The journey stretched longer than it first appeared. Two days on the sea felt like a quiet test. The waters did not rage, yet they did not soothe either. They carried the ships forward with a steady pull, as if something unseen was drawing them toward Ashford.
On the third afternoon, the coastline finally broke through the horizon. At first, it was just a faint line. Then shapes formed. Towers rose. Banners followed.
They had arrived at Ashford.
By the time the ships drew closer, the shore was no longer calm. It was alive. Crowds gathered, packed tightly along the sands and up the stone paths. Warriors stood at the front, shields raised, spears glinting under the sun. Behind them, the people surged like a restless tide.
Then the banners were lifted. Yellow cloths snapped against the wind, each marked with the dragon of House Dragaria. The sight spread through the crowd like fire.
And the voices came. "Drexo Dragaria! Dragon of Astarous!" The chant rolled once, then again, louder. "Drexo Dragaria! Dragon of Astarous!" It climbed, layer upon layer, until it swallowed the sound of the sea itself.
On the deck, Drexo stood still for a moment, not smiling, not yet. He watched, and measured.
Then he stepped forward. The plank dropped. The wood struck the sand with a dull sound that barely registered beneath the roar of the crowd. Drexo descended slowly, each step firm, controlled. The moment his boots touched the ground, the chant rose again, louder, sharper, almost desperate.
"Drexo Dragaria! Dragon of Astarous!"
Lord Fabio Kenwool was already waiting, surrounded by his household and the lords of Ashford. He stepped forward at once and bowed, low and precise.
"Your Grace," he said, voice steady. "I hope the sea was kind to you."
Drexo gave a slight nod. His eyes moved past Fabio, scanning the faces behind him, the warriors, the banners, the city beyond.
"Yes," he said. "The gods have already blessed my union here."
He turned then, lifting his hand toward the crowd. The reaction was immediate. The chant surged, louder than before, as if the gesture alone had fed it.
"Drexo Dragaria! Dragon of Astarous!"
Beside him, Maria stepped down from the ship..Her movements were slower now, careful without being weak. The fabric of her gown shifted lightly around her, and one hand rested briefly against her stomach before she raised it to acknowledge the people.
She waved. The crowd answered her too, though not with the same hunger. Still, the sound was strong enough.
From within the gathered nobles, Friya stood unmoving. Her eyes found Maria almost at once. There was no hesitation. No confusion. Just a long, steady look.
Maria felt it before she fully turned. When their gazes met, the air between them seemed to tighten. Nothing was said. Nothing needed to be said.
But the warmth in the celebration did not reach that space. Friya did not smile. Maria held the look for a moment longer than necessary, then turned away first.
"This way, Your Grace," Fabio said, stepping forward, his tone smooth, his gesture inviting. Drexo nodded, and the movement began.
The procession cut through the crowd. Warriors formed lines, holding the path clear as the king and his household advanced toward the castle. The chants followed them, fading only slightly as distance grew.
Stone replaced sand beneath their feet. The gates of Ashford opened wide, and they passed through.
Inside, the air shifted. Quieter, and controlled. But not empty.
Servants moved quickly, heads lowered. Guards stood at every turn. Banners hung from the high walls, their colors bright in the dimmer light of the corridors.
They entered the throne room. The Ash Throne stood at its center. Fabio did not hesitate. He stepped aside, clearing the path. "Your seat, Your Grace."
Drexo approached it without pause..He placed a hand on the armrest for a brief moment, then sat.
The room adjusted around that single act. Every lord present shifted, their posture tightening, their eyes lowering just enough.
The king had taken the throne. And Ashford, for that moment, belonged to him.
The feast that followed stretched deep into the night. Tables filled the hall. Meat, wine, laughter, voices rising and falling in measured waves. Cups clashed, and stories moved from one end of the room to the other.
Drexo spoke when needed. Listened when required. Smiled at the right moments.
Maria sat close, her presence steady beside him. Across the hall, the Kenwools watched, not openly. But not blindly either.
When the feast finally ended, the hall emptied slowly. Servants cleared what remained, and one by one, the guests withdrew to their chambers.
Night settled fully over Ashford. And under that night, away from the noise, Theon and Frida sat beneath the open sky.
The stars stretched above them, scattered across the dark like silent witnesses.
For a while, neither of them spoke. Then Frida broke the silence. "This is it," she said softly. "We are finally getting married."
Theon gave a small nod. His gaze stayed upward. "Seven months ago, you said it was impossible."
Frida turned her head toward him. Her eyes lingered on his face, studying, measuring. "You do not look happy."
Theon let out a quiet breath. It was not quite a sigh. Not quite steady either. "Which man will truly be happy," he said slowly, "when he knows he has lured his best friend into a slaughter?"
The words hung between them. Frida did not flinch. Her posture remained unchanged, her expression calm, almost distant.
"Which man," she replied, her voice even, "would not be happy when he knows he will become a king in a few days?" Theon lowered his gaze. His hands rested against his knees, fingers tightening slightly. "At what expense?" he asked. "At the expense of his life, and the lives of those who came with him?"
A faint sound escaped Frida. Not quite laughter, but close. She leaned back slightly, her eyes drifting toward the sky before returning to him. "Every great house you see today," she said, "was built on blood."
She paused, letting the words settle.
"Do you think crowns are given?" she continued. "Do you think thrones are offered to the gentle?"
Theon did not answer.
Frida leaned closer, her voice lowering, softer now but sharper underneath. "When Rhanna and her husband Dennis came," she said, "they did not ask for these lands."
Her eyes locked onto his. "They burned them."
Theon's jaw shifted. "Fire does not choose," Frida went on. "It does not ask who is guilty. It takes everything. Soldiers. Children. Families. Entire kingdoms."
Her hand rose, brushing lightly against his arm. "And from that fire," she whispered, "came the world you live in."
Theon's breath slowed. His eyes moved, not fully meeting hers, not fully avoiding them. "Some of those who burned," she added, "are your ancestors."
Silence followed. Then she leaned forward and kissed him. Not gently, not hesitantly. When she pulled back, her gaze held his. "Tell me," she said, her voice barely above a whisper, "do their offspring not deserve this?"
Theon swallowed. For a moment, something flickered behind his eyes. Then it steadied. "I guess," he said quietly, "he deserves it."
Frida smiled. This time, it reached her eyes. She kissed him again. This time, it was longer, and slower.
When she pulled away, her hand remained on his.
"Good," she murmured. "Then remember this." Her voice shifted, firm now. "Power does not go to the peaceful."
Theon's eyes met hers fully this time.
"It goes," she said, "to those who are willing to take it."
She paused.
"And to those who are willing to do everything to keep it."
Theon nodded slowly just once. The hesitation that had followed him for days, for weeks, thinned, then it disappeared. His shoulders straightened slightly. His breath settled.
"Tomorrow," he said. Frida's smile deepened. "Yes," she replied. The night remained still above them. But beneath it, something had shifted.
And neither of them looked away. "Tomorrow," Theon repeated, his voice steady now. "We will grab power."