Chapter Text
I woke just before dawn, as I always did now. It was a habit forged on rolling decks and sunless mornings—Lan’s voice sharp in the dark, calling me quietly to rise before the light, grabbing my shoulder to shake me to waking until I had adjusted to rising before he would grow near. That habit had never left me, and I suspected it never would. I still woke in silence, my body attuned to the hush that came before the world stirred.
The room was dim, the coals in the hearth now only faintly glowing, but the warmth remained, layered beneath the blankets and Elayne’s steady presence. She lay pressed lightly against my side, one leg tangled with mine, her breathing slow and even against my neck. I could feel her through the bond—still asleep, still peaceful. A soft glow, like sunlight through silk.
Moiraine, though, was different. From her, I felt a distant ache—not painful, exactly, but a quiet sadness I understood the shape of. We had spent every night together for quite some time. She had stayed in my room in the White Tower, officially to keep me safe. But we all knew that it was more than that. She had grown used to being close, to sleeping within reach of me, waking to find me there beside her. I hadn’t realized just how deeply that comfort had settled into both of us.
She must have woken alone this morning—and felt that absence like a hollow space beside her in the bed. I attempted to gently reach out and touch her presence through the bond, to let her know I was thinking of her, though I didn’t know if it had worked or if she would feel it. But I hoped she would.
Elayne stirred beside me, just enough to nestle closer, her brow brushing my jaw as she sighed softly. I could feel her warmth even more vividly now—both her body against mine and the bond that linked us, content and untroubled. Her hand found mine beneath the blankets, fingers curling around it sleepily. She didn’t wake fully, not yet, but she responded to the slight shift in me all the same, like a flower leaning toward the sun. I remained still for a moment longer, letting the quiet hold me.
While I knew there would be movement soon, I could allow myself a simple moment here. Eventually though, I eased myself out of the bed with care, tucking the blanket gently back around Elayne. She didn’t stir again, save to murmur something soft and unintelligible against the pillow. I smiled faintly, brushing my fingers over her hair before I moved away.
The morning was still cloaked in hush, and I decided it would be a fine time to go for a run to maintain my physical shape, as well as to keep my endurance high. I pulled on a simple pair of trousers, electing to remain without a shirt for the run, knowing it would only be dirtied and a hinderance. With a final look, I moved outside of the room and set for a path out of the palace, though I would likely stick to running on the grounds.
The air outside was crisp and cool, the sky still clinging to the last shadows of night as I stepped out into the quiet courtyard beyond the guest wing. Pale blue light edged the horizon—dawn’s promise, not yet fulfilled. The stone beneath my bare feet was cold, but it grounded me, sharpened my senses. I stretched briefly, feeling the pull of muscle and tendon, the familiar tension of a body that knew movement was coming.
The Palace grounds were still, the guards posted at intervals watching silently as I moved past. A few nodded in recognition; most simply let me pass without question. Shirtless or not, I was no stranger here now with word of who I was and what I had done already likely having spread throughout the entirety of the Palace, and they had surely seen far stranger things in the past weeks. I set out at an easy pace, letting the rhythm of my feet on stone and gravel settle my thoughts. Past the gardens, through the outer courtyards and down the winding paths that skirted the training grounds. It wasn’t a circuit exactly, but I had chosen my path from what I had seen and known of the Palace and the surrounding area. The path I chose was a long one, offering inclines to test breath and balance, and sharp turns that would demand focus.
I welcomed the effort, though admittedly I did get lost a few times and strained to find a path that would keep me moving in a rough loop back to where I had started. By the time I found my way back to what had looked like familiar walls and eventually recognized as the area around the courtyard I had started in, sweat had slicked my chest and back, and my breath came in even, controlled draws—my lungs burning in that way that felt more cleansing than painful. My legs ached in a familiar way, not with injury but with the proof of effort well spent. I paused at the edge of the courtyard and leaned against the stone balustrade which felt cool beneath my hands as I leaned forward and looked out across Caemlyn.
The city was waking now, no longer just the palace. I could hear the distant rattle of wheels over cobblestone, a merchant calling out his wares beyond the wall, the bleating of a goat or sheep from somewhere deeper in the city. Life returning, as it always did.
And yet, my thoughts were not on the streets or the sounds of the waking world, but on those I had left in the stillness. Elayne would still be asleep, and Egwene was still enjoying the bliss of a life outside the Tower where she could choose when to rise on her own. But Moiraine… Moiraine was awake.
She had not reached for me through the bond—at least not actively. But I could still feel her. The ache had faded into something steadier now, no longer tinged with sadness so much as quiet distance. A watching presence. I turned from the city, brushing a hand back through my damp hair as I stepped away from the ledge. The run had done its work. My mind was clearer, my body ready for whatever this day might bring.
I made my way back to the guest wing in thoughtful silence. There was time yet before I would need to dress for court, before I would have to stand at attention and attempt to embrace all the knowledge I could gain from seeing an Andoran court in session. My stomach growled slightly and I knew I would need to eat before then as well.
Inside, the palace halls were beginning to stir with the same slow wakefulness as the city. Servants moved with quiet efficiency—polishing wood, adjusting tapestries, lighting fresh candles. One or two gave me curious looks as I padded barefoot through the corridor, shirtless and damp with sweat, but none stopped me. I must have cut an odd figure, but I was past truly caring for appearances. Not this morning.
Back in the guest wing, I slipped into my chambers as softly as I could. Elayne had shifted positions, one arm stretched across the space where I had lain. She looked peaceful, her golden hair tousled across the pillow, the blanket pulled slightly down from her shoulder. I paused just long enough to tuck it back over her, brushing a light kiss to her temple. She murmured something half-formed and content, but didn’t wake.
I stepped quietly to gather an outfit for the day, settling on another set of noble clothing that Elayne had somehow procured for me, no doubt having planned this all the way back in Tar Valon and simply decided not to reveal what she had done until now. I moved out into the hallway with the bundle, and tried to find a servant who did not look too busy
A boy no older than fourteen paused in the hall as I approached, balancing a silver tray with a half-eaten pastry and a half-full teacup. His eyes widened slightly when he recognized me—not from fear, but from the kind of wide-eyed awe only young pages and new recruits seemed to carry.
“Could you show me to a washroom with a tub, please?” I asked, keeping my tone light. “Something warm, if it’s not too late to ask.”
