BLACK ANTLERS

Eromir Baratheon Lord Commander of the Night's Watch "And a dark wind blows."

[blackantlcrs]

( AREGELLE. )

( ⚔*°*. ) → a seemingly innocent greeting of an uncle to his niece, yet instinct had seen her spine straightened nonetheless, the familiar northern lilt of a near-stranger wrapping around the pale column of her neck like a constricting serpent, c h o k i n g all bravado from the very heart of her. fingers twitched in the numerous folds of the ridiculous dress she had been forced into, though there was enough sense left between conflicting thoughts to keep her hand away from the jeweled pommel of her father’s sword ( of her uncle’s sword, should he have desire to c l a i m it, and the stormlands, for his own ─ the thought seemed to choke all rationality from mind ). “lord commander.”

    familial title had teetered on the edge of her tongue, threatening to spill over with uncharacteristic warmth; through narrowed gaze, he looked hazy enough in unfamiliarity to be a s h a d o w of her lord father, should she wish to see it.

    "they seemed content enough to have won the battle of the corsets ─ my sister knows not to ask me to forgo my blade. you are still in the black, i see.” only cassana had been stubborn enough to demand from her and for her troubles, received grudging compromise in the end. “i did not think to look for y o u between the lords and ladies of court but i’m certain calder appreciates your attendance.” 

        AN AMUSED BREATH followed her delivery of his designation, but only the hint of a smile tugged at the elder Baratheon’s lineaments. He had relinquished Storm’s End and Dragonstone in favour of verglas and hoarfrost, trading in what he had thought was a shackling existence for one bound in the brittle cage of winter, of obligation. He had flourished as First Ranger among his black-clad brothers, yet now, he found himself ensnared again by the weight of responsibility — by the weight of The Realm entire. It was a deserving answer to the act of selfish abandonment, to his arrogant dismissal of his ancestral House — so, he steeled his stubbled jaw and endured. Eromir would always endure.

He saw her spindly fingers twitch toward the hilt of her blade; he could remember the weight of it, a memory that refused the exiled borders of his mind. Fear had grown in her, a coiling black mass, that he might contest the steel she carried, the vestiges of his father’s empire, the unforgiving masonry of his throne.

“Your sister is wise; you carry the blade, after all.” An eyebrow lifted to punctuate his tilted smirk. “I know no other colour.” Arms made stone from the weight of his greatsword were drawn over his chest, and he forsook his niece’s familiar countenance to search for the crowned wolf among the crowd. “I’d hoped the gesture would help heal what was broken after Astris’ death. I kept my distance from Winterfell when I should have been here for them. Calder’s trust in me was shaken.” He took a breath and exhaled. “He will do well. The North will embrace him, just as they did Elias. A true leader.” Eromir turned his eyes on her once more, his gaze softer, now. “It is good to see you, AREGELLE.”

[blackantlcrs]

        COLLECTING RECRUITS never fell to the Lord Commander, but due to the high tension in the North after the new King’s bloody coronation, Eromir could not stomach sitting in his lonely tower and watching a still horizon for dark wings. So, he left the Wall in the charge of his steward and the loyal Maester, and rode the lonely road south to The Riverlands. There were no willing men among those collected — all of them thieves and killers who glared darkly at him through the steel bars of their cages. The toothless ingrates wagged their vulgar tongues in argument, and the thieves wove manipulative tales and lured the stable boys with promises of heavy purses and willing women. Eromir ignored them and focused on the northward road. Breaking them would prove hard, but it was not the sort of challenge from which he’d back down. Their options were few: to either take the black or to suffer the fall of a greatsword upon their neck.

His men had asked to stop at Crossroads Inn for a break from the cold, and Eromir had initially declined. Their collective purse was running low, so paying to shelter and feed a dozen men and just as many horses would deplete it almost entirely. It wasn’t until Fiddeon (a sworn brother who had only recently seen his sixteenth name day) was raped and nearly killed by one of the shackled recruits that the Lord Commander stayed their caravan traveling east. The boy needed warmth and convalescence, or he would never see The Wall again. Eromir made short work of his attacker, splitting his neck like fallen wood in plain sight of the other conscripted monsters. Steam rose from the stump left in steel's wake, and the smell of piss came with it. The lot of them were as quiet as the crypts the rest of the ride.

