Dawn found Kaelen in the manor's great hall, the scent of warm bread and sizzling bacon cutting through the lingering chill of night. He ate with a deliberate focus, a habit honed from years of uncertainty—one savored every moment of comfort, for it could be the last. He sliced into a venison steak, the juices pooling on the fine porcelain, a world away from the gruel of his childhood.
His solitude was broken by the entrance of Elara. Her auburn hair was loosely braided, and in her arms she cradled their son, Tomas. A wet nurse followed, holding their daughter, Liana. Elara's face, usually a mask of composed shrewdness, was tight with anxiety.
"Your father has come again," she said, her voice low but sharp as a Valyrian steel dagger. "He demands to see the children. He wishes to take them to the main estate."
Kaelen set down his knife and fork, the clatter echoing in the tense silence. He took a slow drink of warm milk before responding. "And what are your thoughts, Elara?"
Her eyes flashed. "They are my children. I would see this city burn to ash before I let that man take them." Her tone brooked no argument. Elara, sold into the perfumed gardens of Volon Therys after her family in Westeros refused her ransom, had clawed her way to a position of influence within Kaelen's trade syndicate. She managed his less-savory establishments—the taverns and pillow houses—and commanded a loyalty he himself envied. She had borne him two children without the security of a name, and she would not lose them to political maneuvering.
"There is no need for such fervor," Kaelen replied, his voice dangerously soft. "He is my father."
"A father who sees your children as bargaining chips!" she retorted, her composure cracking. "You are his natural son, Kaelen. His true heir, Lysaro, is a cruel boy with a twisted mind and a leg crippled from his own folly. Your father covets the secret of your glasswork profits. He would use Tomas and Liana as leverage to pry it from you. Do you understand? He sees only profit."
Kaelen rose and gently took the sleeping Liana from the nurse. The infant stirred slightly, her small face serene in the crook of his arm. He looked down at her, his expression unreadable.
"Haha, of course I know," he murmured, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. "I possess a clearer understanding of the man's nature than anyone. But Elara, there is no favorable outcome for those who commit patricide. The gods, old and new, bestow a terrible retribution upon such individuals."
He swayed gently, ensuring Liana's sleep remained undisturbed. Elara watched him, her brow furrowed in confusion and frustration. Was he implying that his father and half-brother posed no true threat? Or was this a warning, a subtle threat of his own, meant to keep her in line? She quickly dismissed the latter thought, her gaze fixed on the tender picture he made with their daughter. Yet, the cold certainty in his voice sent a shiver down her spine. The man who held her child so gently was the same one who had coolly orchestrated the theft of priceless texts under the noses of the Triarchs. She could no longer pretend to fathom the depths of his mind.
In the chamber above, Rhea Vale watched the sun climb over the tiled roofs of Volon Therys. Her body ached, and the memory of the previous night was a blur of desperation and strategic surrender. She had not taken the time to elaborate on her past; words were cheap currency. Action was a language Kaelen understood. She had thrown herself upon him, using the only capital she had left—herself.
As night had fallen, weary and exhausted, she had collapsed against him and spun her tale. She spoke of her home on the verdant Isle of Valaena, of her bid for the title of Sea-Prince, defeated by the brutish Boros. She painted a picture of a married man obsessed, demanding she become his salt wife, and of her virtuous refusal, her desire to bestow herself only upon a man truly worthy.
Tears had streamed down her face, a performance honed in a dozen port-side taverns. She poured out her grievances, the utter annihilation of the Vale family. Yet, the truth of her downfall was far more intricate. She had not merely spurned Boros; she had publicly mocked him, humiliating him with the backing of her family's name. Her claims of chastity were a fabrication—the Islanders were a passionate people, and a woman of conservative disposition was rarer than fresh water at sea. The blood on the sheets was not a testament to virtue, but to her exceedingly lofty standards; she had preferred to labor for her own desires than to lower her expectations for the sons of her islands.
Kaelen, regardless of the tale's veracity, had seen the opportunity she presented. He vowed that if she bore him a son, he would finance a formidable fleet once his power in the city was secure, aiding her in reclaiming her birthright. Rhea's eyes had sparkled with a calculated hope. She was no longer the proud daughter of House Vale. A year of wandering, of fighting in pits and working as a deckhand, had stripped that away. She would not balk at bearing him a son, or two, or three, if it meant restoring her family's glory and bathing the stones of Boros's hall in his blood. What was being a clandestine mistress compared to that?
Now, as Kaelen breakfasted below and dealt with the threats to his own house, Rhea rested her legs upon the windowsill, her posture peculiar and her demeanor contemplative. Her hurry was evident, a silent storm brewing behind her eyes. The game was set. She had her piece on the board. All that remained was to play.