from here on out, this work is all my own writing unless i specifically state otherwise.
note: i've gotten a few pms about this so i'd like to point out that karstagne is pronounced KAHR-stain, not car-STAG-knee... just making that clear! the g is silent! the name is written with french language rules in mind, so in case if anyone was confused... now you know!
another note: pretend that Randolph is younger than Frederick, okay?
Disclaimer: I own nothing you recognize. All rights to GRRM, RR, and everyshadedsilver for inspiring this work.
enjoy! 3
V
"for your face."
ANNABETH
PIPER hissed, scooting backwards to press herself against the biting jaggedness of the stone walls that comprised their cage. Valeria scattered, slinking away as if afraid that she had been caught speaking on matters taboo. Collective breaths were held, and the prisoners furled around their bodies, chained wrists clanging against each other as they enveloped their knees with their arms, attempting to appear as small as possible. With so many soldiers streaming into the room in the same manner as a gurgling brook, the air thickened with tensity. After long, slow seconds that felt like hours, the last of the guards entered, lining the walls, their presence heralded by the familiar slapping of expensive leather sandals against the smooth floors.
By reflex, all of the conquests lowered their heads, and Annabeth was far from being an exception. The Karstagne heiress brushed her chin against her sternum. There was a flash of lengthy black hair in the front of the room, and the Karstagne heiress waited for the haughty voice that would fill the thick silence.
Sure enough, the Baroness finally addressed them all. "It appears that you desert scum have finally got a glimpse at your future ruler." Her words gave way to a chuckle that was more cavalier than not. "I truly do enjoy the smell of apprehension. It rolls off the body like perfume, don't you agree, my Lady?"
An unprecedented gentler voice cut into the woman's laugh. "Don't torture them so, Lady Drew." There was then a pause. "I'm sure they've heard all the stories of the Heir Apparent. Any sane man, woman, and child would fear Aegeon's Blessed."
The Baroness cleared her throat, evidently embarrassed based on the inflection of her following words. "Forgive me, Lady Vene. You know it was not my intention to insult your betrothed."
There was a brief silence, the context with which Annabeth imagined being spent by Lady Vene waving her hand in well-natured assurance. "None to forgive, my Lady," the woman responded. Lady Vene spoke kindly, but there was a steel in her voice that compelled Annabeth to pay close attention. She continued. "Now, mealtime is prepared and I'm sure that the conquests desire some form of food. They've been travelling for many moons and conquest is tiring business."
"Of course, my Lady," the Baroness agreed. Her words bled with docility despite her ominous tone. "It is our duty to fulfill the promises of the Sister. Hospitality, even to those who don't deserve it, is an unalienable right… even to aliens."
Beside her, Annabeth heard Piper exhale bitterly through her pursed lips. Her bruises were beginning to gloss over, and the sight made the Northerner's stomach turn. They would've killed me, she reminded herself. Annabeth swallowed thickly and forced her gaze away.
"An interesting choice of words, Lady Drew, but I digress." The doors were pulled open, and half of the guards began to exit the room. "I'm afraid that I have other concerns that require my attention, but I know that I leave this situation in more than capable hands. Your zeal for the pride of Triesso is admirable, and there is no one else I would place in charge of this endeavor."
"You honor me, my Lady." The Baroness's robes swirled as she dipped into a well-practiced curtsy. "Thank you."
"They are only words befitting a woman as graceful as you. I'll leave you to it." And without another word, Lady Vene strolled from the room just as quickly as she had entered.
With the absence of half the soldiers, Annabeth's chest lightened considerably. But even so, her senses hummed with anxiety at the fact that the Baroness was still present and had been given complete reign over the prisoners by a woman who seemingly wielded even more power than she.
Silence filled the Prisoner's Hall, a sound so sinister than Annabeth could've heard a snowflake dropping all the way in Eplonia if she trained her ears hard enough. She schooled her breaths, chin pressed against her chest, and dragged the tips of her fingers across the smooth floors of her cage.
"Guards!" The Baroness's voice sliced the tense air in two.
