Jester's Privilege

Baelor walked back towards the Ashford estate in a state of quiet shock. When he had taken an early morning stroll, it had been a means to clear his thoughts and take in some fresh air before the rest of the castle awoke and he was subjected once more to duty, demands and the strain that the absence of both Daeron and Aegon was placing upon his younger brother. He had never anticipated that his day would begin with an altercation with an angry, young woman who claimed her ancestors had been dragonkeepers. He had been tempted to call out to her, to follow after her and demand that she allow them to talk rationally, however, it would have been improper for the heir to the throne to be seen pursuing a young woman in such a manner — there was too much risk of being seen. Still, she played upon his mind, making his chest feel heavy with a sense of guilt and responsibility for the part his forebears had played in the unfortunate situation she found herself in. There was also a sense of wonder at having come face to face with one of the last people besides his immediate family whose lineage was so closely entwined with dragons.

As he entered the private quarters that Lord Ashford had set aside for him, he was roused from his thoughts by the unexpected presence of Maekar, seated in the high backed armchair beside the unlit hearth, his expression dour. He was fully dressed in robes of red and black brocade, booted feet crossed at the ankle.

“I see you took an early morning stroll too, brother,” Baelor commented, taking in Maekar’s outdoor apparel as he closed the door behind him.

“I followed you,” Maekar uttered, eyes lifting accusatorily to meet Baelor’s, “I thought perhaps you might be in pursuit of some clue as to the whereabouts of my sons. Instead, I found you cavorting with some whore.”

“Cavorting?” Baelor scoffed, hand lifting to curl around the brooch at his breast, “I hardly think so. It was a simple conversation. Our station does not place us above exchanging pleasantries with those we are charged with protecting.”

There was something that made Baelor withhold Ezra’s true identity from Maekar — he could not determine precisely what — he just knew he wouldn’t treat it with the sensitivity it deserved, especially when his mind was already preoccupied by worry.

“Exchanging fucking pleasantries?!” Maekar spat, lip curling in disgust, “Not bloody likely.”

Baelor stiffened, knowing that Maekar was making a thinly veiled attack upon his one weakness — his marriage. “I do my duty,” he replied sternly, rounding slowly on the armchair where his brother sat, “while you have all you want — all I have ever wanted.”

“You,” Maekar glowered, standing abruptly, pointing a finger squarely at Baelor’s chest, “are hand of the king, our father’s heir. Do not forget yourself.”

Maekar stormed from the room, not bothering to close the door behind him, leaving Baelor to stare angrily after him. He balled his hands into fists, jaw clenched tightly before he closed his eyes, exhaling heavily through his nose, allowing the annoyance to dissipate. How could he forget when the weight of it rested so heavily upon his shoulders?

Ezra had had no intentions of watching any of the jousts, but Red was both persuasive and insistent, declaring there would be no tournament as entertaining as one in which Prince Brightflame would compete. So now they stood squashed into the crowd, the stench of ale and horse shit thick in the air, craning their necks to see as Aerion Targaryen paraded up and down the tiltyard upon horseback, making a theatrical display of choosing his opponent. His expression was one of pure arrogance, and Ezra wondered how anyone possessed of such entitled pomposity could possibly share blood with the seemingly humble man she had met the day before. Baelor had scarcely left her thoughts since their early morning encounter, and her feelings oscillated wildly between offence at his offer of “reparations” and curiosity at how even-tempered he had remained while she had shouted at him. She was certain that if she had done the same to his nephew it would have cost her her head. 

Eventually, Aerion settled upon Ser Humfrey Hardyng as the knight he would joust against, and above the cheers and shouts of the crowd, she could just about hear Red whisper in disbelief “the lance is too low, gods, he’s going to strike the horse!”

Ezra screwed her eyes shut, unwilling to watch the lance pierce Ser Hardyng’s horse — she would cry if she saw it, her thoughts immediately turning to Brāedāzma, her heart clenching. The scream of pain and terror from the horse, the inevitable thud as both mount and rider hit the ground was all too much. The crush of the crowd against the barrier had pushed Red away from her, and she no longer needed to crane to see what was happening; shouts of “his leg is broken!” “someone get him out from under his horse!” told her all she needed to know. The Targaryen prince had behaved dishonourably, and was now subject to the jeers of restless and angry spectators. Ezra shoved her way out of the crowd, feeling like she might vomit, and hurried as far and fast as she could away from the lists.

