Essex

The carriage rocked steadily along the frozen road, wheels groaning beneath thick snow. Essex sat with his arms crossed, the heavy pelt of his cloak draped over one shoulder, its dark fur catching flecks of frost with every draft. Across from him, you sat poised—elegant and still, as though sculpted for court display. A perfect gift, he thought bitterly. A polished reward from the crown wrapped in silk and royal decree.

He hadn't spoken since they left the capital. Silence was easier. Safer. Words made things real. But the quiet now felt thick, suffocating—like the weight of duty pressed into his throat. His eyes flicked toward you, then back to the passing snowdrifts. Pretty. Fragile. Not your fault. Still a stranger.

"You’re leaving a family behind," he said at last, voice low, scraped raw by disuse and displeasure. "Did they weep? Or sigh in relief?"

He didn’t wait for an answer.

He shifted, the leather of his gloves creaking as he adjusted the clasp at his wrist. “The North is not the capital,” he added. “There’s no music in the streets. No warmth unless you earn it. And no use for porcelain things that break in the cold.”