Best Served Cold

And on this day the winter was particularly cold. That's how it always was, as far as Cassius could remember. It was hard discerning the cold days from the frigid up North, but eve's of executions often brought about the worst weather. Perhaps the Old Gods were simply sending a message, smothering the land beneath them and providing the guilty with another reason to remain humble and pure. From an early age Cassius had come to bare witness to the executions of men, from those that defied the Old Golds with thievery or kinslaying, to those that openly defied the decrees of the Lord Paramount of the North.

Much like he did to his children, it was ingrained in his mind from an early age the importance of such an event. Such an importance was never lost of him, even as he aged and became the man that dealt the verdicts and the hand that fulfilled its edicts. Still, there was never a single instance where he enjoyed taking the life of another, no matter their crime or indiscretions. Today was yet another day that pained him dearly, though his countenance remained stalwart and empty of emotion. To his side was his oldest child Jeren and accompanied on his flank was the newest ward of Winterfell, a youth that had only entered his domain a fortnight ago - or at least what felt like one. In reality it had been a couple weeks, but time felt like a nonexistent thing when winters such as cold as this one dragged on for so long.

"Silence." He said, the iciness that licked his words enough to freeze any thought Aerys or Jeren had to continue their exchange while within his presence. It was neither the time nor place to discuss such matters, not with another man's death growing nigh. As the members of Winterfell pooled to the side, men, women and children all among those that came to bare witness to the execution, Cassius moved from his position next to his kin. His pace forward was slow, deliberate. It almost seemed like he was contemplating changing his mind before his feet managed to bring him to the podium where his guardsmen held his prisoner, but there was not enough sun in the day nor distance in Winterfell that would have provided him with enough time to do so.

By the time he managed to reach center stage the guardsmen had ushered themselves off of it, leaving Cassius with his prisoner. The people of Winterfell were not aware of the man's crime nor of his identity, for his face was obscured with a large wool sack to prevent him from seeing or knowing what was about to happen. It wasn't a customary tradition for such a thing, especially for those that did not deserve it. But the eldest Stark was neither cruel nor apathetic, having enacted the practice since the first day he took leadership of the North.

His gait forward reached it's conclusion by the time he stood next to the masked man. No longer held down, he fidgeted beneath the fear of what was to come; shaking and trembling, neither of which ceased even as Cassius' cold hands gripped and removed the parchment that concealed his face. There, sweating and tears pooling from the crevices of his eyes, laid a man most in Winterfell knew well. Edrick Stark, former regent Lord of the North, brother to Adonis Stark— Uncle and Great-Uncle to Cassius and all of his children respectively.

The very man that had ruled Winterfell after the untimely death of his brother.

Freedom of joy was an illusion during such events. Emotion was as deadly as steel to the heart, for both led to one the stranger when situations called for a more focused approach. As such, expressing oneself became an absent fabrication of his past. Jeren, over the course of his long life, had accompanied his father to a number of executions, and as each head was hewed away, a piece of his humanity in such times chipped away as well. An iron-forged stomach and rock-sturdy soul were the only qualities that made such travesties tolerable.

As Cassius pulled away the wool bag, nonetheless, it became more evident that repressing emotion wasn’t absolute in the human condition.

“U-uncle Edrick…” through windows of now trembling citrine, Jeren looked on at the sight of a battered wolf. The man who had taught the boy the art of horseback now kneeled before the warden of the north, though circumstances were far more grim than expected. Not pledging fealty, or presenting tribute, the lord regent sat bereft of strength and stripped of honor as Ice readied to act as his harbinger to the unknown.

Tightened knuckles trembled violently beneath the shroud of black drapes as Jeren looked on with confused eyes. Ignoring the words of his pseud –kin, Aerys found his through toward the irritation that planed over his features. ‘What is the meaning of this?’ musing to himself, the heir apparent, wise not to challenge his father, stood, absent of the calm he once displayed. A brother to one of Winterfell’s greatest leaders and elder-folk to Cassius, the one who life was gifted to death eventually had only known the acclaim of the North. What had transpired? What heinous crime did he commit?

The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword.

The boy was merely growing into his youth now, the snow soon to be muddied by blood. Edder was not always present when it came time for the Lord of Winterfell to see out a execution. He didn’t believe it best for a wolf to see blood early on as a pup. When little innocence was left of him had to be preserved before the time came for him to be a man. This one however was an event of such magnitude that the young stark had to stand among the crowd.

Much like the rest of the family and the crowd, Edder eyes grew wide and gasped in astonishment. For what crimes could his great-uncle have done to deserve a beheading? The young Stark’s mind reeled and contemplated their time spent together. Recalling to the times of his great uncle huddling his grand nieces and nephews, how he was kind and forthright… it all was so confusing. What had the once Ruler of Winterfell done to be met with the end of Ice? Much like his cousins, Edder turned still with his mouth agape looking to his uncle Cassius for a explanation that all of Winterfell needed.

Jeren was prepared to lead. He was primed to enter battle at any given moment. To care for others was second nature to the young wolf. Cassius’s eldest child was ready for a number of situations, nonetheless, nothing could’ve prepared him for what would follow.

A loyal member of House Stark, Edrick’s resolve was has persistent as the wall, and mind as nimble as the grand wolves that decorated their crest. Legends of his victories were wide-spread and his contribution to their capital’s longevity was unparalleled. Still, as the man spoke in a defeated tone, it became very clear: Heroes weren’t always as they were painted. The stories of his younger cousins and their passing were still so fresh in everyone’s mind. Jeren could smell Lysna’s attar this very moment. A heartrending event, the boy only knew the perception from a relative’s vantage. One could only fathom what a father felt.

To dishonor guest right was to piss on the honor of all kingdoms as the practice existed well before the iron throne. Regardless of circumstance, the result was to remain consistent. Taboo in the eyes of the old gods, Edrick had defiled everything that was Stark. He who passes sentence should swing the sword—Cassius was charged with executing his brother for a reason no father should stray from. Jeren’s mind immediately morphed in thought; would his father face the blade for them, like their uncle did for his children?

Ayden had spoke, and even the snow-haired ward inquired. Jeren, nonetheless, remained still as Ice materialized in the hands of his father.

The end was nigh, and his soul wept, still, Jeren made to do more. “Father….” he exclaimed, still stoic in posture.

“He who passes the sentence,” A sole tear crept along his cheek from eye. As human as it was to care, a king had to instruct. Heavy was the head that wore the crown.