She found herself back at the oak tree she had walked to the previous morning and seated herself beneath it, back pressed against the rough bark of its trunk. She hugged her knees to her chest, swallowing back frightened tears as she breathed in deeply, attempting to calm herself with each measured exhale.

“I had hoped I may find you here.”

Ezra was unsure of how much time had passed, though the sun had moved further across the sky when she opened her eyes — the heat of midday had long passed. She looked up from where she was huddled to see the cloaked figure of Prince Baelor standing before her, but she made no move to stand or greet him.

A moment passed in tense silence before she finally spoke. “Your nephew is a monster.”

Baelor’s jaw worked, a silent grinding of teeth as he glanced back towards the tourney field then to her. “So, you saw it. An unfortunate accident, but be mindful of the treason you speak.”

“That was no accident!” she cried, staring up at him, eyes wild. “It was dishonourable…cruel…”

Baelor watched her carefully, assessing her movements before he turned, hitching his cloak and seated himself beside her with far more grace than she had thudded against the grass with when she’d sat down. “Ser Hardyng will be tended by our own maesters, he will have the very best of care. Aerion is possessed of the impetuousness of youth, his father will bring him in hand.”

Ezra frowned. She had gotten him all wrong. Though he was calm, far more measured than his brother, Baelor was — at his core — still a Targaryen, and though his means were far more pragmatic than those who had come before him, it was still in his best interests to protect the reputation of his house. A dragon could not change the nature of who they were, no matter how deeply buried beneath a calm façade it was. It made her realise how foolish her close following of the Targaryens had been all these years — the further away she kept from them, the safer she would be.

“How can you allow that..?” she whispered sadly.

Baelor sighed, tipping his head back against the trunk of a tree, mismatched eyes cast up towards the branches. “He is the second son of a second son. He will never ascend the throne. My duty is to ensure that my reign, once it begins, is one that maintains peace.”

Ezra scoffed. “Ah yes, perfect Prince Baelor and his perfect wife and sons.”

She felt Baelor stiffen beside her at the mention of his wife and her brow furrowed softly, staring at him intently, wondering what he was thinking — he was far too diplomatic to give voice to it.

“I am immensely proud of the sons that Lady Dondarrion and I share. Valarr will make a fine king one day – he is valiant and honourable. But what of you? What possesses you with the right to cast judgement with such exuberance?”

“You know already,” Ezra replied, plucking a daisy from the grass and twirling it absentmindedly between her fingers, “I am descended from dragonkeepers.”

“Yes, but what about you? Your mother? Your father?”

“Both dead,” she commented, “they were market traders. My father sold scrap metal and my mother sold stew by the bowl. We were poor, but never unhappy. I mend clothes to earn my coppers. Brāedāzma is the most valuable thing I own in the world.”

“Bronze?” Baelor asked, glancing sideways at her, “But not a dragon, I suppose?”

“No, a horse,” she smiled softly, “he was just a foal when my father brought him home. He would likely have ended up in a bowl of brown if we hadn’t nursed him back to health.”

She caught Baelor staring at her, something soft, yet unreadable in his gaze. “What?” she asked suspiciously.

He hummed in amusement. “You are surprisingly agreeable when you are not filled with ire.”

Ezra laughed, hating the way his words made something warm and uncomfortable bloom in her chest, and looked away.

“I am sorry that my offer of gold offended you,” Baelor continued, “but I implore you to accept. Take my offer and go from here.”

“Across the Narrow Sea where I am no longer a hindrance to you?” she asked, raising her eyebrow.

“Anywhere in the world that you like,” he said gently, “I will see to it that you are comfortable wherever you settle.”

“I shall think on it,” she said, standing and brushing down the linen of her skirts, “I bid you a good evening…my prince.”

