Fantasy Heir’s Augury [Closed]

[peritwinkle]

The air in the room seemed to grow colder as the doors opened and the sumptuous image of the Queen popped against the dark hallway. An array of handmaids crammed behind her back, as though fearful to step into the room, yet their eyes were locked on the cribs that were still rocking slowly. She, however, stood out not through her gold embellished gown, but through the sparkle in her own gaze that did not reflect onto the cribs, but into her own, and Marietta knew then that the Queen had come to see her.

Her left hand moved to close the doors before the handmaids got the chance to trot inside like a gaggle of geese. The shadow of a simper that had graced her lips in the beginning began to fade, and she slowly made her way towards the bed, jer feet seeming to barely touch the trodden floor. "A fine morning, my Queen," Marietta murmured from the tips of her lips, to which the woman only nodded dismissively.

“May I sit?" she asked then, and claimed her place on the edge of the bed before Marietta got the chance to offer the invitation. It was only then that her eyes shifted to the cribs, Marietta's hands ever sewn to the edges as though a mere gush of wind would blow them away. "I know it must feel strange," she continued then. "One day you feel like you have lost everything... And the other, your life is filled with joy twice around."

The simper returned then, and Marietta mirrored it as a gesture of agreement. Frankly, she did not entirely agree. Keven had left behind merely a letter and, with their child, the boy made of passion, they made the sole proof that it had ever existed in the world, that it had not been all a dream. Perhaps the Queen could say such as well, for the man she had married owed the Kingdom more than he owed her; at the very least, the moments she had spent with Keven had been true. Pure. Unmoving with the winds of war, tragedy and intrigue. Far too short, but true.

The Queen's eyes seemed to wander aimlessly from one child to another, and as they finally rested on the handmaid's treasure, her simper faltered once again. "The ceremony is tomorrow." A breath escaped her nose before she let other words slip from her lips. "You are very well aware of the hindrances we have suffered... After all, it is why you were brought here. To care for my Prince when two eyes and ears were not enough."

“And it is what I have done, my Queen," she said. "That, and only that, for the entirety of my stay at court." Never daring to leave the castle, not even for a walk of prayer through the gardens or a promenade in the market in the early morning. She had been a prisoner and nothing less, although a part of her own will had urged her to stay. Stay, to preserve not the life of the Prince, but the remainder of her love for Keven.

In return, the Queen nodded. She did not care, Marietta knew, for she had come to learn her drive and her ways. She had not had the boy to satisfy the needs of motherhood, but the royal duties that came with her titles, and she had obliged mindlessly, knowing that there was no denying or running away from such curse. In that, perhaps they reverberated through one another - a sense of duty and regret for what they had been made to be.

"For your kindness and care, I am forever grateful." the woman nodded then. "You may attend the ceremony amongst other Ladies of the court. I suppose you do have a dress to fit such occasion... And the boy will be dressed properly as well."

There was a dark glint in her eye, something that warned there was more to come. "But I digress. I came to you for more than a discussion regarding attire. I have been warned of a... conspiracy to dispose of the heir. It is no secret that my birth almost brought my death, and any woman who has borne a child knows that a second delivery would be fatal."

Marietta felt her heart sink into her guts. A shudder ran through her spine, for she knew the demand that would follow the Queen's words. Yet, she remained silent until she was met with the fiery gaze, dark like umber and deep like the ocean. To her, the child of another was as trivial as a simple man in the eyes of the Gods. It seemed, then, that said duty had ripped any sort of empathy left in her heart, if there had been any at the very beginning.

The Queen placed her hands on Marietta’s, her deep gaze never leaving hers. “Do not fret,” she murmured, as if the walls could hear them speak. Perchance they could, as they had listened for her as well. “It is only a measure of precaution. A way... a way for me to prove who it is that desires my fall. Your child will be safe, just as mine will be in your hands. I have trusted you with his life... I beg of you to do the same for me.”

There was a silence that Marietta could not swallow right then. Something that felt more like a warning than pure fear, for she knew she could not deny the wants of her Queen. ‘She has been kind to me,’ she thought then, and felt the sting of a tear touch her eye. It was a promise, the possibility of a compromise, yet of what use was the life of the heir if her own child’s was to be taken away?

She had little time to contemplate until the ceremony. The words that followed from the Queen’s mouth were left unheard, hanging there, in the very room that she later left, and Marietta was once again alone with her own thoughts, the silence once again disturbed by the whimpers of the two babes missing the gentle movement of the rocking crib.


As soon as the bells rang, Marietta was up on her feet and getting dressed in the gown another servant had left on the edge of her bed. That night had passed like nothing, and she did not know whether she had managed to get any sleep, or she had spent it awake, replaying the scene she had witnessed in her mind. The sun that peeked through the cracks in the burgundy curtains was her sole anchor to lucidity once again. If it had not been a dream, then at least it had felt like one.

Yet the turns of the clock passed just like the night had, longingly yet too quick for her to clear her mind. There was not enough time until she found herself holding the two babes in her arms and walking through the door of her safe apartments and into the wilderness of the castle. Soon, she would have to be escorted to the chapel, to leave the walls that kept her safe despite the hectic chaos that seemed to unravel in an unsettling tranquility inside its rooms.

It almost made for a peaceful ride through the streets; the curtains to her litter had been dropped, and it almost seemed like a crammed version of her own quarters. It was how things in the South were - all embellished yet somehow lackluster and repetitive. But it felt like home, not because it resembled it, but because it was constant and unmoving with the times. Something to keep her shielded from the true changes that played outside in the world, whilst she cared for the two lumps of clay she would have to mold in the Queen’s absence.

The bells rang louder the closer they got to the chapel. When the door to her litter was opened, they felt as though they would pierce through her eardrum. She did not bother to take a glance at the men and geese escorting her there, nor did she manage a word of gratitude. Not on that day, when she could no longer feel anything more than spite and terror, terror and spite, for the Queen as much as those who followed her so mindlessly.

The building itself was sumptuous and imposing, like a mountain carefully etched in the matrix of the world. Sculptures adorned its walls from the base to the very top, swirling and curling about its edges and turns in seemingly uncomfortable positions. In that moment, resonated with them more than she had with Her Grace. It was, maybe, the tough realisation that she had turned in nothing but a statue meant to guard a treasure with its simple presence. Marble glistened on the ground beneath her feet, from the steps that climbed onto the platform - once used for executions and public punishments, yet then such elements had been removed out of respect for the little Prince. Ten, perhaps twenty other steps echoed her own, pacing slowly behind her into the chapel.

Marietta had seen it once when visiting the Capital, and as sombre as the city looked, the edifice made up for at least part of it. Trembling rays of light crashed into the tall rooms, reflecting on the pearly grey marble and the ornaments filling the rim of the hall. They shivered in red, blue and green, touches of gold and hues of silver melting into one ray, alike the presumed light of the Gods that would watch upon it. It was a lie, she knew. The Gods only took a glance in search for blood, and if there was none, they looked away.

That day, however, Mariette knew they would watch.

It all played like a blur. A concoction of paintings she did not comprehend, like when one peeked at a piece of art from the corner of their eye and only caught a glimpse of its mastery. She had seen the Queen’s dress, as gold as the sun, yet only knew it had been adorned with the sigil of the bear only when overhearing Ladies’ whispers behind her. She had parted with the heir without a thought since the very beginning and, now, holding the soft linen in her arms as opposed to the silk that had veiled the Prince, she felt much more at ease.

Yet it was not her boy that she was holding, but the child of the woman who was to name her presumed offspring heir on that very day, in that very hall. To anoint not her own child’s lips, but a servant’s. To bring him into the Holy light, not her own child, but a servant’s. And she was to watch, a statue holding the treasure tight to her chest, her gaze never leaving the lump in her Priest’s hands.

She did not understand how a Priest, a man with fear of the Gods, could ever bring harm to an innocent child. Yet it was then that she lost sight of her boy that no longer belonged to herself, as it was passed into a woman’s hands, his Godmother, she assumed, for she had been told of her existence yet never came to truly look upon her. It was how the ceremony would go, as it had played out from the beginning of time, of religion’s reign upon the Kingdom - the Godmother would speak in the name of the child and welcome the Holy Light in the chapel, and then...

Then, her fingers, clasping an anointed napkin embroidered with gold, would graze over the child’s ears, his eyelids, his nose and, eventually, his lips.

Silence fell upon the room, or perhaps it had been there since the beginning. It was so deeply seeded into the walls, that Marietta could almost count the breaths and heartbeats of every one of those residing within the hall. She closed her eyes then, the babe sound asleep in her arms. There was a sharp sound, a sound of despair, of fear and wrath, of a mother crying out for her child, and she knew then that the fears of the Queen had played out before her eyes before there was anything she could do to prevent them.

‘You knew.’

Marietta froze in her seat. Crowds trotted over the marble, shifted about to see what it was that had sucked such reaction out of the poised woman’s face. She only saw the child’s head fall back, foam beginning to spill from its mouth, before the scene was shrouded with veils of gold, red and silver that hurried over to the King’s protection.

Her heart and stomach became one. She felt her guts clench and her throat tighten closed, her gaze focused on the image she could no longer look at, but see through the crowd. She could not hear the babe’s cries in her arms as she left her seat and almost crawled her way down the hallway. In that moment, it was Ethon trembling in her arms, Ethon she ought to take away from the vile hands of those who had dared to harm a newborn babe. Ethon, who was wearing the simple ivory linen, with his shrub of hair moving with the breeze blowing against his face as the handmaiden - merely a woman with her child, a statue with its treasure - fled into the gloomy yet peaceful painting of the world outside the chapel.

 

[pointmango]

No one dared take in a woman with a newborn child, it was asking for trouble and excuses. Marietta struggled for months, scrapping to find the child food, people muttering as the child would cough that it was only a matter of time for the little one. She dressed in near rags, nothing but the clothes she left the castle in was what she had. By that point the clothes were dirty and tattered and so was the child's wrapping. She was found in the streets one night, despite the southern night, usually described as a perfect warm night to go dancing about in, she was shivering as she had wrapped her child in the extra garment in an attempt to keep him warm.

A man with a crooked smile approached her and offered to take her in. She knew who he was, many did, especially in the streets. He took women in, women who had nothing else. Children or not, he made use of them all. And Marietta was young, she was once in love, she was beautiful, and in this man’s eyes, that meant she was desirable, which meant she would bring him good coin.

“Come, you and your child need shelter. I promise to give him a good life.” The man spoke, his crooked smile coming over his features yet again. Marietta did not trust the man, but the babe needed a place to sleep, shelter and most importantly food other than scraps. This man could provide for the time being. So Marietta followed the man to a roughly made brothel and was given room to work in and a room for her son and herself. The circumstances were harsh, but in the time, she needed exactly this.

Six years she laid with men of all different backgrounds. Some paid more, the nobles always did, providing a generous tip for her services. The men who saved just to lay for a short period never tipped and were often the most brutal of clients. They always had alcohol on their breath, and always were too rough and too fast. It was on those nights afterward she would hold her son and weep into his light hair and tell him they would leave soon.

"I promise baby." She would whisper after cries would come no more. "We will find somewhere so much greater than here. I will make sure you do not spend your life here." She would tell him. "I hold your heart just as I hold your hand, my son," she assured him.

Ethon did not understand what his mother meant, why she would weep. The other women in the house would not weep like she did after the men came to them all. Some did on occasion, but never the way his mother did. She worked nights often, but would also have to work during the day when prompted. When she said they would leave soon, where would they go?

It was late one evening and the crooked smile was no longer visible, as the brothel head, MacKinnon, approached. He gripped Marietta’s chin, “This one is paying the best I’ve ever been paid… gave him what he has paid for.” He shoved her some as he released her and nodded as the tall burly man stepped inside.

He was of noble descent, that much was clear to Marietta, perhaps even of a greater value. So why was he here? He could afford better whores than her. But the look on his face was not hungry, nor lustful. In fact, he barely even looked at her body. “Cover up.” the man spoke in a very deep tone as he handed Marietta her thin robe.

Marietta wrapped herself tightly now, not wanting to be exposed at all as she didn't have to. There was almost an understanding of the man’s face as he spoke his next words, still a harsh exterior, but it was as if he understood something. “I will give him a better life. He is not safe here.” He began, and at that moment Marietta knew this man knew exactly who she was, and who Ethon was as well.

“It’s not that simple.” She spoke nearly trembling.

“It is. For now anyway. He is young. I will take him to the north. I have some handmaidens who can help him until he is grown. He will take labor, the stables…. Perhaps a blacksmith. If suspicions are low, perhaps even a position in my court.” He told her. “He is not safe here.” The man repeated.

Marietta glanced behind her, where her room was, where her son sat, often times she knew he heard the noises that came from this room, but she did not know if he understood them. Perhaps he did. He did deserve better than this. Her own son would have deserved better as well. Both of them. It was hard to think of it that way. Though this boy just in the other room was not her true son, she was his mother. She raised this boy, and held him each night, and spoke encouraging words to him, letting him know he would do better than this. Here was his opportunity. This man held the House in the North, she knew who he was, and he sought to protect her son, and give him better than anything close she could ever provide. She nodded slowly, tears welling in her eyes. “I won’t ever see him again will I?” She asked, very softly.

“No.” The nobleman spoke. He stepped forward, “I will give you some time now. But I shan't stay too long. Suspicions will grow. I promise to make sure he is alright.” He told her.

Marietta nodded, and she began to turn towards the other room. “I will give you a small sum of money,” the noble began, “I urge you to leave here, start a new life for yourself, away from here,” he spoke to her, and his eyes glanced towards the door, almost as if he was referring to the crooked man MacKinnon.

Marietta moved to the back where Ethon sat, he was drawing some figures in the sand with a short stick and she moved over scoping her son up and sitting on the bed with him. “Why are you crying?” Ethon asked her carefully, her tears weren’t like the weeps before. These were soft, much sadder almost.

“I love you, my son.” She whispered. “I love you so much. Our hearts will always be together, I promised you a better life baby.” She whispered as she kissed his head. “It’s time.” She told him.

Ethon could see the silhouette of the man in the other room now and the small boy looked to her now. “Where are we going?” he asked her carefully.

Marietta shook her head, “You are going to go North. You will be taught so much more than I could manage for you here.” She told him.

“You’re not comin'?” Ethon asked, now understanding more of what she was saying. “No.” He spoke quickly, for a small boy he was bright. “No, I want to stay with you.” He spoke and more tears fell from his mother's eyes. “Please, I do not want to, please.” He whispered to her.

The man came to the doorway, “It is time.” he spoke to the pair of them.

“When can I come back?” Ethon asked quickly. His mother now looked away and it infuriated the small boy.

“You will not see me again.” Marietta clutched her son in a hug, her lips on his head, “Promise me to be a good man, Ethon. I love you. You will be better off.”

The man stepped forward, taking Ethon’s hand and tugging him away, “Come now boy.” he spoke. When Ethon resisted the man clutched him harder and then he knelt down. “Be strong for your mother boy. She’s been strong for you. Hold it in.” He told the child. Ethon’s resistance faltered now and he followed the man out of the whorehouse and into his carriage waiting.

Twelve years he worked as a stable hand. He was raised by kitchen cooks and maids and held the smallest room in the servants quarters. He was given an apprenticeship working with the blacksmith two years ago, and worked there some days as well, although his most daunting task when there was joining the three Sterling sons on their studies. It was odd, none of the other young boys who worked for the House were permitted to learn. Victor Sterling, the Lord who took him from his mother when he was six stated it was important he learn how to write, understand battle complexes, although he did not know why. Victor simply stating he promised the sons mother a better life, a better life was a literate one. That and Sterling justified it to others as a potential diplomat, since many travelers were killed with rising tensions.

The Sterling boys often teased him at first, he was two years younger than Conrad Sterling the youngest of the bunch. Although as he grew with them, they all took a liking to one another, respectively anyway. Ethon held closest with Conrad Sterling, the pair often going about their daily activities together, just chatting and such. Conrad was the only one who knew what Ethon was truly saving all his wages for, he spilled the information one day to Conrad when Hector, the eldest, teased him by stealing his stash of coin.

Ethon vowed he would save his coin and travel south. He would find the woman who raised him, to his knowledge, his mother. Who he now understood raised him in a whore house so he could be fed. He would find her and swore he would provide for her this turnaround, he would find a job and make a sum of money so she could do whatever it was she pleased. At the time Conrad had laughed at him, told him he was a rotten dreamer, but as they grew Conrad, though still thinking his goal was unattainable and rubbish, respected the notion of it.

 

[peritwinkle]

The bells rang, calling for Aiyda to step outside.

