The daughters of the House of Dregrove— Fia, the elder, and Una, the younger— were kept by Cleon within the walls of Gruen through that winter and the following spring. Being but children, Fia thirteen summers, Una but five, they wept each night in longing, holding one another close in their firelit chamber while the winter winds howled and snow streaked across the leaden glass. When their governess entered to tend the flame, she could offer them no comfort; and so, withdrawing in sorrow, she left them to console each other.
When spring came, the sisters were summoned to court that tidings of the Blodwin daughters’ well-keeping might be sent to Dregrove. Their governess brushed and braided their hair and arrayed them in gowns of embroidered linen. They appeared at Cleon’s table many times through that season, shy amid the splendour of the hall of Gruen.
Fia, being of fair countenance, drew the gaze and captured the lust of Cleon; and ere the summer was full, word spread that she would be his bride. When the news was brought to her, her look grew still and proud, as one who steels herself to bear a burden she cannot set down. Fia knew then that many years would pass, if ever, before she might look again upon her Dregrove home.
At the solstice, her father, Reik Mendo, came to Gruen with his lady, their young son Madrot, and a retinue of servants and guards to witness the royal wedding of his daughter. Little Una wept for joy when she beheld them in the plaza, and ran to embrace her mother and father; but Fia lingered apart, distant and silent, her gaze fixed upon the banners that fluttered above the gate. She knew that their embrace, once shared, would waken a grief too deep to quiet, and that its ache would endure long after their departure.
The wedding was held in the palace garden, adorned with ribbons and garlands of spring bloom. Beneath a canopy of silk, the guests assembled, lords and thegns, matrons and maidens, merchants and wardens alike, each bearing tribute to the new queen. Fia stood beside Cleon, fair and still as marble, her eyes downcast as the vows were spoken. When the priest proclaimed them joined, trumpets sounded, and a cheer rose from the courtyard; yet many who looked upon the bride saw no joy upon her face, but only the pale resolve of one who endures exile.
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That evening, at the feast in the great hall, the Rex of Methundor and his young bride sat upon the high dais, drinking from one cup as was the ancient custom. Yet as Cleon drank, the wine spilt, and crimson droplets stained his vest, a blemish quickly wiped away, though many whispered it an omen of ill fate.
Minstrels sang of peace restored and banners newly united, and the air grew thick with perfume and promise. But to Fia, each song sounded like farewell, and each toast a stone laid upon her heart. She smiled as courtesy required, yet her gaze wandered often to the dark beyond the torches, as though seeking the stars she would no longer see.
That night, when the feasting was done and the hall grew still, the governess came for Una and led her to her chamber. After dressing her in her night-clothes and tucking her beneath the woolen coverlet, she set a candle upon the sill and drew the heavy door closed. In the hush that followed, Una heard the faint strains of music fading from below— the laughter of strangers, the clink of goblets— and she knew that none of it belonged to her. Alone beneath the wavering flame, she pressed her face into the pillow and wept until her tears were spent, and sleep finally came like mercy at last.
At dawn, the sisters met once more, though only for a fleeting moment. They embraced in the pale morning glow, clinging as if to halt the parting of the world, until their father gently prised Una from Fia’s arms and bore her toward the waiting caravan. From the gate, Una looked back and saw her sister standing alone among the courtiers, her face wan against the rising light. Long years would pass ere she beheld her again.
That winter, Fia bore a son, Ceryd, and the house of Gruen rejoiced, though her heart remained bound to the home she had lost.
Yet Cleon the father found no peace within the bannered halls. The feasts wearied him, the councils dulled him, and the songs of flattery rang hollow in his ears. Each night he walked alone upon the ramparts, gazing eastward beyond the forests where the hills darkened against the snow. In his heart there grew a hunger, an ache for peril, for blood, for the sharpened edge of purpose. He would stand beside his sleeping queen, her form heavy with his second child, and feel himself a stranger in his own chamber. And so, ere the leaves had turned, he gathered Odax and his wardens once more and rode forth from Methundor in search of conquest, leaving Fia and their son, and Gruen behind, to dream of a peace he could neither give nor keep.
