The Dreadwyrm

[KittenTrix]

Looking out of the stables, Gwyn felt the steady creep of a realization, like the cold rain currently soaking her clothes. A betrothal did not mean love, she knew that, but she thought theirs was different. They had known each other since childhood, their families were friends despite the slight difference in station, and she thought he had at least some liking for her. He was kind to her in the past.

Today proved her wrong; the final sign in a long line of them that she had ignored.

Cassian did not love her. He didn’t respect her or care for her well-being. He’d left her waiting in the rain for hours. Forgotten her birthday, not just the date, but the pearls she’d hinted for months she wanted. Now he was delaying the final betrothal contract, as if she were some merchant’s daughter he could keep waiting. She had worked her whole life to be the best bride he could have ever wanted, and yet… He treated her as if she was nothing.

Her hands shook but not from the cold, and she clenched them into fists to hide the sign of her emotions. Gwyn felt her fury burning through whatever affection she’d had for him. Who was he to make a fool of her? He might be a duke, but he was a poor one, despite his family’s trade connections. However attractive he was, she was the one called the Jewel of the Capitol, considered the most beautiful young woman in the kingdom. She might ‘only’ be an Earl’s daughter, but her bloodline stretched back to the Conqueror-Kings and the great wars, her family loyal to the crown for generations, while her dowry could’ve bought Cassian’s crumbling manor ten times over, never mind the rest of her fortune and that of her family.

Her nails bit into her palms. The pain was sharp, helping Gwyndalise come back to herself. When her maid came to her side, warning her that a troop of soldiers was coming to lodge at the inn and they should leave, she nodded. Climbing atop her horse, she and her guards rode out of the stable yard, headed for the estate a few miles away.

---

The men were too weary, wet, and hungry to look up as the beautiful girl rode past, flanked by guards and a maid. But he noticed. A man in his position didn’t survive this long without learning to see what others missed. And she did not belong here.

Either she was very young, or he had become very old, slim and small on her expensive mare. That was what first caught his eye, a good horse was hard to ignore, and hers was a well bred cream colored palfrey. Excellent gait and a color that might have bordered on gold had it not been soaked with rain.

The horse matched the girl; even without the guards she was clearly nobility, with her head held high, her spine straight even as her hips rolled with the horse’s movement. Her hair looked to be blonde, but was pulled into some feminine style, with lots of braids and loops that must have looked better before she had been caught in the rain. Now it resembled a soggy tangle of rope, the scarf pulled over her head not doing much to save her. The quick glance of her face showed an impassive expression, her mouth flat and her eyes trained on the road ahead of her.

But then his scout barked across the yard, “Koss! We’re in!” The scent of stew hit him as they climbed off their own horses, his stomach cramped, and he forgot the girl, hurrying with his men to stable the horses. They would rinse off as well as they could outside, eat, and then collapse in whatever rooms were available to sleep. Despite his best efforts, he knew he would be awake in a few hours, thanks to the pain of his injuries and a habit of constantly checking his surroundings. Constantly under attack, it had been nearly seven years since he slept deeply. But his men deserved to sleep as long as they wanted. As long as they could. Even if he couldn’t.

 

[KittenTrix]

The ballroom was so bright it looked like a sundrenched afternoon despite the late hour. The color of every gown and the flicker of dozens of magically enhanced chandeliers and wall sconces were mirrored in the polished marble floor, strains of music flowing around the large room. The windows sparkled like crystal even against the dark of the evening outside, making the inside feel like its own little world; everywhere she looked was a familiar face, and every action predictable… Never changing.

But for Gwyn, freed from her sentimental feelings for Cassian and her need to make him proud, what was once comforting now felt like a gilded cage. The weight of expectations used to feel like something to live up to, but now she felt ground down.

She had spent hours being laced into her gown, her hair coiled and pinned like a crown, and usually would have been delighted by the results. Yet as she descended the staircase, all she could think was how little any of it mattered to her. The victory being celebrated wasn’t hers. Every word exchanged was a scripted attempt at currying social favor, every gesture rehearsed to perfection. And across the room, Cassian stood with another woman’s gloved hand on his arm.

“Lady Gwyndalise Maraliane D’Ravargent!” When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she was announced, as usual.

A hush fell for a moment, the eyes of the court raked over her, assessing, judging, before the murmurs resumed. Gwyn forced a smile, but it was brittle.

Across the room, Cassian leaned down to whisper something in his companion’s ear, and the woman laughed. Gwyn’s stomach twisted, but not with jealousy. With disgust. At him, yes, but mostly at herself. She had spent years molding herself into the perfect noblewoman, the perfect bride. And for what? To stand here, a trophy in silk and jewels, while the man meant to be her husband flirted with another? A few nobles whispered behind fans, their eyes darting to her, then to Cassian and his companion. One matron even had the audacity to offer her a sympathetic smile, as if Gwyn were a wounded bird in need of encouragement, and for the first time, she realized several of the eyes on her were full of pity and mockery.

Her fingers curled into her skirts. The fabric was exquisite, and she forced herself to let go before she crushed creases into it. Forcing a smile onto her face, she stepped into the room and began the usual circuit of greeting those who outranked her, before finding a spot near the terrace doors, planting herself with a few friends around her.

Nearly half an hour later, Lord Yomon, a known gossip whose loyalty shifted with the wind, approached her and she nodded to Lady Mary. Gwyn allowed Lord Yomon steer her into conversation, laughing sharply at his joke, the sound too sharp to be genuine. Next to her, Lady Mary stiffened, her gaze flicking to the edge of the crowd across the room. Gwyn followed her glance and saw Cassian watching her, his expression unreadable. But before she could react, another lord joined their circle, blocking her view.

When Cassian finally approached, his companion still clinging to his arm, Gwyn greeted him with an uninterested smile that didn’t reach her eyes. "Duke Sontlair," she dipped in a slight curtsy, spoke in the same voice as always and yet, the people around them sensed the tension. "How lovely to see you... occupied." Her gaze flickered to Lady Braunbur, the nineteen-year-old daughter of a Marquess, and watched as the younger woman's flirtatious smile grew brittle, her posture stiffening at Gwyn’s slight.

Gwyn held the younger woman’s gaze long enough for Lady Braunbur’s flirtatious smile to turn brittle. A marquess’s daughter might outrank an earl’s, but Gwyn was still the future Duchess of Sontlair. For now, at least.

“Pardon me, I am going to step onto the terrace for a bit of fresh air. Enjoy the evening’s entertainment, Duke Sontlair.” With a glacial nod to Lady Braunbur, bordering on disrespect, Gwyn turned on her heel. The terrace doors promised escape, and she swept away without looking back.