┏━ tribulation.
( SCENE 15 ) ━┛

THE village below Lakewell Keep became more enticing with each passing day. Whenever Ismene passed one of the gaping windows in the main hall or looked out the windows of her and Lukas' room, she desired to visit and meet the people and perhaps even dote on them with kind smiles and genuine greetings.

She was no queen, forced to know her people, an entire kingdom. In a sense, she was fortunate, yet a part of her wanted to be the adored Lady Estemore who was kind to the peasants rather than scorned as Lady Helen must have always been. Ismene had noticed how the former Mandal treated the servants, causing them to be skittish and nervous in her presence, and she wanted nothing more than to show she would be better.

Even though their marriage had already begun blissfully, Lukas often was caught up in lordly affairs with his father, who was doing everything he could to ensure that Lukas was prepared to become the next Lord Estemore. This often left the girl with plenty of idle time, which she spent gazing out the window more often than not. She was still entranced by the view, and she never thought she'd get over it.

Standing near the window, alone in their room, Ismene gazes at the small dot of the Long Lake village. There was a row of docks with fishing boats anchored next to them. A little ways toward the back was the sawmill where House Estemore made much of its profit. As far as she knew, most, if not all, the Lakewell servants came from the dwelling. Ismene had only ever passed through the villages surrounding Winterfell, meaning she never truly understood what they entailed.

She didn't want to go alone. No, she couldn't. It was far too dangerous. She tried thinking of any Estemore guards she could convince to take her, but there were none. She was almost left defeated before a slight rasp on her door sounded. It has her turning to see Fenrir already making his way over. Once she makes it to the door, Fenrir eyes the entrance in case it might be an intruder behind the door. As she pulls it open, she finds it a Stark guard. She can tell, as an engraved dire wolf is visible on his steel breastplate. She pulls the door entirely open.

"Hello, Lady Ismene," the man greets. His dutiful tone is neither abrasive nor feigned, and he bows slightly in a gesture of her noble status. He has the brightest blue eyes and loose dusty brown curls adorning his head. He's tall, as Lukas is, with broad shoulders. He didn't rival Lukas in appearance, but Ismene had to agree that he was indeed handsome. A part of his appearance made her think of Darik, and her heart faltered.

"Who might you be?" She asks. She wonders if her father sent a Stark guard to be with her so she could feel more comfortable in her new home. The man's next words confirm her assumptions.

"I'm Terran Bayle, m'lady. Your father ordered that I leave the house guard and take up residence in Lakewell to become your personal guard."

Ismene nodded, seeing that the perfect opportunity to venture to the village had appeared. Lukas wouldn't be back for hours, and she believed she could visit and return before he even found out. She grins at her new bodyguard.

"Well, Terren, we will be heading off very shortly. As soon as I gather my cloak."

The guard cocked a brow at her, seeming slightly confused. "M'lady?" He utters.

She lifts a finger to signify he needs to only wait a moment. She closes the door and turns to retrieve her cloak. She was finally going to visit the village.

❆

WITH Terren riding close beside her and Fenrir loping steadily on the other side, Ismene beamed excitedly. She had chosen to wear the cloak gifted to her by Lord Henrik, a beautiful royal blue satin with the Estemore fox and salmon embroidered on the back. She wanted to arrive in the village as the new Lady Estemore, but there was no sign that she had any allegiance to any house other than her husband's. However, she kept the wolf necklace her parents gave her fastened around her neck.

"M'lady, if you don't mind me asking, what will we do in the village?" Terren asked.

"I plan to make an appearance to the people of Long Lake in hopes that they won't see me as my good mother," she states. "I want to show that I show no ill will and that I'm here to show kindness."

A few travelers passed by on foot, their eyes trained angrily on the Fox on her back. She glanced at Terren wearily.

"Perhaps the fox is unwanted down here," Terren mutters softly as he looks around. "If you must, M'lady, you could have my cloak. It bears the Stark sigil, which could be viewed more kindly here."

Though the option seemed tempting after the looks they received, she shook her head. "No. I must stand my ground. Otherwise, they won't see me any differently."

Soon enough, they ride out of the trees' cover and into the village's outskirts. Already, Ismene begins to feel uncomfortable as the villagers gaze at her with a mixture of weariness, longing, and disdain. She wants to declare that she only means goodwill to them and that they can trust her. She knew it wasn't going to be so easy.

She can't help but notice how ghastly the villager's homes look. Most are run down, with no doors and mud trailing inside. Others seemed to be a bit better off, but she expected they were the servants from Lakewell.  

