[GHOSTSUNSHADOW] Liam Beagnoth

Name:

Liam Halgh Beagnoth

Nickname:

Blacksmith (by Oldcastle folks)
Stranger (by his wife Elora)
Pops (by his son Zeph)

Age:

27

Gender:

Male

Species:

Human

Allegiance to House:

House Stark

Role to House:

Blacksmith

Personality:

With a past left unknown to all who know him as ‘Blacksmith’ or ‘Stranger’, Liam is truly a mysterious individual, secretive and reserved to whom he trusts and whom he avoids. Quiet and composed he goes through life with his eyes turned towards his anvil leaving the events of the world to come to pass unnoticed as he cares little about the affairs of noble houses and ongoing feuds. To him banners and sigils mean nothing, simply hollow symbols poised upon flags and shields that ride by when taxes are to be collected or when armies come draft new men for their folly quests. None knows why though the sight of knights turns the hairs in the back of his neck upward with his hands clenching deathly as if readied for a battle to the death; in truth it’s not their title or status in the Seven Kingdoms that upsets him but the swords they carry at their belts for they sourly remind him of the sins he’d abandoned when he crossed Beyond the Narrow Sea. He loathes the blood thirst that comes with that gallant armor as they continue to idle battle for lord and king for meager lands that belong to common people; he spits on their shields for they’re what stand between people and their true freedom, free from the burden of liege lords and vassals, free of birthrights and legacies for soldiers represent the institute that keeps the rich wealthy and the poor hungry to his believes…

Once a murderous warrior in service of the Second Sons sellsword company, Liam abandoned his violent ways for the love that came into his life when he first laid eyes on Elora of Oldcastle; his sword was left beneath the floorboards of their home, forever to remain hidden as his life of cruelty and battle had been discarded, changed for the safety of smithing steel on the anvil and casting iron at the forge. From a butcher of men, he became a husband to the maiden who’d given him hope in bleak times when she showed him there was life beyond the actions of his past; from a killer of foes he became a father to a young son with whom he played, talked and taught everyday so he could make up for previous crimes. None could say he wasn’t a good husband and father for those in Oldcastle never have known about his past, having only ever seen him as Blacksmith; they saw a determined man work the fires of the furnace to create products of the finest craft; they saw a loving husband kiss his wife goodbye every morning when he took to work and return with a warm embrace when the sun settled beyond the horizon to be welcomed home; they saw a carrying father who learned his son how to read, write and speak properly in between their games together by the stream outside the village. But know that the old Liam still resides within him, ready to surface if something should occur to those he loves…

Physical Description:

Ask any man in Oldcastle about Blacksmith and the description will often be the same, containing all the following elements exaggerated or not to some extend; he’s a tall man much like the Mountain though far more defined by an athletic posture instead of raw muscle upon bone. Rough like his hands that strike steel from dusk till dawn comes his expression with the shaved head and the harsh stubble carried on his face as the blunt reminder of his secret past. A strong jaw line and stern piercing eyes cold as the steel he crafts make him appear more like a thug than a nobleman as an old burn remains just above his left brow from a day’s event unknown. Hands big like shovels are bearing the calluses and blisters from heavy labor while one seldom finds him without the markings of sooth and ash upon cloths and skin. Scars young and old have left their mark upon his form, some easily recognized as mended wounds of battle while others seemed vaguer in origins. A segment of his left little finger is missing after an incident at the forge though the wound has healed nicely whereas a recent cut just above the belt continues to bring his ails as infection seems to linger...

If you’d ask Elora to describe her husband the version would greatly differ from public opinion for it goes something like this. Stranger stands tall above the ground hardened and charismatic though often walking about as if he carries the burdens of the world upon his shoulders. He’s handsome in his own way with the definitions of muscle in all the right places from his arms to his chest just enough to leave a lady in awe at such raw manly beauty. As he seldom smiles, the occasions he does can make a heartbeat quicken and knees buckle in the mere anticipation of his gentle though confident touch. Though he appears to be rough, his heart is kind and carrying with the genuine nature that simply cannot tell a lie; his eyes are honest and his soul devoted to his family who are loved more than I could ever deserve. Even the poor rags we’re left to wear cannot disguise his appeal to me and to other women for I see them looking at him when he works by the fires, sweat pearling on his chest as those strong arms strike down with such strength you can’t help but dream of what is to be with a man like him. And still he is mine and true he is to this promise for not a glance is given to another unless with the distance he brings as an artisan in demand. He is and will always be my hero and all other shall know him to be so as well…

