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For I Have Crossed Oceans of Time: Castamere Looms

Summary: Castamere lays abandoned for hundred of years. Due to the age and history of its old residents, people claim it's haunted by a monster only known as Lord Reyne. At least, Tyland Lannister assumes those are the reasons for the claims. He's never been one to believe in the supernatural as he is a man of science. To prove this so-called Lord Reyne doesn't exist, he ventures to Castamere, intent on settling this once and for all. Unfortunately, science can only explain so much... A Tyland Lannister x OC (Elayna Reyne) Beauty and the Beast AU Chapter summary: Tyland awakes and dismisses the events of the night before as a nightmare. He attempts to ignore the nightmare as he resumes his journey. However, one can only hide from the truth for so long Word count: 11.7k

Masterlist 🌹 Chapter One

“I assure you, I'm fine. I merely had a nightmare and fell out of bed is all.”

Nevertheless, Rosalyn, the innkeeper's daughter, keeps fussing over him. She wipes gently at his forehead with a cool cloth. Tyland bites down hard on his tongue. She is merely trying to help; he must keep his composure and not make an ass of himself. It's easier said than done with the way his head hurts. He at least doesn't have a lump on his head.

“Oh, poor thing! It must have been some nightmare.” Rosalyn nearly coos. "You were in such a state when I found you."

Shame burns underneath Tyland's skin. He bites the inside of his cheek, not wanting to take his anger out on the poor girl. Were he a younger man, and were Tyland not thoroughly embarassed by the situation at hand, he might enjoy her attentions. However, her presence only serves as an annoyance right now. All Tyland wants is to be left alone and lick his metaphorical wounds in peace.

Tyland ignores the way she presses closer to him, her breasts almost touching his arm. Nothing she can do in this moment would garner his interest. Not that it would have caught his attention beforehand; while he acknowledges she is attractive, she strikes him as almost vapid in the way she speaks and carries herself. At least, she gives him such an impression after last night.

"It is truly nothing." He offers her a thin smile. He could claim a headache to get out of this situation, but it could just as easily backfire on him and cause her to stay longer in order to take care of him.

"It must have been such a fright." Rosalyn gives him a concerned look. She looks so worried for him. Tyland runs his tongue over the inside of his lower lip. He wonder. If he pretends to be ill, will she leave him alone? It would be quite rude to do such a thing, but he truly cannot stand another moment in the presence of another. Then again, it would only be considered rude if he was caught in the lie.

It truly isn't anything against her. He merely wants to be left alone and nurse his pride in peace. However, being direct and asking might result in unfortunate consequences. Tyland might need to stay here longer or stay again on his return trip. Being rude could cause him trouble in the future.

Also, for all their faults, his parents did not raise him to be a mongrel.

Footsteps sound in the hallway. Tyland snaps his head up to see who it is. His pulse jumps. He stares at the door. Fear lurks within him still. He has no guarantee the... whatever it was outside has left.

The innkeeper's face appears in the doorway. Tyland releases a breath he didn't realize he was holding. His whole body sags as he exhales, all tension leaving him.

"Leave the poor man alone." The innkeeprs scolds his daughter. Rosalyn backs away, although her displeasure is very clear from the clench of her jaw and how slowly she moves away from Tyland.

"Yes, Papa."

"Why don't you go and find something for him to drink?" The innkeeper's voice softens some. Rosalyn nods and stands up. Her skirts brush against Tyland as she passes him. Tyland looks down, not wanting to show his displeasure.

With Rosalyn gone, he and the innkeeper stare at each other for a long moment. Tyland notices a quiet recognition in the innkeeper's eyes; he does not have to ask if the other man knows what he saw.

"I am... sorry you had to see that." The innkeeper clears his throat and rubs the back of his head and nape of his neck. "It does not happen often."

"Do you, ah, does that-" Tyland fumbles over his words. Then again, what words exist to describe what he saw? What can he say to even begin conveying the horror of what he saw?

"Lord Reyne." The innkeeper interrupts. The tension in his body doesn't release at the thing's name, if anything it grows stronger. His eyes dart about the room, shoulders high and jaw tense.

"Does... Lord Reyne come down the mountain often?" His mouth feels oddly dry. Tyland cannot help his line of questioning. He must know. For his own safety, of course, he must know. Tyland's eyes flick around the room. The innkeeper shakes his head.

"No. Once a month, he sends an emissary down to collect payment and information, but he does not come down himself." The innkeeper lets out a long breath. "This is the first time I have seen... him."

"An emissary?" Tyland raises an eyebrow. "What on earth does he do that for?

"This inn is technically on his land. My father and his father, and his father before him, were given permission to build this inn. The emissary merely collects what was agreed upon."

"I see." No, he doesn't actually understand, but for the sake of this conversation, he says he does. Tyland dips his head. "Is that emissary Lord Lefford?"

The innkeeper shakes his head. "No. Thank the Seven for that. Who they send is a human. Lord Lefford only comes down when he perceives there to be trouble brewing, whether it's from myself or others."

"Does that mean then you are offered a sort of pro-"

Tyland hears footsteps once more, he closes his mouth before he finishes his sentence, both because the innkeeper gives him a look and because he does not wish for Rosalyn to hear. If this matter frightened him, Tyland can only imagine what it would do to such a young woman. Rosalyn gives him a small smile as she hands Tyland the mug.

"Will you be going in the morning?"The innkeeper asks. He phrases the question politely, but Tyland hears the undercurrent.

He will not be welcome another night; he must leave in the morning. He does not have a choice in the matter it seems.

While he understands the position the innkeeper is in, Tyland does not wish to leave. He will not freely admit it, but the memory of what lurks out there sends shivers up his spine and churns his stomach. His heart beats quickly in his chest, so fast he feels as if he may pass out. He clears his throat. No, he will not let some strange vision in the middle of a thunderstorm provoke a reaction from him. Ledgers being incorrect give him anxiety, math being wrong also does this. Things easily disproven, such as the supernatural and paranormal, do not keep him up at night. They do not send tremors of fear throughout his body.

Tyland dips his head.

"Yes. I will leave as soon as the sun rises." Tyland dips his head even as nausea rises up within him. He swallows.

At least he will not leave in the dark. Small miracles are still miracles.

*******************

Tyland does not see the sunrise clearly when he initially steps outside the confines and safety of the inn. He wishes he could, would give anything he could, to see it. Instead, the tall, thick trees block the view. He comforts himself with the light filtering through them, but he yearns for the sunrise. It would ease his mind so much to see the light.

His horse seems to be of the same mind, huffing when they exit the gate. Every step his horse takes is filled with clear reluctance. Tyland nudges his horse, and all he gets is two steps forward before the horse stops. It takes him several more taps, one of which is perhaps harsher than needed, to get his horse to finally trudge in the correct direction.

