The wind catches her skirts, sending them flying in a froth of white as she stands, high upon the terrace, a tree of white and gold. It catches her breath, taking it away as she stands, her grief overwhelming, bursting in from all sides like a river, washing away everything else.
They ride through the gates, a flag blowing past them.
She has no tears, not now, not at this moment. To cry would be to forfeit to the undying bitterness of despair; she will not enter that black world again; so she hopes.
He looks up as they pass through the town.
She can find no words to say, no song to sing, nothing that would express this need, this loss, this pain. Thrice she has felt it; and now she fears for her king. He too balances on the brink of life, as does she. As do they all.
A figure in white, her golden hair blowing 'round her face, staring out over the plains.
She will go back to him, back to bid him her final farewell. And yet she cannot bear to see his face again, when it is covered by the shroud of death.
He looks away.
She turns and enters once again the Hall, the House of Kings, as it was called. Now it is a house of serpents, pale serpents with poison tongues, slipping to her room in the darkness of night, and whispering dark things in her ears. But there is nowhere else to go, and she will see his face one last time before he is laid to rest.
When he looks back, she is gone, a whisper of memory and white cloth.