Annabeth squeezed her eyes shut. Blest muses, she murmured in her mind. The pads of her fingertips ghosted over the ironstone. Mothers of the Mount, she continued. Ironstone was nowhere near of the same caliber of the stone of the Eplon range, but it would have to make do. Annabeth envisioned the Torch, and her heart panged. Protect me now in these hours of darkness…
The noblewoman at the front of the room continued on, and the fear that rippled through the room by evidence of hunched body language goaded her words. "Lead them to the servant's dining room. They have thirty minutes to eat before they are given their rooms."
No sooner had the words left her lips did the Triesstine soldiers begin to advance on the conquests. Annabeth lifted her head, foolishly, and caught sight of the woman staring at them all with her lips lifted into a disdainful sneer. Apprehension bubbling in her gut and looking away before she could get caught, Annabeth met Hazel's golden eyes, smeared with panic as she was, for the second time that day, tugged away at the hands of brutes.
Annabeth swallowed down the hoarse outcry that threatened to spill over her lips, and allowed the calloused fingers digging into the skin of her forearms to pull her towards the doors. For reasons unknown, the conquests were separated from their found groups and were mixed, shoved into a thick line before being pushed through the doors of Prisoner's Hall. Annabeth found herself encompassed by Algreni strangers, all with the tell-tale strange eyes and brown hair.
They were led through the halls of Triton's Hold. Keeping Jorah's warning fresh in her mind, Annabeth kept her chin pressed tightly to her sternum. Lining the walls were soldiers, and who knew how many of them were like Marinius? Were like the Baroness? The thought made her internally recoil, followed by a struggle with keeping her tightened scowl at bay.
Triesstine barbarians.
Goosebumps emerged on her pale skin. Their chains dragged across the floors, the sound as foreboding as ever. Through her peripherals, Annabeth took note of the fact that the other servantry of Triton's Hold were not shackled. Their features spoke truth of varying ethnic backgrounds, ranging in all skin shades and eye colors and hair textures. It was because of this, and this alone, that she had hope that her days in chains would come to an end soon enough.
Before long, they were led into the servant's quarters. Here, the air was mustier and the corridors were narrower. There was no intricate decoration etched into the abalone walls, no soldiers stationed at evenly spaced intervals. Art did not coalesce on the vaulting ceilings, teardrops of glass and diamonds did not flutter down from crevices unknown like bejeweled rain.
There was hardly enough space for all of them to get through. The prisoners were funneled into the halls leading into the servant's quarters. Someone from behind Annabeth shoved her roughly, and she stumbled, her bare feet skidding across the uneven stones and her bruises throbbing. She hissed, her lips poised to spill over with curses, but she caught herself as best as she could. Not even daring to chance a look at the perpetrator behind her for fear that a soldier would grab her in retaliation, Annabeth pressed on.
"Sorry," a timid voice whispered from behind her.
The escaped princess exhaled softly. "S'fine," she murmured, slurring her words together in order to both avoid detection and appear to be lowborn. Valeria's suspicion from only an hour before had stunned her to the core. It was only luck that she had been able to think as quickly on her feet as she did, only luck that she had been able to shift the object of attention back towards the Heir Apparent. If she was to truly pass off as an Algreni commoner, she had to step it up. Carefully crafted lies could only go so far.
Luke was proof of that.
The mountains remember, Annabeth told herself as she swallowed down all painful thoughts of her eldest brother. They remember, and House Karstagne will rise again. We are of fire and stone.
Fire and stone; the mountain wolf and the snow owl; Karstagne and Minerva. Comforting words, but only words. She knew that.
It was her duty to make sure that the words became truth and nothing short of that.
Her birthright.
Ω
"What… what is this?" Piper hissed in her ear, her breath fanning towards her cheek. "They don't really expect us to eat… this, do they?"
