The book was older than memory.
Its leather cover had long since lost its color, worn into a dull, uneven brown by years of careful hands. The edges curled slightly, the spine cracked but unbroken—as though it, too, refused to surrender to time.
The Myth and History of Wesperia.
Maester Ron placed it upon the table with quiet reverence.
"Study… time, my prince. My princess," he said, his voice warm despite its age. "Today's topic—the history of the continent of Wesperia."
The room was brighter then.
Warmer.
Sunlight spilled through tall windows, untouched by frost, catching dust that drifted lazily in the air.
A square table sat at the center—broad enough for all of them, though none ever sat still for long.
Six children gathered around it.
Six futures.
—
Crown Prince Xiphos Eckbert Ekkehard sat at the head.
Ten summers and two moons.
Golden hair—radiant, disciplined—styled in a careful side-swept fashion, short at the sides, already carrying the quiet intention of a crown not yet worn.
"Go on, Ron," he urged, leaning forward with barely contained eagerness. "Start already. I love the Age of Legends."
—
Beside him, Princess Ophelia Deirdre Ekkehard sat with hands folded neatly upon her lap.
Nine summers and a quarter moon.
Her brown hair fell in soft, romantic waves, framing a face far too expressive to hide her excitement.
"What a lovely topic, Maester Ron," she said, her voice bright. "The old stories always feel… kinder."
—
A chair scraped.
Second Prince Conrad Faux Ekkehard leaned back, dragging one leg up to rest on the table without hesitation.
Seven summers and nine moons.
Black hair shaped into a sharp pompadour, his posture as careless as his grin.
"Just say you want to hear that love story again, Phelia," he scoffed. "You always do."
Ophelia frowned immediately.
"That is not—"
Xiphos turned sharply.
"Conrad."
A warning.
Clear.
Conrad lifted both hands in mock surrender, though his smirk remained.
"It's a joke."
Still—
he pulled his foot off the table.
Slowly.
—
At the far side, Third Prince Damon Vane Ekkehard slumped deeper into his seat.
Five summers and eleven moons.
Dark blonde curls fell freely around his face, his expression already weary of a lesson not yet begun.
"Ahhh… I hate this already," he muttered, dragging a hand across his face.
—
Near the edge—
Fitz.
Four springs and six moons.
Smaller. Quieter.
Dark black hair in a loose wolf cut, strands falling just enough to shadow his eyes.
He said nothing.
Only watched.
—
"…Fitz."
The voice came sharp.
Second Princess Gloria Roxana Ekkehard leaned forward, chin tilted slightly upward.
Four summers and five moons.
Golden hair styled in a full, flawless blowout—far too deliberate for someone her age.
"You don't have a mouth, Plains?" she said, rolling her eyes as if the silence itself offended her.
"Ekkehard," Xiphos corrected at once, his tone firm.
Roxana exhaled loudly.
"Obviously," she muttered, though her gaze lingered on Fitz—expecting something, anything.
He gave her nothing.
Her eyes rolled again.
—
Maester Ron cleared his throat gently.
"Shall we begin, my lords… my ladies?"
"Yes, please," Ophelia said quickly, eager to move past the tension.
—
The book opened.
Pages whispered.
"Ten thousand years ago," Ron began, "when the Old Ones of the archipelago of the sinking isles sailed the seas… some went west… some east."
His voice settled into rhythm.
Steady.
Comforting.
"Those who went west became the First Men."
Fitz's gaze lowered to the map.
Faded ink.
Ancient lines.
"They established the Six Kingdoms. Does anyone recall their names?"
Xiphos did not hesitate.
"The Kingdom of the Snow. The Kingdom of the Windy Hills. The Kingdom of the Bone Island. The Kingdom of the Lightningsmeet. The Kingdom of the Flatlands… and the Kingdom of Serena."
Maester Ron smiled.
"Correct."
Conrad clicked his tongue.
"Of course he knows it."
Damon groaned softly.
"Of course he said it first…"
—
"The Nivia," Ron continued, "established the first settlement in the North. They carried rune magic—ancient power said to grant a man the strength of a giant."
That caught them.
Even Damon looked up.
"It is said," Ron went on, "that House Nivia and House Hailar once competed for the North—by hunting giants."
