Wintry winds pricked bare flesh. Exposed forearms rested upon the stoned railing of his chamber’s balcony, and a moonlit torso remained pierced by gelid resilience. An attenuated layer of crystalline coated his surroundings; including interior cerebrum. The Kingdoms were under shadowy siege. Their House’s Maester, expunged. A nightmarish tale which had delved into strident reality left him with a King’s imposing conundrum -- how does one seek security for their people in the midst of slaying shadows? The dark magic billowing across Essos had once been accompanied by a Septa’s evening anecdote. Never had it been viable. Never had it received such potent recognition.

Dual fists clenched, nails assaulting the meat of his palm with half-moon impressions. Then, the creak of his chamber’s gate splintered his thoughtful turmoil. Bane’s once restive cranium lifted from a mass of furs, the beast’s growl a tell that it was not a visitor they often held. He turned from the balcony, a single step allowing him to emerge from darkness and re-enter spacious, candleit barracks. His swords beckoned, their homicidal blades whispering from their sheathes. What Guard had deserted their post? Had a spectered legion snuffed out his stationed men? There was but one he wholly trusted: Rook. He had managed to convince his Sworn Sword to take to Wintertown; allocate rounds of unlimited ale with his mercenary brethren. The great portal widened as it sanctioned another’s entrance, and adroit digits curled around a weaponized hilt.

Yet, it was the edge of a ghostly gown which sought his domain. The purposed grip upon his sword remained. And then, cascading raven locks surrendered to the unmasking glow of flame. “Lyanna.” The revelation elicited incertitude. What could she possess at this hour, which needed immediate attending? Better yet: what motive had the temptress surpass his faction of twilight guards.