It takes all of his willpower to not look back over his shoulder.

As Tyland rides further and further away from the inn, the creeping dread intensifies. If it weren't daylight, the fear would surely overtake him and render him incapable of moving. He still fights the ever-growing urge to turn back. He grips the reigns so hard both the leather of his gloves and the leather of the reigns squeak.

The trees do nothing to settle his nerves. Tyland normally finds peace within the forest and the woods. He can be alone, truly and utterly alone, in the forest. Most at King's Landing do not venture into them unless it is for a hunt or other sport. They seem content with the gardens and the Godswood grove. While Tyland freely admits they are lovely, he does not find the same ease and restfulness in those spaces as he does within the actual forest. Yet he does not spend much time anywhere near the Kingswood, partially because his title demands most of his time and partially because he does not wish to give the wrong impression. Tyland has neither the constitution of a hunter nor the soul of a poet, both of which are the sort of people one sees wandering the woods alone, and he has no desire to be associated with either group. Of course, they have their places in society, he will not deny it. He respects their niches. Nevertheless, the idea of being lumped in with them makes his skin prickle. If he were a lower animal, one might say it raises his hackles.

The notion alone stabs at his pride.

Tyland is a natural philosopher, not a crude or overly emotional man. He considers himself a rational man, an educated man, a man ahead of the times. His mind elevates him from others. Tyland huffs. To think walking alone in the woods would be enough for some to smear his reputation bothers him. Solitude does wonders for the soul, perhaps the world would be a better place if more tried it.

Tyland surveys the trees ahead of them once again. While the branches are not so clustered and dense that he cannot see the sky above, the sunlight certainly isn't as bright as it could be. He catches glimpses of the bright blue sky above them through the gnarled boughs. He sighs softly, letting his shoulders drop inch by inch from their tensed position close by his neck. He closes his eyes. It would be better if he could feel the direct warmth of the sun on his skin, but a beautiful sky helps some.

A soft wind makes all the trees and flora sway softly. Even the old vines wrapped around now decrepit trees move to a strange rhythm, the longer creepers dangling from the limbs and dancing to their own melody. While Tyland does not feel the wind or hear the call, a primal part of him senses it. It is not meant for him and takes no interest in him. Tyland cannot determine if it unsettles him more or less he is not included in this world. No, not being included isn't what bothers him, pricks and gnaws at the edges of his brain, but the fact Tyland cannot understand what exactly calls to them. There must be a name for this phenomenon, it must be noted somewhere, he is sure of it. Yet the name of the principle or theory escapes him.

It doesn't even sit on the tip of his tongue. He frowns. Not knowing leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

Tyland urges his horse faster. This place rather unnerves him, although he isn't sure he can articulate the exact reason why. Hopefully, he will have no need to do so.

Time stretches on as they ride through the woods. With each passing moment, their surroundings seem dimmer, although never dim enough for him to truly lose sight of the path or where he is going. Instead, it seems the foliage on either side gets darker and denser. They must have cut this road in this place because it required the least amount of effort to cut and remove the trees. Alternatively, this route could have been a natural path for the animals in these parts, both large and small.

Bile nearly rises up Tyland’s throat. He tastes bitter on the tip of his tongue. His whole body feels ice cold, especially in his veins. Instinctively, his eyes scan the treeline. Despite the innkeeper's claims, Tyland knows what he saw last night was not a man. It could not have been one. It is a beast, a creature, a lower animal who somehow learned to stand on two feet like a human. Tyland has never heard of a mountain cat standing on two legs, but it must have been a mountain cat.

Even though mountain cats are not known to live in this part of the world, it must have been one. Lynxes are not as large as what he saw. He might think it a bear, but the coloration and fur pattern makes him think otherwise. Beside, the air and general look is distinctly cat-like. Tyland’s only encounter with a bear stands out vividly in his mind, and, without a question of a doubt, he knows the creature he saw last night was not a bear.

Tyland fidgets with the reigns, plucking at a small thread poking through the leather. He stays focused on the road ahead of them. They must get out of here before nightfall; he will not spend a night out in this forest. It isn't for lack of shelter for he has done without on a few occasions. Tyland merely doesn't trust whatever lives within these woods.

********************

Tyland cannot help his sigh of relief once the trees and foliage begin opening up once more and letting sunlight shine through the thick branches. Each spot of dappled light they pass through makes his skin warm in a pleasant way. The temperature is, of course, warmer than the previous area, but it does not phase him in the slightest. Light means a source of heat. He will take raging flames of an inferno right now if it means he shall not be left alone in this dark gloom.

As the amount of light increases, Tyland’s spirits do as well. He chuckles softly to himself and shakes his head, a wry smile upon his features. Yes, his nightmare could be considered close to a horrific vision, but he is also being overly dramatic. His imagination is not often so fanciful. No wonder it still scares him. Between how vivid it was and being in a new and unfamiliar place, anyone would be beside themselves with fear.

The beaming rays of light begin chasing away some doubts. Perhaps it is because Tyland sees his surroundings better or because he finds security and safety in the light. It ultimately does not matter. Why should he question the cause of his spirits lifting?

Still. He cannot entirely shake his sense of unease. No matter how much he attempts to dismiss his imagination, Tyland cannot seem to fully rid himself of the feelings. He cannot get away from the sense he is entirely out of his depth, and that, perhaps, this might not be something he can explain. Science, of course, shall explain it, but he might not be the one to find the cause.Tyland's tongue flicks out to briefly run over his dry lips. The change in altitude, while not as large as some he has traversed previously, has made his lips dry and cracked.

Tyland inhales softly. He nearly splutters as he does so, trying his best to not cough. The air isn't merely dry but cold. When did it get so cold? He looks up towards the sky. The blue sky eases his worries some. Unfortunately, his worries and concerns do not leave him for long. He tilts his head. They're still in the forest, Tyland is looking directly at the gnarled branches above him, but they have no leaves. He whips his head around to look behind him.

The trees are delineated in a strange yet awfully clear line. About 30 yards back, leaves cover almost every inch of the forest and trees. At the invisible line, all greenery simply ceases, instead leaving only the trees themselves, as bare as they would be in the harshest winter. No oranges or red appear in the space, only green and then... nothing. It truly looks as if winter suddenly and harshly ravaged the land on this side.

The unease sinks fully into him, coats him completely. It runs rampant through him in an attempt to hijack and overtake his nervous system. Tyland forces his eyes shut and breathes deeply, the cold air hurting the inside of his nose. A reasonable and sound explanation exists. It must exist. Despite his words, Tyland's whole body trembles. He digs his fingers towards his palms. He will not run for there is nothing to run from here. Everything is explainable. The world is made up of rational things, not irrational things.

