Winterfell

[Ollie]

Lord Olander studied the man before him for a brief moment before moment before rising to his feet.

"You are dismissed, Master Flea," he said bereft of tone.

[The Flint]

Flea spun on his heel, clearly unhappy about the outcome of this meeting.

"I hope you live up to your reputation," he muttered, as they departed the Northern keep's halls.

[Lord Rhaegar Targaryen]

Fifteen years later~

The sky was white with a sheet of clouds, though he knew no snow threatened the warm day. It was a beautiful day, he thought, with the evergreen trees standing tall and bright in the Godswood that could be seen not a half league from where Gariss sat.

Overlooking the training yard, watching his men spar and the young boys play at swords, he rested his head upon his knee, which was pulled up onto the ledge of the bridge. He rested his back against the wall where the bridge connected. He blew a strand of his hair out of his eyes to see better, though seconds later he was lost in thought again.

His head rests upon his knee

[Ollie]

Olander Reed tightened his coat about him as the chill touched his bones. The winter had faded long ago and it was a warm day even for the North, but the crypts of Wintefell would always be cold. With a quickened step, the crannogman strode down the length of the still tomb, all sound absent save for his own echoed footsteps. Not a soul had entered the crypts for nearly twenty years, but he still remembered exactly where it was -- where he was.

While his own face had aged in time, the stone visage confronting him hadn't changed at all. The candle in the crannogman's hand made for poor illumination, but after a moment, the torch sconce next to the tomb was burning eagerly.

"Hello Roose," Olander Reed spoke softly. "It has been quite the long time. It's summer now. I am sure you would have wanted to know that your son did see the return of summer."

The stone eyes stared back at him unchanging. They had been carved to match the proud smile etched on his face, the one he had worn that day in the yard at Moat Cailin. Behold your heir! he had proclaimed, The future Lord of Winterfell!

The memory echoed in his mind, just as the words he had spoken echoed down throughout the crypts. Olander paused for a long moment, studying the likeness of his former liege lord in the fickle torch flame.

"I saw him raised well," he said after a time. "He's strong with the sword, and clever when it comes to learning warfare, that much is easy to see. He struggles in his lordly duties at times, but Olenna will help him with that.

"Yes. Olenna my daughter. She and Gariss have married. She has my wits, for better or for worse," a grin came unbidden to his lips. "And she has her mother's spirit and kindness. Olenna will be a good wife to Gariss," the crannogman hesitated. "... She will. I promise you that Roose, I can at least promise you that. Together they will accomplish what you would not for lack of strength and I could not for lack of time. They will... I promise you that."

After he had left, Lord Olander could not have said how many minutes he had stood there, studying the cold, smiling stone face of Roose Stark. Memories wished or not came to him, thoughts of the lord he had served and the man he had killed, thoughts of the Old Gods, and what the must think of the man he had been, and the man he had become.

When he was done, Olander Reed hefted the light, scabbarded sword from the stone hands of the former Lord of Winterfell and tucked it in the crook of his arm. The torch he left to gut out by its own accord, and in the empty hands he placed a blade of shimmering bronze, writ with symbols unread in centuries. Some odd emotion panged in the Olander's chest as he walked away from the crypt of Roose Stark, the frozen faces of the hundreds of Lord Starks before him watching the crannogman as he left. They had seen his actions. They had heard his vows. And with them Roose Stark would remain, forever watching the world of mortal men from their dark, frozen crypt.

//////////

As he emerged into the blinding sunlight, Lord Reed had found the young Blackwood where he had left him, awaiting his foster father by the crypt entrance. "I apologize if was longer than you expected Lucas," he said, shifting the sword in the scabbard from one shoulder to the other. "I encountered more than just the blade down there. Now, let's go find Lord Stark."

The pair made their way past the gardens and crossed through the great hall before finding Gariss Stark overlooking the training yard. The Lord Reed called out to to not-so-young Wolf Pup and made his way over with Lucas in tow.

"Pondering the ways you could whip this lot into shape?" Olander suggested, nodding to the group of men training and resting the point of the scabbard on his polished black leather boot. "Or is the wolf sizing up his prey?"

[Lord Rhaegar Targaryen]

Looking up from his perch, Gariss set his eyes on Olander and Lucas, before a small smile broke across his face. It was a large as most smiles grew on his face, and rarely seen at that. "Hello, father."

He knew that this man was not his real father, and the thought always disturbed him in some small way. Though he had nothing else, and was not unhappy for it. When he was younger, he would often ask of his real father: 'What did he look like?', 'What color were his eyes?', 'Was he a good fighter?'-- the questions were endless. Some days, he would dare to ask maids and stableboys to take him into the crypts, afraid to go himself, but every time they refused. His curiousity only seemed to grow; until he himself grew.

After a time, Gariss stopped asking of his father, and stopped looking at the crypt while he passed. He learned to not dwell on the past, for it brought no good. Though whenever he thought of the life that could have been, a small pang of regret rings through his chest. Despite what he may tell himself and others, or how subtle it may be, he still compares himself to his father in most every deed.