The morning was still young. From her bedroom window, she could see the sky turning from russet to a faint blue, like a child fighting somnolence before waking up. Yet that morning was not to be like any other: she would not get dressed and trot down the stairs into the cramped kitchen, nor would she turn to her daily tasks of tending to the house or making sure Mathys did not gauge his eye out with one of his favourite daggers.

No, for she had not begged her father day and night for her to merely return to her duties on the day of the Hunt. Now she was of age, and there was no denying that her skills had proven her perhaps more worthy of joining him than some of the men he had lost along the way. ‘It was why they got lost,’ she thought then, but to her surprise, she did not feel the fear creeping down her spine. Some knew the forest like the palm of their hands and still never returned from the Hunt, but it was not knowledge that was a hunter’s best companion. That was a good bow and a sharp ear.

That day, she had taken out a new coat to wear, one her mother had started crafting on her on the day her father had agreed to bring her along. The grey ermine laced with black strings of fur already heated against her body, but she knew she would come to appreciate the additional warmth once she saw herself facing the wrath of the skies. It had snowed that night, only lightly coating the ground with a shroud of powdered sugar, freezing like a layer of hoar just enough for one to slip if they were not paying attention to their steps.

Mathys was wearing his new boots as well to attend the ceremony. Aidya knew as much because she heard him trotting up the stairs and propping himself before their bedroom door. He did not need to knock, for he knew his sister had sharp hearing, and so she opened the door with ease, allowing for the cool breeze to emerge from downstairs and into their heated quarters.

There was a pause, in which the both of them fixated one another, as though waiting for a word or a gesture of affection. Aiyda’s dark orbs locked on Mathys’ green pools, before lazily running over his disheveled hair and poorly tied shirt. Then, her vision was blocked by the pale bush hurled into her face as her brother’s arms came around her body and pressed it suffocatingly to his own into an almost aggressive embrace.

“Take care of mother,” she spoke to him, her voice muffled by his hair. “If not, I will ride from the depths of the forest and hunt you down.” He chuckled, but she did not laugh. Deep within her chest, she was holding down tears of joy and fear.

For years she had been waiting for that moment, years spent observing her father during their hunting escapades, as she accompanied him around town whenever he so tiredly allowed her to come along and listened to the peasants praise the skills of Jasper Saeberian, ‘the best archer the North has had and ever will have’. Yet once it came, it almost did not feel palpable, like a distant dream of her heart, now clenched and shuddering against the bone of her chest.

And she knew that Mathys felt the tension as well. He was only two years younger than her, but he knew the dangers of the hunt perhaps better than she did, for only one of them had cared to truly listen. And she did not wish to think what was unraveling in their parents’ heads at the thought of her departure - her mother would be sitting on her chair before the fire, sewing mindlessly as her terrors and worries played before her eyes, and Jasper would quickly forget to look after himself in the days spent in the woods in the dread of losing his daughter to the wild beasts.

His answer did not come, despite the wait; instead, he only separated himself from her and offered a light nod, a gesture for her to know she was free to leave the room. A smile graced Aiyda’s lips as she gave it one last glance - their beds were set on either side of the chamber, both below the window overlooking the fields, once of green. She had not bothered to clean up after herself last night, so her books and clothing were still scattered about her side, whilst Mathys’ own would be left clean and untouched until he went to sleep that evening. She doubted he would, however; if she knew him half as well as she thought she did, he would pass the entirety of the night watching the forest from the rooftop a few moments after Eyla checked to see if he had fallen into slumber.

As she had expected, their mother was waiting downstairs, two heavy leather bags weighing her down. She had made herself busy the evening before filling them to the brim with whatever was necessary - warm clothes, a dagger and a flask for each and dried food in case the hunt was not fruitful that year, or rather if they grew sick of chewing on unseasoned meat before bed every night. Aiyda had offered her goodbyes and reassurance the night before, yet she knew that no words would soothe a worried mother’s heart. Frankly, she was tense to the bone herself. Everyone was, or at the very least, everyone sane.

The way to the ceremony felt empty. The village was no longer brimming as it was in other days, for more than three quarters of it had already gathered where the fields kissed the lip of the woods. Krull paced as though it did not wish to be there either; it had grown used to the bells attached to its reins over time, as they trilled twice a year before the Hunt. This once, however, it would not return home to rest its ears after they were removed, and Aidya felt like Krull knew. It was a smart steed, smarter and faster than most. Her father would not have given her any less. Soon enough, Mathys would have one for himself instead of the hobbling mount he had been cursed with from the day he earned his own ride. Aiyda could only be thankful Krull had been nimble from the very beginning.

The crowd that had gathered on the narrow field contrasted with the pristine white of the snow covering the ground. Eight riders stood tall, arranged in line, and another two on each side, leather bags tied to their saddles. In the very middle before them stood a Priest, concealed beneath an umber hood, the same faceless man that seemed to honour the ceremony each year according to tradition. She had grown tired of his voice holding a never ending speech before the horns were blown, yet Aiyda could not help but be thankful for those last few moments in which she got to look upon her father before he disappeared into the darkness of the forest.

“Another Saeberian,” she heard one of the hunters chuckle in his beard as he leaned down to Jasper’s ear. Uther was a beastly man, almost taller than his own horse and twice as wide, yet with a heart that had proven to fill his massive chest. He loved Mathys and he had begged for Jasper to let him join the Hunt before her, in the hopes that he would not come to be swayed to dirty the purity of his only girl with weaponry and massacre.

“And more to come,” Jasper nodded as he watched Aiyda separate from the rest of their family and urge her horse towards the rest. She only gave the two of them a faint smile before taking her place near his side; the look beneath the Priest’s veil told her they had been dragging the ceremony for too long, despite her efforts to be on time on her very first day, but she chose not to bother her mind with such worries, for it rested on more pressing matters. On her mother, who was watching her from within the crowd, forcing a simper to brighten her face; on her brother, who seemed like he was ready to jump into his sister’s arms at any given moment, as though the field separating them did not exist.

Everything rolled like a blur. The Priest’s speech passed by her ear almost entirely unheard; perhaps she should have come to learn it by heart, yet never had she truly paid attention to the muffled talking, but rather to the men standing before her, ready to face the days they had been eagerly bracing for. When the time came for them to remove their gloves, Aiyda was the last, her hand trembling against the rim of the piece of cotton. She was not as afraid of the cut as she was of what followed, of leaving and, potentially, never coming back whole.

“...And if you are to die,” the Priest chanted, “you shall die where the Gods leave you, but your blood shall spill on your homeland and warm its core for eternity...”

It was sudden and rapid. The pain came only moments after, as she struggled to pull the glove back over her hand. She did not dare to look her father in the eye then, fearful that he would notice her pain, and instead chose to graze over the peasants scattered across the field who could not read the expression etched on her face from afar.

She was ready to mount her horse before the horns were blown. Once, she gripped the reins in her hand, almost tight enough to dig another wound into her palm. It was as though the cut had already healed, unreadable through the dark material that covered it. Twice, and she jolted atop Krull in the blink of an eye. The steed whined and shook its head, digging its hoove into the ground in anticipation. Thrice, and the dark mass emerged towards the forest like an immense wave crashing against the lip of the ocean.

*​

The fire crackled gently in the middle of the meadow and Aiyda’s eyes danced with its flames. She found herself alone then, despite being surrounded by ten other hunters who were sound asleep in their makeshift beds. She had expected the forest to be colder and colder as days passed, yet perhaps she had grown so used to its embrace that it felt more like home than her room back in the village. The trees made her feel safe, and the frozen ground almost felt cozy, like stepping on combed fur, no longer damp and frigid.

She had stopped keeping track of the days after a little while and went as far as to force herself to not listen when they were reminded of the date every morning by Uther. He would sit down with two of his other beastly comrades and count the game they had hunted the day before. The Hunt had been fruitful so far, and she only knew that they would soon return home. One more night spent beneath the clear sky, and after White Hall they would head South-East to rejoin their families in celebration.

Eyla missed her. She knew as much because she felt the coat she had made for her warm up whenever she appeared in her dreams. It was not a strange occurance for her mother to be seen burning leaves and herbs for an ancient enchantment of good fortune or a spell to ward away nightmares. Aiyda was one to fall sound asleep, yet Mathys often dreamt of strange myths that not even the Priests believed any longer. More often than not, he dreamt of the Wild Hunt, and it was then that poor Eyla - still dressed in her night gowns - hurried to his side with a bouquet of perfumed dried leaves and set them ablaze by his temple with soothing whispers barely heard above the sound of flames.

She had not truly said goodbye to them, for she knew she would return. The Gods had been kind to her as far. She was a lamb to the rest of her father’s comrades, one there to be protected and guided, even if her shots had earned them more game than three hunters’ worth combined. Jasper knew that, otherwise he would not have thought twice about heaving her at home with her little brother for another year or two.

The silence within the camp was heavy, the hunters’ breaths almost as loud as the breeze that threatened to choke the fire. There was a tension which she felt to her bone that night, but for the moment being, chose to ignore it. ‘It is only the wish to return home.’ A part of her missed her family, her best friend, Teya, and even the warm hall of the inn at the crossroads and the smell of mulled wine filling it to the ceiling. Another part wished to linger for another week and discover what was left of the vast ocean of wood as much as she could.

Yet that tranquility did not last for long. Strange rustling disturbed the pristine silence, odd as the forest deepened in winter barely made any sounds besides their heavy steps over the hoary ground. The sky seemed to darken, and a flock of birds rose fluttering from the depths of the horizon, concealing the scattered stars left untouched by clouds. A breath escaped Aiyda’s nose as she moved her hand into her leather bag beneath her head in search for a dagger. ‘Just in case...’ In case a beast thought to seek revenge for its late family, or if the wolves felt hungry and daring to approach the fire that night.

With a breath of the wind, the fire shuddered and died, like ice melting onto the rocks. In the darkness, she heard a few bodies shift, disturbed by the lack of warmth and pleasant light touching their lids. Aiyda froze as a cold chill trembled up her spine; she rose from her seat, gripping the dagger in her hand, took a few steps towards the place she knew her bow rested and felt a few other men do the same.

Silence.

Then, the wave crashed.

It came like a black fog, galloping through the trees with the sound of wind and muffled, distant screams lacing through its swirls. Through the shadow, she could make out the shapes of riders crammed into a dark cluster, emerging towards them so fast, yet so slowly, as though time itself were being crammed with them. To either side of her, the silhouettes of her comrades shifted and moved in the futile attempt to find a weapon to defend themselves with. Yet as the wave crashed against those in front of the line, their swords slipped through the clouds like butter and instead, the dark matter cut through their flesh, leaving behind black, glistening gore.

There was no comprehending what the image before her painted. Slow and rapid all at once, deadly and yet calm, like a storm clashing with the ocean, yet she was watching it from somewhere within its depths, safe, until a current lifted her up to the surface and forced her to meet her death. But such storm she witnessed was something ungodly and evil. Magic, dark and emerging from the depths of the Inferno. She had known what it was from the very beginning and, deep within her heart, could never deny it, regardless of what the beliefs of the Priests.

The Wild Hunt.

In the split second of moonlight left before the cloud took its glory, Aiyda only caught the glimpse of Jasper’s eyes. The field was wide, but not wide enough to give her time to think. They were surrounded, and the moving horror was taking its time, circling the meadow and seeping through every path of untouched snow between the pieces of flesh waiting to be taken. Fighting to survive, yet failing miserably, like pathetic cattle crying for salvation.

The cloud only slid further and further, and before she could read the words on her father’s lips, she found Krull’s back and hopped ontop of him. She already knew what he would have told her - to leave. To run and seek help. To tell the others that Mathys’ dreams had not been mere childhood horrors.

 

[pointmango]

Ethon rose from his bed that morning as light peeked through the window of his chamber. The air was cool as he removed the woolen blanket from his body. The fire he had prepared the previous night was completely out, and he stretched his arms as his feet pressed to the cool floor. His hands now moved through his hair as he peered out a window position a bit too high for a normal chamber room. Snow. The snow was lightly spread over the grounds, but he would have to clear it from beside the stables. That and he’d probably have to take more caution sealing the horses in for the night.

In the main throne room of White Hall, Victor Sterling sat with his small council before him, and beside him his wife Caterina sat as well. They were awaiting their sons, particularly Hector, whom they wished to begin sitting in on council meetings. “I do not understand why I allow you to drag me to the Hall each morning, only to speak of secure finances, and wait for our sons.” Caterina yawned to her husband, letting out a soft huff as she made no secret to hide her boredom from Victor or his comrades.

“Perhaps you can enjoy the whitened scenery my love. The windows are letting in excellent light this morning.” Victor spoke, slightly bored himself, but he managed to wink at Caterina, as if already knowing the woman’s reply.

“I have three Northern sons, all old enough to soon have their own children, and yet I still have not grown accustomed to cold, white mornings.” The southern woman spoke.

“The scenery is quite nice blanketed in snow my lady.” One of the maesters spoke. “Perhaps you shall take another walk in the garden. You used to take the boys out there on the first snowfall when they were young.” He offered an affectionate smile.

Caterina nodded some, “Yes perhaps. Although it is not the first snowfall, and my sons are no longer as young.” She replied quietly.

Ethon had finished getting ready for the morning, and made his way to the kitchens to grab some breakfast and say hello to some of the cooks, and maids. He moved into the room and smiled as one of the younger boys was questioning an older boy scrubbing the dishes. “Really?” The smaller boy asked. “Surely the young Lords bed women? Isn’t that what the visiting noblewomen come for?” He asked. The older boy laughed, “The noblewomen are suitors, or pretty things to look at while the men make deals. They do not bed noblewomen. Noblewomen hold virtue. Now the whores in the lower village…” The older boy smirked.

Ethon rolled his eyes at the older boys arrogance, “The Sterling boys are of the finest blood in all the North,” Ethon mocked, interrupting as he took a dish from between them to set some slop on. “Marriage between noble folk is strictly political.” Ethon said.

From the other side of the room, one of the kitchen girls cleared her throat. Her accent was thick, clearly not one presented before the nobles. “Love don’ exist for nobles.” She smiled at the boys. The youngest boys face blushed red, “What would you know about love?” He asked. The kitchen hand smiled, and her eyes moved over Ethon a moment as if studying him. “Lot mor’ than you lot.” She spoke.

Two more kitchen girls had entered the room, both holding plates that had been picked at, likely from Lord and Lady Sterling’s breakfast. The two girls smiled at Ethon, and he smiled back. The taller of the girls took a longer look at him, his manner seemed eager, yet also a bit shy. The girl could not tell is he was truly innocent and submissive, or merely taking on the role to gain her eye. His features were more elegant than those of the Northern men. The Northern men often described as being more brute like. Ethon was still masculine, despite his youth he had a strong jaw. Slightly less square than those of the northern Lords he spent so much time with, but still squared off. His shoulders were wide, and promised a more impressive and manly structure in a few short years. But what many women feel more accustomed to were the warmth of his eyes. They were hazel as many described, the inner rim a warmer brown like color, while the outer held a more blue green hue, in the right lighting some said his eyes were almost as golden as his hair.

Now in the kitchen appeared Conrad Sterling, “Ethon.” He spoke, he nodded to the kitchen girls, and then to the two boys dishwashing. “Did you not have a meeting with your parents?” One of the kitchen hands asked, the other girl nidged her, “My lord, I am sorry for the-” She began but Conrad waved his hand. “My parents were more concerned with Hectors presence. Not mine or Lyrams. I figured we’d go riding today. They are discussing changing some taxes on traded good. You, Lyram and I should get the horses out on some fresh snow.” Conrad spoke to Ethon who nodded. “I’ll go change.” He said since he was not in any clothing to be riding in.

As Ethon passed Conrad he nodded at the dark haired boy. Conrad, like his brothers, was taller than Ethon. The Sterling boys well above six feet and all built as many northern high borns were. Once Ethon returned, him and Conrad headed outside to meet Lyram at the stables.

“Saw the way that tall one was looking at you Ethon.” Conrad spoke smirking some, causing Ethons cheeks to flood with crimson. “You made quite an impression on her. Many of the other maidens about the castle and the rest of White Hall.” Conrad pointed out. “Perhaps you should take advantage, not like you have to be worried about indecency.”

Ethon shook his head some, “Suppose. I dunno, maybe. Don’t think I’d ever forgive myself, you know, if somethin’ happened.” Ethon said. “Like what?” Conrad asked, but then he nodded slightly understand. “Who cares? Half the whores around here have babes of their own, not knowin’ who the father is. What’s it matter?” Conrad spoke. Ethon didn’t answer, thinking of the woman he was saving up to return to one day.

