How quickly things could change. The news had been delivered politely but firmly, there was no room for misinterpretation. Rhaena was relieved in part, though she had not provided anything other than a blank nod when the steward relayed House Lannister’s hope that she would not hold Loreon’s offense against the rest of the house. Nor were they keen to have a dragon remain for long on their lands. Already there had been some unhappy grumblings from farmers on the outskirts of losing livestock to the beast. The princess had scoffed at it but of course could not promise that Dreamfyre would not take a goat or sheep. She’d take what was hers, whether it was a wild or of a flock.

Things would be set right with Loreon’s absence, with her absence. It had been desperation that had driven her to it in the first place. Now she had an army - once she sorted through those details at last - and she had Dreamfyre. It had not taken her long to agree to Lyman Lannister’s terms, with no rebuttal. The Faith marched through the Reach, or that’s what rumors reached them.

Oldtown still beckoned to her though, no matter the growing feeling that it wouldn’t fix anything, that it wouldn’t fix her. She had to try though, and so finally, she called for Branwyn and Alyswyn to return to her. The solar she waited for them in was bright, it faced the coast and the bright morning sun poured into the room, casting everything in a golden hue.

“House Lannister does not require your services, but I can use your entire force.” She wasted no time in delivering the news once they were escorted in and settled with an offer of wine or ale. A few days prior and she had been done up for court, finery and jewels. Today she had opted for something more practical, a long black tunic embroidered along the edges but otherwise plain over an equally plain - but fine - black dress. The crown had been carefully packed as her servants prepared for her departure and she now wore no jewelry other than a ruby dragon broach.

She’d had to take care of the menagerie of creatures that had survived and made it with her to Casterly Rock. They could not go with her, no matter how it pained her to have to leave them. It had at least endeared her to some. One of the few remaining was the small dog that sat curled up on her lap. The princess would deliver the creature to its new home after this, for now, she ran her fingers through its long brown fur.

“Your company’s fees will be paid for by the crown, but it is me you will receive your orders from. Do you have any issues with that?” She looked from brother to sister with a soft pang in her heart. “And we’ll need to leave soon, so I hope we don't have to draw out these negotiations.” She attempted to speak sternly, but there was no hiding that this was not a typical activity, it was not something she was practiced at.

The Starks looked between each other slowly as Branwyn stepped forward. “You have our blades at your service... We hoped to strike a contract of... Mutual benefit. It can be discussed shortly however, as long as there is the promise of coin at the end the men and women of my company will fight and win on your behalf anywhere in the world.” He spoke bowing slightly as Alyswyn moved to stand next to her brother.

“Moreover I see you got your dragon back... We aren’t exactly going to be able to protect you ourselves soaring above us all on the clouds above.” The Stark warrior woman noted as she looked between the princess and her brother, confused as to what an army and dragon would be needed for so soon. Southerners couldn’t be preparing for a war already or maybe they already had one going? They never could sort out their problems without a bunch of young men dying for them.

“Dreamfyre has returned to me.” She spoke, the happiness it brought her impossible to hide from her face regardless of other worries. “She is formidable on her own against an army, but…She is young and untested.” Rhaena looked between the siblings and knew she spoke as much about herself as her dragon. She stood and the little dog slipped from her lap to the floor with a whine. The princess spared a pitying look to the creature before her attention returned to the Starks.

“You will have your coin.” She motioned for the kingsguard to step forward. “And while you may not be able to protect me directly from the ground, Dreamfyre can carry two. Ser Alyswyn,” Rhaena nodded towards the woman, uncertain if she would appreciate the address or not, “I would like you to be my shield while your brother manages the troops on the ground. Would you like to fly?” There was an undercurrent of giddiness to the question. Not eager for war, but for flying? In a heartbeat.

Ser Darklyn kept the grumble to himself but Rhaena knew he was unhappy with the arrangement she had informed him of. The kingsguard placed the bound scroll on the table in front of Rhaena. If, when, Alyswyn agreed, he knew he would be instructed to ride hard for King’s Landing. Rhaena wanted him to protect her mother, her siblings, but he served the king. Perhaps she was smart enough to want distance for that reason.

