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Valora Velaryon has learned to expect very little from court.
Especially from certain names.
By thirteen, she knows exactly what a Frey is meant to be:
ambitious, agreeable, and carefully polished into something useful but hollow.
So when Matila Frey is presented to her, Valora expects another performance.
Another girl who will nod, smile, and echo whatever she wishes to hear.
She is wrong.
Because Matila does not flatter.
She does not soften her answers to please.
And she does not confuse kindness with foolishness.
She thinks.
And for Valora, who has spent far too long surrounded by echoes,
being wrong about someone might just be the best reason to choose them.
Of all the girls presented to her that year, Matila Frey was perhaps the one Valora expected the least.
That alone nearly disqualified her.
At thirteen, Princess Valora Velaryon had already spent enough time at court to know what the name Frey usually brought with it. Ambition, first and foremost. Thinly disguised greed, second. Smiles that never quite reached the eyes. Lords who counted advantage faster than affection. Daughters taught to curtsy before they were taught to think and to flatter before they were taught anything useful at all.
So when Matila Frey was announced, Valora had to school her expression into something politely blank.
Her solar had once again been arranged for the occasion, every cushion straightened, every chair placed with careful precision, a tray of fruit and cakes laid untouched beside the fire. Spring sunlight spilled through the windows, pale and soft, catching on the sea-blue and crimson embroidery worked into the cushions. The room was lovely.
Valora was tired of it.
This was the second time she had been made to choose another lady in waiting.
The first time had ended well enough. Marissa Royce had proven precisely what Valora had hoped for, thoughtful, composed, willing to think before she spoke and not so foolish as to confuse flattery with loyalty. But one lady was not enough, or so her mother had insisted with that patient tone that usually meant Valora was going to lose the argument.
So the process had begun again a year later.
And Valora had discovered that being thirteen did not make noble daughters any less irritating.
The latest one had spent nearly half the meeting praising Valora’s poise, Valora’s beauty, Valora’s dragon, Valora’s intelligence, and, somewhat bizarrely, Valora’s handwriting.
Before that there had been one who answered every question by invoking what her father thought.
Before that, another who had smiled warmly and declared that the smallfolk were “simple creatures” who only required strong rule and full bellies to remain content.
Valora had ended that meeting very quickly.
Now she sat in her carved chair by the hearth, one leg tucked neatly behind the other, fingers resting against the armrest, while Cedric Caswell stood near the door with his usual infuriating calm.
At eighteen, Cedric had only become more difficult to surprise and more annoyingly skilled at hiding amusement when she was displeased.
“She’s a Frey,” Valora muttered before the girl was brought in.
Cedric wisely did not say anything for a moment.
Then, “She might still surprise you.”
Valora gave him a look. “You sound optimistic.”
“I sound cautious.”
“You sound as though you expect me to be unfair.”
Cedric’s mouth twitched. “Would you like me to lie and say otherwise?”
Valora huffed and looked away before he could see the reluctant flicker of amusement on her face.
A knock came at the door.
The servant bowed. “Princess, Lady Matila Frey.”
Valora straightened. “Send her in.”
The servant stepped aside.
Matila Frey entered with none of the nervous fumbling Valora had come to expect.
She was near Valora’s age, perhaps a little older, with dark auburn hair braided back neatly and clear, watchful eyes that missed very little. Her gown was good quality but not ostentatious, in muted blue-grey rather than anything especially grand. She curtsied properly, respectfully, and when she rose there was nothing simpering in her face.
That, at least, was a point in her favour.
“Princess Valora,” Matila said.
“Lady Matila.”
Valora gestured to the chair opposite her. “Sit.”
Matila obeyed without fuss.
For a moment, Valora simply studied her.
The girl did not rush to fill the silence. She did not begin praising the room or declaring the honour of the invitation. She waited.
Interesting.
Valora folded her hands in her lap. “You know why you are here.”
“Yes, Princess.”
“And why do you wish to serve as my lady in waiting?”
Matila answered with less hesitation than most. “Because it is a place of trust, and I would rather hold such a place honestly than chase one through empty compliments.”
Cedric glanced at the ceiling.
Valora noticed.
So did Matila, she thought, though the girl was polite enough not to show it.
“Honesty,” Valora repeated.
“Yes, Princess.”
Valora tilted her head slightly. “That is easily claimed.”
“It is.”
No defensiveness. No flustered insistence. Just agreement.
Valora’s interest sharpened despite herself.
“Very well,” she said. “Let us test it.”
She leaned back in her chair.
“Say there is a district in King’s Landing where the smallfolk have gone hungry after a poor season. Bread grows scarce. Tempers rise. I decide the quickest answer is to have the Crown purchase grain at whatever price merchants demand, then distribute it freely through the city until the unrest settles.”
That would have sounded merciful to half the girls she had already met.
