Forged in Frost

Disclaimer

Most fairytales you know begin once upon a time in a far away land, and they tell of the matchless beauty of fair princesses, of the daring deeds of heroic, handsome princes charming, of witches’ spells and ogres and trolls, and they always end with true love’s kiss.

Well…This is not one of those stories.

This is the tale of a fearsome, sword-wielding blacksmith and a rebellious, runaway royal, a cursed treasure, and a quest gone very wrong, gone very right.

…but there might be some kissing.

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Once upon a time… (I am contractually obligated based on recent legislation passed by the Ministry for the Preservation of Magical Lore and Tales to begin this story with that antiquated cliche).

Once upon a time, in the land of Khaelyria, the beautiful, albeit ridiculously headstrong, Princess Jhaenerys, daughter of King Dagobert of Wolfhaven, was to be betrothed to one of the numerous, not-too-shabby-looking-if-slightly-effeminate lords and princes from the neighboring kingdoms. Now, I know what you’re thinking; “The disclaimer said this is not your typical saccharine-sweet fairy tale.” And you are correct. Just go with it for the sake of the exposition…

Anyway, as I was saying, Princess Jhaenerys was very beautiful. Raven tresses cascaded down her back, soft as spun silk. Her green eyes shone like emeralds, and milky skin covered her taut muscular frame. She was much taller than most women of the day and more athletic than most of the men. She had never fit the stereotype of the damsel in distress and had, quite often, made fools of the young men at the castle; she bested many a knight at swordplay, her archery skills were unparalleled, and, astride her favorite horse, she could out-ride any challenger. In addition to her peak physical prowess, Jhaenerys had her mother’s stubbornness of head and a passion of heart that was entirely her own. And she was very rich. She lived in a castle at the heart of Khaelyria with her father, King Dagobert, and she was the envy of the countryside. Princes and noblemen flocked to Wolfhaven, bearing chestfuls of gold and jewels, teams of horses, fine silks, and other treasures in hopes of winning the hand of the princess. But despite these ostentatious offerings of wealth, the princess refused every suitor, much to her father’s annoyance. It is a severe understatement to say that she was not pleased about the arrangement in the least. Never did a day go by that the princess did not make known her displeasure or her scorn for the droves of ogling noblemen flocking to the palace. No matter what the king said or did, Jhaenerys staunchly refused to entertain any proposal. When he inquired of his daughter why she had spurned every eligible bachelor who asked for her hand, Princess Jhaenerys merely rolled her eyes with exasperation and let out an impatient huff:

“Father, we’ve been over this a thousand times. I refuse to mate myself to one of those preening peacocks who wouldn’t know the business end of a battle ax if it lopped off his own head!”

Time and again, the princess rebuffed her father’s pleas to accept any of the offers for her hand. At last, exasperated with her stubbornness, the king had put his foot down on the matter (or, at least, Jhaenerys let him think that he had). King Dagobert had announced a tournament to be held in the princess’s honor on the eve of her 25th birthday. He had invited all the noblemen, knights, and princes from across the land to join the lists and fight it out for the hand of the princess. Jhaenerys was, to say the least, mortified at the notion, but her trepidation soon turned to triumph when she realized how she could play this into her favor. After one particularly nasty confrontation regarding her impending nuptials, the princess and her father sat moodily on the steps of the dais in the throne room. Unable to contain his anxiety any longer, the king leapt up and began to pace the parquet floor.

“But my dear, you must choose a husband for the sake of the kingdom! I must have someone to whom I can pass on my crown! You know as well as I that the throne cannot pass to a woman. The nobles won’t stand for it.” He paused mid-stride, nervously wringing his hands. “You wouldn’t leave me without an heir would you?”

“I will not be defined by the patriarchal social constructs and expectations of such an antiquated system!” exclaimed Jhaenerys with a snarl in her voice. “Why should I have to marry some meathead of a man? Especially when I am more than capable of defeating any of these pansies in a fight!”

“But my dear, the law states that in order for me to pass down the crown to you, you must first be married!”

