┏━ tribulation.
( SCENE 3 ) ━┛

ISMENE drifted over the muddiness of Winterfell's courtyard with the tresses of her grey dress clutched in her fisted hand. With each step, the mud squished under her boots, causing her to sneer at the thought of her gown being ruined. Not far ahead, in the training area of the yard, Jon, Robb, and her handsome twin brother Darik were showing their younger brother Bran how to shoot a bow, something they been trying to do for a long time. As she neared them, the older of the four turned as she wandered up. Darik flashed her a grin, coming to meet her in an embrace. She returned it without letting her dress fall to the ground.

After they pull apart, she embraces Robb, then Jon. "I see you're attempting to teach our little brother again?" She jests with amusement. Her little brother is struggling to pull back on the string of the long bow as they all look over.

Darik rolls his eyes at her, which she returns with a flashy and playful smile. "I happen to be quite a skilled bowman," he replies with a playful sneer.

As Ismene turns to watch the spectacle before them unfold, she already knows what is going to happen: Bran will fail to even pull back the string, causing him to stomp away once he has had enough. It happens every time the older boys try teaching him anything that is remotely challenging and Ismene had been a witness at most.

"Go on, Bran, mother and father are watching. Let them see what we've been working on," Darik coaxes from her side.

Bran, seeming to have a sense of confidence, miraculously manages to yank the string back enough that the arrow might have a chance of at least hitting the target. All too quickly, though, his arms are unable to bare the strain and he looses control. The arrow is accidentally let loose and whizzes over the cobblestone wall just behind the target. The boys laugh, but Ismene manages to stay quiet at the sake of her little brother's dignity.

"And which one of you was a marksman at ten?" Their father speaks up in a slightly scolding tone. Robb and Jon, who had previously been chuckling, immediately quieted. "Keep practicing, Bran."

Knowing that his words were not directed at her, she glances up at the wooden balcony above to see her step-mother, father, and Kaela gazing down on them with proud smiles. Catelyn was an aged beauty, with her Tully blue eyes and cascading auburn ringlets which Sansa had wholeheartedly inherited. Ismene envied the color, as she and Darik had been born of another, a northerner.

Before the Rebellion started, their father had been briefly married to different woman, her own namesake: Ismene Ryswell. Bringing she and Darik into the world had been too much, for childbirth claimed her young life. Ned was left a widow, until the time of war came and House Stark's alliance with the Riverlands resulted in his marriage to Catelyn Tully. The woman embraced her new husbands motherless children and took it upon herself to raise them as her own. She was their mother through and through, even if not by birth.

As she looks up, she returns their warms gazes with a wink, her lips pulled into a smirk. She then looks back to Bran, who is attempting to notch another arrow in the bow.

"Don't think too much, Bran," Robb advises at his side. Ismene watches as her younger brother helps Bran position the weapon properly.

As Robb backs away, Darik motions for him to raise the bow and then he adjusts his arm. "Relax your bow arm, you're too stiff."

Bran gave a nod, and just as he was about to release the arrow, another soared by and hit the bullseye. Ismene is quick to look for the source, ultimately finding it to be their youngest sister Arya. She was perched near the weapons rack with a bow in hand and a mocking grin playing at her lips. Bran immediately drops his bow when she curtsied mockingly and the two engage in a playful chase.

The older four are left chuckling in amusement. Ismene shakes her head as she grins, watching them disappear a crossed the court yard. Once gone, they are replaced with the approaching master of Arms Ser Rodrick and the ward Theon Greyjoy.

"There's been a deserter spotted by the guardsmen not far outside of Winterfell," the older man tells them in his heavily accented voice, more directing the statement at the young men rather than the dainty Ismene. "Your father's wants you all to be there."

"I'll fetch Bran," Jon offers before jogging away. Watching him leave, she then looks back to her twin. Darik holds a conflicted gaze, knowing all to well what was to become of Deserters. His lips form a solid line as he runs a hand through his dirty blonde hair.