He blinked, then nodded quickly, nearly dropping the tray in his hurry to shift it to one hand. “Yes, my Lord. Right this way.”
My Lord. Light. I still wasn’t used to that, even after all that had happened. Titles didn’t sit easily on my shoulders, no matter how many times someone tried to drape one there. Much as Siuan might have placed them on me in the Tower, she at least saw it fit to address me as Alex when we were conversing one on one or in smaller groups.
The boy led me through a side corridor and down a short flight of stairs, finally gesturing to a modest but clean bathing room tucked behind a thick oaken door. Steam curled form beneath it, and I could smell a delightful mix of mint and eucalyptus coming from within.
“There are soap and towels inside,” he said, setting the tray down carefully on a small table. “And I can see to it that your clothes are cleaned and returned to your room, if you would like.”
“That will be fine, thank you, I don’t think I want to strip down so fully in such a public space,” I said with a slight grin. “I may be well known for standing shirtless overlooking Falme, but I don’t think I’d like to give people such a spectacle of seeing me without trousers just yet.”
The boy’s face flushed crimson, his eyes darting briefly to the floor, then back up with a stifled laugh he couldn’t quite keep in. “Of course, my Lord,” he managed, somewhere between mortified and delighted. “I’ll, um, just wait outside the door. When you’re ready you can pass out the clothes you have on to me, and you’ll be able to leave in the fresh ones you’ve brought with you.”
I gave him a nod of thanks and stepped into the bathing room, closing the door gently behind me. The warmth struck me like a gentle wave, welcome after the cool of the palace corridors as well as the cool morning air that I had experienced on my run. A copper tub had already been filled nearly to the brim, steam rising in soft curls that clung to the tiled walls. The scents of mint and eucalyptus were sharper inside, clearing the air and my sinuses with every breath. Towels hung neatly from a stand in the corner, and a small basket beside the tub held soap, brushes, and oils.
I set the clean clothes aside, peeled off the sweat-damp trousers, and folded them neatly. Cracking the door open just enough to hand them through, I found the boy waiting as promised, now looking anywhere but at the doorway.
“Thank you,” I said again, handing over the bundle. “And if breakfast could be sent to my room in the guest wing, nothing too heavy mind you. Some fruit and bread, maybe tea.”
He gave a quick sharp nod, gripping the clothes to his chest like a sacred charge. “Right away, my Lord, it will be done.”
I closed the door and let the silence return.
Sinking into the bath, I exhaled slowly as the heat enveloped me. Muscles that hadn’t quite loosened from the run softened under the water’s weight, and for a few minutes I let myself drift—half-listening to the quiet trickle of water cooling in the pail near the stove, half-savoring the sharpness of the mint. My thought wandered, but didn’t cling to anything. Not Elayne’s close content through the bond, not Moiraine’s steady regard, not to Egwene savouring her first day free of the Tower, not even the weight of what the day would bring.
Just breath, water, and silence.
Eventually, when the heat had done its work and the stiffness in my legs had eased, I rose and dried off, using one of the soft towels to scrub down before dressing in the noble clothes Elayne had selected. Unlike last nights attire that she had picked to match what she had worn, today I had chosen something more monotone and less ostentatious. I wore a simple white tunic, under a black vest that was cinched much like the one last night, and a matching black jacket, though it had some silver embellishments making rough designs across the jacket. I paired it with a pair of black trousers, before finishing the look with my boots. I knew it would be fitting for the court, while also not being so flashy that I would draw undue attention.
I gave myself a quick look in the mirror that stood nearby—more out of habit than vanity—and adjusted the collar of the jacket. The fabric felt lighter than I expected, finely woven but durable, likely made by some fine clothier back in Tar Valon. Elayne would have insisted on quality, she always did, even when pretending not to. Still, the outfit was comfortable enough, and carried a quiet sort of authority. Not a prince’s garb, or a Lord Captain’s uniform—but something that suited me. A man who could be trusted to walk the halls with power and authority without needing to shout his name.
I ran a hand through my still-damp hair and decided something needed to be done about its length. It had grown longer than I liked—curling at the ends now, especially when wet, and prone to falling into my eyes at the worst moments. While Elayne seemed to enjoy it this way, fingers always drifting up to tuck a strand behind my ear, I wasn’t sure it suited what the day would require, and it didn’t feel like it represented me. I didn’t want to look like a boy playing at politics, nor a wandering blade who’d just stepped out of the woods and put on some manner of fine clothes.
Still, there wasn’t time for a proper trim. Not now. Though perhaps I could use the Power to do something about it. I hesitated at the thought, staring at my reflection. Using saidin for something as simple as trimming hair felt… strange. Indulgent, maybe. But not frivolous. I had honed weaves delicate enough to mend lace without burning it, precise enough to place a single thread of Spirit through a needle’s eye in a circle. Trimming hair certainly wasn’t beyond me.
I embraced the Source—cool fire rushing through me in a familiar blaze—and wove a thread of Air and Fire, fine as spider silk and sharper than any blade. Holding it steady, I drew the weave along the edges of my reflection. Not aiming to cut it short—just make it neater. I kept some of the length Elayne liked, but swept the front clear of my brow and trimmed the ends that curled messily at my nape. It was a little sharper now, the kind of look that belonged in a throne room but could still ride at the head of a charge. Anything more, I decided, would be done formally by someone else instead of with the Power.
I released the thread and brushed my hands along my temples, satisfied for the moment. The bond with Elayne flickered faintly—contentment, half-asleep. She would notice later, though it was likely my returning to my room would wake her more fully. Moiraine’s presence remained steady, though there was a faint uptick of approval I couldn’t entirely ignore, as though she had been watching me.
I stepped away from the mirror and moved back through the hall, boots quiet against the finely polished floors. The early light of dawn filtered through the tall windows as I made my way toward my own quarters. I was already starting to feel the day’s weight gathering ahead of me—like distant thunder still hidden behind the horizon. But first: breakfast. And Elayne.
The page I’d spoken to before taking a bath had been efficient. A small tray waited just inside the door when I returned, covered by a cloth and set on the low table near the window. The aroma of fresh bread, stewed apples, and a strong tea greeted me the moment I stepped inside.
