After breakfast, Fitz did not return to his quarters.
He walked.
—
The air outside was clearer than the night before.
Not warmer—never that—but clearer.
The sky stretched pale and open above the fortress, a thin winter sun casting a cold, distant light over stone and frost. The wind had softened into something steadier, no longer howling, but still present—threading through the gaps in walls, brushing against cloaks, slipping beneath layers without permission.
It carried the scent of iron.
And ash.
Fitz stepped forward, his boots pressing against gravel and scattered stone. The faint crunch followed him with each step, uneven beneath his weight. Small fragments shifted underfoot—remnants of damage not yet cleared.
He did not avoid them.
He adjusted.
Ahead, men worked.
The outer wall—what remained of it—was being mended. Where stone had shattered beyond use, planks had been driven into place, layered and reinforced in neat, deliberate patterns. It was not elegant.
But it was order.
Temporary strength made to resemble permanence.
Fitz slowed slightly, watching.
I suppose they are preparing for the ceremony…
His gaze traced the repaired sections.
Making it… presentable.
A pause.
Or at least, less fragile than it truly is.
—
He continued.
The path widened into what passed for a market.
Not crowded.
Not lively.
But alive enough.
The smell reached him first—warm bread, slightly overbaked, mixed with the heavier scent of preserved meat and damp cloth. A faint hint of metal lingered beneath it all, as if even here, iron refused to be forgotten.
Stalls lined the path—simple wood, uneven, some leaning just slightly. Most offered bread in various forms—flat, dense, practical. Others displayed small trinkets: carved bone, bits of polished stone, crude jewelry.
And weapons.
Always weapons.
Axes with worn handles. Short swords. Spearheads stacked in bundles.
A man hammered lightly at a blade nearby—clang… clang…—the sound steady, almost calming in its repetition.
Voices were low.
Muted.
No laughter.
Only exchange.
Fitz passed through it all, his eyes taking in each detail.
The warmth of fresh bread.
The cold bite of the air against his face.
The rough sound of boots scraping against packed dirt.
The quiet weight of a place that had no excess to spare.
—
Further east—
The chapel.
It stood apart, slightly elevated, its structure older than most around it—and yet more worn. The stone was cracked, its carvings softened by time and neglect. The doors remained closed, though one hung slightly uneven on its hinge.
No smoke.
No sound.
No sign of life.
Fitz paused.
Studied it.
I suppose it never truly took root here.
A faint shift in his expression.
Or perhaps… it was abandoned.
He did not linger.
—
He turned left.
Toward the gate.
The further he walked, the thinner the settlement became. Houses gave way to open stretches of packed earth and scattered structures. The wind felt stronger here, less obstructed, cutting across the open space with sharper intent.
Men passed him carrying tools—hammers, rope, bundles of wood. Their movements were purposeful, their eyes focused ahead.
No one stopped him.
No one questioned.
—
A blacksmith's station stood near the edge of a mine entrance.
The rhythmic strike of metal rang sharper here, louder, echoing faintly against stone. Heat radiated from the forge, a stark contrast to the cold—brief, intense, and quickly lost the moment he moved past it.
The mine beyond was dark.
Silent.
Watching.
Fitz did not look into it for long.
—
He turned again.
And there—
In the distance—
The gate.
Or what remained of it.
Work had progressed quickly. Reinforcements were already in place, thick beams driven across the opening, men securing them with iron brackets and rope. It was not finished.
But it was close.
Close enough to stand.
Fitz watched for a moment.
Then turned back.
—
He did not expect to collide with someone.
"—"
A solid impact.
He stopped.
As did the man before him.
"Greetings, my prince," Ser Jared said, stepping back slightly.
Fitz straightened.
"Likewise."
A brief pause.
Ser Jared's gaze lingered on him, faint amusement already forming beneath the surface.
"Taking a walk, are we, my prince?" he asked.
Fitz inclined his head slightly.
"It seemed… appropriate."
Ser Jared nodded.
"Getting ready for the Perioamor, perhaps?"
Fitz blinked once.
"…Hmm?"
Ser Jared's grin widened—just slightly.
"Oh," he said, as if recalling something obvious. "You see, my prince—up north, a woman may have… multiple suitors."
Fitz's expression did not change.
But his attention sharpened.
"There is an old custom," Ser Jared continued, far too casually. "The husband may defend his right to marry his bride."
A pause.
"Hand to hand."
Another.
"Quite literally."
Fitz stared at him.
"…What?"
Ser Jared chuckled.
"Strike for love, they call it. Though I suspect the lady did not inform you?"
A beat.
Fitz turned.
Already moving.
Fast.
"My prince—?"
But Fitz was gone.
—
The corridors blurred past him.
Boots striking stone faster than necessary, coat shifting with each step. His hair had already fallen loose again, strands catching across his eyes as he turned sharply through familiar paths.
He did not slow.
—
Saskia's workroom.
The door—
SLAM.
It struck open against the wall.
"—Saskia!"
Both occupants looked up.
Saskia stood near her desk, composed as ever—Head Servant Lan beside her, mid-conversation.
Fitz stood in the doorway.
Breathing just slightly harder than usual.
Hair disheveled.
Eyes sharp.
"What is this Perioamor?" he demanded.
Silence.
A beat.
Then—
Saskia blinked.
Once.
Twice.
And then—
She laughed.
Not controlled.
Not measured.
A real laugh.
Light and sudden, breaking clean through the room.
Fitz stared.
"…This is not amusing."
"That—" she tried, failing to fully suppress it, "—that depends entirely on perspective."
