"When the world forgets its promises, the gods send reminders in the shape of men."
— Saying of the Old South
The dawn at Crest Keep came dressed in glass.
Mist rolled in from the Nareth, thick as milk, gilded at the edges by the waking sun. From the high towers, the city below seemed half-dream, half-memory — its spires wreathed in white, its bells muffled beneath the fog's breath.
In the royal gardens, the Princess Saphirra walked alone.
The grass was still wet, jeweled with dew, and her slippers soaked through before she had gone ten steps. She did not mind. Her face, pale beneath her silver-blonde hair, was turned toward the east where the light broke through the clouds.
There was something unearthly about her at sunrise — something that made the handmaid trailing behind keep her distance.
The Princess rarely spoke these days. Not since the ritual.
But in the quiet, her eyes carried that soft distance — as though she were listening to something no one else could hear.
The queen's voice came faintly from behind her, calm but edged with care.
"You'll catch your death, child."
Queen Naerya moved slowly, her gown whispering against the stone path. She was still beautiful — the kind of beauty time does not wither but polish. She placed a hand on Saphirra's shoulder, feeling the thinness of the girl beneath the silks.
"You were dreaming again," Naerya said.
Saphirra nodded once, eyes still on the horizon.
"The same dream. The sea burning, and a shadow that sings."
Naerya stilled.
"Dreams are only dreams, my dear. Leave the shadows to the Chandels."
"The Chandels do not dream," Saphirra whispered. "They only remember."
⸻
Later that day, the Round Rule convened once more.
The council chamber — its wide oaken table carved in the likeness of a sunburst — shimmered with the heat of the morning. Lord Regent Akimbo, ever solemn, stood beside his chair as the King entered. His bald head gleamed faintly in the light from the tall windows. Behind him came Lady Cyrayne, the Veilwarden, her pale eyes cool as moonlight.
At the far end of the hall, the guards announced:
"The envoys of Iceese have entered the Nareth mouth, Your Grace. Their sails are white upon the horizon."
A low murmur ran through the council. For weeks, the name Iceese had been spoken like a tide waiting to turn — rich, powerful, but perilous.
The King leaned forward, fingers steepled. "Then let them come ashore by sundown. And let no man speak of war at my table."
Cyrayne smiled faintly. "Even peace has its price, Your Grace. I wonder if they come to collect it."
Akimbo's dark gaze cut toward her. "The price of peace is honor, my lady. The price of vanity is ruin."
The King's eyes shifted between them, weary but sharp. "Enough of riddles. We will receive them as friends. The realm needs coin, not quarrel."
No one argued.
Yet as the meeting adjourned, Akimbo's eyes found the Cyrayne — a silent exchange heavy with knowing.
Beyond the great windows, gulls wheeled over the silver river, and the sails of the Iceese ship drew closer — bright, perfect, and silent against the morning mist.
⸻
Meanwhile, from the balcony above the gardens, Saphirra watched.
Her handmaid whispered of guests and gifts and new beginnings, but Saphirra barely listened. Her gaze was fixed on the horizon where the ships appeared — tiny white teeth on the gleaming water.
For a moment she thought she saw something else behind them. A darker shape in the fog, moving without sail or oar. Then the mist swallowed it whole.
Saphirra blinked once, her reflection rippling in the marble basin beside her — her pale face distorted by the trembling water.
And softly, almost without sound, the water went still.
The Gathering Dusk
Evening came slower than it should have. The sun hung low, bleeding gold through the fog, and the harbor below Crest Keep throbbed with motion. Flags cracked, horns bellowed, and from every terrace came the scent of salt and flame. The Iceese had arrived.
From the Round Rule's eastern balcony, Lord Akimbo stood watching.
Below, the white sails of the foreign ships unfurled like wings. The largest bore the sigil of a swan veiled in frost — a symbol that shimmered, even in shadow. The dockyards were already lined with the King's banners; soldiers moved like ants, straightening the walkway carpets and clearing the onlookers.
Behind Akimbo, the King's voice carried softly.
"Does it trouble you, my friend?"
Akimbo turned slightly. "It troubles me that they come with silence, Your Grace. And that silence travels faster than truth."
King Daeryn smiled, but there was no warmth in it. "You think me blind, old friend?"
"I think you too proud to squint."
A flicker of laughter crossed the King's face, brief as a candle in wind. "You speak as though you were still Reach to my brother."
"And I still serve his blood," Akimbo said. "Yours… and hers."
The King's eyes cooled, the light fading. "The girl dreams too much."
"She dreams because her soul remembers what ours have forgotten."
A long pause. Then Daeryn turned back to the harbor, his jaw hardening.
"Let her dream, then — but keep her dreams away from the council."