As they came to their horses Conrad saddled his up as the others did the same. His hand touching over his horses throat and then mane before he ducked his head beneath for a moment and then mounting the steed. Once on their horses all three of them were given a sheath with arrows and a bow, to hunt with. On Conrad’s horse he position his sword in his belt sheath, and an axe on a guard on his horses rear. All Ethon had was the bow and arrows, for him that was all he needed, although he too fought well with a sword. “On our way then boys!” Conrad shouted some as the three of them rode out of the boundaries and then off towards the woods to do a little hunting.

 

[peritwinkle]

The golden thread within fabric laid down on the edge of Lyram’s featherbed glimmered in the light of the room like a crown, and Lyram resented every inch of it. With every year that he neared his naming as Lord of White Hall, he felt his shoulders encumbered with more weight that he found no reason to withhold. Dressing up for a plain hunting trip with his brother and Ethon seemed unnecessarily sumptuous, yet luxury seemed to accompany the title of heir even in the most usual of tasks and activities.

“Is it not to your liking, my Lord?” the handmaid asked, her hands clasped behind her back. “I could bring you another.”

Lyram simply pressed his lips and shook his head. “Unless I could slip into my plain garments, then there’s no need.” His voice was gentle, but held a certain tone of annoyance that he could not strip himself of, even in the face of a servant who had no say in what he was to be wearing and what she deemed presentable. “I thank you...”

“Jayne,” the woman replied quickly.

“I thank you, Jayne.” That had been his dismissal, and she seemed to catch on it rather quickly before fleeing the room as though he had threatened her with a knife. Lyram turned towards the mirror and let a sigh leave his lips, before deciding to finally don the dusty green coat ontop of his undergarments without making an effort to hide his disgust any longer.

Another time, perhaps, he would have enjoyed looking princely. It was not often that their father hosted feasts, yet when they did, looking presentable always turned into a competition between his boys. They did not lack the features that many women swooned after, with dark locks and carefully chiseled cheeks, taken after both their parents. Even Ethon was handsome, but much softer, not as hardened by winter, yet still nevertheless a sight to look at as he had heard many of the servants whisper behind his back.

Hunting, however, seemed like a waste of a good piece of clothing. He rarely ever picked up his game after wounding it or shooting it dead, yet blood always seemed to find a way to stain his clothes. Lyram was not as invested in such an activity as much as he was in others, like writing and swordfighting, but it was something to keep one busy when simply staring at others go about their day was no longer satisfactory.

It was particularly enjoyable when he had something lurking within his mind, like he did that day, and had had in the previous days before that. He had heard rumours of the King coming to visit Lord Victor, and not surprisingly, they had turned out to be true, although there had been a certain aura about his father that had made him doubt the reasons of the visit.

Lord Victor was a man to be feared, in his eyes and the eyes of the men that looked up to him, and Lyram had been brought up wise enough to fear him as well. A wolf was not to be reckoned with when it was afraid. Strong as it was vile in battle, it would fight for its life and its pack, even if it knew it stood no chance against its enemy, and if the odds were, in some way, against House Sterling, then he feared that House Kilgour might be the end of them.

It was a dark thought of darker times that had been on his mind for a good while, but had made an effort to keep his worries for himself around his brothers. That day made no exception, and as he finished buttoning up his coat, he looked back to the reflection of himself in the mirror and forced his usual sly smirk upon his slightly trembling lips, a layer of paint over his true emotions that day.


The snow had already thickened on the ground since that morning, and Lyram made a goal of enjoying every bit of it until he would have to be locked behind the walls of the castle again. His own steed seemed to enjoy the cold just as much; its eyes lit up as it saw its rider, and Lyram gave his mount a nod of acknowledgement before he even turned to salute his comrades.

“Conrad,” he nodded to his younger brother first, then gave Ethon a brief smile. “And Ethon. A welcomed addition, nonetheless. It is good seeing a green face around here.” The boy was inherently Southern, and seemed to bring just a speckle of sunlight and warmth wherever he stepped about the Northern lands. He was skilled in battle and hunting, which only made Lyram like him more, despite not agreeing with some of his rather strange beliefs.

“Do you fear we will find some sort of beast within these woods?” he asked derisively as he mounted his horse. The creature pulled back a little, then shook its mane and resumed its stance. “Do not fret, Ethon. If something happens, I will make sure that next time you will be given something for hand to hand combat as well, like a proper dagger or an axe.” He smirked to Conrad. “What are you going to use that blade for, brother? A giant rabbit?”

With that, he shouted and gave his horse a light kick in the ribs, before it shot across the empty field and into the woods, leaving behind the castle of White Hall covered in snow.

*

‘Run.’

Aiyda’s eyes scoured her surroundings frantically as the earth floated backwards beneath her. Even through the thick coat covering her, she was cold, freezing in areas where her sweating skin was exposed to the wind. The trees seemed to move more quickly than her eyes could register, staggering her and urging her to close them, but she could not allow herself to. Not then. Not there.

‘Run! Save yourselves!’

Pain resonated through every bone growing out of her hips. Krull had ceased stopping every few minutes, and only resorting to trotting more slowly, with longer steps over the uneven forest ground. She no longer felt hunger, and frankly, was unsure if she had ever even felt it since having fled the campsite. Something bulky bothered her calf as she rode, stocked within the leather bag tied to her saddle, yet she had not bothered to fold or discard it.

She had counted one night ever since, or perhaps she had dreamt it all. Whenever she tried to close her eyes, without falling into the depths of slumber that might throw her off her mount, she saw and felt the cold darkness surrounding her, and heard the voices of his father’s men as they desperately tried to beat the unbeatable. It had been something ungodly, something she had only tried to understand at the time and tried not to think of again. It only brought back the sight of her father.

‘He is dead,’ she thought to herself. ‘They all are... Jasper, Uther, Eyla, Mathys...’ The Wild Hunt had been heading South-West towards her home village, and she had gone the opposite way like a damsel in distress. ‘I should have ridden home to warn them.’ With a bit of luck, she might have even gotten there before them, or at the very least died trying. Anything would have been more honourable that simply running away.

She had been riding in solitude and darkness for a long while until the first rays of morning cut through the crown of the forest and warmed her skin. With a gentle push, Aiyda fought to straighten her back, snowflakes coming to melt into her foxy bush of hair and barely warm cheeks. As silence no longer comforted her and the trees shortened in height, she eventually came to the realisation that she was nearing the edge of the woods, and wondered briefly if she had been heading the same way throughout.

It was only when she heard the rustling of broken twigs that she truly came to life momentarily. She felt Krull tense beneath her and stop in its tracks for a second, before she urged him forwards with a whisper and a light kick. She had heard animals before, but the Gods had been kind enough not to let them meet ways. She could only pray that the movement in her vicinity did not belong to a wolf, and so she kept her fingers tightly clenched around the reins and waited.

 

[pointmango]

“My arrow hasn’t failed me yet, Lord Lyram,” Ethon spoke, his tone showing a slight distaste of the word Lord with a lighter gin on his lips. He twirled one of his arrows, feeling the stability and complexity of the wood on his fingertips. Lyram’s sarcasm, never bothered him much, in fact, he quite enjoyed it. Although, he was always entertained when the brothers competed with one another. Whether it was over girls, looks, or skills, Ethon found it good sport for spectating. He did not know why they competed so much, he found them all to have very differing skills, all of which complemented one another nice. Ethon was often around the brothers in their times of learning their skills. He sat behind them all in their reading and writing lessons, was allowed to listen in as they studied strategy, and practiced with them in combat.

Ethon was quick, and in combat lessons always fared well against the more sturdy Sterling boys. He took note of each of them, Lyram had the best skill when it came to swordplay. He was the deepest thinker of all the Sterling boys, and the best at strategy. If they got their titles based on skill he would have picked Lyram to head defense, not Conrad. Conrad was the strongest, easy. But with strength came slugarity, although Ethon always thought Conrad was smarter than he let on. Conrad was best at pure hand to hand combat. Then there was Hector, Hector matched well with all the others. Quickest of the Sterling boys, but not as quick as Ethon. A large, strong quick man was best at defense. Every fight with Hector entailed a conversation as well, he spoke on the others nerves, trying to trick them to make a move and let their guard down, where he could strike.

Conrad held the leather harness of his horse tight and grinned wide as his brother teased them. “A giant rabbit perhaps, or perhaps an unspoken knight of the Wild Hunt!” He spoke with great mockery in his voice. Conrad rode at a slower pace through the forest once they had arrived in the thick of the trees, although by age and title Lyram should have been riding a head of everyone, Conrad did so, almost taunting his brother some, playfully.

Ethon held off to the side of their small group, his eyes looking around for game. A fresh snow was always a hit or miss with hunting. Of course, Conrad insisted they go hunting whenever they could, but Ethon found no point in it if they couldn’t even find game. Ethon preferred his arrow because he preferred to shoot smaller animals; rabbits, birds, even squirrel. He collected them all in a woven basket on his horse, Conrad often making fun of his target practice obsession, as smaller game was harder to shoot but easiest to kill. He hoped they didn’t know he would bring his smaller game to town, sell it for cheap coin, cheaper than they sold it in the market. People would be more willing to pay him, he could save up more, and he helped feed those who couldn’t normally afford as much meat. He remembered hunger, although he had not felt it in many years, he understood what it was to be truly hungry.

“Why don’ you try killing a deer today?” Conrad offered at Ethon whose eyes were moving over the taller limbs of the trees rather than the lays of the further ground like the Sterling boys were.

Ethon’s eyes trailed the edges of the trees, anything was a tell, an abnormal bent in the structure, sometimes a collection of brown leaves in the nook. “I’ll catch a deer the day you stop shoutin’, scarin’ ‘em all off?” Ethon replied back, not letting his eyes leave the upper trees for a minute.

“Uncle always said ‘what good is hunting if you can’t drink and yell as you shoot something?’” Conrad spoke, his tone did soften slightly, always a bit annoyed when Ethon would point out his flaws in an event like this. “You Uncle wakes up every morning so wasted he can’t even remember his own name. In a pool of his own piss, vomit and in bed with girls he uses your father’s coin to pay.” Ethon pointed out with a laugh.

One of the guards in the back grunted, the word ‘mother’ making its way to Ethon’s ears. He dropped his head from the trees finally, but his hands still gripped his bow. “What’d you say?” He asked, his voice having changed, dangerously low.

“Said like your mother, green face.” One of the guards spoke. “Insulting the Lord’s family… any woman thier Uncle lays with likely better than your green whore mother.” He said, his horse moving back slightly as he caught the look on Conrad’s face.

“Shut it, Brask.” Conrad spoke. “I’ll be the judge of how my family is spoken of.” He said, then he looked back at Ethon, he could tell how furious his friend was. The white of his knuckles around his bow, the way he was still staring directly at Brask. The look on Brask’s face made it clear he knew he had made a mistake, but he wasn’t unlike some other men of White Hall, who frowned upon Ethon because he was a Southern Low born to their knowledge.

Conrad glanced to Lyram for a moment, then he looked to Ethon, “You’re right, smaller game will be scared of noise. Meet us back at the edge of the wood when the sun has passed its midpoint.” Conrad spoke. Ethon pulled the reign of his horse and turned off, a bit pissed off he had to leave.

“Brask, Tineson, head back. Monty can stay with Lyram and I.” Conrad spoke. After the other two left Conrad looked back to his brother. “Tell me about the Kilgour rumors?” He asked his brother in a lower voice. He knew Monty kept quiet about these things. “Is it true they are riding for White Hall? Why?” Conrad was hungry for this knowledge, often the last to hear of concrete news out of all his brothers.

Ethon wasn’t even looking for game at this point, just letting his horse wander where it pleased for the time being. “Fuckin’ Brask.” He muttered. The Snow out here still appeared fresh, he knew by nightfall all the snow near the roadways would be blackened with dirt and turned to mush.

His head cocked when he heard something in the distance, it was slight, and small. Similar to that of a larger animal… maybe a deer? He moved off his horse swiftly, tying the reigns against a lower branch of a tree and securing it before letting his feet carry him silently towards the noise. But as the noise stopped he was now unsure if he was still to move in the same direction. Could it have been his mind playing tricks. He stepped forward more, the trees thick here, when he caught a glimpse of the sight before him.

A girl. Her clothes… well at sight of them, of her state. She had been through… well he didn't know. Perhaps she was raped out here, that was his first thought, but the horse? His foot crunched on a branch as he was distracted studying her. He cursed harshly under his breath.

He stepped out a bit into the clearing. His hands still on his bow, and arrow ready, but pointed down towards the ground. He knew it was a offensive stance as he was approaching her. She was on a horse, and his horse was a few yard behind him, carefully waiting for him. He opened his mouth, standing a bit straighter, “What is your purpose here?” he asked, making his tone deep and strong. He did not know why, this was a woman, who clearly had been through some struggle too. He could feel it though, the intensity in the air.

He lowered his bow a bit more, and allowed his face to soften just slightly. Still gripping his bow, ready, but his stance was sure, letting her know if any move was made, it would be her to make the first. “You’re hurt?” He asked, he was unsure of the fact… but she had to be. It appeared so. Did she come from up further North? Or did she come from here? She was clearly Northern, even with her fiery hair he could tell of that. “White Hall is not far.” He nodded his head, “I can have one of the maesters take a look.” He spoke taking another step forward. The more he spoke, the more he wondered if she was a feral one, too far North to belong.

 

[peritwinkle]

Bantering was not a foreign notion between the Sterling brothers and Ethon. Lyram had easily become used to it throughout the years, and as Ethon had grown by their side, catching on their mannerisms and their mindless jokes, it had become a common form of harmless mockery. It often did not seem to ring well with their parents, although Lyram knew that, within his heart, Lord Victor was proud of seeing them get along, and himself, as a future Lord of White Hall, he ought to learn now to connect with the common people, of which Ethon was as just much as he was not.

He stifled a chuckle at Conrad defensiveness, despite his own words of derision. It warmed his heart to a certain extent; the guard should have known by know that insults were courtesy of House Sterling, yet judging by the immediate regret etched on his face, he had no intention of arguing that Ethon was, in fact, not truly Conrad's brother.

Lyram let out a sigh as he urged his horse forward. "All this talk of mothers, whores, uncles and whom we'd fuck," he said, his eyes focused on the path before him, "and yet none of you have ever held a proper woman in your beds." His words were not particularly targeted, yet the tone in his voice made it clear that the attempt to drawn the subject concerned every one of those who had instigated it. "I am sure of it, Brask, that if a green whore gave as much as a hint of desire, you would not hesitate to give her a good knead," a bitter emphasis on the word if.

A breath left Lyram's nose as Conrad delicately urged the boy and their guards to leave. The sour taste in his mouth from the nights before slowly returned; it did not take much guessing to assume what his younger brother was curious to ask, but was thankful that such conversations would not be held in front of an entire convoy of guards whose ears were perfectly tailored for absorbing information, to then trill to the women they bedded as though the stories belonged to themselves. With the exception of Monty, of course, although Lyram doubted he would keep his silence if still had his tongue.

The young Lord bit his lip as he gently pulled at the reins to slow his steed down to match his brother's pace. "I do not know," he said thoughtfully. "I assume that is why Hector did not join us this morning, although it baffles me as to why I was not informed first." There was a certain envy in his tone, one that he no longer attempted to silence. "I am the heir of House Sterling. If the King and Queen come to visit, our father and I should be the ones to greet them."

It was only tradition, and Lyram knew that he would eventually be told more of it, although he only hoped that would not happen mere seconds before House Kilgour's retinue stepped through the gates. "He has been quiet about it," he explained. "No word of the purpose of their visit, although there was something in his tone... Something that I did not quite pick up on... If Hector comes out of there by the time we return, I am going to keep him to sword point until he tells me what this whole thing is about."

It was true that, as brothers, they worked as one, which could come as an advantage when their father was no more. If Hector had been summoned by their father, it was not of particularly good augury. Gods knew what had to be decided between the Lord of White Hall and the mind behind their stronghold's defense.

"It only bothers me that he has kept it from us for so long. The ride from the capital takes several weeks for a large convoy, and yet he has been waiting for us to hear rumours from travelers that came to our city first, before..." He pressed his lips shut and shook his head. The slight excitement of hunting had faded away, now replaced by the thoughts that had been plaguing him for the past few days. "I do not know," he reiterated. "I do not know."

*​

Aiyda's heart had been beating far too slowly to withstand the sudden threat without a jolt. She felt even more weakened then, as she frantically looked about her surroundings in an attempt to catch a glimpse of the beast emerging towards her before it was too late. Krull did not shift uch from beneath her, seemingly calm, and the drumming of his own heart beneath her felt almost soothing. It was what had preserved her state between sobriety and slumber for so long.

