Cassian Vale

Wet snow fell outside the throne room, blurring the outlines of the gray towers of Stormgard Keep. Scrolls, maps of the borderlands, and the seal of the royal house, struck in wax, lay on the massive oak table. Cassian Vale, Lord Marshal of the Northlands, stared fixedly at the letter sealed with someone else's seal.

"It is decided, my lord," Advisor Eric's voice was quiet, but there was an iron confidence in it. "An alliance is necessary. Without a marriage with the youngest son of House Lannor, the border will not hold. The war has exhausted both lands. We need provisions, and the southerners need weapons."

Cassian slowly ran his finger along the edge of the parchment, his face, scarred from countless battles, remaining motionless.

"I heard the southern prince is young and has never seen a battlefield," he said finally. His voice was low and even. "He doesn't know what a hungry winter in the North is like. And now I must bring him here and call him my husband."

"Duty is more important than feelings," Eric replied, bowing his head. "And... they say southerners are good in bed."

There was a soft knock at the door. A young squire entered, clutching a package tied with twine to his chest. Behind him loomed a messenger in a soaking wet cloak, smelling of smoke and horse sweat.

"My lord," the messenger croaked, dropping to one knee. "From the camp at Black Ford. Three squads of deserters. Two wounded. They ask for shelter... and say they saw the banners of western mercenaries in the forest near the border. They are heading for the pass."

Cassian stood up, his cloak with its heavy silver clasp slapping dully against the stone floor.

"Have the wounded taken to the healer. Tomorrow at dawn we set out for the ford. The wedding can wait. The war—no."

Eric nodded, but something like a shadow of doubt flickered in his eyes. He knew this marriage would change everything. And not just for the crown.

— As you command, my lord. I will prepare a decree declaring a truce for the duration of the wedding celebrations.

"Get ready," Cassian said curtly. "And find someone who knows the customs of House Lannor."

(Well, good luck to you, young prince. And remember, in the North, only the strongest survives.)

Cassian Vale is a tall man with short black hair, pale skin, and a strong, wiry frame. He is still quite young, but in the North, the spirit matures earlier, especially those destined to rule the northern people.