The king's voice had begun to crack, a sure sign that his anxiety was on the brink of erupting into a full blown panic attack. His daughter had seen these bouts of perturbation many times through the years because they usually involved some act of rebellion on her part. Jhaenerys knew she was difficult, but it was simply because she refused to acquiesce to the preposterous patriarchal practice of marriage and propriety. Her notions of love and marriage, however, were actually not too different from those of your standard fairy tale princess, but these notions were overshadowed by a secret that Jhaenerys dared not speak of to anyone. Something that she had fought to keep hidden for many years; a secret that broke nearly every rule of the fairy tale princess handbook. A secret that she knew would shatter her father’s hopes of a long-lived legacy. He had his suspicions, of course, but he had never voiced any of those to Jhaenerys. She secretly hoped that he would mention those suspicions to her just to clear the air between them. She hated keeping things from her father, especially since she could no longer confide in her mother, who had died of the plague when Jhaenerys was only a small girl of seven. But she also dreaded the thought of what her father would say when she confirmed that she could never marry a man because her desires lay in the arms of a woman.

She watched her father where he stood, his worn face growing bright red with the strain of worry. She took slight pity on her father’s nerves and attempted to assuage his consternation with a compromise. Heaving a great sigh, the princess approached the king.

“Fine. If you insist on marrying me off to one of these gilded pincushions, at least make them work for it.”

The king blinked stupidly, not quite following. “B-b-but isn’t that why we are holding the tournament tomorrow? The winner gets to marry you.” His brows furrowed in confusion

“Anyone can enter the tournament and win,” replied Jhaenerys sourly. “There’s no real challenge to the joust. Seven hells! I could win the joust blindfolded!”

What she said was very nearly true. The suitors who had clamored for the hand of the princess were not the sort of chaps who posed any real threat or competition to her. She was stronger, faster, smarter, and far more skilled in swordplay and riding for any of those jackanapes to stand even the tiniest chance of victory.

“Well, what then do you suggest, daughter? Since you’re so certain that not a single one of the eighty-seven eligible young men could possibly prove his worth to you in the tournament.”

“Send them on a quest or something, I don’t know!” exclaimed Jhaenerys, desperation creeping into her voice.

“Wh-? Oh, right! A quest, yes, what an excellent plan, my dear!” agreed the king, and after a pregnant pause, “What kind of quest?”

Jhaenerys rolled her eyes. For a king, her father could really be quite dense at times, and it drove her mad. But an idea had begun to germinate in her ever-working mind. This was the perfect opportunity to rid herself of all those meddlesome suitors once and for all. She knew of a quest so diabolical, so dangerous, that even the bravest of knights cowered at the mere mention of it.

“Well, my dear father,” she began, her voice pitching higher than normal with a note of innocence, “what if we were to send the suitors on a quest for the treasure of Dun Aengus?”

The hush that fell over the entire chamber was deafening. King Dagobert audibly gulped, staring wide-eyed at his brash daughter. He knew all too well of the quest of which she spoke. Everyone in the kingdom knew of the legend of the treasure of Dun Aengus. It was said that the treasure hoard, lost to memory in the destruction of the great fortress of the Éirenvale, contained priceless gems and precious metals never before seen in any of the four kingdoms. The smiths of that region were said to possess otherworldly skill in the art of jewelcraft, imbuing the treasures wrought in their forges with magical powers. Anyone who possessed the treasure would rule as the undisputed High King of Khaelyria. The ruins of Dun Aengus were as legendary as the treasure they were said to contain. Once the greatest fortress in the land, Dun Aengus was a massive castle built from blocks of jet-black stone. Its towers and turrets stood strong and tall, and the great hall could not be matched in design nor splendor. But during the height of the Winterspell Wars, the castle was overrun by the great ice drakes from the Jötunsvel Mountains on the northern borders of the Éirenvale, and the onyx and obsidian walls crumbled with the passing years. The destruction wreaked by the ice drakes soon dwindled to mere rumors, along with tales of the vast treasure that had accumulated within the dilapidated keep of Dun Aengus. Many brave knights had once ventured to the ruins in search of the treasure despite the dark legends that surrounded the ruins. Folk who lived below the border of the Findebjörn Forest tried to warn any potential travelers of the horrors that lay in the forest and the ruins: tales of ravenous trolls, vengeful spirits, and monsters so fearsome that even the most lion-hearted warriors trembled in their armor. Most who ventured there perished, and the very few who managed to escape the icy terror of the ruins returned with their sanity (and quite a few limbs) no longer intact. It had indeed been a long time since anyone had dared follow the road that led to Dun Aengus.

