There are cowering whispers of a war that is soon to be waged on the realm, destroying castles, starving people, decimating armies. A war for the Iron Throne, and a war against it. A war to hide secrets and a war to betray them. For death is power...
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Midnight in the North was darker and colder than she had remembered. Perhaps, it were the icy winds that blew through the trees, howling like wounded beasts, or the silver moonlight that peeked through the canopy above that gave the nights in the North a certain characteristic aura.
Irida let out a breath, the swift gush of white air swirling into nothing in front of her lips. The White Forest had not changed since she'd left it. She had come upon a tiny clearing. Not accidentally, no. She had searched and searched for that specific place, a nagging need to refresh past memories before going back home.
Irida walked to the centre of the grassy clearing, her thick cloak billowing out behind her. Her sharp black eyes scanned her surroundings for any sign of life. There was none. Heart thrumming in her chest, she crouched down and raised her palm gently in the air in front of her.
To remember means to reenact. She thought bitterly.
A faint golden glow swept over her hand till her pale wrist, brightening and brightening until a small yellow flame engulfed her palm. It danced around her fingers harmlessly, and she remembered the ashes of the creatures she'd killed with that very flame, in that very place. Her fire and the beginning of her life. A different life than the one she'd lived in Winterfell. A better one.
It was a curse and a blessing, she supposed. A terrible price she had to pay to gain a few years of happiness away from the pack. She was not a wolf, she was a deserter.
Irida stood up, her straight black hair smoothly shifting over her shoulders, and she clenched her fists. The fire dissipated instantly, and she could feel the cold magnificence of the castle of Winterfell looming in the distance.
The home she had run from, and the home she had returned to.
~~~~~~~
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The tavern was surprisingly empty, with only a few drunken men flailing about. Night had fallen, and the torchlights had been lit on the brick walls, casting strange shadows. The owner of the tavern sat behind a long table at the end of the hall, his head in his hands, drunk from his own ale. Remi sat on the other extreme at the corner table, staring at his mug of mead. A plate of untouched food lay beside it, completely forgotten.
It was in the late nights that Remi was struck with deep thoughts about the world. That night, he thought about himself. Remi bit his lip gravely as he contemplated his short life. What was he doing? Singing in the streets -- was it how he was meant to live his life? Was this his purpose in the world?
No, Remi thought fiercely. He was meant to do something more, he was meant to do something greater. Not stay in Braavos till the day he died.
His eyes fell on the pampered mandolin at his side. You'd be with me wherever I go, don't worry, he smiled at the instrument. The wooden object was perhaps the most important thing he owned. It was all he had, his only family.
His thoughts were interrupted by a sultry woman who had approached him. She wore nothing but a flimsy robe, the neckline of it cascading down her waist, showing off her breasts and all that was beneath it. She smirked seductively at him, tossing her soft curls back.
Remi eyed her, sighing inwardly. "Hello, Yarees. No other customers today?"
Yarees smiled, tracing her fingertips across the rim of Remi's mug. His ocean blue eyes lit a fiery longing in her, but she maintained her calm. "Well, there was one fat lord who had come seeking me this time of the night. But I slinked away."
Remi nodded in acknowledgement, his fingers touching hers as he grabbed his mug from her grasp, drinking it whole.
Yarees momentarily frowned at his lack of response, wondering whether he could smell the new perfume she'd used on herself. She leaned down on the table, supporting her brown torso with her elbows, her breasts dangling in front of Remi. "I slinked away because Myra told me you were here." She glanced at his mandolin. "How was business today?"
"Good enough if I'm sitting in this tavern and drinking my guts out."
"Not good enough if you're sitting all alone."
Their eyes met, and Yarees wanted to swoon at the sight of his jaw twitching. It had been so long since she'd felt the waves of his dark brown hair in her fingers.
Remi pursed his lips. It didn't give him any pride that the most wanted whore in Braavos wanted him. Yarees had shifted closer to him across the table, her one hand slithering down his waist as her round face neared his own. She was good. Remi felt his breath quickening and his eyes rolled back in pleasure.
Yarees finally closed the distance, kissing him fervently as she crawled up on the table, her lips still on his and finally settled on his lap, doing everything she could to keep all his affections for her. Remi kissed her back distractedly as she started unbuttoning his shirt, occasional moans escaping her lips.
A shameful darkness crept into his mind, a foreign guilt ate away at his heart. What had his life become? Singing, drinking and whoring.
