Another early update because stuff kepps happening, to the point where I'm moving the update schedule on Friday. This chapter is some cuddles but mostly political intrigue, the latter is because I cannot help myself. Since I had to pull a lot of things out of my ass to set this up, assume I took some creative liberties whenever I fuck up with Ylisse's geography/political situation.
\*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*/
Robin stares down at his half-empty washbasin through wet bangs. He hoped the cold water would clear his thoughts, but he instead finds himself both wet and miserable.
He can try to pretend that this was a mere dream, he can tell himself that what he saw was an incoherent pastiche of memories and old faces, but he's sure if he visits that small craig he'll find her unburied bones—
Robin's whole body shivers with the barely suppressed urge to break something, then scream until his voice is hoarse. His frustration only grows as his wings ache to fly, his neck is sore from having to sleep on his back, his eyes are itchy after being covered up for most of the day and it's all so constricting ...
Either the damned medicine he takes doesn't work, or his magic is messing with it and making things worse. Tonight was only a more intense version of how he spends his nights, recalling old memories that wake him up confused about reality. He fears one of these days he'll oversleep and some unfortunate maid will attempt to rouse him from his fitful sleep only for Robin to come to and cast a spell by instinct.
The moon is shining outside his open window, and his room is too dark. Robin dons his robe then walks to the door but stops with a curse and goes back to his dresser. He takes out a small metal tin of makeup balls Maribelle gave him along with a jug of rosewater, and copies her application to cover the marks on his eyes. He makes a mental note to set up a standing order so he doesn't run out, as well as being discreet about it. There'll probably be some gossip about the male tactician purchasing such things, but he vastly prefers rumours of him being vain than the realisation he's Ylisse's archenemy in flesh and blood.
After making sure his wings are properly obscured and bound, he hurries out of his room and into the castle's courtyard, stopping by the training grounds. Besides the odd chirping cricket on the various dummies strewn about and the massive oak tree with its rustling leaves in the middle of the field, the area is empty.
Robin double-checks that there's no one around and takes out a book from within his robe. The tome is a dry retelling of one of Ylisse's many military campaigns, but it is dark enough that anyone would easily confuse it with an Elfire tome.
He extends his free hand and bunches up his fingers as if he's trying to hold to a non-existent orb. His power flows through him, and his magic manifests as a small summoned red flame in the middle of his palm, no bigger than the makeup ball he used.
His breaths come more hurried as if he's running, and he pours more power through his hand, the flame growing brighter and bigger until it's the size of his palm. The subsequent wave of exhaustion drags his shoulders even lower, but Robin welcomes it, its weight taking the edge off him as he makes the ball of flame float in lazy circles around his arm.
With a flick of his wrist, the ball of fire stills and whizzes at a dummy, exploding in a respectable fireball.
His hand trembles and his knees are about to give out, so Robin retreats to a row of benches on the edge of the field. He sits back as his eyes flutter close and the smell of burning wood brings up a memory of soaring over a burning farm, laughing over the cacophony of screams—
Robin presses the balls of his palms against his eyes and breaks his line of thought by instead wondering if the other elements will come to him now as easily as they did in his dragon form. He sees no reason they shouldn't, but he does not have more books currently with him to use as a cover. The resulting exhaustion is also a new development, but he chalks it up to some of his power still being sealed away as well as being out of practice.
In any case, he should also test black and white magic; he never bothered with the latter, but he sees no reason to keep it this way, and he can already use them as a human. Though he should keep up his typical magic training too, as there are still tomes he has not tried out, including Grima's Truth, salvaged from Validar's corpse and now in a triple-locked chest under Robin's bed.
Grima's Truth... Maybe he should burn it. Honestly, let humans take the incoherent ramblings of an apoplectic dragon and make a religion out of them.
"Robin?"
Chrom's voice startles him out of his thoughts and he sits up to see the man approach. Chrom's lightly dressed and has a training bronze sword instead of the Falchion, meaning he's not the only one with energy to burn.
"Why are you awake?" Robin asks in greeting.