Powers and Abilities:

Liam is not a master blacksmith; far from it though the weapons that are made upon his forge are sturdy and deathly without the frivolities of decorated hilts or engraved details upon the blade. His craft is best described as crude made for their function not an aesthetic though nowhere else in the North will you find the quality of tempered steel that is made at his forge. Where castle steel has that natural polished appearance turning the metal of a blade almost into a silvery surface that reflects the light, Liam’s steel has almost a bluish finish that hints to its remarkable resilience and efficacy in battle. Some Northern soldiers even dare to state that a sword from Liam’s forge will never go blunt nor will it chip no matter how hard it gets struck or how often though it may appear you’re still wielding a peasant’s knife compared to the finer craftsmanship of some blacksmiths…

Born in Ibben, the island north across the Narrow Sea it comes to nobody’s surprise that their salted blood courses through his veins; with ten generations of whalers in his family tree the sea is in his blood and sailing comes natural to him as breathing comes to most. Even the Ironborn couldn’t dare to venture out at the seas he’s taunted before he’d even seen his tenth Winter and to this day none can navigate a ship like he does; in storms and typhoons he can best even the largest wave with only a tiny ship, through the most treacherous passes and sharpest cliffs can he maneuver without ever scratching the hull of the ship. His father had given him the family whaling ship though Liam sold it to buy the land to call home when he met Elora and to this day he’d not mourned that decision once; still give him a set of sails, a firm hull and a destination and he shall take you there safe and sound through enemy lines and through storms to wherever your destination might be…

The time he spent in the company of the Second Sons taught Liam one thing that will never abandon him as with brutish efficacy he was trained to wield a knife; never had he been practiced with an actual sword and though his style may be crude and absent of the graceful flourish a knight bestows upon his steel, Liam is a frighteningly talented killer who strikes swift and without mercy. Formerly known as a vicious sellsword who never let a man live who’d gazed upon his face, Liam is a force to reckon with once his hand is rekindled with the familiar weight of that long single-edged knife that he keeps hidden beneath the floorboards of his cabin. Most of all his strikes and blows don’t always aim to kill, not intentionally for mostly the cuts he inflicts on people aimed to torment rather than to take a life. Cutting the tendons in one’s foot would leave them crawling in agony on the ground before he’d gut them with a single haul of the knife so it safe to advice never to cross blades with him…

Strengths:

Liam’s strength lies within his hands, not his head for with steel and hammer he can forge weapons that can change the face of this world; with a knife he can become the judge of who lives and dies though do not ask of him to offer you pleasant or intelligent conversation for that’s beyond his grasp. His manners are poor as those are often in the common circles of Westeros’ and Essos’ societies for he does not address his superiors by their respective titles nor does he know how to behave in the presence of those of noble descend. He’s a man hardened by life who doesn’t yield when circumstances turn bleakest nor does he surrender when the odds turn against him. He’s stubborn or determined, depending on whose standing before him and the savage nature of his Ibben heritage still remains ever present. Ask of him to craft or to fight, not to sing or think and Liam can become your greatest ally though do not expect him to remain true to banners or lands for in the Seven Kingdoms the one place his allegiance truly lied has just been burned down by the recent Greyjoy invasion…

Weaknesses:

Liam’s weakness are brought forth from his Ibben blood that pumps through his veins that makes him cold and distant like the salted rocks he once called home; do not expect a warm interaction with this man for the last of his kindness was abandoned in the ashes of his cabin near Oldcastle. He cares little for Houses and their politics, for law and title for the lands he came from didn’t follow the same traditions as are customary here in Westeros. Words like loyalty, duty and service are filled in entirely different to his person than by most who live in these Northern lads and for that customs and traditions tend to clash. A hand extended does not signify a friendly greeting in Ibben culture though a sign of surrender to a superior; bowing is not a chivalrous act in his world but a challenge made in a most vile insulting manner. For this he does not easily engage in conversation with other or interact with them simply to avoid the inevitable mistakes that come from the different cultures clashing…

Weapons of Choice:


