Teora Stark

Teora Stark, also known as the Stark in the South,' the Caged Wolf ', and 'the Winter Rose ', is the heir to Winterfell and a hostage to the Crown.

An Heir is Born (195 AC - 201 AC)
Teora was born on an auspicious day in 195 AC: the seventh anniversary of Barthogan ‘the Blacksword’s death, which was seen as an omen by the most superstitious denizens of Winterfell. She was a strong babe, emerging from the womb bloodied and screaming more than her own labored mother. The midwife, the same woman who had delivered Rickard and Barthogan herself, said the she-wolf ‘howled as her grandfather did’.

The birth was a taxing affair on her mother, who survived only by the grace of the gods and the diligent care of their aging maester. Mara’s strength never returned in full, and she was often dizzied in exertion and grew to loathe riding horses again. Her presence in Teora’s life was always spent catching up to a child who was too quick for her in all things. Rickard was little better, of meagre build and worn by years of hard winter and sickness in the Neck. Neither told her of the coming future, to give her some measure of a normal childhood. They feared she might spend her days languishing for the fateful morning she would depart for King’s Landing.

The only man to keep up with her zeal was the castle’s master-at-arms, the aging Beck Rivers. He was a second father to her, and she was like a daughter to him. Against his better judgement, he taught her the basics of wielding a sword; the stances, sharpening a blade, harmless tricks to keep her from delving too deep. His boy, Podrick, was a constant companion of hers in her early years.

She chased him with sticks, swatting and thrusting like it were a blade of her own, and he often turned to run her down through Winterfell’s great courtyards and winding castle walls. Though she was as narrow-framed as her parents, she was quick on her feet and rarely caught. Only when Podrick played dirty, and she often responded with her own grit; black eyes and chipped teeth were accepted casualties until the master-at-arms demanded their civility. There was no bad blood between them, only the innocence of children who knew no better.

In all things, Teora was unassailable. She rarely stayed still, to the bane of her mother, and had a poor habit of climbing the battlements and slipping out into the countryside. The castle guard rode her down eventually each and every time, and Lord Rickard bid them to be gentle: the girl could never be truly contained, and undeniably bore the so-called wolfsblood of House Stark. As the unspoken inheritor to Barthogan Blacksword, this was a cause of concern more than celebration.

Teora’s mother never truly recovered from the Silence of the Snows, nor the birth of her first child. They had hoped to give this young hellion siblings, even a son to lift the burden from her shoulders, but it was clear her days for bearing children had passed. An unspoken anxiety fell upon the household, felt even by their young daughter, no matter how they strived to hide it. When she was seven years old, Rickard gave her the news: she was promised to crown when she turned ten, to serve the Queen and Her Grace’s house in the capital.

Make Your Own Luck (202 AC - 205 AC)
Teora was expectedly angry. Her mournful lamentations carried well through the Great Keep, leaving broken glass and slammed doors in her wake. Her most fervent outburst ended in her striking her own mother across the cheek, and the Lady of Winterfell had her confined to her quarters until she could settle. Teora’s howling ensured no one slept that evening, not without heeding the caged wolf’s cry.

She pushed away what few friends she had. When they found the time to play, she struck them with branches that were too heavy to be proper playthings, scratching and biting when they tried to wrestle it from her hand.

“I don’t play swords with animals,” Poderick had said, with red scratches on his cheek, “I want my friend back.”

Teora was heartbroken and fell into a melancholy. No more did she run across the battlements, laughing and jeering her onlookers. She spent her time locked away in her room on her own volition, staring at the ceiling, or picking through meals that once sloppily ran down her chin. Though she was only eight years old, she felt her life might as well be over. Her father was inconsolable, absent from her save the few meals she took in the dining hall, and her mother could only mournfully call through her bedroom door.

Nobles and fostered wards of Stark’s own paid her tribute and gave their pity, like passing ships on the wind, but she wanted nothing of them. Her mother tried to drag her on hunting trips, practically tying herself to her daughter on horseback as they rode through woods and over soft hills in fresh air. It only brought her passing joy, quickly faded in anticipation of that fateful name-day.

Her last days in King’s Landing were filled with warm wishes but empty intentions. The kitchens baked cakes as she liked them, the Master-at-Arms brought her a sword of her own, and the trinkets her childhood friends had given her sat proudly on her desk. She still saw the honor guard her father prepared polishing their breastplates, preening their horses, and the ravens fly from the rookery. The day came whether she wanted or not.

She rode from Winterfell to White Harbor in a wheelhouse, flanked by Stark men dressed as though they were escorting a prized sow to a farmer’s market. Words were few, and consolation ineffectual. A ship in royal colors took her from the port, and to her new, utterly alien home.

