𝐄𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑𝐒 & 𝐀𝐒𝐇𝐄𝐒
𝐀 𝐊𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐝𝐨𝐦𝐬— 𝐚𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐱 𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐞𝐧!𝐨𝐜
preview: The road to Ashford is long and wearing, and Lucerea arrives with little patience for her husband or the memories stirred along the way. She is received at court with all the expected courtesies, though her thoughts remain elsewhere. News from beyond the gates gives her one more reason to feel that this tourney is not what she expected it to be.
warnings: death mentioned
The journey from Stonehelm to Ashford Meadow took a full fortnight, each day stretching longer than the last. What seemed manageable on parchment maps and in the confidence of men felt entirely different beneath the open sky. The procession moved at a steady pace, slowed by wagons heavy with supplies, armored knights unused to long rides, and the simple reality of the Stormlands’ unforgiving terrain. It was not like the Reach, with its endless rolling fields and gentle paths that welcomed travelers. The Stormlands rose and dipped without warning, hills sloping into rocky passes, narrow roads winding between thick forests that swallowed sunlight whole.
Some days the air was crisp and forgiving, the sky a wide blue expanse that made the banners flutter proudly as they rode. The sea wind would follow them inland for a time, carrying with it the scent of salt and distant waves crashing against cliffs. On those mornings, Lucerea almost felt light, her mare stepping freely over uneven ground while birds scattered from treetops at their approach. The land would glow green and wild as if daring any army to conquer it.
Other days were far less kind. Dark clouds gathered without warning swallowing the sun and casting the world in a dull gray. Rain would fall in sudden sheets, soaking through cloaks and gowns alike. The roads turned to mud beneath the weight of hooves and wheels, sucking at boots and splattering hems. Tents were pitched in haste, hands fumbling with rope and canvas, while thunder cracked overhead.
When it rained, Lucerea felt hollow inside. The constant drumming against the canvas and earth brought her back to another storm, one that rolled over King’s Landing the night her mother’s fever finally claimed her. The scent of wet dirt was thick in her lungs, almost suffocating. She was dry beneath layers of silk and wool, yet she never felt colder. It was almost exactly a year ago.
208 AC, King’s Landing
It did not rain often in King’s Landing. Not this much anyways. The narrow alleyways swelled with runoff from Blackwater Bay and nearby rivers along King’s Landing. The tides pushed inward, eager to swallow stone and timber. The water bore a sickening color, muddy yellow with a slimy green hue. There was a smell, a foul stench that clung in the air. It mingled with rot, stool discarded on the streets, and the copper tang that seeped from wounds. The breeze from the East could not chase away the odor that crept through streets and climbed the walls of the Red Keep itself.
The cobbled roads shimmered beneath the downpour, each slick surface catching what little light pierced the sky. The ground used to be hard and packed. Now every step sank in forbidden grime or slid across uneven stone. A careless stride could send someone sprawling onto sharp cobbles, where a twisted ankle or a cracked limb might linger far longer than the storm itself.
It was an old belief that rain that split the heavens meant the death of someone that was truly not meant to go so soon, so loved the Seven Gods wept. The faithful whispered the gods mourned through torrents, that their grief poured violently upon the world below. The cold wind threaded through narrow corridors and between rooftops, carrying with it murmured omens of a light extinguished too swiftly. The clouds hung low and burdened by sorrow as though there was no comfort that tomorrow could bring.
Lucerea stood beside a raised platform. She was dressed in a black gown too simple for a princess. A sheer black veil cloaked her face, clinging faintly where her breath warmed it and blurring the outline of her features. In her hands, she held a small bouquet of evening star, moon bloom, and lilac. Their petals drooped, heavy from the rain and rough handling, the edges bruised and color faded.
At first light, she had ran through the downpour to pluck them from the garden. She could still hear her septa’s disapproval cries carried by the wind. She remembered her bare feet sinking into the wet soil, fingers numb and trembling to tear the flowers from their stem.
“They are not the prettiest,” she choked, the words splintering against the back of her throat. Her eyes brimmed with hot tears threatening to fall. “But they are your favorites.”
