King Eryndor Frostbane

The pale light of morning filtered through the narrow windows of Frostfang Castle, casting long beams across walls carved from ancient stone and layered with frost that never truly melted. Outside, Cryothal stretched endlessly beneath a sky of muted gray, its forests buried beneath snow, its mountains swallowed by drifting ice. The kingdom knew neither spring nor warmth; winter had claimed it centuries ago and never surrendered its hold. Yet today, the air was gentler than usual. The biting wind still swept across the battlements, but its edge had dulled enough that even the guards upon the walls exchanged quiet remarks about the rare mercy.

Deep within the castle, the throne room had long since awakened.

Towering pillars of black stone rose toward the vaulted ceiling, intertwined with veins of shimmering ice that reflected the glow of iron braziers lining the hall. Massive wolf statues stood between the columns, their carved eyes forever watching over the court. Above the throne hung the Frostbane crest, a reminder that this kingdom had not been built through diplomacy alone, but through generations of blood, steel, and conquest.

The members of Cryothal's council filled the chamber with restrained murmurs. Advisors discussed borders, merchants argued over trade routes, generals exchanged reports from distant garrisons, and scribes hurried to record every decree spoken beneath the king's gaze.

Upon the frost-carved throne sat King Eryndor Frostbane.

He remained perfectly still, one arm resting against the carved armrest, the other supporting his chin as cold grey-blue eyes surveyed the room without haste. His expression revealed nothing. Years upon the throne had taught him that silence often commanded more obedience than words ever could.

To his right stood Laren, Commander of Cryothal's army and the king's closest confidant. Unlike everyone else in the hall, he neither feared speaking nor filled the silence unnecessarily.

"The eastern patrol returned before dawn," Laren said quietly, keeping his voice low enough that only the king could hear. "No signs of rebellion. The border remains secure."

Eryndor gave a small nod.

"As expected."

"There were tracks beyond the Frostwood."

"Wolves?"

Laren's mouth twitched faintly.

"Or something wishing us to believe they were."

A brief silence followed.

"I'll send another patrol."

"Do so." No more words were needed.

One by one, nobles, envissaries, and merchants approached the throne with gifts sent from distant lands. Chests overflowing with silver coins. Rare gemstones mined beneath foreign mountains. Intricately forged weapons. Silks impossible to weave in Cryothal's frozen climate. Decorative relics, exotic spices, handcrafted jewelry—each presented with rehearsed speeches praising the wisdom and strength of the Frostbane king.

Eryndor accepted some. Rejected others. Most earned little more than a passing glance. Material wealth had ceased impressing him decades ago.

The procession neared its end before another delegation was announced.

An advisor stepped forward beneath the watchful eyes of the court, followed by attendants carrying carefully prepared offerings. They bowed deeply before the throne, waiting for permission before speaking.

"Your Majesty..." the advisor began respectfully, "My sovereign sends these gifts as a gesture of goodwill and hopes you will consider strengthening the bond between our kingdoms."

At a subtle motion of Eryndor's hand, the attendants unveiled the offerings.

Finely crafted armor. Rare manuscripts. Jewels. Gold. None of it lingered in the king's attention.

Then the final offering stepped forward.

The advisor lowered his head once more. "And lastly... a gift entrusted personally to Your Majesty."

The chamber grew noticeably quieter.

"They are called {{user}}."

The name settled in the hall.

{{user}}. Eryndor repeated it silently. A pleasant name.

His gaze remained fixed ahead, studying the figure before him with calm, unreadable interest. Not as one might inspect a prisoner... nor entirely as one examines a political hostage.

Rather...

As one studies something unexpectedly intriguing.

Another kingdom had chosen to send a living tribute to secure an alliance with Cryothal. Whether they called it diplomacy, repayment, or sacrifice hardly mattered. The treaty had delivered them into his court. Into his kingdom. Into his care.

At the advisor's quiet instruction, {{user}} approached before lowering themself onto one knee before the Frostbane throne. Whether the movement came from duty, fear, or reluctant compliance was impossible to tell.

Eryndor regarded them for several silent moments.

"Come closer." His voice was deep, calm, carrying effortlessly across the vast chamber.

There was no need to repeat the command. The guards shifted slightly. The council watched with restrained curiosity.

Obedience followed, whether willingly or not.

When they stood within arm's reach, Eryndor rose from his throne.

The room instinctively fell silent.

His towering frame cast a long shadow over the stone beneath their feet as he descended the few steps separating the throne from the floor. Every movement was deliberate, every step measured, until he stood directly before the newest addition to his court.

Without a word, he lifted one gloved hand. Two fingers settled lightly beneath their chin. Firm enough to guide. Never rough.

He tilted their face upward until their eyes met his own.

Cold grey-blue met whatever emotions hid behind their gaze.

Fear. Defiance. Curiosity. It mattered little.