Annabeth stared down at the plate of food set before her, her stomach turning over at the sight. Leave it to the sea snakes to conjure up a meal that would make cattle's gruel seem appetizing. Her appetite was waning enough from the sight of all the bruises that littered the bodies of the prisoners surrounding them. If there was one thing she missed about the prison cart, it was the obscurity that disallowed her vision from fully realizing the sheer depth of their wounds. But here in Triton's Hold, where windows littered the walls and sunlight poured through with an evident vengeance, it was as if she could not break away from it at all.
Across from them, Valeria shoveled a forkful into her mouth. Clearly, she had no qualms for digesting it, but perhaps that was simply a wiser choice. Who knew when the Baroness would let them eat again? Deciding to follow her example, Annabeth spooned the shining sliver of dark green into her mouth, recoiling at its bitter taste before swallowing it down. She pressed her lips together, her stomach gurgling, and tried her best not to vomit.
"Is no one going to answer my question?" Piper demanded, her fork left abandoned as her fingers grabbed at the collar around her neck. Her eyes were tightened in annoyance. "Hazel?"
The girl in mention wasn't uncharacteristically quiet, but her mind seemed to be in another place. Valeria had to nudge her several times before she lifted her head. "What?" Hazel exhaled, eyes flitting over their faces. She met Annabeth's mildly concerned gaze and looked away before the escaped princess could make another move.
Undeterred, Piper motioned to the food crowding the pewter plates before them. "Do you know what this is?"
Hazel picked up her fork, poking at it with a frown. "Boiled seaweed, I think. But I can't be sure. I've never been to Eplantis before, so I could be wrong."
Valeria shrugged. "Whatever it is, I'm just glad that we have something to eat. I'm starved." Then, to further drive emphasis into her words, she shoved another bite of seaweed into her mouth.
Annabeth stared down at it. The strands were tangled up, reminded her of snakes. How fitting, she wanted to laugh. The seaweed was submerged in a thickened pool of yellowed slime, the image of it repulsive as ever. But still, with her mind's ears, she could hear Luke's stern voice.
Eat it, he whispered to her.
Her senses halted and her eyes fluttered shut. Gone was the servant's dining room, and in its stead was the back alleys of Algren's Burilese district. Dust and sand packed beneath her nails, grime coated her skin, and brown rags covered her where silk used to drape. Smoke billowed into the air, plumed by fires set aflame by the Ones Who Could Not Help Themselves. Her mouth tasted like blood; her tongue thick with the liquor that Luke had snagged from the vendor while she'd distracted him. Lungs clogged, chest weighted, and still she could not find it within herself to complain.
They're scorpion eggs, Luke continued. The unapologetic blue of his irises appeared hazy through the syrupy black cloud of fumes that cloaked the alley. If she stared at him too long, her eyes would start to sting.
Annabeth stared down at the wooden bowl cradled in her lap. Her stomach gurgled and she frowned. Isn't that… dangerous, she'd asked. Her hair, not yet dyed brown, was a curling silver-gold in the humid moonlight. She'd never felt so much a Northerner as she did then.
If you avoid the pincer, you won't get any of the venom, he urged.
Annabeth took note of the fact that he hadn't touched it yet either. I'd rather go without tonight, she said with resolution. She pushed the bowl away, dumping the eggs in a dark corner, and huddled further against the wall, clutching her stomach. I'm sure we can find some berries on our way out tomorrow. No need to eat… scorpion eggs.
She was jostled, then, and Annabeth opened her eyes once more. Reminding herself that she was in public, she shoved another forkful of seaweed between her teeth, trying to avoid her tongue at all costs, and swallowed without chewing.
"You're gonna choke," Valeria half-jested as she watched her. If not for the grays that surrounded her pupils, the black of her hair could've earned her a position among the Lower Tier sectors of Eplantis. If she were so ambitious, she could've posed as a Triesstine citizen. "It's not that good."
"It's not good at all," Annabeth said. She swallowed down another bite and held back a shudder. "But I've eaten worse." Her heart thumped. "Much worse."