A darker shape was spotted easily enough against the faint white of the powdered forest. It moved through the white, the silhouette of a man gripping a bow in his hand, although cautiously pointed towards the ground. Without a second thought, Aiyda's hand shot to her shoulder, but quickly came to the realisation that she no longer had her carved bow with her - only arrows, tightly clasped to the side of her saddle, right by the leather bag she had not bothered to crack open ever since feeling the camp.

As he drew closer, Aiyda struggled to steady her eyes enough to make out his features. He did not look like a man of the North, his skin and locks kissed by the sun, and behind the blur, she could tell that his eyes were kind, despite the weapon he held so tightly to his side. With his question came a pause of pondering, in which Aiyda made an attempt to straighten her back ontop of her horse to check for any discomfort. She did not remember being touched by any blade, yet her bones and muscles hurt nonetheless, as though she had been trodden over by a horde of wild horses.

"No," she spoke softly, her voice barely loud enough to reach his ears. "I need your help... My party was raided. I need your help."

The sound of her own voice seemed foreign to her then, but desperate and pleading. She was unsure whether a stranger would believe her; he was not a commoner by far, his clothes carefully pieced together and his appearance clean and neat, which likely meant he was either not easily fooled, or completely blind and deaf to reality.

At the mention of White Hall, Aiyda's heart skipped a beat, as slow and weak as it hit against her bosom. It was a tradition for the hunters to stop in the city for a drink and a night of gathering their strength before setting off back home. She likely had been expected by the innkeepers; her father often praised their food and ale to the skies whenever he returned from his trips, making her eager to see - and taste =- their goods for herself. In that moment, however, it rung as nothing more than a place of newly found safety.

"Please," she begged again, this time her voice growing louder. "You have to believe me... We... I saw the Wild Hunt," she knew she had, for it had been as ungodly as it had been deadly. It took all her will to not think of it again, yet urged the words on the tip of her tongue in the pathetic hope that her pleas would be listened to, and not disregarded as madness. "It was pure carnage... You have to believe me."

 

[pointmango]

Lyram’s explanation left Conrad only wanting more. If Lyram didn’t know yet, well Conrad could only assume his father was either hiding something, or far worse, he didn't know himself. Victor was well respected amongst the realm. He was one of the largest points of trade for the entire country, and the King was fond of him and his practices.

Conrad did note his brothers envy, and had the terms not felt so dire, he would have laughed. “Father is likely preparing Hector to be sold away. Best to get rid of him to advise the King in the capitol. Not you.” Conrad spoke out. “Besides mother would have a fit if she lost her darling first born son to the south.” He added, a slight smirk at his lips, but this was hardly the time for jokes.

But when Lyram noted his father’s tone, Conrad started thinking all over again. “He’s hiding something.” Conrad spoke, more sure of himself this time, although his tone still held a slight uncertainty. “He can’t be letting Hector go though, he needs all of us here in the end.” Conrad added. When Lyram repeated he did not know twice… it sold Conrad. His brother was truly stumped, something he often was not.

He scratched his head a moment. “Come on, one deer and we’ll head back. Try and interrogate Hector. Monty,” Conrad spoke now facing their guard, “You’ll wait for Ethon at the break.” Conrad spoke with a nod.

*

When they had returned a daylights hour later, Monty waited at the break in the wood for Ethon. Conrad and Lyram rode back to white hall, holding his horse’s reign’s tight still as the brothers raced back. After dismounting his horse, Conrad saw no sudden sign of Hector, and his mind was already wandering to the simple idea of a visit from the south.

They were now inside the corridors of the Hall, and Conrad was already removing some of his nicer drab. His leather gloves sticking out of the sides of his pants. “D’you think they will bring Southern girls with them?” He asked out loud.

He shrugged a bit now, “Heard Southern girls try a lot of adventurous things… with their mouths and other places too.” He shrugged. “Would be interesting, to get to know another… culture.” his lips turning up some.

“Of course you heard that brother.” A deep voice spoke, it was that of Hector’s. Despite being the shortest of the Sterling boys, which still was not small at all, his voice was the deepest. Hector looked the most of their mother, and although he still had harsher northern features, his ears and grin gave him a more youthful and elfish appearance. “All you think of is stabbing things with your sword and sticking your cock down girls throats.” Hector held a small smirk, knowing his brothers would likely be questioning him of his discussion with their father.

*

Ethon watched how quick she reached for a weapon that was not present. She was no common woman. Her garb was that of a hunter, perhaps she was from a northern village? But when she spoke, her voice was soft and frightened and his bow fell just an inch more.

Her voice was still soft as she pleaded some. Her party? A female hunter. Her face changed as he mentioned White Hall, she was certainly a northern villager, he was almost sure of it now. But her next sentence caused a change in his demeanor. “The Wild Hunt?” He asked, disbeleif in his tone. He should have been quick to judge, labeled the woman as crazy, hell he should have gotten back on his horse and left her. The Wild Hunt, she was a telling ghost stories . That’s what they would say.

She looked shaken to the core though, and Ethon felt just as crazy as he thought she was. Part of him could hear it in her voice, and feel her truth within him. He believed her. “Ma’am….” He trailed off. “You-,” He took a deep breath. He should have called her a liar, right there. “You are sure?” he asked.

He sensed it in her voice prior and now he set his arrow back into its sheath and slung his bow over his shoulder as well. He stood up straighter, puffed his chest some. “Alright.” He spoke. “I will lead you to White Hall, I will bring you to a Lord to make your sighting official.” He told her, his hands in fists by his side. “Make your claim official.” He told her, “I need to hear you swear it. Swear upon your life, and your mother’s and any god you may believe in.” He spoke, his tone held thick, but he wondered if she could hear his uncertainty at the end. “I will put you before someone, but I need you to swear upon it.”

 

[peritwinkle]

The forest deepened in cold and snow seemed eerie, almost a fragment of a gloomy dream. Lyram felt odd upon his horse, despite his induced excitement from earlier that day; he had failed to nurture it with the mention of House Kilgour’s arrival, and the thought of their brother stepping into the moors of their political intrigue did not ring of fortune to his ears, when perhaps any other man would have been humbled.

He shook his head at the mention of Hector’s possible departure. He knew his father better than that; the three of them worked and thought complementarily and neither of his younger brothers lacked impulsivity. Attempting to meddle with royal affairs would only dig their grave, when the North had kept its neutrality and peace for decades on end.

“Lord Victor would not wish for his son to carry his deeds,” Lyram stated plainly. “However, it might just as easily come to a matter of choice.” Of whether Hector was idiotic enough to accept such an offer. His big mouth would get him into all sorts of trouble before he even set foot in the capital, and their father knew that better than anyone.

The following turn of the clock passed like mere seconds, yet Lyram was thankful to find himself within the warmth of the castle again. He did not mind Ethon’s absence; after so many years, the man was perhaps more resourceful and swift than any of the Sterling brothers. The scent of candles and smoke awakened him from his hibernation after freezing into a lump of taffeta and leather whilst hunting, and strangely enough, he felt more peckish than he had left.

Conrad’s talking whistled by his ears, brushed off as his older brother slowly removed his cape from around his shoulders and dropped the heavier garments weighing him down. Frankly, in that moment, nothing mattered less than what convoy of women the Queen and King of Armath would bring along on their visit. Lyram was rather worried about what they might take back with them to the capital, despite indulging in a pretty sight himself when offered on the plate. He was neither blind nor did he lack the endowment, yet such a naive thought seemed trivial to him then.

His attention was only grabbed by the stout voice of his brother, and for a mere second, he felt his eyes and chest catch ablaze, before he stifled the flames with a heavy breath through his nose. “You must think highly of yourself now, don’t you, Hector?” Lyram almost growled back at him. “You spoke nothing of your meeting with father last night. You said nothing this morning, either.” He was tempted to remind him that his decisions belonged, partly, to them as well, although he knew better than to throw in a mindless threat.

“Tell me,” he urged him, his chest now heaving as he kept his hand clasped around the hilt of the sheathed blade by his side in an attempt to calm his nerves. “Why you?” That was his first question, for he doubted that Hector would willingly say more for the time being, and especially not in the middle of a narrow hallway whose walls listened like an old hag. The pride might have washed away by then, enough to allow him to voice at least a fragment of what he had been told.

*​

The sudden lack of movement only exacerbated the pain in Aiyda’s hips and spine, making it an effort to stand straight to face the stranger. As she listened to him, her eyes were empty, although her heart beat in an odd rhythm, almost mimicking that of his own voice. His hesitation reached a certain peak before it faltered, and for a moment, she felt as though the glimmer in his eyes was belief.

Had a downtrodden madman come from the woods to speak to her of a mythical legend, she doubted she would have bent hear ears to listen. Strange creatures did roam the land of the living that others, perhaps, might not pay a moment of thought to, yet the Wild Hunt was as unbelievable as it was eccentric. Truly, she was surprised he had given her any second of attention after she had spoken the name.

And yet, there he was, shaken before her as his mind tried to make sense of what she was urging into it. As he made her promise her sincerity, a wave of relief washed over her, easing her pains for only a moment, yet enough to clear her mind so she could gather herself and speak again. “I swear it,” she said then, a murmur close to the rumbling of the wind, “I swear upon my faith in the Gods. I have nothing else left to swear by.” Until she saw them breathing with her own eyes, she did not want to fill her heart with the blind hope that they had survived the attack. She had seen the Wild Hunt ride towards her home village.

As her weight seemed to fervently drag her down from atop her horse, Aiyda’s eyes found the man’s once again. “Please,” she begged again, in the hope that his promise had not been blind. In the state that she was, she was unsure whether a Lord would look upon for long before deeming her too shaken to be listened to. Exhaustion had taken over her, from limbs to core, and she likely did not look too presentable either. If the boy had pitied her enough to listen, she could not know whether one with a more rested mind would do the same.

With slow movements, Aiyda rested her head against the steed’s mane and extended her hand to place Krull’s reins into his palm. For as long as she waited, she felt her bones and muscles tremble at the mere effort of holding them straight, but the physical pain did feed off of her suffering, taking away, even momentarily, the memories of solitude as the images of the battlefield had replayed into her mind, over and over again, until the thought had almost carried no meaning any longer.

 

[pointmango]

Hector let the smirk remain upon his lips at Lyram’s demeanor. He always thought his brothers were too serious. Conrad not so much, but Conrad had more of a temper. Hector knew just what to say to cause Lyram to squirm some, “Father must think highly of me.” He muttered as the three brothers began moving towards the council chambers. They often sat there when the three of them wished to discuss something without fear of anyone listening in.

As they moved closer to the council chambers, Hector walked carefully chuckling slightly as his brother still seemed to be insisting on information. “Me because you worry over every word ever spoken upon any issue that reaches these ground, and certainly not you,” Hector spoke, now looking at Conrad, “You still act like a cock driven child.” He pointed out.

“Still am.” Conrad spoke, a slight shrug in his shoulders as he walked behind his brothers now. “Aren’t we all… at one point or another?” Conrad countered as they reached the room. Inside the dimly lit chamber, a woman was bent over one of the tables, rolling a harsh ball of light steel and sudden water over the table. Conrad grinned, stepping forward, “Ah-hem.” He coughed some.

The girl jumped and stepped away from the table. The lower half of her apron had wet spots upon the front, likely from washing, and he hair was a bit disheveled. “My lords.” She spoke in a high tone, clearly startled. “I did not know- I would have-” She began, clearly flustered.

“That’s alright.” Hector told her as he was already making his way over to the bookshelf. Any reasoning and explaining he would have to do with Lyram would have to be well calculated.

However, Conrad was the one looking her up and down, clearly a fan of what he saw. She was better looking than most of the cook’s maids, and she rear had been impressive as well while it was bent. As Conrad studied her face though, he noticed the girls attention’s on Lyram. He sighed some, the prettier ones were always fond of Lyram. He was to be /the/ Lord of the North, where as Conrad and Hector would only be Lords in the North.

As the girl left, nodding to them both, Conrad’s eyes now moved to Lyram. “Have you been with her?” He asked.

“Of course not.” Hector spoke, another grin reaching the middle brother’s lips as the youngest sat at the bronze colored table. “Lyram is saving his seed for a wife.” Hector mocked. He knew Lyram truly wasn’t, truthfully he did not know how many women Lyram had been with. Conrad’s reputation among women of the North did not detest him. Hector wouldn’t have been surprised if there were some of his youngest brothers bastards running about the North already. Hector himself was more selective. His taste went past the physicality of it all. That was important, but he enjoyed a noble woman, one more educated, who could quip wit right back at him when he teased. Only issue was most noble women did not spread their legs so easily.

“They will arrive tomorrow.” Hector spoke in a clearer tone now, clearing his throat some. “People will be running themselves ragged all night trying to prepare this place. Father doesn’t know his true intentions. But he has some ideas.” Hector’s tone was a bit more serious this time, “He brings both his wife, the Queen, and his heir. I cannot tell if his wife and son on the journey means something or not.”

*

Nothing else to swear by, but the gods. His chest clenched some, knowing whether she held truth or not in her promises, she was alone in them. Her eyes met his again, in one last plea of effort. Ethon stepped forward as she surrendered the reins to her horse for him to take.

He had not realized how far he had ventured out until they reached the edge of the wood and only Monty had waited for them. The older guard questioned the girl with a cock of his brow, and Ethon just nodded. He didn’t need to communicate any issue to Monty. He would go straight to Lyram with this one. At first he had thought of going to Lord Victor first. But if he could convince Lyram, than he had faith he might be able to convince Victor as well.

He led her though the back alleyways and outskirts of the grand structure of White Hall. Monty disappeared from them once he knew there would be no intruders, and Ethon led their horses back to the stables, helping her off, although she likely did not need much help. “Come, I will bring you food, and we will go see the Lords after they have had their supper.” He told her taking her hand, still paranoid if someone even saw her before he had preped her so, hey would call her a liar.

He snuck her in through the kitchen, and he took some bread and managed a larger bowl of soup for the girl. He motioned for her to follow, and from the back kitchen corridors he led her down to his room. It was in the servants quarters, and the hallway was thin and lacked the height of the other halls in the structure. He opened the door to his room and shut it behind them. He pulled off his hunting vest and jacket, leaving only a lighter shirt on his body as he then pushed some logs onto the fire, starting it with ease by slapping a flint stone with the kindling he had prepped.

“You should sit.” He said pointing to the corner of his bed. He then left the soup and bread at a small desk in his room, hardly a comfortable one, just a seat and a table really, with a box beside it that held books and parchment for writing. “Eat too.” He told her.

He moved his desk chair a bit closer to the fire and ran his hands through his hair some, “What will you say to him?” Ethon asked her finally. “The Wild Hunt… you’re so sure?” He pondered. “How did you… why were you?” Ethon began, he had many questions himself. “You’re a hunter, yeah?” He asked her, “What village did you serve?” He wondered, his eyes moving over her slightly, trying to assess. There were very few female hunters, very few females he knew could wield any weapon, nevermind use them on a hunt. “You must be good.” He commented, letting his serious face soften some.

 

[peritwinkle]

It was not often that Lyram lost his temper, yet in that moment, he felt as though Hector was driving him on the verge of it. Pressing his lips into a straight line, the young Lord followed his brothers into the closed room a few doors away from where they stood. It was still close enough to the Great Hall and the ears within it, although Lyram doubted that their voices would reverberate through the walls, given his older brothers calculated their words before they spoke further.

He did not pay much mind to the girl going about her cleaning duties, patiently waiting for her to exit before he let his brothers continue. Without looking, he could feel her gaze on his cheek, and Hector’s gaze on her own. Such games had already gotten stale after so many years, and their brothers’ interest only lead him to believe that they had only grown in inches as oppose to mind.

And nor did he respond as Hector and Conrad questioned his intimacy. Trailing his fingers over the old wood decking the council table, Lyram’s blue gaze moved from one man to the other, dark and accusatory. “The both of you have more cocks in your mouth than the whores you fill your minds with,” he said then, his tone as bitter as his words. “Is that all your minds let you talk about? This is why neither of you would be fit to rule, nevertheless give advice to a young King.” His glare short to Hector, for he knew. “I can assure you Roddrick Kilgour will not bend the ear to stories of women you’ve bedded back home when their House’s economy is driven to ashes over the Winter.”

Letting out a breath though his nose, Lyram turned towards the window. He brought his arms to his chest and waited, as though any other moment he could see the royal retinue riding on the road leading to White Hall. “I have no doubt that they come with the intention to take,” he explained. “King Corban knows our father is a steadfast man who holds his ground. If there was any matter that cannot be discussed through a letter, this is it.”

Taking. Taking as they always had, relying on the hope that their gratitude was enough to pay their pawns back.