Roxana leaned forward now, interest piqued despite herself.
"They lined the corpses across the land," Ron said, "forming the Giantspine Mountains."
A pause.
"And where House Nivia carved a path through them—slaying enough to open a passage—it became the Giantspine Path."
Fitz's fingers rested lightly on the map.
Tracing.
Imagining.
"This marked the beginning of House Nivia's ten-thousand-year reign."
Silence followed.
Then—
"What are their house words?" Ron asked.
No one answered.
Conrad looked away.
Damon slumped again.
Roxana tapped her fingers impatiently.
"…I would not blame you," Ron chuckled softly. "They have faded into irrelevancy now."
Fitz hesitated.
A thought surfaced.
"…The snow recalls…?" he offered quietly.
"Not quite, my prince."
Roxana straightened, clearly about to speak—
"Acti—"
"Pure as Snow, Hard as Ice… is it?" Fitz said again, a little firmer this time.
A pause.
Maester Ron's face brightened.
"That is correct, my prince."
Silence.
Then—
Xiphos blinked.
"…That's impressive," he said, genuine surprise in his voice. "Even I did not know it."
Ophelia smiled softly at Fitz.
"That suits them," she murmured.
Conrad raised a brow.
"Huh."
Damon squinted at him.
"…Did you just guess?"
Roxana stared.
Then—
her nose wrinkled slightly.
"…Lucky," she muttered, though her eyes narrowed just a fraction—as if reassessing something she did not like.
Fitz said nothing.
But something small settled within him.
Quiet.
Steady.
—
"Next," Ron began, turning the page, "the Kingdom of the Windy Hills—"
Knock. Knock.
The sound cut through the room.
Too sharp.
Too real.
"Come in," Ron said.
The door opened.
A knight stepped inside.
Ser Wilbur Ward.
Younger.
Much younger.
His hair still carried its color, only lightly touched by age. His posture—straight, unyielding—unchanged, but without the weight that would later settle into his bones. His armor was cleaner. His presence… lighter.
"Oh, Ser Wilbur," Ron said. "What is it?"
"The council has an emer—"
Knock.
Knock.
The sound came again.
Closer.
The light dimmed.
The room—
faded.
What is he saying…? Fitz thought.
The map blurred.
Voices stretched thin.
Knock.
Knock.
—
Fitz opened his eyes.
Cold.
Immediate.
Unforgiving.
The stone room returned around him, dim and silent.
For a moment—
he did not move.
The warmth lingered—
just long enough to be missed.
"…Yes," he said, his voice quiet.
The door opened.
Ser Wilbur stood there.
Older now.
The years visible in the lines of his face, in the silver of his hair—but the same posture remained. The same steadiness. Only now, it carried weight.
"My prince," he said, "the lady requests your presence for breakfast."
A pause.
Fitz sat up slowly.
The dream slipped away.
"…Of course," he replied.
And the warmth of memory—
gave way once more
to the cold of the present.
——
Fitz woke fully the moment he rose.
Cold had a way of doing that.
He stood beside the narrow basin, a thin sheet of ice sealing its surface. His fingers broke it with a quiet crack, shards drifting aside as he dipped his hands into the biting water. He did not hesitate.
The cold ran over his skin, sharp, immediate—down his neck, across his shoulders.
His build was not large, not imposing—but it was kept. Lean, toned in the way of someone trained to endure rather than to dominate. There was no excess in him.
Only control.
His black hair fell forward as he moved, the familiar wolf cut unchanged since childhood, strands brushing against his eyes—dark, nearly black, steady even now. They
reflected little.
Or perhaps—
They simply did not show it.
He paused, water trailing from his jaw.
I dreamt of the past…
The thought lingered longer than he
expected.
It was… good.
A rare thing.
Then—
His expression shifted.
Slightly.
Why did she have to be part of it…
A quiet click of his tongue.
"…That girl have been...."
A short pause
"... Unpleasant to me."
His fingers brushed his hair back, though it fell again just as easily.
Something unwanted always happens… or she arrives.
A pause.
Though I would wish the latter…
Another.
"…No."
His gaze lowered briefly.
"I would rather not either."
The thought ended there.
As most things did.
—
He dressed with practiced precision.
A dark inner tunic—fitted, warm, finely woven.