Den of Vipers (206 AC - 209 AC)
"Pick up the sword and wipe your tears. Neither the battlefield nor King's Landing are places you want to be caught in crying."

She arrived in King’s Landing in 205 AC, in the midst of the reign of Queen Daenaerys I Targaryen, and her Prince-Consort, Durran Dondarrion. The Queen ‘Mother’ was anything but a maternal figure; despite the turmoil that led to this arrangement, and the years of anguish Teora seethed through, she was one little wolf in a den of vipers. She was outnumbered by her hosts, who counted almost two dozen in her time.

Teora found her adjustment difficult. She was a First Man now suddenly living by Andal rules. She was expected to put on appearances, dress in court fashions, study her letters, among a staggeringly long list of principles, etiquette, and honors. She was a poor learner, and an embarrassment to herself and whomever was forced to live alongside her.

Much of her misery came from the very children her age. Blue-blooded, bastards, and baseborn all, saw her as little more than a caged wolf far from home. None were as persistent and vocal as Visenya Targaryen, granddaughter of the Queen and daughter of her heir. While she appeared a fair maiden as sweet as spring, her words hid poison for a girl she considered to be little more than a northern barbarian.

Her respite did not come from the Queen finally noticing her plight, but from her King-Consort, and her steel-hearted daughter. Durran Dondarrion lived only half the time Teora was in King’s Landing, but he was kind, gentle, and perhaps most importantly, knew how to make her laugh again. Their encounters were brief, but always welcome, and she wondered if this same tenderness could ever surface from her father back home.

Yet she spent little of her early years thinking of home, because Princess Viserra Targaryen was a strict and harsh guardian. To Durran’s warmth was his step-daughter’s cold. In some strange sense of pity, she took the young Stark as her protégé. Her expertise did not lie in sewing or courtly etiquette, for she was a warrior: the Commander of the City Watch.

There was none of the familiarity of Beck Rivers here, only a glowering dragon with a sword nearly as tall as Teora. When she could slip away from the Keep, she was at Viserra’s side, or across a dueling ring. She hid bruises beneath her dresses, stood straight as her head pounded, and hid blood in the paint of her lipstick. Perhaps it was anger that fueled her drive to train harder, or it was the closest to a taste of home she could ever have so far from it. Viserra grew to be like an older sister for her. A sentiment not easily shared, but Teora latched on to what little good came her way. It built her confidence from the ground up. She wore her wounds with pride, and dared onlookers to venture a guess on where she’d earned those scars. Her anger never subsided, but now it was directed and honed.

The Targaryens had sunk their claws around the little wolf, but she was prepared to dig her feet into the ground and bristle under their confinement.

That Wild Thing (210 AC - Present)
210 AC marked a change in the Red Keep. A number of the Targaryens had since departed south, to take part in the ongoing Conquest of Dorne. Teora never likened herself to become involved in southern politics; they could never grow to influence her place in the gilded cage of the capital, or come so far north they might sway her father or become trouble in her later rule. The Dornish Conquest would never come that far, but the death of Durran Dondarrion most certainly did.

Though he was never a father to her, the realm mourned their King-Consort, with Teora among that number. None felt the death of Durran as deeply as his widow, Queen Daenaerys, who withdrew from public life. As one of the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting, she saw a monarch frozen by grief. The Queen was cold in those years, and her newfound zeal for the Faith left the relationship more strained than ever.

But it also emboldened her. She had spent years as a bauble at court, a jewel on the head of the Crown. A caged wolf to be shown off at parties, to entertain at salons, forcing a smile all the while. Not anymore. When she was taunted, she retorted with a ferocity not seen before. She bared her fangs and was quick to remind the world she was a Stark of Winterfell.

The Lords Karstark and Dustin came near the date of her 16th nameday, to test her character and bring news of the so-called Stark in the South home to her father. For three moons, they lived in the Red Keep and watched her every move, questioned every guard, every prince, every serving girl on her deeds. They said nothing of their judgement to her, but Teora felt utterly violated. Sized up - once again, like livestock on the road to market - and gone in a day.

With the re-emergence of the Queen in public life, Teora’s aspirations of freedom remain vague and bleak. No end to her wardship was ever discussed, not between Jaehaerys II and the Blacksword, nor Rickard and Daenaerys. She returns to the Throne’s short leash, postured defiantly, but ultimately confined to the walls of King’s Landing. With each passing day, she chafes at the hand that feeds her, and seeks every opportunity to walk her own path…