The glow of the hearth at Crossroads Inn called to them like a siren. The scent of fresh bread and the promise of warmth and a dry place to lay their heads was almost sinful. Even Graves, Eromir’s beastly charger, was ready to be out of the stinging ice and rain, and traded his stubborn demeanor for a bucket of oats without protest. Some men were left to watch the prisoners and tend to the horses, the others filled the small tavern to the brim, all shoulder to shoulder at the long tables, their faces marked by mirth, their cups full with ale. Even Eromir’s stoic nature melted after a time, and he found himself settled at the far end of the room drawing from a churchwarden pipe. A bard sang The Bear and the Maiden Fair and the mood was somehow easy, even in such dark times.

Upstairs, Fiddeon fought a collapsing esophagus, cracked ribs, and no doubt mourned the loss of his virtue to a vagrant. His brothers in black would give him hell for IT.

[blackantlcrs]

( ALYSSA. )

Wise, knowledgeable words broke Alyssa’s train of thought. Words that came from an evidently observant and strategically prone mind; a warrior or a soldier, perhaps? Suddenly, Alyssa felt quite not as alone as she had felt earlier. Individuals of strategy and battle were her brothers and sisters, regardless of nationality. They were people who she could understand and respect; whereas the nobility hid behind falsities, warriors were more blunt. She liked that.

She turned sea-green eyes towards the stranger and observed him with a critical glance. His heavy black attire was well designed for warmth and battle but it was clearly a uniform that was designed to be recognised too. Since Alyssa was from the far south, she had never visited the famous Wall or seen its guardians draped in black but judging by the small perimeter of space - was that respect or judgement in the eyes of the others? - which surrounded the stranger, he must be a warrior who wielded some rank and weight within the elusive faction. Although Dorne had always been quite separate from the North’s troubles, Alyssa had loved the stories of the Night’s Watch as a child. She had been amazed how serving on the Wall was honor and a sign of selfless devotion to duty, with many knights, honorable men, and nobles taking the black voluntarily once in centuries long past. It had sung to her young, naive warrior heart but the truth was that in recent days, the Watch had become more disconnected or perhaps society had become more disconnected from the ancient oaths which the Watch stood for.

It was a curious thought and as Alyssa’s glance continued to linger on Eromir, boring into his features with a analytical eye, she decided that since the man had spoken sense - more sense than she had heard so far from the crowd - that she decided to give him respect.

She nodded her head in agreement and finally allowed a small, growing smile to tug at her lips. “You speak surprising sense and prove that your eyes are also keen,” she paused and glanced at the archery competition with amusement, “I always find that the hardest lesson to learn as an archer, in a real battlefield, is that one’s usual perception of speed will be altered because of the wind, the target’s movement, or even if you are moving at speed too. It all has to be carefully calculated. It is all well and merry for these young knights to show their talents at shooting a stationary target with accuracy but I must agree with you; I would not trust him on a field of battle.”

Alyssa turned her full attention to the man before her and bowed her head lightly to the stranger in greeting. “I fear few of my kinsmen have met many from the North, especially from the famous Wall; forgive me for my bluntness but who am I speaking to who has the talent to actually know what they are talking about in terms of archery and warfare?” Her words were blunt and yet not harsh. She could not help but smirk with a spark in her eyes.

        STORIES OF WATER GARDENS, of kind winds that soothed and didn’t bite, of fabled vipers hanging languidly from the boughs of fruitful trees — stately ballads depicting women with sun-speckled skin who spent their lives in constant repose under a blanket of luxurious heat —- These stories were of opulence, of radiance, and of true beauty, and they found their way to The Wall on the lips of wayward men. Many a night, Eromir had sat propped against a rumbling hearth, feeling the thrum of crackling fire in his veins, and listened to the wellspring of foreign rumours, nurtured lies, and tall tales. With his eyes closed, he would attempt to conjure images of such a gilded place, but the limitations of experience beyond the bitter north and the crashing, angry sea would not allow it. 