There was no need to explain his judgement further; after all, the two of them had likely assumed that by now, as well. Perhaps it was not an ill wish for the three brothers of House Sterling to be separated, but it was, nevertheless, something that would impede them on the long run. They were the pillars of their family, of the stronghold of White Hall. One could not be sustained without the other. If the second pillar disappeared, it only would break further in the middle.

He could not deny that the company of the Queen and her offspring bothered him. Such matters could just as easily be discussed from man to man, and he doubted that King Corban would want his wife to listen to his private talks with their father, nevertheless a boy barely having passed youth. He reckoned he was not much older than Ethon, although likely lacked the boy’s wits in favour of diplomatic knowledge. Ethon had grown amongst Lords, but he was not a Prince.

*

It did not take long to reach the edge of the woods; Aiyda had seen it coming as the trees had lost their density and height, threatening to break into a field. On the very rim where it kissed the plains, the darkness of the forest met an eerie light that bothered Aiyda’s eyes, but she was thankful for the warmth. Snow had settled properly on the ground, covering everything beneath a veil of ice and attempting to shroud her as well as snowflakes fought the heat radiating from her cheeks and head.

The silhouette of White Hall was a pretty sight, more relieving than that of solitude which she had so eagerly embraced through the night. The tall walls of the stronghold seemed to be emerging from the very stone that it was built upon, as white and pure as Winter itself, and only nested the grand castle that carried its name. Aiyda had only heard stories of the place, as well as stories of places much more grand than the small Northern city, yet as she looked upon its glory then, it was hard for her to believe there was something greater than that.

Mathys often came to White Hall to trade furs and meat with their father after each hunt. A pang of sorrow struck her heart at the thought of her younger brother; he had wanted to travel for the entirety of his life, until he grew old and weak, and could no longer carry his own weight through the snow. The old steed that his father gave him when they set off in the Summer and Winter had belonged to her - an animal as gentle and lanky as its rider, but miraculously strong enough to carry his weight for a week’s worth of riding.

The alleyways and roads of the city were cramped and filled to the brim with merchants and blacksmiths, servants and hunters looking to sell their goods for a higher price than they were worth, now that Winter had dawned upon them. They only lead up, and although not too steep, she could feel Krull struggle beneath her weight. As soon as they reached the stables, Aiyda forced herself off of the mount, her bones and muscles seemingly strangers to such movement after riding for so long. She pressed her thighs together as she reached the ground and leaned against Krull for a moment, before allowing the little Lord to take it away from her.

Questions arose on the tip of her tongue as she noticed where the man was actually leading her: she had not expected to be taken into White Hall right away, but did not attempt fight it out of pure curiosity. She was unsure what it was that she would tell Lord Sterling; for certain, the despair in her voice as she had first explained the attack would not do in front of a man as cultured as a noble. As the boy explained that she would not be placed before him right away, she felt both frustrated and relieved. ‘If they have all fallen prey to the Wild Hunt, then a few hours’ delay will not save them,’ she soothed herself.

Aiyda followed the stranger though the marginal hallways of the castle, her limbs catching the slightest glimpse of fire as she struggled to move them so she could walk. Their path lead them through the kitchens, and a strong scent of hearty stew, greased ham and herbs touched her nostrils. Although much larger than her own kitchen back home, it still felt cramped with the servants hurrying about to either remove a boiling bowl from above the fire or gather dried basil to sprinkle ontop of a red glistening sauce for the venison.

She felt pairs of eyes on her cheek as she slipped through the servants following the boy. A few giggles emerged from the younger ladies there at the sight of a woman accompanying him, as well as some grunting from farther behind, as an older one dropped her spoon into her bowl. “Ethon!” she called after him. “Ethon! Where d’you think you’re hurrying like that, eh?”

They were long gone before the spoon could reach his him. She let him lead her into his chamber, or what she supposed belonged to him, and before she could catch her breath, she heard the door close behind them and a clink against the surface of a wooden desk. As she turned around, she noticed that he had extracted a bowl of steaming stew, likely prepared for one of the nobles, and ripped the corner of a steaming loaf of bread.

Without thinking twice, Aiyda’s hands reached for the bowl, paying to mind to the heat that burnt the tips of her fingers, and ripped a piece out of the bread to pop into her mouth. It was so fresh, that the dough would easily mold into the shape of her palm if she clamped it. She had not realised how hungry she truly was until the scent of it tickled her nostrils, and as the man spoke before the fire, she dug into the stew, letting it drip on her chin as she fervently took her first bite.

After swallowing as quickly as she had chewed her bite, her umber eyes shot to the stranger by the name of Ethon and struggled to replay his words in her mind. The emptiness in her stomach suddenly disappeared, replaced by a painful clench as she placed the bowl and on her lap and wiped her chin with the edge of her sleeve. “The truth,” she said plainly as she moved her gaze away from him. “I am a hunter of Northcross. It was first ritual.” That was enough to explain the nature of her work to any man of the North and, perhaps, of the rest of Armath as well. The ritualistic hunters of Northcross were known and respected amongst Lords and other practitioners of their craft.

“And my father’s last,” she added then, and felt her eyes suddenly sting. There was a lump in her throat which swallowing only hardened. “He was the leader of our party. Him and Uther were my mentors... Until they weren’t any more.”

 

[pointmango]

It was Conrad who spoke next, his own temper often got in the way of the boys teasing one another. Conrad could sense Lyram’s anger. He knew Hector rarely faltered in these situations, had Hector been the one to speak first, he likely would have spit back some comment that would only further Lyram’s anger. “Fit to rule?” He questioned, “You have a stick so far up your rear, might as well take you outside, ring you up and let Hector have a good go at it. Maybe then every discussion we have doesn’t have to be political.” Conrad huffed, annoyed at his brothers comments, but also at his lack of easy conversation.

Hector huffed now, “Relax Conrad.” He spoke, his deep tone much more serious now. Hector could demand respect when he needed to, he was always cautious with it. “If the King requests a man of House Sterling I will go.” Hector stated, sure of himself. “Father cannot. He is the standing Lord of White Hall, you are next Lyram. You will need father here to continue to guide you.”

“What about me?” Conrad questioned, knowing his brother to well, Hector would lay it all out for them, now that he was being more serious.

“You are ignorant. Too young still. I pray, and so does father, that they do not ask this of us. But should the King request, I will step forward.” Hector said to both of them, holding his ground. “If the King is requesting the amount of trade we assume he will ask for….” Hector trailed off, his face which had held so much teasing and joy only moments ago now looked as if he was sentenced to death. “We need a Northern Lord down there. I know you will disagree Lyram, but the rumors I hear….. King Corban has lived a lavish life. He did not prepare for winter, and with the things I hear of Prince Roddrick…. Well I am certain he has no means to prepare either.”

“So what?” Conrad asked. “We are of the North, we protect the North. If the King asks, say no. We will protect the North, and the North will survive.” He Conrad pressed his hands to the table. “We owe the crown nothing.” Conrad spoke clearly.

“That is not how it works Conrad and you know that.” Hector’s tone grew a bit more upset. But now his eyes moved to Lyram, who would clearly have a weigh in on his brothers differing opinions. “I do not wish to leave Lyram. I know our plan, ever since we were children. You would be our Lord. The Lord of White Hall, but we would rule side by side, and allow the North to prosper. But the North cannot prosper if it has nothing to grow with.” Hector reasoned, his hands folded neatly before him.

*

Ethon watched carefully as she reached so quickly for the bowl. How long had it been since she had eaten? Now questions of time plagued his mind. Had she been out there for long? How far had she rode? He was still struggling with believing her tales of the hunt. Whenever Northern children spoke of the ghost stories when he was young, he would chuckle at the thought. But this woman was shaken to the core, and for some odd reason, he believed her.

She ate quick too, and well, her style of eating was not very ladylike, all added in with the way she wiped her mouth with her sleeve. He spent so much time around here for meals, he forgot how the common folk ate. “Northcross.” He repeated. A village known for their intense, and very skilled hunts. They would usually recruit some hunters of Northcross closer to the gods holidays to hunt larger, and better game for feasts. He learned very quickly of Northcorss when he first came to the north, and also how important first ritual was for them.

He personally found the craft silly. A feat he would certainly not be telling this young woman. The people of the North valued Northcross, and their hunters. A ritual seemed extensive to Ethon, if you were going to go out and kill beasts all day, get on with it. Hunting was no spiritual task in his mind. Part of him didn’t even really believe in the gods either. He knew others all over worshiped the gods. Mostly everyone did, and he spoke of them with love, and adoration. He did not feel the same. What god, with so much purpose and life would rip him from his mother? His mind argued with himself often. This life was better than anything he would have had in the South, with his whore mother. Some would call it the gods will, Ethon would call it a load of horse shit. He’d seen men kill one another without thought. Animals wrestling in the night when they did overnight hunting trips in their younger years. The cries of young girls in whore houses. There was no gods, only rich men and poor ones.

“I am sorry.” He spoke quietly now, his voice barely a whisper. “Your father, to lead the Northcorss hunters. He must’ve been a man of great honor.” Ethon let his eyes lift to meet hers slightly. He was selfish for his next thoughts, thinking at least she was lucky she was alive and that her parents were gone. Killed by the hunt, or whatever it was, but not harmed and abused everyday. And at least she knew who her parents were. He rubbed his face, internally calling himself a selfish bastard for his thoughts. She had gone through the worst thing anyone could go through, losing someone they loved, and here he was thinking on the brighter side for her.

“I know there is no sum of money, no sum of anything that could truly help... “ He told her. “Ask for help though, if you need it.” He leaned in some, the chair he was sitting on cracked slightly, “If you need work, or anything.. I can…” he began, then he realized she was a woman, and he was a man in his bedroom offering her work. He leaned back, “The kitchen always needs help, and I know a few establishments just beyond the walls too. Just… well, I dunno what else you have, or had.” He informed her.

“Sorry.” he added again, his voice softer. “You just lost, and then you rode for hours… longer probably?” He asked, his gaze now looking away from her. “I shouldn’t be thinking anything for you.” His eyes looked to the fire, remembering vaguely how it used to be, when he would be hot at night, sweating with a thin blanket in the back of a whore house, instead of being awoken by the cold, knowing when the orange flame would die in the middle of the night.

“I can get you a change of clothes if you need it?” He offered, clearing his throat some now and standing up. He felt odd, in the room alone with her. Realizing now this was the first time he had ever brought anyone into his room. He wondered if back in the woods she thought he was a lord. “I never asked your name.” His eyes glanced over her a moment, he now understood why the kitchen maids were giggling so hard, she was nice on the eyes. A beautiful girl, alone and stirred from a battle of horrid beasts, the Lords would have a field day questioning her, he felt sorry almost. What if she had no one else?

 

[peritwinkle]

The fact that Hector was right bothered Lyram immensely. Their cooperative work had been nurtured ever since they were children, and for a stranger to come and tear their efforts apart, it felt as though the Gods were punishing them and nothing less. It was only the hope that he was wrong which kept him from unleashing his frustration on his father, and respectively, onto Hector for agreeing without putting up a fight.

It was true that the North could not work on its own. The Kingdom of Armath needed every inch of land which resided in its boundaries, especially during darker and colder times. “There have to be other ways,” the man muttered, although more to himself than his brothers. Along with House Glovelyn of Last Harbour, they produced enough quantity of goods to feed and dress twice the army of the Capital. They were needed, as much as they needed the South to withstand the costs of their craft.

Another heavy breath escaped Lyram’s nose as he turned back around to face his brothers. “We’d better wait and see for ourselves instead of making plans for an uncertain future,” he concluded. “I do not wish to put the blame on our father. Out of them all, he is the one who wishes the best for all of us, and if he deems it necessary for you, Hector, to leave for the Capital, then I have no doubt that will prove to be the right choice in the end.”

It pained him to say it, for he knew that no man lived his life without mistake, yet they had grown with the knowldedge of their father and the gentility of their mother, which had inherently lead them to believe, unconsciously, that their way was the only way. And even then, older as they were, their parents were pillars of their development as Lords of White Hall, and Lyram knew that they all dreaded the day they would be left alone in the world.

With that, he found his way around the table and reached for the door. He despised leaving subjects open, yet such matters could not be resolved before their time, and likely, all three of them were aware of it. “Until then, we should look forward to the feast,” he thought to add, a faded smirk touching his lips. “Perchance you, boys, might be able to sneak Ethon into the Great Hall as well when the party grows louder. He would appreciate it.”

They were all young, after all, and Lyram could not blame them for wanting to be men faster; strong wine, Northern game and beautiful women were everyone’s dream, in the end, and it would be tyranny to deny a growing boy of such pleasures. He, himself, was anxious to see more of what Armath had to offer, although a part of him would hold on to the fear of what such lavish visit would bring along.

*

The thought of her father had, somehow, become empty. It rung like a poem she had been taught in her childhood which no longer held any meaning or excitement when spoken. The morning and night after fleeing had been a blur, an amalgam of tears, pain, dread and hope that, perhaps, it had all been a dream that was simply more difficult to snap out of.

The heat radiating from the bowl she held in her palms brought her comfort. There was no more cold to kindle the shudders within her, and now, the slight tremble in her limbs was beginning to fade away. As she stared emptily into the fire, she struggled not to play back the memories of the attack. She would have to keep herself contained until she was put before a Lord whose ears might just bend to listen to her strange story.

As the boy expressed regret, Aiyda’s heart clenched, mirroring her fingers around the bowl. “I do not want work,” she almost growled back at him, although her voice did not lose its meekness. “I want to go back to Northcross and gather what’s left of it. I want to see it for myself, see what I have left behind like a damn coward...” Yet she did not yet have it within her to go alone. All the bravery she had forced herself to readiate over the years had been reduced to mere dust within moments. “I should have died there, with my people.”

Strangely enough, she had been allowed to escape, for she doubted that such force which had managed to slaughter ten of the strongest men she knew would have had trouble putting a sword through her heart. Whatever it had been, it wanted her to spread the word, and suffer as no Lord believed her and no soldier raised his weapon in her name. She had not prepared herself mentally for that answer, but rather managed to convince herself that the truth behind her words would not go disregarded.

Aiyda pressed her lips and closed her eyes for a moment, stifling a wave of tears from dripping down her cheek. Holding her breath, she took a good bite out of the warm bread and brought a spoonful of stew to her lips in an attempt to busy her mind with something more pleasurable than remorse. It did not take long for her to finish her meal after not having eaten for so long, although she suspected it was more than hunger that had kindled her more ravenous nature.

As he began to ask questions, Aiyda shook her head and forced down the last bite of her meal. “Two nights and a day,” she said quickly, settling the bowl back on the desk before hurriedly gathering the crumbs from her lap and his bed. “I need nothing else,” she said, “but to be brought before Lord Sterling as soon as possible... And my name is Aiyda. Aiyda Saeberian. Yours, I know - Ethon.”

Quickly jolting from her seat, she trailed her hands over her lap to brush off any leftover crumbs before straightening her back and almost sprinting towards the door. “I will wait within the Great Hall if need be,” she pressed, her eyes seeming to catch ablaze as she looked down to him. “Until dusk, so long as I get to speak... For my family.” There was nothing that she wished for more in that moment; it was what kept her from slipping back into the dark trance of her memories, what kept her surroundings vivid and relevant.

‘One more push,’ she soothed herself. ‘One more push, and all will be well.’

 

[pointmango]

Hector heard his brother mutter of other ways. He wasn’t hopeful, that was clear in Hector’s hears. But he knew his brother did not wish to stray from tradition, more so even, from preparation. A bit shocked at his brothers next notion, of waiting and seeing. He wondered what good planning for either, or any outcome would have done though. Hector himself would not have chosen such explicit words, the ‘right’ choice, more to him like their only choice.

Hector held knowledge from his brothers still. In his discussion with his father, Lord Victor had insisted that he go, and leave White Hall to his three sons, just as he had always planned. Lord Victor knew how he planned for White Hall to be run, he would have gone himself to keep his boys together. But Hector knew this was no way, his brother was strong and intelligent, but he was not ready. His father would be a target in the South, and without his guidance, Lyram would struggle. So Hector pushed for himself, much to his mother’s dislike.

Conrad smiled some when Lyram now spoke of the feast. “Why of course brother, I will make sure Ethon has a brilliant time.” He grinned a bit, as if stirring up a plan himself in his own mind. Maybe it was time his friend got a proper fuck, no kitchen maids of White Hall flirting with him. Conrad was sure he could find a beautiful summer handmaiden for him to fuck. And with the rumors of the things southern girls could do, he was sure Ethon wouldn’t refuse.