“You can’t be serious! No one has laid eyes on that cursed treasure hoard since the days of the Winterspell Wars. Untold dangers lie in wait amongst the trees of the Findebjörn Forest! Not to mention ‘tis death to even approach the ruined castle. No doubt none of the princes would return.”

“Yes, wouldn’t that just be terrible,” Jhaenerys deadpanned.

“It would be a grave loss indeed,” her father began. “However,” he continued, slowly, “the one who possesses that immeasurable treasure would be the undisputed ruler of all of Khaelyria. This could be a bigger opportunity than a simple marriage of convenience…”

Jhaenerys could see her plan snaking its way into her father’s mind. He was playing right into her trick! She baited him further.

“Exactly, father. If we play our cards right, you could soon rule all of Khaelyria. At least one of those blunderheads is bound to get lucky and make it back from the ruins.” As she said this, she grinned to herself at the brilliance of the second part of her plan, which she had kept from her father because she knew he would never agree to it. She could see that he had made up his mind about the quest for the treasure.

“Yes, yes!” cried the king, his hands clasping and unclasping with mounting excitement. “If we challenge the suitors to undertake the quest, we need not waste any of our own knights. Think of the money we’ll save!” He was pacing the parquet floor in short strides. “I think you may have just slayed two dragons with one sword, my dear,” he chortled, and then began muttering to himself about the preparations that would need to be made in advance of the next day’s festivities.

“It sounds as though you have made your decision, father. Shall we announce the quest at the tournament tomorrow?” she asked demurely.

“Indeed we shall, my daughter! And let this be cause to celebrate, for soon the treasure of Dun Aengus shall be mine!... I mean, ours!”

Jhaenerys watched as the king scuttled out of the chamber, chuckling darkly to himself. She knew he would be distracted for the remainder of the evening, pondering this turn of events and sending his chamberlain and servants scurrying about making the last minute changes for the next day’s tournament. She thanked the gods that he had been so eager to take the bait. But she did not have time to stand around congratulating herself on this small victory. She had plans of her own that needed attending to, and she only had precious few hours in which to flesh them out. Jhaenerys soon left the chamber and made for her own room, sending her waiting women away for the night. She would need complete solitude for the task ahead. As the great oaken door thudded shut behind her, she slid the iron bolt silently into place.

The next day at the tournament, as the knights and nobles made ready to whack away at one another, King Dagobert rose to make his announcement. He stood atop the dais in the king’s box of the stadium, hands outstretched as the crowd of spectators settled into their seats. Once the buzz of conversation dwindled, King Dagobert cleared his throat and spoke in a loud, strong voice:

“Good people! We gather this day to cheer on these noble knights and lords who have journeyed from far and wide across our kingdom in the hopes of winning the hand of my fair daughter, the princess Jhaenerys. However, the path to the throne is not so easily won. Whosoever is named the champion of the tournament shall face one of the greatest tests of his mettle. Our champion shall lead the other suitors into the wilds of the North where the winter winds blow cold. There they shall pass through the Findebjörn Forest to the ruins of Dun Aengus to recover the lost treasure of legend. Whoever should successfully return, with the treasure of course, shall have the hand of the princess and be crowned the Queen’s Regent of Wolfhaven!”

The people should have erupted in boisterous cheers at the conclusion of the speech, but nothing but the chirps of proverbial crickets echoed through the stunned crowd. All the kingdom knew of the cursed ruins and feared the Findebjörn Forest (even though many leagues lay between the boundaries of Wolfhaven and the forest’s icy edge). The knights shifted uncomfortably on their horses, the creaking of their armor cutting the thick silence of the stadium. Not a single one of them fancied the thought of succumbing to a frozen fate at the claws of some terrible ice drake, but the promise of ruling as Queen’s Regent over the kingdom of Wolfhaven did have a nice ring to it. King Dagobert had decreed that Jhaenerys must marry by the Winter Solstice, which happened to be only three months away. This brief turnaround period left all those contending for the princess in an emphatic state of panic. Despite the endless supply of rugged good looks, silky blonde tresses, and dazzling blue eyes, many of these suitors were not exactly what you would call knight-in-shining-armor material: the majority had lived a cushy life filled with courtly banquets and diplomatic missions. Only a few had been battle-tested, and of that number, a mere one had ever been bloodied in a fight, and he had lost that fight to a barmaid named Joan, whom he had mistaken for man.

