After much effort, Gwayne finally made his grand entrance into Silver Citadel, under the gaze of the entire capital.
The smallfolk had little time to care. Merchants and townspeople might gossip about it over their midday meals. But the nobility—the true movers of Andraste—watched the event with rapt attention from the very beginning.
Yet the towering silver-plated walls of the castle barred their view. No entry was granted to the lesser nobles. Even the usual information channels were sealed by royal decree in the early morning hours. All they could do was watch the grand procession disappear behind closed gates and whisper feverishly over scraps of rumor and conjecture.
They knew only what little had been made public—Grand Duchess Victaria Everfrost of the Northern Marches had arrived at Solis Ardent three days prior.—Grand Duke Baldric Farwynd of the Western Reaches and Grand Duke Sylas Rowan of the Eastern Provinces had arrived an hour ago—Several royal advisors and the High King's Prime Minister had entered the castle.
The great doors shut. No one knew what was happening inside.
Was it a banquet? A secret council? A heated confrontation? Or perhaps... a royal assassination?
Eyes watched. Nostrils flared, sniffing for the scent of intrigue. Tongues wagged, spinning ever wilder tales.
But no one could truly know—until the gates opened again.
No, High King Francis II had not arranged any tedious banquet nor convened the grand court. Instead, as Gwayne himself had requested, the meeting was held in the Oaken Hall—a smaller, older chamber beside the council hall.
The Oaken Hall was ancient. It had stood since the first foundations of Silver Citadel were laid, over seven centuries past. Back then, the castle had not been the gleaming, silver-clad monument it was now; it bore the name "Silver Citadel" simply because Charles I, the first king, could think of no better name.
The hall's living timbers had been preserved with ancient druidic magic four centuries ago, ensuring they would remain eternally vital. (Although the enchantments required recharging every hundred years.)
The Oaken Hall was only a third the size of the main council chamber. But within the walls of Silver Citadel, it was the most extraordinary place—a sanctum where only Counts and higher lords might tread, and where matters that shaped the destiny of the kingdom were discussed in strictest secrecy.
At its center stood a great round oak table. The High King sat in the position marked by the celestial symbol of the Crown. To his right sat Prime Minister Aemond—a balding, sharp-eyed man—and to his left, the Grand Duchess of the North, Victaria Everfrost.
Further down the table sat Grand Duke Baldric Farwynd of the West, and Grand Duke Sylas Rowan of the East, along with a scattering of other nobles whose names Gwayne could not be bothered to remember.
Behind the High King sat a secondary row—advisors and courtiers, none with votes of their own.
By Gwayne's side stood only Rebecca.
Amber and Sir Byron had been left behind at the house on Crown Street. Bringing Amber into Silver Citadel would have been a disaster; with her "professionalism" as a thief, she might well have scraped the silver leaf from the castle walls.
Everyone gathered here was either a direct descendant of the original founders—or in Gwayne's case, the founder himself.
This meeting, from the very beginning, bore a weight beyond measure.
As the founding ancestor of the Seawright line, Gwayne owed no courtesy or deference to anyone here. He strode in and sat down at his place with casual boldness. Rebecca, meanwhile, was visibly nervous. She clenched her fists tightly and took several deep breaths before managing to sit—
and completely forgot that she was supposed to bow to the King.
No one pressed the matter.
After all, when you brought your literal ancient progenitor to court, formalities tended to get... complicated.
From the moment Gwayne entered the chamber, every eye had turned toward him.
Even after he sat down, many continued to stare.
It wasn't exactly proper court etiquette—but truly, how often did a seven-hundred-year-old hero climb out of the grave and sit across from you at the negotiation table?
Of course they were going to stare.
And behind every gaze was a current of speculation—not about Gwayne himself, but about the King's response.
Then King Francis II rose to his feet.
His hair was silvered with age, and he seemed a man past his prime, but his bearing remained proud, his regalia rich and impressive. At his motion, the three Grand Dukes rose with him, as did every other lord present.