Elayne stirred in the bed but didn’t fully wake—at least, not yet. The bond shimmered faintly with warmth and the soft haze of sleep. I let the door close softly behind me and crossed to the tray, lifting the cloth to inspect the contents. Two plates. I smiled faintly, he must have seen Elayne in my bed and thought to bring food enough for the both of us. I poured a cup of tea, letting the scent wake me fully, and set it down beside one of the plates. A simple breakfast, just what I had asked for, and it would serve me well for what was certain to be a long morning. Court in Caemlyn was no place to arrive hungry, especially when there at the invitation of Morgase Trakand.
I lifted the cup, and glanced toward the bed. Elayne shifted again, golden hair spread across the pillow in soft waves. She was stirring now—not fully—butt I could feel it through the bond, a note of awareness creeping in. I let my thoughts brush hers gently, not a call, but a quiet welcome, letting her stir more at her own pace as opposed to a forceful waking by me trying to engage her in conversation too soon.
Her awareness met mine like sunlight through half-drawn curtains—soft, warm, reluctant to rise but unmistakably there. The bond curled with affection and a trace of amusement, as if she already knew I was up and moving about with too much purpose for the hour. I heard as she rolled onto her side, the covers shifting, and then the faintest sigh as she tucked on arm beneath her cheek.
I took another sip of tea, letting it settle warmly in my chest, and resisted the urge to go to her. Not because I didn’t want to—Light, I always would—but because there was a kind of peace in simply letting her wake slowly, naturally. After everything we had endured, a quiet morning like this felt like a gift that no one would dare to name aloud.
The bond rippled again, this time I caught a clearer sense of what she was thinking. Curious. Expectant. A flicker of playful disapproval, like she was trying to decide whether I’d done something outrageous or merely mischievous while she slept.
“I trimmed my hair,” I said softly, setting the cup down. I didn’t raise my voice, just sent the words gently across the space between us. “With saidin. Nothing drastic, if that’s what you are worried about.”
A pause. Then: a sleepy, amused pulse, like a cat blinking in the sun. I felt the warmth of her approval branch the surface, tinged with fond exasperation. She still hadn’t opened her eyes, but I knew she was smiling.
“You’ll see it soon enough,” I added, a little wryly. “I left just enough length for your fingers to find, don’t worry.”
That got a proper reaction. A sleepy flicker of triumph and satisfaction surged through the bond, and I didn’t need to see her face to know the look that came with it. She was awake now, if not fully alert, and I had a feeling she would draw out the next few minutes just to make me wait. So I returned to my breakfast, tearing off a piece of warm bread and dipping it into the stewed apples, letting her set the rhythm for once.
She shifted again, the covers rustling softly as she pulled them higher, then lower—undecided, perhaps, about whether she was truly ready to leave the cocoon of warmth and linen. The bond shimmered like morning mist, wrapping us both in that unique closeness that defied distance or words. It was like listening to her heartbeat from across the room.
Another breath, slower this time. Then the faint creak of the mattress, and I glanced up just in time to see her stretch—-arms above her head, golden hair spilling across her shoulders in tangled waves. Her eyes were still mostly closed, but the smallest of smiles tugged at her lips.
“You,” she murmured, voice still wrapped in sleep, “have a habit of changing things before I’ve had a chance to memorize them.”
I smiled into my tea. “I promise it’s still me beneath the haircut.”
Elayne finally opened her eyes, squinting toward the soft glow coming in through the window. “We’ll see,” she said, mock-stern. “I might need a full inspection before I decide whether you’re still properly mine.”
“I’m counting on it,” I replied, reaching for the second plate and walking it over to the bed. I didn’t hand it to her immediately—just stood there a moment, letting myself take her in. Elayne in the morning, her eyes soft and her hair tousled, was a sight I would never grow tired of. “Breakfast first,” I said gently. “Then inspections. Royal protocol.” I let the last part out with a gentle wink.
She laughed, the sound low and warm, intimate, and she took the plate from my hands, brushing my fingers lightly as she did. “Very well,” she said, accepting her imaginary duty with a regal nod. “But I expect thorough answers to all inquiries.”
“I would never dream of withholding anything from the Daughter-Heir of Andor,” I said solemnly, then leaned down and kissed her forehead before stepping back toward my tea. We shared the meal in companionable silence for a while, the soft clink of cutlery the only sound besides the occasional murmur of pigeons outside the window. We both finished our plates shortly after, and Elayne moved to leave the bed to take me in more thoroughly. Knowing my part in this, I stood, raising my arms to my sides and giving her a subtle, slow, spin.
Elayne hummed thoughtfully, shifting her weight to one hip as she studied me, the plate now forgotten on the bedside table. Her bare feet touched the rug lightly as she stepped forward, her expression a mix of scrutiny and amusement, the corners of her mouth curling in something between a smirk and a smolder.
“I suppose you’ll do,” she said, tilting her head and reaching up to brush her fingers just behind my ear, where a few stubborn strands of hair curled forward. “It’s cleaner. A little too proper, maybe. But still roguish enough for my tastes.” Her hand trailed down to my jaw. “You didn’t singe your ears, so I’m forced to be impressed.”
I raised a brow. “That was a very real possibility.”
“Oh, I know,” she replied dryly. “You’re worse than Thom with a new knife when you get an idea in your head.” She circled behind me, one finger dragging across the back of my shoulders. “Mmm. Very tidy. And I must admit, you chose an outfit well for the fact you will be in my mother’s court today. Has Moiraine had the chance to see this yet?”
“No, though I think she somehow felt that I had done something with my hair,” I said, half-turning my head. “She’s still at the inn, so I don’t know when she. Would have a chance to actually see me as of yet.”
“Mmm,” Elayne said again, drawing the sound out with exaggerated thought. “So I get the first viewing. I should charge her and Egwene both fees to see,”
I laughed under my breath. “That sounds like a rather dangerous business model, collecting coin from the women you’ll be sharing me with in marriage.”
Elayne gave a mock gasp, hand flying to her chest in theatrical outrage. “Sharing? Light, you make it sound like I’m offering up slices of honey cake!”
I chuckled and caught her hand before she could swat me. “You’re the one talking about charging for viewings. I mean, the two will both be sharing in calling me husband, as much as you may get to do so first.”
She leaned in, narrowing her eyes playfully. “That’s called leveraging value, my love. A queen must think of their realm’s assets.”
