Carefully, she ensures each sprout is removed, scattering a few fresh seeds in their place before covering them once more.
“The rabbits will enjoy these,” she says, tucking the gathered greens into her apron. “They, and we, will be the only ones to witness what just happened.”
“Thank you,” I say quietly.
She protects more than just me—she honors the gift. To discard the sprouts would’ve torn something in me. Something sacred.
Back inside the manor, we wash up. I leave the day dress folded over the edge of a chair and rinse my hands in the cool water of the basin before slipping into something soft and clean—linen that doesn’t carry the earth’s weight on its hem.
Nerves prickle as I know the courier ought to arrive soon. I worry how I will occupy the time until then, so I make my way to the parlor to see if Ace is waiting, ready to entertain.
I barely have a moment to settle on the settee when I hear the rustle of movement at the front of the home. I venture down the hall cautiously and find Vale addressing a figure, leading them toward the formal study. He turns and sees me there—tentative warmth spreads across his face, stirred by the mix of the arrival and my presence. A slight but welcoming smile forms as he offers me his hand. He closes the door behind us. Just myself, my king, and the guest we’ve been waiting for.
Vale moves behind the desk, and a man in simple clothes turns toward me.
“Your Majesties,” he says with a bow. Simple clothes, yes—and an unremarkable face too—but one I would never forget, even without the scar currently hidden under a dusty neckerchief.
“Daerin!” I start to move to hug him. Though we’ve never interacted much, I feel a closeness from Vale’s trust in him. But the man turns rigid. He doesn’t back away, but the signal is clear. I temper my enthusiasm.
I take my seat, remaining on the very edge. Vale plants his palms on the desk, towering over it, while Daerin stands across from us both, satchel at his side.
“The wine’s been sent directly to the kitchen, m’lord,” Daerin says, his eyes flicking to the door.
“Good,” Vale’s voice booms, then softens to a hush. “I’m not surprised Odrin sent you. If the matter is too sensitive for scroll, and too urgent to wait, you must have found something.”
“Indeed.” He reaches for the satchel, pausing only a moment to receive Vale’s prompting nod. “They searched the merchant’s belongings—everything on him, the room where he was staying—and turned up nothing amiss. But?—”
He produces a piece of parchment, tightly folded, its edges worn soft from handling. A faint stain of broken wax, long since fractured, marks it.
“I’ve learned to check where others don’t bother—under bench slats, behind buckle linings… once found a ledger tucked in the stuffing of a sleeping mat. You never know who thinks they’re clever.”
“And this merchant…” I struggle to reference the now-dead man who attacked me. “Was he a clever one?”
Daerin loops a thumb behind the strap of the satchel, casually leaning back.
“No, ma’am, he was not. I mean—m’lady. Erm—Your Majesty.”
He harnesses a natural swagger to bury his discomfort, his voice taking on increasing formality.
“Guards searched, but they didn’t really look. It wasn’t even hidden—not really. Just buried in a stack of ledgers, invoices, and orders.”
“So it hid the way you do, my old friend—in plain sight,” Vale adds. “We do so tend to overlook the things right in front of us.”
Vale reaches for the letter, inspecting the words before reading them aloud and turning it toward me to see.
The wedding proceeds as planned.
The bride takes the aisle alone.
She is intended to ascend.
Then, below the instructions—as if it were the signature itself where no name stands—the words rise darkly from the page:
Long live the Ironborne Flame.
I shiver at the sign-off.
Vale’s white-knuckled fist tightens and flexes above the desk.
