𝙻𝙾𝙲𝙰𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽: traveling along the kingsroad. 𝙳𝙰𝚃𝙴: second seed, 300 a.c. 𝚆𝙸𝚃𝙷: little fawn ( @steggr ).
𝙷𝙴 𝚆𝙰𝚂 𝙰 𝙲𝙷𝙸𝙻𝙳 𝚆𝙷𝙾 𝙾𝙽𝙻𝚈 𝚆𝙰𝙽𝚃𝙴𝙳 𝚃𝙾 𝙷𝙴𝙰𝙻 𝚃𝙷𝙸𝙽𝙶𝚂, 𝙱𝚄𝚃 𝙱𝙴𝙲𝙰𝙼𝙴 𝙰𝙽 𝙰𝙱𝙾𝙼𝙸𝙽𝙰𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽. what good deeds enacted will die in isolation with shireen baratheon. his fingers are too thick, unfittingly scarred and callused to be wrapped about the bridle of an intended queen. his coarseness was not charming, his likeness bereft of what the bards sang of knights. his eyes, his heart, his liver — all pierced by a long and sharp actuality. he was made to hang his head and quietly bleed. the road to king’s landing is lengthy, prolonged by the brief blight of bandits, made greater still by the evening terrors which have besieged his slumber. rest that is already hard won on his better days, now plagued with ominous visions aurane deems should belong to someone of grander distinction, of unfouled blood: a stygian egg splintered through the middle. the prior night has left him hot and swathed in sweat, snared in a fog of tension that leaves him bruised and dragging. if his ward - fawn has been garrulous whilst he keeps alongside their chestnut mare, the words have been lost to the wind.
something congests a ceaseless line of ambling men, shies the chargers a yard ahead and startles the one beneath shireen. the bastard butcher lowers back its snorting head, strokes a velvet muzzle and soothes its unrest in whispers of an ancient tongue learned in a dream. a hand brought back over right shoulder, the sword is silent as it leaves its scabbard in an expert draw. stannis did not hire his hands to pray. ‘ fuck. ’ the hood dropped from his head pools around the neck, vision free to perceive what subsequent horror may lurk down trodden path. growling his command, aurane grants the young stag a severe glance, aware of the blatant disregard which will follow even as he speaks it into being. ‘ wait here. ’