I raised an eyebrow. “And I’m an asset now am I?”
She gave me a long, deliberate once-over, then tilted her head with regal gravity. “Oh, undeniably. Handsome, clever, tolerably well-behaved—when bribed—and a wit unlike almost any I have ever met. Not to mention the power you wield, and you even make your own swords. I’d be a fool not to consider the value of such a rare specimen.”
I let out a quiet laugh. “I hope that others will agree with your valuation. Though I suspect that Moiraine would argue I’m more trouble than I am worth at times.”
Elayne’s eyes sparkled. “Oh, she would argue it, especially with how often you have a habit of getting hurt protecting others. She would likely argue it with great eloquence and a long sigh beforehand. But she still said yes, didn’t she? Still agreed to marry you, just as I did.”
:She did,” I said softly, remembering the look in Moiraine’s eyes when she’d accepted. “So did Egwene, though with concessions that she was not ready to marry me yet, not until we do it the proper way of the Two Rivers. Light help me, I still don’t know what I’ve done to deserve any of you, let alone all of you.”
Elayne’s expression gentled, some of the playfulness slipping into affection. “You never did anything to deserve us, you ridiculous man. You just… are. And we each saw it. Not the Flameforged part, or the sword, or the weaves, or the brooding silences.”
I quirked a brow. “I do not brood.”
“You absolutely brood. But we saw you. And we chose you.” She stepped closer again, fingers brushing lightly down the front of my coat as if adjusting it, though there was nothing out of place. “You say I get to call you husband first, and that’s true. But that doesn’t make my claim more than theirs. I know what it means to share. I just…” she paused, looking up at me. “I suppose I want to be the one who reminds you, when it’s hard, when it hurts, that being loved by three strong women is not a burden to carry, but something we bear together.”
I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding, touched by the quiet strength in her words.
“You will be a queen,” I said quietly. “And not just of Andor. You carry more than most would ever understand. But I think the Pattern gave you me for a reason, too. Not just to love you, but to make sure you remember that you aren’t alone, just as much as you remind me that I am not.”
Her lips curved up slowly, and she listed herself onto her toes to kiss me—just once, slow and sure. “That’s why I chose you,” she whispered against my mouth. “Not for what you are, but for who you have always been underneath it all.”
I held her close a moment longer, then exhaled and murmured, “I suppose we should get moving before I forget entirely that I am expected to in court.”
“Not yet,” she said, resting her head briefly against my chest. “Just one more moment. I want to remember this—the quiet before the storm.”
I brushed my fingers through her golden hair smiling. “Then I will give you as many moments as you need, my dearest.”
A quiet knock at the door interrupted the stillness.
Elayne didn’t flinch, but her arms tightened around me once before she pulled back with a sigh. I kissed her forehead gently as she stepped aside, smoothing the front of her shift with a grace that came as naturally as breath. I allowed her to put on the robe she had worn overtop of her shift when she came to my room before I opened the door.
I gave her a nod, then turned and opened the door to find Gareth Bryne waiting in the hallways, straight-backed and composed in his Captain-General’s crimson and white. His dark eyes flicked over me with a practiced efficiency, assessing—not judging, but certainly weighing.
“Lord Alex,” he said, voice as even as a drawn blade. “The Queen is ready to begin court, and requests your presence, as I am sure you are aware.”
Behind me, Elayne let out a breath that was half-laugh, half-resigned groan. “You see? Not even ten more minutes.”
Gareths brow lifted faintly, but he said nothing of it. His attention was already back on me.
“I”ll be ready to leave shortly,” I said, straightening. “Am I to come prepared any more than this?”
“Yes, you should arm yourself. Your swords were returned to you last night, yes?”
“Yes, though I believe I have something more fitting, if you’ll allow me a moment.”
Bryne gave a short nod, the smallest hint of curiosity in his eyes.
I crossed to the packs that had been taken off Kojima when he had been brought to the palace, keeling beside them with a practiced hand. It didn’t take long to find what I was looking for—delicately wrapped in a soft cloth, hidden beneath the warders cloak I had been given just before leaving the Tower. I unwrapped the twin blades I had forged in my youth, their lines more elegant than the ones gifted to me by the Shienarans. Power-wrought, though I hadn’t known it then. They were the first evidence of what I would become. If I was to stand in court today, I would carry the best I had made.
Elayne watch me silently as I strapped them on, recognition in her gaze. She stepped forward as I adjusted the scabbard and smoothed a hand along the side of one hilt, reverent. “They suit you.”
I smiled faintly, then reached into the lining of my trousers to check the hidden loop sewn inside—just as last night, the golden etched rod angered slipped into place with ease. It seemed Elayne had arranged for ever pair of pants she had gotten he hands on to be tailored for it. She raised an eyebrow, clearly pleased with herself.
“I should have guessed,” I murmured.
“You should have,” she agreed, though there was no smugness in her voice—only quiet support. She stepped back as I fastened my coat, fixed with the clasp I had made for myself, and turned once more to face the door.
Bryne, waiting with the still patience of a man used to long campaigns and royal schedules, gave a short approving nod. “You’re ready then?”
“I am.”
“Good. Follow me then. Her Majesty has cleared the first quarter of the day for court. And as the guest of honour, you are to be among the first presented.”
Behind me, Elayne’s hand slipped into mine briefly. A silent blessing, nothing more. I squeezed her fingers once, then let go. And with that, I followed Gareth Bryne down the hall toward the Lion Throne.
The corridors of the Caemlyn Palace were still somewhat quiet, despite the number of servants moving about. I could hear the distant and muffled sound of courtiers beginning to stir in more distant halls. I walked a half step behind Bryne, out of deference more than protocol, though he glanced sideways and slowed just enough to draw even with me.
A beat passed before he spoke. “You carry yourself like someone used to steel on your hip, but those aren’t your usual blades.”
“They’re not,” I replied quietly. “These are… older. A part of me from early in my life.”
He gave a faint grunt of acknowledgment. “Power-wrought, unless my eyes deceive me. A rare thing, to see a matched set. Rarer still in this age.”