Soon, his shaking turns to shivering. Staying cold in the encroaching cold was not his smartest idea; the chill quickly seeps into his bones. He should find shelter. Yes, he should find shelter.

When he lifts his eyes, Tyland finally sees the gate. It stands not too far away, a wrought iron thing screaming its age by its mere presence alone. It stands tall but not alone, part of a large stone wall. For a second, he mistook the wall to be iron as well, given its dark appearance. As he urges his horse closer, Tyland sees the color isn't uniform. No, it looks to be andesite, albeit much darker than normal, perhaps due to a much higher than normal iron content. Castamere's mine contain an abundance of iron and silver, surely the rocks used to build it would reflect such geologic characteristics.

Snow crunches under Tyland’s feet. His horse snorts softly as he approaches the gate. It looms large and intimidating in front of him, small flakes sticking to the wrought iron. For a moment, Tyland could swear the air around the gate itself is 30 degrees cooler than everywhere else, ice forming a complete shield around the metal. It could very well be cooler by the gate, but it wouldn’t be so noticeable. His mind is merely playing tricks on him.

A vivid and incredibly unpleasant vision of his skin sticking to the metal and him being forced to rip it off enters his mind unbidden. He swallows. The image alone makes him nauseous; he’s never personally experienced or seen it, but his readings on the northern expeditions and of those past the Wall fill in the gaps. He swallows hard. His riding gloves would protect his hands some, but not nearly as much as he would like.

Thankfully, given the strangeness of the weather recently, he put a thicker pair of gloves in his coat pockets. It takes him a minute to switch, peeling off the riding gloves with his teeth before he puts the other pair on. He holds the initial pair in his mouth by the index finger as he does so, pocketing them once he has the better pair on. He supposes he could have wrapped his hands in the ends of his sleeves, but even then...

Tyland glances at the thick iron chain on the gate. It almost gleams in the light from the crystalline ice. He adjusts his coat and slides his sleeves further down onto his hands before reaching out and taking hold of the chain.

Even through the layers, the cold bites at him. Tyland works quickly, unwrapping the chain from the gate, having to move around the bars several times. It has no padlock, but the chain is wrapped at least 5 times around the sturdy iron of the gate edges. His hands tremble.

It must be from the cold. He must be sharing from the cold.

Eventually, he undoes the chain. Tyland lets it drop to the side, hanging uselessly off the left door of the gate, as he takes hold of the iron bars. He presses against it and pushes it open.

It squeals as it opens.

The sound sets his teeth on edge. Tyland walks back towards his horse, and, for the briefest of moments, he considers turning around and fleeing. Every single aspect of this place makes him nervous, from the unexplained and sudden change in weather to the looming architecture of Castamere in front of him. It pulls at a deep and fearful place within him, one screaming at him to leave now and never look back. He truly considers it when he takes hold of the reins. It would be so easy, merely get on his horse and ride out of there.

No.

No, he shan't let silly ghost stories get the best of him.

Tyland turns once more towards the gate. He nods to himself before getting back up on his horse, swinging his leg over in a fluid motion once his left foot is in the stirrup, and then gently clicks his tongue. As he approaches the now open gate, he squares his shoulders. He inhales.

He does not fear the supernatural for the supernatural does not exist. He does not fear the unknown for the unknown will become known through science and rationality.

Tyland slowly lets out his exhale. The very breath from his lungs hangs in the air for a moment, the air shaping it into a fog of its liking, before it dissipates. He nudges his horse forward gently with his heels, and they begin walking towards and through the gate.

The clack of hooves on the rocky bridge between the outer and inner gates seems so loud, echoing throughout the space. Tyland hears nothing but his horse walking and both of them breathing. It's to be expected. Yes, snow towards the end of September is very unusual, even for the mountains, but it's still snow. All the world falls silent when it blankets the ground. Tyland reaches out and rubs a comforting hand along his horse's man.

“When we get through here, the first thing we'll do is find the stables.” He murmurs. “We shall find you some hay and oats, and I will put your thicker blanket on you. You can stay there and be warm while I explore.”

He gets an ear flick in response.

“A little gratitude would be appreciated.”

They should be close to the inner gate now. Tyland lifts his head, wondering what exactly he might need to do to get the inner gate open. It surely will have stronger secu-

When did the bridge become so long?

This cannot be right. Tyland looks over his shoulder out of instinct; they did travel further than what expanse of bridge they have to cover suggests, he knows this. He confirms it, they have gone a decent way from the outer to the inner gate.

His world both shrinks and expands in the same moment. It almost feels like vertigo but much more unpleasant. This doesn't make sense, it cannot be. Tyland knows how much distance he covered, he cannot have so much more to go. A bridge does not suddenly double or triple in length. His vision swims for the briefest of moments, heart beating so rapidly in his chest it forces every vein in his body into the same crazed rhythm. Breathing should calm him. Yes, yes it should ease his nerves those who come from Mehreen tout the benefits he must try and breathe.

Only then does Tyland realize he's gasping for air.

His chest hurts, it hurts so bad. Beneath him, no doubt in response to his sudden and all consuming fright, his horse neighs. She moves, clearly as agitated as him. The motion and sway rock his entire body as if he were on a boat. Truly, his nausea must be akin to seasickness. Tyland grasps onto the reigns hard. The constant spinning of his vision threatens to overtake him.

Surely. Surely this cannot be real.

He looks once more towards the gate, expecting to see the looming and ever growing distance between him and the gate. He digs his heels into the stirrups in an attempt to brace himself in case he truly cannot comprehend what he sees, the sudden expanse unfolding.

He blinks.

The... the gate is exactly where it is supposed to be. It is close, not even 10 yards away when before it was innumerable yards away, an almost incomprehensible distance. Now, it sits exactly where it should.

The dizziness dissipates. Tyland inhales deeply, the sudden rush of oxygen and cold air almost refreshing. It fills his lungs to capacity. His heart rate slowly drops and with it, the sense of sheer and utter panic. Still, unease lingers about him. His shoulders stay close to his neck and ears, his fingers dig into the leather of the reigns, and his thighs tense in case he must flee.

He breathes. He inhales deeply and exhales slowly. Tyland doesn't close his eyes yet. He keeps them trained on the gate in front of him.

It stays still. Just as it is meant to.

Tyland pauses. He laughs. It isn't an earnest laugh, not in the slightest. He hears the awkward edges and tinge of fear in it.

"It must be the altitude." He murmurs. Saying the words aloud give him hope, hope he clings to like a lifeline. "It is the altitude. It must be."

