insolent cast of her gaze, nor the way she walks, all heavy stick limbs with no amount of grace.

She walks past Sif and down the hall, the wolf a great savage shadow padding silently at her heels. "Are you coming or not? I'll leave you behind, don't think I won't."

[brosif]

Growing up, Sif often looked like Sansa at the start of the day and the girl before her by the end of it. She hated the things she was encouraged to adopt. Dresses, dolls, and songs. And she had no use for other girls that clung to them.

Time tempered that loathing. Showed her that it was not the dresses she hated, but the assumption that to wear one was to put aside all else. It took years to believe that she could be a warrior and a lady, and lose nothing in either.

This child has not had years. Alayne has not had years.

She follows.

"There are all sorts of songs in the world. Not all of them sweet."

[ladysarmour]

"You don't have to tell me that," she protests. "I'm not the stupid one."

They reach the end of the long hall, where a staircase winds its way up from the corner. The girl climbs quickly, the movements of someone not used to staying still, and her beast follows. The steps fall away beneath them.

[brosif]

Sif walks in time with the girl. She does not look behind her.

“I have seen how quickly your sister adapts. Stupid people are not capable of that.”

[ladysarmour]

"There's more she could do, but she hasn't got the courage."

They reach a door and stop.

"You can't save her. Nobody can."

[brosif]

She looks down at the child, but her tone and bearing still manages to place them as equals. It was how she preferred to be spoken to, as a girl. Something Frigga was always capable of.

"I have made no promises to save her. Only to help her try and save herself. Does she not deserve that chance?"