He left without another word, the guards falling in behind him.
Akimbo remained, watching the ships draw closer. He felt the wind shift — cold, carrying something faint and metallic. A taste like old blood.
The Arrival of the Iceese
The docks thundered with drums and trumpets as the first of the Iceese envoys disembarked.
Their armor gleamed like polished bone, their cloaks woven with silver thread. At their head came Lord Valen of Iceese, tall, white-haired, and smiling in the way diplomats do when hiding knives behind their teeth.
Queen Naerya stood beside the King at the steps of the pier, her posture a study in grace.
Behind her, Saphirra stood motionless — a slender ghost draped in soft blue silk.
The crowd parted as the Iceese approached.
"Your Grace," Lord Valen bowed, his voice smooth as thawed honey. "The sea bears gifts from Iceese — and friendship, if the tides allow."
"The tides obey no man," Daeryn answered. "But the realm welcomes you."
From the gift-barge, chests of gold and carved ivory were unloaded. Then came something stranger — a crystal reliquary, sealed and cold, its surface faintly misting. The air around it felt wrong, as though sound dulled in its presence.
"What is that?" the King asked.
"A relic," Valen said simply. "An offering to your gods, and ours."
The Veilwarden, watching from the steps, tilted her head faintly — as though she recognized something she did not wish to name.
Saphirra, for her part, could not look away. The crystal pulsed once, like a heartbeat.
And for the briefest instant, she thought she heard a voice — deep, distant, like something stirring beneath the sea.
She blinked, and it was gone.
⸻
That night, the hall of Crest Keep was firelit and fever-bright.
Music filled the vaults, courtiers laughed too loudly, and goblets flashed in every hand. Yet beneath the gold and cheer, unease ran like a vein of ice.
The Iceese envoys spoke in low tones, trading riddles and compliments.
Akimbo kept to the shadows near the dais, watching the King and Naerya share strained smiles.
Cyrayne drifted among the lords like perfume — whispering, smiling, collecting.
Saphirra sat beside her mother, untouched food before her.
She stared past the laughter, toward the great windows that opened onto the dark.
Somewhere beyond the river, a wind was rising — she could hear it in the glass, in the bones of the hall itself.
When the first gust struck, every torch flickered at once.
And for a heartbeat, the air smelled of salt.
The Feast of Concord
The hall of Crest Keep glowed like a forge — golden light beating back the dusk.
Musicians played soft strings; wine ran like blood through goblets. Laughter filled the rafters, and for the first time in many moons, the realm seemed at ease.
The Iceese envoys dined beneath the banners of Vermilion, their silver-haired lord smiling as though he'd never known the taste of steel. His courtiers spoke of trade, silk, and salt, of opening new harbors and joining tides — words polished smooth by politics.
It was near the evening's end when Lord Valen of Iceese rose, his cup lifted high.
"May the friendship between our thrones stand firm as the frozen seas that bear our name. Yet friendship alone, Your Grace, is a frail bridge without lineage to bind it."
A hush fell over the hall.
Queen Dowager Naerya's gaze flicked toward her brother-in-law, King Daeryn. His brow tightened, but he said nothing.
Valen's smile never wavered.
"My son, princeTheon of Iceese, comes of age at the turn of the moon — strong, wise, and bred for honor. It would please my people, and perhaps your realm, to see his hand joined with the blood of Vermilion. A future sealed in grace."
The music faltered. Cups stilled midair. Every noble leaned forward in breathless silence.
Daeryn's reply came measured and regal.
"A generous offer, Lord Valen. One I shall consider with my council."
But Naerya's eyes said otherwise.
The laughter had thinned into murmurs by the time the feast began to fade. The air smelled of spilled wine and dying candles, and from the high balconies came the echo of song — soft, lingering, half-dream.
Queen Dowager Naerya walked the Moon Corridor alone. The stained glass along its length caught the flicker of torchlight, casting shards of crimson and gold across the stone. She paused when she saw Daeryn standing at the far end, his crown set aside upon the balustrade, the weight of rule visible even in his stillness.
"You cannot truly be considering it," she said quietly.
He did not turn at once. "I consider what keeps the peace."
"Peace?" she echoed, her voice low but edged. "Or fear of war? The Iceese do not seek friendship — they seek to own the South. To own her."
Daeryn exhaled, the sound weary. "And yet we have no coin, no strong hold on our lands, and half a council willing to sell their daughters for Iceese gold."
"She is not theirs to sell," Naerya said.
"She is the realm's hope," he replied.
"She is my daughter."
The torches hissed softly in their sconces. From the distant hall came a faint strain of laughter — the sound of politics wearing a festive mask.
