Work Text:
Almost a year after her arrival in the North, Lucerys Velaryon Stark still has to grit her teeth against the sudden burst of cold that smacks her in the face as Arrax lifts off, slicing through her heavy furs. She hunches low against Arrax's back, letting his rough scales tickle her nose.
He rises quickly, sending Winterfell shrinking away beneath them in a mass of gray and brown. Luce can just make out the ant-like motions of people crossing back and forth beneath them, some of them jerking to a halt as if to gaze up at Her Ladyship's dragon. Visitors, maybe, everyone else has grown more or less used to Arrax's presence by now.
Still, Luce makes sure to guide him away from towns and roads, over the masses of trees where the livestock don't wander. It's been difficult finding places to hunt that won't get her in trouble with farmers, fishermen, or Night's Watchmen--she's tried hunting over the Wall a few times, but Arrax shows the same reluctance to cross that Silverwing did in Queen Alysanne's time.
More than once she's caught him winging south instead, subtly curving in the direction of Dragonstone, of home. It still stings to have to tighten her grip on the saddle and drag them back, away from the currents of warmth, the scent of home. She wonders if he can smell his fellow dragons on the breeze, rolling in from distant skies.
But this home now, as she's told herself and him over and over again. And Arrax has adjusted well enough, making sure to keep his tail out of the way as they swoop low over the trees. She can see animals darting through the undergrowth beneath them, eyes rolling with familiar flight.
One elk darts through a clearing and Arrax lunges, crunching bones in a hot red spray. Luce leans back to make sure none of it gets on her face, her saddles creaking as she adjusts her riding leathers over her furs. She guides Arrax up again, weaving in higher and higher circles.
Most days they'd keep going, seeking fresh blood if Arrax is still hungry, or otherwise exploring the howling crags and whispering trees of the North. Technically a waste of time--she's supposed to have duties to attend to as Lady of Winterfell--but Sara Snow has held that de facto role since long before Luce has arrived, and Luce always feels underfoot when she tries to help.
Not that Sara isn't nice, she certainly is, and far politer about Lucerys's contested origins than most other women in their situation would be. Everyone at Winterfell is nice, really; if they have any concerns about keeping a Targaryen princess and her dragon in her midst, they keep it to themselves.
The problem, of course, is that nice isn't enough to make a place feel like home. The more she explores, trying to familiarize herself with the landscape, the more that sinks in. It all seems to blur together into the same frigid mass, never feeling right.
Most days, she loses herself in the clouds, drifting until her fingers are numb and her teeth chatter and every dark feeling is swept from her mind. But today is not most days, so Luce turns Arrax back towards the castle, instead.
He rumbles beneath her, as if complaining about not getting another meal, or curious about their abrupt return. Luce rubs his scales soothingly as she keeps her gaze fixed straight ahead, carefully ignoring the unpleasant feeling twisting in her stomach.
Sara is waiting for her when they land, smoothing a hand over her hair so it's not blown wild in the drafts from Arrax's wings. She keeps a respectful distance as Luce clambers off, letting her boots crunch in autumn leaves.
It takes a few tries for her to get Arrax's saddle off, her hands shaking more than she'd like. Luce hisses a curse as she nearly drops it on her foot, slinging it over her shoulder to carry it back to the castle.
"Good flight?" Sara asks as Luce approaches. She'd gamely accepted Luce's offer of a dragon ride once and was promptly sick over Arrax's side; still more successful than Cregan, who keeps all dragons at a healthy distance (or most, Luce has heard rumors of him taking a flight or two on Vermax, but she's never asked her brother herself).
"Fine." Luce tucks a loose stand into her braid, glad that her fingers have stopped trembling. "Is everything all right?"
"Mostly." Sara huffs, looking embarrassed. "It's Cregan, he--"
"Wants to see me?" The words slip out on their own, too expectant, too eager. Sara frowns, looking caught off guard, and Luce silently curses herself. "I mean, I don't why else he would send me to get me."
Sara chuckles. "True. You know how he gets, it's probably nothing."
"Right." Luce lets out a deep, slow breath as she follows Sara towards the castle gates, blood roaring faintly in her ears. "Most certainly nothing."
Cregan is hunched over his desk when she enters his chambers, squinted down at a sheaf of papers. Luce has to clear her throat before he responds, blinking up at her like a startled deer.
"You wanted to see me?" she asks, politely.
