┏━ tribulation.
( SCENE 2 ) ━┛

THE heir of Lakewell's breath was ragged. Ragged in how one has exerted themselves rather much, his lungs burned, and his throat was dry from the crisp northern air. Adrenaline coursed through his veins so loudly that he could feel his heart pounding in his chest. He loved feeling a sense of danger, especially with a sword in hand and an opponent before him. Though his opponent was no enemy.

He bit his lip in anticipation of whatever move was going to be made by the keep's Master at Arms, Ser Wendall Caldwell. He was well past his prime of combat earned during the Rebellion, but even at the ripe age of three-and-fifty, the knight knew his way around steel like a stag does a forest. With once black hair now peppered heavily with grey and aging marks covering every visible surface of his face, Ser Wendall was one of the older residents of the Keep. And not even a man of the north, instead from the Riverlands. He had trained and conditioned Lukas since he was old enough to pick up a weapon.

"You can't rest on the fact that I won't actually hurt ya, boy," Ser Wendell criticizes from where he stands just a cross the busy courtyard, his sword ready. Around them, guards did their business, servants did their chores, and chickens pecked at the mushy ground. Slight specks of what summer snow didn't melt before leaving the cloudy sky above came down slowly. It was a typical day in Lakewell without much excitement.

In reality, Ser Wendall wasn't wrong in his statement. Lukas Estemore knew no one in Lakewell besides his father would place a hand on him. And that was if he'd earned it. "You may be Lord Henrik's heir, but starving Wildlings won't give a damn whether or not you came from a whore's titty if they can use ya for some sorta ransom."

"This is just practice, though," Lukas rolls his eyes as he flips his sword around in the nonchalant way he likes to do. A grin tugs at his lips. "You've been training me since I was seven. Don't ya think I might have picked up on something here and there?"

"Arrogant, you Estemores have always been arrogant," Ser Wendall scoffs without fear of retribution for his words. The Knight was too respected in the castle to ever fear facing any sort of true punishment. "You, your father, your grandfather. You'd think it'd all get to your heads eventually. It's exactly what's going to get ya killed."

Lukas lets out a breathy laugh as he shrugs. "Ser Wendall, you've always complained about us since you journeyed from the Riverlands to serve my grandfather. Was the fishy smell too much for you? If so, Lakewell was not the place to come."

Without warning, Ser Wendall engages Lukas when he is off guard. The heir narrowly manages to defend himself as he feels the blades connect through the pommel of his weapon. Ser Wendall comes in from the left, which Lukas manages to meet before it could ever clip his wrist. That was always where Ser Wendall aimed, especially if he knew Lukas was on his toes.

Lukas tried beating the old knight with sheer force, but as it had always been the case, Ser Wendall knew better. He always did, and it was the one thing that drove Lukas mad. It seemed no matter how much Lukas practiced; he couldn't get close to mirroring his father or Ser Wendall. After a few more exchanges of angry swipes, the two separated again.

Lukas is breathing heavily once more while Ser Wendall lifts his weapon and shoves the blade into its sheath on his hip. His aged face is formed into a halfway annoyed grin, normally apparent when Lukas is around.

"You northers are often more cocky than the southerners. It's a wonder that you've even turned out half as well as you have. I'll be damned if I'm here once you rule this keep. Hopefully, I'll be six feet in the ground by then."

"Once I'm lord, you'll be training my sons," Lukas shrugs with a smile. He puts the sword in his free hand. "They'll need to be as good as their father."

Ser Wendall rolls his dark eyes. "Gods forbid I train such heathens at my old age," the knight grins despite his brash words. "The Seven only know what sort of spawn you'll produce. Now, we're done for the day. You best let those arms rest if you plan on ever saving your wrists again."

Lukas grins as he watches Ser Wendall wander away, the heir shaking his head. The thought of having sons of his own was a distant reality he wasn't ready to accept, and anytime someone brought up the specific portion of his lordly duties, he felt uncomfortable—even though he'd just used it in his quip. More than likely, Ser Wendall would be far too old to train young boys; the latter would be him below the cold ground, as he had insinuated.

"Ah, c'mon now, don't run away now," Lukas feigned a complaint as he watched the knight disappear into the small armory and cross the yard, leaving the heir alone in the middle of the open area, the keep continuing to bustle. His smile faded before he put the practice sword back on the rack where it once was.

"Lukas."

The heir turns at the sound of his father's tight and cold voice, one he could pick out in a crowd. As far as Lukas knew, Henrik had always been a cold man who seldom smiled. With sharp blue eyes and features to match, dark hair, and an ever-present scowl, one might think that Lukas' mother could be his father's sister, for they bore the same angry expression.

"Father," the heir replies as he stops in front of him.

"Come," Henrik nodded his head toward the entrance of the Keep. "We have much to discuss."

The trek to his father's solar was far more intense than he might have preferred. The impending doom that clouded his mind was enough to have his thoughts running wild. What had he done this time? How did they find out? Lukas had done his fair share of childish things, whether with his sister or an unlucky servant's help. He could only dwell on how angry his father might be and what retribution he was about to face.

Once the door was closed behind him, his father sat at the desk and crossed the room. The defining moment was dawning.

"Take a seat," his father gestured to the empty chair.

Mechanically, Lukas made his way over, flattening his northern doublet before sitting down. His heart was pounding.