Daeryn's eyes met hers at last, weary but unwavering. "I will not send her across the sea, Naerya. Not yet. But you know how the council circles. Sooner or later, they will choose for us. Better she chooses first."
Naerya turned toward the tall window, the night wind stirring her hair. Below, the river shimmered under the moonlight — a mirror of white flame winding toward the distant dark.
And from somewhere far down the valley, the faint call of a horn drifted through the fog — soft, hollow, almost like a warning.
———
Before the moon climbed its height, King Daeryn found Saphirra in the high garden.
She sat beside the fountain, the reflection of stars rippling at her feet.
"You should be asleep," he said.
"So should you."
He sat beside her, the air between them heavy with the day's music bleeding from the halls below. For a long moment they listened to the night — the far murmur of revelry, the hum of insects in the dew.
"They spoke of marriage tonight," Saphirra said. "Of ships and sons of Iceese."
Daeryn's face did not soften at the name. He had the look of a man who has learned how to hide the shape of his wants. "They did."
"Will you send me away?" Her voice was even, but there was steel beneath it.
He watched her — really looked, the way a man might when guilt and calculation sit on his shoulders together. The silver of her hair caught the torchlight; her eyes held something older than her years.
"When the day comes," he said slowly, "I will not be the one to send you across the water. But you will have to go—to someone. To somewhere."
Her jaw tightened. "And if I refuse?"
"Then others will choose for you." He swallowed. "The realm believes the seal of Vermilion must be bound by match. I cannot change that with a crown alone."
She turned to the fountain, watching moonlight break on it. "They think I am ink and parchment, a signature to be signed. They forget I bleed."
He reached out, laying a hand on her shoulder — neither a father's touch nor wholly a king's, but both. "Then remind them," he said.
⸻
The celebration roared until dawn.
Wine poured, deals were whispered. Lords of the southern houses clustered beneath the banners, weighing words heavier than steel.
Lady Cyrayne laughed softly with an Iceese lord, her fan hiding her smile. Others pledged favors — promises wrapped in flattery, lies dressed as alliances.
By the time the sun rose, the air in the hall was thick with the perfume of deceit.
The corridors of Crest Keep slept uneasily that night.
The laughter of the feast had long faded, but its echoes still clung to the stone like ghosts. Servants moved in hushed pairs, carrying empty goblets and silver trays, their whispers thin as silk. Behind closed doors, lords of the realm murmured in wine-soaked tones — promises made, alliances bartered, oaths already bent.
The maids knew more than most.
They gathered what the wind carried — secrets folded in laughter, vows whispered behind veils. One girl, young and sharp-eyed, overheard the Veilwarden speaking softly with Lord Varis near the gallery arch. "If the Iceese gain her hand, the South is theirs by blood," he said. "The King is weary; the Queen too proud. The council will turn him before the moon wanes."
The girl said nothing. But the tale would run by morning — through kitchens, barracks, and laundry rooms — until even the pages whispered it beneath their breath.
Outside, the mists had returned. The Nareth glimmered faintly beyond the walls, swollen with tide and moonlight. The banners hung heavy, unmoving, as though the air itself waited.
Somewhere in the far distance, a bell chimed once from the city docks — a slow, hollow note that rolled up through the sleeping streets and into the Keep's heart.
⸻
While the Keep dimmed to whispers and the royal torches guttered low, the city beneath it had not learned sleep.
The feast had spilled beyond the castle gates — down marble stairs and across the winding lanes of Caldreth's Quarter, where the brothels and taverns of the lower ward took up the celebration as though the gods themselves had decreed it.
Lanterns swung from every archway, painting the wet cobbles in gold and crimson.
Sailors from the Iceese ship walked arm in arm with courtiers, their laughter thick with wine and strange tongues. Musicians struck wild chords on lutes gone out of tune; dancers whirled barefoot through the rain-slick streets, skirts flashing like banners.
The House of Mirrorsburned brightest of all — the grandest of the pleasure halls, its windows fogged with heat and song. Inside, nobles mingled with merchants, soldiers with strangers; every man pretended to be richer than he was, and every woman pretended to believe him.
From the upper gallery, a courtesan in white silk watched the crowd and smiled faintly. "Even kings can't buy sleep on a night like this," she murmured.
Down in the harbor quarter, the Iceese envoys' lesser retinue drank by the docks. One of them — young, fine-boned, and already lost to his cups — stared out at the dark water where the great ship Frostmere floated, its masts pale against the moonlight.
"Strange," he slurred to his companion. "It feels as if the sea's watching."
His friend only laughed and poured more wine.
The city was a furnace of sound — laughter, music, the hiss of rain on hot lanterns. But behind the noise, something deeper lingered — the low hum of a world that had forgotten to rest.
