#trustbuilding

Morning came softer the next day.

Not with brilliance — but with a pale wash of gold across the eastern windows, as though Summerhall had chosen restraint.

Emma woke before the bells.

Maekar still slept beside her, though lightly — he always slept lightly. One arm rested over the coverlet, the other near enough her waist that she felt its warmth even without touch. In sleep, the severity of him eased. The lines at his brow softened. The weight he carried seemed, for a handful of breaths, set aside.

She allowed herself a moment simply to watch him.

Then she rose.

The dragon pendant lay cool against her skin when she stood; she fastened it before calling for her maid. She chose a gown less severe than the day before — dove-grey with subtle red embroidery at the cuffs. Summerhall did not need to be announced every hour.

Today, she intended to listen.

She found Daella in the small inner garden.

The princess sat on a low stone bench beneath a climbing rosevine, hands folded too tightly in her lap. She had the pale loveliness of her house — dark hair braided simply, violet eyes thoughtful and distant. A book lay open beside her, though she was not reading.

Emma paused before stepping fully into the space.

“May I intrude?”

Daella startled slightly, then hurried to stand. “You are not intruding, Princess.”

Emma smiled gently. “If you call me that every time, we shall never speak comfortably.”

Daella hesitated. “Father says titles matter.”

“He is not wrong,” Emma said. “But we are to be family.”

The girl studied her for a moment, then sat again — cautiously. Emma joined her.

For a while, they watched the bees drift lazily between blooms.

“You like the garden,” Emma ventured.

“It is quiet,” Daella replied. “People speak less here.”

“And when they do?”

“They forget I am listening.”

There was no bitterness in it. Merely observation.

Emma glanced sideways. “And what have you heard?”

Daella’s fingers traced the edge of her book. “That I am gentle. That I am too easily frightened. That I should become a septa.”

A wry little smile ghosted across her mouth.

Emma did not laugh.

“And what do you believe?”

Daella was silent for a long time.

“I believe I see things others do not,” she said at last. “Not dreams, like Daeron. But feelings. Tensions. When Father is angrier than he shows. When Rhae is hiding worry. When Daeron drinks because he is ashamed.”

Emma’s chest tightened.

“That is not weakness,” she said softly.

Daella blinked at her, surprised.

“It is a strength of a different kind.”

The girl’s posture shifted — just slightly. As though a burden had been adjusted.

“You do not think me foolish,” she said carefully.

“I think you're observant.”

A breeze stirred the rosevine overhead, petals loosening and drifting down around them.

“Will you change Summerhall?” Daella asked.

“I hope not too much,” Emma replied. “It breathes well already.”

Daella considered that.

“I would like,” she said quietly, “to learn more about governance. Rhae prefers courtly matters. Daeron… prefers his drinks and dreams.”

“And you?”

“I prefer understanding.”

Emma smiled. “Then you shall sit beside me when petitions are heard.”

The girl’s eyes widened. “Father—”

“Will not object to his daughter learning.”

Daella hesitated only a second before nodding.

A small alliance, born beneath roses.

Later that morning, Emma sought Daeron in the training yard.

She found him not with a blade — but perched atop the low stone wall bordering the sparring grounds, a goblet in hand though it was barely past midday.

Below, squires clashed in controlled rhythm.

Above, clouds drifted slow and heavy.

“You are late,” he said without looking at her.

“I was not aware I had been summoned.”

“You were expected.”

She stepped up beside him, leaning lightly against the wall. “By whom?”

He lifted the goblet. “By curiosity.”

She reached out without warning and plucked it from his hand.

He turned sharply. “You presume much.”

She sniffed it lightly. Wine. Strong.

“It is early.”

“So?”

“So,” she replied calmly, “if you intend to drink, at least make it worth defying convention.”

For a heartbeat, indignation flared in him.

Then — unexpectedly — he laughed.

It was brighter than yesterday’s brief huff. Younger.

“You would lecture me?”

“No.”

She handed the goblet back.

“I would walk with you.”

His brows lifted. “Again?”

“Yes. Unless you fear being seen with me.”

His chin tilted. “I fear very little.”

“Prove it.”

He slid down from the wall, landing lightly.

They did not take the same ridge as the day before. Instead, Daeron led her toward the western slope, where the land dipped into a shallow valley dotted with scrub and wild grass.

“You asked about my dreams,” he said after a while.

“I did.”

“I dreamed last night.”

Emma kept her gaze ahead. “And?”

He swallowed.

“Of fire again. But not destruction.”

She waited.

“Of something… waiting.”

The wind shifted, tugging at his loose hair.