Her mother lay unmoving before her, hands folded, skin pale as winter milk. Pebbles rested upon her closed eyes, painted the same violet as her siblings, so dark they were nearly midnight blue. They looked too bright against her complexion, the color itself did not belong to death. Her long ebony hair was brushed by the silent sisters and arranged with reverent care, fanned at her sides and left in its natural waves. Lucerea always thought her hair mirrored the sea waves of the summer seas at Starfall.
Her mother spoke so often of her girlhood in the pale-stoned castle, of towers that shimmered beneath the sun like a star shattered into a million pieces. She described how the light struck the walls at dawn, how it poured between the spires in ribbons of amber. She spoke of returning one day, when all her children were grown, to stand between those towers once more and feel the warmth of home upon her face. To breathe the salt air and to watch a new day arise.
Lucerea always listened as though those stories were promises. But promises were fragile things. They shattered easily. They laid now like broken glass at her feet. When the next sun rose, it would not find her mother dreaming of distant towers. It would rise with Lucerea alone, a daughter who had not yet learned how to live in a world that no longer held the sound of her mother’s voice. And the light, no matter how golden, would feel colder than the grave.
It’s been hours since the ceremony concluded beneath the vaulted ceilings of the Great Sept of Baelor. The incense perfumed the air, sweet and suffocating, clinging to her clothes and candles burned low in their sconces. Every Targaryen residing in the Red Keep had stood in attendance. Her father Maekar remained stern and immovable, Daeron restless beside him, Aerion silent and watchful, Aemon withdrawn into his own thoughts. Daella and Rhae clung to one another in open sobs, while Aegon shifted with the discomfort of a boy too young to understand the weight of loss. Her uncle Baelor bore his grief in silence, and her cousins Valarr and Matarys gave their condolences. At the forefront, her grandfather King Daeron the Good presided with a solemn expression, the crown heavy even in mourning. It was only a wake, a final gathering before her mother was given to the pyre’s flames, as their tradition demanded.
Throughout the rites she felt the weight of certain gazes settle upon her. She did not need to turn to know who watched. They all understood how close she was to her mother, how often she walked by her side, and how frequently she lingered in her chambers long after others had gone to sleep. Their glances held sympathy, perhaps even in wonder at how she would bear the loss. When the murmured condolences faded and the last of her kin withdrew from the sept, she stayed behind.
She gripped the stem of the bouquet until the thorns bit into her palm. Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks, and a soft sob slipped past her trembling lips before she could swallow it back. She did not know how to be strong. Not now. Not when the woman who guided her through ten-and-eight summers was gone. Strength lived in her mother’s voice, in her steady hands, in her tight embrace, and in her laughter.
Wet footsteps struck the marble like a slow tolling bell. Each step echoed through the cavernous sept, disturbing the hush of incense and prayer. The sound did not belong to the silent sisters, nor to wandering mourners. It was menacing and familiar. Lucerea did not turn at once. Her gaze remained fixed upon her mother’s still face, as if by sheer will she could bring her back. To look away felt like letting go.
The footsteps approached without pause, closing the distance between them. Only then did she draw a quiet breath and turn. Through the thin black veil she first saw the outline of his frame: broad shoulders dampened by rain, standing rigid despite solemn circumstances, and pale hair darkened at the ends where water clung to it.
Aerion.
He stood a few paces away. The storm clung to his cloak and his expression less than pleased. He had cut his hair shorter a few days prior, yet it was still long enough for her to card her fingers through. The silver-gold strands spiked and dripped from the unforgiving rain. Droplets slid from the ends, down his cheek, falling at his shoulders. His doublet, black as mourning itself, concealed the dampness, but his skin held a faint sheen beneath the candlelight, rainwater tracing the hard lines of his jaw.
”I’m not finished,” she muttered hoarsely, her voice worn thin by hours weeping. She feared he would take her by the arm and drag her out of the Sept, as if grief were a misbehavior to correct. She meant only to lay the bouquet at her mother’s chest, then whisper her final farewell, and leave before the tall walls closed in and suffocated her. When all her kin left, Aerion alone remained. He told her he would wait inside the wheelhouse for her. She never meant to linger long, but time unraveled, stretching thin and shapeless, around her. Until at last, Aerion stepped out of the wheelhouse and walked through the rain to retrieve her himself.