“They’re my own work,” I admitted, surprised at how strange the words felt aloud. “Forged them when I was younger. I didn’t know what I was doing at the time…only that the work wanted to be done.” I tapped the pommel and guard of one sword lightly. “I didn’t even realize what they were until much later… nor did I know that I had used the Power at all. Light, if I had known as a child what all I would become… I doubt I would have believed it even then.”
Bryne didn’t answer right away, though I could sense the weight of his attention even without looking directly at him. He wasn’t the sort of man to fill silences for the sake of comfort. “Most men your age try to shape the world into something they can understand,” he said at last. “You shaped steel into something that understands the world.”
That drew a wry breath from me. “It understands more than I did at the time.”
“Still,” he said, “they’re fine blades. I had heard mention of your work yesterday, and the craftsmanship shows. Balanced. Forged with care.” He let the words settle. “If you ever feel inclined to make another blade… I’d wear it.”
I blinked. Gareth Bryne was not a man who asked lightly. Not for swords, and not from a man like me.
“You’ve no shortage of weapons in your armoury,” I said, keeping my tone neutral.
“That is true.” He glanced ahead. “But some blades are more than just steel, and sometimes it matters who made them. And why.”
I didn’t answer right away. The idea of making another sword like these—of allowing such a thing to be made with intention—sat strangely in my chest. Not badly, just heavy. The kind of heavy that meant something too me. Even the sword I had made for Gawyn wasn’t quite power-wrought, it would dull with time if not properly treated.
“If I do,” I said finally, “it won’t be for the court, the Queen, or politics. It will be a symbol from me to you, to be used to defend yourself and others, and as thanks for all you have done to defend those I cared for, before I ever entered their lives.”
Bryne’s step didn’t falter, but something in the air between us shifted—subtle, like a sword leaving its scabbard without a sound. He gave a low grunt, one that held more weight than a dozen spoken thank-you’s. It reminded me of my father, less spoken and more shown. “I don’t need any thanks,” he said. “But I will accept the blade… if ever you feel the time is right and you are able too see it done.”
“I will,” I said, without hedging. “Though I will need a forge, and materials to be sourced before I could do anything. I don’t know of many blacksmiths who would be happy to open their shop to someone they do not know for their own uses. Especially one that they don’t understand.”
“I can think of a few in the city,” Bryne said. “Old friends who owe me favours. Or still respect that which I used to do with their weapons in my own youth. Not every soldier is born with a sword in hand, and it took quite some work to get to the point of being a blade master.”
I didn’t speak right away. There was a rhythm tot walking beside Gareth Bryne—steady, unhurried, like marching in time with something older than either of us. Not every silence needed to be filled. “I imagine you earned more than your share of respect by the time you did,” I said eventually.
Bryne’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “Respect doesn’t weight much on a battlefield. A blade that holds, a shield that doesn’t buckle—those matter more in the moment. But respect is what gets you followed afterward.”
We turned down a wide corridor, sunlight pouring in through tall arched windows to our left. The light caught on the gilded trim of tapestries and the deep red of Andoran carpets. Already, I could hear the sounds of the court ahead—the murmur of voices, the occasional scrape of boots or laughter too polished to be real.
Bryne slowed slightly, his tone shifting just enough to feel deliberate. “When you step into that hall, you’ll be many things to many people. A legend walking to some. A foreigner in Queen Morgase’s court to others. A rumour given form to almost all. Most will smile and weigh what you might cost them.”
“And you?” I asked.
He looked me over as we reached the outer doors— two tall things of burnished oak with lions carved in deep relief. A pair of guards stood at attention.
“I’ll see a man who didn’t have to come to Caemlyn,” Bryne said. “But that made the hard choice to arrive and seek a Queen’s permission to marry her daughter. You should stand proud at that. And I won’t be the one to tell her of that daughter having been in your room this morning, though you should know it will not stay hidden forever.”
I didn’t flinch, but the line landed all the same. Not a threat, nor a warning. Just the kind of truth only an old soldier could deliver without blinking. He wasn’t asking me to feel shame—only to remember what weight I was to carry, and how visible that burden might become in a place like this. He waited for no response from me, only pushed through the doors and moved to make for the throne, taking his place slightly ahead of the throne, as was proper of his station.
I took one breath before following. Not to steel myself, though the Creator knew I needed it. Just to be present.
The great doors shut behind me with the soft weight of well-oiled hinges. No fanfare, nor herald’s call. Just the echo of my boots across marble and the sudden hush which spread like ripples through still water. Eyes turned. Dozens of them. Some curious, some wary. A few were already calculating as though they were planning how I could be used.
I kept my stride steady. Not too fast, yet not hesitant. There was a particular kind of silence in a throne room—expectant, polished, hungry. It reminded me of the White Tower and moving to stand in front of the Hall, but the Tower watched with judgment, this place watched with consequence.
Queen Morgase sat like she had never been young—regal, composed, eyes sharp as a drawn arrow. Red and white silk draped over her frame like the Lion Banner itself, and the small golden crown nestled in her hair gleamed in the morning light. She motioned for me to approach, and I did not hesitate in following what she had clearly intended to be an order.
I stopped at the base of the dais. Five paces, no more, no less. Close enough to be heard clearly, far enough not to presume.
Morgase Trakand fixed me with a look, giving me a once over with a practiced poise, the same as she had regarded me with at the dinner table, though here in the throne room it felt sharper, honed by the weight of crown and court. The warmth she’d allowed in private was still there, buried beneath her bearing—but it would not serve her to show it now. Not in front of all of these eyes.
“You kept your word,” she said. No smile, but the barest lift at the corner of her mouth. “I admit, there was some speculation that you might have been trying to flee when I was informed of your morning run by some of the guards and servants. But I am glad you did not.”
Soft laughter rippled among the gathered nobles. More than a few wore House Trakand red, or gold stitched in careful patterns of roses and lions. Others watched without humour, still measuring.
“I gave you my word, your Majesty,” I replied. “I do not offer it lightly.”
“No,” she said. “I imagine you do not.” She leaned back slightly, one arm resting along the carved stone of the throne. “You are Flameforged. And more than that, you are something none here expected. You come without House or sigil, with little history known beyond that which is said in Tar Valon and battles half-believed. And yet, you enter the Palace with my daughter, the heir of House Trakand, and one of my sons. As I have come to know more about you, today I will have you at my side, to listen and bear witness to this court.”