"Yes--yes, of course." He rises to his feet, grabbing one of the papers and holding it out. "We just got a raven from Cape Kraken, it's Ironborn ships again. They haven't attacked yet, but they've been crossing into our waters."
The words dance before her eyes, the maester's frantic scribbling bleeding into itself. Luce sets the paper down carefully, as if it might explode. "Have they made ground?"
"Not yet. Hopefully they won't, that Greyjoy lad may be brash, but I trust he's all talk. Still..." Cregan hesitates, fingers twisting together. Strange, to see her gentle-yet-stern fidgeting like a schoolboy.
"You want Arrax and I to fly over and scare them." It takes everything she has to keep her voice neutral. "Again."
"Forgive me, it would take days to raise a force, I don't know how our scouts missed them. I should not send my wife into battle, Jace was furious enough about last time. I know--"
"Who said anything about battle?" She reaches out, resting a palm on his cheek, and Cregan stills. "Like you said, they haven't made landfall, and they probably aren't planning to. Greyjoy will scramble home at the first sight of us, just like he did the last time."
She slips her free hand through his, giving him a squeeze. "And Jace knows that you couldn't stop me if I tried, any more than he could. If he blames you, I'll simply have Arrax gobble him up."
Cregan squeezes back, fingers pressing gently against hers. Gentle, yes, always so gentle. He'd been gentle with her on her wedding night, carefully removing her dress with his own hands and waiting for her to give permission for every caress. Losing her maidenhead had barely hurt and he had her like she might shatter afterward, stroking her hair.
A gentle man, her husband. A good man. Not a Daemon by any means, Mother would never have given her a Daemon. A decent husband, and when children come, as come they must (even if she knows they will never have dragon eggs, will never fly alone as she does) he will be a decent father.
"Thank you," he says, voice soft. "If they keep coming after that, you and Jace can give them a good showing after they arrive, and that'll really help the message sink in."
"Jace?" Her hand falls away from Cregan's cheek.
"Right, did I not..." He hands her another letter. "A raven from Dragonstone. Baela and Jace will be coming to visit soon."
"Again? It's only been three months." Not that she needs an explanation, really. Jace had spent time at Winterfell in the uneasy months leading up to Mother's coronation, hammering out the finer details of their alliance with the North.
Hammering other things, too; she'd seen the way they looked at each other on her wedding day. She'd seen the way they danced when Jace visited, spinning Baela in between, all three of their faces bright with laughter. Whatever strange thing they'd built, they keep it discreet, but not enough for her to miss it. Older than her, all of them, and joined by things she can't understand.
"Is something wrong?" Cregan's brow wrinkles, and she can see his mind to the worst scenarios. If she and Jace were fighting, he'd have to choose, and she knows who he'd want to choose more than anything.
"No, lord husband." Luce smiles politely, setting the letters down. "Everything's fine. I'll go take a look, and it's worse than the scouts said, I'll fly straight back so we can wait for Jace. Either way, I'll certainly be home before dinner, I promise."
"Very well." He dips his head, looking unmistakably relieved. "Straight back, understand?" His voice is firm, like giving orders to one of his bannermen. It should make her bristle, the way Jace and Baela's blatantly swift return should make her bristle. Sometimes, Luce wishes so badly that she cared about these things. "And you won't land."
"Straight back." Luce pecks a kiss on his lips; his mouth is soft and cool. "On my honor, I will."
She sees the ocean first, glittering like mirror shards in the afternoon sun. Spilling out towards the horizon, farther than any dragon or human eye can see. How vast the waters are, she thinks, how tight-lipped. As wild and unknowable as the clouds overhead.
Most of the boats are a mere shiver on the horizon, hard to see unless you squint. All except one--a beast of an Ironborn vessel looming off the coast, a wooden kraken wrapped fiercely around its prow.
There's a tent on the beach, pegs staked into the stand, ropes fluttering in the ocean breeze. The men surrounding it turn as once at her approach, shading their eyes and craning their necks. Some of the younger ones let out shouts of surprise, while the more hardened warriors clutch their weapons tight.
Luce guides Arrax into a slow descent, landing just close enough for the draft to ruffle the men's hair. She climbs off, shedding her furs and strapping them atop Arrax's back, letting the wind tug at her riding leathers. Adrenaline buzzes through her veins like liquid fire, searing the cold away.
"Good morrow, gentleman," she calls gaily. The Ironborn's eyes flick from her to Arrax's teeth and back again. "I can see you've taken a wrong turn and found yourselves on my husband's land. Might I speak to your captain and offer him directions?"
