Echoes of Ice and Iron-Chapter 98: Gold, Wine, and Watchful Eyes

Peduviel did not sleep on its final night of celebration.

The palace had been transformed yet again.

Gold banners draped from every arch and column, catching the glow of hundreds of lanterns strung across the open courtyards. Music spilled freely into the night - strings and flutes weaving together in lively rhythm, accompanied by the steady pulse of hand-beaten drums that seemed to echo through the stone itself.

Wine flowed without restraint.

Laughter followed close behind.

Aya stood at the edge of the main courtyard for a time, watching it unfold.

This was not how the North celebrated.

There were no rigid formations, no quiet observance of rank beyond the necessary courtesies. Nobles and soldiers moved freely among one another, the distinctions between them softened beneath the shared joy of the evening. Even the guards posted along the perimeter allowed themselves small smiles as the music carried on.

It was... alive.

Beside her, Killan had already been claimed by several Eastern lords, their conversation animated, hands gesturing as they spoke of hunts, trade, and the lingering pride of the day’s successes.

But his attention did not remain with them for long.

It returned to her.

Always.

Across the courtyard, his council had abandoned all pretense of restraint.

Nolle had disappeared entirely into a group of Eastern ladies, his laughter carrying easily over the music as he moved through steps he clearly did not fully know but performed with confidence regardless.

Santi had been pulled into a dance he did not resist, his usual sharp composure softened into something easier beneath the influence of the evening.

Even Harlan, who had begun the night with a measured distance, now stood with a cup of wine in hand, listening to a story told far too loudly by one of the Eastern captains.

And Seth—

Aya’s gaze found him near the edge of the courtyard.

He stood where the light met shadow, as he often did, his posture steady, his attention divided between her and the shifting crowd.

Always watchful.

Always aware.

Aya studied him for a moment. Then she crossed the courtyard.

Seth straightened slightly as she approached.

"My Lady."

Aya tilted her head. "You have been standing there for some time."

"I am where I am needed."

Aya glanced toward the dancing. "You are not needed there?"

Seth followed her gaze. "No."

Aya’s mouth curved faintly. "Tonight, you are. You seem to forget. You are a Lord too, Master Seth."

Seth set his gaze back at her and blinked.

Well, that part is true.

He was not merely her Queensguard.

He was, in every right, the head of one of the oldest Houses in the North - House Medea.

A name that had once carried quiet weight in the halls of power long before war had reshaped the North. A House known not for spectacle, but for loyalty, for discipline, and for its long-standing ties to the Summoner line. It was a House that had endured rather than flourished in recent years, keeping to its lands, avoiding the politics of court and capital alike.

And Seth-

Seth had followed that pattern.

He had not been raised among feasts and formal gatherings. He had not learned the subtle games of courtly conversation or the practiced ease of nobles who moved through halls of power as though they had been born to it.

War had taken that place instead.

So while he held a title that placed him among lords, he had never truly lived as one.

"Why don’t you help me try out this dancing thing my husband taught me?"

He hesitated.

Only briefly.

Then she reached out - not commanding, not pulling - just enough to make her intent clear.

Seth exhaled once and allowed himself to be led.

The first steps were awkward.

Not because he lacked coordination, but because the motion itself was unfamiliar. His body was built for precision, for combat, for control - not for the fluid, unstructured movement of dance.

He had not been given many chances to learn otherwise.

House Medea had kept its distance from court for years, and the war and the loss of their head, Seth’s father, and the absence of his mother had done the rest. There had been no time for celebrations, no place for music or idle gatherings when survival and service had demanded everything.

So he moved carefully now, adjusting to the rhythm step by step, relying on instinct in a way that felt strangely similar - and entirely different - from battle.

Aya adjusted easily. She guided rather than instructed, her movements simple enough to follow, her expression calm as though this, too, was merely another form of training.

Around them, a few of the Eastern nobles noticed.

And smiled.

Across the courtyard, Killan noticed as well.

His gaze lingered on the sight of Aya guiding Seth through the unfamiliar rhythm, her movements steady, patient. There was something quietly disarming about it - his Queen, who had faced armies without hesitation, now teaching a hardened soldier how to move to music.

A faint smile touched Killan’s mouth.

But beneath it, something else stirred.

A subtle pull of protectiveness.

Not sharp. Not possessive in the way lesser men might show it - but present all the same. A quiet awareness of how easily Aya drew others toward her, how naturally they moved when she allowed it.