"Couldn't sleep. Too nervous," Chrom says as he glances at the smoking pile of wood with a smirk. "You too, I take it?"
"Bad dreams," Robin says and hopes Chrom won't ask for more details. But if he does, Robin can come up with an excuse that all the strategizing for the upcoming council meeting has him on edge. That's probably what's keeping up Chrom too.
Chrom frown and places his hands on hips. "You haven't been sleeping well in general, have you? I heard Tharja mutter something about that and hexes."
Ah yes, she would. Robin needs to visit her later to inform her the latest batch didn't work again, then try and fail to stop her coming up with new batches for him to try. She gets more frustrated with each failed attempt.
"It'll pass."
"Are you sure...?" Chrom trails off, then gives him a loopy smirk which Robin usually finds charming but is now slightly annoying. "Is that why you found you in my tent when I woke up?"
"That was..." Robin trails off. Gods, merely recalling that event is embarrassing. "Something like that, yes."
Chrom frowns and Robin doesn't like that expression on him either.
"But you needn't worry. I can function well enough with little sleep."
"That's not..." Chrom's frown deepens. "I just want you to get enough rest. With everything that's happened, you deserve it."
"I've slept enough for a thousand lifetimes," Robin snaps, then flinches. He really needs to step back and compose himself. "Sorry. Please ignore that."
Robin keeps his gaze on the smouldering dummy, avoiding Chrom. He can guess Chrom has that same conflicted expression as when Robin told him of his true identity.
Honestly, that may have been another mistake. Even if Robin isn't really sure where he stands with Chrom — Ally? Friend? Close companion? — he knows well enough that Grima is solidly classed as 'mortal enemy' to his bloodline. Which... is another matter entirely, but any misgivings he has in regard to that are between him, Naga and that little long-dead champion of hers. Not Chrom.
Yes, he much prefers to keep Grima and Chrom at arm's length while he continues being close to the man as Robin, and tries not to think about how both names start to increasingly feel like an act—
"Would you like to spend the night together?"
Robin chokes on his own spit and, damn his makeup and cover, looks wide-eyed at Chrom, who just seems to have realised exactly what he said.
"I mean just sleep together—" Chrom stumbles and grimaces, "I mean, literally, not in the uh, other sense of the word."
Oh. So, that's what he meant.
But still...
"I only said that because... Well, when Lissa was young she had a lot of nightmares, being raised by our father didn't help, so she often sneaked out to my room… Not that I'm implying you're a child, but..." Chrom catches himself and his blush deepens. "Gods, I'm rambling... What I'm trying to say is that if you need some companionship..." He catches himself again when Robin stares at him unmoving. "Actually, sorry, this must be embarrassing, forget I—"
"Sure," Robin says before he can stop himself. Tonight has been enough of a disaster. He might as well see what other surprises it has for him in store.
And that is how, half an hour later, Robin finds himself in an expansive bed at arm's distance from Chrom, who is splayed out and is snoring his worries away. They had to be a bit crafty to evade the castle guards who would obviously ask questions if they saw the newly-crowned Exalt enter his bedchambers in the dead of night with another person in tow, but it's nothing a few clever misdirections can't fix.
... Though that means Robin should talk to Frederick about how easy it is to circumvent Chrom's security. Peace or not, he can think of more than one faction that would benefit from a destabilised Ylisse if it loses a second Exalt so soon...
But that's something for Robin to fret about in the following morning, sometime after he loses himself in the various alliances he has to keep track of for the upcoming council meeting. So right now, Robin rolls from his side to his stomach and fully stretches out his cramped wings. Because of their accelerated growth, Robin has trouble manoeuvring them, and one of their tips accidentally ends up over Chrom's nose, who promptly sharply inhales a mouthful of feathers.
Robin letting out an undignified yelp as the descendant of his mortal enemy chokes and sputters like he's inhaled hay is in no way his ideal evening, but at least they have a good laugh about it afterwards.
And when Robin falls asleep, his dreams are made of faces of Chrom and the Shepherds surrounded by Plegia's serene desert, not burning wastelands and worm-ridden skeletons.