Eventually, when he heard bards sing of Dorne, and roadway men harp on their conquests in the south, when he would witness serving girls lust after charming men with dusky skin and serpentine smiles — he accepted that it would remain a place of fantasy his wanderer’s heart could never go. Quietly, from his castle of stone and ice, he wished to feel dry earth and loose sand beneath his feet, to lean into the embrace of a warm breeze, to taste ripe fruit, and drink rare wine — but it was to the The Wall that his ivory bones were bound. He felt foolish when he entertained the fantasy of exploring foreign lands. Allowing himself to imagine such sensations was a reprieve from duty he hardly deserved. Whenever he opened his eyes and saw the cold gray of his world (such a striking contrast to the colourful pathways words had carved in his mind), he let those dreams of Dorne turn to stone and buried them under frostbitten loam. This was his world, this was his post. The North was his brutal home, and he was a sworn servant.

The Queen was a living representation of another world, one Eromir could only allow to bloom in his dreams.

“That’s kind of you, your grace,” he answered with a bow of his head, humbled by her words. With his gloved hands clasped respectfully behind his back, the Lord Commander did his level best to keep his eyes trained on the archers as they nocked their arrows rather than the Queen who blazed with the ferocity of a southern sun at his side. It was not his place to regard her so freely. “I fear age has made an eager critic of me, but I agree; there are lessons that seasons and battle can teach that have eluded most of these competitors.” 

When he saw her turn toward him in his peripheral, he mirrored the action, bowing a bit deeper to show the extent of his respect. “I am Eromir Baratheon,” he said, finally lifting stormy blue-green eyes to meet those of the Dornish Queen. “I serve as Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch.” There was no pride in the delivery of his title. It was a heavy mantle, a call that he must answer. “We are from different worlds; it’s a blessing we should cross paths at all. Northern ravens rarely make it all the way south, but stories of Dorne live on the tongues of bards that travel the King’s Road. It’s a great honour to be in the presence of the Queen of SUNSPEAR.”

[blackantlcrs]

( AREGELLE. )

( ⚔*°*. ) → had she been younger, a girl who was sheltered beneath her father’s indulgent shadow, she would have protested against the p i n c h of the corset and the billow of the skirts that accompanied her every step. had she been younger, with a father still breathing, she would have arrived in breeches and an embellished tunic, knowing her cousin would not care for the supposed insult ─ she had lifted a sword by his side, surely what she wore held little importance in comparison to her a c t i o n s. painfully, aregelle had been reminded that she now carried the reputation of her land upon her back as well as the future reign of her brother and she would not, could not do anything to jeopardize or shame their family. 

    ( the jolt of thunder that rang through her ears c u r s e d at the thought ─ as though she had ever shamed her father, as though she needed to be chided by her councilors. )

    against their wishes, she had not relinquished her blade, finding comfort in resting her hand u p o n the pommel as chalice was lifted to her lips. the dark liquid within did not meet her tongue, gaudy carrier of wine shielding most of her face as she peered over the rim, watching for a moment before words fell from wickedly curled lips. “the north has now been blessed with a new king, a strong king ─ long live the king!” resounding cheers from the men that had followed her echoed down the table and she retreated to the shadows immediately after, having completed the task e x p e c t e d of her. 

Castle Black’s adopted son, the true shame of Storm’s End and the House Baratheon, waited in the teeming shadow at the edge of the room’s flickering warmth. The great oaken doors breathed bitterly at the back of his neck, and he tried to banish the unwelcome feelings of fear that bloomed with black petals in his chest. Encroaching vines ensnared his heart and kept his breathing shallow in the midst of this celebration. He trusted his nephew at the helm of the North, his judgement was as resolved as his late Father’s, and his spirit as unforgiving as Astris’ — the stag-born woman who had lost her life to the wolf in her womb. Eromir knew she would have given her life with no thought to see Calder thrive, and he did not fault her for that. It had been her final gift to the Warring Wolf. Alongside his life, she gifted him her strength.

Eromir missed her all the same.

The black web of his thoughts was interrupted for the second time that evening, however, this time, it was by the presence of his niece. When had it last been that he’d seen her? She had grown from the urchin of his memory into a woman, leaving behind breeches and hempen tunics for a fitted and stylish dress. His eyes went straight to the sword at her side, and he felt a touch of relief. “I thought you had traded your steel for silks. I’m pleased to see I was wrong.” Sluices of shadow stole her face from him, but he kept his eyes trained on her figure, waiting for the light to glint in the yolks of her eyes. 

