The celebration began.
Socialization followed swiftly after, drinks shared one by one as Houses approached the Duchess in measured intervals, each attempting to secure a favorable impression, a remembered name, a glance held a heartbeat longer than the rest. Fur brushed against silk, steel clinked softly against goblets, and the murmur of ambition wove itself into the heat of the hall.
Cendre found himself far more focused on the food.
Stag, bear, boar, and even auroch were roasted upon vast iron spits set above open fire pits. The beasts turned slowly, their skins crackling, fat dripping into flame with sharp hisses that sent up fragrant smoke. Surrounding the pits were long tables laid with dishes more acceptable to Central and Southern lords, loaves of dark bread glazed with honey, bowls of stewed roots, wheels of hard cheese dusted with herbs not native to the North.
He carved himself a portion of stag, then bear, then auroch, balancing the slices carefully upon a wooden plate before retreating behind one of the thick stone pillars where he might partake without interruption.
The meat was roasted well, crisp at the edges, tender within, juices running clear and rich. The stag was lean yet flavorful, brushed with crushed juniper and some sharp spice that bit at the tongue before mellowing. The bear was heavier, darker, its fat rendered down and mixed with herbs rare in these lands, perhaps imported at considerable cost. It carried a smoky sweetness beneath its strength. The auroch was the finest, deep red at the center, marbled generously, seasoned with garlic and coarse salt that melted into its fibers. Each bite was succulent, steaming in the chill that still clung faintly to the cavernous hall.
Mashed and buttered potatoes were offered nearby, thick and pale, but after tasting the meat he found himself reaching instead for sharper things to cleanse his palate. He sampled the desserts, dense cakes soaked in honey, pastries filled with crushed nuts and dried berries. Some fruits set upon silver trays were unknown to him, pale yellow crescents and dark purple clusters that bled sweet juice when pierced. He avoided those, choosing instead the familiarity of red apples. Their skin snapped cleanly beneath his teeth, crisp and tart, washing away the heaviness of roasted flesh. He drank from a bowl of cider set among the platters, the liquid cool and mildly spiced, its sweetness cutting through lingering fat.
It was a lavish feast. The air was thick with the mingled aromas of roasted meat, baked bread, spilled wine, sweat beneath armor, and the faint resinous scent of torches. One's nose could scarcely separate one odor from another.
By the time he had eaten his fill, he observed how the hall had shifted. Ladies and Sers had gathered toward one end, clustering in polite circles where laughter rose and fell in careful measures. They gossiped and assessed potential suitors with glances that were sharp beneath painted lashes or fur-lined hoods.
His gaze found Ser Humphrey among them.
The man stood straighter than usual, gesturing animatedly as he spoke to a pair of Northern ladies whose expressions suggested polite tolerance rather than interest. Humphrey smiled too broadly, nodded too eagerly. Cendre recalled that the knight had a beloved back home and yet still tried his hand wherever opportunity presented itself. In some way, there was something to admire in such persistence, even if it bordered on folly.
Elsewhere, the Snowy Lords remained gathered in smaller knots, their voices low as they spoke over warm food and wine. Their conversations seemed less about pleasantries and more about measures of men, of borders, and some unseen tensions.
At the center of the hall, the Duchess sat upon a raised chair carved from the same stone as the walls. She held herself straight, armored still, the greatsword resting against the side of her seat. One hand draped casually over the pommel. She listened as each visiting lord offered greetings and assurances.
Her expression was half-bored, though not inattentive. Her eyes would sharpen at certain words, narrow slightly at others. At times her gaze drifted, as though her mind walked elsewhere beyond the hall, beyond the mountain, perhaps even beyond the Argent peaks themselves.
Cendre had time. He chose not to greet her yet, nor to make himself known. Instead, he lingered in shadow and strained his ears, listening for currents beneath the surface of speech, trying to discern hidden dangers and pitfalls he would do well to avoid.
Obviously, he should avoid speaking of the deceased Duke.
Second, he must avoid any mention, direct or implied, of her failed alliance with the Central lords.
