It was another strange dream. Meriwyn had dreamed that she could not move, her limbs secured to a snarling fox, a screeching eagle, and a four headed serpent, which whispered things she could scarcely understand. She was unsure why, but when she tried to repeat their words, she felt as though she were cursing. Like she was breaking the rules. She tried to push the strange words, and the strange dream, out of her mind.

  Despite everything, she’d been so excited she almost couldn’t fall asleep. In the past few weeks, planning for the festival had been a welcome gap from the typically dour news at court. Now they could talk about Meriwyn’s passions, in music and art, and in the finer aspects of pastries. Things finally seemed to be calming. Lord Atho had sent ahead a raven, one nearly killed by the castle’s hawks, confirming that Lady Massel had agreed to become Durendane’s first Mistress of Waves. The castle thrummed with whispers after that choice, Meriwyn hoped they were good whispers. The people of Azalus had been quite celebratory, Meriwyn couldn’t help but feel a swell of pride in her chest. She was her father’s daughter after all, she’d been able to sway the crowd. Now, it was just a matter of keeping them happy. The Tournament and Feast would be a good start. Percin had already followed custom and dispatched Hawks to every major house in Durendane to send their patriarchs to Castle Azalon to swear fealty to their new queen.

  Ser Theron had gathered a select group of his finest, most loyal, veterans to act as a personal guard for Meriwyn. She hoped they would not be a permanent addition, these sentinels that stalked her from one end of the castle to the other, glaring at anyone who so much as looked her in the eyes. They had commandeered a few guest rooms in her hall, and there were always at least four guards stationed outside her door or following her at all times. They carried tall, rounded shields that bore the crest of House Azalus. Each man had a spear that was taller than she was, and a short-blade forged of Boar Bone-Iron. She had hoped for a group of Knights to accompany her, but Ser Theron said it would take time to gather a proper Queensguard. One had not been needed in some time, as King Varrel the IInd Azalus had done away with the tradition of firstborn sons serving as the Kingsguard well over three hundred years ago, after his own son perished in battle.

  Meriwyn tidied her mattress, pulling her bedding from the floor. It didn’t look good, but it at least did not reveal she’d been sleeping on the ground. Since being moved from her old bedroom, it had become her habit. The thought of laying in that bed, sleeping where the Watcher had come to take her father to the Ferryman? Goosebumps rose across her arms just thinking about it. Meriwyn shuddered.

  Opening a window, she stared out across the vast expanse of the city. Azalus. They had respected the progenitor of her house so much they named the city for his family. It was resplendent with its domed rooftops, banners billowing in the wind, smoke carrying the smells of food and industry on the air. The markets were fat with throngs of workers and merchants, flooding to the city in anticipation of the tourney.The streets were packed with wagons laden with supplies, people traveling about their business. They were so far beneath the castle, that from the window they appeared as little more than ants. She traced the lengths of the proud aqueducts which cut through the city to deliver water to fountains and public baths. Her eyes followed them past the city walls, to the soldiers on the outside.

  House Fireforge, House Holt, and House Waye had arrived in the city already, each man bringing three hosts of warriors, about one hundred and fifty men each. As having such soldiers within the city was against the King’s Law, their red banners were outside of the city, the Black Dragon on them roaring in the wind. House Holt’s banners, the White Pear with Golden Leaves on red, were camped nearest the main gate, and Percin had spent much of the past few days in the warcamp, speaking with Lukar Holt, who had been sent to lead the Holt Hosts. House Waye, their crest an escutcheon half of brick and half of gold, camped on a hill just outside of town, somewhat isolated from the other two warcamps. Rogar Waye was reportedly waiting for Atho to return with Lady Massel before he would enter the city. Ser Theron had suggested Meriwyn order him to enter the city, but she didn’t understand why he was so worried.

