After the wicked winter and the slow spring that rolled around bringing new beginnings everywhere, Fenrys braved saying goodbye - only temporarily- to the court that had become his own family. His house. He’d kissed Aelin’s cheeks. Hugged Rowan. Shared a shoulder-pat with Lorcan.

That was that.

He’d been sent out to the Wastes first, to see how Manon, now Queen of Witches - and is happily surprised to see the once cursed derelict kingdom alight with fires burning, witches young and old training and already a city mostly built. They were efficient.

Fenrys stayed a few nights, wandering around. Meeting plenty of witches, who’d trailed nails down his shoulders, or even a few once leaving meetings - but he dismissed them all with polite nods and smiles.

His heart couldn’t take another toll. Not after Connall. The grief he was accepting, albeit slowly. And horrifically painfully.

Upon returning to the castle on his final night he was walking to his room, and to his shock, saw King Dorian, who smiled, smug from something but warm once seeing him. They spoke for a moment, before a certain silver haired queen emerged from the same corridor as the sapphire-eyed king, flushed in the cheeks and fixing her leathers.

“Do send us an invite when you get married, I want front row.” He grinned, canines glinting.

The Queen tried her best at a glare, but failed with the puffy lips and heated cheeks. “What time are you off tomorrow?” She asked.

“Early morning.” Fenrys responded, fixing the cuff of his tunic. “Goodnight the two of you. Thank you again, your Majesty, for your hospitality.” He joked formally, but a sliver of sincerity glowed in his eyes.

He only saw Dorian tug Manon in for another kiss the final time he glanced over his shoulder as he shut his bedroom door.

Soon enough, following the morning sun, Fenrys ventured on his way through the wastes, detouring slightly and heading into a smaller city, one of the port ones. The aroma of fried fish and sea salt cling to everything around, and as he meandered down the streets, occasionally stopping to admire the rare painting of trinket, he almost missed the flash of crimson.

A witch cloak? Worn, yes, but not often around these parts of the Wastes.

He picked up on the scent, honey. Vanilla, sweet yet with a subtle scent of cinnamon. He followed it, past undulating couples in small squares beside fountains, and rowdy music played all down markets. Until he turned a corner and saw the familiar copper, yet more golden, hair of a certain Queen of Briarcliff, donning the crimson cloak.

“Taking a walk?” His voice was a smooth rumble. He watched the females head whip around. Gods, she was a sight.

“Out on a hunt, big bad wolf?” She retorted defensively, before realising herself who she was speaking to. “White Wolf.” She bowed her head.

“Your Highness.” He purred.

“Majesty.” She corrected, with an arched brow. He smirked.

Majesty indeed. That same red-haired majesty spent that night warming his bed. Then the next. And then him hers. They were always snipping at each other from then on; balls, solstice’s, meetings… but she understood him more than anyone. She too, in the war had lost too many people far too important to her.

Perhaps when they first kissed, a real kiss, not some hungry exchange of teeth and tongue, did he realise he’d fallen in love.

“Stay in bed.” A lazy murmur against her neck, warm and soft from sleep. Dawn had yet to come, and with it, the sun sweep its grand journey across the sky, and it was grey and bleak still. “With me. Please.” His lips found her jaw. Cheek.

“You know I have to be seen at breakfast coming in alone.” She reminded. They were in Terrasen for the winter solstice.

“Stay.”