Aerion stopped before her. His violet eyes swept over her slowly. They paused at her trembling fingers, digging into the bruised stems, then moved to the raised platform their late mother rested upon. Something flickered across his expression, gone as quickly as a dying spark, before his gaze returned to Lucerea. “It is almost evenfall,” there was a hint of irritation in his tone. “The rain will not let up.”
Beyond the sept’s great doors, the storm hurled itself against the city. Rain struck the domed roof with a loud thunder. The heavens themselves were impatient and restless. Lucerea tilted her head upward to look at him. The veil blurred his features, softened the angles of his face, but she saw the muscle in his jaw tighten. There was no doubt, he wanted to leave this place of smoke and death. He did not wish to stand beneath the carved gaze of the Seven who had taken more than they had given.
“I cannot bear to leave her,” she whispered. Her breath staggered, pressing her lips together to fight off a sob. She cried so many times in front of him. She did not want another reason to add to his irritation.
The sept seemed impossibly vast at that moment. Only a handful of silent sisters drifted through the shadows, their pale forms gliding between pillars. Aerion stepped closer, reaching up and lifting the sheer veil from her face. The fabric slid back over her hair, light as a departing sigh. Cool air brushed her damp cheeks. He saw her fully now.
Her skin flushed and blotched from tears, lashes clumped and wet, eyes swollen and rimmed in red. She looked younger in her grief. His hands rose to cradle her face. They were calloused, colder than she expected. He tilted her chin so she had no choice but to meet his gaze. His violet eyes were clear, almost too clear, like polished amethyst sold at a merchant shop.
“I will never see her again,” she bargained with him. He did not relent under her whimpers. He held a steady stance, his thumbs brushed the tears from beneath her eyes.
“Settle your peace now. My patience has spoiled you enough,” he answered her firmly. The words stung, though she knew the shape of his meaning. He would stand here as long as she needed. He simply would not admit it.
Lucerea closed her eyes and drew in a slow, shaking breath. The incense burned her lungs. When she stepped away from him, her limbs felt like lead. She approached the raised platform once more.
Her mother lay swathed in the colors of House Dayne, the white sword and falling star embroidered in silver and purple thread that shimmered faintly in the flickers of candlelight. Celestial patterns curled along the shroud like constellations stitched into night. The velvet beneath her was a deep royal purple, rich and soft, the border heavy with names sewn in delicate script. Lucerea had stitched them herself, by the hearth, pricking her fingers until tiny beads of blood stained the thread. Her mother’s name. Her siblings’. Her father’s. Hers.
She thought if their names went with her, stitched close and tight, her mother would carry the proof of their love into whatever waited beyond. That she would not walk into the afterlife alone. That she would remember what she left behind.
With careful hands, Lucerea lifted her mother’s fingers. They were cold, utterly devoid of warmth. The lifeless weight of them made her stomach twist. She nearly choked on a sob at the sensation. This was what death felt like, silence and coldness. She laid the bouquet against her mother’s chest and folded a hand over it, arranging the flowers so they rested gently. For a brief moment, her mother did not look like a corpse. She looked like a bride waiting for music to begin.
Lucerea lifted her gaze. The Great Sept of Baelor soared above them in impossible height, its vast dome disappearing into shadow. The towering statues of the Seven encircled the hall, their carved faces with solemn and judgement. The Mother’s stone eyes seemed heavy with pity. The Stranger’s hooded gaze remained unreadable. Candlelight crawled along their features, making them seem almost alive.
Aerion followed her line of sight. For a moment, neither spoke. Rain battered the world beyond the walls, a furious hymn that drowned the city in grief. The sound filled every hollow space, crept beneath doors, pressed against stained glass. It swallowed her voice when she finally began to speak. Lucerea bowed her head and murmured her final words, soft and trembling. The prayer was not meant for Aerion. Nor for the silent sisters. Nor for the court that would whisper of royal mourning by morning. It was meant for her mother and for the Seven to bear witness.