\*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*/
Robin is shoving papers with confusing diagrams at Chrom even as they're about to enter the throne room for his first council meeting as the new Exalt of Ylisse.
"Remember our basic strategy," Robin hurriedly says, and Chrom worries Tharja accidentally switched his tactician's nightmare remedy for caffeine. "It's like a three-way battle and the fronts are the nobles, clergy and the royal line — though you have technical supreme authority we must not find ourselves in opposition against a united front of clergy and nobles, so any time they look like they're about to team up in opposition you must turn them against each other." He shoves another diagram that has various names and arrows pointed at each other, and it all looks like nonsense to Chrom. "Maribelle and Ricken's uncle can cause disunity within their ranks, but their influence is limited and Ricken's uncle won't support us if we propose anything too outrageous—"
Chrom nods as he suddenly finds himself in more similar territory. "And who I need to pay attention to is Canute, Boldyn and Thorpe, but I can drive a wedge in their little trio of doom with an economic debate — Robin, relax, we've gone over this a hundred times."
Robin shows no sign of relaxing, though he gets back the sizable pack of papers he's hosted on Chrom. "Good, moving on to the clergy, the new Hierarch feels guilty of his predecessor's betrayal, so you can bend his ear much more easily, but if three out of the four archbishops oppose you—"
"Then he's obligated to follow their vote — I know," Chrom insists and turns on his heel to face Robin. His chief tactician almost knocks into him and frowns, as Lissa and Frederick stop their procession too. "This isn't my first time dealing with them."
"... Just follow our plan, please," Robin exhales as his shoulders sag, and it strikes Chrom that he may in fact be more nervous than himself. This is the first time his battle tactician will attend court after all, so he must have suddenly found himself completely out of his element.
As Chrom opens his mouth to reassure him, the throne room door creaks open. Robin flinches and steps back, falling behind Lissa with his head slightly lowered as Chrom turns around with a sigh.
Frederick gives them a side-eye, but steps forward and takes point as he is supposed to, as the various conversations from within the room come to an abrupt stop. "All rise for His Grace Exalt Chrom, Her Royal Highness Princess Lissa, and Chief Tactician Sir Robin!"
The title of Exalts sits wrong when paired with his name, but Chrom steps into the crowded throne room, which temporarily explodes with the sound of creaking chairs and shuffling feet. He walks past the elevated throne he would typically sit when holding audience, and heads to the large round table at the centre of the room, recently moved in to hold the annual council, as is tradition. Though the table is round as to convey that all of its members are equal, the Exalt's chair is the only allowed with its back against the throne, and is also one the fanciest one on the table, a heavy stone construct inlaid with gems.
On his right side, the chairs of the nobility are a varying level of gaudy, serving as a quick and dirty measure of one's influence and ranging from the standard high-backed velvet cushion wooden chair to other mini-thrones — though they are purposefully less extravagant and shorter the Exalt's as to not cause offence. On his left, the Hierarch's chair is made of stone and carved with intricate dragon designs meant to invoke Naga's image, while his archbishop's chairs also contain the same design but are made of polished wood. And of course behind the table's chairs are even more seats meant to accommodate the various attendants and retainers that will be present but are not allowed to talk or intervene during the meeting.
Chrom walks by his chair, sits down and with a wave of his hands, everyone else in the room proceeds to sit back down. The stone chair is as uncomfortable as it looks, and Chrom misses the simple wooden benches at the Shepherd's barracks. How did Emm bear to sit in this abomination for hours, year after year?
He glances sideways as Lisa quietly sits by the smaller stone chair on his right. He remembers the times he accompanied Emm in these meetings and sat at that very chair. He would always end up nodding off and wistfully staring at the training grounds visible through the large stained glass window. And before him Emm sat in that very chair as well, while his father sat in his.
Chrom reaches out to Lissa's hand from underneath the table and gives it a reassuring squeeze. Lissa keeps staring straight ahead, but her lips tremble and she squeezes back with more force. HIs poor sister must be in her own special hell now, what with her understandably intense dislike of court matters.
