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The conservatory seemed to grow quieter.

The songs of the birds faded into the distance.

The gentle murmur of fountains became little more than a whisper.

Soon there remained only the soft rustle of leaves and the warm scent of growing things beneath the great crystal roof.

Verex stopped beside the old apple tree.

Its branches were bare for winter, but its broad trunk rose proudly from the earth, carefully tended despite the season.

A simple wooden bench rested beneath its canopy.

For a long while neither king spoke.

Roland slowly approached the tree.

His fingertips brushed gently against the rough bark.

"It... reminds me of home."

His voice was scarcely louder than the breeze.

Verex had imagined hearing those words countless times over the years.

Yet now that they had finally been spoken...

They settled warmly within his chest.

"I hoped it might."

Roland looked up.

"You planted it because of that day."

Verex nodded once.

"I remembered how peaceful you looked beneath the apple tree in Dyrestone."

His crimson eyes drifted toward the spreading branches overhead.

"I wondered if..."

He hesitated, surprisingly uncertain.

"...if one day another tree might offer you a little comfort."

Roland looked back at the weathered trunk.

A strange ache welled inside him.

Verex gestured toward the bench.

"Will you sit with me?"

Roland hesitated only briefly before lowering himself onto the polished wood.

Verex sat beside him, leaving respectful space between them.

For several minutes they simply watched the light filtering through the immense glass ceiling.

Snow drifted beyond the crystal panes while spring quietly endured within.

"It is peaceful here," Roland murmured.

"It has always been my refuge."

"When court becomes overwhelming?"

Verex smiled faintly.

"You listen well."

Roland returned the smile.

"I try."

The silence settled again.

Not empty.

Comfortable.

Roland closed his eyes for just a moment, breathing in the scent of fresh earth and apple leaves.

When he opened them again, emotion shimmered unexpectedly in his pale blue gaze.

"I never imagined..."

He swallowed.

"...that I would find something here that reminded me of home."

Verex looked at him with quiet sincerity.

"You may come here whenever you wish."

Roland blinked.

"Whenever?"

"The Winter Gardens are always open to you."

"You needn't ask permission."

"I..." Roland's voice caught.

"Thank you."

He looked away quickly, embarrassed by the sudden sting of tears.

A loose strand of long strawberry-blond hair slipped across his face, hiding his eyes.

Verex watched it fall.

His hand moved before conscious thought could stop it.

Slowly...

Carefully...

He reached toward Roland.

Every movement gave the younger man time to withdraw if he wished.

Roland remained still.

Verex's broad, clawed fingers gently caught the loose strand and tucked it behind Roland's ear.

The touch lasted no longer than a heartbeat.

So light it scarcely disturbed the delicate pale skin upon Roland's cheek.

When Verex withdrew his hand, the world seemed impossibly still.

Roland looked at him.

Not frightened.

Only surprised.

Something warm and uncertain flickered between them before Roland quietly lowered his eyes once more.

Neither spoke.

Words suddenly seemed too small.

Eventually Verex rose.

"We should return."

Roland nodded.

Yet before leaving, he glanced back once more at the apple tree.

Somehow...

Frostspire felt just a little less unfamiliar than it had that morning.

-

Long after the palace had fallen quiet, sleep refused to come.

Roland wandered aimlessly through his chambers until his steps carried him into the painting studio.

Moonlight poured through the great glass ceiling.

Blank canvases waited patiently upon their easels.

He stood before them for several minutes.

Then his hand reached for a brush.

He did not think.

He simply began.

Soft charcoal established the great arching roof.

Delicate washes of green followed.

Then warm earth.

Glass.

Light.

The winding pathways.

The reflecting pool.

The frost irises.

Finally...

The old apple tree.

Not the one in Dyrestone.

The one beneath Frostspire's crystal sky.

Hours disappeared unnoticed.

Paint stained his fingers.

His sleeves.

A faint streak of blue somehow found its way across one freckled cheek.

He scarcely noticed.

For the first time since surrendering his crown...

The grief inside him loosened its relentless grip.

Outside the studio, footsteps approached.

Verex had quietly left a late council meeting.

Unable to resist, he had taken the longer route home that passed Roland's chambers.

Light still glowed beneath the studio door.

He paused.

The door stood slightly ajar.

Through the narrow opening he saw Roland.

The young king stood utterly absorbed before the canvas.

His brow furrowed in concentration.