[blackantlcrs]

( ALYSSA. )

Since the passing of Prince Daemond, the eldest Martell sibling whose head should have been burdened by the weight of the crown; Queen Alyssa of Dorne had been quickly brought up to speed with the training that was expected of her. However, since she had arrived in the cold, bleak lands of the North - she felt ill prepared indeed. 

As a Princess, she had been a specialist in strategy and warfare, and had eventually climbed through the ranks of the military to become a General. Although that career seemed like a lost dream nowadays, Alyssa observed that the new location of her ‘battles’ - cunning political schemes - could be treated in the same way as a war operation. Instead of swords, one had words, and instead of shields, you hid behind falsities. It was frustrating for a blunt person like Alyssa but she was determined to muddle through the chaos and complete her mission: seek allies, forge alliances and create a sanctuary for her people.

Suppressing a sigh, Alyssa continued to walk through the tourney’s grounds. The tournament distracted the people from the dark and bloody truths of the past. Wherever she looked, there seemed to be a throng of merry people laughing and pointing at the various events. 

She was an oddity amongst the crowds. Her cautious advisors had pleaded for her to dress in a way that was adaptable and not too outlandish but Alyssa had sneered at their weakness. Even if Dorne was in peril, was it wrong to be proud of their once great and mighty kingdom? Should she change a thousand years of culture and tradition to appease these soft, wetlanders? She scoffed at the thought. Dressed for battle, Alyssa now wore a different type of armour - adorned in rich silks and heavily embellished jewellery, she emphasized her Dornish roots and rank by being herself. If Dorne needed allies, then she preferred that they understood what Dorne is and who its people were. She was determined to save all that could be saved from her poor, broken kingdom. 

Sudden cheers broke the Queen from her fierce reverie and she turned her attention to the nearest display. The crowds were laughing and jesting at two competing archers as they attempted to best eachother. As one of the men took aim, Alyssa bored her green eyes into his posture with a knowing, critical look. His stance was excellent for the contest but in a battle, he lacked the fluidity needed to evade, dodge and predict the speed of a moving target. As he released his arrow, Alyssa hummed in thought and spoke her honest criticism aloud.

“He is definitely not a terrible shot but I doubt he would be able to perform such a feat on horseback or in windy conditions.”

It was likely that Eromir’s lack of competitive spirit was what landed him as the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch — an order with a neutral obligation to the Realm, and not to a certain house or a certain agenda. Others who had fought tooth and nail to progress among the ranks of his sworn brotherhood were left in the cold with stifling assignments while an outcast of House Baratheon climbed the ranks. It irritated some that he had no intention of landing at the top. It was his just and even nature that earned him many faithful followers, but no lack of scornful critics. 

These tourneys were an excellent place to showcase skill, and while the graying watcher could appreciate the sport of it in a small measure, he could not bring himself to hoot for a plucky freerider or place bets on a promising squire. The few rangers who had ventured south with him to Winterfell had expressed interest in signing up, if not for the reward of a full pulse, but for the pride of winning. Eromir had to be the one to break the cold news that they were not there to compete. They were sentinels, not knights and they had no right to glory. Recognition passed over their black-threaded garb as it should have, and he steeled his jaw when he reminded them of their oath (an oath some considered a sentence). Their pride was forfeit the day they joined solemn ranks.

Still, he encouraged his younger brothers, so eager to prove themselves, to assist in the training yard — to offer advise, and exercise their skills and prowess in a way that might help others achieve where they could not. 

Eromir stood at the far end of the yard, his arms crossed over his chest and his pale green eyes studying the forms of those competing. Their stiff grips on their stylish bows, and their dedication to perfect form indicated their lack of experience. Technical achievement — the performance of the same motions over and over to achieve one desired result — was not mastery. It was mimicry. He was surprised to hear a honeyed accent vocalize the thoughts surfacing in his mind, as if she had simply tugged on the mental thread. When he turned to survey his sideline companion, his sight revealed a woman clad in hues of a southern sunset, her spindly fingers and long neck adorned with golden threads and rare jewels. She was a bloom on an ashen field.

As a warden of Castle Black, he never expected to lay eyes on the Queen of Sunspear.