As Lyram was by the door, it’s knob turned and the chamber door opened slowly. Due to his positioning, Conrad could not see, but he caught the raise of Hector’s eyebrow. Ethon’s voice filled the room. “My Lords, I have brought forth, uh… Aiyda Saeberian, a huntress of Whitecross. She bares formidable, and shocking news. I ask you to please hear her out, and listen, with respect.” He added, the last part appeared to be almost a plea.

*

“You are no coward.” He told her, his voice stronger than before. Based on what she was describing, any other would do the same. He was sure of it. He was in awe at how she made it away, and how she had trusted him so readily. He remembered one of the old woman who washed them as boys and her tall tales. She spoke of ice giants, and the Hunt, but she spoke of formidable men who hurt small children and women.

“It will not help your grief to wish death upon yourself.” Barely a whisper now, his eyes averting from Aiyda as his memory toyed with his journey here to White Hall. He did not understand at first, he was young then. But now, after the fact, he understood more. The way his mother had held him, how she cried and told him to be a good man, as if she would never see him again. She was losing him, and he losing her, and he did not even know it. And here this girl was, having already lost.

“No need.” He spoke as she stood up, he stood as well. “I will bring you before Lord Victor Sterling’s sons. They will judge the matter.” He pulled on a vest now, tying the strings at his waist and changing from his hunting boots, thick and fur lined to a much lighter leather pair. “Come now.” He spoke, stepping out before her and opening the heavy wooden door of his room.

He led her back down the narrow halls, this time just walking slightly before her, instead of the last time where he was nearly dragging her by her hand. “The young Lords are just. They are all quite different as well. I believe they will make a fair judgement.” He informed her. He was not quite sure if he believed the last part of his own statement, but he prayed to the gods they would at least listen. This girl was shaken to the core, and Ethon did believe her, he did not need their disbelief to bring him embarrassment and shame.

As they approached the Lords council chamber, Ethon glanced back at her one last time, he wondered if he should have had her change. She still looked disheveled and honestly if they had washed her up, COnrad would have believed anything that came from her lips. He motioned for her to come closer, “Let me do the speaking first. Lord Lyram will motion to you when you are to speak. You must convince them.” He added at last and opened the door slowly.

“My Lords, I have brought forth,” he began, pausing some, how formal of an introduction did you give someone with no true titles. “uh… Aiyda Saeberian, a huntress of Northcross.” He thought that would do, he took another breath, “She bares formidable, and shocking news. I ask you to please hear her out, and listen, with respect.” He informed them, asking for them to listen with respect, that was all he could truly ask of them. He felt the need to point it out, as some of them would listen, and others he knew wouldn’t. He was almost sure Lyram wouldn’t, not at first, Lyram often just simply saw Ethon as too young. Hector would listen, but he’d be making a judgement with every word, and his mind would not be swayed once he made a decision. Conrad always a wild card, and often unserious about these matters.

 

[peritwinkle]

Despair burnt with lively flames within Aiyda’s eyes as Ethon lead her through the door and away of the warmth and safety of his chamber. She was unsure whether it had been mere moments or more than a turn of the clock ever since she had been collected from the forest. The sudden rush of energy that had sparked through her after hopping off of her horse was now slowly dying, leaving her almost limp and weary, unable to properly place one leg in front of the other. The hallways seemed oddly narrow and the archway leading back into the glory of the castle halls too far for her to reach.

She felt uncomfortably damp beneath her fur coat, despite having cherished the warmth earlier that day and throughout the cold she had been forced to bear within the forest. She felt her cheeks burning, likely aglow from the sudden rush of heat, and a hair bothered her as it was stuck to her temple. Without seeing a reflection of herself in the mirror, she knew that she likely looked far from presentable in that moment, and rather akin to a madwoman who was undeserving to be presented before a Lord.

Eventually, Aiyda heard Ethon address her and she was forced to quickly snap out of her trance and listen, although his voice rung almost empty in her ears. The expression on his face read concern. It was the least she caught on before the large door separating them from the young Lords of House Sterling parted and she was gingerly invited inside.

It was not often that Aiyda felt helpless and unarmed before people who did not threat with more than disbelief. ‘A hunter should never be afraid, yet calculated and ever wary of his surroundings,’ she remembered her father’s words, ‘for that way, danger may never come as a surprise.’ Before her, however, were painted the faces of three young men, princely and poised, whose hands rested on their carefully embroidered taffeta coats rather than the hilts of their weapons.

It had taken a deep breath to step forward, passing Ethon by just enough for their gazes to fall on her. The light that came through the windows behind the Lords made it difficult for her to make out the finer details of their features, although for a moment, she tried to convince her that it was something less than disgust she was looking at. “My Lords,” she spoke softly, her voice almost unknown to her ears. “I am the daughter of Jasper Saeberian, leader to the hunters of Northcross.”

Swallowing came almost as difficult as forcing her heart to keep beating. The length of her sleeve shielded her fiddling with her fingers from the judgemental eyes of the Lords before her, but the slight movement offered her a certain comfort as she spoke. “We were on our sixth day of our Winter ritual, ready to set off for your city of White Hall the following dawn before returning home, when we were surrounded and ambushed from within the woods.”

Closing her eyes for a moment, Aiyda let out a breath in a futile attempt to soften the lump in her throat. She could feel her eyes sting and dampen and her lip tremble as she chewed on it nervously. “The attacker was not one, not an army, but a mass,” she continued, “something dark and ungodly, darker than the night, slow paced and quick at once as it rode through a cloud of dark and sliced through each and every able fighting man within the open field.”

Not a voice disturbed her murmur as Lyram’s orbs remained fixated on her. He held his arms crossed at his chest, one finger raised as a warning towards his younger brothers while he listened to he girl speak. His brows did not soften as she finished her speech, and his gaze did not falter from her disheveled figure. “I have no doubt you are telling the truth,” the man said then. “It is an honour to be a ritualistic hunter, and your people carry great honour within their hearts.”

It was only true, for the names of those taking part in the rituals were inked and kept sacred by the priest performing the initiating ceremony. Lyram had only witnessed one in his youth, forced by his father and, frankly, he had never understood the pleasure for such a strenuous way of celebrating prosperity, yet he did respect the men at the head of such craft. He had likely met her father as well, although unaware of his name at the time.

“Were you the sole survivor?” he tilted his head as he took one short step towards her. From her story, he assumed that everyone else had perished in the attack.

The girl slowly nodded. “Yes, my Lord. I watched my father die as he urged me to leave... I heard the screams of the last men that the swords of the Wild Hunt had not initially gotten to.” She attempted to bring her arms around her middle, but quickly forced herself to stand back straight to face the Lord. Lyram only lifted his hand and lowered his head for a moment, thinking.

“The Wild Hunt,” he repeated. He now understood why Ethon had brought her to them. It was almost a joke upon his lips, and he imagined that his brothers would likely take it as such, yet he forced a stern look upon his own for her sake. “And you believe that an ancient legend has returned from darkness to rain their wrath upon the hunters of Northcross?” His head turned to Ethon, calm and contained like his voice. “Do you believe her, Ethon? Did she come to you as you were hunting in our woods, or did you find her on our city streets?” His tone was not accusatory, nor derisive, although it was clear to Aiyda then that her misfortune had not sounded believable. “I assume she has told you a similar story.”

 

[pointmango]

Conrad was intrigued, for starters, Ethon had brought a woman to them. That and he seemed to be pleading with them silently to be nice, why would Ethon care of another's feelings? The more Conrad spoke of it, the more he nodded slightly, Ethon did care of others feelings. When they were young and he had kissed one of the kitchen maids whom Conrad also found cute, it was written all over the golden boy’s face for an entire week.

Conrad observed the way Ethon now stood slightly behind this girl, positioned off to the side, but his eyes focused solely on Lyram. Ethon noted how focused Lyram was, Hector standing off in the corner some and Conrad looking too smug for the liking.

Aiyda’s voice was softer than early, Ethon’s faith in her faltering slightly, but he stood straight still, hands behind his back. Her introduction of herself did well, and he prayed they would simply hear her out. As she retold the story to the Lord, thankfully more convincing than when she informed him, he tried to picture the scene occuring in his own mind. A cold night in the woods, a mass coming through the camps, dark, and horrible, swallowing some of the strongest and most fierce of Northcross in one go.

Ethon exhaled as Lyram began putting his own faith in her, and then asking questions. When Lyram attention now turned to him, Ethon did not falter as he stepped forward. “I found her after you and Conrad had sent me to hunt on my own. She was alone… shaken. I believe her.” Ethon spoke, his tone strong for once as he presented before other lords. “If you had seen her, seen the look in her eyes, Lord Lyram, I believe her.” He spoke sure of her and of himself. “I believe the Wild Hunt has returned.”

“You cannot serious believe this?” It was not Conrad’s voice, it was Hector’s deep tone encircling the room. “Brother, I am sorry, I know you speak before me… but this is ridiculous. Ethon is a child, and clearly this girl is too. Tales of the Hunt?” He was shocked Lyram did not send them away. “They are nothing but night terror stories for children.” Hector’s gaze was now on Ethon, “You cannot be serious? Surely this is a foolish prank Conrad put you up to?” Hector had always respected Ethon, his mind went straight for Conrad in the absurdity of this.

“It is not a prank.” Ethon spoke, his own tone loud. Normally the only one who would take him in this sense was Conrad, and yet here Conrad was saying nothing, and Hector questioning his honor. “I believe her-” He began but was quickly cut off now by Conrad, whose face seemed to be wanting to cut the tension.

Conrad cleared his throat, “Perhaps it is just the excitement of the events. The King coming to visit.” Conrad began, “We should revisit this matter after. She can stay in the servants quarters, and we will have an official hearing with father.” Conrad suggested, looking to Lyram for help on the matter.

“An official meeting with father?” Hector asked, he scoffed now, “This is foolish, and to bring such tales before father. Tales of… of magic.” Hectors eyes were now on Lyram, as if daring him to say he believed the girl as well. “You’ll be labeled a madman if you bring this to father. The Hunt is a /story/” Hector huffed again.

Conrad glanced between them, now he looked to Ethon, who appeared outwardly frustrated and angry, and the poor girl. “We are required to hear out all news Hector.” Conrad spoke.

“Yes, and if the news if worthy, we address father, this is not worthy.”

“Ethon has said he-” Conrad began.

Hector frowned, cutting his brother off, “Had it not been Ethon who brought her in-” Hector paused a moment, trying to collect himself. This was stupidity, believing in the Hunt, he could not believe he actually had to try and convince his brothers this girl was mad. “Would you believe her, if she came alone, came without Ethon?” He asked. “Northcross honor or not, and do forgive me, I know the honors of Northcross, I do not mean to degrade your people, your hunters, or anywhere you came from. I simply to not believe it was the Hunt.” Hector spoke. “It was night? Perhaps you were near a mountain, an avalanche? A pack of wild wolves? There have been raids from free tribes further north.” Hector listed off every other rational explanation. “I do not detest you believe it was the hunt.” Hector said, nodding at the girl, “You do not strike as mentally unstable, but there are many other explanations.”

Hector was always rational, and as he listed off every other reason for what could have killed her entire group of hunters, Ethon did not believe any one of them. “These Hunters are… it’s their craft.” Ethon began. “They know what the beginnings of an Avalanche sound of, they could fend off a pack of wolves, I bet even a tribe of free men.” Ethon’s fists were clenched.

“There is no proof.” Hector replied simply.

“Her entire group, her entire village is dead.” Ethon growled. What more proof did he need?

“No proof of what killed them.” Hector’s eyebrow lifted, daring Ethon to retort anything back.

Ethon’s eyes now moved to Lyram, Hector’s rationality could only be subsided by Lyram’s orders. Ethon’s jaw was clenched, Lyram had the final word, it was his call. He prayed Lyram believed him, but disappointment in the eyes of Ethon was much different and less valuable than disappointment and distrust in Hectors eyes.

 

[peritwinkle]

The pang in Aiyda’s heart and throat only seemed to be growing more painful as she listened to the young Lord’s words. His tone was touched by kindness, although there was a rather fine line between the latter and pity, and before his brothers dared to chime in, she knew that she was being looked down upon, like a poor bug that had been rained on who had come begging for shelter.

Yet as Ethon so eagerly answered his Lord’s questions, Aiyda felt momentarily hopeful. It was clear to her that he was not a Lord by now, but rather, something less yet still close to the eyes and ears of the nobles that he served, and the expression in Lord Lyram’s eyes told her that a part of him wanted to believe her tragedy, if only for the sake of not upsetting his friend. She watched him lean back against the table, now quiet as the others voiced their disbelief. He was analysing her, and although subtly, she could still feel his ardent gaze on her cheek.

Lyram could very clearly read the frustration in her eyes and pick it in her trembling voice. Despite his silence, he listened carefully, thinking. It was apparent that something had truly shaken the girl to the core; she was shuddering, even if wrapped up in the thick fur coat, with her fiery locks messily wrapped around her head almost like a scarf that had come undone from the wind. Her fingers were pale as she fiddled beneath her sleeve, tightening her grip around the rim as though they were threatening to yank the coat from her body.

“Enough,” Lyram eventually stepped back in as Hector and Ethon began tallying their fangs. His blue orbs shifted from the trembling figure of the girl and back to them, both chastising and irked at their childish quarrel. “I think we can all agree that the girl tells no lies, a madman sees what he sees,” he said as he looked back towards her. “I am sorry for your loss, my Lady, truly. The death of an honourable man is always reason to mourn. He was your father, and my brothers seem to show no respect towards that.”

His voice was now bitter, although not aimed towards the girl as much as the men in the room. Aiyda flustered, her eyes turning as sorrel as her hair, and as she started to part her lips so she could protest, Lyram’s voice rung again to politely interrupt her. “No matter how skilled a hunter is, no matter how well they might know their woods... We are but men, and our eyes often lie as to what we see before us. As my brothers said, it could have been a wildling raid... Rogues coming from the far North.” It would not have been a strange sight; it was rare, but it had happened in the past, his father and old mentors had made sure to inform him of the common people’s struggles. They were savage in battle, and their horses were properly trained to withstand the snow and cold in battle.

Pushing himself away from the table, he took a step towards the girl and nodded kindly, almost spiteful towards his brothers. “Once the waters are settled regarding the royal visit, I will bring this matter before father. Be it the Wild Hunt or savages, the village of Northcross has either been raided or is in immediate danger. Not to mention that I am certain Lord Victor will be more than concerned with the death of the head hunter.” Rituals and festivals of the Faith were not overlooked in the Northern parts of Armath. “I am sure he will send men to inspect the matter.”

As his eyes returned to Aiyda, her own were reddened and damp, both fire and sadness built up and ready to erupt into words. Her lips were pressed in a fine line, as if to stifle a sob or an unfriendly remark. Only a blind man would be unable to see the exhaustion and terror etched on the girl’s face; Hector had seen it as well and had apparently been moved by the sight enough to not call her a liar, which was, at least, a step in the right direction which might eventually lead to a crossroad.

Lyram decided to turn to Ethon then, his expression stern and indisputable, although he doubted that his brothers would dare to question his judgement in front of the common girl again. “Lady Aiyda has been traveling for nights on end,” he stated. “It is only proper to treat her as our guest. I will personally speak to the maids for a bath and a warm room for the night, unless you are willing to see to it for me, Ethon.”

They were expecting visitors, but he was sure the maids would find a chamber fit for her - perhaps not something as grand as their own apartments, but rather closer to Ethon’s own. “A change of clothes and fresh food would be in order,” he added, to which Aiyda shook her head and took a step back.

“Thank you, my Lord, but... Ethon has already been kind enough to offer me food.” It was almost a struggle to remain humble, for despite being thankful for the hospitality, it was not a bed and dry clothes that she had come to request. Aiyda knew that she had it within her to wait, even for another whole night if need be, yet judging by the tone in the young Lord’s voice, as well as the mention of a royal visit, she decided not to press the matter further. ‘He might be right, after all,’ she reminded herself. ‘They might all be already gone.’ The dead were patient.

She did not dare to look up to him again, out of the fear of other words slipping out of her mouth. It had not come as a surprise that the Lords of White Hall had not deemed her stories worthy of listening to, but the fire within her had long burnt out, and had barely been kindled by the thought of hope for mere moments before being killed yet again. She turned around and reclaimed her place behind the man who had brought her before the Lords and gave them a short and empty simper from the corner of her lips as a sign of gratitude, which Lyram quickly returned theatrically.

 

[pointmango]

Hector’s jaw was tight as he listened to his brother. He believed no magic tales of the Wild Hunt. That was all it was, just as Lyram had spoke, the words of a madman, or in this case a madwoman. He did not mean to disrespect her father, but to say he was killed by such a thing? Such a story? A night tale? That was disrespect in itself. When Lyram spoke that eyes could be deceiving and that Hector’s words of it being wildings that came and raided them, Hector stood a bit taller. His elvish grin peaking through just slightly.