By the time the first pale streak of dawn brushed the Nareth, half the city was still awake. The last songs died not from silence, but from exhaustion.
Above it all, Crest Keep stood shrouded in mist, its banners unmoving, its halls dim — the heart of the realm asleep while its veins still pulsed with fire.
The Morning Feast Beyond the Walls
The celebration did not die with the night.
By morning, it had merely moved — out through the high gates of Crest Keep and into the open meadows beyond, where pavilions bloomed like white lilies across the fields.
Trumpets blared, banners flared, and every lord and merchant of standing found a place beneath the silken canopies. The Iceese envoys sat beneath a high awning stitched with frost-white thread, their cold courtesy gleaming as sharp as their jewels.
Children scattered petals along the paths; musicians struck bright chords to chase away the fog of drink that still clung to the air.
It was the most laughter the realm had heard in months.
And yet beneath it ran a quiet strain — the hum of politics disguised as music.
Saphirra sat beside her mother beneath the royal pavilion, a crown of thin gold resting lightly on her brow.
From afar, she seemed the image of grace — serene, radiant, untouchable.
Up close, her hands were still, folded too tightly in her lap.
Everywhere around her, the talk was of union — alliances and bloodlines, dowries and thrones.
Men she had never met toasted her name as if it were a prize won at sea.
One lord boasted of his son's lineage; another swore his nephew could tame a drake if the princess so willed. Their laughter rang like hammered metal.
Naerya leaned close, her whisper a balm against the noise.
"You need not smile for them, my love."
"I would rather not breathe for them," Saphirra murmured.
One noble lord leaned across the table, grinning through his beard. "They'll be singing of this day for years, Your Grace. The peace that began with a wedding feast, mayhaps."
Another chuckled. "Aye — though the bride has yet to smile."
Saphirra said nothing. The words slid off her like dull arrows.
To them she was a name, a crest, a key to the realm's future — not a girl who dreamed of quiet mornings and open sky.
Her mother touched her hand softly beneath the table. "Endure the hour," she whispered. "The wind will change."
⸻
But the hour stretched.
The crowd swelled. Toasts rose and fell like tides. Each cup seemed raised in her name, each jest about her fate.
And when she could no longer bear their voices, she stood — softly, without announcement — and walked beyond the circle of banners.
Past the tents, the meadow sloped into a small wood of elm and pine.
There the laughter faded into the murmur of leaves and the sighing of wind through branches.
Saphirra led her horse along a narrow trail, her skirts brushing wildflowers, her thoughts heavy and shapeless. The quiet here was honest; it asked for nothing.
She stopped beneath an old elm, pressed her palm to its bark, and closed her eyes.
"I was not born for this," she whispered — though whether she meant the feast, the throne, or the world itself, she did not know.
A bird stirred in the branches above. The scent of resin and summer filled the air.
And for a fleeting moment, the world felt whole again — untouched by council schemes, Iceese gold, or the burden of a crown not yet hers.
For a while she thought of her mother's voice, calm and proud, telling her that duty was the spine of every Vermilion.
"Without it," Naerya once said, "we are just blood, not legacy."
Saphirra opened her eyes. The woods stood still once more.
Only the wind answered, whispering through the grass like the breath of an unseen watcher.
The words lingered like the taste of old wine — rich, heavy, clinging.
Saphirra loved her, but she wondered if duty had ever truly loved anyone back.
Her gaze softened as the path opened into a clearing. Wildflowers grew thick there — violet, blue, gold — bowing gently in the breeze. She slipped down from her horse and walked among them, letting her fingers brush their petals.
A butterfly, pale as moonlight, landed on her wrist.
It stayed there for a heartbeat, wings trembling, then lifted away.
Saphirra smiled.
For that moment, the world felt like it belonged to her — not to kings, not to gods, not to council tables or treaties written in her name.
She laughed, quiet but real, and chased the butterfly through the clearing. Her slippers caught dew, her gown brushed against fern and thorn, but she didn't care. She ran until her breath came fast and her cheeks flushed with color again.
When she grew tired, she sat beneath a willow and let her horse graze nearby. The breeze hummed through the leaves, whispering small, harmless things.
For a while, she just watched the clouds drift — naming their shapes like she did as a child. A wolf. A ship. A crown. Then she stopped naming them at all and simply watched them go.
The world didn't ask anything of her here.
And for a little while, she didn't have to be a princess.
The Stranger Among Trees
Saphirra rode deeper into the woods until she could no longer hear the faint hum of pipes and laughter drifting from the meadows. Only then did she stop, breathing in the clean hush of the trees.
