Dawn had not yet broken over Erydonel when Lord Meryn Elric stirred from uneasy sleep. The wind from the eastern sea moaned softly against the shutters, carrying with it the damp scent of rain and the distant roll of thunder. Somewhere below, a stable hand called to a restless horse. Meryn sat up slowly, listening to the familiar sounds of his keep waking—buckets clattering, doors creaking, voices murmuring in the courtyard.
The letter still lay on his desk, weighted beneath a small iron hawk. He had read it thrice the night before, though each reading brought no greater clarity—only more unease. The fox's seal had been unbroken when the riders arrived, but even wax carried its own kind of deceit.
He rose, pulling on a heavy tunic of grey wool trimmed with faded gold. The hearth had long since gone cold. His fingers brushed the scar along his forearm, a remnant of his youth—a wound earned in defense of his father's hall. Those days had seemed simpler. Then, loyalty had been measured in blood, not coin.
A knock at the door.
"Enter," he said.
Maester Eldric stepped in, his thin frame swallowed by his grey robes. His chain clinked softly as he bowed. "My lord. The riders from Harlowe Heath rest in the guest quarters. They'll depart after breaking fast."
Meryn turned toward the window. Through the arrow-slit, dawn began to spread—thin and red, like blood diluted in water. "Let them eat their fill. They'll carry back my answer before noon."
Eldric hesitated. "You mean to attend, then?"
"Of course." Meryn's voice was quiet, but firm. "To refuse a summons from Lord Varron would invite insult. To accept, at least, gives the appearance of prudence."
The maester's thin lips pressed together. "The Fox of Harlowe Heath deals in appearances, my lord. He never asks what he cannot already use."
Meryn allowed himself a faint smile. "Then let him try to use me, Eldric. A fox's bite is nothing against a hawk's talons."
Eldric bowed his head, unconvinced but silent. "I'll see to your provisions, my lord. You'll ride at first light?"
"After breaking fast with my family."
When the maester left, Meryn stood a long while before the window. The vineyards stretched below him, rows of leafless vines dark with dew. Beyond them, the woods gave way to low hills and the silver line of the river. It was a modest domain by the standards of the Crownlands, but his father had made it prosper through restraint and watchfulness. Meryn had no great ambitions for conquest or renown. Stability was its own reward.
Yet peace, he thought, is like a cask of summerwine—sweet, fragile, and easily spilled.
---
By the time he reached the great hall, the household was stirring. Servants carried platters of fruit, bread, and cured ham to the table. Smoke curled from the hearth, mingling with the scent of rosemary and fresh oak. Lady Alenna sat with the children already gathered around her.
Lorasen was asking questions before his father even reached the table. "Will you see knights, Father? Lords with banners?" His eyes gleamed with that restless fire that reminded Meryn too much of himself at that age.
"Knights, aye," Meryn said, seating himself. "And lords too, each with their own cause to press. You'll learn soon enough that talk among men with banners is more dangerous than swordplay."
Lia giggled softly. "Then why go at all?"
"Because," Meryn said, buttering a piece of bread, "those who stay silent when others plan soon find plans made for them."
Alenna watched him closely, her brow creased. "You don't trust this council."
"I trust that Varron Ruskyn sees profit in it."
"Profit often comes at another's cost," she said.
He met her gaze for a long moment. "Aye. But if we hold to our own and bend to none, we'll endure. That's enough."
Little Jorren sat between them, unusually quiet. His small fingers toyed with the crust of bread, and his golden eye—so bright and strange—watched every exchange as though taking its measure.
Alenna reached to smooth his hair, her hand pausing at the streak of silver that cut through the dark strands. "Our son sees too much."
Meryn's mouth curved faintly. "Then he'll make a good lord one day."
When the meal was done, he rose and kissed his wife's brow. "See to them while I'm gone. I'll return before the week's end."
Alenna caught his hand. "And if you don't?"
"Then burn the letter," he said quietly, "and remember that oaths can bind the living and damn the dead."