"...Lady Frederica will serve!"
When every Knight of Favonius expected the name "Jean," Rowan delivered the twist that made faces across the hall change.
Yes, he'd just called out several of Jean's missteps—but most still assumed she would be the new Grand Master.
Instead, Rowan named Jean's mother, Lady Frederica.
She had once borne the title of Dandelion Knight, yes—but she'd long since stepped back from the front lines. Why bring her forward now?
Frederica herself was puzzled. Summoned back to the city, she had expected Rowan to assign her to training and logistics—work behind the scenes. How had this turned into taking the Grand Master's seat from her own daughter?
Still, she held her tongue out of trust, waiting to see if Rowan would give an explanation. If he didn't, she would seek one after the session. She wasn't afraid of the job—if even that slacker Varka could do it, she certainly could. But Jean was the perfect knight she had raised with her own hands; as a mother, she wanted what was best for her. And Frederica was getting older; the position might better suit someone else.
Jean's expression hardly changed. The moment Rowan had listed her faults, she'd sensed what was coming: she might not become Grand Master. Inwardly, she had already begun to reflect. Perhaps her way of doing things really was a little immature. Maybe letting her mother lead was, in truth, better. She could always serve as vice grand master.
Rowan ignored the rising chatter below and pressed on.
"Quiet."
"Next, the Vice Grand Master of the Knights of Favonius will be…"
He deliberately paused, scanning the crowd. Almost every knight looked straight at Jean—even Eula, who had already been preselected, did the same. Surely Jean would be vice grand master. For years she'd poured heart and soul into Mondstadt, serving as Varka's deputy since taking up the mantle of Dandelion Knight. If not Grand Master, then vice—especially with her mother to guide her.
They were all mistaken.
Jean's temperament was too soft for the Knights as they must be now. Rowan needed a hard-edged military command—especially with the order shifting fully to a defense-first institution. He needed a firm hand at the top and just beneath it.
Jean didn't fit that role. She was better suited to civil affairs. If she loved being among the people, let her serve as Seamus's deputy—and mend her relationship with her father under his guidance.
"...Eula Lawrence!"
Rowan watched the shock ripple through the ranks, the corners of his mouth lifting as he spoke the unbelievable name. Even Eula stared, stunned, finger to her nose.
"Me?"
"Yes. You."
He nodded. "We continue. The Chancellor of Internal Affairs will be Mr. Seamus. Any objections?"
Before the Knights could voice questions, Rowan moved straight to the next decree. Their doubts would have to wait.
A few short-sighted knights quietly edged away from Eula, worried that friction between her and Jean might splash onto them. Rowan noted every little motion from the throne. No wonder emperors sat high above—one could read every ripple below.
No one objected to Seamus as chancellor.
"No objections, my king," Seamus said, stepping forward with a respectful bow.
"Good." Rowan inclined his head. "The Church of Favonius will be overseen by your deputy for now. When Barbara comes of age, she will formally assume the role. In other words, the Archbishop's seat will go to Barbara."
No one in the Church protested. That path had long been Barbara's, and she had been trained for it since childhood.
"Excellent. As for your deputy, Seamus…"
"Your daughter—Jean."
Now the Knights truly widened their eyes. Everyone knew how little Jean had seen her father growing up; most of their interactions had been formal. Could they really work side by side?
Seamus understood at once. Rowan was creating time and space for father and daughter—to mend what was missing. Compared to a mother's meticulous care, a father's guidance was quieter, steadier, less yielding. Perhaps Jean's "do-everything-for-everyone" way of governing grew from a lack of that steadiness.
With Frederica's care as her model, Jean had unconsciously treated Mondstadt like her child. A mother does not ask what you want; she gives what she thinks you need. And so some citizens had been coddled into laziness—skipping work, fishing for favors, even thinking such behavior was their right.
Her handling of the Fatui showed the same pattern: endless retreat. A mother can keep yielding for her child; to Jean, Mondstadt was her child. So she kept yielding, never feeling wrong—save on the hard line of the city's defense, which she refused to compromise.
Had her father raised her, the response might have been different: no repeated retreat, no letting the Fatui grow bold by testing and finding only softness. Men and women often lead from different instincts; so do "romance-first" tales and "stratagem-first" ones. Rowan's design answered both: set Jean under Seamus to learn statecraft and boundaries—and to repair a family.
(End of Chapter)
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