The heat of the Blackfyre Rebellion still lingered in Maekarra's bones as she rode through the gates of Summerhall. Her armor was dented, her mace still slick with the remnants of war. Her face, though hard with battle, betrayed nothing but exhaustion. The banners of the dragon flew behind her, and her warhorse’s hooves struck the ground with a rhythmic finality.

As she entered the courtyard, her gaze met the familiar sight of lord Dayne standing near the steps of their home. The sun kissed her husband's olive skin, his violet eyes sharp but softened with relief. He stepped forward, his lips curving into a slight smile.

"You're late," He said, though there was no real reprimand in her voice.

Maekarra dismounted with the grace of a seasoned fighter, her expression unreadable as she removed her helmet. She met her husband’s gaze for a long moment before speaking, her voice hoarse. “The rebellion’s over. The traitors are dead. It should have been enough.”