Her horse nickered softly as she dismounted, letting the reins fall loose. Sunlight spilled through the canopy in golden shards, glinting off her gown and the wet earth beneath her slippers. For the first time she had a chance to wonder the wood
A sound broke it — sharp and soft at once.
Twang.
Then a flutter, and a sigh.
She turned toward the noise, pushing aside a branch.
Not twenty paces away, a boy knelt beside a fallen bird, his bow still quivering. His clothes were plain — coarse wool, patched at the elbow — and his hair fell over his brow in dark, untidy curls. The arrow had struck cleanly through the neck, and yet, before lifting it, the boy bowed his head and whispered a few quiet words.
"What are you saying?" she asked without meaning to.
He startled — actually fell back on one hand, his other still gripping the arrow.
"By the gods—" He blinked, then scrambled upright. "Milady, forgive me, I didn't see you there."
Saphirra tilted her head. "I'm no lady here."
He hesitated, then smiled crookedly. "Then I'll call you what I call the wind — stubborn."
She frowned, unsure whether to be insulted or amused. "Is that meant to flatter me?"
"The wind doesn't care if it flatters or offends," he said, shrugging. "It only moves where it must."
She found herself laughing — soft, startled laughter that felt almost foreign. "Then perhaps I am the wind today."
He eased the bird from the snare, laying it carefully upon a patch of moss.
"You hunt alone?" she asked.
He nodded. "My father taught me young. He used to say the woods speak kindly if you listen right. But most men only hear what they fear."
"You listen?"
"Always. Though sometimes the woods lie too."
She smiled faintly. "You speak strangely for a hunter."
"I speak too much, my da used to say. Said words don't fill bellies."
"Mine do not either," she murmured. "But still, I keep them."
He looked at her then — properly — and something like curiosity softened his face. "You're not from the villages, are you?"
Saphirra turned away, pretending to study the trees. "Does it matter?"
"Not to me," he said simply. "But your hands — they've never held a bow. Your voice — it sounds like a story when you speak."
"Then perhaps I am one."
He grinned. "A wandering tale."
"And you?" she asked.
"Taren," he said. "Son of no one important. Born where the river bends south of the mill road. You?"
She hesitated, then lied with a smile. "No one important either."
He chuckled. "Then we're well matched, milady wind."
"I told you not to call me that."
He raised an eyebrow. "Then what shall I call you?"
"Call me… nothing at all. Just talk."
So he did.
They walked together through the clearing, his bow slung lazily across his back. He told her of his father's hounds, of a bear that once stole half their catch, of nights sleeping beneath the stars because the cottage roof leaked too much to stay indoors.
At one point, he plucked a wildflower and tucked it behind his ear. "Do I look noble now?"
She laughed again, holding a hand to her lips. "You look like a fool."
"Same thing, isn't it?"
"Not quite. Fools are honest."
He looked at her sidelong, smiling. "And nobles aren't?"
Her laughter faded. "Not often."
For a while, they walked without words. The woods were alive with cicadas and the slow whisper of leaves. The air smelled of pine and soil and the faint sweetness of crushed flowers beneath their feet.
He spoke again, quieter now. "Do you ever wish to leave it? The city?"
"All the time," she admitted. "But the walls have long memories. They don't let their children go."
He looked up through the branches. "Then maybe you should teach them to forget."
She stared at him, startled by the thought. It felt like something only someone truly free could say.
The sun rose higher, painting her hair in threads of white gold. She sat on a fallen trunk while he built a small fire to roast a bit of rabbit he'd caught earlier.
"Won't your kin worry you're gone?" he asked, turning the spit.
"They'll find me soon," she said. "They always do."
"Then I should count myself lucky to meet you before they do. I never thought the gods would trade me a stag for a princess."
She blinked. "You knew?"
He looked up, his grin gentle but sure. "The way you hold yourself — the gold thread in your sleeves. My mother used to mend noble's gowns. I know the stitch."
"And yet you still sit with me?"
"Should I bow and beg forgiveness for speaking plain?"
"No," she said softly. "Don't."
Their eyes met, and the world seemed to still — fire crackling, wind breathing through the branches. She felt warmth in her chest she could not name.
Then a sound broke it.
A horn. Distant, low, unmistakable.
Taren froze mid-turn. "That call… someone's searching."
Saphirra's face went pale. "Ser Rodric."
He understood at once. "If they see me—"
"They won't," she said quickly. She stood, brushing pine needles from her gown. "You must go."
He shook his head. "I've done nothing wrong."
"Being seen with me is wrong enough," she said, voice trembling. "They'd say you lured me. Or worse."
He looked at her, something fierce flickering in his eyes. "Then tell them you found your way, not I."
She opened her mouth, then closed it again, helpless.
The horn sounded again, closer now. Her horse whinnied nervously.