It makes the most sense; alritude sickness is a noted phenomenon, although he cannot recall if hallucinations or altered perception is part of it. Then again, a lack of air can do strange things to one's brains. Tyland doesn't keep as update to date on his medical knowledge as he should, but he is aware many strides are being made in the field daily. He inhales slowly then exhales just as slowly. He waits for a tingle, the sweet relief of air coming back into his lungs. The air is fresh but does not fill him with the same rush it did earlier.

Yes. Altitude sickness. He must have made the ascent too quickly from the valley yesterday. The storm might be a culprit as well. Changes in barometric pressure are only studied at the atmospheric level; there is no telling what they may do to the human body.

He nods to himself. Leather creaks as he eases his grip on the reigns. Rationality takes its place at the center of his world once more, driving out the fear and irrationality. A lack of oxygen surely can cause one's brain to play tricks on itself.

Gently, Tyland presses his heels into his horse's side and clicks his tongue. His horse stands still despite this. He hears the flick of the tail through the air, and his horse's ears press back. Tyland repeats himself, the press a little more powerful and click a little louder. For a moment, he worries he may have to urge his horse forward once more, but then, with halting steps, they begin moving.

Tyland almost regrets the decision as soon as they start. The clop of hooves against the stone echoes. It takes him more than a minute to register it's because it's the only sound. He hears no birds, no animals, no wind whipping through the trees outside: only the click of hooves on old stone.

They draw closer toward the gate, Tyland intently listening for a noise, any noise at all. Surely, they cannot be the only ones here, more life must exist in and around this wretch-

This place…

No. He shall not call it wretched. Eerie? Yes. Unsettling? Without question. But wretched? Wretched implies Tyland believes the stories, that he buys into the idea of haunting and spirits and the supernatural. Tyland’s noise crinkles with distaste. He cannot argue with the presumption Castamere would be haunted; he has yet to step foot inside of the castle itself but is... disturbed by the ambiance. If he were an uneducated and unworldly man, he would say this place is perhaps haunted.

He is not such a man, though. A logic and rational explanation exists to all of this.

Too absorbed in his musings, Tyland misses the gate in front of him silently opening. His horse does not. It huffs and comes to a complete stop, eyes folding back. Tyland looks up. Everything his horse does indicates it's spooked, from its posture to its movements. It takes him longer than he'd like to admit to notice the gate is now open, lifted enough for him to pass through on horseback.

The silence unnerves him the most. Tyland expects the rattle of iron chain and grinding of gears, a loud warning, a final turn back sign meant to spook. Instead, the air remains ghostly quiet.

Tyland presses his lips together.

He will not be frightened off. These games are for school children and country bumpkins. He is an intelligent, educated man from an incredibly well regarded and wealthy family, he will not fall prey to foolishness.

He nudges his horse several times before it moves forward. It's gate is slow and hesitant, as if it expects threats around every corner. Animal intuition isn't always correct, the most ridiculous event can scare beasts. Tyland inhales. He straightens his posture as ride forward, pressing his shoulders back. No. He is not frightened.

Once they clear the iron bars, the gate lowers. As it moves, the hidden chains and cogs rattle and shake, the clacking and clanging of iron harshly hitting iron echoing loudly in the tunnel. It makes every hair on the back of his neck stand on end. His horse snorts with clear discomfort, pawing at the ground for a moment.

Tyland cannot shake the sense of finality when the gate closes behind them with a loud 'thud'. The nagging feeling amplifies when he remembers the gate opened soundless initially. He can't help himself; he glances back over his shoulder and then around the stone walls. How did he not hear it open?

He must have been truly lost in his thoughts.

For once in his life, the rational line of thinking fails to comfort him. It almost seems hollow, as if it was a force of habit instead of an actual attempt at an explanation.

Snow greets them when they emerge from the tunnel. It covers the whole of the courtyard in a thin, white blanket. He sees some small patches of dark stone, but they are few and far between. Tyland steps forward. The crunch of the snow underneath his foot almost echoes in the odd silence. He hears no birds, no insects, no animals at all.

"It is just snow." He huffs, more to himself than anyone else. Of course it's silent, it is almost always quiet when it begins snowing. The timing is odd, but odder events happen every day. Improbabilities make up more of the world than one believes. It's merely an odd weather event; perhaps it isn't odd at all, and this is the regular time of year for this sort of event. He read once it snows even during the summer in the North, so it isn't impossible. It might even be a regular occurrence!

Tyland nods to himself. If this weather is typical, then the odds Tymon and his cohort merely saw a strange animal are much higher. Tyland might even say it's highly likely. Many creatures hide underground in colder weather, so it makes sense. His lips twitch. As petty as it sounds, he cannot wait to inform Tymon what he saw was not a monster but merely a regular animal.

For several minutes, the click of his horse's hooves and the crunch of snow underfoot are the only sounds. The wind doesn't howl, and the birds don't sing.

Only he exists in this moment.

Tyland scans the area. The stables aren't too far. Gently, he takes the reigns in hand and leads his horse towards them. Hopefully, he shall find an extra horse blanket, and if he is truly lucky, he shall find hay. If luck is a stranger tonight, then he shall search the castle and surrounding area for some sort of sustenance. Naturally, he will start outside; he is much more likely to find what he needs outside as opposed to within the castle in this particular case.

As they approach the stables, Tyland spots movement in the nearby shadows of the building. Almost reflexively, he gasps, pulling on the reigns and trying his best to immediately halt his horse. It voices its discomfort but does ask commanded, ears folding back when it stares in the direction Tyland does.

"Hello?"

Nothing answers but the wind. Tyland frowns. He could have sworn whatever moved looked human.

"Hello? Is anyone there?"

Again, no answer.

After a long stretch of silence, he eventually chuckles, shaking his head. The lack of human contact must be getting to him if he's seeing shadows and imaginary, improbable distances. It might behoove him to leave early, once he acquires his proof the supernatural does not exist. Even merely seeing another person may help him.

He looks skyward. The sooner he can leave, the better.

The sky disappoints Tyland for once in his life. He cannot make it out and to decent shelter by nightfall, and he certainly has no hope of reaching civilization before then. A sinking feeling builds in his gut. He must spend the night here, no question about it. He presses his lips together. Certainly, the situation is less than ideal, but it isn't the worst outcome. At the very least, Tyland should take comfort in the fact he will have a roof over his head tonight.

He should being the key words. As much as he tries, Tyland finds the idea of staying the night here repulsive. The shadows must be getting to him despite his best efforts. Perhaps he shall sleep in the stables instead of the castle proper tonight, even though inside mostly likely boasts multiple comfortable beds.

Tyland inhales. His breath doesn't clear his mind as much as he hopes. His eyes flick back towards the shadows by the stables.

"Nothing is there." He whispers, hoping the words will protect him. After several seconds, he nudges his horse, and they begin moving towards the stables once again.