“...Flying sounds... New. Exciting even, the highest up I ever been is the wall... Our father took us when we were young... Hard to believe you’ve been higher than that.” She answered, stepping forward. “And it’s Alyswyn. Not Ser, we don’t serve the Seven, bunch of piss they are. Just Alyswyn, Ally if you're feeling informal or are kin I like.” She nudged her brother with a shoulder. “Aye, I’ll keep you safe... Just make sure we land safely?” She answered a bit nervously to leave the ground and place her life in the hands of a giant lizard outside her control.

“I'm glad you've agreed, Alyswyn.” The princess’s violet eyes lit up. “You might find taking to the sky more unnerving than the landing, or so I’ve been told.” There was laughter somewhere in the statement, an unspoken story.

She stood and slid the scroll forwards to Branwyn. “A promise of payment at what I'm told is a better rate than I should offer. The master of coin can argue with my uncle later about it.” She tried to speak with disinterest about business, but it was not a natural thing for her. Her eyes eagerly drifted back to Alyswyn.

“I never saw the Wall, it would be so nice to see it from Dreamfyre.” She smiled a small, almost sad smile. “You will need to meet her before we depart for the Reach. I know she'll like you.” She left unspoken what the beast would do if she didn't favor the wolf.

“Is there anything else, Lord Branwyn, the terms are favorable, hm?” Rhaena glanced back at the man, aware enough to not call him ‘ser’, her mind already racing for a bath and donning her leathers to go ride Dreamfyre before night fell.

“Actually yes... I’d be willing to reduce payment considerably... For a return of the crown to Winterfell... Not to say we would no longer be your subjects but... Unlike other nations under your rule we have never rebelled or risen up against you. Even religion causes you less trouble, perhaps elevating us to show what loyalty’s reward is will bring the more rebellious kingdoms to heel... Or if nothing else win you the loyalty and favor of the north in perpetuity.” Branwyn explained giving a bow, curious if she might accept these terms, it would also do well for the Kingdom to have another outside they could marry into with the ability to defend and hold itself. The neck was one of the best defensive points in Westeros, it could be held against forces three times the size of the defenders with little worry. Its icy coasts meant invasion outside of favorable seasons was near impossible.

Rhaena hesitated. Her eyes bounced between the Stark siblings and then to Darkrobin. The kingsguard made no overt movements or noise to give away what he was thinking. “Ser Darklyn, please go see if everything else has been prepared.” Her voice wavered with the shallow excuse to get him out of the room. He left, slowly, and the Princess allowed an awkward silence to continue for several beats before she finally answered.

“King Maegor,” she bit the words, “is not like my father was.” Her head dropped, unable to meet either of their eyes.

“He's not kind. Or understanding. Or peaceful.” That was fine, for the fire within her that still burned and craved a violence she didn't understand and scared her. “He will not see you as equals, if you want your crown back, he may give it in one hand and Balerion with the other.” She looked back up, from Alyswyn to Branwyn, and back to Ally. Her eyes lingered, hoping to see understanding that a man - an heir even - would not show. “Is it worth it?” She had asked herself that question countless times by now.

“Perhaps he is... But I don't do this out of pride but out of love. Of my ancestors, my father, my house. Stark’s won the north, we bowed our heads because we’d rather our people live. But the company... The men and women of the north I lead? They would rather die under foreign sky than live without a Stark king... And I want to take them home one day.” He explained quietly as Alsywyn nodded as well.

“My brother is right, it’s not that we have to have it for ourselves. It’s to bring the company of the Rose back permanently from Essos, to our father’s banner. If your brother is like you say... Wouldn’t you be better on the throne than him?” She asked, cutting like a knife to a point her brother was not even willing to ask about. “Would you see our house stand above the others who serve you? Are you a kind and understanding ruler princess?” Alyswyn spoke, as took a step forward, curious now what she might say.

“Out of love? When their choice would be exile or death if my uncle acts as I think he would…” She shook her head, but some part of her understood that need. “I am no queen, Alyswyn.” Recent memories of the priests burning, of her hand on the torch, of the smell of burnt flesh, roared to life. “Maybe I was meant to be.” Her lip pulled upward in a quiet sniffle. “But never to rule.” Aegon would have grown to it, she thought, though she would have rather seen the rest of their lands from dragon back rather than sit in stuffy meetings from Dragonstone or King’s Landing. Besides, even if she did want to, Balerion and Vhagar, Maegor and Visenya…it was not possible.