"I must go," she whispered.
He nodded once, stepping back into the shadowed trees. "Then go."
Saphirra mounted swiftly, heart pounding. She turned once in the saddle — the boy already half-swallowed by the green — and whispered, "Thank you."
Taren lifted a hand, faint against the light. "Wind always finds its way home."
And then he was gone.
The thud of hooves came moments later.
Ser Rodric burst through the trees, mail gleaming, eyes wide. "Your Highness!"
"I'm here," she called, forcing calm.
The knight pulled his horse beside hers, scanning the woods. "You should not wander so far alone. The King—"
"—need not hear of this," she said sharply.
Rodric hesitated, bowing his head. "As you will, my lady."
She turned her horse back toward the meadows. Behind her, the branches stirred, and for a fleeting instant she thought she saw movement — a boy watching from the dark. But when she blinked, there was only sunlight and leaves.
They rode back in silence, the scent of wildflowers fading behind them.
Saphirra did not look back again, though she carried with her the sound of his voice — soft and free — echoing somewhere in her chest.
⸻
By the time they returned, the feast had spilled into afternoon.
The meadow was louder now — music swelling, banners snapping in the wind, children dancing through the trampled grass.
The Iceese lords were laughing with the southern nobles, each trying to outshine the other with boasts and bargains.
Saphirra dismounted quietly, ignoring the glances of servants and courtiers as she passed. Her mother's eyes found her from beneath the royal pavilion — relief masked quickly by composure.
She took her seat once more beside the Queen Dowager, the weight of her small crown settling like a shackle.
Across the field, a troupe of dancers spun in bright colors. Trumpets blared. Toasts were raised in her name.
Saphirra's gaze drifted toward the far line of trees — the same woods now distant and dim.
The laughter around her grew dull, like sound heard through glass.
For a moment, she imagined she could still hear the boy's voice — the way he said wind always finds its way home.
It lingered like a secret, quiet and unshakable.
She smiled faintly, though no one saw.
Then she lifted her cup when the next toast came, her eyes bright as mirrors — and utterly unreadable.
The Prince of Frost
The sun was sinking, staining the pavilions in rose and gold when the herald's cry silenced the music:
"Prince Theon of Iceese!"
The crowd parted like water before him.
Theon walked with the ease of one long used to eyes upon him — tall, pale-haired, draped in white and silver that shimmered like frozen light. His bearing was princely, his smile studied, his beauty deliberate.
He bowed before the royal dais. "Your Highness," he said, his accent crisp as wind over ice. "May I claim a dance, before the stars outshine us both?"
Saphirra regarded him in silence — long enough for courtiers to shift uncomfortably.
At last she rose, her movements unhurried, her expression unreadable.
"If you insist, my prince."
They moved beneath the high pavilion, where the musicians took up a slow, elegant tune.
Theon's hand was careful at her waist, his steps precise. He spoke softly, words polished by practice.
"You dance with a stillness that humbles the court, Your Highness."
"Stillness," she said, "is what remains when words are too heavy."
He smiled as though he understood, though his eyes flickered — puzzled.
"I had thought southern grace more… spirited."
"Then you thought wrong, my prince."
His laughter rang, smooth and controlled. "A spirit and a flame both. Iceese will not freeze easily, it seems."
She said nothing, her gaze fixed beyond his shoulder — past the silk banners, to the far fields beyond the keep.
"You do not enjoy such gatherings?" he asked after a pause.
"I enjoy what feels true."
"And this does not?"
"The wine is too sweet, and the smiles too polished. Truth drowns in both."
His smile faltered, then steadied again. "You speak like one far older than your years."
"Perhaps age and duty are not so different, my prince. Both take what youth leaves behind."
When the dance ended, Theon bowed and offered his arm again.
"May we walk awhile? The high gardens overlook the whole of the realm. I would see it as you do."
She hesitated — not from shyness but weariness — then inclined her head. "As you wish."
They climbed the marble steps, torchlight flickering across the carved walls. The garden above lay quiet beneath the falling dusk. Flowers closed with the cooling air; fountains whispered among the hedges.
From the parapet, the river shone like molten glass, winding through the heart of the city.
Theon leaned against the railing, his tone turning deliberate.
"All this — the beauty, the strength — it deserves to last. My father dreams of unity between our thrones. I… would dream of you beside me when that unity is sealed."
Saphirra's gaze remained on the horizon. "Dreams are kind things, my prince. But kindness alone cannot rule."
"Nor can solitude," he countered. "The realm would gain more than peace. You would gain a crown beside mine."
"I already have a crown," she said quietly. "It only weighs differently."
He blinked. "Then you refuse me?"
"I refuse what isn't freely given."