  By the time Percin had come to bring her to court, her servants had dressed her in a burnt orange, velvet, gown. She had been granted a golden circlet, inlaid with three gems in the colors of their house. Red, Orange, Yellow. She was excited for her coronation, but enjoyed the circlet so much she almost didn’t want to be given the new crown. The castle was lush with life, guards and performers, and petitioners who Percin and Ser Theron’s veterans pushed out of the way with ease. She felt bad, but couldn’t help but smile when she saw crowds part to make way. She felt like a dragon, flying through the sky while all the birds scattered.

  Instead of to the council chamber, today they went to her father’s audience hall. The throne had been carried into here and set upon a dais at the far end of the room. Seats to either side, four on the left and five on the right, made room for each member of the council. Lady Massel and Lord Atho had not yet returned, so the Lord of the Greenery’s seat was empty, as was the Mistress of Waves’ and the Lord of the Hilt, as she had no siblings to grant it to. Hectar Corinth sat in the Lord of Wages’ chair, which was inlaid with a coin from the reign of every king, all the way back to King Arnulf.

  And now, Queen. Meriwyn thought with a triumphant smile. Next to him was the Lord of Whispers, Damien Fireforge. A simple chair of black wood was his. Next to him was Highfather Lyam in his priestly garb, chair adorned with carvings of the symbols of the nine gods. Hane Waverly had accepted the call to serve as Lord of Commons, but House Waverly’s ships had not yet reached the Jewel-Port, where nobles and richer merchants made landfall in the city. Ser Theron was on her right, one of the only filled chairs, as Percin took a seat in the chair meant for Lord of the Hilt. Other Councilmembers exchanged glances, and Ser Theron whispered something to Percin angrily. Percin only smiled. He’d been Lord of Commons for a time, then Lord of Wages. Her father considered him a close friend, and had mostly set him to sit whatever seat on the council was empty at any given time. Every head and knee bowed as Meriwyn went to take her seat at the head of the room. It was exhilarating.

  The Lords of House Fireforge and House Holt were already waiting for her.

  Lukar Holt was a tall, thin man with features as sharp as the fearsome saber he carried at his hip. He adopted the curved sword from some of the Merchant Nomads of the Southern Plains, who said such blades served better in the saddle. He took a knee, bowing his head of long hair as he spoke.

  “Queen Meriwyn the Ist Azalus, scion of her name, ruler of the Pommel, Blade,” he locked eyes with Percin as he finished “and Hilt.” He finally looked to meet her eyes.

  “It is my honor and pleasure to finally be made your acquaintance.” He smiled. It did not suit him.

  Alaryc Fireforge was shorter than Lukar but near twice as broad, and wielded a warhammer in battle. As the stories went, he could swing it so hard it’d tear a horse in two.

  Poor horses. She tried to keep her mind off the creatures. At least the soldiers had chosen to be there. She frowned at the absence of Lord Rogar Waye, but was not surprised by it.

  Alaryc spoke next.

  “We have come to swear our swords to you, before coronation.” He said, taking a knee and lowering his head. Meriwyn thought she caught him glaring at Percin.

  What am I missing? She wondered.

  “Our bonds are not to titles, but to blood.” He spoke it like a reminder, taking another moment to look at Percin.

  A good King is gracious. Father said so. A good Queen then must be the same way. She resolved.

  Highfather Lyam began to speak.

  “Do you two men then vow to protect Queen Meriwyn the Ist Azalus, with all of the strength of your house, to death if you must? Do you make this vow before all men and gods alike, knowing the mark on your soul should you break it?”

  “Yes.” Alaryc boomed. “And may the gods strike me dead if I lie.”

  “Certainly.” Lukar cooed. “From now, until the end of my days.”

  Highfather Lyam hobbled to the men, presenting them with an ancient looking stone dagger. Both of them cut their palms on the old blade, allowing their blood to spill on the castle floor, sealing the vow. Highfather Lyam took the dagger back, said to have been the same one used when the Knights of the Landfall became blood brothers.

  Smiling, she told them to rise. As both men stood, she thanked them. A part of her felt at ease now, knowing that the Castellan’s guards did not stand alone. Of course in time the other houses would arrive to swear fealty, but it still put her heart at ease.

  “As a marking of this momentous occasion, I have brought a gift.” Lukar smiled, and a servant approached him with a bound package. He moved forward slowly, bowing to present it to her.