According to gossip that had traveled as far as the Academy, the Lady of Blanc had once been expected to take a husband from the Central Houses. She had personally attended gatherings to inquire about potential matches, had assessed them with the same scrutiny she might grant a blade before battle. Yet none had satisfied her. Those she had shown passing interest in were tested in ways subtle and overt and were deemed unworthy.
Even at the Academy, despite her cold features and measured speech, she had been something of a socialite. Not frivolous, but strategic. She had gathered a faction around her, contested influence with other highborn heirs, maneuvered through the political mire with a composure that belied her age.
Cendre had never understood their games. Nor had he wished to, unless necessity demanded it.
Among the muttered discussions around him, another topic surfaced repeatedly, rumors of forces beyond the Mountains. Whispers of movement in the high passes. Of shapes seen against the snow where no patrol should have been. Some suggested that it was because of these forces that the Duchess had taken the role of head so swiftly and decisively.
For the Duke had not passed away quietly.
He had been murdered alongside the heir four months ago.
Leaving Eira Blanc to assume the mantle of the North's Warden.
That was the truth beneath the wine and roasted meat.
This ascension was marked by tragedy after all. And though the hall burned warm with firelight and celebration, there lingered an undercurrent as cold as the mountain stone beneath their feet.
As night deepened, some of the older Lords excused themselves to their chambers, citing travel fatigue and early councils. The younger Sers and Ladies, however, remained. They danced in widening circles, boots striking stone in rhythmic patterns, cloaks discarded upon benches. Laughter rose louder now, wine flowed more freely, and songs, some bawdy, some old and reverent, echoed against the carved ribs of the mountain hall.
Cendre waited until the attention of most was turned elsewhere before navigating the crowd, silent as he could be. He adjusted his expression carefully, smoothing it into something agreeable, measured, the best swindler's face he possessed. Neither too eager nor too distant. Just enough humility to pass as courtesy.
He approached her raised seat.
Up close, the Duchess seemed even more composed and beautiful than she was from afar. The torchlight gilded the edges of her silvery hair, casting faint halos along its length. The crimson of her eyes appeared darker in shadow, less vibrant but more penetrating.
He made the customary bow, one knee bending, head lowered. He was about to introduce himself when she raised her hand slightly.
"Ser Cendre Dalens."
His full name, spoken without hesitation.
How did she know him?
He looked up, genuine surprise flickering across his otherwise controlled features.
"Do you know me?" he asked, curiosity now unfeigned.
A faint curve touched her lips, not warmth, but something bordering on amusement. Her gaze did not soften.
"In my time at St. Alfons Academy," she began, voice even, "there was a name that surfaced often. Not loudly. Not in the halls of the obvious. But in reports. In quiet commendations. In tasks completed where others had failed."
She tilted her head slightly, studying him as though confirming an old impression.
"That name was Cendre Dalens."
He remained silent.
"Among the students," she continued, "you were the only one consistently absent from faction disputes. While heirs of great houses quarreled and postured, you were… elsewhere. Handling assignments beyond the curriculum. Escort duties. Arbitration between merchant guilds. Matters that required discretion." Her eyes narrowed faintly. "You were well regarded. And yet, you managed to remain entirely outside the gazes of the nobles."
There it was again, that subtle edge of amusement beneath an otherwise glacial demeanor. As if she found the contradiction intriguing.
He inclined his head once in acknowledgment.
She kept her stare upon him, unblinking.
He raised a brow, uncertain what she sought in his silence.
"Tell me," she said at last, her tone shifting ever so slightly, "why is it that the head of House Dalens is not present tonight?"
The words were formal. The implication was not. There was a thin layer of disdain beneath them, not overt insult, but the suggestion that absence at such a moment bordered on disrespect.
Cendre answered plainly. "The Lord Dalens suffers from old age, Your Grace. He recently broke his foot and is confined to his estate. The heir, his son, awaits the birth of his first children. He would not dare leave his wife at such a time. Therefore, they sent me."