For a heartbeat, only the wind moved between them — cool, indifferent.
Theon's smile returned, brittle as frost. "You are as proud as they say."
"And you as persistent," she said.
He bowed his head slightly. "Then I pray persistence melts pride before winter ends."
"Careful, my prince," she murmured. "When ice melts, it becomes water — and water remembers every shape it's forced to take."
He said nothing more. His silence was colder than the air.
When he finally left her there, the sound of revelry below had dulled to a distant hum.
Saphirra stood alone at the parapet, the torches fluttering around her like dying stars.
She thought of the boy in the woods — of laughter unpolished, of stories told without purpose — and of how easily the world had forgotten the difference between sincerity and performance.
Below, the banners of Iceese fluttered white against the dark.
She turned from them, whispering to herself — though it felt as if the wind answered:
"I was not born to be traded for peace."
The celebration still blazed below, long after the stars took the sky.
Laughter drifted from the meadows — the kind that dulls sharper truths. But in the council chambers above, the laughter had no echo.
⸻
Lord Regent Akimbo stood near the long window, hands clasped behind his back, his bald head glinting in the candlelight. He was a mountain of a man, his silence heavy as iron.
Across the room, Lady Cyrayne, the Veilwarden, sat with the composure of a spider at the heart of her web, her pale eyes gleaming faintly as she watched him.
"So," she said at last, voice smooth as poured oil. "The Iceese prince leaves with frost on his pride. You must be pleased."
Akimbo did not turn. "I take no pleasure in broken treaties."
"Treaty?" Cyrayne's smile curved. "It was never written. Merely… implied. The princess could have soothed much with a single nod."
"She owes the realm her duty," Akimbo said, "not her heart."
"Her duty," Cyrayne repeated softly. "And what is that now, my lord? To choose defiance where alliance was offered?"
He turned then, slow and deliberate. "To choose honor over deceit. You heard the King. He will not buy peace with polished smiles."
Her eyes sharpened. "He may not wish to, but peace seldom waits for willing kings. Iceese will not forget the slight."
"Let them remember," Akimbo said, his tone iron-flat. "It will remind them we are still Vermilion."
Cyrayne leaned back, studying him — the faintest amusement ghosting her lips. "So speaks the shield of the South. But even shields crack when the hand behind them trembles. Tell me, Akimbo — does it not trouble you, the King's indulgence of sentiment? A ruler guided by affection walks blind into daggers."
He met her gaze unflinching. "Better blind with honor than seeing through treachery."
For a long moment, neither spoke. The air between them held the tension of drawn steel.
Then Cyrayne's voice softened, almost wistful. "Honor, my lord, is a fine word to die beneath."
"Then let it be the last word we die with," Akimbo replied.
The Veilwarden smiled faintly, her reflection dancing in the wine she swirled. "You speak like a man who still believes we command the winds. But some winds," she murmured, "come from the sea — and bring with them things no man commands."
Akimbo's jaw tightened. "Then let them come. The South has weathered worse."
She looked past him, toward the night sky, where faint lightning pulsed beyond the horizon. "You speak of storms," she said quietly. "But storms, my lord… have a way of remembering the names of those who challenge them."
⸻
Outside, thunder rolled somewhere far off — not yet near, but coming.
And beneath the glow of the keep's high towers, the banners of Iceese were being taken down, their silver threads gleaming one last time before the night swallowed them whole.
In her chamber above, Saphirra stood by her window, watching the same horizon.
The wind caught her hair, pale and bright against the dark.
She did not know it yet, but her choice that night — her quiet refusal — had already become the first whisper of a coming storm.
The Breaking of Lord Valen— Ruler of Iceese
Night hung low over Crest Keep — thick, windless, and cruelly quiet. The laughter of the celebration had dwindled into scattered embers across the lower courtyards. Music had died out by the hour of the third bell, and only the sea wind dared whisper against the glass walls of the guest towers.
Inside the Iceese quarters, the air was no gentler.
The marble hearth burned bright with whale oil, but the room itself was frozen — not by chill, but by the weight of silence.
Lord Valen sat at the center table, his goblet untouched. His silver hair caught the light like frost, his face still lined with that practiced diplomacy that once made him seem carved of calm reason. Yet beneath it — something fractured.
His envoys stood in a half circle around him: proud men, all draped in northern furs, each watching their lord with the uneasy stillness of men standing before a sleeping bear.
No one spoke. Not yet.
Finally, Valen's hand twitched. The goblet trembled, then slammed against the table.
"A jest," he said softly. "That's what they think we are."