When her final prayer dissolved into the hush of the sept, Aerion did not allow time to dwindle. He stepped forward and drew her back against him until her spine met the solid plane of his chest. The movement was swift, almost abrupt. One arm circled her waist, his palm flattening against her stomach, anchoring her there. The other slid upward along the column of her throat.
His fingers curved around her neck, not tight enough to harm, but certain enough to command her in-place. With that hold he tilted her head back until her veil slipped further and she was forced to look up at him. The candles cast shifting light across his face. His thumb swept slowly across the corner of her mouth, catching the single tear that gathered there before it could fall.
“Enough,” he murmured, not cruelly, but with a finality that left no space for argument. He held her there a moment longer, her breath shallow against his hand, his warmth seeping through the thin black gown. Up close, she could see the emotion he refused to voice. The storm had left droplets in his lashes. His jaw remained set, carved from the same stone as the gods towering above them. There was a flicker of something passing over his violet eyes that her grief was not hers alone. It was his as much as hers. A reminder that she was not alone, even if the heavens took the one person who had made it feel whole.
“Let the Old Gods and the New have her,” he murmured, his breath hot as it brushed against her lips, stealing the space between inhale and exhale. For a suspended moment, neither of them moved. The candles trembled in their iron cradles, light flickering across her tear-streaked face. Beneath the vaulted ceiling of the sept, with the Seven in silent witness, Lucerea looked almost unearthly. Grief had hollowed her into something fragile and luminous. Aerion’s gaze traced her features without restraint. He hated seeing her in tears, yet now they clung to her lashes like fallen stars, catching the reflection of light.
“But they will not have you.” The words were low and innate. A vow.
He closed the distance between them, the last breath of space vanishing as his lips pressed to hers. His hand remained firm beneath her jaw, steadying her, while the other tightened slightly at her waist, anchoring her to the living world. He kissed her, daring heaven itself to take anything more.
She did not know she needed the kiss until it claimed her. The instant his mouth met hers, the world seemed to tilt. The suffocating weight in her chest loosened its grip just enough for her to breathe. His lips were warm, deprived, and undeniably alive. It deepened, reminding her where she was, who held her, and who she belonged to. Lucerea felt her sorrow bend around his heat. Her fingers curled faintly into the fabric of his soaked doublet. He tasted of rainwater and wine, a little salty, mildly sweet, and very intoxicating.
The, she bit him.
Her teeth sank into his lower lip without warning. Hard enough that she felt the give of skin beneath pressure. When she pulled away, she dragged her teeth with her.
Aerion jerked sharply, breath snapping between his teeth. A low curse escaped him. The sting was immediate and sharp. He touched his lips, his fingers came away streaked with red. For a heartbeat, neither of them moved nor spoke.
Lucerea stepped back, just out of reach. Her chest rose and fell unevenly. Her veil fell entirely, black fabric pooling at her shoulders. Her lips were flushed, slightly swollen. Tears still streaked on her cheeks, silver in the dim hall. She looked at him with wide, glossy eyes that might have seemed innocent to anyone else.
Aerion stared at the blood on his fingers, then lifted his gaze to her. Slowly, a smirk curved his mouth despite the sting. It was sharp, approving, edged with something darker. For a fleeting second he had thought grief would make her pliant. That her sorrow would bend her toward him without resistance. He misjudged her.
The tension between them tightened, coiled like drawn steel. He took a half step forward, intent clear in the way his shoulders squared, in the way his hand flexed already reaching to reclaim her. A thin line of crimson marked his lower lip where her teeth had broken skin, and he lifted his thumb to smear it away, studying the stain as if it amused him. “Warn a man first,” he spat, his voice low and edged with heat rather than reprimand.
He closed the remaining distance and caught her by the arm, his grip firm, guiding her away from the bier and the dying candles. His cloak brushed against her skirt, steering her toward the shadowed archway that led from the sept. When he bent towards her, the scent of rain and iron clung to him, mingling with sacrilegious air. He drew her close, his mouth near her ear, hot breath against the curve of her cheek.