His hope of protection comes crashing down when they get inside the stables. Tyland dismounts and begins leading his horse inside. The stable is surprisingly well lit. It doesn't take Tyland long to find the source of the light: a lit torch sits on the wall at each end of the stable, and one stall has two torches on either side. All four burn brightly. The enclosed area doesn't smell particularly smokey yet, which means these must be freshly lit.

Tyland stops dead in his tracks. If these have been lit recently, then he must have seen someone in the shadows earlier. It's the only explanation. Someone else is here!

The thought brings relief. Tyland exhales loudly, shoulders slumping. True, it doesn't explain why the person didn't acknowledge him and ran away, but knowing he isn't alone provides an immense comfort.

A sound comes from the back of the stables. When Tyland turns towards it, his relief becomes immeasurable. Another horse stands in the end stall, untacked and well fed. It huffs again.

Someone else is here! He isn't alone. Mostly likely, it's someone like him, driven by curiosity and wanting to see what the stories were all about. Tyland cannot find it in himself to care whether or not they believe in ghosts or whether they're like him, all he focuses on is another person is here somewhere on the grounds. He is not alone as he previously thought.

His steps feel lighter as he leads his horse towards the open stall with torches. Perhaps spending the night here won't be so bad after all. Certainly, the other person, wherever they are, is no doubt as unnerved as he is. Any company seems good at the moment, if only so Tyland won't be left alone with his particularly and oddly active imagination tonight. It puts a slight bounce in his step, and he feels no trepidation in taking off his horse's saddle and tack.

Tyland will need to check inside first, he has no doubt. The thought still causes him unease, yet it isn't as strong as it was. The other person most likely is inside already. They might be the shadow he spotted leaving the stables. Oh, he could almost laugh at himself for how foolish he feels now!

This joy stays with him until he exits the stables and returns to the courtyard. As Tyland steps back out into the cold, he wonders. Why were the torches around an empty stall in particular? None were by the horse already there. It seems a little strange. The area looks almost prepared for him, as if someone knew of and expected his coming.

Unbidden, a vision of the monstrous creature from last night flashes before his eyes. The memory alone sends a chill of fear down his spine, bringing his steps to a halt. He sees it so clearly in his mind, the cat-like eyes burning a hole into him as it watched him. Tyland swallows. His heart beats rapidly in his chest, and he finds his mouth dry. He remembers it acting as if it knew him.

Tyland shakes his head violently and quickly, as if the motion will rid him of the thoughts plaguing him. No. What he recalls comes from a dream, not a memory. Last night did not happen; it is all a dream. Yes, the storm is true, and yes, he did overhear the innkeeper speaking with someone last night under the cover of dark, but the creature and the conversation did not happen. It cannot have happened.

And yet...

His mind cannot be drawn away from what he thinks he recalls. His brain is already on a journey of its own, one the logic side of him can not stop despite its best efforts. The creature, if it is real, seems to know of him, and the innkeeper calls the thing Lord Reyne. Who is to say this mysterious and terribly frightening Lord Reyne isn't the one who set this up, as if he anticipated Tyland's arrival? After all, no family other than the Reynes have lived at Castamere, even after the family's fall. It makes sense, as much sense as a fairy tale can make. Who is to say this isn't what happened?

Tyland screws his eyes shut, mouth scrunching as he does so. This is maddening! He is not this person, the type of fool prone to flights of fancy and folly. Why can he not get control over himself? He cannot be spooked this easily, he is made of sterner stuff.

"This is. ridiculous. You are being ridiculous." He breathes. Tyland presses his palms together, almost as if in prayer, in front of his face, resting the tips of his index fingers on his forehead and thumbs below his chin. Eventually, he lets out a long and ragged sigh before running both of his hands over his face. He shakes his head at himself. This place, while not cursed, is incredibly strange. It plays tricks on his mind in ways he couldn't have even begun to expect.

He stands for a minute in the doorway to the stables. After a second, he sighs and nearly sags into the wooden doorway. Tiredness begins overtaking his body, a bone deep weariness. None of this makes sense to him, none at all. No doubt as he collects more information, Tyland will unravel everything and bring this mystery to a close, but right now, he cannot even begin to comprehend where to start and why this place unnerves him so. Tyland is no stranger to places such as this; his stay at Harrenhal was relatively uneventful while everyone else seemed to be plagued with general unease and malaise. If any place should affect him like this, it should be there.

His head hurts. He scrunches his face even more and sighs.

The story are more familiar, he supposes. This is Tyland's first visit to Castamere, true, but he is incredibly familiar with almost everywhere else mentioned in the tale. He sees the trail of destruction in many of the historical places he visits, and he even knows several important spots off the beaten path. One of them, although he did not discover this until much later in life, is a spot Lord Reyne supposedly visited often, including after the death of his wife. Some say it was the last spot he stayed before disappearing into Castamere forever.

It does cross his mind many places he's seen and visited seem to be involved with the legend somehow. Initially brushing it off, Tyland tries not thinking about it. Of course, curiosity often gets the better of him, and so, he finds he now knows the story by heart. He keeps this a secret; no need for others to think him an odd individual obsessed with strange tales. Of course, should anyone ask, he tells them his interest lies solely in the fact Lord Reyne is a notable historical figure from back home in the Westerlands. Many drop their line of questioning after his explanation, one which is completely reasonable.

Perhaps...

Perhaps it wasn't merely a need to prove Tymon wrong that brought him here. Tyland wraps his coat a little tighter around his body. He will not say he feels a pull to this place, certainly not now, not after what he is experiencing. Tyland’s interest is more historical than anything else. He sighs.

He looks out towards the courtyard again. The castle main looms, blotting out most of the sky. If he cranes his neck back, he sees some blue expanse above the spires and towards; he doesn’t do so for long. The position forces him so far back he experiences vertigo. He rarely gets it, it takes him aback feeling it for the first time in a long while.

Tyland lowers his gaze. The darkness of the castle consumes everything out once more as he stares ahead. The stones look old, even from here. He purses his lips. Odd. He imagines moss would grow rampant here between the humidity and the mines, but he has yet to see any. Not even on the bridge, which is rather remarkable. It almost seems as if someone might be keeping up the place, a notion Tyland doesn't find entirely odd. As a haunted and historical place, people must make the pilgrimage out here often, and some surely take it upon themselves to clean the stones in a strange and almost reverent right.

Yes. That must be it.

Tyland steps out into the courtyard. Snow no longer crunches under foot, instead he hears only his footsteps on the cobblestone. It almost unnerves him more than the snow. Certainly, it is more unpleasant, the slushy water attempting to seep into his boot. The cold seeps in more easily, bringing a chill into his bones where the snow and ice didn't quite reach. He frowns at the sensation as he socks and feet become soaked with freezing water. The cobblestones must not be as cold as he previously guessed if the snow melted so quickly. Strange. He still feels the cold from the first gate, the ice nearly freezing the entire structure over and making it unusable, yet the courtyard isn't cold enough for the snow to stick and stay.