“Your eyes are keen, Your Grace,” he said, treading lightly. He could feel the notches in his spine aligning ever-so-slightly. “Perfecting one’s form to hit an unchanging target is not true mastery. An archer mustn’t study the lift of his elbow or the tautness of his string — an archer must know his target, and he must be in tune with his surroundings.” His eyes went back to the young competitor, and he tilted his head as an arrow was loosed. Bullseye. “I would not trust him on a field of battle.”

[blackantlcrs]

( SAERA. )

Of course. The Targaryen princess felt dumbstruck that she hadn’t figured it out before. His entire demeanor shouted that he was of the Night’s Watch, and the Lord Commander at that. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t even realize who you were, Lord Commander.” She couldn’t even begin to imagine the things he must’ve seen in his time at the Wall. While curisosity came about her for a brief moment, she settled it, understanding it would be inappropriate to ask of his time even further North.

“No, I’m not. I am quite a stranger to such a harsh winter, and usually at celebrates I’m usually on the side of the beloved and not the one that everyone is looking at with fear and loathing in their eyes.” Saera appreciated the time he was taking to lead her away, she needed a moment to forget the room full of people and to be unnoticed for once.

"Do not apologize; that title is a burden I left further north. Please call me Eromir.” His eyes, the green-blue of an insurgent sea, flickered back to the young woman. “And please tell me how I might address you lest I make a fool of myself.” Her golden hair and comely features hinted she was high-born, and her tailored finery that she was, at the very least, traveling with royalty — perhaps a southern princess, or a very esteemed lady. His isolation at The Wall had left him sorely uninformed when it came to the rest of Westeros. News did find him in his post as Lord Commander, but he and his brothers had never been considered a priority when it came to the strategy of thrones. Eromir hadn’t felt a part of that gilded web, even when he was strung up in the middle of it — the heir to Storm’s End and Dragonstone.

They rounded the last full table, dodging mirthful soldiers and toasting nobles, and were met with the heat of the kitchens and the smell of fresh bread. The servants had just placed a steaming pot of spiced wine on the buffet, so the Lord Commander helped himself. With a wooden ladle, he prepared her a goblet and refreshed his own. “So, you have endured the long journey North only to be met an unforgiving winter and unwelcoming company.” He offered her the full goblet. “I can’t say I have found it much different.” The answer was honest, perhaps too honest, but Eromir knew no other way.

[blackantlcrs]

( SAERA. )

Saera gauged that he had to be a high lord, or within a military of some sort. He just had that air about him that commanded respect. Still, she wasn’t quite sure of his identity, but he was being kind enough to her, despite her interruption, and even seemed to be thankful to her for it. He was quite mysterious, and that drew her in.

“That saddens me, at such a celebration that you would feel that way.” Saera frowned at the man, following him as he led her to the kitchens. She generally wouldn’t follow a stranger, but it seemed like everywhere they went there were people or servants bustling about. There was no where to truly be alone, and so she felt safe in that way. “I suppose these events aren’t really for you, huh?” She questioned in a light-hearted tone.

Goblets rang out in bell-like chimes as they were knocked together at the peak of celebration. Hearty, belly-born laughter rose up in chorus over the hum of chatter. This was nothing like the commons at The Wall. Grim, meager meals taken in shifts where the black-clad servants of the brotherhood ate in oppressive silence. The work was hard, and the winter mean. The days blurred together in cold blue succession, so this much warmth, this much laughter — it was jarring for him. He longed to step into the Wolfswood, to disappear among the thickets and trees. A distraction from that lonesome thought was welcome.

“Any man watching his nephew take on the weight of a kingdom would feel this way,” he countered, clasping his hands behind his back. He walked at a slow pace, taking the long way around the room and watching the festivities unfold. “I can’t say I’m accustomed to celebration; there is little to rejoice at The Wall.” Eromir looked away from the teeming Great Hall, and allowed his eyes to settle on the woman in silks at his side. “But you’re no stranger to pomp, are you?”

[blackantlcrs]

( VAYON. )

Vayon had never been one with much fondness for horses, preferring instead the pine-carved mounts that carried him across the ocean. He knew that he could control a ship far better than he had ever learned to ride a horse, though he was forced to take to the saddle when journeys called for venture further than the Kraken’s Kiss could manage. So far from the sea, his eyes strained for the sound of the waves, or the tight humming of rigging, but he was met with only wind whipping past the cobbles of Winterfell and the quiet snickering of his horse, and the horse of his company. 

