The Price of Peace
Snow drifted across the harbor of Sereeda as thousands gathered along the walls and docks.
Northern warriors.
Knights of the Hart.
Lords of the True North.
All had come to witness whether Queen Blood would truly honor the treaty.
The answer arrived beneath crimson sails.
The same black warship that had first carried the Blind Oracle into northern waters now returned.
No army followed.
No dragons darkened the sky.
Only a single vessel.
The ship anchored in silence.
Then the gangplank lowered.
Ambassador Nyssara Veyn stepped onto the frozen pier.
Her silver veil covered her sightless eyes.
Her expression betrayed nothing.
Behind her came twenty Blood Dragons carrying heavy chests bound in black iron.
The sound of gold could already be heard within.
A murmur spread through the crowd.
Compensation.
Queen Blood had paid.
The chests were placed before the assembled northern lords one after another.
Each one opened.
Gold.
Enough gold to purchase castles.
Enough gold to raise armies.
Enough gold to make even old grudges hesitate.
The Blind Oracle inclined her head.
"The Blood Dragons honor the Treaty of Sereeda."
Then came the prisoners.
Six shackled soldiers were dragged from the ship.
Their faces were bruised.
Terrified.
One began sobbing before reaching the dock.
Another dropped to his knees and begged for mercy.
The Oracle's face remained calm.
"These men stand accused of desecrating the honored dead following the Rydonius campaign."
A few northern veterans spat upon the ground.
The prisoners looked more like frightened laborers than hardened warriors.
A handful of those present exchanged suspicious glances.
Something felt wrong.
Too easy.
Too convenient.
The true monsters who had marched through Rydonius were known throughout the continent.
These men did not look like them.
Yet none could prove otherwise.
And so the prisoners were accepted.
Another debt paid.
Another promise fulfilled.
Then the harbor fell silent.
A final figure emerged from the ship.
A boy.
No older than fourteen, but built like a grown man.
The murmuring stopped immediately.
He wore white.
Not red.
Not black.
White dragon-scale armor polished until it gleamed like fresh snow beneath the pale winter sun.
Across his chest rested a silver dragon worked into the armor itself.
Ancient.
Regal.
Terrifyingly deliberate.
The White Dragon.
The forgotten colors of the first Dragon Kings.
The colors worn before the clans had splintered into Blood Dragons, Skull Dragons, Green Dragons, Dragon Masters, and countless others.
The colors of unity.
The colors of rule.
The boy descended the gangplank without fear.
Without hesitation.
Without lowering his gaze.
Every lord present understood the message immediately.
This was not merely a hostage.
This was an heir.
The heir.
The son of Queen Blood.
The future claimant to all Dragonkind.
Nyssara Veyn smiled faintly.
"The Young Dragon comes willingly into your care."
The boy said nothing.
His eyes moved across the gathered northerners.
Measuring. Remembering.
As though he were already judging the kingdom he would one day inherit - or conquer.
"The Treaty requires a ward," the Oracle continued softly.
"Queen Blood offers her son."
Even the northern lords seemed unsettled by that.
Hostages were common. Children of lesser nobles. Cousins. Nephews. Distant heirs.
Not this.
Never this.
The Blind Oracle rested her hand upon the young prince's shoulder.
"Guard him well."
The words sounded almost kind.
Almost.
Then her voice dropped low enough that only the nearest nobles heard.
"For one day, every dragon banner may gather beneath his wings."
No one replied.
The wind howled across the harbor.
The gold had been delivered.
The prisoners surrendered.
The heir handed over.
Every obligation fulfilled.
Yet as the black ship departed beneath its crimson sails, many in the True North found themselves wondering whether they had just secured peace...
...or witnessed the opening move of a far greater game.
OOC: This was supposed to happen last week, but I was busy in RL.