Midwinter Prompt 5: Wool (A Song of Ice and Fire)
Title: Wool
Author: lainemontgomery
Prompt: Midwinter Prompt 5
Fandom: A Song of Ice and Fire
Characters & Pairings: Catelyn Tully Stark, Old Nan
Genre: General
Rating & Warnings: G
Word Count: 577
Summary: The newly-minted Lady of Winterfell, with her soft southron hands, tries for the first time to card Northern wool.
As a properly-raised southron gentlewoman, Catelyn Tully prided herself on her skill with needle and thread. She’d been trained for truly fine work- intricate silk embroidery, lace crocheting, the delicate handling of costly materials, all in the interest of aesthetics rather than necessity.
Therefore, the newly-minted Lady Stark hadn’t the slightest idea what to make of the pile of coarse, matted wool unceremoniously heaped before her.
She’d carded wool before, once or twice, but at Riverrun, such tasks were generally considered servants’ work. And in any case, the soft wool of the south bore absolutely no resemblance to this bristly, off-colored thatch. The steward’s wife had tried to show her, had patiently taken the wooden cards in her large hands and smoothed pieces of the tangle into something like usable thread- but she had other duties to attend to, and now Catelyn was left to fend for herself.
She gingerly lifted a chunk of the wool, wincing as the harsh strands scraped against her skin, rough as nettles- her beautiful hands, hands she used to soak in milk-and-rose baths, that she used to rub with paraffin and wrap in cloth to maintain their silkiness, now proving as ornamental and useless as the embroidery she used to perform with them. She tried to drag the cards through the snarl, but they caught and held fast, refusing to budge.
Catelyn bit down hard on her lip. She felt the tears start to rise, tears of frustration and anger and homesickness- I hate this place, I hate this horrible barren cold lonely place, I want to go home where it is warm and green and beautiful...
A figure appeared in the doorway, and Catelyn snapped her head up sharply. She nearly grimaced when she realized who it was- Old Nan, her husband’s former nurse, that peculiar crone with her endless, addled stories and senile grin. The old woman stepped into the sewing chamber, and Catelyn mentally scrambled for any excuse to refuse her company.
But for the first time since Catelyn’s arrival in Winterfell, Old Nan rejected the opportunity to tell one of her rambling tales. Instead, she stepped behind the younger woman, her eyes kind, her smile soft- she placed her hands over Catelyn’s atop the wooden blocks. Old Nan’s fingertips were rough, covered in scabs and callouses- Catelyn began to recoil with distaste, but Old Nan held her hands tight, moving the cards through the wool with a quick, easy expertise that left Catelyn humbled and astonished.
“Like this, my lady.” Old Nan released Catelyn’s hands and fixed her with an expectant stare. The Lady of Winterfell tried to mimic the other woman’s movements, but the wool got caught yet again- her eyes stung as she dropped her chin and mumbled, “I- I cannot...”
Old Nan reached out and cupped Catelyn’s cheek in her leathery hand. Although she knew it incorrect to encourage such audacity from her servant, Catelyn let herself lean into the touch.
“You will learn, sweetling. You will learn.”
Catelyn’s tears flowed freely over her cheeks, and she sobbed like a child. Old Nan gathered the girl’s coppery head to her chest, and Catelyn felt the scratch of the nurse’s woolen dress against her cheek, the scratch of the uncarded wool against her lily-white hands- she glanced down and noticed a pinkish rash already forming over her fingertips.
She heaved a ragged breath, her head still resting against Old Nan’s bosom.
Yes. I will learn.
Author: lainemontgomery
Prompt: Midwinter Prompt 5
Fandom: A Song of Ice and Fire
Characters & Pairings: Catelyn Tully Stark, Old Nan
Genre: General
Rating & Warnings: G
Word Count: 577
Summary: The newly-minted Lady of Winterfell, with her soft southron hands, tries for the first time to card Northern wool.
As a properly-raised southron gentlewoman, Catelyn Tully prided herself on her skill with needle and thread. She’d been trained for truly fine work- intricate silk embroidery, lace crocheting, the delicate handling of costly materials, all in the interest of aesthetics rather than necessity.
Therefore, the newly-minted Lady Stark hadn’t the slightest idea what to make of the pile of coarse, matted wool unceremoniously heaped before her.
She’d carded wool before, once or twice, but at Riverrun, such tasks were generally considered servants’ work. And in any case, the soft wool of the south bore absolutely no resemblance to this bristly, off-colored thatch. The steward’s wife had tried to show her, had patiently taken the wooden cards in her large hands and smoothed pieces of the tangle into something like usable thread- but she had other duties to attend to, and now Catelyn was left to fend for herself.
She gingerly lifted a chunk of the wool, wincing as the harsh strands scraped against her skin, rough as nettles- her beautiful hands, hands she used to soak in milk-and-rose baths, that she used to rub with paraffin and wrap in cloth to maintain their silkiness, now proving as ornamental and useless as the embroidery she used to perform with them. She tried to drag the cards through the snarl, but they caught and held fast, refusing to budge.
Catelyn bit down hard on her lip. She felt the tears start to rise, tears of frustration and anger and homesickness- I hate this place, I hate this horrible barren cold lonely place, I want to go home where it is warm and green and beautiful...
A figure appeared in the doorway, and Catelyn snapped her head up sharply. She nearly grimaced when she realized who it was- Old Nan, her husband’s former nurse, that peculiar crone with her endless, addled stories and senile grin. The old woman stepped into the sewing chamber, and Catelyn mentally scrambled for any excuse to refuse her company.
But for the first time since Catelyn’s arrival in Winterfell, Old Nan rejected the opportunity to tell one of her rambling tales. Instead, she stepped behind the younger woman, her eyes kind, her smile soft- she placed her hands over Catelyn’s atop the wooden blocks. Old Nan’s fingertips were rough, covered in scabs and callouses- Catelyn began to recoil with distaste, but Old Nan held her hands tight, moving the cards through the wool with a quick, easy expertise that left Catelyn humbled and astonished.
“Like this, my lady.” Old Nan released Catelyn’s hands and fixed her with an expectant stare. The Lady of Winterfell tried to mimic the other woman’s movements, but the wool got caught yet again- her eyes stung as she dropped her chin and mumbled, “I- I cannot...”
Old Nan reached out and cupped Catelyn’s cheek in her leathery hand. Although she knew it incorrect to encourage such audacity from her servant, Catelyn let herself lean into the touch.
“You will learn, sweetling. You will learn.”
Catelyn’s tears flowed freely over her cheeks, and she sobbed like a child. Old Nan gathered the girl’s coppery head to her chest, and Catelyn felt the scratch of the nurse’s woolen dress against her cheek, the scratch of the uncarded wool against her lily-white hands- she glanced down and noticed a pinkish rash already forming over her fingertips.
She heaved a ragged breath, her head still resting against Old Nan’s bosom.
Yes. I will learn.