Frederick moves to stand at attention slightly behind his left-hand side while Robin drags a stray wooden stool behind Chrom's right. His tactician positions himself closer to Lissa than Chrom, and that momentarily worries him until he gives him an imperceptible nod and Lissa lets another grin slip.
Confused but somewhat reassured, Chrom looks back along the length of the table. The rest of the attendants are taking their seats as well behind their lieges, and the sound of creaking chairs and quick last-moment conversations are the noisiest this overcrowded room will get before proceedings start.
Unlike previous meetings, hardly a person is unable to attend today, and Chrom takes quick note of what Robin called 'the enemy formation' during their many strategy meetings for today. The nobles sit on Chrom's right, the clergy on his left, and the side directly opposite to him is unoccupied, as is tradition.
The nobles' side is the most crowded, but Chrom spots Maribelle and gives her a small smile. Maribelle notices him too and after a quick, courteous nod, returns to chatting with a mousy, conservatively dressed woman — a peasant girl she's hired as her attendant and secretary. The other friendly face within the crowd is Cornelius, Ricken's uncle, though the middle-aged man with a long greying beard is staring down at his own intertwined hands, with no attendant behind him.
A short, barked laugh redirects his attention to what he and Robin have dubbed 'the trio of doom' and the closest thing to an actual enemy within the meeting.
Canute is the leader of the large unofficial coalition of nobles and the elected representative of all the noble houses, though it is an open secret that those who vote for him end up in favourable positions or with generous endowments and aids from his overflowing coffers. His family oversees a region northeast of Ylisse seemingly blessed by Naga herself, full of fertile fields with a busy harbour that supports lucrative trade with Ragna Ferox and a constant flow of pilgrims on their way to Mila Tree. Canute himself is an imposing larger-than-life man, dressed in fine garbs and amicably chatting with a score of attendants behind him, made up of nobles with lesser titles or relatives of the other more powerful houses, all of them hoping to curry his favour.
Right of Canute sits Boldyn, a broad-shouldered man in an impressive suit of armour, forged by one of the various forges scattered in his region. He oversees a craggy area adjacent to the border pass with Plegia and has a habit of complaining how his quarries should extend in what is considered neutral territory between Ylisse and Plegia. His various scandals regarding his 'workforce' which is rumoured to include prisoners of war from his father's reign as well as 'captured' Plegians who have strayed too close to the border are overlooked by Canute and the rest of his ilk thanks to a steady supply of ore, weapons and tools. Though Emm had been on the lookout for evidence for his crimes, they never got enough to form a proper case against him and relieve him of his duties. Even if they did, they would have to face his smaller but still sizable score of attendants behind him, the most prominent one being the firstborn son of the head of the merchant's guild.
Making up the left flank of the trio of doom is Thorpe, a withered husk of a man who is seemingly still alive either by necromancy or by sheer spite. He was supposedly a close friend to Chrom's father, though they were united solely because of their mutual hatred of Plegia, the old man becoming the biggest thorn in Emm's side once she assumed the role of Exalt. Thorpe's territory is adjacent to the capital, home to Ylisse's second biggest city, and his family tree is a dizzying web of connections and alliances which, when Robin tried to map them, resembled an abstract art painting. He's attended by his granddaughter, a stern-faced and traditionally beautiful woman, who unfortunately is still considered the most suitable of Chrom's potential suitors as far as the gossip wheel goes.
Chrom tries to forget the various disastrous meetings between them by focusing his attention to the other side of the table. He has not interacted with the new Hierarch besides his coronation ceremony, but when the pale-faced man notices Chrom's gaze, he gives him a deep bow and his expression turns apologetic. Chrom smiles back but looks away. The man acts like he personally betrayed Emm, and though he appreciates his work ethic, he does not enjoy the constant reminders of her death.
The Hierach's seat is the only one at the forefront of the table, but four more chairs sit behind him to seat the four archbishops, due to some technicality arising from a reformation of the council that Chrom can't be bothered to remember in detail. Various other priests and monks crowd behind them, and though Chrom tries, he doesn't spot Libra amongst them.