The people gaze at Ismene as if she might be a threat, while others gaze in the longing. Some look upon her flowing hair and fine clothing, while others gaze at her seemingly exotic horse, Snowbird. Most of all, they fear Fenrir as he pads at Ismene's side. His paws and lower legs are already caked in a thin layer of water mud.

"M'lady!" An eerie, hissing-like voice calls out. Ismene immediately stops Snowbird, and at instinct, Terren grabs the pommel of his sword. 

They both find a woman, if that's what you wanted to call it, crooning to them just outside the entrance of a decrepit shack. Her matted hair was black and full of trinkets resembling beads and bone. Her dress was merely rags sewn together. "Come, see your future, as the she-wolf prowls into the darkness, yet she cannot see."

"Lady Estemore doesn't need to hear your uncanny blabberings," Terren is quick to defend Ismene from discomfort, as he aspects she feels.

"Terren, it's alright," Ismene quiets her guard kindly. She puts the reins in one hand as she nimbly dismounts. Pulling the reins over Snowbird's head and handing them to the still-mounted Terren, he looks at her in disbelief.

"M'lady?" Terren guffaws as he watches her wander toward the witch.

"Stay guard outside," she orders him. She isn't entirely confident in entering a place unfamiliar and without protection, but she feels more at ease once Fenrir follows close behind. For some odd reason, she felt like the woman had answers.

As she enters the building, the woman gently brushes her blackened hands on Ismene's shoulders as if to lead her in. Fenrir growls ever slightly as a warning, and the croon only cackles.

Through the darkness, Ismene is led to a small fire in the middle of the darkness. From the ceiling above, an assortment of strange things hang down. Herbs, animal skins, bones. She feels repulsed but allows herself to be seated in front of the fire. Fenrir sits close to her. The witch takes a seat adjacent.

"Hand," the woman seems to demand in a raspy tone as she leans over the fire. Ismene, slightly confused, gives her hand to the woman. The hag's eyes seem to darken before she suddenly pricks Ismene's finger, drawing blood. 

The Estemore girl yelps, and Fenrir snarls, but the witch has silenced the beast with a single look of blackened eyes. To Ismene's utter disbelief, the woman then puts her finger to her cracked lips and drinks her blood.

Ismene rips her hand away in disgust. The witch merely sits down relaxed, smacking her lips at the taste of the Estemore girl's crimson.

"Three questions," the woman cackles. "Ask."

Ismene, still gaping at the fact her blood had been drunk, tries her best to think. She knows there are things she is dying to know, but did the witch really know herself? Was she truly capable of answering any question Ismene had to ask?

"What will become of my twin?" Ismene asks. She wasn't too keen to ask if they would ever truly reunite, so she asked an obscure question.

"Ah, yes," the witch hisses. "Darik will be victorious in the deepest of his desires, but no crown can reign eternally when the lion comes prowling." 

The words sent shivers along Ismene's spine. "He will be as the sun, rising high in the morning and falling deep into the night where his heart meets with the northern arrow. Where there is death, there is also death, and from this death, the Archer and the Wolf will rise from the flames."

Ismene is unable to process it. How did she know Darik's name? The archer, the wolf, the lion... Aubrey? Was the witch speaking of Aubrey? What would Darik lose? What did a lion mean? A northern arrow? The questions continued in her mind.

"But—"

"Next question."

Ismene knows she has limited chances to predict the future, so she dwells on it herself. "What will become of my husband and me?"

"You, my sweetling, will bear many heirs to the Heir of Lakewell," the witch hisses. "With the wolf's blood, they will be cursed, cursed to carry the burden of the North. Your husband will rise as your twin, after the fruit of battle will he become what he's been groomed for and when the time comes he will be reborn of flames. Where you love and lose, you will also gain and soon fall beneath his blue gaze."

Reborn of flames? What a strange play of words... The only conceivable connection she could make was a fire. A funeral pyre. Ismene thought on it a second. Who was he with the blue gaze?

"Will—"

"Next."

"What will become of me?"

The witch cackles slightly. The sound makes Ismene shuffle in discomfort.

"You will gain much, little wolf," the witch coos. "The fruit of the womb will grant you much happiness, but war will cause much tribulation. Sorrow will reign, and grief prosper into your armor."

Ismene feels utterly in the dark. She experiences curses, sorrow, war, grief, and tribulation. Though she learns positive things, they are greatly outweighed by her fear. Who will she lose? Her husband, her brother, her best friend...

She quickly rises to her feet; she wants to flee, flee away from the witch's words. "Thank you for the insight," she says lowly as she leaves. Just before she is out the door with Fenrir close behind, the witch catches her attention.

"Beware, little wolf," she cackles. "For winter is coming, and the nights are cold when alone."