Ethon’s knuckles were white. He could hear it in Lyram’s voice, he didn’t believe either of them, he was only being respectful due to Ethon’s positional as well as Aiyda’s. And Hector’s smug face. If they got a chance to battle swords soon, he’d make sure to knock Hector quicker than usual. At least Lyram was paying respects to her. He wondered, had she not been the daughter of their lead, or a Hunter herself even, would any of them even cast her a second glance before being escorted out. Probably not.

Ethon nodded some now, despite Aiyda’s words, his eyes fell upon Lyram. “I will speak to them about a bath and a room. There is surely a spare in the servants quarters.” He spoke to Lyram. His eyes now drifted back to Aiyda, she was still shaken up, he almost felt bad that she’d have to speak to some of the other ladies before being off to bed. “Thank you my Lords.” Ethon spoke, dipping his head, his eyes last meeting with Conrad’s smirking lips before he turned to Aiyda.

He led her outside the room and as the thickened chamber door closed he let out a an deeper exhale of air. “I’m sorry.” He spoke to her, his tone quick and upset as his steps echoed softly throughout the hall. “Hector is… well I dunno, I honestly thought Conrad would have been the one throwing negatives at us left and right.” Ethon revealed some. He glanced back to her and motioned for her to keep up. “I have to warn you, the kitchen maids… they’re nice girls, most of them anyway. But they all enjoy talking quite a bit.” He told her.

The rest of their walk back towards the kitchens was rather quiet, and as they approached the door Ethon thought it best he retrieve who he figured would be the nicest to her. “Wait here.” He told her by the entry as his own feet carried down the next hall to some of the maids rooms. He knocked on the third door down, a room shared by two girls of the name Arah and Lehna. “I have a favor to request of you both?” He said.

Arah, the taller of the pair, almost as tall as Ethon, smirked, “A favor from the both of us?” She smiled.

Ethon couldn’t help himself, he’d heard of Arah’s tricks, and his eyes moved over her just slightly as she was in only a night gown, and her dark hair, which was usually pulled back in a tight bun was loose and full of curls. He cleared his throat. “Um, not that kind.” He said. “I need you to draw a bath,” he began, and Arah’s face only looked at him like he was delusional. “For a guest we have here.” he added quickly. “She’ll need… well I don’t actually know. Just, could you help her with the bath, and Lehna too I suppose. I’ll go about setting up a room.” He said.

Lehna now appeared and she looked at him with a questioning look. Lehna’s gaze was gentle and soft, as was she. She was young, and genuine, she would always help others when needed, and she was the best at making beds apparently.

“She’s lost her family. Her entire family, just recently. I want you to both be nice.” He said, his statement and gaze holding Arah for a moment.

Arah just laughed, “By the gods Ethon, I may be a tease, but I’m no witch.” She pulled her hair up and turned again. “Fetch her, we’ll get her bathed and clothed. You can handle the room I take it?” She said to him.

Ethon made his way back over to Aiyda, he prayed she would be okay just until after the bath. Maybe the slight bickering of Arah and Lehna would cheer her up, he always had a good laugh when they did so. “He led her to the third door down and opened the door again. “This is Aiyda Seaberian, of Northcross. A huntress.” He said. Now he looked to Aiyda, “This is Arah,” he gestured, “And Lehna. They’re the best, really. I’ll be making up your room down the hall. Get a good fire, the works.” He told her before leaving her with the girls and him heading down to begin to prep the room.

Now that Ethon and the girl who seemed more wild than a wildling gone, Hector’s gaze returned to his older brother. “You truly think father will put up with this?” He asked him.

“Father will listen. If Ethon wills it, it must be-” Conrad began.

“It must be what? Ethon knows nothing. Boy isn’t even done growing.” Hector snapped. If it was one thing Hector hated, it was when Conrad tried to show he had any sense of reason, the only reason his younger brother was able to listen to the conversation was because the girl showed no ounce of beauty in her state. Had she been wearing no clothes he would have bet Conrad would have been drooling like a wild hound.

 

[peritwinkle]

Despite the waves of frustration and sadness that had taken over her, Aiyda could admit that the thought of a bath was not as terrible, although frankly, she had hoped to at least receive more than an empty promise of a possible resolution. It had been days since she had washed herself properly, but she was too exhausted to mind the grime beneath her garments. In the woods, it was not often that they stripped in the cold to clean themselves, even less since she was a woman amongst ten other men.

She did not tire her mouth to thank them again, and instead offered Lord Lyram a nod of appreciation for his mercy. Had she been a commoner lacking a name or education, perhaps the Lords of House Sterling would not have been as amiable, yet she was the daughter of the leader of the Hunt, now a poor orphan coming to seek justice against a mythical enemy that had stripped her of her family and purpose.

The way down the halls of the keep passed like a blur; Aiyda followed Ethon mindlessly, her eyes empty as she did not even bother to check if she was walking in a straight line. Her back hurt from the constant strain of riding on a horse and her thighs still chaffed as the thick material of her trousers rubbed against itself. The breeze caused by her movement dried the sweat trickling down her temple and kept her from falling asleep in her stride, which became much more difficult as she was told to stand and wait for his return.

It did not take long until the familiar pair of eyes popped from behind the door, shadowed by those of two other women dressed in neatly donned dresses, almost as pretty and spruce as noble ladies. Her darkened eyes eventually lifted to greet them, but no word parted her lips. She did not want to see Ethon gone, if only for the feeling of having someone familiar around, despite only having known him for less than a few turns of the clock. The thought of having to endure endless chatter did not excite her, either, but she could only hope that their bickering and gossip would take her mind away from the sadness, at least momentarily.

A smile appeared on one of the girls' lips, the one Ethon had presented to be Lehna. It almost seemed theatrical, but still strangely warm, as though she were looking at an old friend rather than a wildling. "You are in good hands, Aiyda," she reassured her, and Aiyda wanted to believe her. She looked just about as threatening as a hare. The other, Arah, seemed to be a bit more feisty, likely biting her tongue on a comment regarding her looks.

Aiyda looked over her shoulder to watch Ethon disappear around a corner of the corridor, and felt a warm hand take her own to lead her across to the other side. As she turned back around, she forced herself to take in her surroundings, hoping to memorize the way back in case she found herself alone, although she doubted that they would leave her in that state, even if she begged them to. The walls were tall and imposing, made for people greater than she was, and for a moment, she felt safe, if only for knowing that any beast would have a harder time penetrating the keep in search for the last soul it had left living two nights before.

The bathing room was considerably tighter than the others, dimly lit by a small stained glass window in the middle of the wall, covered by discoloured curtains, and a couple of candles that were still burning out of the bunch that had been stifled. A large wooden tub took up the entirety of the center of the room, with narrow fringes on which a few dark glass vials were carefully arranged by size. Arah skipped around the room to light the others, whilst Lehna dragged Aiyda to the middle, closing the door behind them, and gestured for her to sit on the egde of the tub. "Make yourself comfortable," she encouraged her, hopping towards the buckets of water gathered around the burning fire.

Soon enough, the scent of heat engulfed the room, steam rising from the surface of the buckets, signaling they were ready to be poured into the tub. One by one, Lehna and Arah emptied them carefully, shrouding the cramped room in a pale cloud that made Aiyda's eyes water and her cheeks tingle with warmth. As the water rose to about half, she began undoing the ties of her coat; over the days spent in the forest, it felt like it had become a piece of her own body. A shiver of cold took over her momentarily, before she felt the warmth of the steam trickle down her spine and, eventually, she grew to like the feeling of bareness. "Mind it," she murmured as she settled the coat down. It was all she had been left with from her mother and could only hope that her treasure would not be ruined by the careless hands of a servant.

Bare and free of the tightness around her limbs, Aiyda propped her hands against the edge of the tub and slipped one foot in, then the other, before letting herself dive in. She did not mind the pain of the burn; it felt like an embrace, the steam rising from the surface and delicate scent of oils urging her to close her eyes as she felt the water tickle her neck and let her red hair float around her frame.

She could no longer hear the voices of the two maids, now hypnotised with the strange and almost foreign sensation. Aiyda felt her throat clench painfully and as she pressed her lids shut, a tear rolled down her cheek that she had not attempted to stifle. Holding it in slowly became unbearable, and she let herself go, her gentle breaths turning into sobs and her lips curling to quiet them down, as if silence could hide her harrowing crying.

 

[pointmango]

Ethon took his time making the bedroom, thinking if he went slow then maybe he would catch her on the way in. However, after he had made all the sheets and positioned one of the pillows three times over he decided it best to go to bed. He looked over his handy-work. The lack of creases and perfect corners on the bed, if whatever Lord Victor had planned for him didn’t work out, maybe he could be a northern maid. He smiled softly at his own thought of joke, before leaving a neatly written note on the small bedside table beside her bed, stating the directions to his room if she so needed. His eyes moved over his scribbled handwriting, the black ink stained on the dirty parchment easily, ‘fuck’ he thought to himself. She could probably read, right?

The next morning he woke up to a horrible bang sounding through his door. He felt like his head was ringing it went on for so long. “What? By the gods!” He muttered loudly at the door.

“Your presences has been requested before Lord Sterling before breakfast. Dress quickly.” The deep voice spoke before the sound of louds boots walking away traveled through the shallow lift of his door.

Ethon pulled on his clothes for the day, figuring he’d have time before the King and Queen of Armath arrived, he’d be able to put on his best later. He rubbed his face as he trudged down the halls. Before entering the throne room where Victor would be sat he stretched quickly and then pulled his shoulders back and stood taller as he walked through the doors. Only Lord Victor was not there. One of the maesters came forward, “His back chamber lad.” He spoke to Ethon in passing.

Ethon made his way to the chamber in the back of throne room. He was a bit confused, expecting the Lord and his three sons to be there, usually they were. Ethon knocked upon the chamber door, hearing a muffled ‘enter’ and he did. Lord Sterling was sitting at his desk and motioned for Ethon to sit. Lord Sterling’s dark eyes looked over the southern boy before him. The silence was long and Ethon’s eyes looked down slightly.

“Ethon,” Lord Sterling began, his voice was gruff and deep, like a mixture between Lyram’s and Hectors. “The King and Queen of Armath ride for White Hall.”

“Yes, sir, my Lord, I know you haven't given any real direction for me yet. But I can be more of service than handling the transports-” Ethon began, clearly excited for the events.

“Ethon. I need you to stay away when the Queen and King are here.”

Ethon felt as if the room were too still now, “Stay away?” He asked, then he cleared his throat, realizing he shouldn’t really be questioning the Lord, but he couldn’t help himself. He was of the south, he just wanted to see what the others were like. “Why?”

Victor cleared his throat some. He stared at the boy again, silence engulfing the room as his hand came to his peppered beard for a moment. “A southern child in the North will look silly to them.” Victor spoke, even Victor knew the lie was obvious. But he truthfully couldn’t think of a better one, giving Ethon a useless task would have been better, but he knew Ethon, he would have tried to complete it before they arrived. And sending him away, he just would have snuck back. Despite Ethon’s honor, he was still closest in age to Conrad, which meant he had a knack for tripping around the rules.

“Ethon.” he spoke again. “You will not be present for their arrival, and you will stay in your chambers during the feast. You will see no one of Southern blood.” He said to him, his tone clear.

Ethon’s jaw was tight, his mind was burning with a million questions, he wanted to know why, he would have begged Victor to tell him. But he knew Lord Victor, he was not a man someone crossed, and yet Ethon was seriously debating the action. He kept his mouth shut however, his shoulders just as tight as his jaw now. “Will I ever get to know why?” He asked Victor, keeping his gaze down, “It has to be more than my mother? She was just a common whore.” His tone muffled slightly.

“I will tell you one day. I swear it. One day soon too, Ethon.” He told him carefully. “Do I as I say for their stay. Keep your head down, and stay away.”

Ethon kept his head down as he exited the chambers, and as he left for the breakfast hall, on his way there he caught Arah walking back, likely from making one of the Lords chambers. “Arah,” He spoke taking her wrist for a quick moment. “Bring Aiyda to breakfast. Dress her well. She will sit with the Lords and I.” He said to her, knowing this act would piss Hector off at least. Maybe even pull Lyram’s strings.

Arah’s eye brow cocked some, her hand moving over Ethon’s shoulder a bit, “Why are you playing?” She asked, curious.

Ethon’s face did not grin, did not slight at all, he kept his gaze on Arah, “Do it. Maybe we can have some fun of our own tonight then too?” He said to her. Of course he would be having other plans than Arah, but she’d be of help to getting him into that feast, and figuring out what the fucking hell Victor was hiding from him. He doubted the Huntress girl would be of any service in that area, although she would likely be invited to feast. Perhaps he could pose a distraction.

 

[peritwinkle]

A gentle scent of smoke and pine rested in the air, lulling Aiyda back into a deep slumber each time she fought to part her lids. The chamber was dark and pleasantly tight and a chilled breeze slipped through a crack in the window that kept her curling beneath the covers of feathers and ermine. She had heard the steps of servants tiptoeing through the door only to kindle the fire every now and then, but sometime in the night, the noise had ceased, and only returned when daylight began to overshadow that of the hearth.

When Aiyda opened her eyes to peek from behind her blanket, she felt the morning sun tickle her eyelashes and warm up her cheeks. She felt both warm and cold at the same time; she must have been sweating during the night, for now her nape ached slightly from the current that had reached its dampness through the covers. The piece of parchment she had set on the bedside was no longer there, likely thrown away by one of the servants. She had not managed to memorize the way back to Ethon's chambers, but she knew that the kitchens were not too far away.

The night had been strangely peaceful; she had fallen asleep as quickly as she had slipped beneath the sheets, still damp from the bath as she had refused to wait for her hair to dry before the fire. It had been quite early, a late afternoon, but she was thankful that Arah and Lehna had allowed her to go to sleep instead of forcing her to wait for dinner. Instead, they had hurried off to bring her a clean nightgown, one doubled with soft cotton and a braided lace for her to tie around her middle and keep the fabric tight against her cold skin. She had also been given a hair brush, which she had neglected to use before falling prey to sleep.

As she moved to sit up on the edge of the bed closer to the hearth, she heard the wooden door creak and, turning to look, saw the familiar face of Arah, who donned prettier clothes than the day before, with a carefully painted pattern on the rims. 'The Crown,' she remembered, but did not bother herself with the thought. Seeing it as Lord Sterling would be distracted with tending to their needs, it only meant that she would have the day for herself. She could have breakfast and, perhaps, later see Krull again and treat him with the remainders.

"Had a good night?" the girl asked, a smile softly curling the corners of her lips. She radiated youth and excitement which, strangely enough, mirrored into her own being. Aiyda offered her a quick smile of gratitude, before turning her head back to the fire. "I would assume so... You have slept for more than half a day."

She came to set a folded piece of fabric on one of the chairs by the hearth and placed her hands around her middle. "It's a big day today. You were invited to have breakfast with the Lords." Aiya's frowning gaze quickly turned to her in disbelief, to which Arah only lifted her shoulders and canted her head. "Means you've got to dress well. Look presentable. Which should not be much of a hassle, since you already look loads better than yesterday!"

A breath left Aiyda's nose as she lowered her head and russet locks came cascading down from atop her shoulders. Her hair had curled from the dampness and looked wilder than usual, but the lack of grime brought out the colour. She lifted her hand to twirl a lock around one finger before glancing back to Arah. "I have nothing else to wear," nothing other than her undergarments, which were by far too warm for the castle, let alone utterly inappropriate for presenting herself in front of the Lords. She suspected it had been Ethon's initiative to invite her and, frankly, doubted that his brothers knew about it, but she could not deny the company.

With a sly smile on her face, Arah went to unfold the fabric she had brought with her, whilst Aiyda hopped from the edge of her bed and balanced herself on her feet yet again. Her soles hurt still, but she knew the pain would only be eased by movement. Soon enough, a dress was presented before her of a cool grey with white fur rimming the shoulders, sleeves and the high cut of the neck, fastened around the middle with a narrow piece of the same grey fabric that tied in with the laces used to tighten the boneless bodice. Arah's ears perked up as if waiting for her opinion, to which Aiyda only gave her a smile and began undoing the knots of her night gown.

"You should almost look like a proper Lady," the girl offered as she helped her put on her new attire. Aiyda held her hair up to make it easier for Arah to tie the laces, before she felt her shoulders pressed down to urge her back on the edge of the bed and the same fingers that had trickled down her back now bring the locks by her temple into small braids neatly tied away from her face, to the back of her head.