As Jhaenerys gazed contemptuously over the throng of velvet-handed men, she laughed internally at the shock that would erupt when she enacted the second half of her plot, which had hinged on whether or not she could convince her father to approve the quest for the treasure of Dun Aengus. Now that he had, she could move forward with her scheme. Jhaenerys herself would take part in the quest disguised as a royal suitor. She knew that she could best any of the men vying for her hand and that she could easily outwit them all to claim the treasure for herself. The previous evening had been spent making her preparations. She had already chosen her disguise and had hidden a bag of clothes, along with a dagger and a sword, at the edge of the great lake. She had tried to imagine the conditions she would face on the road to the Éirenvale, and stuffed her saddle bags with a sturdy pair of fur-lined boots, a winter cloak, thick leggings, and several woolen shirts. The stout bow and quiver full of arrows that she had swiped from the armory when the captain of the guard had taken his lunch break were stashed in the hollow of a dead oak that stood on the lake shore. She desired to take her own armor on the journey, but the gold and silver-laced suit would be too conspicuous. Perhaps she could find a blacksmith along the way that would outfit her in something simple.

Jhaenerys had also kept careful watch on the horse stables, timing the shift changes of the stablehands so that she knew the precise moment best suited for sneaking in and saddling her great black mare, Lagertha. It was a calculated risk to use her own steed for fear of recognition, but she trusted no other animal to carry her on this perilous journey. She would have to wait for the cover of darkness before she could slip into the kitchens to fill her supply bags with food. She would make her escape later that night when all the castle was otherwise distracted. The king had ordered a great feast prepared for that night as a send off for the suitors. Jhaenerys knew that all the castle would be in attendance, their senses dulled with the wine, ale, and rich comestibles provided by the vast kitchens. King Dagobert spared no expense when it came to feasting. And as predicted, a hundred mouth-watering aromas wafted from the kitchens into the heavily festooned banquet hall. Her father had ordered the servants to set three massive refectory tables that could each seat threescore men comfortably. Azure banners bearing the king’s crest fluttered from the arched ceiling giving the illusion that the crowned wolf rampant was dancing. The musicians were setting up a small stage at the base of the elevated dais where the royal table was set with its fine linen and pewter plates and silver goblets. Jhaenerys marveled at the sight. Her father could really throw a party, and the entire kingdom, from priest to peasant, would eat for days on the leftovers.

Jhaenerys swept up the spiraling staircase to her apartments to ready herself for the feast and her subsequent escape. She refused the assistance of Abigail and Isabel, her ladies in waiting. Though proficient in their ministrations, the pair constantly hummed with gossip, and it wore on her nerves. They meant well, but she honestly did not understand, nor appreciate, the idle chatter of women. Once the ladies were safely out of her chambers, the princess set to work twisting up her hair. She considered for a moment cutting it off completely in a short spiky fashion. It certainly would ease her daily hair care routine and would let her tight-fitting helmet rest more comfortably on her head. Her only pause came at the thought of having to explain the new look at the feast, so she delayed the operation until she was well on her journey. She worked the horn comb through the tangled ebony waves, then with deft fingers, twisted and pinned up her locs in an intricate plait. Her hair finally tamed, Jhaenerys made her way to the adjoining room which housed her expansive wardrobe. Lavish gowns of every hue hung like a silken rainbow around the walls of the chamber. She eyed the precious fabrics, scanning down the rows of dresses until she found what she was looking for. The gown wasn’t overly showy; It was a simple design of the deepest blood-red silk trimmed in bright gold. The contrast against her ivory skin was startling, and her eyes shone like emerald stars above the sea of crimson. Her mother had worn this very dress on the day she married King Dagobert, and every time Jhaenerys wore the gown, the entire court noted the uncanny resemblance between mother and daughter. She wiped a stray, silver tear from her lashes as a flood of memories washed over her. Queen Morgaine had died of a fever when Jhaenerys was but seven years old. She recalled the days spent with her mother riding through the countryside, picnicking in the north pasture by the lake, sitting by the roaring fire in the great hall as her mother played the harp and sang of heroes of ages long past. She had a voice like honey, smooth and sweet. Jhaenerys realized she had been unconsciously humming one of the old lullabies her mother used to sing to her as she tucked her into bed. She shook herself from the reverie and took the gown from its display. She worked her way into the fitted material and laced up the closure at the back with expert hands. Smoothing down the wrinkles and folds, she stepped into a pair of silk slippers, set her golden coronet atop her head, and observed herself in the mirror.