“I cannot guarantee anything. My uncle will not be swayed by words or pleas. Fight with us against the traitorous faith and I…” Rhaena paused again, a sinking feeling about the matter. “I will present your request myself.” After one failed alliance, perhaps it would be enough for them to understand she did what she must for her family.

—
—

The Stark woman’s virgin flight had been light and carefree. No matter the weight on the princess’s shoulders, taking to the skies was always a reprieve, a joy. There was a practicality to it regardless, to see how the wolf-lady would do when her feet were no longer sturdy on the ground. Dreamfyre was kind, sensing the newcomer on her back. Though the saddles and strappings had been put together hastily, the scaled beast had accepted both the unusual contraption as well as a second rider. Her eyes had met Rhaena’s and then the Stark woman’s, with only a soft snort and shake of her neck.

When Alyswyn proved to be of sound enough stomach for it, Rhaena had exuberantly - perhaps too much so - declared that perhaps she had a drop of dragon blood to her, before she urged Dreamfyre into a pitched climb and speedy descent. The princess hollered with glee at the feeling, even if that had finally been enough that she felt the warrior’s hands grip tightly around her.

The joyfulness of flight was followed by a brighter joy. Somehow, the gods had seen fit to deliver her her sister. The reunion of two princesses momentarily set the Casterly Rock alight with dragon calls and tears of joy. It was almost enough to overshadow the most recent events of priests burning, of a dead prince, of sabotage and subterfuge. It was a wild evening of celebration and a long night of heads put together planning. In the end, it was agreed, Melyssanthi and two thousand men would go north, back to Winterfell. Rhaena hated to ask it of her little sister, but she did it anyway - as protection for her - to make a match for herself and save herself from their uncle. The man had not stopped at two wives, and what better way to make his usurpation palatable than taking his brother’s child as wife? No, neither girl could stomach the thought of that. Rhaena would continue her journey south to the Reach, to burn the traitors who had killed their brother, to right that wrong and continue a dance of garnering favor with Maegor. Perhaps her sister cared less for that aspect of it, but the eldest would not be swayed.

They left, their own separate ways, just a few days later. With the Westerlands to their back, the fleeting moment of joy turned bitter in her stomach. She kept it hidden, easy enough with only the Stark woman at her back. Below them, somewhere, Branwyn led the mercenary army. A small price to pay for their loyalty, some coin and a promise she wasn’t sure how she would keep. That wasn’t what gnawed at her though, or at least, that was the least of her worries. Memories of flesh burning roiled in her mind the closer they flew to where the armies were reported to be. Each time they landed to allow their land forces time to catch up, Rhaena found it harder to take flight again.

She pushed through it, and edges of an army became apparent at last. Rhaena twisted and yelled wordlessly back to Alyswyn, leathered hand pointing out what she intended. She had heard stories of what it was like when her grandparents conquered these lands. She had listened to the telling of the burning of Harrenhal, of the Arryn’s fleet, of how kings and queens surrendered for fear of the flame. The stories of might and power had not prepared her for the reality of what it was to be faced with battle.

Rhaena couldn’t see anything when she drew closer, as close as she felt safe to do. If she had had Meraxes perhaps she would have been bolder, but her dragon felt tiny in comparison to what she knew of the creatures that caused the kingdoms to bend their knees. She stayed above the fray, unable to tell one side from the next, and a terrible panic crept up her throat. Suddenly she couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t see, and the word dracarys stuck in her throat, and came out only as a whisper. Dreamfyre sensed it anyways, a trickle of fiery breath exploded from the beast’s maw but enveloped nothing but air and cloud. The princess’s body jolted in response, her hands unclenched and the reins slipped away. Her vision went blurred, distant, she couldn’t make sense of what happened.

Dreamfyre’s entire body rumbled in response to her rider’s distress. It was enough to snap Rhaena back to her senses, she yanked at the reins, pulling them all away from the battle. She needed to be away from any of the chaos below, away from death and destruction.

The dragon resisted at first, the scent of battle and blood strong even at their height. But eventually she turned. The princess’s face was wet with tears and snot, her throat raw with sobs she couldn’t hear herself having. She needed air, she needed it to be quiet. She needed the voice that was screaming within her, calling her weak, saying that she was not fire and blood, that she was nothing, she needed it to stop.

