"Her Majesty, Queen Amaya of Moaran!"

In contrast with the pompous announcement, made by a hidden voice, the sculpted doors opened to reveal a poorly illuminated office, with its sole natural light source being a long window. A few smaller lamps, scattered on the shelves, warmed book spines and dust. Like in all the rooms of Roune's tall Royal Castle, the walls did not simply end when the ceilings started - they were so high that the austere dark stone seemed to climb into nothing. To help fight the darkness, a chandelier floated, burning oil unnecessarily, as it was set too high to matter.

Lord Mathias d'Athanar was hidden behind the desk that stood under the window and immediately looked up at her, without getting up.

Politeness was optional, in the stern Royal Castle. The King of Leront hated pleasantries, as did his father before him, and they had slowly eroded all Roune Court protocols to the minimum. The hurried ritual of the formal introduction was only going to be performed once, for the two of them.

Beside such speeches, servants never spoke. Or knocked. They were to be invisible, silent and efficient, without asking explanatory questions. Several times during her Roune stay, Amaya found herself waking up in the middle of a very complicated procedure that involved ten people trying to accomplish something while not bothering her sleep. When she requested that they announce themselves, Henrik laughed in her face.

After her official titles and then his rank were recited and the formal introductions considered completed, one by one, her small entourage dispersed. They were now formally introduced and could speak freely.

He spoke first, just as the doors closed behind the last guard.

"You wanted to see me?"

"Yes."

Her voice sounded shakier than the importance of her plan's success needed it to be, so she paused to gather her thoughts.

Looking at her partner in negotiations, Amaya realized the war must be harsher than they thought, debating it as they had been doing, safe back in Roune. She felt a small wave of shame when she remembered the way she and his brother engaged in petty personal arguments during those endless council meetings.

He was not as large as his fame and few existing portraits made him out to be. Actually, he was thinner than Henry and, she thought, even Charles. His eyes were tired and his skin lacked the healthy glow his brothers had.

She decided that she would be direct.

"I have a proposal that I think would interest you. I want to preface this by underlining that I was one of the only two monarchs that voted in favour of starting the Western War. I have read your letters from the front and I believe you are right. The Haggards are planning to attack. I have information that shows the same."

"From the infamous Moaran brothels."

"Yes." And, since he was not reacting, Amaya added, "Good information. Accurate. They have warships that can carry much more men than ours can. The battle will be on our lands." Through Moaran.

"I know. I tried everything to convince the King to attack, I even came back for this very purpose. He won't. Unfortunately, there is nothing more I can do."

It reminded her of Henrik: avoidance was the King's way of handling responsibility and hard decisions. It was why Amaya let herself get carried away.

"This is not the time to shrug and leave it to fate! Your country needs a proper King!"

"Are you suggesting that Henrik is not?"

It was the question that, if answered sincerely, would send her back in Moaran, branded as an enemy of the Leront Court. Or ensure her decapitation - the most probable outcome, taking into account how much the King hated her and what he was capable of.

"I am suggesting no such thing! I am saying it outright: your brother will end up being the last Leront royalty and, most probably, the one that will bury this Empire."

She added, taken by the moment, "If not Henrik, then Charles most definitely will! This country cannot afford two consecutive disastrous rulers. I am sceptical it can survive one!"

He did not look like he was about to call the guards.

"And what do you think should be done?"

Amaya had not expected the conversation to reach that point. Certainly, not that fast. She had prepared a detailed tree of correlated plans, of course, and this was one of the paths she had foreseen. It was just one of low probability. She examined her partner in potential treason to take up some clues on how to proceed. In order to get him on her side, she would say, do, or promise just about anything.

"May I have a seat, first?" She was buying time, but she noticed that his face changed as the immediate recall of royal manners reached it.

"I apologize, it's been a while since I've been in such royal company."

The insult stung: the whore from Moaran. That small, rich, sea-adjacent country where marriage was eroded daily by orgies and drugged prostitutes were corrupting children in broad daylight. The harlot who got his brothers to fight each other while their country was decaying, left unattended.

He finally got up and towered over her from across the desk, but it took him more effort than it should have. "As you know, I've just returned from the Western front. Two years is a long time to be away."

She internally acknowledged his apology but did not find the words to share that with him. He made her uneasy, now that his frame was revealed to be huge and too close to her for her comfort. He was wearing the high-rank uniform of the Eastern Empire army, entirely black. Unlike his brothers, he had very little golden embroidery on it.

When they were both seated, she turned the conversation around.

"You were gone a long time before the war even started. I think it was.. around six years ago? I remember it being just after you attacked your father, the King of Leront and Guardian of the Great Eastern Empire," she emphasized. "In the throne room. You were subsequently stripped of all of your titles and lands. Left Roune, never spoke to him again, and did not even come back to attend his funeral, the story goes."

She finished with her most charming smile, before becoming serious again, "But I know from experience how stories tend to get denatured, Lord d'Athanar."

"That story is entirely true." He did not seem to need her encouragement. "I was sixteen and an idiot." And, because she was not saying anything, blocked and surprised, he went on, placidly, "I am at peace with my decisions."

Amaya smiled sincerely, this time. Mostly because slapping the second Henrik d'Athanar seated on that damned throne was a not particularly well-kept secret fantasy of hers. And no matter how horrible Henrik XIII was behaving, he was nowhere near the level of barbarity and depravity his father had maintained for the entirety of his thirty-year reign.

She also agreed with at least one other of her interlocutor's assessments, "It was not very smart of you to attack him in a room full of people. Some of them, his guards."

"Indeed. Next time I attack a King, there will be no guards. And not in the throne room. Better odds."

"On the contrary. Next time, it will be you sitting on that throne."