There abandoned for quite some time now beneath the crackling floorboards of their cabin it sits; stored away in a white wolf’s pelt and a crude leather scabbard he laid his past to rest, never to gaze upon the shiny steel surface ever again until now. Cold like the island from which he came is this silver knife that reaches a full arm’s length. It is a prestigious weapon, decorated with elaborate patterns of inlaid copper, bronze and silver wire marked by the runic symbols that write his family name. On one side of the blade there is a strange pattern that only an Ibben whaler knows the meaning off though the design itself betrays its origins; asymmetrical is the blade with one edge blunt and heavy whereas the other edge is sharp enough to slice through bone without ever scratching the surface. The handle is made out of hardened ebony with gilded details and copper buttons to prevent his grip from slipping. The steel might be mistaken for Valyrian steel though in truth it’s simply the extreme cold of Ibben that turned the metal into the polished silver surface that acts like a mirror…

Armor of Choice:

Next to the knife that claimed so many lives, sits a suit of armor made out of crude tanned leather. It might not be much to look at, just a plain leather breastplate crafted out of layers upon layers of thick hide riveted together with bronze tacks. Some might recognize the hand of an elf in the craftsmanship of this protective wear for in Ibben most vestments and armors do pass through their hands as the subtle finish carries their signature. Just below the leather there’s the soft pelt of mink that lines the bodice so that even in the sternest of winters he can remain warm and dry…

Liam doesn’t favor wearing the armor he’d once had made during his service amongst the Second Sons Sellsword Company for it is thick and tough making moving a strenuous exercise if one isn’t used to it. Now with years past left unworn it will be quite an adjustment to wear this armor again yet the discomfort is greatly surpassed by its use when battle is upon him. A common arrow will seldom breach his skin underneath and even a sword may find it difficult to cut through the many layers of leather; a crossbow bolt however finds little difficulties to penetrate the breastplate and against blunt force it won’t be withheld by the armor. The one thing Ibben armor is notorious for is the resistance against cold, water and fire for the leather comes from the mighty whales that swim around the island, whose skin is thick and resilient against the damages of Nature…

Background History:
Oldcastle ain’t much, just a couple of homes gathered around a hardened dirt market square where fishermen sell this morning’s catch while other vendors sell whatever trinkets they came across along their journeys. Most around these parts are fishermen, sailors of some sorts in their dingy boats usually nothing more wobbly rafts who set out in the cold black waters only to return with a couple of nets filled with whatever swam latest along their route. Others are farmers tending to the hard frozen grounds that make the North all for some meager crops though none complains. Folks around here are happy with their simple lives, away from lords and kings who fight battles these people have no need for; taxes get paid every year and every harvest they share a bit of their crops in a village feast but life remains without fault here. Perhaps this was why Liam docked here for the first time ten years ago, perhaps he could smell it in that cold Northern air that this would one day become his home though none really knew what brought him here. Ten years ago he arrived on a ship foreign in design with its hull tarred black and reinforced at the nose with layers upon layers of bluish steel; a merchant believed it to be an icebreaker ship, a nobleman crossing through town debated it might be a pirate ship though none around these parts would ever recognize it as an Ibben whaling ship for none around these parts still practiced that barbaric tradition. For that first mystery, they called the man Stranger at first and when the years passed Stranger became Blacksmith for none bothered to ask for his real name; his past was left Across the Narrow Sea and his life began anew when his boots first set foot on the withered rotten dock of the port. Stranger became a character around the town, the silent outsider who’d gained the favor of a beautiful girl whose father was the blacksmith around the town. He helped out at the docks, loading and unloading ships only asking for a meal and a roof to refund him for the services provided. The blacksmith liked the lad, said he was made out of good smithing steel which basically meant there was potential in the mysterious foreigner who help out a couple of times a week; it began with carrying some crates from the docks and in the end the elder blacksmith began to teach him the trade for there had never been a son to pass down his legacy on. He did have a daughter, Elora she was called, beautiful and witty with a fine head on her shoulders and a figure that brought many boys to sneak a peek when she bathed in the river on Sundays. Stranger and Elora met and though they had little to talk about, they managed to find love in silence around her old blacksmith’s workshop. First a friendly kiss to say thanks, then a passionate one behind the old miller’s barn and with the days their love grew even after he made an honest woman out of her though she never asked about his real name. And so those ten years went by, Stranger and Elora in love living in the house by the blacksmith’s forge that was passed down to them after the old man died. Two years after that first kiss, a child had grown inside her, a boy born when the moon stood full and high above the icy black waters by Oldcastle so that he came to bear the strange name of Zeph. Life seemed perfect for them, simple but perfect nonetheless. Zeph would play in the town sometimes helping out his father at the forge while Elora continued to weave the beautiful tapestries she made for noble families. Stranger became blacksmith having taken over for his father in law whose skill became greatly outmatched by the quality of steel turned on the anvil by his apprentice. And every night when Zeph had been send to bed and the sun had vanished beyond the hills, Stranger and Elora would make love until their bodies could go no longer as their hearts raced and breathing had grown shallow. And then they’d lay in bed afterwards, her head rested on his chest listening to the rhythm as Elora asked questions about his past. Every night together she’d ask him those same questions and every time she was answered by a loving kiss on her forehead and the soft caress of his fingers along her cheek. Who knew that the night before everything changed, would be the day he answered her questions…


