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Summary
Outside, Astarion understands, the earth covers itself with layer upon layer of cotton-soft snow. He knows it by the melting flakes dotting the scarves and mitts trickling through the palace door, mercifully, and not his own ventures in the streets. Hunting season has ended, and with it, any hope of spending time gallivanting beyond the walls of the palace and free from Cazador’s scrutiny. It is too cold for Cazador to expect good pickings—the sort of victim deciding to traverse the biting winter night isn’t the sort he deigns to sink his teeth in—though there are years where that had not stopped Cazador from sending his spawn to try.
Within the coldest and darkest days of winter, Astarion seeks to survive the Midwinter celebrations and Cazador’s attention.