The Blackfyre warcamp sprawled across the dry fields like a restless beast—pavilions snapping in the wind, cookfires smoking, horses stamping in their lines. Men sharpened blades, squires hauled water, and somewhere in the distance a group of sellswords argued loudly over dice.

Aemma Blackfyre rode in from the outer edge of the camp at a hard canter, her cloak snapping behind her and dust clinging to her boots. She pulled her horse up beside the picket line, the animal blowing hard after the run.

Swinging down from the saddle in one quick motion, she tossed the reins loosely over the post and glanced toward the nearby stable lads.

Her eyes settled on one of them. A comely lad who she had seen show kindness to her steed before.

Aemma smirked.

“You there.”

She crooked a finger lazily.

“Come here and take the reins before this horse runs off.”

She leaned against the saddle, brushing loose hair from her face.

“And be gentle with her, she carried me all morning.”

A pause, her violet eyes glinting with mischief. She had a bawdy humor which boys her age often were the victims of.

“After that… you might see to me as well.”