Every so often he stepped back, tilted his head, smiled faintly to himself, and returned to the painting.

Verex remained motionless in the corridor.

He had waited years to see Roland paint again.

Now that the moment had finally arrived...

He could not bear to interrupt it.

Verex looked back one last time.

Roland never realized he had been there.

The Dragon King smiled softly to himself before disappearing silently into the sleeping palace.

-

Morning sunlight filtered softly through the studio windows..

Verex knocked once.

Receiving no answer, he gently opened the door.

He stopped immediately.

Roland had fallen asleep in the chair beside the easel.

His head rested against one arm.

One hand still loosely held a paintbrush.

His long strawberry-blond hair had tumbled free over one shoulder.

Blue and green paint marked his fingers, cuffs, and the bridge of his nose.

The finished painting stood upon the easel before him.

The Winter Gardens glowed beneath warm light.

At its heart...

The apple tree.

It was breathtaking.

Not because of technical perfection.

Though it possessed that in abundance.

It was beautiful because it was filled with quiet hope.

Verex stood before it for a long while.

Then his gaze returned to Roland.

Asleep...

He looked younger.

The worry lines that had shadowed his face since Dyrestone's surrender had faded.

His breathing was slow and peaceful.

For the first time since arriving in Frostspire...

He looked as though he truly rested.

Verex quietly crossed the room.

A folded wool blanket lay nearby.

He lifted it carefully and draped it over Roland's shoulders with the utmost gentleness, making certain not to wake him.

Roland stirred only slightly, nestling instinctively into the warmth before becoming still once more.

Verex smiled.

He lingered beside the chair.

His hand rose almost of its own accord.

He wanted to brush another loose strand of hair from Roland's sleeping face.

To feel, just once more, the softness of those copper-gold strands.

His fingertips hovered only inches away.

Then he stopped.

The memory of the conservatory returned to him.

Roland had accepted that brief touch.

But acceptance was not invitation.

Slowly, Verex lowered his hand.

He would not take what had not been freely offered.

Instead, he looked at the sleeping man for one last quiet moment.

His voice was barely more than a breath.

"I've missed you."

The words disappeared into the stillness of the studio.

Roland did not wake.

Perhaps that was for the best.

Verex inclined his head almost imperceptibly before turning toward the door.

He left as silently as he had entered, leaving behind only the blanket wrapped gently around Roland's shoulders.

When the door closed, the morning light continued to dance across the painting of the Winter Gardens.

Outside, snow fell softly over Frostspire.

Inside, beneath warm glass and the memory of an apple tree...

-

Pale winter sunlight spilled through the glass ceiling of the studio, warming Roland's face until he stirred with a sleepy murmur.

For a confused moment, he couldn't remember where he was.

Then he smelled paint.

Fresh canvas.

Linseed oil.

His eyes slowly opened.

The Winter Gardens stood before him upon the easel, bathed in morning light.

"...I finished..."

His voice was hoarse from sleep.

As he stretched, something warm slipped from one shoulder.

Roland blinked.

A thick wool blanket lay wrapped carefully around him.

He frowned in confusion.

"I don't remember..."

He was certain he hadn't brought it into the studio.

Someone must have.

His gaze wandered around the room.

Nothing else appeared disturbed.

The paints had been left exactly where he remembered.

The brushes had been cleaned and laid neatly beside his palette.

No one had touched the painting.

Only the blanket.

Roland gently ran his fingers across the soft wool.

A small, thoughtful smile touched his lips.

Someone had noticed.

A quiet knock interrupted his thoughts.

"My lord?"

"Come in."

The door opened, revealing Lyra balancing a breakfast tray while Dain followed carrying a pot of steaming tea.

Both stopped almost immediately.

Lyra's amber eyes drifted toward the finished painting.

"Oh..."

Dain looked over her shoulder.

"By the Ancestors..."

Neither spoke for several moments.

Roland suddenly became very aware of the paint covering his sleeves.

"I'm afraid the studio has become rather untidy."

Lyra laughed softly.

"My lord..."

She set the tray upon a nearby table before walking slowly toward the easel.

"This is extraordinary."

Dain nodded enthusiastically.

"It looks exactly like the gardens."

Roland rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassed.

"I hoped it might."

He looked down at the blanket still around his shoulders.

"I don't suppose either of you..."

Lyra followed his gaze.

"The blanket?"

Roland nodded.

"Did one of you bring it?"