As everyone sits down and the last whispers of conversations die out, a courtier steps forward and begins a roll call of those seated at the table, starting with the nobility and in alphabetical order. Maribelle replies with 'Present' and a prim nod while Cornelius raises his hand and mutters his response. Canute's reply is the loudest, Boldyn grunts his, and Thorpe's is whispered, as if the man will crumble to dust on the spot.
The courtier rattles off even more names and Chrom spies Lissa already nodding off as he moves to the clergy. Thankfully, he only has to announce the Hierarch who nods and gives a blessing in response, before moving on to Chrom, though he only says his name after a long exhaustive list of his titles, followed by Lissa's.
Because this court exists in its own special circle of hell, the courtier then moves to announce some prominent attendants, and Chrom suffers through another long list of minor nobles, title-less heirs of vast fortunes, and—
"And serving as His Grace's attendant is Sir Robin, Chief Tactician of the Shepherds and of Plegian origin."
In the subsequent whispers that follow, Chrom glances back at Robin to see he's gone as stiff as a statue, his gaze laser-focused on the stack of papers in his lap. Back at the table, Maribelle looks equally troubled, but Canute catches Chrom's eye and gives him a seemingly innocent smile.
Dastard. He bets the courtier's pockets will soon be weighted down with gold thanks to adding the last section in Robin's introduction. Great. They're already off to a great start.
Chrom takes a calming breath. He raises his hand and the whispers die down as he speaks: "By the power invested in me by Naga, I bless this meeting in her name and declare it open," he recites the words he's heard Emm say so many times.
"Let us begin with prayer," the Hierarch continues, as is tradition, and Chrom inwardly groans as they now all have to close their eyes for a minute or so, and afterwards pretend they sensed Naga's guidance.
A soft hem interrupts the Hierarch before he begins, and the priest regards the offender, a noble lady whose name Chrom does not remember, with a frown. "It is fortunate that our prayer had not yet started, for interruptions not allowed."
"But of course, and I apologise for any offense, your Eminence," the noble lady responds with a graceful incline of her head. Chrom studies her for a few seconds and vaguely recalls she attended some meeting before, but in the backseat, her position previously occupied by her... mother, was it? Chrom can't remember her very well. "But, as any faithful servant of Lady Naga, I want to make sure that all of us in attendance do indeed worship Her."
The prayer has never been interrupted like this in any previous meeting, so Chrom stares at the two confused, until he feels the gazes of the assembled group focus on his right. At Robin.
... Hell's sake. This is their first meeting, and they didn't even make it past the prayer. A not insignificant part of Chrom wants to get up and personally strangle the courtier.
Robin stays silent and Chrom inwardly curses. Of their many contingency plans, they have not prepared for this type of derailment. The onus of this lies solely with Chrom, as he kept reassuring Robin that the starting prayer was customary, similar as to how the Shepherds would break bread before they ate.
"Could milady please elaborate?" Chrom eventually speaks up. Time to improvise.
"Your Grace," the noble lady says with a small bow. "I do not mean to pass judgement on your attendant, but surely he's aware of Ylisse's customs."
... What? Is this because Robin is from Plegia? "Anyone may pray to Naga."
"Indeed, but with the assumption that they will do so out of their own free will, not bound by mere formality."
Chrom bites back the remark that this is exactly what everyone here is about to do, as he will surely be met with a wave of protests, followed by subsequent outrage at his 'baseless' accusation, Exalt or not.
"I am neither a Grimleal nor do I worship Grima," Robin speaks up and thank the Gods that he somehow manages to keep his tone even. "Though I appreciate your discretion, milady, and applaud your vigilance, I also ask you not to confuse one's place of origin with what lies in their hearts."
The noble lady gives Robin an equally polite smile, and Chrom feels like he is watching two vipers fight. "You would be most correct, Sir Robin, except I am not sure I am convinced of the latter, considering your garments."
Chrom frowns, unsure what she's referencing. Robin's eye marks are covered up, and he is dressed in his usual robes—
Oh. Oh, that. Chrom has gotten so used to Robin that the eyes of Grima on his tactician's sleeves hardly register.