"Hal is still too slow on the counter," he said tipping his chin towards a pair of young men, and answering Olander's question. They were no older than Gariss himself, though they were larger. "It's what undoes him everytime," he said, his smile turning into a small grin.

[Ollie]

"Is that so? You ought tell him so, Gariss, and show him how to improve. A lord is only as good as the men he leads," Olander nodded distractedly, and managed a brief look at the clanging swords. "You know, I..." the cannogman's attention flickered back to his young liege lord, "I have something for you."

"Here." Olander took the dark, simple wide scabbard in his hand and turned it over towards Gariss, offering him the elegantly crafted handle. The greatsword was wide, and nearly six feet long, yet the tiny crannogman held it as if it were as light as a dagger. "Take it, milord. This has been a long time due... It is yours, by rights."

As the Lord of Winterfell would draw the blade, he would find the metal to be rippled with dark, smoky whorls. "This was your fathers blade, your true father. Before him it was his uncle's, and before that his father's. And now, it is yours." The blade looked impossibly sharp, the steel felt cold to look at, even in the pleasant summer daylight. "Ice is yours, Lord Gariss."

[Horas]

Lucas Blackwood follows Lord Olander back to the training yard, watching the warriors keenly as they pass by. No longer does he crane his neck to get a better view of the fighting; in the last few months Lucas had finally topped his foster father in height, a fact he was immensely proud of. The skinny Blackwood boy stops with Olander before Gariss, offering a respectful, "M'lord," with a small smile and a nod.

Although Lucas was a ward of Winterfell and a follower of the Old Gods, he was still southron, and Gariss Stark was not his lord in truth. Even so, Lucas had come to respect Gariss deeply over the last five years, viewing him a bit like the older brother he never had. Though the Blackwood boy could be unruly and even rebellious at times, today his expression was serious, and he barely fidgeted at all. He had never seen House Stark's legendary sword before, but he had heard enough tales about it to understand the significance of passing the sword down to a new lord.

[Lord Rhaegar Targaryen]

"I shall remember that."
Nodding, he stole one last glance at the people fighting before he looked back to listen to the rest of what Olander had to tell him. He always listened intently to the words Olander had to say, for still he did not know everything that he could.

Confused at his father's words at first, wondering what sort of gift could be overdue, he tilted his head, trying to get some clue as to what this was about. Then his eyes fell upon the scabbard he held. He knew at once what it was, for the hilt. He used to admire the sword from afar when he was younger, though never dared to do any more.

A part of him froze, his heartbeat sped, his eyes widened slightly then became unmoving, fixed upon what was being presented. The words that followed after he can remember, but at the time, he could only make faint recognition. If his shock and surprise showed through his mask, he did not know. He put his hands forth, and waited for Olander to place the sword into his hands, before bringing it closer to his chest.

Slowly drawing the blade, he admired the craftsmanship in it, ran a finger upon the flat of the blade, and then gripped the hilt. It fit perfectly. A distorted and dark reflection of Gariss shone in the blade, and he felt like he was seeing himself for the first time.

He sheathed the blade, stood and looked to his father. "Thank you. I shall see to it that my ancestors, nor yours are disappointed."

[Ollie]

"I wouldn't expect any less of you," he said with a smile, surrendering the plain scabbard to his foster son. For a brief moment it looked as though Olander had more to say, but the expression passed just as quick as it had came.

"I am leaving in the morning, Gariss. Lucas and I are stopping at Raventree Hall to treat with his father. Will I see you in King's Landing, or are you and Olenna too busy to attend the Princess's betrothal?" the crannogman asked with a grin.

[Lord Rhaegar Targaryen]

Gariss smiled for a moment, though it faded quickly. "I know it is my duty to go, but I do not like such events. It is all drinking, and fighting, and tournies. I have other things I would much rather take care of. I was going to ask you for your opinion on the matter. "

[Horas]

"What's wrong with drinking and fighting?" Lucas pipes in, a bit cheekily.

[Ollie]

Olander clicked his tongue at the young Blackwood. "The strong lord drinks with his men to keep their spirits high and to the memories of the fallen. A weak lord will drink until red in the face and unable to stand. A strong lord fights for honor and glory. A weak lord will fight for vanity and greed. Do not mistake the difference between the two, Lucas. Lord Gariss's apprehension is well founded; we are like to find more of the latter in the Landing."

[Lord Rhaegar Targaryen]

"So what do you say? Should I go. If I do, I will not be competing in this tourney anyways. Perhaps I should go to at least meet this King. I would like to see him for myself; all I have is what you have told me of him. Though..." he pauses to reconsider, for his wife came to mind.

[Horas]

"Yes, Lord Olander," Lucas says, looking suitably chastened.

[Lord Rhaegar Targaryen]

Gariss gave Lucas a small smile of support, before turning his gaze upon the Lord of the Neck once again.