One of his younger men, timid in tone, ventured, "My lord, the princess meant no slight—"
"No slight?" Valen's laugh was hollow. "She humiliated me. Humiliated us. Before the realm, before the banners of every southern house. The girl would not be my son's bride — no, she would rather smile and dance for her little courtiers and whisper that Iceese is beneath her."
He rose suddenly, the chair legs shrieking against the stone. His cloak swirled like a storm tide as he turned toward the window, staring out over the moonlit expanse of the river and the distant keep towers.
"I came here with peace in hand," he murmured. "With trade. With ships that could line their coasts for decades. I came here to strengthen their dying throne — and how do they repay Iceese? With mockery."
The eldest of his envoys — Ser Hadrik, his advisor since youth — stepped forward carefully.
"The King, perhaps, will mend it, my lord. A rejection from the princess is not a decree of war."
"War?" Valen turned, his eyes gleaming with something colder than fury. "Who spoke of war? Do you see a sword in my hand? No, Hadrik. What I hold is insult — and insult burns longer than steel."
He began pacing, his boots striking slow, deliberate echoes into the chamber.
"I dined with him. I drank his wine. I endured his smirks. Even his council — those jackals in velvet — looked at me as though my presence dirtied their golden floor."
His voice dropped lower, almost a growl.
"And now the South will whisper it for generations: Valen of Iceese, turned down like a beggar at a feast."
One envoy dared to answer.
"Perhaps, my lord, if your son—"
"My son!" Valen's shout cracked the air. He spun on the man, eyes blazing. "My son stood there like a statue while she toyed with him. No fire, no protest, nothing! Gods, even her refusal was courteous — and that's the cruelest insult of all."
He reached for the goblet again, but this time hurled it against the wall. The metal warped; the wine streaked down like blood.
The others stood frozen.
Hadrik spoke again, quietly.
"You would do well, my lord, to rest. Anger in this court spreads like rot. They are not worth—"
"Not worth?" Valen's lips curved into a mirthless smile. "You think I will let this lie in silence? No, Hadrik. I will not rest until Daeryn himself explains this insult — before his court, before his gods, before mine."
He crossed the room in long strides and tore open the velvet curtain that veiled the tall glass doors. Beyond, the city of Crest Keep shimmered faintly under the moon — its towers sharp as blades, its lights glimmering across the bay.
"They think the South untouchable," he said softly. "They've grown fat on the myth of their gods, dragons and their Crest. But the age of Vermilion glory is ash and memory. It's the sea that rules now. The sea — and the men who master it."
His envoys watched in tense silence as he turned back to them. His expression had hardened into decision — the kind that carried the weight of consequences no one dared speak aloud.
"Summon the attendants," he said. "At first light, I'll demand audience with the King. Not as a guest, not as an ally — but as a lord wronged before the eyes of his realm."
A younger envoy hesitated. "My lord… perhaps it is wiser to leave. The insult can be carried home, the grievance brought before our own—"
"Leave?" Valen's voice struck like thunder. "Do you think I will crawl back across the sea with my tail between my legs? No. The South must see the pride of Iceese unbent. I will not allow that bastard king to think he can shame us into silence."
He moved toward the fire, staring into the flames as though seeing Daeryn's face there. His voice lowered, but the venom in it deepened.
"He thinks himself strong because he sits on a throne carved by his betters. But his strength is a shadow's strength — loud in light, gone by dawn. I'll face him, and he'll remember that the North does not kneel."
A tense quiet followed. The envoys exchanged uneasy looks. Hadrik bowed his head.
"As you will, my lord. But I fear this road you walk leads not to justice, but to ruin."
Valen smiled faintly. "Then let ruin come wearing a crown."
He poured himself another cup of wine — slower this time, almost graceful — and raised it toward the firelight.
"Tomorrow," he said, "I speak before the King. And the South will learn what becomes of those who mistake courtesy for cowardice."
He drank deeply, the red staining his lips like blood.
Outside, the bells of the city tolled midnight. The sound carried over the quiet waters and up through the high keep towers where the last of the feast's lanterns guttered out one by one.
Valen set down his goblet and looked to his men.
"Go," he said. "Rest. You'll need strength for the morning. I mean to make history."
The envoys bowed and withdrew, their steps echoing down the long marble corridor until the doors shut behind them.
When Valen was alone, he turned once more to the window. The wind caught the heavy drapes, stirring the scent of salt and smoke through the room.
"A queen's smile, a king's pride, a realm of glass," he murmured. "All so easily broken."
His reflection in the glass looked back at him — pale, sharp, and trembling slightly in the light.
He touched the edge of the table, steadying himself, and whispered again, softer this time, almost like a prayer:
"I'll make him see me."
And as the torches flickered low, the great city of Crest Keep slept beneath its mist — unaware that dawn would rise to the first cracks of a coming storm.