Berena Stark

Berena Stark is the successor of her late grandfather, Jon II Stark, as Lady of Winterfell and Warden of the North. She is the first woman to rule the North by birthright, and is said to have all the 'wolf blood' lost on her forefathers.

Reputably, Lady Stark is a fierce warrior and wields the bastard valyrian steel sword, Longclaw.

Appearance
Lady Berena, by daily appearance, falls short of the beauty afforded by the privilege of nobility, caring not at all for fine silks and gowns but preferring trousers and leather jerkins instead. By contrast, she is far taller than the average woman, and considered all the more intimidating for it. Her arms are thick and muscularly banded, her abdomen tight, toned, and powerful. She carries with her an air of authority to rival the whispers of a room, and possesses a stone grey stare as cold as ice.

Her countenance is scarred with battle-wounds and half-healed marks she considers herself to have earned as a symbol of honor and triumph. Looking closer, she is lightly freckled with coarse black brows the same shade as her long hair, oft kept strewn back from her face and neck, falling down her back in a tight braid. Had Berena neglected to train with shield and sword as a girl, she might be the feminine sort that some might consider quite fair to look upon- but great measures of practice and the dangers of battle have thickened her strong physique and doubly so by the births of her two children.

House Stark (in 438 AC)

 * Alys Stark, the widow of Eon. Dowager Lady of Winterfell. b.390
 * Berena Stark, Lady of Winterfell and Warden of the North. b.411
 * Artos Stark, Heir of Winterfell b.430
 * Eddara Stark b.436
 * Jocelyn Manderly, Lady of White Harbor. b.417

Household

 * list

Wolf Blood (411-426)
“A spirited child,” the maesters, scholars and other good-doers called her. ‘Spirited’... it was a word that replaced the other that taunted the tips of their tongues, begging to be heard- as though her mother, Lady Alys Arryn, hadn’t known they meant to call her eldest daughter troublesome, instead. Young Berena was a whirlwind afoot, scarcely content to be still. The girl had no interest in pins and needles and the embroidery her companions so adored and preferred to take to the courtyards with swords and shields with the boys instead.

None better understood a child than their mother and Alys knew Berena all the more because she had been the same. The Eyrie hadn’t the hands to rein her into solace nor silence when she was growing up, and likewise, Winterfell could never fully heed the wild, willful girl her daughter was. Alys knew that those that did not understand her would seek only to change her, to mold her to their image of what a truly noble girl should be with hushed words and sneers that would paint a target of her heart.

She was no wolf, but a falcon instead- and nothing, if not fiercely protective of her children. Ellard, Rodwell and silent Jocelyn spared her the rest Berena did not allow her mother. Melodies hummed soothed their sleepy worries, but not Berena; the eldest Stark child often flew into fits of rage, throwing fists and curses that could be calmed only by the arms of her mother, pinning hers to immobilize her balled hands that searched to find landing upon flesh. Prone to pushing, shoving, and picking fights with her peers, sometimes punishment was delivered by her father, instead.

Other times, there were lashings. Lashings that whipped across her back with the snap of fresh cattle-hide leather that struck her so harshly some welts would never go away. Her grandfather would exact them upon her, with her hands tied about a post so that she couldn’t shield herself with them from each and every one of his cruel blows. Sometimes it hurt worse to see Jon deliver such punishment instead to her own whipping girl, a friend she had found in a common orphan- a lowly kitchen servant.

Berena was allowed her bleeding, often paired with the taste of salt clinging to the roof of her mouth that had once been filled with a rag she bit to muffle her screams in the courtyard so spectators dare not mock her cries. Her temples were wet and her black tendrils stuck to the sides of her flushed face. Her relief, and greatest grievance, was when these poulticed sessions ended when her grandfather and his men rode off to the Wall in 418 AC.

It would be remembered as a most grim time in Winterfell, where even the oldest Godswood trees seemed to shed sappy crimson tears for the blood of the North that would be shed upon these encumbersome winter snows. The halls of her home echoed emptily, save for the voices of women and children, some abuzz with chatter and others silent for their concern. The castle still donned black for her brother that had succumbed to a sudden sickness, a babe of only two years at the time of his passing when word arrived from Castle Black that Eon Stark had been felled by the arrow of a wildling bow.

Her father’s death fed her aggression and when her grandfather returned from the machinations of war he had no more patience for her left in him. Jon Stark cursed her boyish nature, disappointed with her affinities that made her a most unwelcome tag-along when he intended to spend his time alone with his newly minted heir, her younger brother Ellard, instead. Jon hated the way she never brushed her hair, leaving it an unkempt, tangled mess; he hated that she had the delicacy of manners equivalent to that of an aurochs in a fragile glass cabinet; but most of all, he hated that of either of his granddaughters, she was the one that could speak. For her most formative years, the deaf Jocelyn Stark uttered not a word- and when she did, it was a broken, sprawling noise that strained him to make sense of it all.

Jon Stark wished it were Berena, instead.

In 424 AC, despite Alys’ protests, her grandfather sent Berena to King’s Landing, hoping that a life at court would refine her into the young lady he meant her to have always been. As the wind threatened winter on the horizon, Berena kissed her mother goodbye and waved until she could see her and her siblings at her back no more.

There, she was meant to be a companion to Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen. Berena would have made a half-assed lady-in-waiting, without a shadow of a doubt; she had never known how to navigate her own sable tresses with a brush without agonizingly yanking a strand caught in the hard bristles, and knew nothing of corsets and dresses- in Winterfell, she had refused to wear them, preferring trousers and loose doublets instead. Laced boots had suited her finding ground beneath her feet far better than dainty slippers ever would. How had it not been clear to Jon that she would never be just another slip of a girl, quietly going about the halls of the Red Keep?

Her grandfather’s best wishes seemed a far-fetched fancy in the eyes of other courtiers, too. They were southron fools and they thought her some savage from the North, despite the respect her name had demanded for centuries. Berena did not get on well at first with the princess, and found trouble acquainting herself with others. Like at home, Berena shared common interests far better with the boys that trained in the courtyards- with green squires and their half-decent mentors. When the virtue of appearances did not demand her presence, Berena was oft found outside, building beads of sweat at her brow with every swing of her sword.

It was there that Berena and Rhaenyra found common ground: both girls made better conversations letting their swords talk rather than their mouths. What tension had forced static between them was settled in the courtyards, in the rhythm of a clanging and clashing of steel. From then on, the pair became great friends- and the free-spirited Berena learned much from the Targaryen princess.

By the end of her first year spent in the capital, the Stark girl had grown rather accustomed to the ways of King’s Landing. Berena had blossomed into her position, showing fine improvement and having become valuable aid to her close friend and confidante. Though she still proved a challenge to the southron septas of the Red Keep and what suitors dared vie for her hand, Berena had, albeit loosely, been shaped into something of better semblance to the standard of her birth. Her unbreakable will hadn’t relented one bit - but during her tenure of servitude she had become far better disciplined.