REPORT ONE: 73% of the people in Drakenfell knew her name already and the rumor was she was fae.
Agnes thrust the parchment back in the omega's hand. "Fae are hot. Bring me better news."
REPORT TWO: The girl's hip to waist ratio was estimated at 0.68.
"Verify with a tape measure or resign." Agnes shoved a tape measure into the omega's hands.
She then spun towards her full-length mirror. "The second I am crowned, she won't matter."
Her reflection stared back at her, still.
"SAY IT BACK."
The mirror didn't.
REPORT THREE: Dexmon was spotted carrying her bridal style again. He also left his quarters at approximately 23:57 last night and did not return until dawn.
Agnes read it twice. Then a third time, slower, as if the words might rearrange themselves into something less devastating.
They didn't.
She found Bellatrix in her parlor and the tears came.
"He didn't even try to lie or pretend it wasn't because of her." The crystal glass Agnes had been holding shattered on the floor. The third one today.
"That was Dornish crystal." Queen Bellatrix looked at the broken glass, then back at Agnes. "Of course it was because of her. That girl is the kind men think they are in love with. But they aren't thinking at all, letting their cock decide."
"She's built like a broomstick someone hung a wig on," Agnes said. The venom held for exactly one more second before her voice cracked. "He looked at me like I was an afterthought."
"One dragon bowed to a homeless girl," the Queen clipped. "Even the lizards in this kingdom have a flair for the theatrical. If that isn't the universe mocking us, I don't know what is. You were raised for this throne. For him."
"He didn't care." Agnes's face cycled from devastated to shocked to insulted in under two seconds.
Bellatrix understood. "All men are fools. My king married me out of duty, but his heart always belonged to another. I gave him a kingdom. She gave him a feeling. Guess which one he kept."
Bellatrix didn't elaborate on Tiberon's first love. That well had bodies at the bottom.
"The crown," Agnes answered in a small voice.
"Yes." Bellatrix reached down and cupped Agnes's chin, forcing the girl's tear-soaked eyes to meet hers. "Because I did not cry on a chaise like a broken girl."
"What would you have me do? Smile while she sits next to him?"
"No. I would have you win." Bellatrix released her and turned away, shoulders squared. "She's untrained. Unpolished. Ignorant of court politics. She's likely illiterate and the type to whore herself to the highest bidder. She will make a fool of herself, just wait."
Agnes gave a nod, and wiped her nose on her silk sleeve absentmindedly, the material was worth more than most houses.
This is my weapon. Gods help me, Bellatrix thought.
She inhaled, forcing patience into her voice.
"Understand this: I will not let the fate of kingdoms hinge on some glowing orphan slut who couldn't tell a council decree from a dinner invitation. You, Agnes, are the daughter of legacy. She will never understand what that means. She will have her moment, and we will end it."
✦✦✦
The door slammed open with no warning. Queen Bellatrix swept in like a thunderstorm, her black silk robes trailing behind her like smoke.
"Good," she said sharply. "You both are here."
King Tiberon barely looked up from the sealed letters on his desk. Dexmon, standing near the hearth with a goblet of untouched wine, tensed visibly.
"I assume this is not a social call," Tiberon said, tone dry.
Bellatrix's gaze landed on her son. "You cannot end things with the princess. Not like this."
Dexmon set his goblet down with more force than necessary. "Mother—"
"No," she said, cutting him off with a raised hand. "You will listen. You've spent one afternoon with that girl. One. And now you are willing to throw away a royal alliance, centuries of political stability, and a woman who was born and trained to rule? Serena is seducing you. Think with your head, not your cock."
"I haven't even spoken to Serena about any of this," Dexmon said, taken aback by the aggressiveness of her words.
Bellatrix's eyes narrowed. "And yet here we are. The whole court's whispering. You've stopped seeing Agnes, already canceled engagements she was promised. Why do you care for a woman you don't know?"
Dexmon resisted the urge to point out that the court had been whispering since before Serena arrived, mostly about Agnes's temper and his mother's drinking. But self-preservation won.
Bellatrix tilted her head, voice silk over steel. "Don't answer. I know."
Tiberon raised a brow.
"Serena was not raised for this," Bellatrix continued, pacing now. "She was not trained to lead, or speak to councils, or broker treaties. Agnes was. She's endured the pageantry, the lessons, the expectations since birth. You know what Serena has endured? Dirt. Chains. Shadows. She doesn't belong in the light, not where you stand."
Dexmon exhaled slowly through his nose. "You're not being fair."
"Fair?" Bellatrix hissed. "Don't be foolish! If she's caught your eye, make her your mistress. Quiet. Useful. Invisible. She can be tucked away where no one important has to see her."
Dexmon's mouth opened, but Tiberon's voice arrived first. Which, given what Dexmon had been about to say, was probably for the best.
