It is currently WINTER in WESTEROS during the year 303 AC. The new moon cycle marks a full twenty years since the Mad King was murdered, and his son King Rhaegar ascended the Iron Throne in his place. Though the year is fresh, war in the Narrow Sea has left the Free Cities of Volantis and Tyrosh in ashes, and the Long Night continues to beckon from the Northern fringes of the Seven Kingdoms. With the Queen Lyanna presumed dead, the citizens of the realms look only to each other for survival.
[x] SURPRISE! Please enjoy our new skin, and let the staff know if you find any bugs! (Shelbs accidentally overwrote the old skin and posted this too soon so it's entirely possible the dumbass she forgot some things!)
[x] THE FATE OF TYRION LANNISTER HAS BEGUN! Mass thread HERE! If you play a character that has been selected as judge, please join in asap! Otherwise the thread is open to all wanting to participate!
[x] Keep an eye out for a new mini-event we have been planning! The bloodshed fun is never over!
[x] As always... we are in need of MALE characters!
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 Posted: Jun 13 2018, 09:18 PM
Shelbs is Offline
66 years old
House Targaryen
House Stark

Was it the frost that lined the windows of their bedchamber, or was it the frost over his heart that made Rickard feel almost immune to the warm clutches of his wife’s embrace? The hot springs coursed through the stone walls around them as his own manhood coursed between her thighs, yet he could feel the heat of neither of them no matter how powerful the water or deep his thrusts. Having let the heavy coverlets of fur and wool fall away from them, Rickard’s silent lovemaking continued to gently rock their bed on its posters, his eyes closed and head lowered into the crook of her neck. Though he plunged without interruption in and out of her, as he had done for many years past, the Warden’s mind was deceivingly elsewhere. Try as he might, his sighs came infrequently and quietly, and he made no move to show his wife any further affection beyond the movements between her thighs. Past the falling snow outside and the dark corners of the Wolfswood, his mind raced and wandered until it was only his climax that finally forced him back into the present, spilling himself within Lyarra’s womb and at last falling still atop her.

He still said nothing, rolling to the empty space beside her, emitting a low groan that seemed to reverberate through the mattress beneath them. A steady breath filled his chest and he rested his hand upon the inside of her thigh, solid grey eyes staring at nothing but the wood and stone ceiling above. For long moments he laid like this, listening only to the sound of their breathing and the hearth crackling nearby, perhaps even the slow rushing sound of the water through the walls, wondering not for the first time how he had gotten here. As lord, husband and father, it seemed as if one day as a young boy he closed his eyes and, suddenly, here he was… Rickard was still not sure he was so proud of it all. How could he? Lyarra and Benjen were not even resting in Winterfell’s crypts, if he could not do his own children that honor, what else was he possibly good for? Lyarra’s resentment, as well, was palpable enough beside him, emanating from every rivet and curve from her body even as he’d been inside of it. Though her arms and legs touched his own as they laid there, he felt as if not only the two empty tombs of their children remained between them, but the entire North itself.

Perhaps it was.

With a deeper sigh than he’d shown during his lovemaking, Rickard rose from the bed, journeying wordlessly over to where his flagon of supper’s ale still sat. He drank greedily, the bone in his throat bobbing with every swallow, and the belch that erupted after tasted only of the thick black drink itself. As bare as his nameday he stood before the hearth, the pale glow of his muscled form warming before the orange flames whilst the ale warmed the parts the fire could not reach. Still his thoughts troubled him, coupled with the brooding silence in his bed, Rickard knew it would not be long before peace was disrupted at his wife’s behest. “You have barely spoken to me for days,” he finally noted, the sound of his voice surprisingly rough against the softer, more serene noises of their bedchamber. Pouring himself another cup of ale, again he did not hesitate to tilt it down the back of his throat, and only turned to face her once it was nearly emptied a second time. Though the hour was late, late enough for most of Winterfell to be long in their beds, their room glowed with candles and torches that gave Rickard a clear view of his pale Lady Stark. Even his still-softening manhood seemed to glisten from the moisture left behind. “I presume that only means you have much to say.”
 Posted: Jun 14 2018, 09:10 PM
Stormie is Offline
60 years old
Lady of Winterfell

She had been surprised when Rickard had joined her in their rooms. It had been at least a week since they had talked properly. Lyarra did not appreciate being lied to and she knew Rickard's lies forwards and backwards. After 44 years of marriage, you would think that he would know better. But men were always wayward and flighty about the truth. It was like when her sons had caused trouble and tried to lie to her. Lyarra was very good at deciphering the truth from her male counterparts. Rickard's lack of answer was almost as bad as if he denied it. He had a lover. Within the walls of Winterfell while she was here. Living. It had felt like a knife had stabbed her through the heart only to retract and stab again. Still she had given him a small smile and when he initiated their intimacy she had complied like a dutiful wife.

Their sex was far from normal, usually it was a few positions and she actually enjoyed him touching her. It was easy to see that neither of them were really enjoying it but Lyarra somewhat appreciated the effort. Finally when it was over, she breathed a sigh of relief. She felt his hand touch the inner part of her thigh and it was everything she could to not flinch. Her eyes scan the ceiling for anything to take her mind of it all. Their distance was like the distance from the North to the Crownlands. She was so unsure of how this had happened.

He groans and gets up, chugging down the ale from supper. Her eyes roam his body, and she feels the familar pang of desire and lust. She sits up, a leg curling up to her chest and her hands folded on one knee. She considers him for a moment longer before his gruff voice breaks their silence. It seemed with only the ale in his system did he have the courage to face her. She pitied him a bit. The Warden of the North was a heavy burden, but no heavier than being one of the last Starks or the loss of their children. She had spent time in Winterfell alone, keeping the place running. She had born children while he was away. Her own hardships were different but no less important. She had remained faithful. She was no Cersei Baratheon if the rumors were to be believed.

The Lady of Winterfell stands and moves towards her husband before kissing him chastely. "I have little to say when the only replies would be lies." Her voice was tired, and defeated though strong enough to show that she was still a wolf. Her hands take his flagon and takes a few gulps of the dark liquid. The burn on her throat made her feel warmer than the crackling fire. She wipes her lips with the back of her hand before resting it on his chest for a moment. It's only then that she walks to the chair where her evening clothes had been laid out by Marianne earlier in the evening to redress. She watches him as her fingers play with the threads, her mind debating on actually having the discussion or letting the notions keep into her head and not out in the air where they could be confirmed or denied. "Besides, I'm sure you have your mistress to attend to, I wouldn't want to keep you from her..." Let's call a spade, a spade. She'd confront him directly, put a name to her fears and suspicions and watch him for a reaction. "But if you think you can replace me like a Lady Frey, you have another thing coming." It wasn't just about the position, it was about him. She was just as madly in love with him as she was when they were teenagers just taking the mantle of Lord and Lady Winterfell.
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