“Waiting for what?” she asked.

“For courage,” he said quietly.

She studied him then — truly studied him.

“You think it is about you.”

He did not answer.

“And perhaps it is,” she continued. “But fire does not always consume. Sometimes it forges.”

His mouth tightened slightly. “You speak in riddles.”

“No. I speak with patience.”

They reached the low stone marker at the edge of the valley. He stopped there.

“Do you fear dragons?” he asked abruptly.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I have chosen to live among them.”

That drew another flicker of that reluctant smile.

He sat on the stone, elbows on his knees.

For a while, neither spoke.

Then—

A shadow moved across the ridge above them.

Emma looked up.

Maekar.

He did not approach. Did not call out. He simply stood at a distance, watching.

Not with suspicion.

With attention.

Daeron followed her gaze and stiffened slightly.

“He thinks I am fragile,” he muttered.

Emma shook her head. “He thinks you are his son.”

Below them, one of the younger squires stumbled during practice. Laughter rippled across the yard.

Daeron watched in silence.

Then, unexpectedly, he whistled sharply and called down advice — crisp, precise correction of stance and footing.

The boy below straightened immediately, adjusting.

Maekar’s head tilted almost imperceptibly.

“You see?” Emma murmured.

Daeron scowled faintly. “See what?”

“You do not only dream. You have a sharp mind.”

His jaw worked.

On the ridge, Maekar descended at last.

He did not address Emma first.

He approached Daeron.

“Your stance is still too wide,” he said without preamble.

Daeron rolled his eyes — but he shifted his feet automatically.

Maekar stepped closer, adjusting his son’s shoulder with a firm, economical touch.

“Balance,” he said. “Not force.”

There was no tenderness in the gesture.

And yet—

When Daeron obeyed, when he corrected himself without protest, Maekar’s hand lingered half a breath longer than necessary at his son’s arm.

Pride.

Quiet. Fierce.

Emma watched it unfold like something sacred.

Daeron glanced once at his father, searching.

Maekar gave the smallest nod.

Approval.

It was enough.

For a fleeting instant, Daeron’s expression softened into something almost boyish.

And Emma felt it — that delicate shift.

Not resistance.

Belonging.

Maekar turned to her then.

“You encourage him,” he said.

“I listen,” she replied.

Daeron cleared his throat, as though uncomfortable with the air growing thick between them.

“You should attend the hawking this afternoon,” he said to her abruptly. “If you mean to know Summerhall.”

She arched her brow. “Is that an invitation?”

“It is a test.”

Maekar’s mouth twitched faintly.

Emma inclined her head. “Then I accept.”

Daeron met her gaze — no longer wary.

Not entirely trusting yet.

But open.

And as the wind swept across the red hills of Summerhall, Maekar stood between wife and son — not as a barrier.

But as a bridge.

The fire, it seemed, was not only in dreams.

It was here.

Waiting.

Chapter 13  

The hawking began before the sun had fully burned the mist from the hills.

Summerhall’s red stone still held the pale hush of morning when the household gathered along the western rise. Falcons shifted beneath their hoods; leather creaked; horses stamped in the cool air. The sky stretched wide and open — a clean blue waiting to be written upon.

Emma stood with her glove laced tight at her wrist.

Daeron approached carrying a sleek peregrine this time, the bird restless and powerful, talons flexing against the leather.

“You return,” he said, as though he had not quite expected her to.

“I dislike leaving a challenge unfinished,” she replied.

He studied her a moment, then nodded once.

“Good.”

Rhae appeared at her other side, already gloved, expression composed and faintly critical. “If she drops it this time, I refuse to chase it.”

“I did not drop it,” Emma said mildly.

“You wobbled.”

“That was a controlled adjustment.”

Daeron barked a short laugh.

Across the rise, Maekar watched as the falconers prepared the lures. His presence was not loud, but it anchored the gathering. When he stepped toward Emma, the air shifted subtly around them.

“You will take the merlin again,” he said.

“Am I not yet trusted with fiercer wings?”

“You are being trained,” he replied evenly. “Not tested.”

She arched her brow. “You test me constantly.”

His mouth twitched faintly. “That is different.”

He adjusted the angle of her elbow, his gloved hand closing briefly over hers.

“Do not chase the bird with your body,” he murmured. “Let it return to you.”

“I am not in the habit of chasing things that fly away.”

His eyes flicked to hers — brief heat, quickly banked.

“See that you do not.”

Rhae made a soft sound of impatience. “If you two are finished speaking in riddles—”

Daeron smirked. “They enjoy it.”

Emma smiled and lifted her arm.