The two attendants exchanged a knowing glance.

Finally Dain smiled.

"No."

Roland looked between them.

"Then..."

Lyra answered gently.

"His Majesty visited this morning."

Roland blinked.

"Verex?"

"He wished to check on you."

"I was asleep?"

"You were."

Roland looked horrified.

"Oh no."

"I must have appeared terribly rude."

"You appeared exhausted."

Lyra smiled reassuringly.

"Our king refused to wake you."

"He wouldn't allow anyone else to either."

Roland looked toward the blanket once more.

"He covered me?"

"He believe he did."

The young king fell silent.

Something unexpectedly warm settled in his chest.

He looked down quickly before either attendant could notice.

"...That was thoughtful."

-

After breakfast, Roland returned to his easel.

The painting was finished.

Almost.

Only the smallest details remained.

The reflections upon the water.

A little more light through the glass roof.

The delicate shadows beneath the apple tree.

Lyra settled comfortably nearby with a basket of mending.

Dain polished several brass lanterns while humming quietly to himself.

For the first time since arriving in Frostspire, Roland found he enjoyed the comfortable presence of others while he worked.

He mixed another shade of green.

"Dain?"

The bronze Dragonborn looked up.

"My lord?"

"I've noticed everyone's tail moves differently."

Dain nearly dropped a lantern.

"You noticed that?"

Roland smiled.

"I notice many things."

Lyra chuckled.

"Our king says something remarkably similar."

Roland looked mildly amused.

"Does he?"

"Frequently."

Dain laughed.

"Dragonborn tails are... expressive."

"They're difficult to control."

"So they're rather like human faces?"

"In a way."

He demonstrated by curling his tail slightly.

"When we're content..."

It relaxed.

"When we're nervous..."

It twitched.

"When we're irritated..."

The tip flicked sharply.

Roland watched with open fascination.

"I had no idea."

"We spend our childhood learning not to knock things over."

Lyra sighed dramatically.

"Some of us never truly learn."

"I've improved."

"You broke three flower pots last spring."

"They were very small pots."

"They were not."

Roland laughed, carefully adding another brushstroke to the painting.

"It seems every family has someone who breaks things."

"Oh, Dain excels at it."

"I do not."

"You absolutely do."

Roland smiled.

"In Dyrestone..."

He paused to rinse his brush.

"...touching someone's hair is considered deeply personal."

Lyra looked intrigued.

"Is it?"

Roland nodded.

"My mother brushed mine every evening until I was nearly grown."

Dain smiled.

"My mother polished my horns."

Roland blinked.

"Really?"

"Every festival."

"It took forever."

Lyra laughed.

"My grandmother insisted polished horns reflected honor."

"And your grandmother was terrifying."

"She was."

The three of them shared another laugh.

The studio felt strangely... alive.

Roland hadn't realized how much he had missed simple conversation.

As the hours passed, they traded stories.

Roland described spring festivals in Dyrestone, where artists covered the town square with paintings and musicians played until sunrise.

Lyra spoke of Frostspire's Midwinter Lantern Festival, when thousands of crystal lanterns were released across the snowy mountainsides.

Dain enthusiastically explained the Dragonborn tradition of communal bread baking before the first snowfall.

"You all bake together?"

"The entire neighborhood."

Roland smiled.

"I rather like that."

"It becomes wonderfully competitive."

"Competitive?"

"My aunt still claims her bread defeated three villages."

Roland laughed so hard he nearly dropped his brush.

"I should very much like to meet your aunt."

"I'm not certain anyone survives the experience."

-

By late afternoon, Roland stepped back from the canvas.

At last...

It was finished.

The Winter Gardens glowed with warmth and quiet serenity.

The old apple tree stood proudly at its heart, sunlight filtering through its branches.

For a long while, no one spoke.

Finally Lyra whispered,

"It feels..."

She searched for the right word.

"...peaceful."

Roland looked at the painting and smiled softly.

"...It does."

A knock sounded at the door.

One of the royal guards entered before bowing deeply.

"My lord Roland."

"Yes?"

"His Majesty requests the pleasure of your company this evening."

Roland set his palette aside.

"...My company?"

"The evening meal has been prepared."

The guard smiled politely.

"His Majesty hopes you will join him for a private dinner."

After the guard departed, the room fell quiet.

Dain looked thoughtfully toward the closed door.

"A private dinner."

Lyra folded the last of her sewing.

