Since this RP is kind of inactive I’m going to use the account for another RP, on a different blog. This post is just to let any people from the TWW RP know that if I followed you from here, follow me back @our-lady-of-mercy.
THAT WOULD BE AMAZING. Maybe Cat and Ned have come to Bear Hall before, to visit Jorah / because idk they were in bfn Scotland, and they met/connected then?
That sounds good to me (if it sounds good to Ned)! A Ned and Jorah connection might also be useful *shrugs*, just something to think about.
For dropping off yet again! I’ll catch up tomorrow morning!
Kait and I established last night that Rickard Stark & Jeor Mormont were military friends & that Jorah spent a couple summers at Winter Hall in his youth & they’ve kept in touch over the yrs. Not sure of extent yet.
I’d really like a way to work in a Maege-Cat connection to go with their rapport from the books.
At some point soon I need to establish Cat’s/the Starks’ relationships with:
I know I’ve kind of chit-chatted about some of it but don’t be surprised if I attack your ask boxes some time in the near future. I’m assuming the upper echelons of the aristocracy are at some level of acquaintance but I’m just thinking about the “northern” families first for now.
Also wondering if @pbaelish-esq, @ladyarryn and @bryndenblackfish will be around to chit chat this week about setting up stuff?
He says, “Yes,” and begins to step away from the conversation. There seems little else to say, yet he can’t help feeling all these words hanging between them have resolved into nothing. He wonders if they’ll find something—anything—before he leaves for the train.
“I’ve my orders, Cat. I’m to be in London immediately. I’m told the house in town has been put in order. It shouldn’t be much of an inconvenience.”
He says, “You could be there tomorrow. We’ll hardly be parted at all,” and he clenches his jaw.
And will they let me go to Berlin with you when the time comes?
She finds one of her smiles for him, one of the brighter ones, and nods. “Yes, there is a tomorrow, after all. And I’ve thought to visit Lysa as well, although — oh dear, I’ll probably have to get on my knees and beg her about the dogs. Little Robert won’t abide with them and Rickon won’t abide without. All said, it might be a week, if we make a proper visit of it, and we may as well now, shouldn’t you think?”
She presses his hand in hers, the one with the most ink she can spy, and leans in to kiss his cheek. “And I shall sort out the business with Sansa, whenever it is that we’re there. Just try to remember that she isn’t so little any more, alright my love?”
She turns with her finger up in the air, the way she does when she’s giving Gage the lunch list, and wonders if it is better or worse to die knowing that your absence would shatter everything. Ascending the white staircase back up to her room of letters she considers the ink on her hands, today’s allowance for what bit of him she might keep.
Ned says, “I,” and he watches as his wife moves to turn away. There’s a window high in the wall; sunlight shines through it, dim against the dark paneling. The shafts of grey light catch in Cat’s hair and the fingers on his left hand twitch.
He says, “I’ve to pack still. And I have to clean my hands. I’ll send for Hullen after.”
He says, “You’ll be joining me in London, then?”
Unbidden, an eyebrow arches up just enough for her to have to reign it back down. “I had just assumed …”
But it’s a silly assumption, if she thinks about it. Europe is on the edge of obliteration and London will hardly care if Major Eddard Stark’s wife has time to pack her parasol. What a novice you are, Lysa might say, as if loving men who put bullets in other men for a livelihood was the new fashion from Italy.
“Oh I do see.”
Ned’s hands are covered with ink, and she had wanted to fluster but a moment ago about how he always expects all of them to be ready at a hat’s drop, and now all she can think is how ink looks much too much like blood for her liking.
“You mean you’ll be leaving right now, then. This hour.”
They are questions, but only as a matter of formality.
Hi guys - it’s Cassie here…just trying to do some clean-up while Laurel is gone so everything’s nice and shiny when she gets back.
It looks like the following characters don’t have official profiles yet: Alysane Mormont, Jorelle Moront, Willas Tyrell, Sam Tarly, Ramsay Boelter, Arthur Dayne, Arianne Martell and Maege Mormont. In addition, Meera Reed’s profile needs to be redone. I will try to get these taken care of soon. If there’s anyone I missed on there, please let me know.