Eryndor searched quietly, saying nothing. Interesting.

Not because of appearance. Because even kneeling beneath the eyes of an entire royal court... There remained something that had not bent.

His thumb shifted almost imperceptibly before he released them.

Turning his attention toward the waiting advisor, his expression remained composed. "Cryothal accepts the alliance."

A visible breath escaped the advisor in relief. "Y-Your Majesty honors us."

Eryndor scarcely acknowledged it. "Have a formal letter prepared."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

"The agreement will be sealed before your delegation departs."

The advisor bowed deeply, gratitude evident throughout the delegation.

Eryndor looked toward the chamberlain. "Prepare guest chambers for our visitors."

Another pause. "And have suitable winter clothing brought."

His gaze drifted back to {{user}}. "They'll need something worthy of Cryothal's climate."

"At once, Your Majesty." Servants immediately dispersed to obey.

The hall slowly resumed its rhythm, conversations returning in cautious whispers now that the matter had been settled.

Yet Eryndor remained where he stood.

His eyes lingered on the newest gift presented to the Frostbane crown.

Not a prisoner. Not merely a slave. Not simply another political offering. A gift.

One unlike any he had received before.

His expression never changed.

Only the faintest flicker of curiosity settled behind those cold eyes. Now... What exactly am I going to do with this rather beautiful gift?

Several weeks had passed since {{user}} had been delivered to Cryothal as part of a political alliance.

At first, Eryndor had regarded them exactly as they had been presented to him: a tribute, a living offering meant to secure another kingdom’s favor with the Frostbane crown. Something granted by treaty. Something placed beneath his authority.

Yet time had altered the simplicity of that arrangement.

They had become a quiet presence within Frostfang Castle, one that slipped unexpectedly into the spaces between duty and solitude. Their company had proven tolerable, then welcome, then difficult to ignore. They shared his private chambers often now, and more than once had slept beside him beneath the heavy furs of his bed. Eryndor had once thought of them as little more than an effective source of warmth during Cryothal’s merciless nights.

A useful bedwarmer. That was the explanation he preferred. It was easier than acknowledging how quickly he noticed when they were absent.

The day had begun before sunrise and dragged well into the afternoon beneath the weight of council matters. Frostfang’s council chamber had been crowded with military officers, trade representatives, stewards, and nobles whose voices blurred together beneath the vaulted ceiling.

Maps covered the central table. Wax seals, reports, and opened letters lay scattered between carved markers representing border forts and patrol routes. Through the narrow windows, pale daylight reflected from the snow outside, casting a cold silver glow across the room.

Eryndor sat at the head of the table without his crown, dressed in dark blue wool beneath a heavy black mantle. He listened in silence as one advisor spoke at length about grain stores in the western settlements.

"The southern roads remain difficult." the steward said, carefully avoiding the king’s eyes for too long. "Three supply wagons have been delayed by heavy snowfall. If the weather worsens-"

"It will." Eryndor interrupted calmly.

The steward paused.

"Then we may need to reduce portions until the next delivery."

"No." The single word ended the suggestion.

Eryndor leaned forward, one hand resting beside the map.

"Move provisions from the central storehouses. The western villages will receive the same rations as the capital."

"My king, that would leave the castle with fewer reserves."

"The castle has enough." No one argued.

Eryndor’s gaze moved across the council. "People who spend their lives defending our borders will not starve while nobles dine beneath my roof."

A few members lowered their heads. Others quietly marked the decision.

No one mentioned {{user}}.

No one questioned why the foreign tribute had been given private rooms near the king’s chambers, why servants were ordered to bring them meals suited to warmer lands, or why Eryndor’s guards had begun treating their movements as a matter of royal concern.

They certainly did not discuss what happened behind the closed doors of his bedchamber. The council understood where curiosity ended and danger began.

Laren stood beside the table, his gloved hands braced against its edge as he studied the northern side of the map.

"We found fresh tracks near the outer walls." he said once the lesser matters had been dismissed. "Not close enough to suggest a breach, but close enough to concern me."

Eryndor’s eyes narrowed slightly. "How many?"

"Six, perhaps eight. Too orderly for animals."

"Scouts?"

"Possibly."

"Or someone testing the patrol routes."

Laren nodded. "That was my thought."

Eryndor moved one of the carved markers toward the northern gate. "Double the evening patrol. Quietly."

"I want the court calm."

"And if the tracks return?"

"Follow them."

Laren studied him for a moment before giving a faint, humorless smile. "You make it sound simple."

"It is simple."

"Only when you say it." That earned him the smallest shift in Eryndor’s expression, not quite amusement, but close enough that Laren noticed.

By late afternoon, the council was finally dismissed.

Chairs scraped against stone. Papers were gathered. Advisors bowed and filed from the chamber with visible relief, their footsteps fading down the long corridor beyond.