Piper and Hazel said nothing, but the newest addition to their group refused to remove her eyes from the escaped princess. "I heard that the nobles in Burilese tend to be a bit… overexcited when it comes to servant's meals." She leaned forward, eyebrows turning upwards with an air of conspiracy, and lowered her voice. "Is it true that some were forced to eat goat slop?"
Annabeth clenched the handle of her cutlery, her jaw tightening. "I don't know what you're talking about." She managed not to stutter, much to her credit. Staring into Valeria's eyes, a thread of horror lanced through her chest. Was it… was it possible that she was a Traitor's Spy? She had the eyes of a Northerner, and Annabeth herself was more than enough proof that all shades of hair could be dyed darker. Schooling her expression as best as she could, the heir to House Karstagne took another bite of her boiled seaweed. Whether or not Valeria knew of her true blood, she couldn't be trusted. Not now.
Too much was at stake.
Piper joined the conversation then. "That's disgusting," she said before taking a bite herself. If her facial wounds bothered her in any way, she didn't let on. "More disgusting than this ocean vomit, anyway." Her nose wrinkled as she stared down at the practically untouched meal on her plate before gently pushing it away. "I'd rather not."
Hazel sighed audibly after slurping the last of her food. "I would eat if I were you, Piper." Her words were too even, too balanced, to be anything other than calculated with precision. "Now isn't the time to get all testy like you do."
Annabeth stared at her, the wisdom that lurked beneath her words grasping her attention. How old was she? Two silver eyes roamed over her face, trying to gauge the age range of her features. Hazel didn't appear to be older than fifteen, but her guesses could be wrong.
Piper frowned. "Who gets testy?"
"You do. All the time. And now is not the time. We don't know when we'll get to eat again, if we get to eat again. The fact that they're giving us plates, utensils, and a whole room to eat in is off putting enough. You might as well take advantage of it."
Piper grumbled, but listened to the younger girl's words nonetheless. She made quick work of finishing her food, her face twisting in distaste with every bite.
Annabeth's lips flickered into a tiny smile, and in her mind's eye she saw her brother Malcolm—notorious for his good-naturedness and obedience—shoving away from him at the dinner table plates of food he found revolting, red-golden hair curling over his furrowed brow and pale fingers dancing over the edges of the tabletops and her mother sighing in exasperation at it all.
The mountains remember, Luke's voice told her again. Her smile bittered some and Annabeth aimed her eyes to her lap. You will take back what is ours by birthright with fire and stone. We are Karstagnes, Little Silver. In a world as cruel as this one, wear it like armor and never forget it.
But Luke was gone, as was Malcolm, as was their mother and father and entire family and everyone who dwelled within the Torch. Annabeth's chest heaved and she sank her teeth into her tongue, relishing the pain as it was the only respite from the turmoil that fogged her lungs and cloaked her mind in grief.
The last Karstagne, the last Minerva, alone in the world.
How often had her brothers poked fun at her, naming her the Lone Wolf of the Torch, naming her the Sole Owl of their walls wrought with fire and stone?
Her thoughts spat with acerbity, Lone Wolf, Sole Owl indeed.
Thirty minutes passed with hardly anything to account for its significance. The majority of the prisoners had swallowed down their meals almost as soon as it was placed in front of them, leaving many on-edge and, in truth, prepared for when the doors were thrown open and the Baroness strolled in with her familiar shadow of Triesstine soldiers.
The noblewoman said not a word, hardly gave them a glance, before motioning to the doors she had just breezed through and walking out. With soundless provocation, Annabeth and her newfound acquaintances were seized by their chains and shoved into lines once more. When a guard gripped her round the waist and muttered faint obscenities beneath his breath, his tone fulsome and chilling as the words caressed the back of her neck and his fingers dug into the bare skin of her sides, Annabeth could do nothing but press her chin to her sternum and shrink away.
I am a mountain wolf, she wanted to cry out. I am Annabeth Althena Karstagne! she wanted to scream. But she would do no such thing, no matter how much the fire of battle simmered in her blood, how much her senses ached for another fight.
Think with emotion, her mother had always said. But act with logic.