  Meriwyn gingerly unwrapped the packaging to reveal the gift within. A cloak, long and red, with white trim. It was thick, and soft, and so heavy that it felt more a blanket.

  Alaryc presented a gift of his own, next. A sturdy little dagger, with a hilt of Ironoak and a blade of Wolf-Bone Iron.

  Not the gift one would traditionally give a Queen, and she could see the council’s opinion of it in their skeptical looks and rolled eyes, and hear it in scoffs of indignation.

  Alaryc ignored their disapproval.

  “You have the Azalus iron in your blood. Why not wield it with your palm?” He asked.

  Meriwyn gave a gracious smile, taking the dagger from Lord Alaryc.

  “I shall carry it with me as long as I live.”

  That should inspire some loyalty. She hoped. Alaryc gave another bow as he grinned, stepping back to join Lukar.

  “Will you both be participating in the Tourney?” She asked, unable to contain her excitement.

  Alaryc’s grin widened as he nodded.

  “Of course, I’d never miss a chance to unhorse this old fool.” He clapped Lukar Holt on the shoulder, perhaps too hard. Lukar cast him a scornful look, wiping it away with a smile.

  “You wish, you old dog. I’ll put you into the dirt.” He said the last part a little too harshly, and Meriwyn’s stomach churned. She got the impression there was more going on here than she thought. Perhaps it was just nerves.

  Nerves. Yes. She nodded. Father is….Father is gone and everyone is anxious. Things will calm after the tourney.

  “I look forward to seeing you there.” She smiled weakly.

  With that the two men excused themselves to deal with the day to day runnings of their Hosts.

  “We ought not to leave a seat unfilled.” Percin said, settling back into his chair.

  “What are you proposing?” Hectar asked.

  “Nothing. I would merely draw attention to the fact that Queen Meriwyn has no younger siblings to take the seat of the Hilt.” He said innocently.

  “Lord Percin does have experience with logistics and management.” Damien nodded thoughtfully.

  Hectar’s mouth was agape, he looked as if stabbed. He turned to Meriwyn, and the eyes of the other men followed. She was frozen, her blood chilled in her veins.

  “Percin Holt, you have loyally served my father.” She said with a shaking voice. “I would like to keep you near me.”

  Hectar slumped back in his seat with a huff.

  An overgrown child. She thought suddenly, feeling disgusted with herself. She couldn’t think like that, he’d been loyal to her father. By all accounts, he did his job admirably.

  “Have any other Houses sent ahead responses?” Meriwyn asked. Damien nodded.

  “House Sunshield and House Sparrow are on their way, there was a raid recently. Rogues.” He said. "Bastard-Kin raiders, coming ashore on their longships to get slaves and plunder. House Cinder, House Lothar, and House Rickar have yet to respond. House Riven, House Ember, and House Corinth have of course.” Damien shuffled through a leaflet of scrolls.

  “We’ve not received word from a single house North of the Pitchfork river yet.” He mused.

  Not a single northern house?

  “Perhaps messages have been delayed?” Meriwyn offered hopefully.

  “Perhaps.” Percin replied dismissively.

  “I can march north to remind them of their oaths.” Ser Theron offered, gripping the hilt of his sword, which leaned against his chair.

  Meriwyn waved him off.

  “There is no need. We’ll give them more time. Another two weeks perhaps. Send another hawk.” She ordered.

  “Yes, my Queen.” Ser Theron replied, but she could see his dissatisfaction.

  “Why choose?” Damien asked. “I will reach my long fingers into northern castles, and try to make sense of what they’re up to.” He smiled, the Lord of Whispers was already lost in thought, scheming.

  “Report to me with your findings when you have completed this task.” Meriwyn tried to sound adult.

  Damien gave the same strange smile he always had, nodding while he wandered his thoughts.