Another oddity. He supposes he may never understand why the weather acts as it does here; Tyland freely admits weather and climate are not his speciality. He finds them interesting but some of the complexities even go over his head. As a man who prides himself on how learned it is, it bothers him he doesn't understand it, but he is also enough of a grounded man to admit when a topic is beyond his understanding. He attributes the strange changes here to the weather and its unpredictability. After all, it is a developing field in its own right. How is he to grasp something not fully explored?

The sound of his footstep is almost unnerving. It is all he can hear; all encompassing as they echo in the stillness. Tyland still has yet to hear a bird sing or a stray dog howl. Then again, they all could be in hiding, not wanting to be caught in this frigid and dry air. As he huffs, he watches his breath materialize as a cloud in front of him, reminiscent of smoke from his pipe. Tyland rubs his hands together instinctively at the sight. He could use some snuff or his pipe about now, it would help calm his nerves and ground him. Unfortunately, he doesn't feel secure enough to light his pipe at this second. Once he gets inside, he might find the perfect hidden spot.

As he walks, Tyland hazards a glance towards his left, towards the wall. He hopes he will see over the wall, even from here. Seeing only the castle in his vision makes him even more nervous, as if he is stepping into a cave.

The sight both terrifies him and takes his breath away at the same time. Just above the impenetrable walls, snowy mountains tops loom. The small slivers of sky visible between them are beautiful shades of oranges, reds, and purples, the beginnings of a truly spectacular sunset. The contrast between the colors and the dark shapes of the mountains makes the colors even more vivid and striking. He stops walking. It almost looks like it belongs in a painting or a dream, a sight otherworldly. He thinks he has seen it in a dream before, perhaps last night in his calmer state, in the dream before the nightmare.

How odd he considers it almost familiar. Tyland isn't unfamiliar with the mountains and their sights, nor is he unfamiliar with the beauty of the sunset. Watching it over the horizon at Casterly Rock is one of the few fond memories he has of the place. However, a nagging part of his brain finds a strange comfort in it, as if he is coming home and seeing a sight he longs for, a swelling feeling building in his chest and spreading outward. Even at King's Landing, this sensation rarely occurs. Why here? Why now?

Tyland's head hurts, a thumping building behind his temples. The oddness of today's events begin taking a toll on him. His entire body aches, both from the cold and how much he's braced himself for worst possible outcome of these events, making him bone tired and utterly exhausted. If he were in a normal place under normal circumstances, he will collapse as soon as his head hits his pillow for the night. However, Tyland doubts sleep will find him tonight. He cannot shake the creeping sense of unease and lack of safety. His anxiety hasn't entirely abated, leaving him feeling taut, a bow strung too tight. Examining and attempting to understand his predicament doesn't help; it merely makes everything worse.

He needs safety. He needs security. He needs shelter, both from the elements and from the lurking danger.

Despite his reluctance to enter, Tyland knows the castle is his best bet at refuge. The stables, while comforting in the light from the torches, can only provide so much shelter. Certainly, it cannot provide comfort. In addition, if he were to be attacked, he would have no hope of escape staying in the stables; he would be instantly cornered. Castamere itself is his only choice. This knowledge keeps him moving, even though every atom, every cell, of his being screams at him, tells him what a fool he is.

He reaches the steps inside. Up close, the castle is even more intimidating, spires and dark stone consuming the entirety of his field of vision. Two wrought iron lions sit on either side of the steps. Surprisingly, for how old they must be, they are quite well made and detailed. He pauses for a second. Neither of them have eyes; instead, empty sockets gape where they should be. It takes him longer than he wants to admit to realize a jewel must have sat within the iron, perhaps rubies carved in the image of an eye. Still. The lack of eyes disturbs him. Tyland swallows and looks towards the top of the steps at the large, iron doors awaiting him.

It feels as if he climbs a mountain with each step upward. The sickening feeling in his stomach builds, a sense of finality consuming. His gut screams he will not come out if he enters those doors. At least, he will not leave the same man as he was when he entered. The supernatural is not the only thing that can forever change a man. Other men are far more likely to do such a thing.

Tyland tries steadying his breath. Each inhale and exhales becomes even more strenuous. His head spins, not the same dizzy sensation from earlier but a distinct feeling he cannot describe. He places a hand against the smooth stone banister. The coolness grounds him, gives him the courage to continue with his journey.

Eventually, he reaches the summit. The wrought iron doors are covered in intricate carvings. He studies them for a second, attempting to absorb as much of them in case of extra meaning behind each symbol. A lion is on each door, this time both facing the other. Roses border the edges of the door. He frowns, his nose wrinkling as he does so. Nothing on it looks as if it will give him extra insight into the happenings or history here, a very disappointing thought. He may find other art pieces inside, no doubt assorted paintings and stained glass if he is lucky. However, Tyland has no intention of actively seeking them out. If he stumbles upon such items, he will consider it a success, but an active search isn't high on his priority list.

At least, not at the moment. The castle may be far less creepy during the full light of day. Tyland utterly loathes the fact he has no choice but to spend the night, but should he live to see the morning, he may as well make the most of his situation then.

Tyland reaches for the door. He isn't sure what he should expect, if it will glide open on its own or creak loudly as he pushes with all his might. Given the events so far, either option is a distinct possibility. He shall not say nothing would surprise him for fear this place makes a liar out of him, but it would take a major event to truly push him over the edge at this point. Nothing about this trip falls into what Tyland considers expected, and while it is currently frightening and unnerving, he cannot wait to figure out the causes of these events.

The doors swing open when he touches them. They don't glide silently open, he hears the creak of old hinges, but they don't squeal like he thought they may. Interesting.

Tyland steps forward. If his footsteps were loud in the courtyard, they are positively defeaning now. They truly are the only source of noise in the cavernous foyer. As he enters, his eyes flick over the space in an attempt to orient himself. Several banners hang on the walls, and an old and frayed carpet leads up to the main staircase, years of dust and disuse covering it in thick layers. He notes some paintings as well. When he looks towards the top of the staircase, he pauses.

How odd.

The potrait sitting on the wall is destroyed but not entirely. He sees a horse and someone sitting upon it, but the body of the rider is tattered and ragged, as if it was viciously torn apart. Tyland's feet move without his permission. He makes his way up the stairs before realizing where he is going and what he's doing; it isn't until he stands mere feet away from the painting does he notice the distance he traversed. When he looks over his shoulder, the only sign of life is his footprints in the thick dust, a clear trail leading directly to him. He swallows. He turns back, fully intending on leaving and attempting to find a place with less dust so he cannot be tracked, but his eyes automatically, almost insistently, go back to the painting.

