Oman bowed deeply. "Your Grace…" He looked almost honored beyond speech. "I am honored."
Then he hesitated..Something in his face shifted. Drexo noticed. His brows narrowed. "But if I may suggest."
The room stirred.
Drexo leaned back. "Go on."
Oman bowed again: careful, respectful, but bold. "I would suggest…".He chose each word slowly. "…that you send somebody closer to you."
Drexo's eyes narrowed further.
Oman pressed on. "Someone of your own family." He looked around as if asking the room to judge him. "That way the Kenwools will know they deal not merely with envoys…"
He lifted his head. "…but with the king himself."
Silence.
Then murmurs..Several advisers nodded at once. "Yes."
"My lord is right."
"A wise suggestion." Voices layered over each other. The idea was taking root.
Drexo went still, very still. His eyes drifted across the chamber.
Past the old men. Past the banners. Until they settled on Theon.
Theon sat straight but seemed unprepared for what was coming.
Drexo looked at him for a long moment. Then spoke. "You are the only brother I have left."
The room quieted again. Theon's expression Softened. Drexo continued. "We may not share blood." His voice lowered. "But we were raised as one."
Memory passed between them without words. Training fields. Boyhood fights. When they both survived Robert's rebellion.
Theon rose. His hand moved to his chest. "Your Grace…" His voice held warmth now. "You will always be my brother." A faint smile touched Drexo's face. Real this time, yet brief. Then gone. "You will lead the team to Ashford." The words settled heavily.
Theon blinked once, then bowed.
Deep, and controlled. But emotion flickered beneath it.
"Speak on my behalf." Drexo's voice hardened again. "Enter an agreement with the Kenwools."
For a heartbeat no one moved. Then Theon lifted his head. His jaw set. "Your Grace…" He inhaled. "I am honored."
He dropped to one knee. And the gesture sent a hush through the chamber. "I promise i will not fail you."
Drexo nodded. No grand speech followed. None was needed. Everyone understood what had happened. This was not just diplomacy. It was surrender braided into survival. And all of them knew the price hidden beneath it. The king had just offered pieces of his own bloodline to preserve a kingdom.
Some admired it. Some pitied it. Some feared what it meant. But none challenged it.
Drexo rose. That alone signaled the end. "This council is dismissed." The words echoed.
Benches scraped, lords bowed. The hall slowly emptied into clusters of whispers. Yet tension lingered like smoke.
Theon remained after most had gone. Standing alone near the center of the hall. As if already carrying the weight of the mission.
Drexo descended the steps and stopped before him. Then Drexo placed a hand on his shoulder. A quiet gesture, but heavy.
Theon met his gaze. There was loyalty there. And something else.
Concern.
As though he knew this bargain was costing Drexo more than crown or pride. But he did not speak it. Neither did Drexo. Some truths were too raw for daylight.
Theon only nodded once. Then turned, and walked from the hall.
By midday the castle had shifted into movement. Servants ran messages. Armor was prepared. Travel provisions packed.
Maps unrolled, horses selected.
Theon moved through it all with purpose. But those who knew him well saw the gravity in his face. This was no ordinary mission. He was not merely riding to Ashford.
He was carrying the king's wounded pride into negotiation. And perhaps the fate of the war. As evening neared, he stood at the armory overseeing preparations. A guard approached. "Your lordship, the men are ready."
Theon nodded. But his gaze stayed distant. On something beyond the walls.
Ashford, Friya, the Kenwools. And whatever terms awaited. He whispered under his breath. "I won't fail you, brother."
Then tightened his belt and walked on. And in the upper tower, unseen through a narrow window, Drexo watched.
Alone, and silent.
A king who had made a decision no king wished to make. And now could only wait for what that decision would bring.
By the next morning the ships were ready. They rest against the tide at the Cliffland shore, their dark hulls cutting through mist as dawn bled slowly across the sea. Fifty warriors stood aboard in leather and iron, silent in the way soldiers became silent before uncertain journeys.
No one joked. No one laughed. Even the gulls seemed distant.
Theon stood at the edge of the gangplank, cloak moving in the ocean wind, while Drexo faced him with a look that was trying too hard to remain kingly. But friendship has a way of breaking through ceremony.
And this was not merely a king sending an envoy. It was a man sending away his brother. For a long moment neither spoke. Then Drexo stepped forward. They embraced, not as nobles, but as men who had bled beside each other.
Drexo held him by both shoulders when they parted. His eyes searched Theon's face. "May Ago go with you." His voice was low. A prayer more than a blessing. "May he guide you." He swallowed. "And protect you."
Theon gave a faint smile. The kind meant to reassure even when the heart is unsettled. "I will return with peace." He said it like a promise. Like a vow.
Drexo nodded. But his jaw remained tight. Because promises had been breaking around him too often.
Theon broke the embrace, turned, and climbed aboard. The gangplank was lifted. Ropes released. The sails rose. And slowly the ship began to pull away. The king stood with the lords of Cliffland watching it drift farther into the pale morning sea.