The men exchange careful glances, until one brave soul tosses his head at the tent. "In there, your Ladyship."
"Thank you kindly." Luce strides through the crowd, letting them scramble hastily out of the way. Her heart is pounding, sweat trickling down her back; there's a voice in the back of her head screaming at her to turn and fly away as fast as possible. She ignores it.
Her hand doesn't tremble as she opens the tent flap and steps into the darkness beyond, letting it slip closed behind her. It takes a moment for her eyes to adjust to the low candlelight, slowly taking in her surrounding
There's no map on the cloth walls, no war tables, no plans being looked over or soldiers receiving orders. Instead a washstand, chamber pot, a sheathed sword propped up in the corner, a heap of clothing folded on a low table. At the center of it all rests a bed, covered in soft furs.
"Hello?" Luce asks, taking a cautious step forward. Her nostrils flare at a sudden whiff of sea and she whips her head around, not quite fast enough to stop a hand clapping over her mouth. She cries out as she's flung face down onto the bed, flipping herself over right before a crushing wind pins her down.
She struggles, grabbing at sun-tanned shoulders and raking her fingers through wild blond hair. Her attackers beams down at her, eyes flashing bright and merry at the water outside.
"I thought you weren't coming," Dalton Greyjoy says. "I waited for ages, my love."
The first time, it had been reconnaissance. Truly.
She'd been flying over the waters, tired and moody after bickering with Cregan over one meaningless thing or another. When she'd seen the Ironborn ships, her first thought had been excitement, never mind that a year ago the idea of war would have been terrifying.
Most of the men had scrambled for cover when they swooped over the desks, ducking behind barrels and fumbling for crossbows. But one of them had stood tall, lurching up onto the prow to get a better look. When she'd come back around again, he'd beamed up at her, blowing a kiss with a cheeky wink.
The audacity of that insult--against her, a married woman, a dragonrider, the daughter of Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen herself--had been too much to bear. She'd swooped down in a fit of rage, gathering the man in her claws before taking off again, letting his body swing between her and any arrows his companions might fire.
Luce hadn't wanted to hurt him, of course, she didn't really want a war. Her intention was to fly him in a circle or two, then deposit him on the deck and send him home with the knowledge that neither Northerners nor Targaryens were to be trifled with.
But he'd kicked and wriggled so fiercely that it'd thrown Arrax's balance off, forcing her to make landfall on a small island nearby. Luce had clambered off Arrax's back with not much more thought than giving her captive a piece of her mind.
What had happened next was difficult to explain. Not unwanted, certainly; Arrax would have torn him to pieces if that had been the case, and her mother's dragons would have scorched the Iron Islands to ash. But strange, nonetheless; far from anything she'd ever felt with her husband.
It would never happen again, she decided, depositing him back on the deck with rumpled clothing and flying off as fast as possible. Luce told herself this, over and over. It was more than just her marriage she was putting at risk; her mother could not afford to lose this alliance. Luce knows her duty, always has.
And then.
"I was planning to invade if you didn't come soon." Dalton kisses along her neck and over her collarbone, his mouth hot against her skin. He's stark naked, candlelight glinting over the scars dotting his body. "March up to that fucking castle and pull it down stone by stone if I had to."
"Don't be ridiculous," Luce manages, trying to push him back so she can wriggle out of her riding jacket. "I told you, you can't keep risking war with the North just because you're feeling lonely. Things are fragile enough as it is--"
"Fuck the North," Dalton mutters, and lets out a yelp when her riding boot thunks lightly against his side. Luce takes the opportunity to slip free, clambering off the bed and turning to face him.
"May I remind you, sir, you are a guest here." She wants to be stern but the words come out sly and teasing. "Didn't your mother teach you to respect your hosts?" She wriggles out of her leathers and lets them fall to the floor, kicking off her boots. Next falls her shift, puddling at her feet so that she stands bare beneath him.
"Forgive me, Lady Stark." Dalton's eyes scramble over her body, near-feral with hunger. "Won't you instruct me in the proper uses of my poor sailor's tongue?"
"I can think of a lot of things you can do with that tongue," Luce shoots back, clambering onto his lap. His hardness rubs against her leg and she grinds down on it viciously, smirking when Dalton lets out a low groan.
