Arthur Pendragon, son of Uther, crown prince of Camelot, stood on deck as the faint coasts of Eirinn came into view. Merlin, by his side as always, felt relieved at the thought of being on land at last. While the ship had been fitted with enough comforts to transport the King, the prince, the King's ward, their guard and servants, Merlin missed being able to evade Arthur (and his chores) in the roomy pathways of the castle.

"Have you been to Eirinn before?" Merlin asked.

Arthur kept his eyes on the distant shoreline, almost as though attempting to gauge an approaching army. When he spoke his voice was low, "No, although I've heard many tales about it.  As a kingdom they have always been....," he frowned, trying to find the word, "...more ambivalent towards magic than Camelot. My father has long been suspicious of their true loyalty. I suspect he hopes this trip will prove informative." 
"And if he finds the information....displeasing?" Merlin knew, though he preferred not to consider, the answer. He could only hope that they would not be privy, yet again, to more senseless death in the name of wiping out magic. 
"Then we'll throw them a party and conduct some friendly pillow-fights. What do you think will happen Merlin?" as always, Arthur hid his own concerns behind biting humor directed at his manservant. In many ways, although he would rather lose a jousting tournament than admit to it, Arthur found his conversations with Merlin far more helpful and strangely comforting than any discourse with other courtiers. 
"The usual then." Merlin said quietly, turning his eyes to the shore. 
Arthur said nothing, but he felt a cloud creeping across his mind, darkening the glint of sunlit waves. For as long as he could recall, allegiance to Camelot, to his father, had forged the purpose of his life, his ambition, his will in a blaze of fierce love and unquestioned loyalty. Upholding the Kinght's Code and protecting his people were not choices, but a solemn responsibility, and one he assumed without question. That is, until recently. Arthur wasn't sure when things started to feel different, or when he began to question the meaning of honor and loyalty that his father insisted on upholding. Maybe it was the endless executions he had had to preside over. Maybe it was his friendship (something his father would find contemptible) with Merlin. Maybe it was how pale and silent Morgana had become. Now as they watched the cliffs and coasts of Eirinn dawn into view, Arthur found himself hoping that for once, Camelot could extend the hand of peace, and friendship.
"How much longer before we reach land?" it was Morgana, wrapped in crimson-dyed wool, her midnight hair loose about her shoulders, her eyes feverish. 
She had not slept for most of the voyage, or eaten, and seasickness had hollowed her skin so that she appeared gaunt and brittle, like glass.
"Not much longer now," Arthur spoke kindly to his adopted sister. Once, he would have retorted with a playful, flippant comment, teasing her about her seasickness. Once, she would have responded with equanimity.
Seemingly out of nowhere, Merlin had fetched a goblet of wine and was offering it to Morgana. Arthur blinked, nonplussed, at this sudden efficiency by the servant who frequently had trouble keeping his foot out of chamber pots. "Drink this milady. We are almost there. I'm sure lady Guinevere is anxious to see you" and he offered a reassuring smile. Morgana accepted the goblet with quiet thankfulness.
"Lady Guinevere?" 
Morgana spoke, a glint of cheer in her voice, "She is ward to King Peadar. We met as children once, a long time ago...While my father was alive. I have not seen her since, but we...we have corresponded with each other over the years."
Arthur raised his eyebrows, "Does the King know that you have been communicating with someone in the royal court of Eirinn?"
Morgana's eyes flashed and for a moment she looked like her old self again, "No he does not, and if you so much as breathe a word Arthur Pendragon I'm sure the King would be delighted to know about the crown prince consorting with commoners at weekly tavern visits."
Arthur directed a furious gaze at a now sheepish Merlin, "What else have you told her, hmm? Does the entirety of Camelot know about the temperature of my bath water now?"
Before Merlin could respond, the ship hands were suddenly running about, preparing to weigh anchor. All three of them turned towards the approaching coast, the stern cliffs with their emerald wreaths of grass, the stone outline of King Peadhar's palace jutting out against a blue sky. They had arrived.
***

"You wished to see me Sire?" Guinevere curtsied briefly before raising her eyes to the King. She couldn't hide the distaste that filled her at the sight of Peadar's companion: Lord Melwas.