The following evening, Ezra found herself persuaded to attend yet another spectacle for which she had no interest — the girls had fussed around her until she had agreed to attend a puppet show with them. It was expected to be a grand affair — a means to entertain knights and commoners alike with Dornish puppeteers and colourful, elaborately carved figures that were almost lifelike in their dramatic retellings of both histories and legends. The tent was warm inside, humid from the press of bodies all gathered in a semi circular formation around the stage. Red and Beony used it as an opportunity to work the crowd, drumming up business for later, while Daisy remained rooted to Ezra’s side, dark curls piled high upon her head to keep the heat from the back of her neck. Despite her previous reservations, Ezra found herself entertained by the show; the tall, beautiful woman who led the performance was enchanting to witness, and she moved and interacted with the puppets in a way that flowed more like dance than theatre. She found herself pressing forward to get a closer look when the woman re-emerged on stage clad in chainmail, followed closely by a large green dragon puppet, which was being controlled from behind a curtain. Ezra’s heart skipped a beat at the sight when its jaws opened and it spewed forth a flame — she knew it wasn’t real, but couldn’t help but smile at the reminder of her ancestors. Her joy was promptly snuffed out when a display was made of slaying the dragon; the woman dressed in chainmail thrust forth her sword, and the enormous puppet toppled to the stage floor. It grieved Ezra to know that people still regarded dragons as fearsome foes to be slain; it was a reputation they did not deserve, one that had been thrust upon them by the very house that had enslaved them and ridden them to their doom.

Ezra’s feelings of dismay were clearly mirrored by the man who had appeared beside her. He was shorter than her by a few inches, and stood glowering at the spectacle before them, his hand resting upon the hilt of his sword. It was only when Ezra took a moment to look at him, really look at him, that she noticed the shock of silver blonde hair. This was Aerion Targaryen — he looked less grand out of his armour, not so imposing when he wasn’t mounted upon a horse, and yet his presence had parted the crowd, stunning them into silence, and Ezra felt herself drawing back in kind. There was something dangerous that radiated off of him as displeasure etched itself across his features, and even the performer on stage froze, her eyes widening in fright as she looked upon the prince’s angry expression.

“Treason!” he called out, “Seize her.”

Ezra did not want to stay to watch. She had seen how callously Aerion had driven his lance into Ser Hardyng’s horse, and she dreaded to think what he would do to this poor woman. It had been a tasteless display, certainly, but was not deserving of whatever cruelty he intended to inflict upon her. Ezra’s heart beat wildly against her ribs in panic as she pushed frantically through the press of bodies, attempting to escape the tent as guards rushed the stage and the puppeteer screamed. She felt short of breath, certain she would be sick, until Daisy’s hand grabbed hers, squeezing in reassurance.

“Let’s go,” Daisy urged, leading the way.

“I have to leave,” Ezra said frantically, breathless from how quickly she and Daisy had walked back to camp, “I should never have come here.”

“Wait until morning before you do,” Daisy urged, stepping behind her to help her out of her cloak now that they were back in their tent. “Things always look better in the morning, and it’s not safe for you to be riding along the roads when it’s dark.”

Ezra doubted how the situation could possibly appear better, but she had to agree that the safety of her borrowed bed seemed a far more tempting option than travelling on horseback with only the moon and stars to light her way. She readied herself for sleep, and she and Daisy drifted off huddled together, the warmth of each other providing comfort against the horrors that they had fled from.

A few hours later, she was startled awake by Red bursting forth into the tent. The candles had burned low, but there was still light enough to see by, and it illuminated the unruly red curls of her hair and the flush of her cheeks.

“There’s to be a trial of seven, girls, wake up!” she called out excitedly, eyes sparkling.

“What the fuck’s that?” Daisy groused sleepily, sitting up and rubbing her eyes.

“You slept through it all, you silly cows!” Red grinned, grabbing a bag and snatching up items of clothing and jewellery to stuff into it. “Prince Aerion snapped all of that puppeteer’s fingers, and this great, big fella — think I’ve seen him around before — punched and kicked him, bloodied him up!”

Ezra’s eyes widened as her consciousness returned to her fully, eager to ask what happened next, but she knew Red would continue best without interruption.

“Prince Aerion would have had the bloke killed, but the young prince, Aegon, revealed himself and put a stop to it. The big fella was seized anyway for striking a prince, and apparently there’s going to be a trial of seven to decide whether he’s guilty or not.”

‘Yeah, but what is it?” Daisy repeated impatiently.

“Prince Aerion has to gather six knights to fight his cause, and the man who attacked him has to do the same. It’s like trial by combat, but with more people.”

“Is that why you’re packing?” Daisy asked in disbelief, “Are you going to volunteer?”

Red laughed, shaking her head. “Don’t be stupid. Nobody knows who this big bloke is, and the men he chooses — whoever they are — they’ll be lords who perhaps find themselves in need of patching up after battle, who perhaps need a good woman.”

