Tristan departed, embarking on a belated honeymoon with his wife. Despite his objections, Guinevere insisted on assigning him twenty mounted knights for their safety.
Given their martial prowess, no one within the nearly pacified Kingdom should pose a threat to them.
Indeed, for the past three months, Tristan had regularly sent letters and local specialties back, keeping Guinevere and the others informed of his whereabouts and well-being.
During this time, Agravain had dispatched naturalized Northerners to the North to gather signatures for a joint blood oath. However, this effort met with resistance.
The ruler of the North, after initial confusion, immediately began arresting naturalized Northerners and issuing orders for the remaining populace to return and be appeased.
This belated damage control, combined with centuries of conflict between the North and South, persuaded even the most discontented Northerners to grant their king another chance.
Even the compassionate King of Knights could only say, "I respect their choice."
Of course, any Northerners who truly couldn't bear it would sneak across the border into Camelot and pledge allegiance to the King of Knights in their individual capacities.
The North's vast grasslands and the King of the North's deliberate laxity made it easy for Northerners who wished to leave to slip away.
The King of the North's reason for this leniency was simple: winter had arrived once more, and this year's would be particularly harsh for his people.
"Queen, are you certain about this? Allowing naturalized Northerners to enroll in the Knight Academy?"
"Sir Agravain, since they swore allegiance, they are Camelotians—at least nominally. Therefore, they should enjoy the same rights and bear the same obligations as any other Camelotian."
The Round Table was a remarkable institution, having established a form of elite council as early as 509 AD. The knights freely voiced their opinions, and after reaching a consensus, the King of Knights simply ratified the decision unless they had objections.
"Very well, let us proceed as Guinevere has proposed. Allow Northerners... no, allow new Camelotians to enroll."
"Yes, Your Majesty!"
Outside the window, fine, salt-like snow drifted down, while a gentle breeze carried the sounds of birdsong. This unusually mild winter seemed to be Great Britain's final, nostalgic glimmer before the Decline of Mystery.
Following the day's Round Table meeting, Guinevere, the King of Knights, and Morgan gathered for their customary evening banquet.
"Merlin says the favorable weather will persist for several years, not just this winter."
"Is that so? Then we must launch our campaign against the North immediately after winter. We cannot allow them to recuperate and regroup."
By the end of winter, only the most stubborn holdouts would remain in the North. Even if they suffered heavy casualties, Guinevere would feel no remorse.
Guinevere's feelings were one thing, but the King of Knights felt differently. She found Guinevere and Agravain's scheme too cruel, yet understood that this was the best outcome for the Kingdom, as decreed by the Round Table.
Thus, the King of Knights kept her torment to herself, not feeling compelled to intervene as she had during last year's snow disaster.
"Lia, don't overthink it. Last year, they would have died without your help. But this year, they have a choice—they can either come to Camelot for survival or remain in the North to face certain death. Haven't you accepted this? Accepting others' fates and blessing their happiness."
After this winter, Camelot had gained the disaffected populace of the North.
On the surface, it seemed like a win-win situation. But deeper down, the North had been weakened while Camelot had grown stronger, pushing the entire Northern region further toward becoming a lamb awaiting slaughter or a skeleton in its tomb.
As she spoke these words, envisioning how much easier future wars would be, Guinevere rose and wrapped her arms around the King of Knights.
But because she was currently in her fifth month of "false pregnancy," her slightly swollen belly prevented them from embracing closely.
Though a "false pregnancy," Guinevere exhibited all the expected physical signs, making it almost indistinguishable from an actual pregnancy with Mordred.
"Sister, can you dispel the Magecraft now?"
Without removing her veil, Lady Morgan snapped her fingers. Guinevere's swollen belly immediately vanished, allowing her to snuggle close to the King of Knights.
For the past three months, in preparation for the final "birth," Morgan had established a state-of-the-art Magecraft Workshop within the Royal Palace and had already introduced the fist-sized "Mordred" into the palace.
Only now could the trio resume their banquet.
"Guinevere, are you truly decided? To name the newborn Mordred?"
Having grown accustomed to snuggling with Guinevere, the King of Knights no longer blushed. She channeled her inner turmoil into her appetite, biting off a morsel Guinevere offered.
"If I remember correctly, Mordred means 'traitor,' doesn't it?"
"Yes, it means 'traitor.' But if my child is named Mordred, then Mordred's destiny will diverge from the moment of her birth.
Besides, is rebellion inherently bad? I hope she'll rebel against the fate assigned to Mordred, preventing the outcome I've foreseen."
The King of Knights had always believed in Guinevere's ability to see the future, but Guinevere rarely spoke of it directly, often offering only cryptic remarks, as if wary of revealing too much.
Fortunately, the King of Knights had grown accustomed to the Prophet's riddles and didn't obsess over knowing the exact future.
The Knight understood one thing clearly: unlike Merlin, who had once merely spoken prophecies without acting, even deliberately shaping the future, Guinevere had been striving from the very beginning to change their shared destiny.
Now, reflecting on the past, the King of Knights realized that some of Guinevere's actions seemed utterly irrational and unusually impulsive, such as their first encounter with Lancelot.
"Rebelling against fate? Guinevere, is this what you expect of Mordred?"
The King of Knights had long sensed from Merlin's attitude that her own end would not be a happy one. She had secretly accepted this, provided that her efforts would not ultimately be reduced to nothing, and that Great Britain would not be plunged into endless war once more.
Yet Guinevere had stirred the depths of her heart. If her bleak fate could be altered, that would certainly be a cause for joy.
A fleeting thought flashed through her mind. The King of Knights pulled Guinevere close into her arms, silencing her with a kiss.
She knew she lacked eloquence; she knew Guinevere had endured too much hardship; she knew that actions spoke louder than words when it came to expressing her deepest emotions.
"Seriously, if you two don't want to include me, and if you want to stop those ridiculous rumors about a threesome from spreading even further, would you please stop kissing and cuddling in front of me? Are you mocking me for never being loved?"
The King of Knights would blush, flustered and awkward, while Guinevere would plant her hands on her hips, radiating pride and smug satisfaction.
Lady Morgan would never actually suggest a threesome to her foolish younger sister. The mere thought triggered visceral discomfort, nausea rising in her throat.
Her hatred for the King of Knights ran too deep. Even if it was now just a facade, her body still remembered the feeling.