No one moved until it was nearly a shadow. Only then did Drexo whisper under his breath. "Bring me good news."
Above them, unseen by the men below, Havana watched from her window. Her hands folded behind her back. Her face was unreadable.
But when the ships disappeared into the distance, she exhaled sharply. "I hope this will be enough…"
She paused.
"…to turn the Kenwools to us once again." Even she sounded unsure. And uncertainty settled over Cliffland like winter frost. The days that followed moved strangely.
Slow, and heavy.
Every hour stretched. The throne room carried an unease no fire could warm. The same question lingered in every gathering. In every whispered council. In every anxious silence. Will the Kenwools accept? Or reject us again?
Some lords argued quietly that the offer was too generous. Others feared it was not enough.
Drexo listened, said little. But often his eyes drifted toward the sea. As though he could pull Theon back through will alone.
At night he slept little. By day he ruled, yet distracted. Even Maria noticed. Though neither spoke of it.
The kingdom waited, and waiting can feel like war.
Three mornings after departure, the coast of Ashford rose before Theon's fleet.
Dark cliffs, stone towers. Banners snapping in the sea wind. The warriors aboard tightened hands over weapons out of instinct. But no alarm was sounded. No arrows raised. The guards at the harbor saw the banner of House Dragaria.
And beside it. The white flag.
Peace.
A murmur passed among Ashford sentries. Then the gates were opened. Theon stepped ashore first. Back straight. Chin high. His boots struck a wet stone.
Two guards approached. Cautious. But not hostile. Theon's voice rang clear. "I am here on behalf of King Drexo Dragaria." He let the name hang. "Rightful ruler of Astarous."
The guards exchanged glances. Then one bowed. Theon pointed toward the fortress above. "Take me to your Warden." It sounded less request than command, and yet measured.
They obeyed. Theon and his men were led through the great halls of Ashford. Cold stone. Iron sconces.
Eyes watching from every corner. Word traveled ahead of them. By the time they reached the throne room, nobles had already gathered.
Fabio Kenwool sat in his throne room. And beside him was his daughter, Friya. Her gaze was sharp as a drawn blade.
Fabio recognized Theon instantly. His brows lifted. "Lord Theon Kendrick." Almost a commendation, and yet almost suspicion.
Theon bowed deeply, then rose. His voice was formal, and measured. "I am here on behalf of His Grace, Drexo Dragaria." Then the titles rolled from him like a ritual.
"Sixth of his name, king of the Seik."
"Of the Norsemen."
"And of the First Men."
"Lord of the Nine Kingdoms of Astarous."
"Protector of the Realm."
Silence followed. Even enemies respect a title well spoken. Fabio leaned back, and forced a thin smile. "And what does your king want from us now?"
The words cut, not openly hostile, but sharpened.
Theon knew it, and softened his tone. Almost pleading. "His Grace is deeply sorry for what he has done to your House."
Fabio's face did not move, but Theon continued. "He wishes to make amends."
Fabio let out a dry laugh. "Amends?".The word sounded bitter in his mouth. As if tasting poison. "He had every chance to make amends." His hand gripped the armrest. "But he did not." He leaned forward, his eyes were hard. "What satisfactory amends can he make now?"
The room tightened. Every noble listening. Every breath were measured.
Theon nodded once, Then delivered his offer. "His Grace wishes to marry Lady Friya."
Friya rose so abruptly her chair scraped stone..Her anger flashed before words came. "I will never…" Her voice rang. "…be a second wife to anyone."
Tension snapped through the chamber. Several guards shifted. But Theon did not flinch. He raised his hand slightly. "My lady…"
Then continued before interruption returned. "Not as a second wife." He held Friya's gaze. "But as his true queen."
The words struck. The room stilled. "You will be Crown Queen of Astarous."
A pause.
And then the deeper blade. "Your children…" His voice lowered. "…will remain the only true heirs to the Golden Throne."
Silence fell. Heavy silence. Even Friya's expression shifted.
Only slightly, but enough. Her anger softened into thought. Yet Theon was not finished. He pressed further.
"And in addition," He looked toward Fabio. "One of your brothers will be commander general of Astarous' armies."
A sharp breath escaped somewhere in the hall. Then another. The offer had landed. And has landed with much force.
Power, and succession, including military command. It was not an apology. It was a concession
.
Massive, dangerous, and persuasive. Theon stepped closer again..The room seemed to shrink around his next words. "What is it going to be?"
No one moved. No one breathed too loudly. "Do you accept…" His voice dropped. "or not?"
Now every eye turned. To Fabio. Only Fabio. Even Friya waited. The hall held still as if afraid motion might break something sacred or terrible.
Fabio said nothing. Not yet. His fingers tapped the throne arm once.
Twice.
He looked at Friya, then at his sons. At the gathered lords. Then back to Theon. And the question lingered in the air like a drawn blade.
Will he accept this great offer? Or reject it once again.