Dreaemfyre roared in frustration even as she followed her rider’s commands to fly faster, higher, further away. Eventually, the haze of it passed and Rhaena realized she was sitting so rigidly that everything hurt as her body finally relaxed, as her muscles unclenched.

“There was nothing that I could do.” She said it as an explanation to Alsywn, but more so to herself. “We’ll find one of your brother’s scouts and tell them that they should march to Oldtown instead.” She would prove that voice wrong, had to prove it wrong.

—
—

Oldtown provided little relief. Branwyn and his men were still some distance behind them. And ahead of them, her great aunt and uncle. Or at least, she could see both Vhagar and Balerion when she had urged hers to land. “Stay clear of them, my heart.” She had whispered the command, a gloved hand pressed against a blue-scaled neck. Rhaena had said little else outside of directions to Alyswyn or Branwyn. The princess had quickly excused herself when they were together on the ground for anything longer than necessary. That wouldn’t be possible now.

Any more than it was possible to avoid greeting Visenya. There was a pit in her stomach at the unhappy family reunion. Rhaena gave few-worded answers as to what had occurred in the Westerlands. She asked nothing of her father’s demise or of her mother and other siblings. She was however, expected now to be in attendance of the feast Maegor had announced in honor of his wife and queen, and of retaking Oldtown.

There was to be no good news for the princess it seemed. Too late to do anything here, other than offer herself up to the uncle she had done nothing but plan to avoid. There was comfort, little as it was, to know that she had her new guardian with her, and a mercenary army on their way. It would have to be comfort-enough, to face whatever awaited them behind Oldtown’s walls.

Imprisonment had not been entirely unkind to her. But when dragon wings shook the city, it was a chaos she needed to grapple for some semblance of control. If Ceryse didn't, her actions, so impulsively set in motion, would see her dead. To think otherwise would be delusional.

“Flee this city, flee this continent.” She had told Hespaerys the moment word had reached them of dragons’ approach. If he had thought it a joke, the severity on her face quickly corrected him. It had been stupid, the small bit of comfort she had finally taken for herself. What was done was done. She could no more undo her transgression than Maegor could undo their marriage. Ceryse would remind him of that with every ounce of her being now that he was here, crowned and vindicated by the Seven.

Perhaps it would have been better if he had died.

Hate had not replaced love, if anything, it had replaced indifference with occasional smoldering desire. But even now, Ceryse knew it to her core that she had better luck with him alive than ashes.

Whether it was her letter or just anger at the faith that brought him to her family manse did not matter. With her lover’s departure and the city on edge of self-destruction - nevermind the dragons at their doorstep - the Queen took insidious control of things. None wanted to offend her now that Maegor had arrived. Lords and small folk alike suddenly paid her the deference she had deserved and been denied. She took that and turned it back against them.

Her maids and attendants were put under guard as allies to her traitorous brother and the Faith who had imprisoned her. They had committed treason and the sentence could be nothing less than death.

For two days as the men argued and fought over what to do, Ceryse found her own allies among them and gave her advice as the only one who had any insight to the King’s mind. She did not shed a tear when the decision was reached to kill the High Septon and welcome the King.

Within the manse she had his body laid out, not in the finery of his robes, but in sackcloth. The high seoton’s garments, bloodied and torn, were in a haphazard pile next to the dais his body rested on. He had not gone willingly, nor had all of his attendants. The dead Warrior’s Sons had been stripped of their armor and cloaks which were piled next to the dead man. Thankfully he had yet to begin to smell, though Ceryse had called on the Maesters to keep him perfumed to avoid that awful stench.

She looked at him now, a man destroyed by his own hubris but wondered at the deadened feeling in her heart. Was it hubris to do whatever it took to live?

There had not been time to ready a new gown, but Ceryse waited for Maegor dressed to remind him both that she was his Queen and his wife. In black and green, the neckline of the gown had her chest threatening to spill out. A simple gold chain trimmed with brilliant emeralds dripped down her neck before coming to rest in the valley of her cleavage. Each breath she took caused them to catch the light and reflect small sparkles back across the room.

It was not a great hall that she had commandeered for her display. The room, still large but not grand, had once been her father’s favorite study. Those memories and the faint feeling that she desecrated them, nearly stirred her to second guessing herself. Her father’s lingering presence remained, though, and steadied her. Signs of him were everywhere. He would not have approved, but, she thought, he would have understood.