“I will balm your sorrows the way that I know best,” he said quietly, the promise threading through his tone with certainty. His hand settled at her waist, as though grief were something he could conquer through touch alone. “You will be crying to the gods for another reason before the night is through. I shall bring heaven to you, dearest sister.”
As they stepped into the open air, the rain met her without mercy. It soaked through the black silk veil upon her shoulders and traced slow paths down her gown. It washed away the remaining scent of incense and ash, replacing it with the sharp cleanness of storm and soil, and for a fleeting moment she lifted her face to the sky, eyes closed, imagining the gods themselves pouring down upon her in an effort to cleanse what prayer could not. The water felt like absolution against her heated skin, as though heaven sought to rinse away the blasphemy that bloomed within sacred walls. Yet Aerion stood beside her, solid and aflame despite the chill, his presence cutting through the illusion of purity. The rain might have wept for the dead and tried to wash their daughter clean, but beneath the rain she did not feel forgiven.
“Just a mile until we see the castle gates,” Alester said, guiding his horse closer so their stirrups nearly brushed. The road leveled into firm earth, the grass on either side trimmed short by passing travelers and grazing sheep. In the distance, the banners of House Ashford snapped in the breeze, bright orange and white against the soft blue sky. “We will set up the pavilion in Ashford Meadow next to Lord Pearse,” he added, adjusting the fall of his cloak across his shoulder.
Lucerea inclined her head but kept her eyes forward. The castle walls came into clearer view with every stride of her mare. It was sturdy but modest, the towers rounded and practical rather than grand. She had seen greater. Summerhall rose in her memory without effort, pale stone gleaming beneath the sun, its towers stretching high enough to catch the first and last light of day. A few smallfolk stood along the roadside as the procession passed, aprons dusted with flour, children clutching at skirts. Their gazes lingered on her longer than on the armored knights. Alester kept his horse aligned with hers. It was an added precaution, though she doubted any of the common folk would dare approach such a large retinue.
“We shan’t be disturbed,” he continued. “Our pavilion stands well away from the lists.” His gloved fingers drummed once against the pommel of his saddle before he drew a breath. “There will be more time for us to spend together.”
The only answer at first was the steady rhythm of hooves striking earth and the creak of leather harnesses behind them. Lucerea’s fingers tightened around the reins until the leather pressed into her gloves. She lifted her chin slightly.
“That is generous of you, my lord,” she said at last, smoothing a nonexistent crease from her skirt where it draped over the saddle. “Though I would hate to be the subject of idle talk. The other lords might think I have claimed you entirely for myself.” Her mouth curved faintly. “I would not enjoy hearing that I have turned you into a shadow trailing after your wife.”
Alester’s shoulders shifted beneath his cloak as he let out a quiet breath that might have been a laugh, though it did not quite reach his eyes. “Perhaps I have gotten ahead of myself.” He rolled one shoulder as if easing tension. “You are not wrong. The other lords are relentless and quick to jest. It may be wise that I spend more time among them, build stronger rapport.”
Lucerea nudged her mare forward a fraction, creating just enough distance to let a strip of sunlight fall between them. “Then you will be well occupied,” she replied.
Soon the procession passed through the open gates of Ashford. The courtyard bustled with color and movement. Lucerea slowed her horse, stopping just behind Alester as Lord Ashford and several members of his household waited to greet them. Around the yard hung banners bearing a white sun and chevron on a field of orange and deep tenné. The bright hues gave the courtyard a warmth that felt different from the darker tones of the Stormlands. Servants hurried with baskets and bolts of cloth. Guards stood straighter as the Swann party entered. The guards and servants here seemed lighter in spirit, their smiles easier, their movements less burdened.
Alester reached up for her the moment her mare stilled, his hands settling firmly at her waist. His grip was careful in the way one handled something rare and fragile. He lowered her to the ground as though she might shatter if he misjudged the distance. Her slippers met the courtyard stone softly. For a heartbeat his hands lingered at her sides before he released her.