Annabeth, although grievous and vengeful, would rather hang from the tall trees of the Peak Wood by her own hand than dishonor the memory of her mother, for whom she had been given her second name. Queen Athena VII of House Minerva, the Flame Owl of Athyns, and the strongest woman Annabeth had ever known, would never yield to barbarian hands, would never allow her feathers to be ruffled by that of lowly sea snakes. Bend Not, Break Not were the words of Minerva as much as Of Fire And Stone were of Karstagne. Annabeth was as much a Minerva, as much an owl, as she was a mountain wolf born of the Torch. She would always be a Minerva.
Always.
And it was these thoughts alone that quelled her urge to fight back as the soldier's fingers dipped towards dangerous territory, travelling from the pebbled, cold skin of her waistline to her hips swathed in Triesstine navy blue. Annabeth's body went rigid, and her stomach vaulted at the thought of forcing herself to remain passive in the face of such abasement.
"You're a pretty one, aren't you?" He whispered against the skin of her ear, tugging her towards the line yet keeping her away from the rest of the conquests. His words dressed themselves in an accent so lowborn she could hardly decipher it.
She swallowed thickly, pressed her chin against her chest, and did not respond.
The soldier laughed, a sharp sound that reminded her of steel blades trailing across stone, leaving a sea of sparks in its wake. The familiarity chilled her and when Annabeth hunched her shoulders for a small moment of forgotten strength, his laughter rose higher.
"Shy, too," another soldier hummed almost serenely. He did not approach them, but the proximity of his voice was grounds enough for Annabeth's discomfort. "Never thought that sand eaters could be shy. Mules, the lot are. Savage, graceless mules."
The soldier at her side laughed again and his fingers dug into her skin. "I don't know, Alon," he said. "I've never met a shy mule before. Have you?" He tugged Annabeth closer to him before continuing, his hand stretching down towards the high slit in her skirt. "Maybe it's all a ruse."
Impudent barbarian, Annabeth forced herself not to grin at the irony. You have no idea.
"Theseon," Lady Drew the Baroness's cold voice was a relief that could never have been precedented. She spoke from the other side of the servant's hallway, and although Annabeth couldn't see her, her mind painted the sure image of the woman's black eyes and astringent smile.
"Yes, m'lady?" The soldier pulled away from Annabeth, the stench of his breath no longer clogging her nostrils. He shoved her towards the rest of the prisoners, the last of which were being hauled back towards the holding chamber. Annabeth stumbled, catching herself as best as she was able, and bunched her lengthy skirt within her hands. The soles of her feet were set aflame with pain, and she knew that the blisters had been agitated, but still, she caught up to the conquests as quickly as she could.
"Bring me Jorah," Lady Drew's voice soon faded into the background as Annabeth hurried away.
Don't draw attention to yourself, she muttered within her mind, slowing her pace. A small part of her ached to bathe again, to scrub from her body the touch of Theseon's vile fingers.
"Bend not, break not," Annabeth whispered to herself as she disappeared among the throngs of conquests. The words were quiet, so quiet that even she hardly heard them. The syllables vanished the moment they soared from her tongue, but their significance was etched deeply into her heart.
Minervas do not break.
Ω
"Again!" Annabeth's lips pulled into a wild grin as she steadied herself in the crunchy snow. Her chest rose and fell in rapid succession and her lungs ached, stinging in the cold bite of the afternoon air, but she did not care. Her small fingers—only five cycles old—reached for the warm leather and furs as she attempted to grasp on for another spin.
Her uncle, Prince Randolph Karstagne II, the Ice Wolf, shook his head with a gentle laugh as he caught his breath. Uncle Randolph was a carbon copy of his older brother, King Frederick III, with the same tall, broad stature and limbs defined by brawn. The only difference between the two was the eyes. Where the King saw the world through irises of silver, Randolph saw the world with eyes the dark grey color of the mountains that surrounded and shielded their kingdom.
"Please!" Annabeth launched herself forward, wrapping her arms around her uncle's waist as she aimed to meet his eyes. She couldn't get her arms all the way around, for Uncle was a large man, but she managed to hold on nicely. "Please, please, please! I promise this will be the last! Just one more!"
