It was the sound that drilled down through stone—like drops echoing along the old walls of Târgoviște, carols carried on winter winds, mixed with the clatter of preparation and the deep-throated hum of pipes and drums. Music threaded through the fortress ramparts and spilled into the snow-covered courtyard, where servants hurried beneath torches that hissed in the cold. Loud, soft, rising, falling—like the strange half-silence of dawn before the church bells rang for liturgy.

Traditions hung thick in the air. Fires burned high and low; some were new, some embers left from the Ignat slaughter at first light. The smell was unmistakable—smoke, sweet spices, pine boughs, honey, hot iron, and the sharp edge of fresh pork skin blistered by flame. The courtyard had been washed with snow, but still the scent of ash lingered, curling up from braziers and drifting into the hall where the tables had been prepared since noon.

The great table stretched nearly the length of the boyar hall, draped in embroidered handkerchiefs and linens brought out only for holy days, their threadwork fine as lace. It groaned under platters of roasted pork, early sarmale wrapped tight and steaming, wheels of cheese, golden polenta, sweet breads brushed with egg, and the cozonac-like loaves already blessed and sent to the church. Servants moved between benches with trays of honey cakes and mulled wine warmed over the fire, their breath rising in white plumes as doors swung open to the cold.

Vlad Țepeș sat at the head of the table, the high-backed chair carved with the crest of Drăculești. Candlelight caught the hard lines of his face, the quiet discipline in the way he held himself—straight-backed, watchful, a man who had lived too long in the saddle and on the battlefield to ever truly relax beneath a roof. Yet tonight, despite the noise of boyars drinking heavily and arguing politics, his gaze drifted again and again to his wife.

They tried to entertain him with talk of borders, land disputes, tax ledgers—typical winter matters when the roads froze over and couriers arrived slower than news. The hall rang with their voices, with laughter, with clattering cups. Minstrels played in the corner, a dance starting somewhere behind the benches.

But Vlad’s dark eyes followed only her.

When she leaned close to place food on his plate herself—an intimate, symbolic act for a ruling couple in Wallachia—he shifted his cup in acknowledgment. A quiet moment passed under the noise of the hall, unnoticed by anyone but the two of them. Then he lifted the wine, holding it just a little higher than custom demanded. For her health.

The boyars murmured approval. She felt the weight of their eyes, but far heavier was his hand—resting lightly on the back of her chair, his thumb brushing once against the fabric near her shoulder. A quiet conversation flickered between them beneath the roar of the hall, the kind spoken only with breath and glances.

Later, as he spoke with a boyar about land near the lower hall—territory no guest wandered—she slipped away toward the kitchens where hurried voices called her. Some trouble with a spilled dish, an argument among the young servants, a replaced platter that needed blessing before presentation. The chores of the night tangled around her, pulling her deeper into the warmth and smoke of the kitchens.

When she returned, the castle hall felt colder than before, the snow-laden wind pushing through the open door in swirling gusts.

And he was waiting.

Vlad had already finished his discussion, already stepped away from the boyars. He stood in the corridor just beyond the hall, framed by torchlight and falling snow, as though he had taken root there the moment she left. His fur mantle brushed the floor, frost gathering at its edges, though he did not seem to feel the cold at all.

As soon as she stepped into the hall’s threshold, he moved toward her—slowly, deliberately—until he stood before her.

“Is everything handled?” Vlad’s eyes narrowed, not in anger—only in calculation.