“And you’ll help them to find one?” Daisy asked playfully.

Red rolled her eyes. “This is a chance for me to elevate my station, move up in the world. If either of you had any wits about you, you’d look to do the same.”

Ezra’s thoughts immediately turned to Baelor and his offer of reparations.

Baelor walked with purpose, hood pulled up to obscure his identity. He had to find Ezra — he had thought of little else since Aerion had demanded a trial of seven. It was a cowardly ask — Aerion knew he would pose no match for the sheer size of Ser Duncan in one on one combat — yet it was his legal right to demand it, and so the trial would take place at dawn.

“How can you allow that..?”

Ezra’s sad words from the day of the tourney played on a loop in his mind. He had turned a blind eye to too many of his nephew’s acts of cruelty, and that would be his last. While Ser Duncan had struck a prince of the blood, he had done it to protect an innocent from harm, an oath that Baelor himself had taken when he was knighted. To fight on the side of his brother and nephew would break that oath and, with it, prove correct every ill notion that Ezra held about him. He had gathered up gold for her, enough for her to get by, and would send along more in time, to wherever it was that she chose to settle, and he planned to confide in her his intent to fight alongside the hedge knight; he was certain that Ser Duncan would not be able to gather the numbers he needed in time, and with the kingsguard not allowed to strike at the prince they had pledged their lives to protect, the green hedge knight stood a better a chance. Baelor would prove that House Targaryen could stand on the right side of history, that the carelessness with which they had previously ruled over their people was at its end.

He did not have to venture far to find Ezra. Moonlight shone upon the dark curls which had fallen loose from her braid as she strode with her own sense of urgency towards him, brows pulled together in an expression of worry.

“I’m leaving,” she blurted, the moment they stood close enough to hear each other.

“With me,” he urged softly, grasping her arm with gentle firmness, and guiding her back towards the Ashford Estate.

Baelor kept to the shadowy corridors that led to the chambers he occupied, concealing them both from view, however, there was such a ruckus regarding the upcoming trial of seven that he doubted anyone would have noticed them if they had walked the main passageway — all attention was firmly on Aerion and the preparations for the battle that would take place at dawn.

The moment that he closed the doors behind them and turned to face Ezra, he felt a fool for imposing this situation upon her. Ezra stood uncomfortably in the centre of the room, hands balled into fists at her sides, eyes large and darting from the bookshelves that lined one side of the wall, to the roaring fire in the hearth upon the other. She resembled a caged wild animal — forced into a space in which she did not belong, and unable to flee. The simplicity of the linen dress and wool cloak she wore looked out of place among the grandeur of the plush velvet and rich mahogany wood of her surroundings. Baelor swallowed thickly, fighting back the urge to apologise as he shrugged out of his cloak and draped it over the back of the chair in the corner.

“Will you take wine?” he offered politely, striding towards the silver tray that housed the glass decanter and cups that sat upon his desk. He began to pour without waiting for a response.

“Why am I here?” Ezra asked, her tone laced with tired impatience as she lingered in the middle of the room, making no attempt to make herself more comfortable.

Baelor sighed, turning to face her finally. “I had hoped we might speak a while first, but I can see you are eager for me to get to the matter at hand.”

“What matter might that be?” she scowled, “That your family seeks the death of a man who sought only to defend a woman — a woman whose fingers your nephew snapped! I only wished to say goodbye, I cannot sit by and—”

“I intend to fight on the side of Ser Duncan,” Baelor interrupted, holding her gaze.

Ezra froze, lips parted and, for a moment, she said nothing before sinking slowly onto the settee in front of the fireplace. “Why?” she finally murmured.

Baelor crossed the room, offering out a cup of Dornish red. Ezra accepted and drank deeply, visibly relaxing as she looked up at him from where she sat. “Your brother will be furious, he’ll never forgive you. Are you mad?”

His mouth quivered, he almost wanted to laugh, though there was no humour in it. “Was it not you that scolded me for not doing the right thing when Aerion behaved dishonourably at the tourney?”

Ezra drew back, eyes narrowing. “Is this a mere ploy to win my favour?”

“Not entirely,” Baelor admitted, seating himself beside her upon the settee and sipping his own wine, “though I do not agree with a hedge knight striking a prince, I know that what he did he did in defence of an innocent, and even House Targaryen is not above duty and honour. I need the people to see that.”