"That," the King said calmly, "is the kind of choice that breeds bloodshed. Not loyalty."
Bellatrix turned to him with the full weight of a woman who had not once in her life been told no.
"Agnes deserves the truth. She deserves a mate who chooses her," Tiberon continued, unfazed. "Keeping her around while pining for another will only make her your enemy. And Serena, whatever you may think of her, is not a woman who tucks neatly into shadows. She won't be a mistress. I can tell you that from our short interaction."
Bellatrix's lips curled. "You would have him crown a girl with no allies, no title, no lineage?"
"I would have him choose clarity," Tiberon said. "And not turn a moment of confusion into a lifetime of resentment."
Bellatrix dropped her voice. "She would be a mistress in a heartbeat. I know her type. She would be protected. Not chained. So why not formalize the inevitable?"
Tiberon didn't blink. "She would be protected because she is Velkaris's bonded. With Dexmon. That makes her sacred to our people. So no, Bellatrix—she does not have to whore herself for protection. She already has it."
The tension between them hit the floor like shattered crystal.
"Fine," Bellatrix snapped. "When she falters, the blood will be on your hands. Have you also considered that King Viremont may want his whore back?"
Dexmon stood so fast the chair scraped against stone. "Do not call her that."
Aegon: SHIFT.
Dexmon: No.
Tiberon glanced at the chair, then at his son, and took a slow sip of wine. The Drakenfell men had a pattern: first the glass breaks, then the furniture moves, then someone makes an oath. He was waiting for step three.
Bellatrix's smile was all venom. "Lovely. Infatuation has made you irrational."
"Says the woman who just burst into a room unannounced, screaming about cock," Dexmon shot back. "But sure. I'm the irrational one."
"She's right," Tiberon said flatly.
Both heads snapped towards him. The sound of two necks cracking in unison should have been funny. It wasn't. Tiberon let them dangle for a solid three seconds anyway because he'd earned it.
"That is why we need to get her and Elara initiated into our pack immediately."
Bellatrix flushed. "You would do that before Princess Agnes?"
Tiberon leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. "Princess Agnes is already a member of a pack—and the princess of one. The only way she would be initiated into ours is because of marriage. Serena and Elara however, are currently packless. That status makes them vulnerable."
The Queen's eyes narrowed to slits. Her voice dropped to a dangerous whisper.
"Fine. Bind the little white rat in ribbons and call her sacred. But don't come crying to me when she slips a dagger between your ribs and mounts your throne like a prize."
"Your metaphors are getting worse," Tiberon noted.
"My metaphors are FINE," Bellatrix snapped. "YOU are getting old."
"If she can survive your hospitality long enough to reach the throne," Tiberon said mildly, "she'll have earned it."
Bellatrix ignored that comment and rounded back on Dexmon. "You will continue to have lunch with Agnes. You won't end things. Not like this. It dishonors her. If not as your queen, then for long-term diplomacy."
Dexmon closed his eyes. Lunch. He'd survived battles. He'd survived puberty in this family. Lunch with Agnes couldn't be worse.
"Fine."
'Fine' had never sounded less fine. That 'fine' needed medical attention. Tiberon heard it. Filed it. Said nothing. Some wounds his son needed to dress himself.
Bellatrix's shoulders eased, just barely, though her expression hadn't thawed an inch. "Good," she said coolly. "At least one of you still thinks."
Dexmon and Tiberon exchanged a look. It was the look of two men who had both independently decided that arguing was not worth the additional forty-five minutes it would cost them.
Tiberon, calm as ever, poured himself more wine without glancing up. "Let's see how long that lasts."
She spun on her heel, robes flaring, and stormed from the room with thunder cracking in her wake. The ink wells rattled and a candle went out.
Tiberon waited until the door closed before speaking. "Your mother is many things. Boring isn't one of them."
Dexmon collapsed back into his chair. "She called Serena a rat."
"She called Thornfell a 'sentient rash' last month," Tiberon said. "Your mother insults the way other people breathe." He paused, then added, "The throne-mounting bit was new."
"She's been saving that one," Dexmon muttered. "I could tell."
"Delivery was solid," Tiberon said. "Seven out of ten."
✦✦✦
Agnes was waiting in the corridor.
Bellatrix's expression answered the question before she could ask it.
"He'll see you tomorrow," the Queen said. "Noon. The south terrace. Wear the green gown. He always liked you in green."
Agnes straightened like someone had jammed a sword down her spine. Crying time was over. War time had started.
She didn't ask how Bellatrix knew this. Or if it was true. She held the instruction like a rope thrown into dark water, because the alternative was sinking, and Agnes Viremont did not sink.
She thrashed and clawed. She occasionally dragged other people under. But she did not sink.