“Not bad,” she smirked to herself.

Jhaenerys was not a vain woman, but she knew that her appearance would certainly have the suitors clambering for her hand for one of the many dances, a thought that made her skin crawl. None of them had appeared to be very graceful, which meant her toes were in for a good trodding-on that evening, and she was certain from the salacious looks she had received from a few of the suitors earlier at the tournament, that she would be fending off several sets of wandering hands. She rolled her eyes and turned to make her way to the great hall. As her chamber door swung open, she could hear the strains of music coming from the minstrels below. The festivities had begun. She raced along the corridor and down the grand staircase to the entrance of the great hall where she skidded to a halt, slightly disheveled and only a little winded. Once she had caught her breath, the two men at arms reached for the massive wrought iron handles on the studded oaken double doors. The music within halted mid-note. The hinges of the doors creaked under the weight as they slowly opened to reveal Jhaenerys, Princess of Wolfhaven. Not a hair was out of place as she stepped gracefully and grandly into the vaulted room to thunderous applause. She seemed to glide, like a crimson-clad ghost, over the flagged stones of the floor to the dais where the royal table had been set. Her father stood to assist her with her chair, and once she was seated, she gave a slight nod to the minstrels to resume their playing. Lute, flute, and drum kicked up in a lively tune, and the momentarily distracted guests returned to their hors d'oeuvres and glib conversations. Jhaenerys noticed, with a sigh of relief, that the main courses had not yet been brought out of the kitchens. She was famished and could not wait to set to work on the countless delectables and delicacies that had been prepared. She was just beginning to dream about dessert when her father leaned toward her conspiratorially.

“Well, my dear,” he began, half questioning, half stating, “our little plan seems to be unfolding without a hitch!” He practically giggled with self-satisfaction. “Your suitors seem to be enjoying themselves immensely.” He pointed to the throng of, mostly, young men who were crowded together and chittering like excited little boys. They bowed clumsily as they noticed Jhaenerys and the king looking their way, and the princess scoffed disdainfully.

“I still don’t see why I must marry one of those idiots. Father, surely you cannot wish to leave the care of your kingdom, AND your only daughter, in the hands of … of THAT!”

She gestured not so subtly to the men, now circled around two of their companions who were, at the moment, in a heated race to see which one could cram the most olives into his mouth without choking. It appeared that Lord Binglesby of Crockmoor was currently in the lead, his cheeks ballooning like a chipmunk packing it in for winter. The others shouted encouragement as he attempted to shove one more olive through his bulging lips, but a jab in the ribs from his competitor, Prince Abelard of the Eastern Isles, sent olives spewing from his mouth, peppering the others like little green pebbles. Jhaenerys was sure she even saw several of the projectiles shoot from Binglesby’s nose. When she looked over at her father, she was annoyed to see him cackling with laughter at the ignoble antics of the suitors. They may as well have told him a fart joke for all the carrying on he was doing. Fortunately, the kitchen staff had chosen this particular moment to announce that dinner would be served, and an anticipatory hush fell over the crowd. The doors to the kitchens gaped wide as a ravenous mouth to allow an army of cooks and serving men and women to parade into the hall, laden with steaming cauldrons of soup, trays of hot baked bread, platters of meat pies and every kind of cheese, heaping bowls of buttery roasted potatoes and carrots and turnips, savory casseroles, and bringing up the rear was the pièce de résistance: a monstrous roasted boar carried on an iron spit. It took four men to deliver the massive hog to the central fire pit where they hoisted their cargo onto two heavy iron stakes that had been driven into the stone flagged floor on either side of a bed of hot coals. The embers sizzled and hissed as great globules of dripping fat fell from the crisp, golden skin, flaring the flames up to kiss the tender meat. Jhaenerys’s eyes widened greedily and she unconsciously, and very unladylike, smacked her lips hungrily. She stood so quickly that she almost upset her heavy chair backward into a suit of armor. Her father also stood to bid his guests to fill their plates as the feasting began in earnest. As was customary, the head chef carved one of the hulking hindquarters from the boar and presented it with great pomp and circumstance to the king and Jhaenerys, and the princess, not waiting for her father, snatched up her knife to cut herself a hefty helping of the juicy meat. Her father watched in amazement as the mound of food on his daughter’s plate continued to grow. Jhaenerys had never been a picky eater. In fact, she could put away as much food as some of the knights of Dagobert’s army! She helped herself to every dish she could reach. This banquet was particularly special to Jhaenerys since it would be the last time in a long time to come that she would have such a delectable meal. She wanted to savor every morsel.