The hood was removed.

The merlin leapt into the air like a released breath — swift, slicing through sunlight. It climbed higher this time before banking sharply toward the lure dragged below. The strike was clean.

Emma did not flinch.

She waited.

When the bird circled back and settled firmly onto her glove, steady and sure, she felt the small triumph deep in her bones.

Daeron gave an approving nod.

“Better.”

Rhae folded her arms. “Acceptable.”

Maekar stepped close enough that his shoulder brushed hers.

“Well done,” he said quietly.

It was not merely about the bird.

She felt it.

Daeron launched his peregrine next. The bird soared higher than the merlin had, wings cutting the sky in wide arcs. For a moment, it seemed it might not return.

Daeron’s jaw tightened.

But instead of reaching for wine — as he might have before — he lifted his arm again, steadying his stance the way Maekar had shown him.

The peregrine wheeled.

Returned.

Landed.

A small breath left him.

Maekar crossed the short distance between them and clasped his son’s forearm.

“You did not rush it,” he said.

“No,” Daeron replied.

“Good.”

That was all.

But the pride in Maekar’s gaze was unmistakable.

Emma watched the exchange with quiet satisfaction.

The wind shifted, catching her skirts and carrying the scent of grass and leather and sun-warmed stone.

Summerhall did not glitter.

It endured.

And today, it soared.

By midday, the hawks were hooded once more and returned to their mews.

Emma found Maekar in the western solar reviewing accounts with his steward. He dismissed the man with a nod when she entered, though his eyes remained on the parchment until the door closed.

“You are displeased with something,” he said without looking up.

“I am considering something.”

“That tone usually precedes upheaval.”

She moved to the window, gazing down at the inner yard where squires crossed with buckets and bundles of wood.

“Summerhall functions,” she said. “But it does so unevenly.”

Now he looked at her.

“Explain.”

“The petitions come without order. The steward keeps records, but they are not cross-checked. The kitchens report to three different hands. The training schedules overlap with supply deliveries. It works because you demand it work — not because it is structured to.”

His brow furrowed slightly.

“You would reorganize my household.”

“I would strengthen it.”

Silence followed — not hostile.

Measured.

Maekar rose slowly from his chair.

“You have been here for weeks,” he said. “And you already see fault.”

“I see potential.”

He approached her, boots soundless on stone.

“My father ruled through spectacle,” he said quietly. “I rule through discipline.”

“And discipline thrives under clarity.”

His eyes searched hers.

“You would shift authority.”

“I would define it.”

“And if they resist you?”

She met his gaze without wavering. “They will not.”

“You are certain.”

“I am patient.”

A long pause.

Wind pressed lightly against the open shutters.

“You would place Daella among the clerks,” he said finally.

“Yes.”

“And Rhae?”

“In correspondence. She misses little.”

A faint flicker of amusement crossed his face. “No.”

“She will excel.”

“And Daeron?”

She stepped closer.

“With the training masters. Formal responsibility. Fewer idle hours.”

Maekar studied her as if weighing steel in his hand.

“You intend to give my children roles in governance.”

“They already have roles,” she replied softly. “I only intend to acknowledge them.”

He exhaled slowly.

“You move carefully,” he said.

“I move for Summerhall.”

His hand rose — not abrupt, not claiming — but deliberate as it settled at her waist.

“You speak as though it is yours.”

“It is ours.”

The correction lingered.

His thumb brushed the dragon pendant at her throat.

“You would reshape what I built.”

“I would stand beside you while doing it.”

The tension between them shifted — no longer challenging.

Alignment.

“You ask much,” he murmured.

“I ask to serve.”

His gaze darkened slightly at the word.

“You are my wife,” he said.

“Yes.”

“You do not need to earn ground here.”

“I am not earning it,” she replied gently. “I am tending it.”

That stilled him.

A long, steady moment passed.

Then —

“Very well,” he said.

The words were not grand.

But they carried weight.

“You may draft the changes. We review them together.”

She smiled — not triumph, but warmth.

“Together.”

His hand slid from her waist to the small of her back, drawing her closer until the space between them narrowed to breath and heat.

“You do not retreat,” he observed.

“Neither do you.”

A faint huff of amusement.

“Stubborn woman.”

“You married me.”

He leaned down, pressing a slow kiss to her mouth — not urgent, not restrained. Measured.

Claiming and conceding all at once.

When he drew back, his forehead rested briefly against hers.

“You strengthen this house,” he said quietly.

“So do you.”

Outside, the yard carried on in steady rhythm.

Inside, Summerhall shifted — not by force.