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The Queen was dying.

It was as sure as though death already stood at her bedside, skeletal fingers poised. The muffled air was heavy with the scent, and when Alonse de Pure entered the room, the healer rose from the bed and her face, cold and grim, shouted out the news.

"It is done." She murmured. "I have done what I can. Now I leave you with your monarch."

The four young women around the room all stood, faces as white as snow and mostly unreadable. One wept softly, her hand pressed to her mouth. Of them, she could very possibly be the only one who felt real emotion for their Queen's passing.

Vultures, he thought disapprovingly, but bowed his head to them. All waiting for the bestowing of the crown, and likely all but the crying girl greedy for it. Politics hung heavy in the room, heavier than any deathshroud.

"My lady?" He asked, voice hushed and throat tight with pain as he bent over her.

Her eyes, that extraordinarily clear blue, opened slowly in a face that was, while bestowed with sharply aristocratic beauty, was waxen pale. Her silver hair spread over the pillow, still soft and shining, that extraordinary hoar-frost color the sole trait of queens.

"Name the successor." The redheaded woman near the window whispered harshly.

Anger flared within him, but not even a favoried Lord like himself could speak back to a Lady of the Red House. Instead he carefully placed his fingers atop the Queen's and she struggled to rouse one last effort of strength.

"My daughter." She said clearly, "find my daughter."

And her breath slipped away.

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