Once ready, Arah jolted back up on her feet and, with a short look out the window, she took Aiyda by the hand and pulled her towards the door. "We shan't be late," she almost stifled a giggle. "Ethon and the Sterling brothers might have quite a surprise. You don't look like a wildlin' no more... And don't smell like one either, thank the Gods," the latter whispered more quietly, as if not intended for another's years but her own. Aiyda pursed her lips to hold in a smile, but followed her obediently towards the Great Hall, preparing herself for the displeased remarks and glares she was likely going to receive.

 

[pointmango]

The room was struck with silence as Ethon entered having changed from his morning drabs to his nicer coat and pant for the time being. Still not wearing his best, unsure if he should even break the clothing out upon Lord Victor’s command. Stay Away. All Ethon wanted to know was why, and Victor made it clear he could not reveal why. Part of Ethon wanted to press the Sterling boys, surely one of them had to know why he wasn’t allowed. But what if none of them did? What if he speaking about this matter to Lyram or Conrad would be frowned upon in Victor’s eyes. He slumped into his chair beside Conrad who was grinning ear to ear, clearly ready for the days events.

“It’s too bad there is no Southern Princess. I’d love to have a go at that.” Conrad’s teeth ripped at the heavy meat before him. Far to heavy of a meat Ethon thought for breakfast, but Conrad insisted on meat and greens with every single meal he ate, probably had the idea that was what kept him so large, and not the fact that his father’s family line was all full of tall thick men as well.

“No, just a Prince. Prince with a royal prick, coming to stick it in as many northern girls as possible.” Hector spoke absentmindedly. His eyes were across the room, at the back table there was a maid, and Steward. His eyes often found itself on that of this particular of their many Stewards, but he only allowed himself to look when he was in the company of a woman. It was in times like these where he was able to contrast the affiliation of a man and a woman. He understood the appeal, women were so soft and gentle, even to look at. Their subtle curves, especially at their bosom and waist made an elegant figure really. His brother’s obsession with them made some sense, at least in the science of it all. But behind this woman was their Steward. One of the more appealing Hector thought. He was fit, on the thinner side, but his shoulders were broadened. His features were angled and more harsh. Nothing like that of a woman’s and yet to Hector, that seemed almost more elegant. The refined features, the angles and the hardness of it all.

“Besides,”Hector spoke firmly, “If there was a Southern Princess, father would likely arrange for her to marry Lyram, or for I to go there and marry. Not you.” He pointed to Conrad who just huffed. “Your dreams of world travel are admirable brother, but you will be a man of the North until the day you die.”

Ethon chuckled at this. Ethon believed Conrad did not wish to travel the world, but merely fuck a woman from every kingdom of every religion and race there was. He probably cared little to see the sights. “You all will be men of the North. Conrad will simply just reside here until he dies. Likely you too Lyram.” A soft grin at the golden haired boys lips.

“Whatever, I will get a taste of what it is like to be a Southern man tonight.” Conrad said his knife cutting more of the morning game.

Ethon looked to Lyram now, Lyram knew more than any of them. One could argue Hectors studies bred him to be the most knowledgeable. But Ethon believed Lord Victor told Lyram the most. “Lyram,” Ethon began, “Do you know of your father’s relation to the King?” He asked Lyram easily. Ethon had always asked questions, his curiosity had gotten him into trouble before, but with the brothers almost no question ever went unacknowledged, if Lyram knew anything, he usually would let Ethon know, or so Ethon thought.

The chambers doors opened and Arah’s figured flowed through the doors to where the brothers were eating. Ethon stood at the table, as one did when a woman entered the dining room, although none of the other brothers seemed to. Likely because they did not have to as they were higher born. People rose for them. “I invited a guest to breakfast.” Another small grin appearing on Ethon’s face, even more so at the new sight of her. In her new garments, freshly cleaned and with her hair like that she fit in decently well.

Arah’s brow cocked some at Ethon, who was still stood. “Thank you Arah.” Ethon spoke to her.

Arah curtsied and nodded to them all, “Ethon, my Lords.” She said, her eyes lingering over Ethon for a brief moment, and then turning, passing Aiyda on the way out the door.

Ethon stepped forward, crossing the room towards Aiyda and offered his elbow to her, to escort her back to the table. “You look… rested.” He decided to say. He felt commenting on her new garments or how clean she was would be disrespectful.

Conrad’s eyes moved over her carefully, “That cannot be the girl from last night.” He muttered.

Hector frowned, “It is. See beyond her female features, brother. Still that look in her eye.” Hector added, careful not to use the term crazy, or delissional as Lyram would deem it disrespectful.

 

[peritwinkle]

The morning was still too young for Hector and Conrad’s relentless banter, but thankfully, Lyram was far too exhausted to mind the voices ringing so close to his ears. His night had been haunted by strange dreams of myths and legends, jolting him awake every now and then, only to find himself within the safety of his warm chambers and attempt to clear his mind of dark thoughts before closing his eyes again. Come morning, he had been content with being stirred by the servants coming to kindle his hearth and call him to breakfast.

He had not grabbed much food on his plate, knowing that he would be eating plenty that evening. He had gotten ready for the day with the feast in mind, and donned a dark blue coat with silver embellishments around the rims and the collar, and draped a more sumptuous cape over his chair so she could drop it over his shoulders when the time came to greet their noble guests. His brothers had done the same thing and, strangely enough, even Ethon, which made Lyram wonder if he had made his mind to enjoy himself at the feast with the rest of them.

The derisive mention of the Prince bothered Lyram enough to drag him out of his pool of thought. “Careful with your words,” she said to his brothers. “The walls have ears. We would not want our guests to hear what you are now saying about them.” Whatever the reason for their visit was, their hospitality had to remain intact for the time of their stay. Regardless of whether the future King of Armath did prove to have a small pecker or not.

“Tonight will be the night we show what the Lords of House Sterling are made of,” Lyram said sternly, digging his fork into half of a boiled egg. “Drink your wine and fuck your girls all you want, but after you’ve proven yourself to their Graces.” He assumed that Conrad had been thinking of doing the former, which only left Lyram with the responsibility of looking after his brother for at least as long as the King and Queen cared to pay attention to Lord Victor’s pitiful sons.

Ethon’s sudden intervention did take him aback, and, momentarily, he wondered briefly if he had been speaking to their father. A sigh left his lips before he popped the bite into his mouth and chewed almost menacingly at him. Swallowing, he placed his fork down and leaned back in his chair. “Lord Victor is a friend of the Crown,” he explained. “You know that as much as we do. And if your underlying question regarded the Crown’s business in the North, then I am afraid I know as much as you do.”

He was irked, not because of Ethon’s curiosity, but because of his inability to give him a concrete answer. Lack of knowledge bothered him. It was why he did not shy away from attending his father’s councils even regarding the smallest of matters. He could only suppose that it was either something they ought not to worry about, or a matter which their father considered they were better off without cumbering their heads with.

A loud creak made Lyram turn his eyes as the door to the Great Hall parted and two small figures came striding through, one whom he recognised to be Ethon’s friend, Arah - a girl who was as smitten with the boy as Conrad was with her - and another whose red hair told him it could be none other than the Huntress Ethon had brought to them the day before. She made for a strange contrast with the servant - she seemed ashen, her eye touched by a cold spark, but her cheeks were aglow like her hair, breathing some life back into her pale being. He saw Ethon rise to greet them as he often did with nobles; Lyram only glanced to her briefly, before resuming his meal, the bites now seeming harder to swallow.

Aiyda’s umber eyes flickered around the room as she took in the faces of the Lords of White Hall. It seemed to be a peaceful but solemn place, one where she did not belong, but fought the urge to turn away as she watched a more familiar figure rise from his seat and come towards her. A cold breeze against her arm told her that Arah was no longer by her side, but the warmth was soon replaced as Aiyda mindlessly took the arm offered and, lowering her gaze, followed Ethon back to the long table.

“My Lords,” she murmured softly. “Ethon...” The sounds of silverware clinking against the plates almost covered that of her beating heart; exhaustion still resided in her bones, but a new fire had been kindled by the scent of food that tickled her nose. Aiyda did not dare to look too longingly, but could smell the sweet perfume of honey dripping ontop of toasted bread, smoked ham, freshly boiled eggs and tea steaming in a large carafe in the middle of the feast.

Without thinking, Aiyda placed her hand over Ethon’s arm as he took a seat at the other end of the table, almost urging him to sit by her side. “No need to shroud your words. I look... clean,” she offered with a soft sigh. Talking often calmed her nerves, given a good listener, and that moment made no exception. She did not wish to be dealing with the young Lords’ derisive questions. Her sleep had been too sweet for her to give in to the thoughts of death yet again.

 

[pointmango]

Ethon chuckled slightly at Aiyda’s comment, although no one else at the table seemed to think it humor worthy of a chuckle. He did feel her touch his arm a bit tighter, almost signaling him to stay close. His eyes turned to her for a moment, he was preoccupied with the Lord’s reactions, his lack to even think what she would be feeling. Her features somehow appeared softer this morning, perhaps it was the dirt and grime and shake of the previous night that made her appear more hard, but he offered her a smile anyway as he motioned for her to sit beside him and pulled back the chair for her to sit.

It was Conrad who had taken note of the touch as well, often times he wondered what made Ethon so appealing to women. Many of them seemed to be fascinated with him, Arah, a few of the other maids, even visiting noblewoman. This new girl clearly was not taken to him the way the other women were, but it was clear she held a comfort in him. Hector would have told him the logical answer had he posed the question, as Ethon was the one who found her in a time of distress and was kind to her, she bonded to him. Conrad was no fan of Hector’s knowledge, he never had to try when it came to studying, he was like that, words of the mouth, knowledge of the books, remembering all he heard came so easily to him. Conrad was aware Hector’s trait bothered Lyram some as well too, but of course Lyram won out in the value of honor. Something Conrad was still unsure about himself. His father was an honorable man, quite so, but he’d heard stories, honorable men never last. His eyes now traveled to Ethon again, people would often time regard him with honor as well

Ethon’s fork and knife scraped across his plate as he continued to eat, the food still warm and good. Ethon preferred a scrambled up egg over anything else. He’d mix everything together, his eggs and any vegetables, or potatoes, even bits of bread sometimes. One of the older cooks used to tell him that was his childhood living through him, because even in the cooks lines, they all knew he came from a brothel in the South. The older woman also mentioned it likely was not scrambled up eggs that Ethon was eating but something else, which Ethon preferred not to think about.

He thought about how to propose appearing at the feast. He would need a scape-goat, check, Aiyda could be useful for that. But what would be his reason for showing up late. Perhaps he could use her for that as well, but with her bright red hair, and beautiful features she wouldn’t really be a distraction so much as an attention grabber. Maybe he could wear a hat? Gods, all his ideas were rubbish, he thought of asking Arah for ideas, she was always good at that lot, sneaking in and out of places, but she’d want to know why he was disobeying Lord Victor, and that wasn’t a conversation he wanted to have with her.

“Hard morning Ethon?” Hector asked him, his lips playing a bit with his elvish grin.

Ethon knew that look, Hector must’ve known something, or at least been up to something. Hector had ears planted all over White Hall. Ethon was unsure of how, but Hector seemed to get on with nearly everyone men, women, maid, steward… everyone who had ears really, Hector could get something out of them. Conrad once speculated his tactics in front of Ethon, making assumptions of bribery, threats, sex, and invitations to events. But neither of them had ever witnessed an exchange of any kind. Besides, the way Lord Victor was speaking to Ethon that morning seemed as if only Victor knew the answer to Ethon’s burning questions. He was sure Hector did not know, but knew Ethon had met with his father earlier.

Ethon grinned, “Lovely morning. Early rise, got to try on my new clothes… and I’ve decided..” He paused and then he turned to Aiyda. “How would you like to see a real royal feast?” He asked her. “There’s more food than you’ll ever imagine, the best game, good wine, dancing if you wish.” Ethon was trying to tempt her, but he was unsure this girl was the party type. “We can arrive a bit after the start… keep to the back if you wish? And if you say the words, we can leave if it is too overwhelming.” He made his words sincere, and they were. It was a decent plan in Ethon’s mind. They could show up late, leave early if need be. Plus his words made suggestion that his intentions were not gathering information on the South, but rather bedding this wild girl, which meant no one would come looking for him if he did need to do some snooping.

Hector observed the exchange, attempting to observe his brothers as well as Ethon seemed to take a liking to this girl. Surely Conrad would be jealous, that was always clear. Conrad was always jealous when Ethon got more attention from a female. It was petty really, and honestly Conrad got much more action than Ethon ever had, but is posed for good sport to watch. Lyram on the other hand was much harder to read, he wondered if Lyram could tell Ethon was thinking about more than this wild girl, Hector could see it. Hector could not understand why. Their entire childhood Ethon was always curious, often setting himself up so he could let his curiosity pan out as he pleased. The kid was smart, but the Sterling boys had grown with him, they were intelligent as well and they had learned his tricks.

 

[peritwinkle]

After having slept for so long, Aiyda could no longer deny herself the feeling of hunger. Frankly, she was famished, and the stew she had eaten the day before, as hearty as it had been, was not enough to fill her up for the entirety of the day. As Ethon made his own choices from the food that had not been chosen by the Lords, the girl allowed herself to glance over the ample feast, wondering if she was allowed to choose whatever she pleased. Her gaze lingered over the toasted bread with honey and she swallowed heavily, wavering.

"It isn't poisoned," a voice rose from the other side of the table, and Lyram lifted himself slightly from his seat to push the tray of bread towards the girl. "I do not have much of a sweet tooth myself, but I can vouch for that." Aiyda bit her lip, before bending over the table to grab herself a slice. She did not mind the honey dripping over her fingers as she brought it to her lips and took a consistent bite. The insides of her cheeks almost hurt at the cumbered chewing after not having eaten for so long. It earned a faint simper from the corner of her mouth, as much as she could stretch her lips to do so as she battled with a larger bite than she could swallow.

Lyram smiled, sitting back as he returned to digging into his plate reluctantly. He had not been particularly famished, but the way the peasant girl was eating stirred his own insides. Without much hesitation, he bent over the table and grabbed a slice of bread for himself, careful not to drip any of the sweet viscous liquid on his lap as he took his bite. He could almost feel his brothers' accusatory and curious glances on him as he chewed, but his eyes remained fixated on the red haired girl, as if mirroring her movements as she ate.

He did not pay much mind to Hector's banter directed at Ethon; he had grown used to it over time, and he knew that the man enjoyed pretending he knew more than he truly did. Ethon did not seem intimidated by his words; on the contrary, the grin on his lips only widened; had he not known of the girl's tragic past, he would have thought that her other hand was busy under the table. It was only when he brought mention of the feast that he stopped in his tracks and quickly swallowed his bite, his eyes fixating him fervently, almost chastising him for his question.

"I am sure that Aiyda is still tired from her journey," Lyram said in an attempt to save her from a long explanation. As content as she appeared while enjoying her breakfast, he doubted a feast would be in order after the death of her family. "You will be busy at the feast, Ethon," he added then. "Your friend, Arah has been pining for a dance for so long."

Aiyda's eyes lowered as she set the remainder of her toast down on her plate and wiped her hands on a napkin. "Lord Lyram is right," she nodded, "I am exhausted," the latter said with a certain pressure, hopefully enough to make Ethon understand her pain without refusing his offer upfront. A feast was the last place she wanted to be after the failure of the hunt. It would only dig deeper into her wounds which she had spent so long trying to lick shut. "I will be alright in my room. You may come to visit if the party becomes bland."

She was aware of the connotations, but did not bother herself with clearing her words. Albeit young, the Lords seemed to be in their right minds, at least enough to not poke sticks at a bleeding dragon. Pressing his lips, Lyram gave the girl a nod and looked over to Ethon intently, before returning to his meal. "Besides, I have seen enough feasts to know how one goes," Aiyda added after a moment of silence. For it was true, Northcross was known for the impressive feasts after the return of the hunters. "Eating and drinking, dancing until your belly aches, then drunkenly crashing into a woman's arms or a soft bed. I suppose it depends on your preferences."

"And what are yours?" Lyram cocked his brow. The question felt intrusive coming out of his mouth, but the slight shift in her tone had breathed some newly found confidence in him.

Aiyda shrugged, "I don't drink," and resumed chewing on her last bite of toast.

A smirk touched his eyes, glowing more as he peeked at Conrad. He did not know his own brother's choices and particularities when it came to women - if there were any - but could almost smell his indignation at her refusal, especially if she came to spend the night with Ethon. So long as they breathed and looked at least remotely pleasing to the eye, they were game. The peasant girl's assets were likely more than acceptable now in comparison to only the day before; she could almost pass as a Lady by the way she presented herself. She was strong, it was clear to him then, by the steadiness in her voice in spite of the dark gleam in her eye.