He did not embellish it.
There was no need.
Her gaze lingered, measuring whether there was deception hidden in simplicity.
"And what have you brought me, Ser Dalens?" she asked formally. "I assume that you did not come empty-handed?"
He reached into his pack and withdrew the object carefully wrapped within cloth. Unveiling it, he presented a crystal-clear orb, smooth and unblemished. Within the sphere lay a miniature scene, a house surrounded by golden fields beneath the warmth of a summer afternoon. The sky inside the orb shimmered faintly with captured light. A breeze seemed implied in the bend of tiny trees, though nothing moved.
"A token from our lands," he said. "Summer, preserved."
She took it without ceremony.
Turning it slowly in her gauntleted hands, she examined the craftsmanship. The flicker of torchlight refracted through the orb, scattering warm hues across her otherwise cold armor. For a brief moment, summer light danced upon winter steel.
"It is… clear," she observed quietly.
Her thumb brushed the surface, tracing the illusion of sunlight trapped within.
Then she nodded, as if confirming something.
"House Dalens remains a friend of House Blanc and its retainers," she declared, her voice carrying just enough for nearby lords to hear. "Your presence suffices, Ser Dalens."
It was both acceptance and absolution.
He bowed again. "You honor my house, Your Grace."
He was about to withdraw when she lifted her hand once more.
"There is another matter," she said.
He straightened slightly.
"You will grant me a private audience," she continued. "Behind the Frozen Tree, outside the castle walls."
A pause.
"I will consider the absence of your Lord fully forgiven, if you attend."
Her tone left little room for refusal.
It was not a request.
He inclined his head. "As you wish, Your Grace."
"We will see," she added.
He withdrew then, returning to the shadows near his earlier pillar. The feast carried on around him, flames crackled lower in the pits, laughter grew uneven as drink overtook restraint. Ser Humphrey was nowhere in immediate sight, likely entangled in wine or some failed courtship.
When at last a maidservant approached him quietly and informed him it was time, he followed without protest.
They exited through a side passage and into the night.
The cold struck sharper beyond the hall's warmth. Snow crunched beneath their steps as they moved toward a solitary shape visible against the pale ground.
The Frozen Tree.
It stood apart from the others near the outer yard, encased entirely in ice. Not dead, merely suspended. Its trunk and branches were trapped within a translucent sheath, every twig preserved in crystalline stillness. Moonlight filtered through the ice, causing the entire structure to glow faintly blue.
Beneath it stood the Duchess.
She was without an escort.
Her gaze was lifted toward the frozen branches, crimson eyes reflecting fractured moonlight. For a moment she did not acknowledge his presence.
"When I was a child," she began quietly, "this tree still bore leaves in summer."
Her voice was different now. Less formal. Not softer, but stripped of performance.
"My father refused to cut it down when the frost first claimed it. He said the North does not discard what endures."
She looked at the ice encasing it.
"I care little for this throne," she said after a pause. "It belonged to my father. It belonged to my brother. They were meant to sit where I now sit."
Her jaw tightened faintly.
"You have heard the news."
It was not a question.
"My father and my brother did not die in their beds. They were lured. Drawn beyond secure passes under false pretenses." Her eyes shifted to him at last. "And they were slaughtered."
The word hung in the frozen air.
"I believe," she continued evenly, "that someone engineered it. Not raiders. Not beasts beyond the mountains. Someone who knew our movements. Someone who benefited from their absence."
Cendre listened, confusion settling beneath his composure. Why speak of this to him? Why not to her sworn retainers, to her captains?
As if reading the question unspoken, she answered.
"My people are stubborn," she said. "They look outward for threats. Toward mountains. Toward old enemies. They would rather believe in monsters than betrayal."
She stepped closer, the ice beneath her boots cracking softly.
"You, Ser Dalens, are not of this land. You are not bound by their pride. You have a reputation for completing tasks quietly. Without allegiance to faction."
Her gaze sharpened.
"And that this task would suit you better than them."
She stopped before him.
"So I ask this of you instead."