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ALEKSANDER WOKE WITH A PAINED JOLT.
The sun peaked through the opening of his tent, temporarily blinding him as black dots scattered across his vision. He could feel the pounding in his head from the wine the night prior, but nothing except lots of alcohol could wind him down after a whole day of riding horseback. The trip to Winterfell, home of the Starks, was always a grueling journey, in Aleksander's opinion. He didn't like traveling. It always left him feeling ill and exhausted, craving the smallest moments of being left by his lonesome— which was rare when traveling alongside his family and their most trusted companions.
"The horn blew fifteen minutes ago. Get up!" The shrill sound of his twin sister's voice pierced his ears with a renowned echo, causing him to jerk back. He hadn't realized she had been standing there. Her arms were folded across her chest, the familiar deep furrow set between her brows. Patience had always been something she lacked. "You sleep like the dead."
"Morning, already?" He sighed, lazily rubbing a hand across his face.
When he craned his neck to look at her, he noticed she was clad in one of her finest dresses, layered with black fabrics complimented with gold detailing that ran across her shoulders. Her hair was styled in intricate braids that wrapped around her head like black snakes, but her face was as pale as snow. The sun rarely graced Black Mountain— the Moutain people usually had pale, untanned skin and hair the color of oil, with no light to brighten them.
Eila ignored his rhetoric and said pointedly, "Get dressed. Mother and Father are waiting."
"I am dressed." Aleksander pulled himself up from the cot and brushed off his wrinkled clothing. His legs and back were still stiff from yesterday's ride, making him wince.
"There's wine stains all over it."
"Didn't notice that." Aleksander glanced down at his attire, his eyes landing on the splotches of spilled wine and patches of dirt from when he fell over a log while trying to get back to his tent late in the night after taking a piss in the woods. He was a careless and clumsy boy, but no amount of royal training would help him in that aspect.
"We'll be arriving in Winterfell before nightfall. You can't show up dressed like a drunken beggar," argued Eila, her posture rigid.
"And why not?" He grinned, throwing his arms up. "I pull it off, don't I? I'm still handsome in the face."
"Have you forgotten why we're heading to Winterfell?" Eila scoffed. "You're meeting your betrothed."