  The next morning, she knew that Lady Massel had arrived. From the window of the master bedroom, she could see the ships on the horizon. A collection of longships, following a smaller messenger vessel with the bricks of Waye upon its sails. The longships bore the three blue stars of Icenhall on its white sails, each star stacked atop the other. The bastard clans had sent two ships a piece, she could see the gray wolf on blue of Clan Bjornaeg and the purple thorns on black and blue of Clan Bracken. Peace settled over her like the calm morning waves. Surely, with the arrival of Atho, Lord Rogar would come in to reaffirm his vows, and all would be well once again.

  Meriwyn breathed a sigh of relief, pulling herself out of bed feeling rather light. For a moment, before she remembered, she considered searching for her father to ask what he thought of all of this. She almost sank back into the bed once she did remember. It was getting easier, but Meriwyn found herself wondering if this unbearable feeling of displacement, knowing that something was missing, would ever pass her by. This morning, she decided to pray for longer than usual. She took time to pray to each of the nine, starting with the Martyr, the Whipped God, that none would need sacrifice themselves. So far as the scriptures went, the Martyr was the first of the Nine to ascend. He gave over his possessions to the needy, and spent his life traveling and helping others on the road. He was said to have sacrificed himself, allowing himself to be killed in place of a village by the eldest and greatest of all dragons, Fafnyr, whose hoard was said to have towered as high as a mountain. Meriwyn was glad the Landfall had seen the end of dragons and their kin. What good would castle walls be against something with wings?

  Stolen story; please report.

  Percin, Meriwyn, and several other Council Members went to meet with Lady Massel and Lord Atho at the Jewel-Port. Riding through the city, Ser Theron at the head with a wall of mounted Knights around her, Meriwyn felt a true queen. People peeked from alleyways and windows, gossiping as their procession passed. Ser Theron kept them in the Old Quarter, where the minor houses of the city Azalus resided.

  “It’s safer in these parts.” He had said. They had to be careful, killers and catspaws could infiltrate the crowds.

  They reached the entrance of the Jewel-Port, passing under its arched marble entrance, and passing the banners of the various merchant guilds that made their homes in the grand city of Meriwyn’s ancestors.

  The Jewel-Port was the finest port in the city, home to many inns, restaurants and taverns, foods and drinks, and spices from across the oceans. The streets of polished cobble underneath clacked pleasantly with the clatter of horseshoes as they moved deeper into the Jewel-Port. Merchant ships from up and down Durendane, ships carrying spices from the Golden City of Midalon, gems and silks in abundance from Orpheos. No matter where they were from, their vessels were lined neatly in the port, and sailors offloaded their cargo with a practiced precision. Of those walking the roads, there was at least a guard to every pair of nobles traveling through the area. Diplomats and Merchants, Nobles and Travelers from across the seas, all dressed in fine silks and furs. Gardens and terraces flanked them from rooftops, where Nobles quietly entertained guests. Several sources of music were audible, Meriwyn could pick out a harp, and perhaps a pan flute somewhere nearby. Longstrider seemed well at ease in the Jewel-Port, walking proudly, his head held high.

  Muncher lead their caravan, the horse snorting ragefully at anyone who came within ten feet of their procession. Eventually, they came to the end of the long main road, and watched the Longships and the little messenger boat of the Waye’s come into port. The Snekkars of Clan Hall of Icenhall were gathered in number behind them, six ships.

  Their Snekkars were sleek, fast, and their figureheads were of various hissing serpents. Each ship had 24 oarsmen, each a warrior from their respective clan. Eyes fell upon them as they entered the port, and Meriwyn noted Ser Theron’s guards readying weapons.

  “Just in case.” Percin eased her, evidently noticing her confusion.

  “They have the blood of bastards.” Highfather Lyam said. “We must be careful. They are chaotic, bloodthirsty.”

  Hectar Corinth nodded in agreement.

  “There is much wealth in the port. We should ensure they remember who they serve.”

  They haven’t even landed yet, and the council is already planning for their betrayal.

  She tried to stand up straighter, glad that the mornings were becoming warmer. If it had been winter, she wasn’t sure she’d survive the morning.

  The first man off the ships was Atho Waye, a new man from the one who left.

  “My Lady!” He gave a bow as he stepped off the edge of the little caravel he’d left in.