Lissa's composure falters even more than Chrom's, as she stares between Robin and the noble lady. She opens her mouth to speak and Maribelle quickly copies her—
"This robe has been passed on to me by my late guardian," Robin evenly says, and this is the first time Chrom hears of this. He rarely sees Robin without it, and one of the in-jokes within the Shepherds is that their tactician will even bathe with it if given the chance. "Though it is unfortunate that it bears the mark of Grima, it has great sentimental value to me."
"I do not dispute its personal value, but surely it is not so great as to wear it while Ylisse's Court is in session," the noble lady immediately responds, followed by agreeing hums from the various members across the table. Chrom notices how the Hierarch nods at her words with increasing dread.
"Naga doesn't mind," Chrom speaks up and the room goes quiet. Since he knows even the Exalt is not supposed to speak of Naga so bluntly lest he be met with more protests, so he adds: "When we sought our Lady's guidance during Valm's invasion, she allowed us an audience with her Voice, and during it not once was Sir Robin's presence in question. Therefore, if Naga herself recognises their importance and accepts them within her midst, we should follow in her example."
Chrom looks back at Robin with an encouraging smile, but his tactician's expression is completely blank and he makes no motion to confirm or deny his words.
"... I concur," Maribelle announces after Robin doesn't respond. "As a member of the Shepherds myself, the events transpired exactly as Your Grace recounted."
The room continues to mutter, but Chrom's focus is on the Hierarch who looks between him and the noble lady. His gaze eventually turns to Chrom, adopts the same sorrowful look he gets whenever he looks at the royal family and nods. "It is as Your Grace says. Now let us join in prayer."
There are a few disapproving mutters, but the room quickly goes quiet as the Hierarch closes his eyes. Chrom spares one last Robin to see him with his eyes already closed in impatience. He sighs and closes his eyes too in as the Hierarch starts chanting.
Chrom doesn't hear anything from Naga, of course, and he is willing to bet his position that neither does anyone in their room, but the room breaks in wise hums and seemingly rejuvenated faces. The Hierarch solemnly folds his hands on his lap as Lissa stifles a yawn with a grimace.
Robin leans in Chrom's direction and slides him a piece of paper over the table, the first among many.
Chrom clears his throat. "To start our meeting, I will begin by recounting the events that transpired during our brief conflict with Plegia. Feel free to raise your hands if you require additional clarification at any point."
And so Chrom offers the council a carefully censored version of what happened after Validar offered his supposed alliance to Ylisse. He keeps a close eye on the notes he and Robin slaved over many sleepless days so they would be both vague about his tactician's relation to the Fell Dragon, as well as thorough enough as to not seem like they're trying to blindside them.
Thankfully, Chrom finishes his talk with nary a question and is subsequently heaped with praise of varying sincerity for defeating Validar and preventing Grima's resurrection. He concludes by lying that he used the Falchion to seal back Grima in his prison for a thousand years, and after more subsequent praise at his heroics, Chrom steals another glance at Robin to check how he's faring.
His tacician has his face buried in his notes, writing at a hurried pace and only glancing up at the table before returning to his notes. He's frowning, but it's the same type of frown of concentration he gets during a battle, so Chrom takes that as a good sign.
Seconds later, he feels Lissa reach his hand under the table and pass him a scrap of paper under the table. Chrom glances at her and she slightly tilts her head back at Robin's direction with a smirk.
Chrom makes sure the rest of the council is distracted by a debate between nobles as to how to best reestablish civilian trade routes across Ylisse before he takes a peak at the note.
'BASIL AND MARIAH'S ATTENDANTS WILL ARGUE ON TEXTILE TAX, 10/20,' reads Robin's chicken scratch. Chrom has no idea who these people are or how this is relevant to the current conversation, but keeps the information in mind, nonetheless.
Honestly, their assault on Plegia was less complicated than this.
\*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*/
Chrom feels like he's about to melt into his seat when they finally break for lunch. Next to him, Lissa yawns and stretches as the table breaks into small talk. Her mouth waters at the large plates of food carried by servants, her eyes locking onto a plate containing an entire roasted pig.