It was a clear message to the court about my purpose, not her seeking to question me in any way. Her words settled over them all like a veil, soft but unmistakably firm. I had not been summoned here to prove myself, not today. I had already done that, in ways most of them would never understand—on battlefield, in the White Tower, and in the eyes of those who mattered. Today was for presence, for being seen, and for the court to adjust around that. More than that, it was to allow me to learn the operations of a court, before I was to marry Elayne, or rule over Cairhien.
I gave a nod, simple and short. Morgase inclined her head, the gesture almost imperceptible but unmistakably regal. Then she turned her gaze outward toward the assembled nobles as I now stood at her side. The weight of her attention shifted like a blade drawn across silk. “With that completed, let the business of the court begin.”
Soft murmurs and shifting eyes filled the room as Morgase’s words settled like dust in the air—light, yet impossible to ignore. The nobles leaned forward, some exchanging discreet glances, others steeling fingers and calculating silently. This was not merely a formality; it was a declaration that I belonged here now, in this place of silk and steel, politics and power. I stepped up and took the spot at Morgase’s side.
The first petitioner stepped forward, a lord from a minor house with grievances about trade tariffs imposed on goods crossing the River Arinelle. His voice was polished, practiced in the art of negotiation and complaint alike, and his every word was weighed by those assembled. I watched the subtle cues—nods, raised eyebrows, used lips—that rippled through the court like the first breeze of a coming storm. Standing at Morgase’s side, I felt the familiar steadiness settle over me. This was not a battlefield of swords and shields, but of deception and influence—equally deadly, if less immediate. Gareth Bryne stood firm in his post nearby, his sharp eyes sweeping the room, silent but ever watchful. The absence of Elayne was noticed by me, though she hadn’t been permitted into the throne room for the very purpose of why I was to be here. This was to assess what I would notice, and to allow me a moment to learn on my own.
Every name spoken, every petition laid bare, was a thread in the vast weave of the realm’s future. I listened without interruption, trying to make no judgments, but filing away the knowledge of what was coming to pass and how it had been handled by the queen. Some cases were simple, a person come to complain, nobles wanting permission to do as they pleased. Some were more difficult, people who had done something against the law but for valid reason, or two nobles squabbling yet only telling half truths. In those moment, I found myself watching Morgase more than the petitioners. She did not always speak first. Sometimes she let them dig deeper with their own words, allowed the room to weigh their intent before she said a thing. She judged not with open anger or cold distance, but with precision—and a memory as sharp as her gaze. A woman who had ruled through war and rebellion did not need to raise her voice to command a room.
When she did speak, it was measured, her voice cutting through half-truths like a finely honed blade. She cited law when needed, but often she leaned on precedent and understanding—sometimes compassion, sometimes cold practicality. In one case, she denied a noble’s demand to annex land along the riverbanks under the guise of “protection,” pointing out with little patience that the land had been under peasant stewardship for generations and would remain so. Her tone made it clear the matter was closed.
The business of the court moved steadily, a rhythm of grievances and decisions, each a beat in the symphony of rulership. I kept silent, attentive. Though no one said it outright, I could feel the scrutiny pressing against my shoulders like sun through high windows. Not accusatory—but measuring. Weighing. I had been seen as a weapon; now they wanted to see if I could be something more.
Then came a case that shifted the tone.
A woman was brought forward, plainly dressed but with a spine that hadn’t bent in the presence of silk or lords. She knelt low before speaking, but her words were neither meek nor unsure. “My son,” she began, “was taken by House Renshar’s levy. Promised coin, and a place among the soldiers. But when his body came back, there was no seal, no record. Just a sack of copper and a letter unsigned. I’ve begged their stewards. They say he never served. But I buried him with my own hands.”
A murmur rippled through the court, not loud, but unmistakable.
A tall man in rich green stepped forward. Lord Avrin Renshar, a minor lord with a proud bearing and the trimmed beard of someone who liked being looked at. “Your Majesty,” he said, “we have no record of this boy’s conscription. Likely he joined up with bandits and met the fate such men earn. A regrettable tale, but ours.”
I saw it then. The way he didn’t look at the woman. The way his hands were too still. And how quickly he’d reached for dismissal, not denial. Morgase gave him no comfort. She sat still, her fingers steepled, her gaze unreadable.
“There are few things more serious,” she said at last, “than the misuse of a crown’s authority. If this boy was taken under the banner of Andor and discarded without honour, justice will be served.”
Arvin gave a shallow bow, but the corners of his mouth twitched downward.
Morgase turned then. Her gaze slid to me—not sharp, but expectant. “You’ve done well to listen,” she said, her voice carrying through the room like velvet drawn taut. “Tell me, Lord Alex. If this matter were yours to rule upon, what would you do?”
The room went very still, and all eyes had moved to me. This was not a test by fire—but by insight. Not of knowledge, but of judgment. My answer here would matter, and as such I took my time to consider what I would say. I let the silence stretch, not in uncertainty, but to make clear I would not rush. My gaze returned to the grieving woman—lined hands, calloused fingers, eyes red but unbroken. Then to Lord Renshar, still and sure of his status, a man who measured the weight of law by how much it cost to enforce.
“No mother should bury a son and be told she imagined it,” I said at last, my voice even. “And no lord should find it so easy to dismiss a life claimed in service to the realm—if it was claimed at all.” I let that settle before continuing. “I would begin by summoning every record of Renshar’s levies from the past season. If there is no name, then we ask the commanders under his banner to attest to who they took, and from where. If no one speaks for the boy, and no record exists, then the question is not just whether the house failed in record keeping—it is whether someone used the name of the crown unlawfully, or sought to erase a mistake.”
Renshar shifted slightly, lips pressed tight.
“If it was done by his order,” I went on, “then the penalty should match the crime. But if someone under him acted alone, and he knew noting of it, then justice demands we find them, not hide behind titles. Either way, the family of that boy deserves the turth—and we deserve to know who wore the Lion of Andor to do such a thing.” I glanced at Morgase, then added, “And until that truth is found, I would suspend House Renshar’s right to raise levies without direct oversight. If nothing was done wrong, they will survive the scrutiny. And if something was… then no more sons vanish for a copper’s weight.”