Lan turned slightly away.
Not enough to be seen.
But enough.
Her shoulders shifted—just barely.
My lady is laughing…
It was rare.
Noticeably so.
Saskia straightened after a moment, regaining control, though a faint trace of amusement still lingered in her expression.
"My lord," she said, calmer now, "it is an old northern custom."
Fitz did not move.
"Explain."
"A symbolic one," she added quickly. "Largely abandoned."
A small pause.
"No one expects you to participate."
Another.
"No one will ask you to."
Fitz narrowed his eyes slightly.
"Ser Jared implied otherwise."
Saskia's lips curved again.
"…Ser Jared enjoys his humor."
Lan, still turned slightly away, lowered her gaze.
So this is what provokes it…
Saskia folded her hands neatly before her.
"It is not required," she repeated. "Nor is it relevant to our arrangement."
A beat.
Fitz exhaled.
Slowly.
"…Good."
His hand rose, brushing his hair back again—unsuccessfully this time.
A faint pause.
"…You could have mentioned it."
Saskia tilted her head slightly.
"I did not think you would sprint across the fortress over a rumor."
A small silence.
Then—
"…Fair."
Another flicker of amusement crossed her expression.
Brief.
Gone.
Lan finally turned back fully, composed once more.
Work first.
Always.
Saskia glanced between them.
"Now that your concerns have been addressed," she said lightly, "shall we return to matters that do require urgency?"
Fitz straightened.
His composure returning—almost seamlessly.
"…Yes."
But just beneath it—
Something quieter remained.
Not quite embarrassment.
Not quite relief.
Something… younger.
And for the briefest moment—
Saskia noticed.
She did not comment.
But the faintest trace of that earlier laughter
lingered
in her eyes.
——
Lan did not linger.
At Saskia's instruction, she gathered what she needed with quiet efficiency—notes, a small pouch of coin, a folded list already half-remembered in her mind. At the door, she paused just long enough to turn.
A proper bow.
Not shallow.
Not excessive.
"Your Highness," she said to Fitz, voice even, respectful.
Then she was gone.
The door closed softly behind her.
—
A brief silence followed.
Fitz remained where he stood for a moment longer than necessary, as if reconsidering something.
Then—
"…May I stay?" he asked. "There are… additional matters I would ask of you."
Saskia did not look up immediately.
"Of course," she said, a small smile forming as her quill continued its motion. "You may take that seat."
Fitz crossed the room and sat.
Seven feet apart.
A distance polite enough to be proper.
Close enough to speak without raising one's voice.
—
The room settled into a quiet rhythm.
Scratch… pause… stroke.
Ink against parchment.
Measured.
Unhurried.
Saskia worked without wasted motion. Her golden hair had been drawn over one shoulder, a few strands tucked neatly behind her ear to keep them from falling forward. Her red eyes remained fixed on the documents before her—focused, precise, weighing each word before committing it to the page.
Fitz watched.
At first idly.
Then—
More carefully.
She does not hesitate…
Her jaw set slightly as she wrote—not tense, but firm.
Not even for numbers.
Another stroke of the quill.
She already knows what she will write before the ink touches the page.
He did not realize how long he had been staring.
—
"Hmm…"
The quill stopped.
Saskia did not look up immediately.
"…What would you like to ask?" she said at last.
Then she did look at him.
"It is becoming slightly awkward," she added, just lightly enough to soften it. "You have been staring at me for quite some time."
Fitz blinked.
Once.
"…Ah."
A pause.
"…My apologies."
He straightened slightly.
"I was observing."
"That does not make it less noticeable."
"…Noted."
A faint pause.
Then—
"I wished to ask," Fitz continued, regaining his composure, "if there are other customs or procedures here I should be aware of."
Saskia leaned back slightly, considering.
"Nothing… particularly troublesome," she said. "The North is not as fond of ceremony as the South."
A small pause.
"Though there is one."
Fitz waited.
Saskia's gaze returned to him, just briefly.
"…At the wedding," she said, "it is customary for both parties to cut their palms and clasp hands."
Fitz blinked again.
"To symbolize… connection," she added simply.
A pause.
Then—
"That is… considerably simpler," Fitz said.
Saskia's lips curved faintly.
"I am relieved you think so."
A beat.
Then, softer—
"I did not expect you to believe Ser Jared quite so easily."
A quiet giggle slipped through.
Small.
Contained.
But real.
Fitz's gaze shifted—just slightly.
"Not… entirely," he admitted.
Weakly.
Saskia raised a brow.
"…Mm."
A pause.
Then—
"Shall I add it to the list?" she asked, tilting her head just slightly. "Things I may use to tease you, my dear?"
Fitz closed his eyes.
Briefly.
"I would prefer you did not, my lady."
There was no force behind it.
Only quiet resignation.
Saskia's shoulders moved just slightly—another suppressed laugh.
"Very well," she said. "I will exercise restraint."
A beat.
"…selectively."
Fitz exhaled.
"…Of course."
—
The quill resumed.
Scratch… stroke… pause.
The sound filled the room again.
Fitz remained seated, quieter now.
Watching less obviously.
Thinking more.
She is… different from what I expected.
His gaze lowered slightly.
Not loud. Not soft either.
Another stroke of ink.
…Efficient.
Across from him, Saskia continued writing—but her awareness had not left.
He asks carefully… but reacts honestly.
A faint, almost imperceptible shift in her expression.
That is… inconvenient.
And yet—
Her quill did not falter.
—
The silence returned.
Not empty.
Not strained.
Just—
occupied.
By ink.