"You said that three spins ago, Little Silver," he wheezed, keeling over her to press his hands to his knees. His rumbling Northern brogue rolled from his tongue and sent vibrations humming in her cloaked arms. Prince Randolph was warmth incarnate. "I am not a young wolf anymore," he continued. "You tire me so!"
"Mother tells me that endurance must be built," Annabeth parroted the Queen's words in a way she knew would draw his attention. "If you're tired already, Uncle, that means your endurance has to be more!"
Never let it be said that her grammar at five was perfect.
"Oi!" A pitchy squeal drew the Arch Princess of Eplonia away from the object of her attention, and she turned to see her brothers sparring. Or rather, what was left of it. She laughed behind her hand at the sight of Malcolm sprawled on his back, half his body hidden in the snow, as Luke pointed the end of his wooden sword at his neck.
"Yield!" The Crown Prince cried joyously. His cheeks were flushed pink and his chest heaved, and laughter danced across his lips and over his eyelashes.
A muffled, "Never!" rose from the dunes of white. It was soon followed by a thick bullet of snow that crumbled against Luke's chest, soaking into the thick of his garments with a vengeance. Arch Prince Malcolm sprung from the soft ice, his hair bright as a flame against the backdrop of white, and began attacking with reckless abandon. "I will never yield!"
Smiling to herself and satisfied, Annabeth once again turned back to the Ice Wolf, who had since caught his breath. "Uncle…" she began to plead again.
Randolph shook his head, his blond curls cresting over his brow, and his expression became only a bit serious. "Your mother would have my head, Little Silver. I love you, aye, I do," he reached down to ruffle her silver-gold hair, "But I value my life just a wee bit more."
"How wise of you," a regal voice floated from above, the words spoken in the Northern Tongue.
Annabeth, recognizing it, looked up to see her mother standing on the balcony that overlooked the yard. In her arms she cradled Uncle Randolph's daughter born almost six moons prior, baby Princess Aubrey. Uncle Randolph had another child, Princess Emma, who was closer to Malcolm's age, but she had stayed behind with her own mother, Lady Caroline of House Greywind, at their ancestral seat in Timberswey. By her Queen mother's side stood her aunt, Princess Natalie, younger sister to Randolph and Frederick, and her son, Prince Magnus, who was nearly four cycles old but still always had his thumb in his mouth. Surrounding the party was the Wolfsguard, knights handpicked by Annabeth's King father and Queen mother to protect those with Karstagne blood within the Torch and all locations on a map.
Baby Aubrey, Aunt Natalie, and cousin Magnus all shared the curling Karstagne hair that gleamed buttery blonde, but while the other two had grey eyes, Aunt Natalie peered through chips of emeralds that she'd inherited from a distant ancestor of Castradian blood, similar to Luke's blue eyes from Grandfather.
Malcolm had gotten their mother's coloring, the red-golden hair that characterized the Minervas of Athyns. Queen Athena's tresses were long and wavy, reminding Annabeth of the red flames that licked at the wood in the hearth. Everyone said that the Queen was kissed by the First Muse herself—Mother Totlena, goddess of Hearth and Fire—just as Annabeth was kissed by the Ninth, Mother Khione of Winter. Her dress, a fancy silken gown a shimmering grey-blue, complimented her well and Annabeth thought she was the most beautiful woman she'd ever seen, even when Princess Natalie Karstagne, the Gold Wolf, stood by her side.
"Ah, the Flame Owl blesses the wolves with her presence," Uncle Randolph jested. He lowered himself in a deep bow, and Annabeth laughed alongside her mother and aunt when he surfaced.
Aunt Natalie's glittering green eyes shined, and she shook her head. "Your jokes, somehow, never grow tired, Randy. Such a skill to have, no matter how impractical."
Mother couldn't hide her smile, instead opting to drop her gaze to the baby that was bundled in her arms.
