Capítulo 25: Change of The Status quo
As the army of the North marched through the gates of the citadel, they were met with a mixed reception from the Winterborne elites. While some greeted them with genuine curiosity and interest, others couldn't help but sneer at the newcomers from the North.
Ned Stark led his men through the halls of the citadel, their eyes wide with wonder as they took in the sights around them. The Winterborne elites, with their haughty demeanor and disdainful glances, made no attempt to hide their mockery behind closed doors.
Robb Stark frowned as he caught snippets of whispered conversations from passing Winterborne, their thinly veiled insults and snide remarks not lost on him. "I don't like the look of this," he muttered to Jon Snow, who nodded in silent agreement.
Jon clenched his jaw as he overheard a group of Winterborne elites making disparaging comments about the Northmen's appearance and mannerisms. "They may have fancy technology," he muttered under his breath, "but they've got the manners of a pack of wildlings."
Theon Greyjoy, always quick with a joke, couldn't help but find humor in the situation. "Looks like we've stumbled into a den of wolves," he quipped, earning a wry chuckle from his companions.
Bran Stark, ever the peacemaker, tried to brush off the Winterborne's rude behavior with a good-natured smile. "Perhaps they're just intimidated by our rugged charm," he said, though his attempt at levity did little to ease the tension.
Meanwhile, Rickon Stark, oblivious to the underlying tension, wandered off on his own, his eyes wide with wonder as he explored the opulent halls of the citadel. Unbeknownst to him, he became the subject of more than a few mocking glances from the Winterborne elites.
As the Starks settled into their new surroundings, they couldn't help but feel a sense of unease lingering in the air. While the citadel was undeniably impressive, it seemed that not everyone was thrilled to welcome them with open arms. But as they prepared to face whatever challenges lay ahead, they knew that they were stronger together than they ever could be apart.
The Winterborne elite gathered in the grand ballroom of the citadel, their opulent robes flowing as they mingled and sipped from crystal goblets filled with the finest wines. The atmosphere was charged with an air of sophistication and exclusivity, as they exchanged pleasantries and gossip in hushed tones.
From their perspective, the arrival of the army of the North had caused quite a stir among their ranks. Many viewed the newcomers with disdain, their provincial mannerisms and rough-hewn appearance standing in stark contrast to the refined elegance of Winterborne society.
As they sipped their wine and nibbled on delicacies, the Winterborne elites couldn't help but exchange knowing glances and whispered remarks about the Northmen. To them, the Starks and their entourage were little more than uncultured barbarians, unworthy of the luxuries afforded to those born of Winterborne blood.
One particularly haughty Winterborne, clad in robes of the finest silk, raised a disdainful eyebrow as he caught sight of Ned Stark and his sons entering the ballroom. "Look at them," he muttered to his companions, his voice dripping with scorn. "They have the audacity to grace us with their presence, as if they belong among the Winterborne elite."
His companions nodded in agreement, their lips curled into smug smiles as they watched the Starks navigate the sea of Winterborne nobility. To them, the Northmen were little more than interlopers, unwelcome guests in their refined world of wealth and privilege.
As the evening wore on, the Winterborne elites continued to revel in their own sense of superiority, their disdain for the Starks and their ilk growing with each passing moment. For them, the citadel was a sanctuary of wealth and power, and they would not allow outsiders to tarnish its hallowed halls with their uncouth presence.
But little did they know, the Starks were not so easily cowed. And as they watched the Winterborne elites from across the ballroom, they silently vowed to prove themselves worthy of respect, no matter the cost.
As the Winterborne elites continued their grand party in the opulent ballroom of the citadel, whispers of discontent and intrigue echoed through the halls. Behind the facade of smiles and polite conversation, tensions simmered just beneath the surface, threatening to boil over at any moment.
In one corner of the ballroom, a group of Winterborne nobles huddled together, their voices low as they discussed the arrival of the army of the North and its implications for their society. "It's preposterous," one noble scoffed, his lip curling in disdain. "To think that those barbarians could ever hope to mingle among us."
His companions nodded in agreement, their expressions grim as they contemplated the threat posed by the outsiders. "We mustn't allow them to disrupt the delicate balance of power within the citadel," another noble declared, his voice tinged with urgency. "We must take action to protect our way of life."
Meanwhile, across the ballroom, another group of Winterborne elites engaged in a heated debate about the future of their society. "We cannot continue to ignore the plight of those in the underground," one noble argued passionately, his eyes flashing with determination. "We have a responsibility to uphold the values of compassion and justice that define us as Winterborne."
But his words were met with resistance from others in the group, who scoffed at the notion of extending aid to the downtrodden. "They are nothing but vermin," one noble spat, his voice dripping with contempt. "They deserve whatever fate befalls them."
Ned Stark, along with his sons and Theon Greyjoy, convened in the quiet confines of their chambers within the citadel, their minds swirling with the rumors and revelations they had gleaned from the Winterborne soirée.
Robb Stark leaned against the wall, his expression troubled as he recounted the snippets of conversation he had overheard. "They spoke of the underground," he said, his voice heavy with concern. "Of a place where desperation and despair reign supreme, and where our presence is condemned by their God."
Jon Snow nodded solemnly, his gaze fixed on the flickering flames of the hearth. "Sinclair Snow," he murmured, the name heavy on his tongue. "To think that the Winterborne worship him as a God, while condemning those who dwell beneath the surface."
Theon Greyjoy poured himself a drink, his brow furrowed in thought as he considered the implications of what they had heard. "It seems the divide between the Winterborne elite and those in the underground runs deeper than we could have imagined," he said, his voice tinged with unease.
Ned Stark listened to his companions in silence, his mind racing with possibilities. "We must tread carefully," he said, his voice grave with concern. "For if what they say is true, then we may find ourselves caught in the crossfire of a conflict that spans generations."
And as they sat in the dimly lit chambers of the citadel, their thoughts weighed heavy on their minds. For beneath the surface of this seemingly idyllic society lay a world of darkness and despair, where the lines between friend and foe were blurred, and where the truth remained elusive. But they were Starks of Winterfell, and they would not shy away from the challenges that lay ahead.
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