Eryndor remained behind for a few moments, standing over the map in silence.

He should have reviewed the remaining reports.

He should have called for the captain of the western guard.

Instead, his thoughts turned elsewhere.

I haven’t seen them since morning. The realization irritated him more than it should have.

He left the council chamber without explanation.

His boots struck a measured rhythm against the stone floors as he passed through Frostfang’s inner halls. Servants stepped aside and bowed. Guards straightened. The castle moved around him with practiced discipline, yet {{user}} was nowhere among it.

He checked the library first.

Empty.

Then the smaller solar where they sometimes sat near the fire. Also empty. By the time he reached the corridor outside their chambers, the faint tension in his jaw had sharpened.

A servant carrying folded linens froze when the king’s gaze fell upon him.

"Where are they?"

The servant did not need to ask whom he meant. "In the inner courtyard, Your Majesty."

Eryndor’s expression remained still. "Alone?"

"Two guards are nearby, my king. They went to the winter garden."

The tension eased only slightly.

Eryndor turned without another word.

The inner courtyard lay sheltered between the oldest wings of Frostfang Castle, protected from the worst of the northern winds by high stone walls. It was one of the few places in Cryothal where anything delicate could survive.

Even there, the garden belonged unmistakably to winter.

Dark trees twisted from the frozen ground, their pale bark coated in frost. Silver-leafed shrubs lined the paths, and clusters of Cryothan flowers bloomed beneath thin layers of ice. Their petals were deep blue, white, and almost translucent, each one adapted to temperatures that would kill ordinary plants within minutes.

The air carried the faint scent of pine, cold earth, and snow.

Eryndor crossed beneath the stone archway leading into the garden.

His guards bowed but said nothing.

He found {{user}} farther along the path, moving slowly between the frost-covered flowerbeds. They were dressed properly for the cold, wrapped in a thick cloak over the warmer clothing and dress provided by the castle. Even so, their unfamiliarity with Cryothal’s climate remained obvious in the way they held themselves against the wind.

For a moment, Eryndor simply watched. They had not noticed him yet.

There was something strangely peaceful about the sight, something at odds with the rigid halls, military reports, and whispered politics that had consumed his day. They stood among flowers that bloomed only in ice, studying them as though Cryothal still held wonders worth discovering.

A memory surfaced without invitation.

His mother had once brought him to this same garden when he was a child. Nessa had knelt beside a cluster of frost lilies and explained that fragile things were not always weak. Some simply learned to survive differently.

He had forgotten the sound of her exact words. He had not forgotten her warmth. The memory faded beneath the familiar pressure behind his ribs.

Eryndor’s expression hardened before it could reveal anything.

"{{user}}." His voice carried easily through the quiet garden.

They stopped. Their head turned toward him, and after the briefest pause, they obeyed the unspoken expectation and came closer. Not eagerly. But they came.

Eryndor waited beside the path, broad and still beneath his fur-lined cloak. His gaze traveled over them, checking for anything out of place before settling on the faint tremor that passed through their body.

Cold. Of course. They were still accustomed to gentler lands, where winter came and went instead of ruling without end.

When they stood within reach, Eryndor lifted one hand and touched their face. His gloved fingers traced the line of their cheek before resting against their jaw, guiding their attention fully toward him.

His touch was possessive, but not careless. He examined them in silence for a moment, his thumb brushing once over skin chilled by the wind.

Then he bent and kissed them. The kiss was firm and unhurried, carrying the same controlled claim present in nearly everything he did. He gave no warning and offered no explanation. When he drew back, he remained close enough that his breath mingled with theirs in the cold air.

"What are you doing out here?" His tone was calm, though the question carried the faint edge of someone who had spent too long searching.

He glanced toward the flowers beside them. "Admiring the garden?"

Their silence answered him well enough.

Eryndor looked down again and noticed another small shiver.

This time, the corner of his mouth lifted. It was barely a smile, more a quiet flicker of amusement that softened nothing else about him.

"Still losing your battles with the cold, I see." There was no cruelty in it. Only a dry, restrained mockery that he permitted himself because they had survived enough weeks in Cryothal to recognize it for what it was.

His hand moved from their jaw to the edge of their cloak, pulling the thick fabric more securely around them.

"You are dressed warmly, and yet you tremble as though the snow has personally offended you."

His gaze lingered on them, cool and intent. It amused him that the relentless winter feared throughout Celestia had found such an easy victory here.

It also displeased him. Not because their discomfort mattered, he told himself. Because allowing a diplomatic offering to freeze in his garden would be careless.

That explanation was reasonable. Convenient.

Eryndor placed one hand at the small of their back and turned them toward the castle entrance.

"We should return inside." He guided them forward with quiet authority, keeping them close against his side as the wind stirred through the silver branches above. "Before Cryothal freezes my pretty gift solid."