Up close, it seems as if the shredding was intentional and deliberate. Tyland tilts his head as he studies it. He would think a knife did this work yet the slashes are too eventually spaced apart to suggest a blade, and they are far too cruel. It almost looks as if claws might be the culprit, claws the size of a bears.

Tyland can't help himself; he laughs at the thought. Claws on a painting like this? Bears are more than capable of wandering into places and causing such destruction, he hears of bears getting into cabins and houses all the time. It even happens to his family; Johanna's father has a story about a bear attempting to get into the Westerling's hunting lodge. It isn't so much the bear getting in here he finds ridiculous but the bear being so precise in its shredding. All of the bottom shredded parts of canvas peel and hang over the horse, and the rips along the sides splay outward on both sides. This destruction is deliberate and systematic, explicitly done to the rider of the horse, who, from the background, appears to be leading an army.

A raised spot along the wooden frame catches his eyes. Despite it being covered in dust, Tyland knows it's a gold plaque for a label. He reaches into his coat pocket and produces an old handkerchief, delicately wiping away the dust so he might read the enscription.

'Lord Reyne at the Battle at the Red Fork'.

Tyland's gaze flicks back up to the painting. Yes, he sees it now, the horse standing in the blood-soaked river. He notes the sigil of House Reyne on the armor. His gaze lifts as he searches. The rumors say Lord Reyne wore gauntlets fitted to look like claws with knives on the ends of each finger, although it has never been confirmed. While many descriptions of Lord Reyne's armor exist, no one has been successful in finding said armor. Not a single piece can be found anywhere, a detail which intrigues Tyland. Surely, a grave robber or someone of such similar low morals would steal it off of Lord Reyne's body, particularly the gauntlet and gloves. It doesn't necessarily haunt him not knowing where these historical objects are, but it certainly bothers him more than he wants to admit.

He steps even closer to the painting, body nearly brushing the wall and the frame. His right hand lifts without thought, without permission. As if in a trance, he brings it up towards the canvas. Tyland tilts his head ever so slightly to the side. Yes, he sees the gauntlets now. Blood drips from them and onto the white horse's sides, leaving streaks of red on it. While the face of Lord Reyne is destroyed, his brain fills in the gaps. He imagines the face of the man, a terrifying snarl on his face and revenge in his eyes. A third hand catches his attention. It dangles over the haunches of Lord Reyne's horse; it takes a second for his memory of the tale to come back to him. Lord Lannister must be on the back of the horse, alive but barely. The drips of blood coming from underneath the body confirm Tyland's suspicions.

Had it not been for Lord Reyne's heroic actions, the Lord Lannister would have died during the fray. Modern medicine suggests Lord Lannister would have died from an infection from the river water. Tyland cannot determine if the infection would be something initially in the water or from all of the blood in the water. He suspects parasites and other creatures, or perhaps even rare types of bacteria and fungus, were disturbed when the battle was pushed into the river.

Tyland reaches for the shredded pieces of canvas dangling from the rest of the painting. He vividly pictures what the Lord Reyne's expression is, but he cannot recall what he looks like. Descriptions talk of long, brown hair and hazel, almost honeyed, eyes, but very few other details exist. He cannot be certain the depiction is true because of this. Still. He wonders how the artist choose to depict the man.

Carefully, hesitantly, he grabs a fluttering piece between his fingers. He bites the inside of his lip, a quiet and nagging voice building in the back of his mind. If this was destroyed, should he look at it? Would it be an invasion of privacy?

Who's privacy, he cannot say. Lord Reyne is dead. This is a fact despite no body ever being found. No man can live for centuries. If he did, he surely would be outed and studied, at the very least pestered for the secrets of immortality. Of course, assuming the supernatural is real and the scientific is untrue, which Tyland knows to be a lie. Science always triumphs. It is the only rational explanation for the world and how it operates.

Eventually, his curiosity and inquisitive nature get the better of him, as it often does. Tyland takes a deep breath in and steadies himself before lifting the long strip.

Not many details exist on this portion. He sees the long, brown hair mentioned, although it is rather curly, which is unexpected. Then again, tales often do not include tiny details such as this.

Despite this, the small detail brings an odd satisfaction to him, one building within his chest and slowly spreading outward. He never even thought Lord Reyne might have curly hair. It's an attractive feature to Tyland, one he pays attention to more than most. His lips twitch into a small smile. Curly hair. Who would have thought?

The revelation only fuels Tyland’s curiosity and exploratory mind. Yes, there is absolutely no guarantee the painting is correct and replicates Lord Reyne's features exactly. Then again. Why hang it in the main hall if it is inaccurate? To do so makes even less sense. Tyland squares his shoulders. He lifts the shred more, nearly buzzing with anticipation. He might be the first to see the real face of Lord Reyne. He would go down in the history books! Perhaps he might take the painting and have it restored to its full glory. It isn't the note in the annals of history he thought he would achieve, but it is certainly a step in the right direction.

Tyland glimpses a figure smaller than he images. The musculature of a warrior is visible in Lord Reyne's thighs with the way his calves dig into his horse's side and the curve of the saddle lifting his long, lean thighs, thighs no doubt thick from miles on horseback and training. They're not quite as large as he expects, not as thick as he imagines, but the outline of pure muscle remains. Tyland notes an odd softness around the inner thighs, towards the apex. His eyes travel further and further up the figure and reach Lord Reyne's waist.

A noise reverberates through the floor above. The canvas slips from Tyland’s hand; he cannot help the curse that escapes him as it slices his thumb. It isn't deep at all, merely a surface wound, but it still stings. Blood beads and glistens on the digit; he's struck with the sudden urge to slip his thumb into his mouth, something he hasn't done since he was a child. He brings his thumb up towards his face without thought but stops himself once his hand is level with his face. No. Best not to do such a childish thing, commit such a strange action. Instead, Tyland lifts his thumb up to eye level. Just as he thought, the cut is small and not deep, more surface level than anything else. Despite its lack of size, the tiny slice bleeds quite a bit more than expected. Blood already drips freely from it and down along his thumb, the substance hot and slick against his skin in an unpleasant way. Tyland’s eyes follow the trail of one drop. It follows the lines of his thumb before trailing along the outside curvature of his hand.

Oh! He should wipe it up before any of it drips onto the carpet. Tyland reaches into his pocket with his free hand for clean handkerchief. He finds one and gingerly dabs his thumb with it, watching with intrigue as the blood seeps into the fabric, staining the white cotton red. After a moment, he lifts it and checks how much he's still bleeding. It doesn't appear to be as much now. Were the handkerchief smaller or of less valuable material, he might wrap it around his thumb in order to stop the bleeding. He also doesn't wish to tear it into smaller pieces so he might do so. Perhaps it's best if he applies more pre-

Another noise echoes from above him. Tyland’s head whips around in an attempt to figure out where exactly it came from. It sounds much closer this time. The hairs on the back of his neck begin standing up as goosebumps pebble along his skin. Normally, he would write it off as the castle being old, but he can no longer ignore the screaming coming from his gut.

