11th Month A, 46AC

Winterfell, Great Hall

Soldiers of various colours packed the walls and courtyard of Winterfell, as the many retainers and vassals of the Starks filled their home. The huge northern army that had gone south, was yet to return. And so invitations had been sent to all the holds, for a representative of their house to come forth and give their thoughts and voices to this council. Death and defeat was borne on the wings of ravens and of rumours. But, only a couple of days ago, Tully knights had escorted Lord Stark, and his son, back to their home.

So it came time, rather quickly, for the Warden of the North, and head of House Stark, to call a meeting. Not a private discussion in a cramped room. But a large address in the main hall of Winterfell. A lofty and high space, a gathering hall since ancient times, hundreds of years old. Great dark timbers high in the rafters, gloomy corners where old paintings hung. A great dire wolf banner hanging over the wall behind the lord's high seat.

Various guests from holds in the north were invited and assembled here. Friends, they all hoped, despite the losses sustained. To life, to family, and to reputation. All the same, a few household guards were stationed along the edges of the hall. Various cooks and stewards would offer out food and drinks to the gathered northern nobility. But this was not a grand festive event. Not a cause for celebration. It was to be a proper meet, like the old days.

Brandon Stark (60) had rarely looked as bad as he did this day. The long grey beard hung off his chin had grown thin and wiry. Once flecked, it was now all white. Grey old eyes were sunken in shadow, as he looked out among his subjects. The Lord of Winterfell had ruled for years, resolute, stoic, unflinching, cold, powerful. But the man stood before them now was anything but. Maintaining his composure just for the sake of it, he could not suffer the pride of his youth. The man's ego had been shattered, and most knew it. He had killed many of his own lords, in his southron folly. But Brandon stood there before his high seat, ready to address his people. The ones that have come...

Beron Stark (40) stood to his father's right, with a warm and apologetic look about him. A generally good-looking man, his hair was down long, fully straight, with little decoration. A fox-fure cloak wrapped over his shoulders, ears peeled to catch the odd stray word here and there. For months now he had been Winterfell's acting lord, and helped control and rule the North in his father's absence. Now, only he knew it, but that was about to end. Fastened over Beron's shoulder - symbolically - was the great Valyrian Steel sword Ice.

Osric Stark (37) stood to his father's left. The very spitting image of how Torrhen Stark had looked in his middle ages. Except with a shaved head, a nasty scar over one ear, and a bitter expression across his lips. To any observers it looked like Osric was ready to start chewing the nearest table. His anger at their loss was not directed to his father, but to the southrons. For they never ought have tangled with them in the first place. Defeat left a poor taste, and not one he wished to sample a second time. Still, his presence here beside his father and brother hopefully spoke volumes.

[M: Please consider this an open RP for Winterfell, and for the council. All are invited and should have sent someone!]