There he sat in their marital bed as he’d once again been stirred from his sleep on this cold night; the thick cotton sheets offered feeble comfort against the frigid approach of the coming winter and even Elora’s warm embrace couldn’t calm his worries on this eve. Sleep often eluded him especially in the recent times when wars took hold of this land; every day more soldiers came to Oldcastle to recruits able hands for Robb’s war, boys old enough to carry steel dragged from their homes to fight in a battle of egos. Soon Zeph would come of age and they’d summon him to join in this folly war and he’d be damned if he’d let his own son take up a sword without knowing why or for what he was fighting. Knightly titles, noble Houses, Stranger cared nothing for this whole political spectacle going around though sleep would continue to be deprived with worries for as long as their war would last. He sat upright in the bed rubbing the back of his head where the rough stubble slipped beneath his hardened fingers. He glanced across his shoulder, the love of his life fast asleep cuddled up in the sheets clinging onto the warm spot where he laid moments ago. All these years spent in the North he’d forever cherished the warmth she brought in this life and the son she gave him sleeping in his room on the attic. Elora woke up leaning into his back whispering to join her again into the embrace of the night though she knew him better than that. Her fingers ran along his arms, still admiring the strength that resided in those firm muscles of his while her lips pecked ever so softly at his neck. Her voice like those of the mermaids his father used to speak, whispered in his ear. “Stranger, why are you still awake this late. It’s those dreams again, isn’t it? All these years when soldiers come to town you wake up at night in cold sweat and still you’ve never told me why? Ten winters we’ve been together now why do you fear them so much…” She knew he’d never tell, after all he was her tall and handsome Stranger, the man who came to her from the sea’s horizon. Elora often wondered where he came from, what he’d done in the years before they met but most her questions had gone unanswered. Stranger didn’t like to talk, didn’t like people much in general to begin with for some reason and whatever he’d hidden under the loose floorboard in the kitchen probably had something to do with it. Stranger turned her way and smiled –Elora loved that about him- which he seldom did and answered her with a brief sigh before his voice rusty like the metal he often had to work with broke the silence…

“I don’t hate soldiers, just what they remind me off. They come to villages like this one, collect men who’ve seen too many winters or boys who’ve seen too little. I was about Zeph’s age when they came for me…” Elora’s eyes had gone wide in surprise when Stranger spoke of his past – he’d never done so in the years she’d known him – and she couldn’t help but love him for it. Her father had often tried to pry loose information out of him when they worked the forge together but Stranger never opened up. One day she’d caught him hiding something under the kitchen floor and though answers might reside beneath that wobbly floorboard, she never wished to invade his privacy. “You never told me about that. By the Seven you’ve never told me about any of your past and never have I cared, my sweet Stranger but why of all days did you pick today…” Elora’s hand rubbed his arm when the North’s cold showed on her husband’s skin as she leaned intimately against her Stranger. His shirt was a perfect example of poor man’s cloths, just thick wool fabric slightly sown crooked and just a tad itchy though he never complained. She kissed his cheek and left her hand to stray across his chest. His heart welcomed the touch for she felt it quicken as he sighed briefly. His voice was harsh with the same stern edge to it as he had in bed; she loved him for it that roughness and kindness come together in one person. He was her Stranger, the foreign sailor to arrive at the docks just to sweep her of her feet. Zeph was but a blessing that came from their affections to remind them of the love they felt for one another. Stranger just smiled that empty smile when his revelations continued. “…because today is special to me. Ten years ago I arrived here in Oldcastle only to lay eyes on you for the first time. You didn’t know me, took me in, fed me and clothed me still and you can’t even remember that was to the day exactly ten years ago...” And just like that a single tear of joy spilled from Elora’s eyes as she now sat next to him smiling in utter surprise that he’d remembered. “I… I didn’t take you for a romantic, Stranger. Has it been that long since you first set foot on these frozen shores? I know you arrived in that strange black ship of yours with sails of the strangest fabric I’ve ever seen. Some said you were a pirate from Essos depraved and without manners, others said you were an outlaw on the run but you never explained. Instead you sold that ship to old man Jensen from the docks for a handful of coins and asked only for a meal and a roof in return. You worked the docks for a couple of weeks and began helping out in the smithy of my father. Now you run the smithy, married me and still I don’t know weither you were the pirate or the outlaw they said you were…” Stranger looked into those eyes and found himself drowning in the azure of her gaze. She wasn’t wrong through, he’d never told her about his origins; perhaps it was that time to shed light on his past, however obscure and dark it might be for a seamstress from the North…