Lucerea stepped away at once, smoothing her palms down the front of her gown. It was another ivory piece, similar to the one she had worn when they departed Stonehelm, though lighter now for the warmth of the Reach. The silk clung and loosened in all the right places, designed for movement rather than display alone. The sleeves were slit along the arms, allowing air to brush against her skin, and the skirt flowed in long, graceful lines that shifted like water with each step she took. The fabric caught the sunlight, giving her an almost luminous presence against the lively colors of Ashford’s courtyard.
Her hair had been drawn back in a simple twist at the crown, secured neatly so it would not tangle in the wind of travel. The rest fell in soft, bouncy waves down her back, silver strands gleaming brighter against the pale ivory of her gown. A delicate tiara of pearls and fine silver rested atop her head, catching the Reach sunlight and making her hair seem less like silver and more like spun moonlight.
She moved to stand beside Alester, her posture effortless and composed. A few strides ahead, Lord Gawen had already claimed Lord Ashford’s attention. The older Swann lord threw his arm around the smaller man’s shoulders with a booming laugh, his hand landing heavily in a clap that made Lord Ashford stagger half a step. The Reach lord’s smile stretched wide despite the wince he could not quite hide, his fingers curling tightly at his sides, enduring the greeting. Around them, banners stirred in the warm breeze and servants hurried past, casting curious glances at the newly arrived princess.
“My eldest son, Alester,” Lord Gawen announced proudly, pulling him forward. Lord Ashford dipped his head in greeting.
“And his wife, Princess Lucerea.”
“My princess,” Lord Ashford said at once, bowing deeply. He took her hand and pressed a respectful kiss to the back of it. “Welcome to Ashford. I trust the journey was not overly arduous.”
“Lord Ashford, thank you for receiving us,” Lucerea replied with a gracious smile, withdrawing her hand with poised elegance. “The ride into the Reach is always pleasant.”
Lord Ashford beamed at the compliment. He was a stout man with a rounded belly that strained against his tunic and a crown of unruly brown curls atop his head. His cheeks were flushed, either from the sun or excitement. He turned and beckoned to a young girl at his side. “Princess, this is my daughter, Gwin.”
Gwin curtsied gracefully. She appeared no older than ten-and-five, with dark hair styled in delicate twists that framed her face. A crown woven of golden and orange leaves rested atop her head, interspersed with pale pink roses that matched the embroidery of her pale yellow gown. The floral designs along her skirts complemented her house colors beautifully.
“You are as pretty as the sunrise,” Lucerea said warmly, allowing her smile to widen. Gwin’s face lit up, a faint blush dusting her cheeks, beaming at the compliment.
“We shall begin our preparations. The pavilion will not build itself,” Lord Gawen declared, already turning his broad frame toward the open stretch of Ashford Meadow beyond the courtyard walls. His voice carried easily, confident and commanding, as squires hurried at once to follow him. The promise of bright silks, raised banners, and polished armor seemed to energize him more than the journey ever had.
“Shall the princess come inside to rest?” Lord Ashford offered quickly, stepping half a pace closer to Lucerea. His tone was eager, almost anxious to please. “We have prepared food and wine, and the hall is cool from the heat.”
Every pair of eyes nearby shifted to her. Servants paused mid step. Gwin looked up expectantly. Even a few guards near the doors angled their heads, curious.
Lucerea kept her posture straight, her hands folded lightly before her. The faintest smile touched her lips, “It would be discourteous to refuse the hospitality of our host,” she replied smoothly. Her gaze flicked briefly toward Alester before returning to Lord Ashford. “However, only if my lord husband permits.”
“Oh yes, of course,” Lord Ashford said at once, nodding eagerly as he gestured toward the castle doors with an open palm.
Alester inclined his head in agreement and motioned for her to proceed. He exchanged a few low words with his father about the pavilion’s placement and the order of the men before stepping after her. The stone beneath their feet shifted from sun warmed courtyard to shaded entryway, the air cooling noticeably as they crossed into the castle.
