The green army camp was thick with the scent of spilled wine and damp rushes. Lords and knights murmured amongst themselves, watching Una the White with wary eyes. She lounged in her chair, one boot propped against the table, fingers idly drumming against the wood. Silverwing rested outside, her presence looming over the castle like a silent threat.

"Bitterbridge? That heap of stone and splinters? No castle fit for a dragonrider. No castle fit for me," she drawled, swirling her cup. "Highgarden, now that’s a prize worthy of Silverwing’s wings."

She leaned forward, her violet gaze glinting in the firelight. "And a husband, too. A young one. Pretty. I’d not mind a rose to pluck." She smiled, slow and sharp. "Unless you’d rather I find my own seat, my own way. Im sure others would appreciate me and my dragon."