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7

"Shut up and let me think," Nalderick had told his young sister, who shouldn't have been there at all. Standing in the cold, ruined courtyard of Snowmont's grand manse with his teammates, retainers and Filimar… with Lady Solara… the Prince struggled to find a solution. His penalty for failing to control Genevera was to find and enact a fitting punishment for her. He should have known better, for a future emperor left nothing to chance. Now he and Genevera both would pay the bill for his carelessness.

She'd defied imperial decree, leaving the capital in secret and in disguise, despite being third in line to the Dragon Throne. As an imperial princess, a potential life-bearer, she'd all but thrown herself away on a madcap whim. Genna must be made an example of, he knew, but not killed or permanently removed from succession.

Her fate for deliberately flouting His Imperial Majesty's will must be such that no one else would be tempted to copy her foolish actions… while not destroying her utterly. No death, then. No exile, nor permanent maiming. He could not show partiality, for a future emperor must act with decision and dispatch, above mere emotion, for the good of his realm. Lose the individual piece, win the game, as Sherazedan had often remarked.

…but it hurt. Nalderick avoided his sister's gaze as he wracked his memory for ideas. Only one thing came to mind, though he hated to do it.

"The Temple of Oberyn," he began, speaking into that tense, anxious silence, "accepts maidens and youths that have lost the protection and standing of family."

The fate of many a royal by-blow.

"She who was princess shall be conveyed there, to serve forty years at the altar. Then…"

"Dickie, no!" blurted Genevera, green eyes wide with shock and disbelief. She reached for his arm, but Nalderick pulled away. Throat gone terribly dry, he said,

"I have spoken."

"But not yet proclaimed, Highness," said Filimar, rushing forward to kneel at Nalderick's feet. "Please, my prince… there may be another way."

Derrick did not look down at the Arvendahl lordling. He was too busy fighting himself. After a moment, he whispered,

"Say on."

Filimar nodded, gulped a bit, and scraped up his courage. Then,

"Ilirian is very far north. Far enough that it might be considered a place of exile, Your Highness. If the princess were to be wed to one of Ilirian's heirs…" the Arvendahl faltered, thoughts tangling as he tried to recall the older lord's name. "To…"

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"Lerendar or Valerian," said Nalderick, glancing at Filimar then at his sister. "There is precedent. The Lady Elisindara was so married off, when her father, Prince Arvin, attempted to poison His Majesty's chamberlain."

And had wound up killing his lordship's pet dog and chief cook, instead. Another sad… yet highly instructive… tale. Genevera had gone very still, very pale, but her chin was up and her eyes diamond hard. Derrick was suddenly proud of her.

He shifted his gaze to Vashtie, then to Solara, asking,

"Provide the benefit of your counsel as females, my ladies. In the princess's stead…?"

Sinewy, lion-eyed Vashtie looked across at the mountains. Taking a deep breath, she said,

"I had rather be nobly wed than immured in the temple for forty years, Your Highness. Who knows what footpad of half-orc scum might be waiting at the gate to claim me and my dowry, afterward? I'd have to cut his throat and escape."

Roreck, her twin, nodded feelingly.

"I concur," said Lady Solara. "A husband can be managed. Oberyn's priests, not at all. Better to rule in the north than serve at the altar."

Nalderick slowly released a pent breath, feeling his gut unclench just a little.

"She will require retainers. Ladies in waiting. Vashtie, Solara, will you attend the princess, on her way north?"

A formality, but one that mattered. His mischievous sister was not discarded trash, and might yet be recalled to the palace, at need. Said Vashtie, bowing,

"Of course, Your Highness. I shall teach her defense and endurance."

"And I, a bit of useful magic," put in Solara, smiling obscurely.

"So be it, then," proclaimed Nalderick.

"Fine," snapped Genevera, stamping her foot. "I'll get married… but he better not try to kiss me!"

One corner of Nalderick's mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, but getting there.

"You have my permission to strike him, if he does," said her brother.

A swift, golden dragon-sign flashed in the air, then, proclaiming His Majesty's approval. Inside of him, Nalderick went suddenly weak with relief. On the surface, however, he remained very much an imperial prince. Looked down at the kneeling young elf and said,

"Rise, Filimar, Lord-Protector of Snowmont. To you and to your heirs, in perpetuity, belong the town, its mines, its chattel and its increase, until Oberyn's call. So may it be."

Filimar wobbled and lurched to his feet, too shocked to be graceful.

"Thank you, My Prince," he replied. "My sword and those of my household are yours, forever more." A fact witnessed and sealed by the hearty assent of Sandor, Kellen and Arien, who would rise in rank with their lord.

Nalderick smiled fully, this time.

Inclining his head, he said,

"Your quick wit, your courage and compassion for one in trouble are much valued, Filno. Be at ease and…" Nalderick looked at the gutted mansion, shaking his head. "You may want to do something about your overly-drafty living arrangements. There are dwarves in town, I believe. Put them to work, once you've resolved whatever ails their accursed copper mine."

Newly wealthy and powerful, Filimar managed a nod.

"It is done, My Prince," he assured Nalderick, who had already turned to his team, his sister and Lady Solara (opaque, as always).

Then, as he usually did at the start of a game, the prince rubbed his hands together, saying,

"Let's get this spectacle rolling. We've ground to cover…"

"...and goals to score," finished Marlie, Roreck, Vashtie and Sherlon.

All was ready, the way forward clear, which was why the sudden, spell-cast arrival of a female Tabaxi (hissing and spitting, wild-eyed and angry) came as quite such a head-snapping shock.