"Maggie!" Annabeth called to her cousin, approaching the balcony, and waved her arms wildly to get his attention. Magnus removed his thumb from his mouth and grinned, prepared to rush forward, but a Wolfsguard stopped him with a hand descending onto his shoulder.
"We mustn't run, Magnus," Aunt Natalie told him softly. "Wolves do not run unless they are in the wild, free and weightless, without anything to bring them danger… things like the edge of a balcony." The young boy seemed sheepish, but he heeded her words.
"Little Silver," her mother called down to her. Love was etched onto her face, and it bled into her words like snow melting and soaking into warm cloaks. "Come inside, my dear, it's almost time for your lessons."
"Can Uncle spin me one last time?" The princess begged, turning around to regard the Ice Wolf once more. Silver met dark grey and she wrapped her arms around his waist again, craning her neck to look at him. "Please? It's so much fun!"
"Me too!" Magnus chimed from the balcony. He didn't speak much, often choosing to observe silently with his thumb in his mouth and his eyes trained on imaginary friends, but whenever he did, it was for things he deemed crucial. Magnus was a Karstagne, through and through.
Natalie laughed loudly at the sight of the children pleading, a sound that mixed nicely with the symphony of clanging swords and shields behind them and brought Annabeth's smile to stretch wide, and the Queen's sigh was nearly audible.
"She's half-Minerva, Randolph," Athena said calmly. "She will not bend, especially not when she hasn't gotten what she wants."
"As she should!" Aunt Natalie crooned. "My little fighter, she is."
Annabeth preened beneath the praise, her curls fluttering in the wind as she peered up at the Ice Wolf through her lashes. "Please…" she pleaded, drawing out the word and placing as much emphasis upon it as she could.
There was a long pause before Uncle Randolph caved. "The things I do for love," he groaned with mock exasperation. He bent over to lift Annabeth out of the snow, his hands clutching her beneath the arms. As he began to spin and twirl in the middle of the yard, he spoke again. "Keep your food in your stomach, Little Silver, or I may just have to throw you over the walls of the Torch."
Annabeth Karstagne, Little Silver, daughter and sister and niece and cousin, could only laugh with glee in response.
Ω
The mountains remember.
Annabeth's eyes flew open, her heart aching in her chest, and she rolled over onto her side. The holding chamber was dark, Triton's Hold was quiet, but her mind was loud, screaming into the humid night. Around her, prisoners snored and twitched in their slumber, oblivious to the beating heart that bled with grief in the corner of the room. Tears slipped from the clefts of her lashes, and for the first time since she had been taken captive, she allowed herself to mourn freely.
Memories she believed to be long lost came flooding back, each filled with a different face of her beloved family. She dared not think of their demises, knowing that cousin Magnus and cousin Emma and Uncle Randolph and Aunt Natalie and baby Aubrey were no more, knowing that they had suffered at the hands of the Traitor for no crime other than having the blood of the mountain wolf in their veins.
Little Silver, her mind screamed at her. Little Silver, alone in the world.
No, she told herself with vehemence. My name is Annabeth Althena Karstagne. I'm the Crown Princess of Eplonia, the youngest child of my House. I must take back my kingdom from the Traitor. I am the rightful ruler. The mountains remember, the mountains-
And then her thoughts halted and Annabeth Karstagne, prisoner of war, daughter and sister and niece and cousin to corpses and ghosts, choked back a wretched sob.
so sorry for missing last week's update :( things haven't been going the greatest for me and i'm currently taking a massive break from social media and updating completely slipped my mind. i've written up to chapter 8, so it wasn't a matter of actually writing rather than updating.
but we're back on schedule!
if you haven't noticed already, the karstagnes are modeled after the starks (surprise, surprise!) AND (in some ways) the targaryens (read: sans incest). i hope you all enjoyed reading the bit about annabeth's family as much as i enjoyed writing it! have i ever mentioned i love worldbuilding? cuz i love worldbuilding.
next chapter, the prisoners are told news that changes *everything* and a certain mountain wolf comes face to face with a certain darksnake :) see you next saturday!