Black cloaked, and black shadowed, Vayon had no doubt that he was speaking, for the first time in his 25 years of living, to a sworn brother of the Night’s Watch. Next to the hulking great beast of a mount he was tending to, and with a stare that had very clearly seen more than Vayon’s ever would. 

He nodded curtly, and followed next to the man, making sure to keep his distance from the huge animal he was leading considering its very size, its air of agitation and the fact that horses and him had never gotten along - apart, of course, from Kelpie, his black mare who tolerated him just as he tolerated her whenever he chose to make a journey with her and not by sea. 

“That’s one hell of a horse.” He commented idly, warily eyeing the beast as its hooves pounded rhythmically against the snow-dusted cobbles, echoing far more than Kelpie’s relatively light ones. “How’s he got any business bein’ that big?”

The brackish scent of the ocean reminded Eromir of Storm’s End, his origin, the craggy castle at the sea’s jagged edge he had once called home. In his youth, he had followed the roar of saltwater through the blackstone portcullis, and swam in the caves along the shore during a storm. The moon had glimmered like a watery stone overhead, and lightning chased shadows from the slick, granite walls. Danger eluded him as he was young and believed himself immortal, then — but, now in his declining years, he knew that if there was a Drowned God, he had delivered Eromir to the crescent coast with his life in tact. It was an act of mercy. Since then, his love and respect for the abyss had grown, but in the North, all was locked in hoarfrost. 

As the four of them walked, man and companion beast in tow, the snow began to fall with purpose. It clung to the ends of the Lord Commander’s hair, speckling his worn yet stately garb, and the gleaming coat of his sable charger. Unpolished boots scuffed the cobblestones, and the slush of snow soaked the tail of his cloak.

A smile tugged at his lips at the comment, and he turned his attention from the narrow path before him to look upon his nameless companion. Eromir was comforted by the scent of brine that clung to him, and so, his quick pace slackened just a bit. Graves lifted his head, tugged stubbornly at the reins, and exhaled through flaring nostrils. “Careful,” he cautioned with a touch of humour in his voice, his hand flattening against the equine’s strong neck. “He’s big, but his ego is monstrous.”

As they closed in on the stables, Eromir extended his hand to take the reins of the man’s mare. A wordless offer to stable her. “I smell the sea on you,” his voice was low and even as he backed Graves into his stall. “How far are you from home?”

[blackantlcrs]

( SAERA. )

The dragon princess was taken aback by the man’s handsomeness. He was older, sure, but there was something about him that drew her in, and she could appreciate the attractive features of anyone. Still, she maintained her composure. After all, she was a royal and couldn’t give away any sign of vulnerability especially at an event like this. Her mother would scold her for letting something like a physical quality cloud her judgement of another.

“I suppose that is what I will seek, then.” Saera gave him a smile, appreciating his help nonetheless, but feeling sorry for having seemingly drawing him from his thoughts. Perhaps something troubled him too, and she might’ve been drawn to one of the only people in the room who knew what it felt like to feel internally, and almost physically, isolated from the rest of the world. “I apologize for being a bother. It seems like everyone is moving so quickly about I wouldn’t have been able to draw anyone’s attention even for a simple question.”

Life at The Wall ensured that Eromir had few opportunities to speak with women, particularly fair women from great houses wrapped in imported silks. The life he had once lived, as a young lord and heir to Storm’s End, was so deeply buried that he had trouble remembering the proper customs. His world was filled with verglas and bitter cold, with steel and meager meals. The woman with sunlight in her hair and porcelain skin blushed from the cold struck a chord with him — even in a room full of opulent strangers, she stood out.

“Walk with me,” he said, his offer sounding more like an order. As Lord Commander, he had little opportunity to exercise softness; for once, he regretted that. “The kitchens are this way.” He pushed away from the wall, leaving the comforting embrace of shadow to step into the flickering glow of torchlight. “You are no bother,” he said, taking a step toward the kitchens and wondering if the woman would follow and if he might learn her name. “I have to thank you for breaking the wayward trend of my thoughts. Had you not, I might have clung to the shadows all night.”

