[center][b]Winterfell, Westeros | Beron Stark[/b][/center]

If it wasn’t one thing, it was another.

The Lord of Winterfell could sense the tension around him as he looked to his small assortment of men that sat at the table. There were few lords in the history of Winterfell that adapted such a Targaryen concept—the small council. However the Lord Stark had none of the resources or foundations to emulate what the true small council wielded but in times such as these he realize he needed it more than ever. An assortment of those who formerly bent a knee to the ancient Starks in the east had risen up in a revolt that was much too soon. The Skagosi as they had been known had been harboring resentment that only the Bolton’s could sympathize with but according to the men before him it was rather unfounded to suspect the Lord of the Dreadfort to be causing such a risky endeavor. The Bolton’s were smart if admittedly distant to those within House Stark. Beron held no love for the men of the Dreadfort, but in his older age a lure of paranoia swept upon him even if he understood the likelihood of meddling was low. 

His second-born had jokingly referred to it as a ‘great spring sickness’ that followed the Blackfyre Rebellion like a plague; a joke that the Lord of Winterfell found rather unamusing. Perhaps it was the reason that Henrik Stark had been sent to The Vale to present the presence of Stark at a zealous boy’s parade. He understood the southerners loved their celebrations, but to give such a person that much attention was worrysome. But he had to make appearances as it was the wise and correct thing to do. His father had told him not to burn bridges when in the coming months you need that bridge the most. Besides, he needed eyes in the south that he could count on and Erik had been begging to travel away from the cold of the North, so in a way the boy got his way.

Moving his hands behind his back he looked to the members who had not spoken, his eyes shifting to an empty chair which the council he had formed generally filled a northmen named Eddard Whitehill—one of the few men knighted that resided in the North due to his house’s beleifs leaning towards the Faith of the Seven over the Old Gods. Beron was not like his uncle in the regards that he saw the Whitehill’s as traitors to the values of the North or anything of the sort and as such treated him with respect and tolerance. One’s faith should never dictate relations unless they bore zealous nature that made it impossible to do so. It was something Maester Tywar had taught him when he was small and was where a good deal of his wisdom came from. He had sent Ser Eddard south to Gulltown along with his son—to the tourney that still entered his thoughts. He wondered how they were doing at this very moment.

Beron’s worn eyes met his head maester’s own and he could sense that there was something even more worrying. What could it have been? It was certain that the meeting of the veteran maesters, warriors, and himself couldn’t have come at a more perfect time as they were not lacking in things to speak upon. The Skagosi were only the tip of the iceberg, which was honestly a good thing to hear. For one small thing to erupt would be much too simple—and nothing that befell the Starks was ever simple or at least not in the scheme of recent history. 

“Let us begin—Maester Tywar, speak your mind.”

“Of course, my lord. It seems that I must bring urgent news from the west as your vanguard resting at Ironwatch have sent word to us.”

“I see, so the Ironborn have finally reared their ugly heads. I am honestly surprised they had not done so much sooner, but they have always been very difficult to predict. What kind of landing party are we looking at? Has word been sent to the Blazefort as well?”

Maester Tywar nodded, “Despite the Blazeport being our least manned stronghold of them all, yes Lord Stark they have been warned.”

Maestar Tywar’s tone was curious as Beron felt like there was a sense of worry and dread referring to Blazeport. A landing of Ironborn in an attempt to reave the countryside after a time of war and strife was not uncommon as the people of the Iron Isles were no better than lowborn tribes who took what they wanted when it was easy for them to take it. Despite being more open-minded than his predecessors Beron still thought low of the ironborn that existed. If the islands had not been so difficult to siege this would not be a problem in the present day as they would’ve been seen as nothing more but sea-sailing wildlings who needed to be put down. He began to ponder why they had not been put down by Targaryen fire years ago since nobody could ever keep a handle on the raiders for long.

“Has the Lord of Pyke truly lost control of his own men?” Beron Stark spoke as a deep breath of aggravation followed.

“It’s hard to say, but few can understand the Ironborn. We knew that one day Harrion Greyjoy’s period of ‘ironborn peace’ would end, the Ironborn cannot survive without their raiding.” 

The Lord of Winterfell nodded, “Send what men we can to reinforce the western coast. We can manage the Skagosi and the Ironborn.” 

“I certainly hope so, my lord.”

He nodded, “I will be setting out for Karhold with a small levy when the sun rises. Let my son, Edwyle, know that Winterfell’s responsibilities fall on him when he returns from Starkhaven in my absence.”

“As you wish, Lord Stark. May the old gods guide you.”

“…and you, my friend.”