“So, this is about making your house appear favourable.”

Baelor’s jaw clenched as he glanced sideways at her and he leaned back as she plucked open the fastening of her cloak, allowing it to pool around her where she sat. “It is about doing the right thing — in all respects. There is gold on the table for you there, and I will have more sent to you, wherever it is you choose to go.”

Baelor watched as Ezra’s gaze settled upon the small bag of gold upon his desk — it did not linger, dropping to her wine cup wistfully. “So, you’ll what? Pay me off, redeem yourself in the eyes of your people tomorrow and that will put an end to the question of morality of House Targaryen? You’ll go back to your comfortable life in King’s Landing with your wife and sons and that will be it?”

His chest tightened at the mention of Jena, his tone sharper than intended as he snapped “hold your tongue!’

After tomorrow, life in King’s Landing would be a lonely one. He would lose the favour of Maekar for siding against him, and Jena…his marriage to her would be what it always was and never would be.

“Why do you do that?” Ezra asked, her voice quieter and more cautious now, “Each time your wife is mentioned you look as though you might shatter apart.”

Baelor took a large gulp of wine, eyes closing as he savoured the burn of it at the back of his throat as he swallowed. “You remind me of her, you know,” he finally uttered, “her fiery and noble spirit. I suppose in some respects I feel that in winning your favour I am winning hers.”

“I don’t understand,” Ezra said, turning fully upon the settee to face him, hands clasped around her wine cup, “you don’t have your wife’s favour?”

“The betrothals forged for Maekar and I were tactical, political in nature,” he explained, mismatched eyes focusing on the flames that jumped and crackled within the hearth, “they were a means to curry favour with the noble houses of the realm, to make peace with Dorne, and dilute the effects of the Targaryen tradition of marrying brother to sister, just as our father before us had done so with our mother. Maekar’s match was a happy one — he and Dyanna fell in love, their six children are proof enough of that. Whereas Jena and I…”

“...did not?” Ezra finished for him.

Baelor exhaled shakily. The only person he had ever alluded to previously was Maekar, and even then he had never delved into detail of this nature. He found the words did not come easy, it was like baring his greatest failure to the light — his inability to win his wife’s heart. “The Donadarrions are Marcher Lords; they have long been mistrustful of the Targaryens. My marriage to Jena did not change that, and she made it clear to me from the beginning that our union would never be more than a formality. I’ve respected that, and I will not speak ill of her; she has given me two sons, bore the weight of her duty with grace and dignity. But I find it is difficult to look upon what my brother shares with his wife and not feel envious.”

“Is that why you have chosen to side with the hedge knight tomorrow?” Ezra asked, her brown eyes full of sympathy.

“If I can redeem myself, my name, in whatever regard, then perhaps…perhaps she will see me as more than an obligation.”

“And what of me?”

Baelor turned his head to look at Ezra and felt his breath catch — she was beautiful like this; firelight playing upon her cheekbones, no fury in her gaze — she looked soft and inviting. “I have been lonely for too long,” he murmured, “and you…I suspect you have been too.”

Ezra did not know who moved first, but the moment Baelor’s lips touched her own, she melted into it, her arms winding around his neck as he drew her closer. He was right, she was lonely, and had not realised just how badly until they had kissed. He was a Targaryen, she was supposed to hate him — he stood for every moment of suffering her family had endured — yet speaking to him she found that he was simply another drifting soul, alone in the world, much like she was. Now, in his arms, she felt like a drowning woman taking her first breath of air, and when he lifted her effortlessly from the settee, one arm cradling her back while the other slotted beneath the bend of her knees, she didn’t resist. She allowed him to carry her towards the bed in the far corner of the room, separated from the living space by privacy screens.

When Baelor settled her upon the mattress, her breath hitched — a real feather bed — it was far softer than anything she had ever slept upon before, and a welcome respite from the makeshift bedroll she had spent the last few nights upon. She supposed that for Baelor this would be far less luxurious than what he was used to back in King’s Landing, and the idea made her freeze, the sudden realisation of the fact that they were worlds apart.

“Come back to me,” Baelor murmured, cupping her jaw and kissing her once more.