She waited behind the high septon’s body, hands clasped before her, a small number of faithful knights behind her still. A small display of strength in the face of what she had endured. Ceryse had not known how quickly he would come to her once the gates had been opened. But to those who had greeted the king, she had given explicit instructions.

When he entered, a flash of annoyance lighted. Seven, had it really been years since she last saw him? Even from such a distance she could feel him. The men behind her stood firm, awaiting her response. Would she kneel? She had not decided that ahead of time. She should, he was her king. But something in her bristled against that, small fine hairs on the back of her neck stood on end.

Ceryse instead bent her neck in greeting. “Maegor, my husband, how I have missed you.” She spoke, loudly and steadily, her tone flat, indecipherable. Now she heard the uncertainty in small movements behind her. Men could be such cowards.

As Maegor entered the room he brought with him the smell of ash and blood. He had ridden through the city with only a paltry escort, not hiding from the chaos of the lower city as many might. His critics would call it cruelty, for few expected it was out of care for ceasing the destruction. Even still, it was more than the lords of the tower had done. That was the ash, the blood was even more recent. He walked with Blackfyre drawn, the valyrian steel slick and hot with a very recent death. The King had not paused to verify the claims of his first wife, and had begun the long list of punishments such treatment of his spouse had required.

When Ceryse spoke, Maegor did not reply initially, stepping to the side of the entryway, pausing to pull the length of Blackfyre through a set of curtains, whining the blade clean on the decorative fabric before he turned back to her, drawing closer and closer. The fleeting movements behind her grew more numerous as he did, especially as continued in silence. Two men who had accompanied him flanked the doorway but remained in place. There was a possibility they had been among those who had argued against the King in the past, but whoever their master had been had turned his cloak back to the throne early enough that such didn't matter. For now.

“My exile has treated you well enough.” He spoke when he was but a few steps from her, the blazing intensity of his gaze traveling up and down her glittering form without heed for the armoured men behind her. For someone such as Ceryse who had known the man and his fury for more of his life than most, the change would be clear. Whatever fire had burned in Maegor before his trial had become a cataclysm, barely contained by the deep violet of his eyes that still held some phantom beauty despite their violence. “But the pains you have felt on your skin and soul are the same as if your kin had taken their cruelty to me. For are we not one flesh in the Light of the Seven?” His words almost sounded mocking, but the fury in them creaked at the edges of humour like the storm battering on a ship's Hull.

“Give the word, my Queen, and I shall rip Old Town asunder, and build a new tower of their bones.”

The true queen stood resolute in Maegor’s approach, even if her stomach turned and she tasted acid. Her green eyes held his gaze, full of fire and anger. It felt familiar but altered. She couldn't place the feeling and did not want to linger on it. He had aged some since last seeing him, an unfortunate truth for she had as well.

Dangerously, perhaps, she disregarded his question and offer. Her eyes still matched to his, she spoke the men behind her and at the doorway. “Leave us.”

Her knights faltered in heeding the command. Ceryse bristled, her hands unclenched from in front of her and flexed to her side. “Now.” They moved, though she could hear the reluctance in each step they took. She wondered what they thought they would do if she had somehow needed them as protection against the king.

The queen let the men leave in silence, her eyes left his only long enough to look for signs of his jaw clenching or the vein in his neck pulsing. His men would not leave without his bidding, and she used the silence as a challenge, seeking his agreement to her command.

When he gave it, a small wave of relief washed over her. “We are as one by all holy teachings.” She finally offered in agreement once they were alone, barring her deceased uncle. “My time cast aside has been one long, unyielding wound.” There was no hiding the accusatory venom in her words. The trials she endured had not started with her imprisonment and he knew it. “You could destroy Old Town, I would not care.” She felt the lie as she spoke the words. “But what I want is restoration.”

Ceryse had goaded him and in response to it, she lifted her hands and placed them to his chest. The act did nothing to quell the acid in her throat, but neither was she entirely repulsed by the act. Blood and ash or not, a part of her felt relief to feel him beneath her skin again. It was not a smile that crossed her lips, nor a simpering wet eyed look. “I am your queen, I want what is mine.”

