Gwayne met the young prince in the estate's reception hall, with Rebecca at his side—dragged along to "see the world," as Gwayne had put it.
Crown Prince Edmund of House Moravien, the brightest scion of High King Francis II's bloodline.
Gwayne had never met the boy before. But he had done his homework for this journey to Solis Ardent, pulling knowledge from Hestia and Viscount Andrew Lescaille to familiarize himself with the royal family's tangled present.
High King Francis II, now an old man, had few children. Aside from his youngest, Edmund, he had only one elder son and one daughter. The firstborn, Prince Valen, was a man of timid nature and meager talents—long the king's unspoken shame. Though Valen had formally been Crown Prince for seventeen years, his father's hope dwindled... until a favored consort bore him a set of miraculous twins: Princess Versalia and Prince Edmund.
Compared to the mediocre Valen, the twins were a revelation. Gifted in both mind and body from a young age, they became the focus of the aging king's hopes.
Without much hesitation, Francis II had rescinded Valen's succession rights and prepared to pass the crown to his younger offspring.
The nobility barely raised a whisper of protest. Even Valen himself, perhaps relieved, accepted it quietly.
In the end, succession fell to Prince Edmund—not because of prejudice against his sister, for Andraste's laws made no distinction between male and female heirs—but because Versalia had voluntarily renounced her claim, choosing instead to devote her life to the Church of Sacred Light. Now as the Pope, she served within the Glorious Cathedral, her destiny entwined with faith rather than crown.
It was a masterful move, many whispered. By placing a royal daughter deep within the ranks of the Church, the king strengthened his influence over a powerful institution. Others, however, feared it was the opposite—that the Church was gaining leverage over the throne.
Gwayne cared little for such political chess. He had neither the position nor the interest—at least for now.
His focus remained fixed on the young man before him.
Prince Edmund Moravien was the very image of a hero: strikingly handsome, carrying both the bold bearing of a warrior and the poised refinement of a scholar. Every movement, every word, was straight from the pages of a courtly handbook.
After exchanging the most formal of greetings, Gwayne leaned toward Rebecca and muttered,
"See that? Learn from him. Life's not just about throwing fireballs at people."
Rebecca shrank down in her chair, wanting to point out that it was him who had encouraged her to throw said fireballs earlier—but she wisely kept silent.
Meanwhile, Edmund smiled politely.
"I trust you are finding the accommodations satisfactory, my lord," he said. "Should anything fall short, do not hesitate to inform Steward James."
"Rest easy. Nothing is more comfortable than sleeping in one's own home," Gwayne said, lounging back in his chair. "You've kept the place well. Almost exactly as it was... even my favorite tea set. I'm impressed."
"Preserving the home of a founding hero is preserving our honor," Edmund replied warmly. "I grew up listening to your stories, my lord. I even kept a replica of your sword and armor in my room, dreaming of becoming a great explorer like you one day... Though sadly, as a prince—or worse, a king—one's life is rarely that free."
Gwayne studied him for a moment, then grinned.
"You're too stiff. Relax. I'm dead, sure—but when I died, I was only thirty-five. Not that much older than you."
Edmund flushed, looking mildly embarrassed.
"Forgive me. It's hard not to add seven hundred years in my mind..."
"There's a gap, sure," Gwayne chuckled. "But back in my day, we didn't waste time with endless pleasantries. One good brawl or a shared barrel of ale and you'd be friends for life. Nowadays, you lot talk around each other for hours before getting to the point."
Edmund hesitated... then laughed, the tension easing from his shoulders.
"I knew you wouldn't be half as difficult as my father feared! He spent half a day warning me to mind my manners—no offense, my lord—but honestly, I find endless courtesies exhausting."
"Now that's more like it," Gwayne said approvingly. "Straight talk suits me just fine. So—let's not dance around it. You're here to feel me out, aren't you?"
"That's..." Edmund blinked. "That's a bit... blunt."
"Ancient men are blunt," Gwayne waved it off. "You don't need to pretend. Your father sent you to find out what this 'walking ghost' intends."
"Actually," Edmund said quickly, "this was my idea. My father—he's too cautious. He would never send me on so reckless a mission. But... I am curious."
Gwayne gestured for him to continue.
"You've been awake for some time now," Edmund said, glancing at Rebecca. "You must know the world has changed—especially the changes from a century ago. Tell me frankly—are you here for the sake of House Seawright?"
"That's too vague," Gwayne replied evenly. "Of course I'm here for Seawright's interests. The real question is: which interests?"
Edmund's brows furrowed. Gwayne smiled slightly.
"For instance," he said, "I could demand my family's hereditary title—the Grand Duchy of the Southlands—and all the domains that came with it. That, my dear prince, would be quite the negotiation, wouldn't it?"
The young prince stiffened, uncertain whether the ancient hero was serious.
With effort, Edmund forced a polite smile.
"My lord, after your death, your descendants legally inherited your title and lands. Later, when one of your heirs broke faith with the Crown, the titles were lawfully revoked..."
Gwayne leaned forward, eyes glinting with mischief.
"Yes, according to the law. But under that same law, a title or fief could only be fully inherited after the rightful lord's death—and I, as you see, am still very much alive."
He held up a hand.
"My eldest son would have been allowed to wield a secondary title with 'proxy rights' in my name.
Other descendants? Merely noble-born, without legal claim. And now... well, nowhere in your laws does it say what happens when the 'deceased' returns."
('Proxy rights'—the legal ability for a noble heir to exercise authority in the lord's absence, bearing privileges and responsibilities without full ownership.)
Edmund stared.
"I'm afraid," Gwayne said kindly, "your whole process of stripping titles from House Seawright might be, strictly speaking, void."
Rebecca gawked, stunned. Even Amber, eavesdropping from the adjoining room, shot Sir Byron a glance and whispered, "He's even more shameless than I am!"
Edmund's mouth opened and closed helplessly.
"But—surely! You did die!"
"Yes," Gwayne said. "But here I am. Laws built around death don't apply well when the dead refuse to stay buried."
He smiled warmly.
"But don't worry. I'm not here to claw back lost lands or titles. My wayward descendants deserved their fates. Had I been around, I would've thrashed them myself."
Edmund exhaled in visible relief.
"I see," he said. "I must admit... you argue more fiercely than even my court tutors."
Gwayne chuckled.
"I lived through Andraste's wild early days and the height of the Gondor Empire, boy. When we were crude, we ate raw meat. When we were refined, we could name thirty-six varieties of wine—and write a sonnet for each."
"...Remarkable," Edmund said, genuinely impressed. "Then—perhaps we can speak more frankly? About the discussions you'll have with my father tomorrow..."
Gwayne nodded slightly, inwardly amused.
As expected. The formal audience may be tomorrow, but the real negotiations... they begin tonight.