He isn't alone.

"Hello?"

As soon as the words leave his mouth, Tyland winces. His voice comes out so meek and scared, timid even.

"Anybody there?" He tries interjecting a confidence he doesn't feel, straightening his shoulders as he does so. He faintly registers blood dripping down his hand and palm and falling onto the carpet. In the sudden silence, he could swear he hears each drop hit the carpeted floor.

"Poor little lamb." A voice croons. "Are you lost?"

Panic surges through Tyland. His eyes dart toward the top of the stairs then towards the bottom from where he came. Nothing greets him. He looks up to the top of the bannister and ledge, expecting a looming figure, for they must be on an upper level looking down upon him.

A dark chuckle echoes throughout the space. Tyland’s feet carry him backward; his back hits the painting with a solid thump. He clears his throat.

"Whomever you are. Show yourself."

There's no denying the tremble in his voice. Tyland doesn't even think to try and correct it; he can't even think about an exit plan, let alone how to make himself appear more intimidating.

"Look up."

It's closer now. Tyland looks towards the balcony but sees no one, nothing.

"I repeat. Show yourself."

"Silly little man." He swears for the briefest of moments, he feels hot breath on his ear. "I am telling you exactly where I am."

Perhaps there's a higher balcony he missed, on another floor maybe. He tilts his head back even further.

At the very top of his vision, Tyland spots a claw.

With dawning horror, he tilts his head back even more until he gazes at the wall behind him.

The creature's cat-like face is merely inches from his own.

"Boo."

Tyland nearly screams despite himself; he staggers forward, wanting to create as much distance between him and the creature on the wall. He doesn't make it far, he hears the sounds of feet hitting the floor as soon as he gets to the top step. He gets down only three steps before the thing is upon him, grabbing him forcefully by the arm. Claws pierce his coat and skin, sinking harshly into their target. Tyland doesn't even get the chance to try and defend himself, perhaps hit it with his elbow or punch it, before it grabs him by the back of his head.

Tyland sees the bannister of the staircase once again.

His last sight is the marble coming closer and closer to his face.

********************************************************************************************

The scrap of uneven and ragged stone against his back wakes him. Tyland groans. His head hurts, throbbing and pounding at an intensity he's never felt before this moment. His vision swims in and out, although the pain in his head and on his back never waver. His scalp burns. Tyland reaches up towards the top of his head in order to feel what is causing such a pain, but he doesn't quite touch it. Instead, his fingers land on an ugly swelling on his temple. He hisses loudly at the slight pressure. While the lights are too dim for him to truly make anything out, he knows his hand came away slick with blood. As his vision begins coming back to him, he notices doorways on either side. A torch sits in a sconce outside each of them. When he tilts his head, Tyland notes the door are made of thick iron with bars on them.

A...

No. That cannot be right.

Why is he in the dungeon? He was just in the main hall, there is no possible way he could be here. Not unless he is being moved-

Ah. It would explain the scrapping against his back and the feeling of being dragged. He turns his head in an attempt to see what is pulling him along. It is odd; he seems to be moving at a fairly fast pace yet he must be being dragged by his hair. Tyland blinks. His brain and thought seem so elusive, making it hard for him to come up with an even remotely coherent thought. All he notes is the pain, all encompassing and unavoidable. Tyland opens his mouth, perhaps to give voice to his questions, but only another pained groan leaves him.

"Good. You're awake."

The tone of his captor gives him the distinct feeling Tyland should not consider himself lucky to be awake. His captor's tone sends chills up and down his spine, and for a brief moment, Tyland considers praying for his death to be swift and merciful. Tyland licks his lips. Dried blood comes off of his lips, flakes coating his tongue for the briefest of moments. The taste doesn't instantly dissolve but lingers. It takes him an embarrassingly long time to realize it is because his mouth is dry.

"Where..." His dry mouth makes itself known once more, causing him to lose his train of thought. He runs his tongue along the inside of his cheeks in a rather pathetic attempt to restore some saliva to the rest of his mouth.

"Come on. An intelligent man such as yourself should be able to tell me." His captor pauses for a long moment before letting out a dark chuckle. "Then again. Perhaps not. I did hit you quite hard over the head."

The words swim in and out of Tyland's brain. He recognize some of them, and it takes him a while to figure out the others, certainly much longer than he wants. Yes. It does feel as if someone hit him on the head, rather hard if he's honest. It almost seems as if the person who did it wanted to split his skull into two. Tyland cannot be entirely sure of how successful they were; just because there isn't brain matter on his face, at least as far as he can tell, does not mean his attacker did not achieve their goal to a certain extent.

"I don't... I don't understand."

Were he in his right mind, Tyland would rightfully wince at the words coming out of his mouth and at the utterly pathetic tone he speaks them in. However, given they are the only words he can seem to find, it doesn't bother him too much. It merely adds to how disoriented he feels. Being unable to speak is strangely crippling, and it feels as if it is even hampering his ability to understand as well. The thought makes him sick. Perhaps he already was sick. Certainly, he hasn't felt well since he came to, but he only just now notices the sinking in his stomach.

Tyland hears a sigh above him, as if whomever is dragging him is truly disappointed in him. He does his best to look for more clues, angling his head around as best he can in his position. It only makes the headache and dizziness worse. For the briefest of moments, he swears he sees a tail in his peripheral vision. He screws his eyes tight, hoping against all odds it will help clear his vision.

It doesn't. If anything, it makes the sights before him worse. He cannot deny his reality right now, as much as he wishes to do so.

They come to a stop. Tyland twists and turns, wanting, no, needing to see what horror awaits him. His mind doesn't process the screeching 'click' at first. However, it instantly catches the loud, ugly squealing of an iron door. Panic rises quickly within him.

"Wait!" He tries reaching out and grabbing the sides of the wall, but his captor is much stronger than him, almost impossibly strong. They grip under his armpits and toss him into the cell without circumstances and as if he weighed nothing. Perhaps he did weigh nothing to them. The world spins as if Tyland is airborn for the briefest of second.

It hurts when he lands on the stones. Pain radiates through every point in his body. Despite it, Tyland tries staggering to his feet.

"You're a trespasser. Trespassers are lawbreakers. And what happens to those who break the law, hm?"

"I didn't-"

"They get thrown in a cell until they have an audience. This is your new home. If I were you, I'd enjoy it here. Lord Reyne surely has something quite special in mind for you."

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