"Ah yes, Guinevere. Lord Melwas wishes to discuss a matter of...great delicacy with you, " Peadar's smile did not reach his eyes. They stood in the council room, the air full of the scent of dusty parchment and new ink. "I shall leave you two alone then," and before Gwen could protest, Peadar had swept out of the room, shutting the door behind him.

Gwen took a deep breath and faced Melwas, "Milord?"

Melwas' eyes slid down her body, lazily, before returning to her face. Guinevere felt her skin recoil, and she willed herself to remain composed.

"What a ripe flower you have blossomed into," Melwas whispered, sidling closer to her, "So very ripe, and ready for the picking..." he reached out to finger a loose curl of her hair, but she jerked away instinctively.

His eyes narrowed, and a tinge of colour livened his high, sallow cheeks, " You recoil from my touch as if I were a serpent. Have I done something to offend you?", his hand drifted to her shoulder, resting uncomfortably close to her breast.

Gwen swallowed the urge to fling out the words burning in her throat, "What is it you wished to discuss with me, milord?"

"Oh, I think you know already," his hand moved her dark tresses off her shoulders, his eyes resting on the swell of her breasts, "A marriage between our houses has long been in the making..." his wandering hand floated close to her mouth and Gwen could stand it no more. She pushed his hand away and took an authoritative step back.
"You may imagine so, milord, but I can assure you such a notion has not been conveyed to me," she was aware that her shoulders were set back in steely pride, even as her voice struggled to hide its quaver. Mother, help me.

Melwas closed the distance between them, and his voice was now dangerously low, "You cannot fool me, Guinevere. I've seen you wandering about; I know you grow restless with this castle and its confines. As my wife you could travel with me, see the world outside Eirinn. I know of what you dream," and his voice now grew sly and suggestive, "You are your mother's daughter after all... "

Guinevere was trembling now, but she fought to keep her voice steady, "You will not speak of my mother again."

Suddenly he seized her by the waist and ground himself into her, rage and lust warring in his grey eyes, " I will have you Guinevere, make no mistake," his breath was wet against her cheek, "Your false airs do not sway me. You are but a pretty bird in a gilt cage, thinking her wings can ride the sky...."

"Let me go!" she struggled against him, pushing, half-blinded by her tears.

"The world is a dangerous place for pretty little birds. Very dangerous indeed..."
With a last monumental effort she slid away from his grip, casting off his arms. She felt soiled and unclean, and her hands absently touched the neckline of her gown, wanting to wrap the cloth around herself like a shield.

"You sicken me," it took everything in her to bite out those words. Without waiting for a reaction she flung herself at the door, pulled it open and fled. Her tears flowed freely now, her hair coming undone from its ties with the speed of her gait. She needed air. Heedless of the curious eyes of idling courtiers, Gwen picked up her skirts and hurried towards the eastern doors, the ones that opened unto a parapet and overlooked the sea. She strode outside, the air dry and sharp on her warm tears. Oh, mother, father, I wish you were here!
Grief and despair threatened to overwhelm her, and she would have sunk to her knees had her eyes not spotted, unmistakeably, the ship that had pulled into harbour, its red and gold standard flame-bright by the light of day. She would know that standard anywhere. A dragon of sharp gold, poised expectantly on a field of blood-bright red; the bane of sorcery across the lands, the unwavering symbol of the might of Camelot.  The crest of the house of Pendragon.

***

Unloading the ship would take quite a while, but everyone on board was eager to set foot on land first. Arthur watched as Morgana hurried down the gangway, her cloak streaming behind her. He was about to follow her when his eyes caught sight of a lone figure, high upon the eastern parapets of Peadar's castle: a woman, a blur of pale violet with a wind-tossed cascade of dark hair about her shoulders. She stood still as though transfixed, but the angled light hid her face, and before he could lift his hand to block out the sun, she was gone.