Stranger cleared his throat and only demanded a kiss in return for the story he was about to unfold for her; sometimes he wondered how she could stand at his side not knowing where he’d been before and what he’d done. With his rasping voice, like sharpening steel on a grindstone he revealed his past in every detail, no secrets, no lies for as long as he’d been with her not one false word crossed his lips. “Where you call me Stranger, where I came from I was known by a different name. Liam Halgh Beagnoth they called me. I was born in Ibben, an island north of Essos in the Shivering Sea where the water is black and the winters never end. That ship I arrived here with was my father’s, a whaling ship in the Ibbenese tradition; the hull was tarred so barnacles don’t grow on the wood, the nose reinforced with steel to break through packed ice and the sails made from whale skin so water doesn’t seep into the fabric rendering it fragile. Ibben was colder than the North with snow hard as rock and ice that never melted and like my father and my father’s father I was to be a whaler. When I could stand, my father taught me how to sail, the sea in my blood and a harpoon in my hand…” Stranger had opened up his hands, the blisters and calluses from ferocious labor in the forge obviously showing in his palms. His story paused with his eyes turning to the ground in certain guilt; those hands had done more than slain the wonders of the oceans, they’d wielded a knife with the ability of a butcher and the cunning of a cutthroat sellsword once they’d trained him. Elora noticed the stress in her husband; she could see it in his eyes, in his posture, in every fiber of his person. She could read him like a book so the chapters she now detected in his eyes spoke of ill omens she’d always known to be there. “So you were a whaler in a past life, nothing wrong with that in my book but why soldiers? Why of all people do your hands clench to fists ready for a fight when you see soldiers?” Her hand ran along his thigh, her dress slightly fallen open as she’d come to learn her husband more tonight than she’d done in the past ten years they’d been together. She knew his name now and where he came from but then there were so many more mysterious about her Stranger to uncover if the night allowed her that much...

With a sigh that felt as if he’d tried to carry all the burdens of this world, Elora looked into those steely eyes and kissed new facts out of him; with every kiss he gave her another glimpse into his secretive past though he’d have told her all just to hear her say she loved him another time. “When I was nine, word around Ibben had spread of me being quite the talent with a harpoon. My father taught me how to wield those jagged spears with precision and on that old ship of his we fought with the biggest of beasts that ever swam in the icy waters of the Shivering Sea. Word had crossed even to the continent where the Second Sons sellsword company roamed with their heinous reputation. They’d come to my village, pretending to recruit young lads able to join their ranks but all they were interested in was my throwing arm with a spear. Four boys including myself were taken along to commence sellsword training in Yunkai the port in Slaver’s bay notorious for wanted criminals and treacherous outlaws. They were soldiers as well, training boys to become ruthless killers for hire; they taught me how to swing a knife, how to wield a shield all to add another number to their violent ranks. Before I saw my fifteenth winter I’d already become just like them, a vicious sellsword fighting for whomever needed such no questions asked services. I’ve seen things no war in Westeros has encountered yet, I’ve done things even the grimmest of tales here cannot speak off all for what, a handful of coin and gems? I turned away from that life, took my dad’s ship and fled here where none knew off the blood that clings to these hands…” His eyes fell shut at this confession of guilt made so uncensored, so unmasked but he should have told her this a long time ago when she’d first asked. He expected shame or fear to show in those azure eyes of Elora but instead she smiled, her hand turning his face so she could see. A tender kiss she blessed softly on his lips and now she could see why he’d never wanted to be anyone other than Stranger and Blacksmith ever again…