"Very well," Darik replies, reaching to the ground to grab the bow Bran had thrown down. As he shoved it onto the weapons rack, he let a heavy sigh escape his lips. "We'll be ready shortly."

With that, Ser Rodrick and Theon give a nod and begin to walk away. Once gone, Robb gave them a weak smile before following them toward the stables. "He needs to see it eventually," Robb murmurs as he walks away. Ismene gives him a weak frown as they are left alone before turning to her twin.

"I know why it must be done," Ismene says with a sigh. "I just don't think Bran is ready. He's too young."

Darik crosses his arms and looks down to her. "If father thinks he is ready, then he is," he replies to her as if there was no reason to question whether such a young boy should see such things.

Knowing there was no way of getting Bran out of it, she decides a simple nod in understanding will end the matter. "Well, just be careful while you are outside of the walls. Once you get back, find me."

He nods before wrapping an arm around her in a half embrace. As they pull away, she is left watching her brother walk a crossed the court yard and toward the stables.

❆

"ISMENE!" Catelyn called, catching the girl's attention. Ismene had been making her way a crossed the wooden balcony, toward the entrance to the keep when her mother's voice caused her to reel around. Seeing her she was coming her way, Ismene paused to allow her to catch up. As they continued on side by side, they fell into step together as a leisurely pace.

"What is it, mother?" Ismene inquired.

Catelyn seems as if there is something that needs to be talked about. Ismene can tell just in the way that her thin lips are pulled into a tight line and her furrowed brow. She begins to worry about what her mother has to say and how it might affect the rest of her day. They are nearing the stairs before pulling to the railing to speak.

"Your father and I..." her mother begins, seeming as if she were trying to be careful with her words. "Tonight, after supper, he and I would like to speak to you."

At first, she doesn't seem to think it will be all to bad. "You mean Darik and I?" She asks naively. In her mind, she thought there would be no other answer but yes. Nearly every conversation she'd had with her parents had always involved her twin. They did just about everything together and she expected nothing less.

To Ismene disbelief, Catelyn shakes her head. They meet gazes, her mother's piercing blue eyes focusing on her dark. "No. You alone. There is a matter that is to be discussed with you alone." Ismene's heart sinks as commotion in the court yard below signifies the return of the boys and their father. With one last glance, her mother pulls away leaving Ismene's heart lurching in her throat.

She can't help but think: what have I done wrong? It's a question that she knew would follow her around the rest of the day until the impending conversation she was scheduled to have after supper. It was going to eat her alive, and she knew it. Despite worry playing itself in her heart, she forces herself to make her way down the wooden steps and out onto the muddy courtyard.

As she made her way toward the group of dismounting riders and horses, she saw the her brother sliding off of his courser near the edge. She wanted to tell him immediately about what had just occurred, but the strange site of a lumpy side bag carefully being shouldered onto his shoulder has her cocking a brow in curiosity.

Wandering up, she can't take her eyes away from the bag. "What might that be?" She questions, not even able to utter a greeting as her eyes are trained on the weirdly shaped bag. She meets gazes with Darik, seeing an ecstatic grin appearing on his lips.

One of the other guardsmen is kind enough to take his horse for him, leaving him open to show Ismene was was inside. Reaching a hand inside the bag that hung on his shoulder, he slowly and carefully pulled out a little ball of silver fur.

At first, she thinks it is only the product of one of their traps having caught a hare. She wanted to swat it away in disgust and scold him for teasing her, but he turns the bundle to reveal a little face and gleaming golden eyes. She can't tear her eyes away as her words are inexpressible.

It was a wolf pup. Not just a wolf, but a dire wolf.

"Is that—?" She begins, not able to fully finish her sentence. Without having to reply with words, Darik is quick to nod in excitement. After handing the silver bundle to her, he then gingerly pulls out a furry black bundle from the bag to reveal a midnight pelted pup as well.