[blackantlcrs]

( VAYON. )

Vayon had made it to Winterfell in good time, insisting on sailing to Deepwood Motte and riding from there to the seat of the Direwolves, though it seemed he was still among the last to arrive if the crowds milling about already were anything to go by. As he and his small entourage of ironborn entered the stronghold’s gates, he could not help but be impressed by the scale of this gathering. Cold as it was, there were people from all corners of the kingdom about in the courtyard like a collection of foreign jewels - Lannister reds, Tyrell greens, Stark whites and everything in between. Adding the black of his own house, he dismounted from his horse, and rubbed its nose in reward for a journey well made while he looked around for the stables.

The Greyjoy prince bowed his head politely at a passerby, and wondered if they might be able to help him, now that he was here in new territory. “You wouldn’t be able to point me in the direction of the stables, would you?” He asked, schooling his usually gravelly tone into something more appropriate for this setting knowing that he didn’t exactly paint a picture of trustworthiness, in his rough riding clothes and with the huge battle-axe he carried strapped to his horse’s saddlebags in full view. 

As Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, it wasn’t expected of him to tend to the garrons and destiers that he and his brothers in black had taken South, but he had always had an affinity for the beasts. Their selfless and often gentle nature was taken for granted when it should have been respected. It was a truth he’d learned as he’d gotten older, and one that had eluded him in his youth. Too many times had he pushed his long-suffering mount to its early end; he paid a debt to the creatures, now, and he expected no less from the men he led. 

Graves, one of the largest of their chargers, had come south with their company for the first time. It had been Eromir’s hope to break the defiant beast, to draw that sour mistrust from him, and replace it with a strong bond. Things had been going well until their camp was trampled by bandits on horseback, wielding torches and swinging crude steel. The ordeal had frightened even the older, more experienced horses, but it had enraged Graves. From that point on, Eromir had taken the beast on himself, and it had taken only one day’s ride to cement their bond.

“Shh,” he muttered, working out the matts of a coal-black mane. Eromir had wanted to give them each some fresh air before the festivities began; it would be a long night. 

“Headed there myself,” he answered, eyes passing over the young man briefly to inspect his equine companion. With a lift of his chin and a tug of cured leather reins, he veered Graves down the narrow street. The crunch of snow and a disgruntled whinny was his answer. “Come.”

[blackantlcrs]

( SAERA. )

“Mother, you have to at least try to pretend you’re happy to be here.” Saera explained in a kind and hushed voice, although inside she was frustrated. Her mother, a powerful dragon queen, was exposing her weakness, and was crumbling right before her. The princesses words were met with silence and after a moment, she sighed. “Fine, I’ll go get us something to drink then.” She said, taking off.

Saera felt a bit lost, completely unsure of where to even go as it was her first time in not just Winterfell, but all of the North. The grand room was bustling with people, but she seemed to be unable to find anyone for help, so she attempted to catch the attention of a nearby person, who looked kind enough to ask. “Pardon, do you know who I should ask for some refreshments? I can’t seem to find anyone here.”

The ride south was still on his mind. The roads had proven thick with bandit activity and, even he, who hadn’t known a day without bloodshed in decades, was sore from weary travel. His arms ached from swinging his sword, and his legs screamed from hours of hard riding. He didn’t normally partake in spirits, but had found himself nursing a mug of hot, mulled wine, the spices in it soothing to his congested lungs.  

As his eyes scanned the faceless crowd, Eromir lingered in the deepest pocket of shadow he could find. Out of sight, out of mind. Though he had spotted his nephew, the Warring Wolf as parchment would decree, he kept his distance out of sheer respect. After Astris’ death, he had nearly lost himself to grief. It was easier to throw himself into his responsibilities at The Wall than confront the loss properly, and that neglect had nearly cost him the few familial relationships he still had left. Eromir had managed to salvage those connections before they were completely lost to him, but they were threadbare, and taut.

His thoughts were interrupted by kind intonation. It surprised him that someone might speak to him — a man donned all in black — and that she had found him in the dark. 

“That will depend on what you’re after,” he said, arms crossed over his chest. “The spiced wine is warmed in the kitchens, and if you are unaccustomed to the bitter North, I recommend it.”

[babschwi]