"So I see Ser Wendall has been training you well," his father begins as he places his folded hands on the table. His son could often spout a fit of need just as his wife was prone to, so he approached the delayed subject differently. "That man is never short a complaint, is he? It's a miracle a southerner such as he had managed the winters up here just as well as any of us."

Lukas nods slightly. His mind is swirling with confusion. His father never took the time to sit down with him and discuss daily life. Had never cared, not with much more pressing matters to attend to. This was quite strange for the young man.

"Yes..." he paused for a moment before continuing. "Forgive me if I'm wrong, Father, but you've never called me to your solar to merely discuss my swordplay or Ser Wendall..."

Henrik sighs as his lips clasp up toward his lips, his elbows resting on the table. The subject will come without delay, then. His icy eyes focus on Lukas as his short-lived, friendly demeanor disappears.

"You're right; we aren't here to discuss such things."

"Then...what is it?" Lukas pried. He was ready to leave the room and go about his day again. If not entirely because of the anxiety racking him.

"You're aware of your betrothal to Lord Stark's eldest daughter," Henrik continues to state. "It's been in place since you were but ten. Tell me now, have you forgotten?"

Lukas shook his head. He hadn't forgotten. The betrothal had never been at the front of his mind and a priority in his concerns, but he knew it would be carried out one day. He was far more concerned with his sword practice and horseback than anything else.

"No, I haven't," Lukas replies blandly. "What of it?"

"It is going to be fulfilled soon," Henrik says plainly. "She is well past her first blood; you are a grown man now. I've already been speaking with Lord Stark in the past moon, and he agrees. It's time to move on with your life and wed her."

Lukas' brow furrowed in confusion. "What do you mean 'move on'? I'm still preparing to run this keep as its, lord, I don't need to be worried about some girl I've met but once and don't even know—"

"To run this keep and fulfill your lordly, you need heirs," Henrik interrupts him coldly. It was apparent Lukas was driving him up the wall already. "Marry the girl, put a child in her, and be on with it." Henrik leans back in his chair and crosses his arms. "You will need a lady to run your Keep and raise your children. No one ever said you had to love her."

Lukas adverts his eyes as a sigh escapes his lungs. A combination of furious and contemptuous thoughts coursed through his thoughts. A woman was the least of his concerns, not when he was to be a lord. To him, a woman was nothing but a burden. He was aware that there was no possible way to escape the situation, so he merely answered with a nod.

"You might consider yourself lucky as well," Henrik says as he rises from his seat and walks around the table. "The girl is at least pleasing to the eye."

❆

THE gods must have listened to Ismene's plea for a clear mind and deep sleep, for she woke the next morning feeling at ease and rested. She rose from her furs, which were still plentifully warm, to make her way over to the wax-covered mantel of the fireplace in her chambers. She was grateful to see that the fire was burning steadily, meaning a servant had placed fresh wood in while she'd been asleep.

She was thankful that she didn't have the dreams again. They haunted her thoughts throughout the day, and imagining a mother she would never meet was hard enough. What was even more painful was knowing that she'd been the ultimate contributor to her mother's death when she'd been the second born just after Darik. What little strength her mother had held just before Ismene had entered the world was soon whisked away once her tiny self was lifted, red-faced and squabbling as she had been told.

She lifted a hand safely from the flames that danced before her to feel the warmth radiate against her skin. Winterfell had been built over natural hot springs, and even when fires dwindled to almost nothing, rooms still managed to stay at reasonable temperatures.

Deciding she should break her fast with her family rather than have them worry - mainly Darik - over her late arrival, Ismene rose from her crouched position and reached into her wardrobe for a new dress. 

Typically, the maidservants would help her dress, but she was in no mood to wait for them to arrive when they likely thought she still slept. She discarded her nightgown onto the end of her bed to wear later, and then she donned her dress and tied her dark blue cloak around her shoulders. After she combed her hairbrush through her naturally straight hair, she left her chambers with hunger rising in the pit of her stomach. 

On her way, she passed Sansa, who seemed to be leaving her chambers at the same time as herself. She greeted her half-sister with a warm smile. "Morning."

Sansa gave a weak smile, meaning she was still sleepy. "Morning. Did you sleep well? I had the most wonderful dream last night."

Envious thoughts began to consume the elder Stark. She wished to huff and push away her sister and say how lucky Sansa was, but that would only give away the terrors she'd been enduring at night.

Ismene feigned interest and smiled as she looked at her red-haired sister. "You're smiling awfully wide," she pointed out, "what could this dream have been about?"

"A handsome prince." Sansa blushed a shade of pink.

Ismene smirked and nudged her playfully, allowing a hum to vibrate in her throat. "Is that so? Do tell, little sister. Whom was this oh-so handsome prince that has you blushing deeper than the weirtree leaves?"

"I couldn't see his face."

Ismene's face scrunched up in confusion. "Then how do you know he was handsome?"

"Well, you didn't see the body that I did. A body like that surely has a handsome face to match," Sansa smirked.

Ismene's eyes widened slightly, and she nearly choked on her saliva. Sansa has always been her soft-spoken, haughty sister, and they often were not as close as she and Arya. If she shared information on such a subject, it must mean Sansa was still dwelling on it. So it was this sort of dream?

Sansa chuckled at her reaction. "Oh, come on, don't be silent! I know you must have had one of those dreams, too."

"Perhaps," Ismene smirked as they rounded the corner, "or perhaps not."