Chapter 8

Thomas stood at the head of the council table. Something was wrong in this room. It had been wrong for many years before Thomas came. High vaulted ceilings swallowed the light from iron chandeliers, and the tall windows admitted only gray daylight, offering no warmth. The stone walls leaned inward, dressed in tapestries that reeked of dust and slow decay. It was a cave, a room built for intimidation.

The Council Chamber of Virden had been built to make men feel small.

Thomas didn’t sit, but kept his feet planted on the cold stone, ready to move, and placed his fingertips on the table.

He placed two items on the table; the heavy parchment landed with a dry snap that echoed in the silence.

To his right, a parchment with the crimson wax seal of a duke.

To his left, another parchment, this one with the gold-and-blue ribbon of the King.

He signaled the scribe in the corner, a thin man. The scribe uncorked his inkpot, the scratch of the stopper making a minor lord flinch.

“Record everything,” Thomas said.

The scribe dipped his quill, and his hand trembled slightly as the nib hovered over the blank paper, waiting.

Catherine sat to Thomas’s right, clad in a high-collared gown of deep-blue velvet. Her hands lay folded on the table, steady, but a muscle jumped in her jaw. He’d seen that before. It was a sign that she was ready for a fight.

Lady Maria stood behind Catherine’s chair, slightly to the side. She didn’t take a seat, but simply waited there in the shadows, her gaze level with the seated lords. Her presence steadied Thomas because she was another blade in the room, and a different sort of blade.

Thomas looked down the length of the table, studying the predators he’d invited into the den.

Lord Valen Varric III sat near the center, leaning back with an ease that prickled the hair on Thomas’s neck. He was studying his own manicured fingernails, ignoring the danger in the room. The man had the patience of something cold-blooded.

Opposite him, Master Darius Hollen sat like a boulder, wearing a chain of gold. The Merchant Guild master’s gray eyes were unblinking, fixed on the seals. Where Lord Varric was patient, Master Hollen was weight.

“My lords and guild representatives,” Thomas began, his voice pitched to carry without shouting, the same tone he used to command his Rangers. “The time for guessing is over: I’ve received dispatches from Montrose and from the King.”

He let the silence stretch for a heartbeat, letting them taste it.

“The White Woods are moving. The frost line has advanced three miles south in two days. Patrols in the eastern sector are gone—not retreated, gone.”

Fear rippled through the lower end of the table as the lesser barons shifted in their high-backed chairs, and the wood creaked against stone, a sound like old bones settling.

“Wildling bands are gathering,” Thomas continued, “but they’re not raiding; they’re marching. And they’re being driven by something worse than hunger.” He looked directly at Master Hollen. “Duke Charles has formally requested support, and King Edward has commanded a response.”

He stopped.

Thomas didn’t explain the direwolves, didn’t mention what the letter said about sentries being hunted. He just laid the command on the table, a heavy stone of obligation.

Master Hollen’s eyes didn’t go to the letters, but flicked, for a fraction of a second, across the table toward Lord Varric.

Lord Varric didn’t look back. His face stayed polite, interested, but his right hand, resting on the table’s edge, tightened, and the knuckles whitened.

That glance, that silence—Thomas had seen it before, the moment before an ambush. They’d rehearsed this. They knew he was leaving, and they were ready.

Lord Varric cleared his throat, the sound melodic and practiced.

“A grave situation, Highness,” he said, his voice rich, a contrast to the cold, damp room. “A tragedy for the North, truly. We all feel for your father’s burden.”

He leaned forward, clasping his hands.

“However, one must consider the broader picture. You’ve been in Virden for months, establishing a new order. To leave now, so abruptly?” He sighed, a sound of heavy burden. “The common people are simple creatures. They see a departing prince, and they don’t see duty, they see abandonment. Fear follows abandonment as surely as night follows day.”

Smooth. He wasn’t openly threatening rebellion. He was predicting it, washing his hands of the blood before it was spilled.

“Fear,” Thomas repeated, the word tasting sour.

“Misunderstanding,” Lord Varric corrected gently. “The nobility requires stability to enforce the King’s laws. If the hand of the Crown is seen to withdraw, local grievances may surface. It would be a shame if your departure caused the very chaos you came here to quell.”

This was a trap. If riots started the moment Thomas rode out the gate, Lord Varric had just preemptively blamed him for them.

Master Hollen grunted. He lacked Lord Varric’s grace. He used a hammer where Lord Varric used a needle.

“Forget feelings,” Master Hollen said, his voice like stone grinding stone. “Look at the stores. Markets hate emptiness. If you leave, the guilds get nervous, and panic-buying starts, which means there won’t be grain. The roads will close because no one knows who protects them.”

He tapped a thick finger on the table.

“A confused market is a frozen market, my prince. Ships will stay in port, and warehouses will lock down. Not because we want them to,” he added, his eyes dead, “but because that’s the nature of the beast. It seeks safety. If the Crown walks away, the guilds must step in to protect the hoard.”