Chapter One: A New Thread In The Song
The Song of Ice and Fire sings, and Ages come and pass, leaving memories that become legend. Legend fades to myth, myth fades to fable, fable fades to fairytale, fairytales fade to stories from the village Wisdom, which in turn fade back into legend and then back into myth again. But even myth is long forgotten when the Song that gave it birth comes again. In one Age, called the Third Age by some, an Age yet to come, an Age long past, a wind rose in the Fist of the First Men. The wind was not the beginning. There are neither beginnings nor endings to the singing of the Song of Ice and Fire. But it was a beginning.
Born below the ever cloud-capped peaks of the Fist of the First Men, the wind blew South, whipping through the snow laden pine needles of the Haunted Forest, just barely missing Castle Black, and then down it flailed into Winterfell, where it russled the cloak of Eddard Stark, who was preparing for an execution. eddard's cloak was of the finest material suitable for a lord of his stature, but weathered by the icy wind. It was dark brown and lined with fur. The fur was white flecked with black, from a wolf he had slain while hunting with a knife he had procured from the smithy. The knife he'd chosen was a simple knife with a very sharp blade. The tunic beneath his cloak was of the same color, and bore three buttons. The lowest button was left open, according to the fashion of Winterfell. He rode past the houses in the village surrounding Winterfell. He saw the tiles on the rooftop varied from house to house. One of the buildings had red roof tile that glittered in the sunlight, while smoke poured from the chimney.
His wife Catlyn had scoffed at him that morning. "How very like a typical wooley headed man, my husband is, off to one of his executions," she had said, sniffing and tugging her braid. Men are all the same, thinking they can solve every problem by lopping their swords around, she thought, tugging her braid again and again. Why can't they be rational and intelligent like women? She sipped on her hot tea and reminisced some more about the folly of the opposite sex. The tea warmed her to the bone, and the steam from the teacup rose into the cold air in graceful spirals. Then she opened herself to Saidar, like a beautiful flower floating down a serene river of tranquility. Just because it felt good, almost as good as kissing and cuddling with Ned. Oh how she loved to kiss and cuddle with him, despite his wooley headedness.
OK, I can't do this anymore.. copying RJ is making my head hurt!
Edited by eyeheartsansa, 15 April 2012 - 12:08 AM.