Matila did not immediately praise it.
Instead, she frowned slightly.
Valora’s pulse gave the faintest stir of interest.
“At first glance,” Matila said slowly, “it sounds generous.”
“At first glance?” Valora repeated.
Matila met her gaze. “Merchants would hear that the Crown is desperate and raise prices even further. If they believe fear and unrest earn them greater profit, they have every reason to let matters worsen before they improve.”
Cedric’s expression remained perfectly neutral, which meant he was definitely listening.
Valora’s fingers stilled on the armrest. “Go on.”
“You would feed people for a time,” Matila said, “but you might also teach every greedy trader in the city that scarcity is worth manufacturing.”
That was not the answer Valora had expected.
And yet she could not find fault in it.
“What would you suggest instead?”
Matila thought for a moment. “Set a fixed price before the Crown buys a single sack. Any merchant charging beyond it loses the right to trade within the city for a time, or loses access to royal contracts later.” She paused. “Then buy what is needed. Quietly, if possible, before panic grows.”
Valora watched her more closely now.
“And if that is not enough?”
“Then speak to the houses nearest the city and call in duty rather than charity.” Matila’s voice remained composed, but there was something practical in it, something sharp. “Not because they are kind, but because no lord wants word spreading that the capital starved while his granaries stayed full.”
A faint smile almost pulled at Valora’s mouth.
Not kind.
Practical.
Useful.
She asked, “And what of the smallfolk themselves?”
Matila answered at once. “They should be fed.”
Valora’s eyes narrowed, not in displeasure but in scrutiny. “That sounds obvious.”
“It should be obvious,” Matila replied.
There was no hesitation in it. No contempt. No indulgent softness either. Only certainty.
“If the city starves, the realm suffers for it,” Matila continued. “The people in Flea Bottom may not wear silk or possess names worth tracing through history books, but they are still your people. A ruler who sees hunger beneath her and not within her responsibility is a fool.”
The silence that followed was not uncomfortable.
Cedric shifted his weight ever so slightly near the door.
Valora did not look at him.
Instead, she asked, “And yet you did not agree with my first solution.”
“No, Princess.”
“Why?”
Matila’s answer came steady and direct. “Because caring for the smallfolk and choosing the wisest method are not always the same thing.”
That one landed.
Cleanly.
Exactly.
Valora held her gaze for a long moment.
Most girls bent themselves around her words like river reeds in the wind, eager to please, eager not to offend, eager to be chosen for their gentleness or beauty or obedience. Matila had done none of that. She had not contradicted her for the pleasure of it either, which mattered just as much.
She had simply thought.
Valora rose and crossed slowly toward the window, looking out over the distant stretch of King’s Landing beyond the walls. From here the city looked almost soft in the afternoon light. Stone and smoke and sun. But she knew what lay beneath that beauty. Crowded alleys. Empty stomachs. Children with no titles and no one to speak their names in council chambers.
After a moment, she said, “Most girls either pity the smallfolk or dismiss them.”
Matila did not answer at once.
When she did, her voice was quieter.
“Both are easy,” she said. “Respect takes more effort.”
Valora turned back toward her.
There it was.
Not sweetness. Not polished court language. Something steadier.
Respect.
Not for her.
For the people most nobles forgot existed until they became inconvenient.
“And do you respect them?” Valora asked.
“Yes.”
The answer was simple enough that Valora believed it.
She looked to Cedric then, just briefly.
His face gave away almost nothing, but there was the slightest glint in his eyes. He approved.
Of course he did.
Valora returned her gaze to Matila. “You are not what I expected.”
Matila did not take the bait by asking whether that was good or bad.
Instead, she said, “No, Princess?”
“No.”
Valora moved back toward her chair but remained standing beside it. “You are a Frey.”
At that, the first real shift crossed Matila’s face. Not anger. Not shame. Something more resigned.
“Yes, Princess.”
Valora watched her carefully. “Do you know what people say of your house?”
“I imagine I have heard most of it.”
“And?”
Matila’s shoulders stayed square. “Some of it is deserved. Some of it is not. But none of it changes what I say in this room.”
That earned her another point.
Valora sat at last, slower this time, more thoughtful than before. “And what is it you think I need in a lady in waiting?”
Matila’s gaze flickered over her, assessing, but not rudely. “Someone who does not waste your time.”
Cedric let out the faintest breath through his nose.
Valora ignored him with effort.
Matila went on, “Someone who can understand what you mean, not only what you say. Someone who knows when to speak plainly and when to hold her tongue. And someone who remembers that serving a future queen is not the same as worshipping one.”
That nearly did it.
Nearly.
Valora kept her expression composed, though inside something in her settled.
Because that was it. Exactly it.
Marissa had given her thought and steadiness. Matila, she suspected, would give her sharpness of a different kind. Less gentle, perhaps. Less polished. But no less valuable.