Inside, the banquet hall was prepared with careful attention. Long wooden tables stretched across the chamber, their surfaces lined with platters of sliced pears, clusters of grapes, wheels of soft cheese, and baskets of fresh bread still dusted with flour. Decanters of red and gold wine caught the afternoon light that streamed through tall, arched windows, the glass glowing warmly. Cushioned chairs were arranged near the tables, embroidered in orange and white to mirror the Ashford colors. The faint scent of honey, baked crust, and crushed herbs lingered in the air, mixing with the polished wood and cool stone.
Lucerea moved toward one of the tables with Gwin at her side. She reached for a cluster of grapes, her fingers delicate against the dark skin of the fruit. She twisted one free and brought it to her lips, biting down gently. The sharp sourness bloomed across her tongue, but her expression barely shifted. Only the faint tightening at the corner of her mouth betrayed her distaste before she swallowed.
“I assume my family has not yet arrived,” she said lightly, her tone casual as she let the remaining grapes fall back against the platter. Her eyes, however, settled sharply on Lord Ashford.
“You are correct, my princess,” he replied, dabbing at his brow with a folded cloth despite the coolness of the hall. “I received correspondence that they would arrive in due time. However…” His voice trailed, thinning at the edges.
Lucerea turned fully toward him now. She set a half eaten grape carefully upon the edge of the platter, aligning it neatly among the others. Her gaze narrowed just slightly. “Is there something amiss?”
“No, no, no…” Lord Ashford insisted, though the cloth in his hand twisted tighter between his fingers. A bead of sweat traced along his temple. “It is simply that…”
“Prince Daeron and Prince Aegon have gone missing,” Gwin blurted, the words spilling out before her father could lift a hand to stop her.
The sound seemed to strike the stone walls and fall flat. The faint clatter of dishes beyond the doorway dulled, as though the hall itself had drawn a breath and held it.
Lucerea did not flinch. She remained exactly as she was, shoulders squared and chin leveled. Only her eyes shifted, gliding toward Alester slowly. His posture had altered almost imperceptibly, his brows knitting together as his fingers flexed once at his side.
“Missing?” he repeated, the word landing heavier than before.
“They were expected days ago,” Lord Ashford said in a rush, stepping forward as if he could soften the blow by proximity. “But they never arrived. It may be nothing more than a delay. The rivers swell in spring. The banks grow treacherous.”
Lucerea turned back to him. Her hand moved toward the platter once more, selecting a grape from the vine. She rolled it thoughtfully between her fingers, pressing just enough that the thin skin split with a quiet snap. A bead of juice gathered at her fingertip and slid down the curve of her hand. She placed the crushed fruit back among the others.
“Delayed is a gentle word, my lord,” she said, her voice even and controlled. “My brothers possess a talent for finding trouble.” Her gaze did not waver. “Dragons seldom choose the safest skies.”
Lord Ashford swallowed visibly. His shoulders rounded, his nod too quick, too eager.
“I am certain they will appear soon,” Alester offered, stepping closer. His hand came to rest against her elbow, fingers warm through the silk of her sleeve.
Lucerea’s spine stiffened by a fraction. She shifted her arm, smoothing the front of her gown in the same motion until his hand slipped away without spectacle. Her expression did not change.
Inside, her thoughts moved faster than the words spoken around her. She could see Daeron in her mind as clearly as if he stood before her, chasing whatever stirred his pride. Aegon would be at his side, eager and naive, matching stride for stride. She imagined rain swollen rivers cutting through roads, horses misstepping along muddy banks, steel drawn too quickly in some reckless encounter. The hall, with its honeyed scent and polished tables, began to feel smaller, the air thinner.
She inhaled slowly, pressing her palms down the front of her ivory gown as though smoothing wrinkles that were not there. When she lifted her gaze again, it was steady and void, betraying nothing.
Around her, servants resumed their movements. A goblet was lifted. Someone forced a polite laugh that rang hollow against the stone. The orange banners stirred faintly in a draft from the open windows.
Lucerea stood among them, silver and ivory against a sea of warm colors, and listened to the echo of absence. She waited for the familiar sound of her brothers’ voices to break the tension, for the careless laughter that always followed them into a room. Instead, there was only the scrape of chairs and the offer of wine, and the quiet knowledge that the dragons had not yet arrived.
— above: starfall
𝐧𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 | 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 | 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