"Do you think your men can hear you outside?" she wonders, reaching down to roll his balls between fingers. "Their noble leader, gasping like a boy discovering his right hand?" The dirty words feel daring and effortless all at once, like her first ascent on Arrax's back.
"They'll hear a lot of things, I'm sure." Dalton bends his head to suck at her breast, dragging his tongue over one nipple until she cries out. He flips down onto her back again, thrusting one knee between her legs. "Kneeling outside the tent flap like penitents, pricks in hand."
Heat pulses between her legs at the idea, wet and frantic. Perhaps it's the arrogant Valyrian in her, so desperate to be seen, even if it means teetering on a knife's edge.
"I'm sure they know if one of them lets the word slip, they'll all be breakfast for Arrax," she whispers. Dalton plants more kisses over her breasts, his hands coming down to squeeze and tug her buttocks. His hot breath rasps against her skin, his body pressed so close she swears she can smell the ocean in his blood.
"They know that if one of them lets the word slip, I'll bring you their heads on a pike." He slips farther down the bed, his tongue digging into the soft hollow of her bellybutton. Luce moans, her heels digging down into the bedspread.
"My noble, dashing rogue." Luce curls her fingers through his hair again, gentler this time. It's still damp with water, and she has a wild mental image of him thrashing through the shallows, soaking himself in his eagerness to reach land, reach her.
His teeth scrape over her hip, sharp enough to make her cry out again. His hands slide down over her thighs, pushing her legs apart, and she lets herself be moved, opening up like the petals of a flower.
The first lick makes her quiver, light shooting up and down her spine. Dalton wraps his mouth around her clit and sucks, frantic as a starving man descending on a feast. His nails dig into her legs and she knows she'll have to wear her shift to bed so that Cregan won't see.
Or let him see, and threaten him into silence with Arrax's teeth, which is a cruelty her poor solemn husband has in no way earned. But she could, couldn't she, it feels like she can do anything when Dalton feeds on her like this. His hair tickles her skin as he shoves his tongue deeper, faint tufts of blond stubble scraping pleasantly against her cunt.
"Fuck," she whispers, because she can do that, too. "Oh gods, oh fuck." She grabs him by the hair, pulling him closer, wanting more. If she could, she'd swallow him up between her thighs and bring him home with her, pressed between her body and Arrax like a glowing coal.
She can feel him grinning against her, the bastard, his tongue jerking in and out with rapid-fire thrust. Dragging her to the edge, and higher still, until she feels herself rising farther than she's ever thrown with Arrax. Because Arrax is her heart, but he's also a piece of home, a piece of Mother, a piece of royal blood binding her to duty. Dalton, in this moment, is hers in every sense of the world
When she comes, it's with the loudest cry yet. Her instinct is to clamp her hands over her mouth, but she refuses; let them hear it outside, let them know, let them hold their tongues before Arrax's tender jaws. Her pleasure froths wildly between her legs, the sea and the fire caught in a single moment.
The aftermath has her slumping back, propped against the pillows as she pants for air. Dalton pulls free with a wet sound, clambering up between her legs. There's bright fluid glistening on his lips, and he kisses Luce that way, plundering her mouth so she can taste the sweetness.
For a moment, they just kiss that way, slow and easy. In the new silence, Luce is more aware of the pounding waves outside, slow and gentle as the thud, thud, thud of her heart. Dalton's presence grinds smoothly against her leg, a presence so steady she almost doesn't notice it.
She notices when he slips a hand between their bodies, of course, fingers brushing lightly over her damp folds. His thumb presses down against her clit, slowly at first, and then faster. Heat still starts building all over again, climbing even quicker than before.
"Oh--" Luce makes a half-hearted attempt to squirm away that ends with her wriggling closer. Dalton's prick rubs up against her entrance, teasing without thrusting. He grins down at her and she has a sudden urge to spit in his face, maybe claw out his eyes for good measure.
"Something wrong, your ladyship?" He circles his hips, pressing against her ever so slightly before pulling away again.
"Please," she spits.
"Please, what?" Dalton asks, raising an eyebrow.
"Fucking--" Luce's legs wrap around his waist and she pulls as hard as she can; already off balance, Dalton falls over with a help. The head of his cock nudges inside and she clenches hard, pulling him farther inside. "Fuck me, you bastard!"
And he does, the bed rocking beneath them with the force of his thrusts. Dalton's not quite as big as her husband, but he has a ragged energy, pressing more kisses over her face and breasts as he slices through her molten core.
