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Artemis
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Original poster
Tarserys Targaryen
There was nothing glorious about the North. It reeked of unkempt wild and faint corruption. Snow replaced the grass of the South. Large trees loomed high above. The mud slippery from melted snow and moisture. Tarserys was sure, in that moment, that this was where men went to die. Sunlight offered no warmth and the chill cut deeper than any sword. If it weren't for the tremendous gain he might acquire, fire upon the North. Let their Old Gods and Others take them, if these Northern folks truly believed in such fallacy.
"Are you certain they remain unawares?" Lingering near a brazier, Tarserys resisted the urge to bathe his hands in the flame. "Everything is at risk. Everything we stand to gain."
Roan, a shaggy man of low birth, nodded. "I've taken care of everything," he said. Roan spat onto the muddied ground. He said in hushed voice, "apologies milord. For appearances. I've a contact. She remains with us no longer. She was … used— The Wolf remains guarded. Hounded. About this time, she lights a candle in the tower, see? The Bolton bastard ain't kind either. Not to Lady Stark."
Stories about Ramsey Bolton was hard not to hear of. House Bolton was known for it's atrocious sigil. The Flayed Man. From Ser Logrim Maric, his Hand awaiting him at the coast, recounts, the Boltons were those not to be taken lightly. With the deaths that the Usurper's forces took, prisoners met the flayed fate. Targaryn soldiers, loyalist soldiers, even some of his relatives met such ends. Current leadership weren't any better. On his way to Winterfell, Tarserys witnessed many x-shaped crosses on his way here. The Usurper's allies were the monsters. Not his father. Those whom remained loyal, Tyrells, Martell's, and the smaller houses, would receive his benevolence. The houses that rode against his family would face wrath. That was his promise to his dead family. He hoped it so for Daenarys.
Tarserys exhaled, his breath misting in the air. The northerner garbs were suppose to keep him warm. Shame to the merchant who told him so. "Then perhaps a Dragon is better than a butcher. You know what's expected of you. I shall not have you die this day, Roan." Touching the tip of a flame, Tarserys smiled from beneath the hood's shade. "I take care of my own. Now go. Misfortune favors hesitation. We shall not be her victim."
Bolton men crawled about Winterfell like an infestation. No matter where one walked, the sound of metal clashing against metal, boots pounding into the mud was heard.
Leaning against stone wall, Tarserys watched the abandoned tower that Roan spoke of. It was foolish to base his plan of whisking Lady Stark away by mere habits observed. Learning about one's prey was everything. Routines and all. However, this was an activity he wagered wasn't a typical one. Not if Lord Bolton's cur was as cunning as many said he was. Underestimating any man was unbecoming, unwise. In his wait, Tarserys thought of other ways to accomplish his goals. If need be, infiltrating Winterfell as a servant wasn't a far fetched notion.
A good amount of time passed. Resigning to the fact that infiltration was the way, he stayed his ground as his eyes fell on the tiniest of flickers from the tower. When the passing patrol fell out of sight, he made haste. The north did not want him. It's harrowing cold made that clear.
Gently lowering a man to the ground, it was probably a kindness to put the wretched creature out of its misery. It was a man unmanned. Twitching like an afflicted from mental curse, Tarserys had no doubt he would've made a good stable hand. Too scrawny, too weak to be a soldier. Pity decided against driving a sword into the man. He instead choked the man until forced sleep took him. Whatever the case, he did not see Tarserys's face. There would be no report to his master.
Ascending the stone steps, not a soul between him and the door, Tarserys opened it.
Beyond it, in a large billowing winter cloak, he was met with the sight of wonderful summer. Violet eyes roamed over fiery red hair. He could only assume this was the one he sought. Lady Stark of Winterfell. Daughter to the Wolf that clawed through the Dragon once before.
Keeping his hood up, he held up a hand when he came into Lady Stark's view. "I'm a friend. You were told if you needed help, you have but to light a candle in the old tower." Tarserys looked towards the door. They were already here far too long. Roan was to cause a distraction to allow him and Lady Stark to slip out. "A friend told me of your . . . mistreatment. We shall get you to safety. The Lord knows nothing of this. We must leave now."
A great force caused Tarserys to fall against the stone wall. Even when plumes of fire erupted from the opposing side of Winterfell, Tarserys could feel the heat. Goose pimples formed all across his arms as he relished the heat. Striding forward, he reached out and pulled Lady Stark to her feet. "I asked for a distraction. There it is," he said. "Know that a free Wolf, Lady Stark, incites fear. Kenneled invites abuse and disregard. Make your choice."[/hr][/hr]