Whitebark Stream meddleborn

her voice, low and soothing, carried a soft valyrian tune—a lullaby she had once sung to her sons. the melody wove itself into the quiet of her task, a small comfort against the endless expanse of cold.

the crack of a branch underfoot shattered her moment of peace. her head snapped up, breath caught in her throat, and a soft gasp escaped her lips. silvers darted toward the sound, narrowing as they fell upon the shape of a lone male. he was bold in his approach, his figure cutting sharply against the snow.

she rose to her feet, her tail curling slightly behind her, not in submission but in measured caution. her gaze locked with his, assessing, as the lullaby fell silent on her tongue.

you watch, she said, her voice firm despite its quiet tone, her accent thick with the cadence of the north. her fingers brushed lightly over the bundle of herbs, though her eyes did not leave him. what do you seek?