Useful in different ways.
Necessary in different ways.
At last Valora said, “If I choose you, I will expect sense, not performances.”
“You shall have no performances from me, Princess.”
“I expect loyalty.”
“You would have it.”
“I do not mean blind agreement.”
Matila’s mouth curved very slightly. “Then that is fortunate, because I have never been especially good at pretending to be blind.”
Cedric looked down at the floor at once, shoulders suspiciously still.
Valora stared at Matila for one beat and then, despite herself, smiled.
Small. Sharp. Real.
Yes.
This one would do.
“Very well,” Valora said. “I think I have heard enough.”
Matila rose at once.
Valora let the silence stretch just enough before delivering the words.
“If my mother approves, you will remain.”
For the first time, Matila looked genuinely startled.
Then she dropped into a deep curtsy. “Thank you, Princess.”
Valora inclined her head. “Do not thank me yet. You may discover I am difficult.”
This time Matila’s smile was easier to see.
“I had already assumed as much.”
Cedric made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a cough.
Valora shot him a look sharp enough to warn him against laughing outright, then turned back to Matila.
When the girl had gone and the chamber doors shut behind her, Cedric waited exactly three heartbeats before speaking.
“So,” he said mildly, “a Frey.”
Valora leaned back in her chair, her earlier weariness gone, replaced by something quieter and far more satisfied.
“A surprising one.”
Cedric folded his hands behind his back. “You liked her.”
Valora lifted one shoulder. “She has sense.”
“That is high praise from you.”
“It should be.”
Cedric’s mouth twitched.
Valora turned her gaze toward the closed door again, thoughtful now.
Marissa challenged with patience. Matila challenged with precision. Different strengths. Different tempers. Both useful. Both real.
And after enduring so many painted echoes of noble daughters, real was worth more than all the perfect curtsies in the realm.
“Yes,” Valora said at last, more to herself than to Cedric. “Matila Frey will do very well indeed.”
There is a kind of person the world rarely notices.
Not because they are absent, but because they move quietly through things. They don’t compete for attention, don’t interrupt conversations to prove a point, don’t rush to explain themselves to people who aren’t listening.
From the outside, this quiet can be mistaken for distance. Sometimes even indifference.
But something very different is happening.
Attention.
The room shifts when certain people walk in, and the change is felt immediately. Tone tightens. Voices soften or sharpen. Small glances pass between people who believe no one is watching.
Most of the time, nobody says anything about these things.
But they are noticed.
Words begin to separate themselves from intentions. Kindness spoken loudly starts to sound different from kindness offered when there is no audience. Promises take on a different weight when they are repeated often but fulfilled rarely.
Slowly, patterns begin to appear.
It rarely begins as philosophy. It begins as survival.
When life becomes unpredictable, the mind learns to read signals before they fully arrive. A change in tone becomes information. Silence becomes information. Even the way someone closes a door can reveal more than a long explanation.
Over time, this awareness deepens.
The world begins to feel like a series of quiet observations unfolding beneath the noise. Conversations carry layers. Actions contradict words. People say one thing with their mouth while their behavior writes an entirely different sentence.
Nothing dramatic needs to happen.
Clarity accumulates slowly.
And once something is clearly seen, it cannot be unseen.
This is often where distance begins to grow.
Not out of anger.
Not even out of disappointment.
Just recognition.
Certain patterns repeat themselves in human behavior with remarkable consistency. Loyalty changes direction when convenience appears. Confidence grows louder in the presence of an audience but disappears when accountability enters the room.
Seeing this doesn’t automatically produce bitterness.
More often, it produces silence.
Because explaining what is obvious rarely changes anything.
The world tends to reward a different kind of behavior. Noise travels faster than reflection. Certainty receives more applause than patience. The ability to speak confidently about things not fully understood often wins more admiration than careful observation.
And so quiet becomes a place to stand.
Not a withdrawal from life, but a different relationship with it.
In that quiet space, something important begins to happen.
Loneliness and solitude start to separate from each other.
Loneliness carries the ache of not being seen.
Solitude, on the other hand, carries a strange kind of relief. A sense that the mind is finally allowed to rest without constantly negotiating contradictions.
Thought becomes clearer.
Feelings settle.
And the attention that once scanned the world for meaning begins to transform into something else entirely.
Creation.
Sometimes it becomes writing. Sometimes music. Sometimes a quiet wisdom offered only when someone genuinely asks for it.
There is no urgency to convince anyone.
Truth rarely needs persuasion. It moves at its own pace, finding the people who are ready to recognize it.
Understanding this removes a great deal of pressure.
Not everyone needs to understand.
Not everyone is supposed to.
The real task was never to be understood by the entire room.
The real task was to remain honest about what had been seen, what had been learned, and what could no longer be ignored.
Even if that honesty meant walking through the world a little more quietly than most.