  “I bring the three Clans of the Bastard Isle, who have come to swear their blades to you.” All signs of his dread and sadness had fled him.

  Lord Atho Waye, Lord of the Greenery, looked quite proud of himself as he gave a bow.

  Following him off the ship was Lady Massel of Icenhall. She was dressed simply in a gray-blue gown, her black hair streaked with gray. Meriwyn was drawn to the woman’s eyes, they were unbelievably blue, almost inhumanly bright. She gave a deep bow, and each of the children who tottered off the ship behind her followed Lady Massel’s lead. She knew they were her children, the resemblance was uncanny. Her daughters looked just like her, and her sons were the spitting image of her late lord husband. Meriwyn noticed that her eldest son, Syd, was nowhere to be seen.

  He too, must fill such large shoes.

  She hoped that Syd was doing well after Lord Jon’s passing.

  “My young queen, I have awaited our meeting with great anticipation! Forgive me for bringing my children. After Jon’s…accident…I simply..” She couldn’t finish her sentence. Atho placed a comforting hand on her shoulder as Meriwyn nodded.

  “Of course, you do not need to be separated from your children.”

  From the ships came a stream of warriors that inspired physical unease in the men around her. Men from the bastard isles were a strong bred bunch, made that way by their environment. As far as Meriwyn knew, lowborn boys joined the raiding parties from as young as twelve. It was not technically legal, but then again, nobody was going to sail up there and stop them. Each of them had brought 48 warriors apiece, just under a host of men.

  Percin had a bit of a sour look on his face, and it suddenly occurred to her why.

  He can’t make them camp outside the city. Hosts of warriors cannot enter the city, but this is not a host of warriors.

  They wore circular shields and they carried swords and axes, all the better to cave in the doors of uncooperative victims. Meriwyn was not necessarily fond of these warriors, but to see them here at least meant they did not intend to wage a war with her.

  “I do not like this.” Hectar whispered to Percin. “Each of them brings a host in tow.”

  “We outnumber them.” Percin tried to set the Lord of Wages at ease.

  “In the city perhaps, but if they charged us here nobody could stop them!” Hectar hissed.

  Meriwyn guided her horse forward, eager to get away from their worries.

  Nerves. She assured herself. They’re just scared.

  “It is a pleasure to welcome you to Azalus. I bid you make yourselves at home! It must have been quite the journey.”

  The Lords of Clan Bracken and Bjornaeg disembarked their own vessels now.

  House Bracken’s Lord fit his name, thorny in every appearance. Every part of him appeared sharp, from his glare to his elbows, to the long thin sword he carried on his hip.

  Lord Bjornaeg was an old man, who had the fire of a cornered animal in his eyes. His beard was thin and white, and fell almost to the man’s knees. He walked on an axe taller than he was, using it more as a cane than as a weapon, but Meriwyn did not doubt he could swing it if he had to. He wore the skin of a bear as his cloak, the head draped over his own, his face peeking from the bear’s roaring maw.

  “Hyrd Bjornaeg!” Hectar called on a shaking voice. Meriwyn could see grinning faces in the crowd of Bastard-men behind the Lord. She recalled now that the Bastard-men did not call their Lords as such, but Hyrds. If she was remembering right, it meant something like ‘Guardian’ or ‘Hearth Guard’.

  “Will you swear your fealty here, or in the great hall?” Hectar asked.

  Hyrd Bjornaeg limped forward on his axe-cane,a gap-toothed smile filling his face.

  “Should we not break bread with the new queen?” The old man asked. “It is customary for a man to give his guests a meal.” He narrowed his eyes now, stepping forward.

  “If we are owed such kindness, as bastards.”

  Hyrd Bracken grinned widely, stepping forward to join his comrade closer to the Queen. The Shield-Bearers of their house stepped with them, and Meriwyn saw her own guards slowly moving to stand with her. She could see men in either force picking targets, sizing each other up. Hectar was making sure to check each street leading from the area.