There was no applause. No murmured approval. Just silence—the kind that came not from doubt, but from judgment being weighed by those who knew what power could do when wielded too quickly. Morgase regarded me, and nodded once. “Well reasoned,” she said softly. “And well spoken.” Then her gaze shifted to the chamber at large. “Let the Queen’s Voice record the decree. The matter will be investigated under crown authority. And Lord Renshar will restrict all levies until the truth is known.”
Renshar opened his mouth—but the look Morgase gave him ended it before it began. The woman bowed low again, silent tears on her cheeks. But she stood straighter as she was led away. And just like that, the court moved on. But I could feel it in the room—one thread had shifted in the weave, and they had all seen it happen.
The next petitioner was already being ushered forward, though the chamber had not fully breathed again. Renshar’s silence lingered like smoke after a torch had been snuffed, and though the court moved, it did so with the hush of a crowd that knew a weight had just been shifted. I kept my hands relaxed at my sides. My senses open. Not for the One Power—not here—but for something quieter, more immediate. The kind of tension that pressed not on the mind, but the skin.
Beside the dais, a man bowed low and began to speak—his voice droning with practiced sorrow, something about tithes and tariffs—but it wasn’t the words that caught me. It was the shape of movement behind the Queen’s Guard. A servant slipping back through the far door with a tray in hand. A sudden stiffness in one of the gold-cloaked lancers at the rear wall. Too stiff.
I frowned, eyes narrowing. Something’s wrong.
The servant passed close to the throne. Too close. There was a tremor in the tray—no, not the tray, the man. His steps had rhythm until they didn’t. Too sharp a pivot. No hesitation.
Morgase tilted her head slightly, already turning to respond to the petitioner.
Then I saw it.
The servant’s hand jerked—not toward the tray, but under it. And in one sudden, fluid motion, the silver cover clattered to the floor and a narrow blade glinted beneath. He moved fast—shockingly so for a man who had just been serving honeyed wine. But I moved faster. My foot struck the base of the dais and I vaulted it clean, catching the edge with my boot and launching myself between the Queen and the rising blade. There was a sharp, stunned cry—one of the guards, maybe. But I didn’t hear it clearly. The blade was already slashing up, toward her chest.
I caught his wrist mid-swing.
He was strong, stronger than he should’ve been—but I was stronger. Steel rang out as the blade skittered sideways, scraping the throne’s gilded arm. I twisted, yanked his arm down and back, driving my elbow across his jaw. I heard the crunch of bone, and he dropped—but not before one final, desperate lunge with something he had drawn from his sleeve. I let the Flame flicker just enough to guide me, shifting his lunge past my side and into open air. My hand came up, catching the back of his head, and I drove him into the marble step.
He did not rise again.
Silence, but not the silence of before. This one rang. A hundred bodies frozen mid-motion. A Queen unmoving. A court unable to process what they’d just seen.
Then:
“Protect the Queen!” One of the guards shouted.
Too late. She’s already been protected, though I will at least give him credit for trying.
Morgase rose slowly, her eyes on me—not wide in fear, but narrowed with cold assessment. “Is he alive?” She asked.
I put my fingers to his throat and felt a slight rise and fall, alive, but unconscious. “Yes, though he won’t be giving you any trouble for the time being.”
A hush still held the chamber. No one dared move. Gareth Bryne was the first to break that stillness. His boots rang out across the marble as he stepped forward, hand on his sword hilt but not yet drawn. “Guards,” he said sharply, “remove the foot, and check the other servants. Now. I want this one thrown into a cell for questioning later.” Steel flashed as red-cloaked guards moved, suddenly urgent. The others in livery—the Queen’s kitchen staff, her wine bearers, her heralds—had gone pale. None ran, but not one met anyone’s gaze either. Bryne eyed them all like a hound scenting blood.
Morgase descended the dais, each step measured, her gaze never leaving mine. She stopped a pace away, the court still and breathless behind us both. “You moved before my own guards,” she said, her voice low but clear. “You crossed the dais without hesitation.”
I didn’t answer. Not yet.
Her gaze flicked to the crumpled form being lifted from the steps. “And you showed restraint, you did not kill him. I can see why the Tower named you a Warder as well as a Lord.” The last line left her mouth with almost a half smile, the first I had truly seen from the Queen of Andor.
I inclined my head. “They didn’t just name me, Majesty. I was chosen,” I lowered my voice, “though in a rather unorthodox manner as you know.”
Morgase’s smile didn’t fade. “Unorthodox,” she echoed. “That much is clear.” Her eyes searched mine. “But I find I prefer substance over ceremony. And those who act without waiting for permission over those who speak without meaning.” Behind her the murmurs of the court began to stir again, cautious and uneven. The hush had broken, but no one dared speak too loudly. Not yet. The would-be assassin’s removal had quieted some nerves, but it hadn’t calmed them.
“I imaging,” I said softly, “you’ll have questions for your Guard later. About how he reached the steps in the first place.”
Her expression cooled slightly. “Yes,” she said. “I will.”
Gareth Bryne joined us then, giving a short bow to his Queen before glancing to me. “He’s being taken below. If he speaks, we will know.”
“Good,” Morgase said, though her eyes remained on me. “I want eyes on him always, and I’ll expect a full accounting. And I expect my wine to be tested before I am to drink it, especially after seeing one of the people supposedly in my service attempting to end my life.”
Bryne gave a slight nod but didn’t move. His gaze shifted to my side, then to the hilt of one of my blades, where the light struck the metal with a faint shimmer. “You didn’t even draw the blades, and yet your skill has caught the eye of half the court,” he said quietly. “And the rest are still wondering what Elsey ought to might be hiding under that coat.”
“I’ve never hidden anything from those who deserved to know,” I said.
His brow twitched, almost a smile. Almost. “Careful, Lord Alex. You’ll make enemies by speaking so plainly.”
Morgase cut in before I could answer. “But friends by acting when it counts.” She turned back to the court, her voice rising again so the conversation would not only be between the three of us. “The Queen of Andor thanks Lord Alex for his courage this morning. Let it be known that this court is not so easily cowed. And neither is its Queen.”
A ripple moved through the gathered nobles—subtle, but real. Bows were offered, hands pressed to hearts. A few didn’t bother hiding their glances toward me. I stood my ground and said nothing. Let them watch, and let them wonder.
Morgase stepped back toward the throne, then paused and looked over her shoulder. “If you are willing,” she said quietly, “you may stay stood beside me for the rest of today’s session. The court could use the reminder.”