"So tight," he pants, nuzzling against her neck like a child. "Has he even touched you since the last we met?"
"My husband performs his duties adequately." Luce reaches down to grab Dalton's swinging balls, dragging her nail ever so gently over his sac. Dalton shivers and picks up the pace, loose strands of hair falling in his eyes.
"But not enough," he whispers. "A wolf could never tame a dragon, not really."
"And you think a kraken can?"
"A kraken wants more than that." His thumb pressing against her clit, pushing closer every time his cock bulls back. "A kraken could see his seed grow into the little lord of Winterfell."
"That--ah--won't happen." Mother had sent her North with careful instructions on the preparation of moon tea, and Luce has drunk it after every visit with Dalton, without fail. "You know that."
"It could." His cock jerks erratically inside her, his whole body alit by the possibility. "You could make it happen, Luce." Even now, hearing her name on his lips feels jarring. "To spite your husband, your brother, your mother, the world...you could."
She could. It'd be so easy to prove herself the bastard whore they all thought she was long before she came to Winterfell, long before she fell into Dalton's arms. To ruin Winterfell like she'd ruined her uncle's face as a girl, burning with that fire the North was supposed to cool.
It would be too dangerous, of course. It would destroy everything. But the idea is still enough to make her clench down hard around Dalton, overcome by the sheer sickly sin of it, that wretched possibility.
"A dragon from the sea." Dalton kisses her again, fingers running through her unraveling braid. "What a little marvel."
Lucerys huffs, pressing her foot firmly into the hollow of his back. "I'd rather you focus on the dragon you have in bed with you right now, Lord Greyjoy."
Dalton beams. "As you wish." He wraps his fingers around her thighs and slings them up over his shoulders, her feet tangling down his back. His next thrust plunges deeper than before, and Luce keens, her back arching up to meet him. His hands fall over her hair, her breasts, his tongue pushing greedily down her throat.
Luce keeps kissing back, sinking her teeth into his lip--he can't mark her, it's too much of a risk, but she can mark him. His blood blossoms on her lip and he moans, his whole body shivering against her.
"We're not of the land," he whispers, the words almost drowned out by the creaking mattress. His pace is coming faster, growing more erratic. "Either of us. You know that, don't you?"
"Yes." Luce drags her thumb across his balls again, savoring the warm weight in her palm. "And I am not of the ocean, either. So come and fly with me, my love." The word slips out against its will: love, something she hadn't dared think in his presence before, let alone say.
Dalton's fingers tremble at the word, rocking back and forth against her clit. They're moving faster now, both of them, and she can feel herself hurtling towards her peak again. Higher and higher, on the wings of a dragon, everything spinning out so quick and fast she can't tell up from down or right from wrong.
She comes with a cry that Dalton swallows up, his lips engulfing hers. He fucks her through it, grunting roughly in her air, fine droplets of his sweat tickling her skin. His scent fills her nostrils and Luce takes deep breaths, trying as hard as she can to memorize it.
"Luce," he whispers, and then he's coming, knees trembling, face slack with bliss. His body sags on top of her and she reaches up to catch him, rolling onto her side as he plops against the mattress next to her.
For a moment they lie like that, panting, listening to the soft rustling of the tree outside. Somewhere she hears a bird call, and a faint rumble she recognizes as Arrax snoring. Dalton's eyes are closed, lips parted, his legs still tangled with hers.
If we were the only people in the world... Luce doesn't let herself finish that thought.
"Do you have a cloth," she asks, her voice small in the silence. Dalton blinks up at her with an expression that might be surprise, before he wipes it away quickly. He leans over the side of the bed and comes back with a scrap of fabric, pressing it into her hands.
Luce wipes herself down carefully, gathering the seed from off her thighs and between her legs. She listens to Dalton clamber off the bed, his feet slapping off the floor, the familiar sound of him pissing in his chamber pot. Easy, familiar, like they really are man and wife.
His seed glistens on the fabric and Luce carefully sets it aside, sitting up with a grunt. She'll wash the rest of him out of her when she's home, have the servants draw up a bath. She'll tell Cregan not to embrace her before she's washed, I stink of dragon and rotting fish, and he'll listen.
"Luce?" She turns to see Dalton standing before the bed, holding something in his hands. A box, small and made of finely polished wood, not Westerosi make. Luce bites her lip, and his face twists with something dark.
"I know." He plops down on the bed beside her, shoving it into her hands. "I'm not a lovestruck boy, just...wear it for me, please. For a moment."
