Dawn had not yet broken over Erydonel when Lord Meryn Elric stirred from uneasy sleep. The wind from the eastern sea moaned softly against the shutters, carrying with it the damp scent of rain and the distant roll of thunder. Somewhere below, a stable hand called to a restless horse. Meryn sat up slowly, listening to the familiar sounds of his keep waking—buckets clattering, doors creaking, voices murmuring in the courtyard.
The letter still lay on his desk, weighted beneath a small iron hawk. He had read it thrice the night before, though each reading brought no greater clarity—only more unease. The fox's seal had been unbroken when the riders arrived, but even wax carried its own kind of deceit.
He rose, pulling on a heavy tunic of grey wool trimmed with faded gold. The hearth had long since gone cold. His fingers brushed the scar along his forearm, a remnant of his youth—a wound earned in defense of his father's hall. Those days had seemed simpler. Then, loyalty had been measured in blood, not coin.
A knock at the door.
"Enter," he said.
Maester Eldric stepped in, his thin frame swallowed by his grey robes. His chain clinked softly as he bowed. "My lord. The riders from Harlowe Heath rest in the guest quarters. They'll depart after breaking fast."
Meryn turned toward the window. Through the arrow-slit, dawn began to spread—thin and red, like blood diluted in water. "Let them eat their fill. They'll carry back my answer before noon."
Eldric hesitated. "You mean to attend, then?"
"Of course." Meryn's voice was quiet, but firm. "To refuse a summons from Lord Varron would invite insult. To accept, at least, gives the appearance of prudence."
The maester's thin lips pressed together. "The Fox of Harlowe Heath deals in appearances, my lord. He never asks what he cannot already use."
Meryn allowed himself a faint smile. "Then let him try to use me, Eldric. A fox's bite is nothing against a hawk's talons."
Eldric bowed his head, unconvinced but silent. "I'll see to your provisions, my lord. You'll ride at first light?"
"After breaking fast with my family."
When the maester left, Meryn stood a long while before the window. The vineyards stretched below him, rows of leafless vines dark with dew. Beyond them, the woods gave way to low hills and the silver line of the river. It was a modest domain by the standards of the Crownlands, but his father had made it prosper through restraint and watchfulness. Meryn had no great ambitions for conquest or renown. Stability was its own reward.
Yet peace, he thought, is like a cask of summerwine—sweet, fragile, and easily spilled.
---
By the time he reached the great hall, the household was stirring. Servants carried platters of fruit, bread, and cured ham to the table. Smoke curled from the hearth, mingling with the scent of rosemary and fresh oak. Lady Alenna sat with the children already gathered around her.
Lorasen was asking questions before his father even reached the table. "Will you see knights, Father? Lords with banners?" His eyes gleamed with that restless fire that reminded Meryn too much of himself at that age.
"Knights, aye," Meryn said, seating himself. "And lords too, each with their own cause to press. You'll learn soon enough that talk among men with banners is more dangerous than swordplay."
Lia giggled softly. "Then why go at all?"
"Because," Meryn said, buttering a piece of bread, "those who stay silent when others plan soon find plans made for them."
Alenna watched him closely, her brow creased. "You don't trust this council."
"I trust that Varron Ruskyn sees profit in it."
"Profit often comes at another's cost," she said.
He met her gaze for a long moment. "Aye. But if we hold to our own and bend to none, we'll endure. That's enough."
Little Jorren sat between them, unusually quiet. His small fingers toyed with the crust of bread, and his golden eye—so bright and strange—watched every exchange as though taking its measure.
Alenna reached to smooth his hair, her hand pausing at the streak of silver that cut through the dark strands. "Our son sees too much."
Meryn's mouth curved faintly. "Then he'll make a good lord one day."
When the meal was done, he rose and kissed his wife's brow. "See to them while I'm gone. I'll return before the week's end."
Alenna caught his hand. "And if you don't?"
"Then burn the letter," he said quietly, "and remember that oaths can bind the living and damn the dead."
---
Outside, the keep was alive with motion. Stable hands saddled the horses; the banners of House Elric—a red hawk spilling green wine from a cup on a yellow field—fluttered from the battlements. The morning air was crisp, laced with the scent of wet earth.
Ten men rode with him: four sworn knights and six squires. The knights were men he trusted—Ser Daren Holt, a broad-shouldered veteran with a limp; Ser Calen Byre, young and eager but loyal; Ser Ronnel, the quiet one whose sword spoke more than his tongue; and Ser Theryn, his cousin by marriage, sharp-eyed and proud.
Each wore mail polished clean, and the squires carried spears and pennants. A modest company, but well disciplined.
"Keep them close," Meryn said to Daren. "No idle talk along the road. I'd not have rumors reach Harlowe before I do."
Daren grunted. "Aye, my lord. We'll ride like shadows."
The gates of Erydonel creaked open, spilling morning light across the courtyard. Meryn turned once, his gaze lingering on the high tower where his family stood watching. Jorren's small figure was visible against the parapet, held in his mother's arms.
He lifted a hand in salute. The boy did not wave back, but his golden eye caught the sunlight, flashing like a coin tossed to the gods.
---
They rode through the vineyards first, the air heavy with the smell of damp soil and last season's rot. Crows gathered on the fences, watching them pass. Beyond the vineyards, the road wound into low forest, where morning fog clung thick between the trees.
The knights spoke little. Now and again, Calen asked about the other lords they might meet—Varron Ruskyn of the Heath, the River King Odran Vell—but Meryn offered few answers.
"Remember this," he said finally, "there is no safety in flattery. Nor in defiance. Only in understanding where both will lead."
By midday, they reached the old stone bridge at Brae Hollow. The river beneath was swollen with rain, churning brown and cold. Meryn reined his horse to a halt at the crest, letting the others pass. He looked eastward, where the clouds gathered dark and low over the hills.
His father had once said: A lord's greatest enemy is not the man who covets his land, but the one who covets his trust.
Meryn's hand brushed the letter still tucked within his cloak. The seal of the black fox seemed to mock him, smooth and unbroken.
Let the fox have his meeting, he thought. But I will see what lies in his den.
He spurred his horse forward. The bridge groaned beneath their weight, and the sound of hooves faded into the mist.
---
Night found them camped beside the river. The knights shared quiet talk around a small fire, trading stories of lesser wars and border quarrels. Meryn sat apart, sharpening his dagger on a whetstone.
Eldric's words from the morning returned to him—The Fox never asks what he cannot already use.
And yet, Meryn thought, every man believes he can outplay the other. Even foxes.
He watched the sparks rise into the dark, his face unreadable. Somewhere far behind, Erydonel slept under a moonless sky, and a boy with a golden eye dreamed of roads yet unseen.
When dawn came again, the men of House Elric mounted and rode east toward Harlowe Heath.