I met her gaze, and nodded once.
“Then come,” she said, ascending once more.
And so I followed the Queen of Andor up the dais—not as a subject, nor a supplicant, but as someone she had chosen to trust, if only for the moment. That, more than any title of blade at my side, felt heavier than steel—and held twice as much meaning.
The court resumed, though the air remained taut as a bowstring. Petitions were heard, grievances aired, declarations made—all in the shadow of the morning’s attempted treachery. I stood to the Queen’s right, a silent sentinel at her side, and though no words passed between us, I could feel Morgase’s presence shift over the hours. Less guarded, more thoughtful. Once, when a lesser lord fumbled through a complaint about grain tariffs, she leaned back slightly toward me and murmured, “You see what I endure for this throne?” I said nothing, but her smirk spoke volumes.
By midday, the chamber began to empty, nobles and functionaries filing out with murmurs of strained civility. Gareth Bryne had vanished to make his own inquiries, and only Morgase, a few guards, and a single silver-haired clerk remained when she finally turned to me again.
“You remained quiet unless spoken too,” she said, stepping down from the throne. “Most men in your position would have tried to win the court with speeches and boasts, or impose their own ideas where they were not asked for.”
“I wasn’t called to speak,” I replied simply. “You had the throne, and that was enough. When you asked my opinion, I gave it willingly, but it was not my place to speak out of turn.”
Morgase’s lips curled faintly, though it was not quite a smile. “There are those who would take that as weakness. Others would recognize the strength it takes to hold one’s tongue.”
“I am not interested in what most people would take it as,” I said. “Only in what was needed, and what was proper in the moment.”
At that, her smile finally formed—thin and sharp, but real. “And yet you’ve managed to capture the attention of nearly the entire court, and I doubt any of them would dare to stand against you after the display of defending me.”
I inclined my head, saying nothing.
She came to a stop before me, folding her hands behind her back. “You know, Elayne wrote to me from Tar Valon while you were there, and she spoke of you often. Often enough for me to raise more than a few questions, though I would not raise them through letters. I had long decided that if it came to dealing with you, and judging you for what you are, that I would do so in person.” Her gaze turned sharper, weighing. “I’ve had cause to worry before—she is young and headstrong, but the way she spoke of you was that of love, even before I knew the full extent of it. For as headstrong ass she is, I know that she is not a fool. And I know the difference between infatuation and something deeper.” Her voice softened, only slightly. “She would not speak so if you hadn’t earned her trust. And she would not call you the man she intended to marry were it not true.”
I held her gaze. “I do love her as well. It is why I made the ring for her, and what I have tried to show you with the time I have been here.
Morgase’s eyes dropped briefly to my hands, as if she could see the memory of the ring I had given Elayne. When she looked back up, her expression had shifted—still regal, still measured, but with a thread of something older and heavier woven through it. Pride. Pain. Hope.
“You have tried,” she said at last. “And more than that—you’ve succeeded. Not just in what you’ve shown me, but in how you’ve held yourself before the court. I’ve known generals with less control, and lords with twice your years and none of your sense.” She turned slightly, glancing toward the dais, where beyond the last of the attending nobles were filtering out under the watchful eyes of the guards. The murmurs and rumours that would circulate after this sitting would be more than enough without anything more being fed to them.
When Morgase looked back at me, her gaze had cooled to something more formal—but not distant. “Then let us speak plainly,” she said. “You intend to marry my daughter, you’ve made that abundantly clear at dinner last night, and even in our meeting before then.”
“Yes. And I also made clear that I am content to wait for your blessing, it need not be rushed, much as Elayne would like see us married today if she thought it possible.”
Morgase’s mouth twitched, just barely, and I could tell she was fighting the urge to laugh. “Yes,” she said reverently. “That sounds like my daughter.” She studied me again, andI let the silence stretch, not attempting to fill it. Let her think, let her weigh. I had no desire to push. Whatever answer she gave, I would accept it. “At another time,” she said at last, “I might have insisted on trials. Tests of worth. I might have delayed, not from pettiness, but from a need to be certain. She is my only daughter. The Daughter-Heir of Andor. Her future has always been more than her own.”
I inclined my head again, not arguing. “I understand.”
“And yet,” she continued, her tone gentler now, “the world does not wait. There is a storm coming, and I would be a foot not to recognize the shape of the winds.” She stepped closer. “You’ve fought to protect her kingdom, and her family, already. You’ve stood beside her, and beside me. Whatever else I may think of this union—and I still have questions, mind you—I will not deny what is plain before me.” Then, with the full weight of a Queen, she looked me in the eye and said, “You have my blessing to marry my daughter, and I could not be more proud to welcome any man into my family.”
I breathed in slowly, steadying myself against the sudden swell in my chest. Relief, certainly. Gratitude. And something warmer, quieter, that I did not have a name for. “I thank you, Morgase Trakand. Truly.”
Morgase gave. Short nod, but her gaze lingered on me a moment longer, the last traces of formality slipping away. “Take care of her… and let her take care of you,” she said, her voice quieter now. “Not because I ask it of you as Queen, but because I ask it as her mother. And know, when you go to Cairhien to carry out that plan of yours—however you are planning to capture the Sun Throne—you do it with the support of Andor behind you.”
The words struck deeper than I had expected. Not just permission or approval, this was allegiance. “I will not forget it,” I said quietly. “And I will not squander it.”
Morgase studied me a moment longer, as if weighing whether I truly understood what her support meant. Then she nodded again, more slowly this time, and turned toward the far doors. Her voice, when it came again, had a faint trace of dry amusement. “Light help us both, she’s likely already chosen her colours and has a dress in mind.”
A smile pulled at my lips. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she already had the entire ceremony planned.”
“Oh she does,” Morgase said without missing a step. “Down to the ribboned guards and who will carry the rings, likely already has vendors on standby to source everything as well. Come—if we don’t inform her properly soon, she’ll start assigning duties, and I refuse to be given a ceremonial role at my own daughter’s wedding.”
I followed her from the chamber, the weight in my chest eased by something other than simple and profound: I had been accepted—not just by the woman that I loved, or by her brother who had become a good friend of mine, but by the mother who had raised her. And in this world spinning faster by the day, that felt like no small thing.