Over it, a structured coat of deep charcoal, lined with fur at the collar and cuffs. Subtle stitching traced the edges—refined,
unmistakably noble, but restrained. No excessive display. No wasted detail.
His gloves—black leather.
Boots—polished, though the fortress would soon claim that effort.
At last, he fastened the clasp at his collar.
Complete.
——
The halls were quieter in the morning.
Not empty.
Never empty.
Servants moved with purpose. Guards stood at their posts, their armor—mostly leather reinforced with chain—worn but maintained. Round shields leaned against the walls in places, spears and axes stacked where they could be reached quickly.
Preparation.
Always.
Fitz walked through it without pause.
—
The hall doors opened.
And there she was.
Already waiting.
Saskia stood near the table, light from the torches catching faintly in her golden hair. Today, she wore something simpler than the night before—still refined, still deliberate, but closer to the fortress she ruled.
And as she turned—
She smiled.
Always.
It was smaller this morning.
But it was there.
"My lord Fitz," she greeted.
Fitz stopped.
Then—
A small smile answered hers.
"Lady Saskia."
They held it for a moment.
Then let it fade—naturally.
—
"Good morning," she said, gesturing lightly toward the table. "The wind was kind enough not to follow you in."
Fitz exhaled faintly.
"My lady," he said as he took his seat, "if you continue, I may begin to suspect you favor it over your guests."
A pause.
Then—
A soft laugh.
Light.
Almost playful.
"I will try to be more considerate," she said.
"…You will not."
"…No," she admitted easily.
—
They sat.
Breakfast was simple—bread, a thicker porridge than the night before, and what little meat could be spared. Warm.
Enough.
Saskia reached to the side.
"There is something you should see," she said.
She handed him a letter.
Sealed.
Fitz took it, his fingers brushing the wax briefly before breaking it cleanly. His eyes moved across the contents—quick, precise.
A pause.
Then—
"…The Crown will send a representative," he said.
Saskia watched him.
"And?"
Fitz looked up.
"The date has been moved," he continued. "Delayed by four days."
A beat.
Saskia's brows drew together—just slightly.
"…Four days," she repeated.
Fitz nodded.
"We were to be wed on the fourth night after my arrival," he said. "One has already passed."
He glanced at her.
"With the delay… it becomes the eighth."
A brief silence.
Saskia leaned back, her fingers resting lightly against the table.
Calculating.
"…So they may arrive in time to witness it," she said.
"Yes."
Another pause.
Then—
A quiet breath left her.
Not frustration.
Not quite.
"…I will have to send word again."
Fitz studied her.
"You dislike repetition?"
She shook her head slightly.
"No."
Her gaze lowered for a moment—not in uncertainty, but in consideration.
"It is not the act," she said. "It is what it suggests."
A small pause.
"House Nivia cannot afford to appear… uncertain," she continued. "We are already… diminished."
Her fingers pressed lightly against the table.
"If word spreads that we change our own arrangements—twice—it invites interpretation."
Fitz said nothing.
She met his gaze again.
"And interpretation," she added quietly, "is rarely kind to weak houses."
A beat passed.
Then—
"…Understood," Fitz said.
Saskia's lips curved faintly.
"Good."
—
Fitz folded the letter neatly.
"It is not entirely disadvantageous," he said.
She tilted her head slightly.
"No?"
"Four additional days," he continued. "To prepare. To reinforce. To ensure the appearance matches the intent."
A small pause.
"Our wedding," she said lightly.
"…Yes," he replied
Their eyes met.
For a moment—
Something almost like amusement passed between them.
—
"…Seven days," Saskia said after a moment.
Fitz blinked once.
She glanced at him.
"You counted from the delay," she said. "I counted from today."
A faint pause.
"…Seven, then," he corrected.
"…Seven," she agreed.
Another silence.
Then—
She leaned forward slightly.
"Then we will use them well."
Fitz nodded once.
"Of course."
A beat.
Then, quieter—
"…Do you mind it?" Saskia asked.
Fitz looked at her.
"The delay?"
"Yes."
A pause.
He considered.
"…No."
Another.
"…It changes little."
Saskia watched him for a moment longer—
Then smiled.
"So let us continue our breakfast,shall we my lord?" Saskia Asked
"Yes,my lady." Fitz Answered