Glory

You choose glory.

"I'd be honored to serve you," You bow to Lady Yseldra and take her hand. Her fingers are cool, smooth, and strong, like the marble statues that line the halls of the Caerleon cathedral. You do not look back as she leads you through the throng of nobles. You do not think of Gilly, standing in the yard at Dunford, waiting for a man who will never return. Whatever sorrow you carry, you bury it deep.

You ride with her to Greyhaven, a fortress of pale stone and sweeping towers that rises above the sea like a crown. The air smells of salt and roses, and servants bow at your arrival. You are no longer Cedric of Dunford. You are Ser Cedric of Greyhaven.

Lady Yseldra knights you within a week. A private ceremony, overseen by a bishop and witnessed by her retainers. The sword that touches your shoulders is Mavron’s, her late husband’s. His name is not spoken. It no longer matters.

You take your vows beneath stained glass and candlelight. You rise a knight, and with that rise comes a new life. Fine clothes. A private suite in the east wing. A warhorse of your own. A seal, a stipend, and a coat of arms: a silver boar beneath a rising sun.

At first, your duties are simple. You ride patrol across the highlands and oversee the training of her household guard. You settle border disputes, command hunts, break up banditry. You earn the loyalty of her men. The respect of her vassals. But none of that compares to her.

Lady Yseldra does not hide her desire.

A few months after you are knighted, she comes to your chamber at night without knocking. She wears a robe of black velvet, open at the throat, her silver hair unbound. Her eyes never leave yours as she closes the door behind her.

“I did not bring you here for your sword alone,” she says, stepping close.

You do not resist her. You do not want to.

She tastes of wine and winter. Her touch is commanding, insistent. She undresses you slowly, studying your body like a general inspecting her weapon. When she pulls you to her bed, it is not as a prize or a plaything, but as a partner. You do not make love. You conquer one another. Again and again. You take her husband's place, filling the hole left behind by him.

From that night onward, you belong to her.

In public, you stand at her side as her sworn sword. In private, you are her lover. Her confidant. Her consort. She whispers secrets in your ear as you lie tangled in silk. She shares her fears, her ambitions. She asks your counsel at council meetings. She lets you speak in her name.

In time, she makes you her husband.

Not all approve. The court whispers behind painted fans. Some call you a commoner, an upstart, a peasant who rose too high. But they do not whisper loudly. You have too many victories. Too many loyal swords. And Yseldra silences her critics with a glance.

The wedding is grand, held in the high hall of Greyhaven with nobles from every corner of the realm in attendance. She wears crimson and gold. You wear silver and white. When the vows are spoken and the kiss is sealed, she lifts your hand for all to see.

“My lord,” she says, and means it.

You grow into your new role.

You ride with her to court in the capital. You dine with kings and queens. You fight in more tourneys and win more than you lose. Your name spreads across the realm, carried by rumor and ballad alike. Cedric the Bold. Cedric the Boar Knight. Cedric of Greyhaven.

When your first child is born, a girl with her mother’s eyes and your dark hair, Yseldra places her in your arms with a rare softness.

“She will be strong,” she says. “Like her father.”

You name her Serenna, after Yseldra’s grandmother.

Two more children follow. A boy, Torric, fierce and loud, the future lord of Greyhaven. Another girl, Elaine, quiet and clever. You train them yourself in the yard while Yseldra watches from the balcony. At night, you hold her close, her breath warm against your neck.

And yet, sometimes, when the halls are quiet and the fire burns low, you think of Dunford. Of Gilly.

You see her in dreams, standing beneath the eaves, flour on her cheek, eyes steady. You wonder if she married. If she ever forgave you. You wonder what your life might have been had you chosen differently.

But when morning comes, and Yseldra’s hand finds yours beneath the covers, you know your choice is made.

You are no longer a boy with mud on your boots.

You are a lord. A knight. A husband. A father.

And Greyhaven is your home.

Ending 10: Lord of Greyhaven