"Our king doesn't often dine with others."

Roland looked from one attendant to the other.

"I don't imagine he does."

Lyra smiled warmly.

"I think he enjoys your conversations."

Roland lowered his eyes, uncertain what to make of that.

His gaze drifted back toward the finished painting.

Then to the blanket still folded neatly across the nearby chair.

The invitation was unexpected.

So, too, had been the quiet kindness that morning.

He could not yet decide what either one meant.

But as evening shadows lengthened across the studio, Roland found himself wondering—not with fear this time, but with quiet curiosity—what Verex wished to speak about over dinner.

-

As dusk settled over Frostspire, Lyra helped Roland dress for the evening.

She chose a finely tailored tunic of deep forest green embroidered with silver thread, its soft wool trimmed with white fur at the collar and cuffs. It was unmistakably Dragonborn in style, yet altered to suit Roland's slight frame.

"It suits you wonderfully," Lyra said with a warm smile.

Roland looked uncertain as he adjusted the unfamiliar collar.

"I feel rather underdressed for dining with a king."

She laughed softly.

"My lord..."

"You are one as well."

He smiled despite himself.

"I suppose I had forgotten."

"You may have surrendered your crown," she said gently, fastening the last clasp of his cloak, "but not your dignity."

Her words lingered with him all the way to the private dining room.

-

Verex was already waiting.

The room was far smaller than Roland expected.

Instead of a vast ceremonial hall, it was an intimate chamber with tall windows overlooking the moonlit mountains. A fire crackled warmly in a broad stone hearth.

Only one table stood within.

Set for two.

No musicians.

No nobles.

No attendants waiting silently against the walls.

As Roland entered, Verex rose from his chair.

"I'm pleased you came."

"You invited me."

"I did."

The faintest smile touched Verex's lips.

"I was still relieved when you accepted."

Roland inclined his head before taking the seat opposite him.

Moments later servants quietly placed several dishes upon the table before withdrawing without a word.

The doors closed.

They were alone.

Roland looked around the room.

"No servants remain?"

"I prefer privacy."

"You trust no one?"

"I trust many people."

Verex poured tea into two cups.

"I simply dislike being watched while I eat."

Roland laughed quietly.

"I thought only I felt that way."

"I suspected otherwise."

The first awkwardness between them began to melt.

-

Dinner was simple.

Roasted trout from northern lakes.

Fresh bread.

Root vegetables glazed with mountain honey.

A fragrant stew of herbs Roland had never tasted before.

Verex noticed Roland examining one of the herbs with curiosity.

"Juniper."

Roland sampled it carefully.

"It tastes entirely different from ours."

"The colder climate changes it."

"I like it."

"I'm glad."

The conversation drifted naturally from food to the differences between north and south.

Roland described orchards heavy with apples and pears.

Verex spoke of evergreen forests that remained green even beneath deep snow.

Roland smiled.

"I don't think I shall ever grow accustomed to seeing snow every day."

"I don't think I could bear your summers."

"They're rather warm."

"I would melt."

Roland laughed.

"I'm fairly certain Dragonborn do not melt."

"No?"

"No."

"That is reassuring."

-

As dinner continued, conversation became easier.

Verex asked about Roland's childhood.

Not as a ruler.

Simply as a boy.

"What occupied your time when you weren't studying?"

Roland smiled thoughtfully.

"I painted."

"I know."

"I read."

"I know."

Verex tilted his head.

"What else?"

Roland looked faintly embarrassed.

"You'll laugh."

"I won't."

"You cannot promise that."

"I can."

Roland stirred his tea.

"I... built miniature models."

Verex blinked.

"Miniatures?"

Roland nodded, still looking into his cup.

"Little buildings."

"Windmills."

"Ships."

"Houses."

"I've made entire villages."

Silence.

Roland sighed dramatically.

"There."

"I've said it."

"You may laugh."

Verex didn't.

Instead his crimson eyes lit with unmistakable curiosity.

"You build them yourself?"

Roland looked up.

"...Yes."

"From wood?"

"Mostly."

"And paper."

"Sometimes clay."

Verex leaned forward with genuine interest.

"How large?"

Roland held his fingers several inches apart.

"My largest castle occupied an entire table."

"You built a castle?"

"A very small one."

"With furniture?"

Roland smiled sheepishly.

"...Yes."

"Trees?"

"...Yes."

"People?"

