After accepting Viscount Andrew's invitation to dine, Gwayne and his companions were temporarily settled into guest rooms within the sprawling castle — by Gwayne's specific insistence, even the two surviving soldiers, the maid Betty, and Amber were each provided clean, proper quarters. The Viscount's stronghold was vast enough to accommodate them all with ease.
Once the attending servants had been dismissed, Hestia finally spoke the question lingering in her mind: "Ancestor... do you believe the Viscount can be trusted?"
Though they were neighboring lords, Hestia was well aware of the ways of the nobility: where oaths were solemnly sworn but seldom kept, and honor was worn like a cloak — for display only, not for warmth. In these lawless southern marches, so far from the royal heartlands, such things were even more mutable. Now that the House of Seawright had fallen so low, save for the sudden return of their legendary founder, Hestia had little confidence in holding her own against the other lords.
"Trusted? I never even considered that," Gwayne replied bluntly, startling Hestia. "A few hours ago, I didn't even know what this Viscount looked like."
Rebecca gasped. "Then why did you negotiate so much with him?"
"Because it was necessary," Gwayne said, fixing his sharp gaze on her. "Calling our situation 'desperate' would almost be generous. Look at yourselves — have you even enough coin to pay for tomorrow's bread? We must seek allies. Andrew was simply the only choice — and besides him, do any of you know another soul in the southern marches willing to shelter us?" He shrugged. "As to how reliable he is — I have no idea. I don't know him, nor his bloodline, nor even the bounds of his lands. You tell me: how should I judge?"
Rebecca's mind reeled. "Then why are you certain he'll help us?"
The answer came, surprisingly, from Amber, who was still perched by the table, stuffing grapes into her mouth. She paused just long enough to roll her eyes at Rebecca. "Because," she said plainly, "he doesn't want to lose his investment."
"His investment?"
"When Ser Philip and the refugees first arrived at Valewatch," Amber said lazily, "The Viscount made his choice. He could have slammed the gates, turned them away, let the cold or the beasts finish them off — don't think some ancient code of 'mutual aid' would have stopped him. In these parts, gold speaks louder than the King's law. He accepted them because he expected to collect House of Seawright's gratitude later. The deal was made when he opened those gates — today's 'negotiation' just finalized the terms."
Rebecca stared, open-mouthed. "How... how do you know all this? Since when do thieves understand politics?!"
Amber bared her teeth in a grin. "Politics is just theft in fancier clothes. A good thief always understands the worth of an empty purse — and nobles are just thieves who steal bigger."
Rebecca flushed with anger, drawing her staff. "If you don't shut up, I will smack you with a Fireball!"
Amber smirked impishly. "If you can summon anything other than Fireball, I might be impressed."
At that moment, a shard of razor-cold ice whistled past Amber's ear, freezing a patch of the wall behind her into glittering frost. It was Hestia, standing calmly with a raised finger. "You asked for an Ice Lance," she said coolly.
Amber shivered, a bead of sweat slipping down her temple. It was clear: the Ice Lance had missed her skin by less than a hair's breadth.
Rebecca twitched a little. (Privately, she thought: Aunt Hestia's offensive magic was still terrifyingly accurate... just never at the enemy.)
Gwayne clapped his hands, ending the moment. "Enough. We're all comrades now — hold your tempers."
Order restored, Hestia and Rebecca lowered their staffs, and Amber wisely zipped her mouth shut (aided by the memory of that Ice Lance).
Just then, a knock sounded at the door. After Gwayne's permission, young Betty stepped in.
"My lord, Lady Hestia, Lady Rebecca," she said, skipping past Amber without so much as a glance. "Ser Philip is here."
"Good, we've been waiting for him," Gwayne nodded — and then blinked at the frying pan still clutched in Betty's arms. "Wait... why are you still carrying that?"
Betty blinked innocently. "Because... we're not home yet. Might lose it if I put it down."
Gwayne massaged his temple. "Fine. As you like."
A few moments later, Ser Philip entered.
Gwayne was slightly surprised: the young knight looked barely past twenty, his short, sandy hair gleaming faintly gold in the light, his deep-set eyes and proud bearing radiating the strength of a born warrior. Though out of armor and wearing a simple doublet, his long sword still hung at his hip. Bandages peeked from beneath his sleeves — signs of the hard fight he had survived.
"Lady Rebecca, Lady Hestia," Ser Philip said warmly, bowing low. "It gladdens my heart to see you alive and well."
"Ser Philip, please, rise," Rebecca said hastily, helping him up. "It is we who owe you. Without you, our people would have been lost."
She noticed his bandages. "Your injuries..."
"Nothing serious," Philip reassured them. "The Lord Viscount provided priests and healers. But..."
His expression darkened with guilt.
"You're worried about the gold you carried out of Seawright Castle," Hestia guessed.
Philip nodded, ashamed. "But please don't worry — not all of it was lost. Before reaching Valewatch, I divided some among trusted men and hid the rest outside the town. I feared the Lord Viscount might..." He trailed off.
Gwayne smiled approvingly. This young knight had both courage and foresight.
"Well done," Gwayne said. "How many people made it out?"
Philip straightened, gathering himself. "A total of 1,000 fled with me, but after the perils — monsters, starvation, disease — only 873 remain alive. Sixteen trained soldiers, thirty militiamen, and the rest... civilians."
Rebecca swayed on her feet.
Hestia whispered, almost to herself, "This... this is all that remains of Seawright?"
Gwayne placed a steadying hand on her shoulder. "When we fled the heartlands of Gondor, seven centuries ago," he said softly, "we had tens of thousands."
Hestia's lips trembled. No words came.
At the same moment, in a richly adorned study elsewhere in the castle, Viscount Andrew sat at a heavy oak desk, penning a missive in a hand both swift and formal.
The letter was destined for the King himself.
In the southern marches of Andraste, so close to the cursed Wastes of Gondor, the old traditions still held: every noble, great or small, was sworn directly to the crown, with both the right — and duty — to speak directly to His Majesty.
Viscount Andrew wrote:
All hail His Radiance, the High King. Your humble vassal greets you in fealty.
You have already been informed of the catastrophe that befell the Seawright Marches; I now bear stranger tidings still. Though it beggars belief, I have verified it myself.
The Founder of the House of Seawright, the Grand Duke Gwayne Seawright, leader of the Seven Generals of Dawn who carved out the Dawn Realms from wilderness, has returned to life.
I myself witnessed the radiance that fell upon the wasted lands, saw the monsters devoured by light, and saw a dragon — yes, a true wyrm — in flight. (Regarding the dragon, I shall send further detailed reports.)
In the aftermath, I went to the ruins alongside Lady Rebecca Seawright... and there, I beheld with my own eyes the impossible awakening of an ancient hero…