  “Our conflicts have long passed.” Percin tried to ease the tension. “We are all proud sons of Durendane, here to keep her strong in her time of need.” He looked to Highfather Lyam. “Aren’t we?” He asked sternly, turning his attention to Hectar next.

  The rest of the council muttered halfhearted agreements.

  “We are all Danelanders.” Meriwyn made her voice stern.

  Damien was grinning like a fool, as if the entire situation were utterly delicious.

  Hyrd Bracken nodded as he appraised Percin. Meriwyn could not tell if he found anything interesting.

  “Aye, we are. Looking to keep her strong.” He replied.

  “Well, let us see the Castle that Lord Waye has told me so much about.” Lady Massel said, climbing aboard an offered horse with spider-like grace. Meriwyn could not help but notice her smile.

  Their procession earned many strange looks from people in the city. Most avoided them like a refuse cart. Several times they found people who seemed to think the city invaded in the moments before they noticed their queen. The Bastard-men did not seem offended, they in fact seemed to relish in the fear it seemed they dredged from those in the Old Quarter. They shot glares at people who looked too long, and not a single one of their was unmarked by battle. Scars across eyes, men missing ears, at least three without noses, one man was missing his right arm from the elbow down, replaced by a piece of wood his shield was drilled into. Even Lady Massel’s sons, Quincyn and Tark, wore thin scars on their faces and arms, as if they frequently played with daggers. Their walk was silent, the only sound around them was the quiet clanking of armor and weapons shifting, the breathing of horses and the clattering of hooves. The city seemed to recede from them, to hide. More and more of Meriwyn’s own men fell in with their caravan as it moved to the castle, until finally Ser Theron’s men outnumbered the Bastard-men, and seemed to set her council at ease.

  Percin could not make them camp outside of the city, but he was under no obligation to allow them into the castle. Meriwyn chose not to disagree with him, when he made the request to Lady Massel that she keep her soldiers outside of Castle Azalon. Lady Massel, for her part, agreed without trouble.

  Henna and Eryn, her daughters, shadowed Lady Massel even as she sat on her new chair as the first Mistress of Waves. One on her left, one on her right. Her sons had run off with a servant boy, much to Hectar’s visible disgust, to play sword fight in the courtyard with sticks.

  Meriwyn found herself wishing she could play, but Queens did not have time for such things. Atho returned to his own seat. The councilroom was almost full. Whenever it was that Hane Waverly arrived, Meriwyn’s Queen’s Council would finally be complete.

  Highfather Lyam asked of them the same Oath he’d requested of the Lords previous.

  Hyrd Bjornaeg and Hyrd Bracken both knelt before Meriwyn, taking into their hands the long, jagged, stone dagger of the ancient knights. But these men did not cut their palms, as did the southern lords. Hyrd Bracken lifted the dagger and looked up to Meriwyn.

  “I do not hide my oaths.” He said, driving the tip of the dagger into the flesh beneath his eye, and dragging the blade down to his chin. Hectar leaned back, aghast as he looked away. Percin blinked away his shock as Highfather Lyam sputtered on his own words. Atho, Damien, and Lady Massel all seemed to find the whole thing very entertaining.

  “What are you doing?” Meriwyn suddenly blurted.

  “A man’s oaths should not be hidden by the closing of his palm.” Bracken grinned, passing the dagger hilt first to Hyrd Bjornaeg. Not a man to be outdone, Hyrd Bjornaeg severed his left thumb in one swift cut. He showed no emotion on his face as he did so, as the severed digit hit the ground like a fat white maggot, with a quiet thump. Percin was so shocked he could not turn away, and Hectar now lost his wine spewing over the edge of his chair. Highfather Lyam was outraged.

  “This barbarism!” He shouted, Lady Massel’s grin widening.

  Had they planned this on the way over? Meriwyn wondered. Pale and shaking, eyes stuck to the spilled blood, she managed to murmur out her approval of the Oaths, and dismiss the two of them to her men, sending an Apothecary to ensure the elder Hyrd Bjornaeg did not catch an infection of some form. Every time she blinked, she saw that severed finger, the little white worm in its pond of blood.