"All right." Luce opens it gingerly, squinting into the plush velvet interior. She reaches to pull out a ring, a bright little ruby caught in the jaws of an iron serpent. It slips easily onto her fingers, cool against her skin.
"Found it during a skirmish with some pirates," he says, twisting his fingers in his lap. "I thought it would go well with your hair." He looks her over, the hunger from before replaced by something softer. "I was right."
Luce holds her hand up in front of her eyes, turning the ruby to and fro so that it catches in the candlelight. It shines like a coal landing on her skin, like that bright flare of light just before flesh burns.
"I'll wear it under my riding gloves," she says. "It'll stay hidden that way, and I'll wear it next time I come back to you, three months from now."
"Three?" Dalton's eyes narrow, his whole body puffing up in outrage. "Last time was two, I--"
"Yes, three." She drops to her hands in her lap, regarding him sternly. "I don't want to see any sign of you raiding the coast, understand? And we can't make it regular, you know that." The words hurt to say, but it's better than lying and pretending she won't come back at all. "Have your quarrels with pirates and leave my husband alone, until then."
"Fine," he huffs, clambering off the bed. "Whatever your ladyship commands." Luce follows after him, grabbing his hand and pulling him to face her. She leans into another kiss, pushing out her tongue so that it taps lightly against his teeth.
She breaks away, licking her lips. "I'll come earlier, so we have more time together." She winks and he grins back at her, anger forgotten for the moment. "Now come, help me dress."
They work quickly, sliding arms through sleeves and feet through boots, tucking each other hurriedly into place. Luce weaves her hair back into a braid and smooths it down, tugging her riding gloves into place over the ring. They hide it well enough, pressing it warm and close against the skin of her finger.
Dalton watches her, smoothing his own jerkin into place. His expression is unreadable, and for a single wild moment she wonders whether he'll grab her now, hold her down and force her to leave her husband for good. Could he pin her and silence her before Arrax heard? Would she let him?
But no, he wouldn't do that, or he'd be damning his people, summoning a fire that would make the early ravages of Aegon the Conqueror look like child's play. And indeed, he wrenches his gaze away from her abruptly, turning to face the tent flap protecting them from the outside world.
"Come," he says, tugging it open. Sunlight cuts through from the outside world and Luce blinks, rubbing her eyes. "The tide will change soon, we should hurry."
He leads the way out, no doubt glaring at his men as he goes, reminding them to keep any ribald thoughts to themselves. They avoid meeting Luce's eyes as she emerges, some of them tossing out a respectful "milady" as she passes by.
Arrax is waiting for them, curled in a glittering heap of pale scales. He stirs at her approach, opening vast gold eyes to regard Dalton thoughtfully. Dalton jerks to a halt, his gaze flicking from Arrax's snout to his curled claws and back again.
"It's all right." Luce says to both of them, reaching out to smooth her hand over Arrax's snout. He hums at her touch, his vast wings fluttering. "He won't hurt you, come on." She takes Dalton's hand in hers and presses it under Arrax's eye.
"Oh--" Dalton blinks, eyes wide as a boy's. He wriggles his fingers slightly, his calluses rasping against Arrax's scales. "By the Drowned God, he's beautiful." He leans forward, as if whispering a secret in Arrax's ear slit. "Bear her home safely, won't you, boy?"
"Of course he will," Luce laughs, clambering up Arrax's side and fitting her feet into his stirrups. "I know what I'm doing." When it comes to flying, at least, if nothing else.
Dalton's hand falls from Arrax's side. "Luce, I..." He gives himself a shake, no doubt conscious of his men looking on. "Four months. And not a second later."
"Four months." Enough time, hopefully, to set about getting Cregan the heir they both need. Certainly enough time for Jace and Baela to come and go, so she won't have to worry about them flying in her wake any longer.
Dalton steps back as Arrax's wings raise up, shielding her eyes to watch her take off. Luce launches towards the sea, in the direction of the setting sun, before swinging back around and out over the land.
By the time she dares glance back, the beach is far behind her, the tent packed up, a small fleet of boats heading towards the waiting ship. Tears sting her eyes and she looks away hurriedly, rubbing her gloved hand over one eye. The hidden ringing presses against her cheek, like a kiss digging into her skin.
The cold wind slices through her leather as she picks up speed, urging Arrax on. She'll have to be quick if she wants to make it home by dinner.