“Get out.” The King's command was even more forceful than Ceryse's, made without even turning away from the woman, and obeyed without the delay of concern. He did not push her away, but he did not respond in kind for the moment, the heat of him pulsing against her touch, but unmoving. “You were not cast aside.” His words were steadfast, but not enraged, even if his state of near conflagration seemed never to fade, it was far calmer than he had made the point in the past. “It was I who resided on foreign shores, who fought Khalassars for Pentoshi moneylenders while my brother's kingdom fell into disrepair, while you sat at the heart of the traitors’ court.” Then, at last, he moved, one hand reaching up to grasp her neck, not fiercely, but with enough barely held force to pull her towards him, to threaten the carefully maintained balance of her gown and jewelry. “Some might suggest your call for aid comes only as their ire has turned on you, and not out of the act itself.” He was close enough for her now for his breath to dance across her skin. The warmth of him an overpowering rush that felt as mythical as the dragon he rode.

“I was never not yours, Ceryse, much as you have never ceased to be mine, no matter how much I can taste the treason in the air.” His grip tightened, just slightly, still far from preventing her words or breathing, but such that fingers pressed into skin which reddened beneath them.

She raged inside at the allegations, no matter the grains of truth. Hints of it played across her expression, her eyes narrowed until he gripped her neck and she widened them again in surprise.

“Were you?” She asked with disbelief. “You've never been anyone's.” She gulped and felt her throat press into his palm with the slight effort. The rest of her body responded to the force on its own accord, a slight stumble her feet found themselves again, a desire to twist from the grip against another, for many reasons, that begged for his to do more.

“If you believe I am part of this treason, kill me now.” Her eyes flickered wet and red, an unwanted but uncontrollable reaction, towards Blackfyre. “I won't play a game of words about this. I am and have been yours.” Her hand wrapped around the one around her neck, her nails lightly dug into skin and muscle.

“What is yours and what you control are not one and the same.” The force of his grip on her changed but didn't lessen, turning her back around to face the body of the King's stricken foe, the displayed form of the man who had been High Septon before as, as the towering presence of the King filled the space behind her, the mail and leather of his clothing harsh against the soft silk of her own. “You have done good work since my arrival, but there must be more. More blood to punish those who would forsake their oaths, and harm their Queen.” His hand moved up from her neck to her chin, pulling her face down to hold the dead in her vision while his steady breathing cascaded across her neck and ear. “Point my blade, or do not, and I will take vengeance where I see fit, and I imagine I will see matters more broadly.” It was a simple offer, to become aligned in act, to mend a bridge between then, but it would no doubt break down another that might have been her escape from him.

His other hand finally moved from Blackfyre, the blade resting aside as the hand moved around her, clasping her tighter to him, the feel of his calloused hand barely muted by the texture of her gown.

“I have requested a celebration of unity between our houses once more, it seems likely my terms will be agreed to.” He continued to speak to her ear, as if now ignoring the grim sight before them. “We will show them that we are of union once more, after I shall have you again.”

She had thought for a moment he was going to take her there, with a dead man in the room. And when he hadn't, she felt the familiar pang of rejection. Her lips curled and twisted into displeasure before she could stop it. Her breath had become ragged, a fact he had certainly noticed. Her stomach tightened in response, a mix of fear and loathing, a touch of unwanted desire. She offered no resistance to his hold or force, her body rigid but acquiescent to his demands.

“There are some still who will pretend they always supported you and not the faith.” Ceryse’s voice was steady in its quietness, nearly sultry. She traced his arms around her with her own, the sleeves of her dress catching against the rough mail and leathers, something she had not done for so many years. “I will join you now, and in King’s Landing.” It has not been offered directly, but she would see herself restored and she would do what she should have done in the first place - make life the seven hells for the whore from Harrenhal.

One of her sleeves caught and tore against Maegor, a hole, small and annoying. Ceryse frowned. “This gown will no longer do.” She didn't expect him to care, but she pulled lightly at the fabric and felt the threads give way, the hole now a long tear from elbow to shoulder. Her father would have understood, she reminded herself again, as she twisted in his grip, not in resistance or to remove herself, but to find his face, to encourage a different sort of control.

“I've no trustworthy women remaining here to remove me from these rags. You may not be delicate enough for the job but it is already ruined.” She forced a sly grin across her lips, but her eyes lit up with a hunger all the same.

In the halls outside the study, Ceryse’s men shared a look before moving further down the corridor to await their queen's need of them once more.