Looking in those eyes and finding only the love he’d cherished for all these years, Stranger couldn’t help but fall for her all over again; the first time occurred when he’d aided her in the simple task of carrying groceries to her father’s cottage up the hill outside of Oldcastle, the second time had been when she granted him a son and now it happened again, the moment their love was confirmed with the virtue of a kiss. Then he lifted Elora in his lap, strong hands having no issue with taking his wife in his arms. She smiled at his in reply, a smile he’d forever adore her for as eyes met as did lips. Her dress lavender and still warm of their intimacy hours before danced through his rough fingers as Stranger admired her beauty is the subtle light of the stars above. No matter how grim his past had been, her affection brightened his days and eased his worries especially now when her gentle arms fell around his neck and they greeted another moment of intimacy that continued even when the sun broke through the night over the horizon. Her dress spilled of her slender shoulders to reveal the figure of an angel that warded him of the worries of his past. Even bearing a son for him had not taken away her beauty with curves lusciously greeting him upon this cold night in the weeks before winter. She’d toppled him back into the sheets of the bed veiling their love beneath those covers as she straddled him in the lap. To gaze on Elora was to gaze on hope for Stranger, nothing more or less that perfection in the flesh, though it was that smile that conquered his heart; just a hint of pearly white teeth shown and those lips sparkling as if the stars themselves continued to dance with every kiss she gave him. She turned to him and offered herself mind and body to the man she loved and so in kind did Stranger answer. Their love was never expressed tenderly but rough and wild, like one would expect of the savages living Beyond the Wall; sometimes Elora would say he was trying to fuck the war away and tonight was no different for before she realized her screams stirred through the night loud enough to wake their boy. Little feet were hear shuffling on the screeching planks above, steps moving down the ladder till a little boy with hair flaxen gold stood in their doorway. Elora slid next to her husband in the bed, a brief moment of laughter shared between the couple as they invited the boy to their marital bed. “Come here Zeph, everything is alright my dear; come sleep between mom and dad for tomorrow we’ve a long journey ahead of us.” Soft like a mother Elora spoke with a natural maternal instinct that truly flattered her, Stranger solely smiled at his boy ever so proud of how beautiful and strong he’d grown. Tomorrow Zeph would travel for the first time outside this town along with his mother to Torrhen’s Square for the annual market but now they’d sleep like one happy family for little did they know what tomorrow would bring…

When dawn entered their small home on the hill, light spilling through the thin curtains that granted them privacy, Stranger had already risen and began preparations for the journey ahead. He’d saddled the old horse her father had bought five years ago and pulled the cart out of the workshop for Elora’s comfort; food and supplies for five days had been bagged in woven satchels and burlap sacks while the finest dressed tailored his wife were neatly folded in the wooden crates. He never slept much, too much to think about and too much iron that needs to be struck with heavy hand for this so called King of the North; messengers came with tall orders for his smithy to craft swords and armor for the men on the frontlines who fought a war he had no use for. Barely did they pay for the iron and steel they requested and little gratitude was shown for the labor performed yet here in Westeros when a King demands it, all his subjects are to comply and now he was amongst them. There were nearly one hundred axes and nearly twice as many flails waiting to be finished by the next moon fullest and not enough time to do so as it was and for that he could not be joining them to Torrhen’s Square. Elora was the second to wake; warmly dressed in that scarlet gown he’d seen her make last week she looked more beautiful than ever while moments more it would take for the boy to rise. Zeph had always been a tardy fellow, always dreaming rather than working but then again a child should be that way Elora had reminded him so often. He’d come down the steps wearing his finest outfit for this occasion as for weeks now he’d been boasting to other kids of his travels to Torrhen’s Square. With a smile he lifted Elora first on the crude bench of the cart and then Zeph who felt like a king this high above the ground. Elora looked at him and asked one question that had lingered on her tongue since last night’s revelations. “Why did you change your ways, why stay here with us in a tiny village when King Robb summoned your arm for his war?” Stranger smiled a feeble smile, barely visible to those who didn’t know him like Elora did but she noticed; she still remembered when a messenger arrived to rally all men to the battlefield though Stranger had refused publically to follow into a war that’s not his own. The messenger had drawn his sword and set the point at his neck but Stranger didn’t flinch when he was questioned why; now she asked him that same question though for the first time he’d answer it with a certain pride in his voice. “Someone once asked me if I was the best future for this family. I've thought about this for long time, and here's what I've decided: No one in this world is perfect. The Seven and the Old Gods know I'm not. But I love you more than anyone else possibly could. In the end, that's all that matters. And I shall not abandon those I love to fight a battle not my own to begin with…” And with those words he set his family off on their journey, one they’d never return from for the day of their arrival so would the Ironborn who’d take their lives. A raven would carry the word and that day Stranger died only to give birth again to Liam Halgh Beagnoth now marching with knife strapped to his belt to join Robb’s quest with an offer of sacrifice and revenge to punish those who took the one good thing away from his life…

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