He did not step forward.

Did not interrupt.

He simply watched for a moment longer, the smile still there, even as that small, instinctive edge settled quietly beneath it.

Then, as the music shifted and the dance carried on, Killan turned his attention back to the court - though his awareness of her never truly left.

Seth did not smile, but the tension in his shoulders eased slightly.

That was enough.

Elsewhere in the courtyard, the effects of Peduviel’s wine had begun to take hold.

Masa was laughing far too loudly.

Thorne stood beside him, attempting to maintain his usual composure and failing spectacularly as he tried to recount a story that seemed to lose its direction halfway through. His gestures grew wider with each attempt to recover it.

Bela had stationed herself firmly between them, one hand pressed against Masa’s shoulder as though physically preventing him from falling over.

"You are both done," she informed them with quiet authority.

"I am perfectly capable," Masa insisted.

He was not.

Thorne nodded in agreement.

"I am also capable."

He was less so.

Bela closed her eyes briefly, as if reconsidering her life choices.

"Shin," she called over her shoulder.

There was no response. She opened her eyes again.

"Of course he’s gone."

Nearby, a noblewoman laughed softly behind her fan.

Bela sighed. "I am surrounded by fools."

Back near the center of the courtyard, Bason had discovered the true purpose of the evening.

Food.

The massive hound moved through the crowd with surprising grace for his size, his presence tolerated - if not entirely understood - by the Eastern court. A platter left momentarily unattended became his first victory.

A second followed shortly after.

One of the nobles turned just in time to see a piece of roasted meat vanish entirely.

Bason did not break stride.

Aya caught sight of him after she had released Seth from his dancing torment, and shook her head slightly, though the faint amusement in her expression remained.

"Your dog is stealing from the nobility," Killan murmured as he stepped beside her once more.

Aya did not look concerned. "He is choosing his targets carefully."

Killan followed her gaze. "He has good instincts."

"So do I," Aya replied.

Killan’s mouth curved faintly. The music shifted then, the tempo softening into something slower.

The dancers adjusted accordingly, movements becoming closer, more controlled.

Aya made no move toward the floor.

Killan noticed.

"You intend to avoid it entirely," he said.

"I do not. I even joined in for a while," she smiled at him. "Thanks to your tutelage."

Killan studied her for a moment, then he extended his hand.

Aya looked at it. Then at him.

"I don’t know this one though."

Killan did not withdraw. "You faced an army without hesitation."

"This is different."

"Is it?"

Aya narrowed her eyes slightly.

Killan’s expression did not change.

"Come," he said simply. "I’m right here."

Aya hesitated, then, with a quiet exhale, she placed her hand in his.

The first steps were measured.

Careful.

Aya moved as she did in most unfamiliar situations - observing, adjusting, and learning quickly. Her posture remained perfect, her balance precise even as she followed Killan’s lead.

It was not natural, but it was not clumsy either.

Killan guided her through the rhythm with quiet patience, his hand steady at her back, his movements clear without being forceful.

Aya adapted.

Of course she did.

Within moments, her steps aligned with his.

Across the courtyard, Elex watched and smiled.

Not broadly.

Not openly.

But enough.

Nearby, Juno had drawn Silene into the dance as well, the two of them moving with an ease that spoke of familiarity rather than practice. Silene laughed as Juno misstepped once, her hand tightening in his as they corrected together.

The court watched them all.

The alliances.

The future.

The quiet strength in the way they moved together.

And for a time, it felt as though the world had settled into something almost whole.

Then-

A disturbance at the edge of the courtyard. Subtle, but out of place.

A rider had been allowed through the outer gates at speed. Dust still clung to his cloak as he crossed the threshold into the palace grounds, his expression drawn, urgent. He did not pause for the music or the celebration. He did not slow.

His eyes searched the crowd and settled on Elex.

The music did not stop.

The dancing did not falter.

But something in the air shifted all the same.

The messenger reached him and dropped to one knee, offering a sealed missive without a word.

Elex took it and broke the seal. And the faint smile that had lingered on his face vanished.

Across the courtyard, Aya stilled as she saw her brother’s expression change. She did not yet know why, but she felt it.

The change.

Elex folded the letter slowly.

Lifted his gaze and nodded at the messenger.

And for the briefest moment, the weight of uncertainty returned to Peduviel.