She was just refilling her goblet with her third round of ale, snagging a sixth pasty from one of the nearby trays when a second trumpet blast announced the arrival of dessert. Puddings and cakes and trifles and pies paraded past the royal table in a delightful procession of confectionery art. Nearly tripping over the hem of her gown, Jhaenerys made a beeline for the dessert table, spooning heaping portions of the sweet delicacies onto a fresh plate. When she again took her seat by her father, Dagobert, who had slowed his pace considerably, turned a nasty shade of green at the prospect of stuffing one more bite of anything between his quivering lips. But Jhaenerys’s eyes merely glowed brighter with anticipation, and she tucked into the desserts with the gusto of an experienced trencherman. Several of the princes and noblemen had begun to stare at her, shocked into silence at the sight of such a slight figure consuming enough food to feed a small army, but the princess merely smirked and continued to plow her way through each mouthful. She secretly hoped that her dining habits would be enough to intimidate the suitors so that she would not have to follow through with this ridiculous plan, but much to her dismay, they could not be dissuaded.

Once the guests had eaten their fill, the kitchen staff cleared away most of the dishes, leaving a few trays of small samplings for folk to nibble throughout the remainder of the evening; however, the wine and ale continued to flow, leaving no goblet dry. Normally, Jhaenerys could drink any grown man under the table, and frequently did so at banquets such as these, but tonight, given the demands of her impending journey, she had opted to sip sparsely at her ale. She marveled at the rapidly progressing intoxication of many of the suitors, as much lightweights in drinks as they were in the arena, unable to handle either liquor or sword.

“Oh gods,” she groaned, as she had the sudden and disturbing image of the inebriated suitors impaling themselves on their own swords, which ironically, she realized, would solve most of her current problems.

She shrugged the thought away as wishful thinking and turned back to festivities. The music had grown louder and livelier as the night progressed. A piper, clad in tartan kilt and tall, buckled boots had joined the throng of musicians, and as he shouldered the great pipes, a hush settled on the revelers. He took a deep breath and blew into the chanter, sending a low droning call echoing to the great wooden beams of the vaulted ceiling. Jhaenerys felt her skin prickle at the sound, the hairs at the nape of her neck standing on end. Then, with a conspiratorial glance at his fellow minstrels, the piper set off into a vigorous reel, his fingers fluttering on the keyholes. The crowd cheered and clapped as they abandoned their chairs and benches in favor of spinning around the middle of the hall that served as a dance floor. Jhaenerys rolled her eyes as she caught sight of a staggering pack of suitors slowly making their way toward the king’s table. She did not need to ask their intent, for it was plastered all over their flushed faces: they desired a dance with the princess. Though she had mentally prepared herself for such an encounter, Jhaenerys knew her own face betrayed her concealed disgust at the thought of being groped and trodden on by these hapless fools. She excused herself under the guise of exhaustion from the day’s excitements and sneaked away. She met no one as she crept along the corridor leading to the stables, but as she pushed open the twin wooden barn doors, she met the startled face of the hostler’s lad, a small scraggly boy of around eight years. While he wasn’t altogether shocked at seeing the princess so late outside the castle, for she often would bring treats out to Lagertha and the other horses, she had clearly frightened him with her sudden appearance. She scrambled for a lie which the boy would believe.