"We found them squabbling at the belly of their dead mother," he informs her. "They were orphaned after she was struck down by a stag. Father only allowed us to keep them at the condition that we care for them ourselves. I decided on the ride home I'd name mine Luna. She's a beauty, isn't she?" He held the pup up by the scruff of its neck. He then nodded to hers as he pulled the pup back to be held in his arms. "Yours is male. What do you think you'll name it?"

As she looked down on the animal, she thought of all the names the could possibly conjure. Some were too bland while others would be a mouthful. Remembering a tale that Old Nan had told them long ago, a myth about a wolf, she decided it would be a perfect name.

"Fenrir," she decided, thinking the name fit the dire-wolf well enough. It was masculine enough and it felt familiar to her. Looking between her and her brothers new companions, her worry disappeared momentarily.

❆

WHENEVER Ismene finds herself worried or bored, she tends to be anxiously brushing her hair. With the worry coursing through her mind, it manifests itself into habitual fidgets and ticks that take over thoughts. Perched on the edge of bed with a brush clasped in her hand, she worked diligently to brush through the freshly dampened waves of her chocolate brown hair. Behind her, Fenrir slept soundly whilst covered in layers of woolen blankets.

Even though she was overjoyed at receiving a new companion, she was due to talk to her parents soon. The thought of what it may be about had her completely on edge. The only thing that was keeping her somewhat at bay was the thought that she hadn't done anything questionable in a very long time and the lulling feeling of the tugging of her hair as she brushed it.

Being able to run her fingers through her hair effortlessly, she found that there was nothing else to be brushed. It had been a considerably long time since supper had ended and she came to the conclusion that there was no more stalling. Rising to her feet in an effort not to wake the sleeping pup beside her, she slipped out of her chambers and made her way a crossed the chilly Keep toward her parents quarters.

When she finally arrived at their door, her heart pounded in her chest. She paced back and forth momentarily, hoping that they might have forgotten that they needed to talk to her at all. Deciding that the anticipation was going to kill her, her knuckles lightly rasped against the thick, solid door. Moments later, it opened to reveal her father.

"Hello dear," he greets. He held a warm gaze as he pulled the door open to allow her to enter. As she stepped inside, she decided quickly that she needed to take a seat, otherwise she was going to topple over with anxiety. Her mother was seated at their table that was flanked by the fire place, where a blazing fire made the room rather warm. Patting the seat next to her, she was coaxed to take a seat.

When the three were finally sitting, Ismene felt the tension in the air was thicker than ever. She kept her gaze adverted.

"I know that this may seem sudden and rather unconventional," her father begins in the most calming tone he can muster. It doesn't help the fact that Ismene feels as if she is going to pass out from anxiety. "But there is a matter that we have put off as long as we can. Far longer than we should have."

Catelyn looks to her with kind blue eyes. "We believe it is time that you move on."

Ismene's brow raises as she looks between them both. "Move on? What do you mean?"

Ned, understanding that the situation most likely wasn't going to take an easy route, sighs heavily and clasps his hands together with his elbows on the table. He focuses his grey eyes on her.

"My dear, you are well passed your first flower," her father mentioning her feminine body functions has her cheeks flushing with heat. "You are ready to have a husband and you are ready to begin a family."

She freezes in place. Her breathing stood as well as she begins to understand why they had wanted to speak with her. She feels herself growing weak as she realizes that her life is about to drastically change.

"We do believe that you are aware of your betrothal to Lord Estemore's heir," Catelyn goes on. "He has written us continuously in the past moon. He believes his son is ready to marry and he asked that we commence with the promise."

Ismene knows she should be upset with them, for dropping it on her as if it wasn't going to have any effect. She can't be angry, though, because she spent the better part of her life knowing. They weren't telling her something she didn't know would happen one day. She knew it would happen sooner or later.

"When," she utters, her voice barely over a whisper. "When will this commence?"

"Lord Estemore and your intended will arrive in but a day," her father replies. "We will hold the wedding here, in the garden. We thought it would be the best place for you."

Though she is still comprehending it all, she nods her head in understanding. She was to be a married woman in but days.