Gwayne watched, arms folded, as the High King spoke solemnly:
"May the Gods shield Andraste. Today, after seven centuries, we are honored beyond measure to gaze upon a hero of the Founding Age. We give thanks to you, and to all of your generation, for your sacrifices—for ensuring that humanity endured.
This land, and all who walk upon it, shall never forget the Founders."
The King bowed deeply.
And so did the Grand Dukes.
And so did every lord and lady present.
At that moment, the King had made his position clear: he accepted Gwayne Seawright's revival as truth.
And as for the propriety of a High King bowing to a Grand Duke? It mattered not at all. Every year during the Festival of Founding, these same nobles would bow to Gwayne's memorial. Now the memorial had flesh and breath once more. Of course they bowed.
Still, Gwayne couldn't help feeling... strange.
It took him a second to realize why—and when he did, his expression turned wry.
"The last time so many people bowed to me at once," he muttered, "I was lying in a coffin."
The entire room: "..."
A silence both awkward and profound filled the chamber.
Fortunately, everyone here was seasoned enough to recover quickly—even if they'd never faced quite this kind of situation before.
They straightened up.
The High King smiled and said warmly:
"It is only fitting for the younger generation to pay their respects to their elders."
Gwayne chuckled and nodded.
Though he looked far younger than Francis II, he spoke with the easy tone of an elder:
"Making excuses already? You remind me of Charles—he had the exact same expression when he tried to wriggle out of trouble."
And with that small jest, Gwayne sent another message—accepting the King's bloodline as authentic.
The two men shared a look of mutual understanding, and the tension in the hall eased visibly.
Every noble present was clever enough to seize on the moment: In just a few casual exchanges, they realized that the Founding Duke and the High King had, at least partially, reached an understanding.
Only one figure showed a flicker of discontent:
The Grand Duchess of the North, Victaria Everfrost.
She gave a tiny frown—barely perceptible—before smoothing her expression to neutrality.
As the sole woman among the three Dukes, she stood out starkly. Clad in a sweeping gown of white, a silver fox-fur mantle over her shoulders, gloves of fine silk, and cascading hair of silver curls, she seemed almost a spirit of ice and snow.
The Duchess gleamed in the hall, stark against the oaken walls—and it struck Gwayne, not for the first time, that white really did have a higher reflectivity.
Francis II's left side shone brighter than his right.
Victaria Everfrost—the Grand Duchess of the Northern Marches—A name Gwayne recognized instantly from his brief crash-course in modern Andraste politics.
It was House Everfrost that had once supported the rise of the Second Dynasty, propping up a royal bastard in the chaos after the fall.
Now... it seemed the current king had grown beyond their control.
Noticing Gwayne's gaze, the Ice Duchess nodded slightly, offering a curt greeting.
Gwayne waved back lazily.
"Still as stiff-faced as your ancestor," he said. "I told old Everfrost back in the day— he should have married a lively southern girl. Might have saved his descendants from inheriting that expression."
Victaria's face twitched ever so slightly.
Gwayne chuckled inwardly, then turned his gaze to the other two Grand Dukes, exchanging a few light comments about their illustrious ancestors as well.
Finally, his eyes came to rest on the empty space between the King and the Duchess.
No chair stood there.
That had once been the seat of the Grand Duke of the Southern Frontier—the Seawright seat. Since the collapse a century ago, it had been removed. The southern lands were now ruled directly by the Crown's appointed lords and ministers, and the House of Seawright had been pushed to the very fringes.
Everyone noticed where Gwayne's eyes had landed.
A tension rippled through the hall. The mood shifted— from friendly reminiscence, to the sharp-edged atmosphere of real negotiations.
The real battle would now begin.
But Gwayne simply glanced at the empty space, smiled faintly, and looked back to the High King without a hint of bitterness.
"Let's move to the real business," he said easily.
"I'll have my descendant, Rebecca Seawright, brief you on the real problem."
He leaned back slightly.
"A problem that threatens the very heart of the kingdom."