“Oh! Good evening, Dougal. I, uh, I just came out to…” she hesitated, “to tell you that the king has ordered you to attend the feast. You are to hasten to the great hall and eat your fill of all the cakes and pies the court chefs have prepared!” she ended brightly.

The boy, standing with a pitchfork twice his height loose in his small hands, blinked stupidly, mouth agape as though he did not comprehend the princess’s words. When she said his name a second time, he shook his head, dropped the pitchfork as though it were made of red-hot iron, and scampered past her with a muddled “yes, your highness” echoing in his straw-dusted wake. Jhaenerys chuckled at the knobbly retreating form, quickly turning back to the task at hand. She made her way down the long cobblestone hall of the stable to Lagertha’s stall, grabbing the necessary tack and gear to saddle her steed and praying Lagertha would behave whilst she tightened all the straps and harnesses. The mare hated the girth of her saddle and would often inflate her belly as Jhaenerys grunted and strained to cinch the strap as tight as she could. And tonight was no different. Jhaenerys’s patience would not stand for the shenanigans and she elbowed the horse in the ribs, forcing the mare to exhale in a sputtering huff. Jhaenerys tugged one final time on the leather girth and secured the strap. Walking to stand face to face with Lagertha, Jhaenerys grasped the bridle firmly and stepped close.

“Alright, listen up. I need you to cooperate with me tonight. You and I are heading north.” The mare stamped her feet in feeble defiance. Jhaenerys’s grip on the reins tightened. “Quiet down, girl! Father cannot find out about my plan. It’s the only way I can avoid being married off to one of those dolts who competed in the tournament today.”

Lagertha snorted contemptuously as though in agreement.

“Exactly. So if this is going to work, I need you to behave!”

The horse huffed once more, half in contempt, half in acknowledgement. Jhaenerys tugged the reins and turned their direction toward the back of the stables that led out into the north fields and the lake. She could just hear the strains of music and laughter ringing from the great hall over the sharp clip-clop of Lagertha’s iron-clad hooves on the cobblestones. She was aware of every sound as she led the great mare down the remaining expanse of the stable. It seemed that she would never reach the gate to the pasture. She was sure some roaming guardsman would see her sneaking away from the feast and either question her or rush to snitch on her to the king. She finally reached the back gate and pushed it open into the field, the hinges squeaking only slightly. The sounds of the castle died away as Jhaenerys and Lagertha made their way through the rustling dried stalks of the autumn grass. The princess skirted the edge of the field, keeping to the shadows of the trees to avoid unwanted eyes following them. It took them but half an hour to reach the shores of the lake, a sheet black glass under the velvet sky, for no moon shone overhead. She tied Lagertha’s reins loosely around a low bough of the rowan tree where she had hidden her packs for the journey. She worked her fingers quickly through the laces of her gown and slipped the soft silk swiftly over her head and carefully wrapped the dress in heavy paper to preserve the material. She tied the package together with a strip of leather and stuffed the bundle into one of her saddle bags. The brown leaves crackled around her as a cool autumn breeze blew through the branches of the rowan tree. She drew on a pair of woolen riding breeches and a soft linen tunic dyed blue with the expensive woad from the north country. Then she slipped her feet into a sturdy pair of leather boots and tightened her belt around her waist before buckling her sword to her side. Jhaenerys released a sighing breath that she had not realized she was holding. Suddenly, the weight of what she was about to do fell onto her shoulders, and she considered, for a passing moment of uncertainty, simply returning to the feast to accept her fate. She slapped herself suddenly, letting her doubt dissipate into the darkness. She hoisted the saddlebags into place on Lagertha’s glossy rump, before swinging up into the saddle. She twitched the reins loose from the branch and goaded her steed toward the kingsroad.

“This is it,” she breathed to herself, and with one final glance back to the glowing windows of the castle, she nudged her horse’s sides with the heels of her boots, the mare smoothly cantering into the night, a mere shadow amongst the trees.