"...Only a few."

Verex stared for several heartbeats.

Then, to Roland's complete surprise—

He laughed.

Not mockingly.

With delighted disbelief.

Roland groaned.

"You promised."

"I did."

"I'm not laughing at you."

"It certainly sounds like it."

Verex shook his head, still smiling.

"I'm laughing because I never imagined the King of Dyrestone secretly spent his evenings building tiny villages."

Roland covered his face with one hand.

"When you say it aloud..."

"It sounds wonderful."

Roland peeked at him through his fingers.

"...Wonderful?"

"I've never met anyone who does that."

"My father used to help."

"What became of them?"

Roland's smile softened.

"Children in the village usually carried them home after festivals."

Verex's expression grew thoughtful.

"You gave them away?"

"They made people happy."

"I didn't need to keep them."

The Dragon King was quiet for a long moment.

Finally he said,

"I would have liked to see one."

Roland looked genuinely surprised.

"You would?"

"I think I would."

Warmth spread unexpectedly through Roland's chest.

No one other than children had ever seemed interested before.

Most had simply smiled politely.

Verex, however, looked as though he were already imagining an entire miniature city.

"What about you?" Roland asked.

"You've shared books."

"And gardens."

"Surely there are other things you enjoy."

Verex considered.

"I carve."

Roland blinked.

"Wood?"

"Mostly."

"What do you carve?"

The Dragon King looked faintly embarrassed.

"Birds."

Roland smiled.

"Birds?"

"I enjoy watching them in the gardens."

"So..."

Roland's eyes brightened with amusement.

"The fearsome Dragon King spends his evenings carving little birds."

Verex met his gaze.

"And the gentle King of Dyrestone builds tiny villages."

They looked at one another.

Then both began laughing.

For a little while, the crowns between them seemed very far away.

-

After dinner Verex rose and crossed to a small cabinet near the fireplace.

He withdrew an elegantly carved wooden chessboard.

Roland's eyes widened.

"You play?"

"My father insisted I learn."

"So did mine."

Verex began arranging the pieces.

"One game?"

Roland smiled.

"I should like that."

The carved pieces were exquisite.

Dragonborn kings stood where human kings usually would.

Wyverns replaced knights.

Ancient towers replaced rooks.

Roland examined each one with quiet admiration.

"They're beautiful."

"My grandfather carved them."

The game began.

At first conversation continued easily.

Books.

Music.

Painting.

Gardening.

But gradually silence took over as both concentrated upon the board.

Roland's brow furrowed in thought.

Verex watched him with growing admiration.

He was patient.

Creative.

Entirely unlike the cautious diplomat he had expected.

Halfway through the match Verex realized something unsettling.

Roland was winning.

"You've trapped my left flank."

Roland looked apologetic.

"I believe I have."

"You planned that several moves ago."

"...Perhaps."

Verex laughed.

"I underestimated you."

Roland carefully moved another piece.

"So did everyone else."

The words were spoken lightly.

Yet something in them carried years of being overlooked.

Verex looked at him differently after that.

Not as someone gentle.

Not merely as someone beautiful.

But as someone quietly brilliant.

Twenty minutes later Roland placed his final piece.

"Checkmate."

Silence.

Verex studied the board.

Then looked up.

"I don't believe anyone has defeated me in six years."

Roland suddenly looked alarmed.

"I'm terribly sorry."

"For winning?"

"I wasn't certain whether—"

Verex interrupted him with a warm smile.

"You've just given me an excellent excuse to demand a rematch."

Roland laughed.

"I suppose that's true."

Later, they stepped onto the balcony outside the dining room.

Night had fully fallen.

Above them stretched a sky ablaze with countless stars.

Snow drifted gently through the cold mountain air.

Neither spoke for several minutes.

Instead they looked upward.

Roland quietly pointed toward a familiar cluster of stars.

"In Dyrestone..."

He smiled softly.

"...children say those stars are the Lantern Keeper leading travelers home."

Verex followed his finger.

"In Frostspire..."

He answered just as quietly,

"...we call them the Watcher's Flame."

Roland looked at him.

"The same stars."

Verex nodded.

"As always."

They stood together in companionable silence, gazing at the heavens that had watched over both kingdoms long before either of them had worn a crown.

For one fleeting evening, beneath the endless winter sky, they were not conqueror and captive.

Neither of them realized how rare such peace had become.

Neither wanted the evening to end.