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.

 

[KittenTrix]

The ballroom hummed with music and murmurs, but Theron stood leaning against a marble pillar, a goblet of wine untouched in his hand. Despite his seemingly relaxed posture, he was alert, on guard after his years at war. His gaze swept the room with bored disdain, skimming the faces and details.

Then, the whispers slithered past him.

"He left her waiting in the rain for hours-"
"-heard she cried like a child for days."
"How pathetic."

His fingers tightened around his cup as the voices tittered. Bors, his ever-watchful second, shot him a glance then the other man scoffed, "Petty nobles, nothing better to do..."

Theron's jaw twitched and he swallowed some of his wine. He hated gossip. Hated the way these vultures feasted on weakness. Being away from court for so long had lowered his tolerance of it, it seemed.

A sharp laugh cut through the murmurs. Duke Sontlair, preening in velvet and arrogance, stood nearby, clearly relishing the story. "Ah, but duty is a cruel master. Women of good breeding understand their place is to wait patiently, and keep her disappointments quiet, lest she embarrass herself. After all," The man took a sip of his wine dismissively, "if she cannot endure a few hours in the rain, how will she bear the weight of my name?"

Realizing they must be talking about the Duke's betrothed, Theron grit his teeth and looked away. He didn't know the girl, but Cassian's smug face as he talked about some sacrificial bride made his wine taste sour. Pathetic? That title belonged to Cassian, not the girl.

"Enough of this tasteless gossip. Lady Gwyn is a woman of principle. While you were dining with envoys this winter, she was healing the sick on her father's estate. That is hardly pathetic behavior."

That brought Theron's gaze up, his brow rising. Duke Sontlair was glaring at the speaker, an older man with what must be his wife on his arm, both looking uncomfortable with the conversation.

Bors shook his head, stepping closer and turning his large frame to block him. "Koss, don't."

Stepping around his friend Theron moved to the edge of the group, his eyes tracking every microexpression on Duke Sontlair's face as the older noble continued defending the girl. There was the barest flicker of anger that someone opposed him, hidden quickly with a light smile as he swirled his wine lazily. "Ah, Lord Aldric, always the sentimentalist. A noblewoman playing healer? It's quaint, I'll grant you that, but hardly befitting her station."

He cast a look to the others in the circle, his smile sly as his voice dropped, murmuring as he took another sip of his wine, "But neither is waiting like a kicked dog, yet she excels at that too."

Theron's fingers twitched toward his sword as Cassian mocked the girl's healing. Something ho coiled in his chest, the same razor-edged protectiveness that made him protect his soldiers. He didn't care about some noblewoman's tears.

Yet when Lord Aldric spoke of her working with the sick, Theron's chest tightened, he'd seen enough battlefield surgeons to know real compassion from noble pretenses. A back bent over healing books or sick beds. The stubborn set of a jaw as wounds were stitched on cursing, struggling men. The way his own soldiers had whispered of noble ladies who'd sent bandages to the front last winter as part of charity boxes. Cassian's words chafed because Theron knew what it was like to sacrifice while others took credit or diminished the effort.

A few of the younger ladies smiled at the joke while Duke Sontlair's friends chuckled. Lord Aldric's wife, Lady Elira, stiffened, her knuckles whitening around her fan. "She did what duty truly demanded. But some confuse duty with self-interest."

"My dear Lady Elira, you mistake naivety for virtue. Did she weep over the peasants too? Or does she reserve her theatrics for me?" Cassian scoffed, his tone patronizing, as if Lady Elira's words were that of a child.

"How fortunate," he interrupted, voice dripping with false charm, "to find a man so strong that he brags about making women cry." The group fell silent with shock. Cassian's smile turned brittle as all eyes turned to Theron. He could tell who among the group knew who he was and who didn't.

When he left for the war, Theron had been barely twenty-five, tall and slim, his dark blonde hair still light, and barely had enough muscle to carry his sword, with an easy smile. Now at thirty-seven, he was taller but could never be called slim. His body was rounded with enough muscle to wield his sword and at the same time control a warhorse with little effort, with enough mass to keep warm in the frozen north lands. His once sandy blonde hair was now a dark brown, with a few strands of silver threading through the short cropped hair, with a matching beard. Though his eyes hadn't changed color, the golden hazel was surrounded by furrowed brows and a dark expression that never smiled. A fresh scar crossed his cheek, nicked his lip, and slid over his jaw, and it wasn't the only one he had.

The few times he had returned he had been injured and didn't spend much time with the nobility. Twelve years of war had stripped the courtliness from his behavior, leaving only hard words and a permanent scowl. And Cassian Sontlair did not recognize him. All the better.

The smile turned to a sneer as the other man tossed his blond hair off his forehead, the gesture casual, but the stiffness in the movement betraying the Duke's agitation that the conversation seemed to have turned against him. His eyes glanced over Theron's clothes, probably looking for a hint as to his rank, and found none.

At his own insistence, Theron wore the same black dress uniform all his soldiers at this ball had been provided. Granted, his was of better quality fabric and cut to fit him precisely. They all wore the same short cape that hit at their knee, midnight blue fabric lined with gold, hung from one shoulder with a cord across his chest that looped under his arm and around his back to hold the heavy fabric in place.

"And who, exactly, are you to speak on matters of nobility? Some backwater knight who's forgotten his place?"

The surrounding nobles tensed, edging away from Sontlair. Bors made a choked noise behind Theron, and he looked over his shoulder at his second, his voice disbelieving. "Twelve years at the front, and this is our welcome home?" Shaking his head, he turned back to Sontlair, his gloved hand resting casually on his sword hilt, his eyes focused and predatory. He had been at war too long, and his hand was itching to end this with a blade instead of words.

Despite the duke's previous insults, Lord Alric still grasped his arm and whispered a warning, but the duke shook him off, his smile smug and his tone belittling. "This is why we don't let war dogs mingle with their betters."

Bors crossed his arms over his chest, almost laughing as he traded looks with Theron. "Don't they teach pampered lordlings who protects the Empire?"

Cassian snorted. "What do soldiers know? Do they even teach you to read on the front lines, or just to swing a sword?"

Hearing the musicians taper off, and the herald start the horns, the beginning of the announcement of the king and queen, Theron leaned in his voice deadly soft. "When next we meet, you will know my name, and I will teach you to kneel."

"His Majesty, King Edric Valtair Dortain Kossvarr!"

Turning away, ignoring Cassian's sputtering, Theron and the other soldiers headed to the dias. But when the other soldiers, including Bors, stopped at the edge of the steps and turned to face the crowded ballroom, Theron continued, his cape snapping like a dragon wing behind him as he climbed the steps.

The king's knuckles whitened on his throne as Theron ascended the dais. His glare demanded to know why his son couldn't enter from the staircase like royalty should, mixed with the faintest twitch of his lips as Theron ignored protocol to stand instead of sitting in his throne next to them. Yet beneath the disapproval was pride in how the court recoiled from his son's strength and how he stood to his right where the sword-arm should be, just a step lower than the king and queen, one foot on the top level.

"Her Majesty, Queen Lysara Melynth Dusk!"

The queen's painted lips had curved as her son took the dais steps two at a time, like the conqueror he was. Her rings clicked once against her throne's armrest, a sound only her ladies would recognize as delight. Her eyes, sharp as knives, pinned to him making it clear she saw the fire in him. A glint of warning not to burn the kingdom down.

"And Crown Prince Theron Varek Draven Kossvarr, the Dreadwyrm, returns victorious from the war!"

He stood scanning the crowd until he found Cassian Sontlair again. He held his gaze until the duke dropped his eyes in supplication.