Marmari

Wind roared through the opened window, fierce enough that if she closed her eyes, she might think herself astride Caraxes. That is why he liked it here. That, and the sense they shared, the unmistakable pull of home. Since bonding with her dragon, it did not matter where in the world Daena was, or if she were blindfolded and spun in circles. She could always right herself and point toward it.

Daena had not braided her hair for dragonriding, so it flapped loosely in the wind while she stared outward. Her face grew cold, her ears numb. The wool of her dress was no equal to dragonriding leathers, but she was not yet cold enough to shiver.

Over the roar of the wind, she heard the sound of approaching footfalls and knew them at once to be her husband’s. No one else would dare disturb her here; she had claimed this perch years ago.

“You will catch a chill.”

Daena did not need to see Raymar to know that a frown had accompanied his words. Some small part of her bristled, perceiving judgment in it, but Daena knew that if she turned, his brow would be furrowed in worry.

She said nothing. A few moments later, a blanket was draped over her shoulders, and an embrace followed, warm and secure.

“May I close the window?”

Daena nodded, words yet failing her. Raymar kept an arm curled around her as he reached past to wrestle it closed, latching it one-handed, and then he held her once more.

“Maester Forsethe told me of the raven. I am sorry.”

Her husband was no stranger to such a loss, and yet suddenly she wanted to throw off his embrace. It was not gentle words or understanding she wanted. She wanted to shriek and howl as the wind had, to throw herself into it and let it drown out the world. She wanted the heavens to turn the yard slick with mud, to clash steel upon steel until it made her bones ache.

Raymar squeezed her shoulders, then released her, as though she were one of his hunting raptors, and she screamed until her throat was raw, the sound ringing in her ears as it echoed off the walls. When her voice finally gave, it was her lungs that betrayed her next, seizing in harsh gasps as the sobs followed.

The blanket, which had fallen from her at some point, was wrapped around her shoulders once more. She turned into her husband’s arms, lowering her head to his chest as she shook and shook, with cold and helpless grief.

Some lord, perhaps the very one who had turned the top of the tower into a lookout point, had furnished the room, and though it lacked a hearth, it sported many of the comforts of a solar: a thick rug, a small table with chairs, and a cushioned couch.

Raymar guided her to the couch, and she sank deeper into him, still shivering. He adjusted the blanket so that it enveloped them both, and the heat of his body slowly warmed her. Her husband did not speak; instead, he kissed her temple between the strokes of fingers through her hair, gentle where they caught on wind-snarled tangles.

The room was darker now, signalling that the sun had disappeared beneath the horizon. It would be time for supper soon, but Daena’s appetite, rarer these days, was entirely absent now.

“I know it is early, but I brought your gift,” Raymar said, drawing her attention to the cloth-wrapped bundle that had been placed on the table, long enough to stick out on either side. “It was finished this afternoon.”

Daena’s twentieth name day was less than a week away, and her husband had been preparing his gift for several moons, close-lipped on the matter in the face of her unyielding curiosity, except for the occasional smug smile of a man confident in his discernment. They had made a game of it over the years, in besting the other in the giving of gifts.

The smallest ember of curiosity sparked to life, just barely penetrating the numbness that had settled in her chest. Raymar left her to fetch it from the table, then set back down, laying it across both their laps. It had a familiar heft to it, and Daena untied the three ribbons holding the cloth in place, unraveling it to reveal a long, slender blade. 

“It is no Valyrian steel, but Master Edric’s command of steel is without peer in all the Vale.”

The leather wrap of the hilt had been dyed black, and its crossguard set with a central ruby, flanked by smaller settings of citrine on either side. Runes had been etched along the length of the blade, on either side of the center, though they were hard to see in the dim light.

Daena ran a finger along them, then grasped the hilt in her hand. It fit comfortably—perfectly. The weight was not quite the same as the one she remembered wielding in a different life, for Valyrian steel was lighter, but this blade was slightly thinner and shorter than Dark Sister to compensate for the extra weight.

She stood so that she could test a few swings, then turned back to her husband. “What will Septon Galvin say?”

Raymar’s brow rose. “Do you pretend that you would pay him half a mind? I am more interested in hearing what my knights have to say once they have crossed steel with you.”

“I recall that one Royce knight in particular was struck dumb,” Daena retorted.

Her husband’s smiles were sparse outside her company, as though they were hers alone, and there was something almost giddy in his eyes as he gazed at her now. A ghost of a smile found her own lips, before her thoughts drifted and grief found her once more.

“My father taught me himself,” she said, lowering the blade. Those mornings in the yard were some of her happiest memories. “My mother trained with him and my uncle.”

“He was an exceptional instructor, then.”

Was.

Daena stared at the ground, chest growing tight once more. “He did not know. I should have sent word earlier. He would have come.”

At news that she was with child, he would have flown straight to Runestone rather than join that ill-fated hunt in the kingswood. How? How could mere illness have felled him? Her father had always been strong and hale, a man in his prime. He was but four-and-forty.

I should have heeded the dreams. I should have enticed him here.

He would never meet her babes and hold them in his arms. They would never know his smile, or the sound of his voice, as her niece Rhaenyra did.

Raymar’s hand covered hers, and she eased her death-clutch upon the sword’s hilt so that he could take it from her. She had entirely missed the sheath that had been rolled up beside it, but she watched dully as he slid the blade into it and secured it to his belt.

He stroked her cheeks and kissed her forehead, breath ruffling her hair in a sigh. “Is there aught that I can do?”

She shook her head.

“Will you let me take you somewhere warmer? The night will only grow more chill.”

He guided her down the stairs, and bypassed the Great Hall and the scent of cooked food, which only turned her stomach. The hearth was already roaring in their bedchamber, and in short order, a steaming bath was at the ready. Daena sank into it, still chilled, and let Raymar rub soothing circles against her scalp as he massaged soap and oils into it.

His hands were red and half-scalded by the end of it, and she regarded them with distant dismay once she realized, but her husband was unfazed. He poured fresh oil onto his palms that smelled of honeysuckle and rubbed it into her skin, silent and intent in his focus.

He scooped her up in his arms when he was finished, carrying her to bed, and kissed her shoulder once he had laid her down. Exhaustion tugged at her, heavy as the sorrow, and she drifted into an unsettled sleep, broken by the sounds of supper being brought into the room, and the quiet clink of silverware.

Daena woke enough to drink the entire glass of water that Raymar had brought to her, and then another. Restlessness filled her as she waited for her husband to join her, quiet fears circling in her mind, Daemon’s and hers intertwined.

“You must never hunt without me,” she whispered to him, once he had doused the lamp beside their bed.

“Never,” he agreed, and drew her in tight.

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