The firm press of his lips broke her loose from her reverie, but not for long. As their hands moved feverishly over each other, tugging at clothing without finesse, undressing one another, she found herself self conscious of the coarseness of the linen of her dress, her wool stockings had a hole in one of the heels. Baelor’s clothing, by comparison, was soft as butter beneath her fingertips; rich black velvet lined with red silk and gold thread. She felt inadequate, and wanted to hide herself away from him, yet once she was stripped bare beneath him he looked upon her with such fondness that she was certain her heart would crack in two from the tenderness of it. Baelor gazed at her like she was the rarest treasure in the world, no one had ever made her feel beautiful before, and her nerves settled once he kicked away his breeches, now as naked as she was. Rid of their clothes, they were equals, each of them vulnerable with all station and notions of propriety stripped away.

Baelor kissed her again, slowly, sensually, before his lips descended. The brush of his beard against her flesh made her shiver as he moved his way down her body, pausing to mouth against the dark, taut peaks of the small swell of both her breasts. He descended lower still, and Ezra’s breaths turned ragged, her fingers threading through the short strands of dark hair peppered with silver. Her slender thighs fell open reflexively and she mewled breathlessly as he pressed his open mouth upon the slick heat between them, the sensation sending shockwaves of pleasure throughout her body, making her writhe with needy impatience.

Sitting up, she pressed her hand upon his shoulder, pushing him to lie down upon his back. Enough teasing; as delicately as Baelor seemed to want to handle her — his touches were reverent, worshipful — she wanted to take charge, to provide them the relief of closeness they both so desperately craved. A life at court had made Baelor courteous, gentle, but Ezra was not, she would take what she wanted. She straddled him, hands dragging down his torso, admiring the lean muscle and light dusting of hair upon his chest, his skin so much paler in comparison to hers. Reaching between them, she grasped the hard length of him, guiding him to her entrance and sank down. The stretch of it took her breath away, and she watched, slack jawed, as Baelor groaned, his eyes screwing shut as his features contorted in pleasure. His hands settled upon her hips, gripping gently as she began to rock, and he watched her move atop him with heavy lidded eyes, breaths ragged.

Ezra’s thoughts did not drift to what came after, her world narrowed to the ache that built and wound steadily in her lower belly as she squeezed around him with every drag of her hips. There was nothing that existed in this moment beyond two people seeking comfort in one another, and when her pace faltered, the impending threat of climax becoming too much for her to continue, Baelor surged upwards, kissing her messily as he held her close, his own hips rising to tip them both over the edge. Ezra came with a breathy cry, shuddering against him as her core spasmed with hot waves of ecstasy, barely lucid as Baelor pulled free just in time to spill against himself.

Baelor dozed once he had fetched a cloth to clean them both, but Ezra remained awake, propped upon her elbow, watching him sleep. She didn’t regret what had happened, but she knew it could never lead to more than what tonight was. She admired him for wanting to fight on the side of the hedge knight, but could not ignore the feeling of dread that had settled within her stomach. Something bad was going to happen, she just knew it, and she did not wish to stay to watch, to sully the tender moment that they had shared tonight. 

Once she was certain he was fully asleep, she rose and began to dress.

Baelor awoke just before dawn — the sky outside was only just beginning to lighten, and the hearth had long grown cold, the fire had burned itself out hours ago. Reaching out a hand, he found the space beside him in the bed empty, cool to the touch. He was unsure of when Ezra had slipped away, but supposed it was wise for her to do so before the servants rose and spotted her. He would seek her out after the trial of seven was over, to enquire about where she intended to settle once she had departed Ashford. He smiled softly to himself at the memories of the previous evening — how soft she was beneath him, her breathy moans, the faint scent of cloves that clung to her hair. A part of him felt guilt at having broken his marriage vows, but he had never denied Jena the pursuit of her own happiness, provided it did not bring shame to their doorstep, so he supposed she would grant the same courtesy to him.

Sitting up, he scrubbed a hand over his face before lighting a fresh candle for the bedside table. He would need to get up soon, to rouse Valarr to assist in donning the armour he would borrow from him. His brow furrowed as his eyes adjusted to the light and he looked across the room to see the gold still sitting upon his desk — Ezra had not taken it with her. Rising from the bed, he pulled his breeches back on and made his way towards it, intending to tuck the bag away until he could bestow it upon her later. A scrap of parchment had been left beside it, which immediately caught his attention. Lifting it, he read the hastily scribbled words, splattered with stray droplets of ink.

My ancestors lived to watch the dragons die. I cannot live through losing another. - E.