I’m also making a Face Claim page at the request of a couple of you, with all current and reserved FCs. I’ve tried to get everyone’s FCs, but unfortunately I’m not familiar with all of the actors everyone’s chosen.
The following are characters whose FCs I was unsure of: Arthur Dayne, Ashara Dayne, Roslin Frey, Elia Martell, Jeyne Poole, Nymeria Sand, Sarella Sand, Tyene Sand, Rhaegar Targaryen, Sam Tarly and Willas Tyrell. If you guys could reply with your FC or leave a note in the ask, I’d appreciate it. Thank you!!
If there’s anything else that anyone needs taken care of, please let me know.
Could you replace Catelyn’s FC with this image? I changed FC’s a little after joining. Sorry for any inconvenience! If you want me to make the graphic I can take a crack but it probably won’t match.
for answer the call, an asoiaf wwi au
Then there had been that morning, late August in ninety-six, when the telegram came announcing that the last fire was sounded at 6:40, thirty-eight minutes after the war had started. They had all crossed the Channel anyway, she and Ned and their boy, who’d seen fit to lose his little cap on the Dover beach somewhere. They bought him a new one in Calais, and sweets wrapped in paper, and lace that the drawing room didn’t really need. One evening she and her husband had learned how to waltz à deux temps on the lawn where Napoleon’s army had camped, crafting an invasion that’d grown obsolete before it could ever happen, and she had felt so young, much younger than she could remember being before.
He’d placed the bag at his feet and now clutches the letter with two hands, reading and re-reading the neat little phrases; with each passing second his molars grind closer together, the paper crinkles further, and small smears of ink slide across the words, dragged over the clean surface by his filthy fingers.
What is it about this shifting weather, these wickedly blowing winds? The shadow of war has grown well past a rumor and a threat: hanging now so thick he can reach out and feel its deathly chill, summer or no. And with it, a summons. New orders, new duties. And a legion of ghosts dredged up from the murky depth of his past—of Cat’s. Is it the swarm of chaos circling? The scent of blood? Or just sheer, dumb luck: ill-timed misfortune that’s forced this host of letters like a murder of crows to pluck and peck at his reason.
He snaps the letter taut between his hands. There’s no use in such juvenile, idiotic indulgences, he knows. Even still, he can’t quite let go the sense of unease tugging at the back of his mind. It’s not right, he thinks; a war on one front should bring peace on another, at least. But it never does.
It never does.
And he doesn’t know what to do about Sansa any more than he ever has. Ned can’t see any reason to accept the offer made by Peter Baelish. He doesn’t see any reason to trust Peter or to like him, and Ned’s sure he can’t think of any reason to send his daughter to see Peter. But Cat’s always thought highly of him and Sansa’s always been a mystery.
And Ned needs to leave. He needs to pack.
He has his orders.
He’s seconds from crumpling the letter up in a ball and throwing it across the hall and damn Peter and damn Ashara and damn Elia but he looks up at Cat looking at him and he hands the letter back to her, crumpled and smeared with ink.
He doesn’t know what to say.
He doesn’t know what to do.
“I have to go, Cat,” he says, and his voice is quiet, almost a whisper, but rough around the edges. “They want me back in London; they want me there now.”
He drops his gaze and picks up his duffel bag.
He says, “I don’t know what to do about Sansa,” and he doesn’t meet Cat’s eyes.
Then you should not have answered my question with a question, she does not say. One of the disadvantages of a successful marriage is how difficult it becomes to remain inscrutable to one’s mate; or at least, so it is for her. Cat has no illusions that Ned won’t note her irritation, but it won’t inconvenience him too much, she’s sure.
“So it seems.” She does not clarify to which of his statements she’s responding. “Well, I shall call on him when we get to the city, you won’t have to worry too much over it then. I’ll go tell Mordane to pack the boys’ things, Jeyne will help me and we can send back later for everything we can’t manage now. Have you already called Hullen up?”
Something in her husband’s dark grey eyes catches her as she goes to turn. She feels hasty, and suddenly she wishes they were upstairs together, or lost in some bypath in the garden, or in the middle of a Paris arrondissement where no one knew their names, instead of here in the hallway of the great Stark estate standing with their irreproachable postures.