Chrom eats in relative silence, making occasional small-talk with Lissa about how good the food is. Both are too aware that despite the break in formality, the council's ears were still tuned in to them. He glances back to see Robin has eaten the surrounding potatoes and has now settled for miserably poking at the steak making up the majority of his meal.
Holding back a frown, Chrom grabs a spare dish and fills it with vegetables. He then leans up, discreetly pokes Robin in the leg and they quickly exchange plates, with hopefully none the wiser.
Behind them, Frederick notices the gesture and his face falters before he leans in to them. "My apologies, I thought I'd informed the servers that Sir Robin's plate is to be without meat, but it must have slipped through the cracks."
"S'alright," Robin says mid-swallow.
Frederick stands back up, and Chrom plays around with the meat on his plate in turn.
Robin's sudden meat aversion is one of his many recent changes. Shortly after Robin woke up back in Plegia, Sumia made him his favourite food, a rare steak, to celebrate. However, after his first bite, Robin blanched, then quickly excused himself and hurled the contents of his stomach just outside the tent. Chrom feared he was sick, but Robin quickly reassured him that meat just no longer agreed with him and that he would stick with vegetables from now on, before apologising to Sumia for making her worried that she had somehow messed up.
Chrom glances back to see Robin eating his vegetables with all the enthusiasm of a kid taking their medicine. There's clearly more to his tactician's dietary requirements than just a change of taste, but Chrom puts it aside as another thing to bring up when he has some alone time with the man. This is but one of the many things Chrom wants to talk to Robin about, when and if he found his chance. Even with their sudden nighttime stay the other night, the two merely made small talk before quickly falling asleep, whereas the rest of their meetings exclusively revolved around matters of the state.
"And now let us thank Naga for Ylisse's bountiful harvest that we had the honour of enjoying," the Hierarch says after most finished their meal and the room is filled with the sudden movement of cutlery and creaking chairs as everyone assumed their previous positions and joins in the prayer. At least this time they aren't interrupted.
"And now, to the final matter of our assembly," Chrom begins as everyone's attention turns to him. "We will discuss our future diplomatic relationships with Plegia, starting with a proposal of reparations." A few scoffs and many displeased faces from the nobles' side make him pause in anticipation. He expects resistance and has planned for it. "If you have any thoughts on the matter, you may voice them now."
Canute's hand is not the first to go up, but he is the first one to speak. "Your Grace, it's a travesty that we even think of offering such a thing in the first place. Plegia and their mad king attacked us first!"
"I concur," Boldyn adds, followed by similar mutterings from the nobles and two of the archbishops' nods.
"If anything, this is a cry for a swift retribution, and we should strike back while their forces are still in disarray!"
"I concur!" Boldyn adds, louder this time, as the table bursts into more enthusiastic agreeing murmurs.
"I don't," Chrom speaks up as the table goes silent. "A war will get us nowhere. We all know that, we have all experienced that. But I will keep your reservations in mind," he adds, noting the displeased look and recalling Robin's advice of at least trying to feign hesitance over peace with Plegia. "Any other opinion besides outright war?"
A few hands are raised up followed by their owner's request to speak, but Chrom focuses on a particular 'Your Grace, if I may,' coming from behind him.
"Sir Robin," Chom says, and the table goes quiet again. "What do you propose?"
This is another technicality of the court. Unlike other attendants, the Exalt's attendant can speak on the Council, but only after explicit permission from the Exalt themselves. It's a rule Chrom finds strange and nonsensical, but he vaguely remembers it has something to do with customs and it being a circumspect way of letting debate occur on the Exalt's thoughts on a matter, for technically what they say on the Council is undisputed — or at least it's supposed to be, though Emm never enjoyed such luxury.
In this case, it's Chrom's way to signal his thoughts on how they should proceed with Plegia without outright stating it and causing another mild uproar.
With a quick bow, Robin walks up to the table, holding a small stack of papers.
"To bring back discussion to our main topic, I have with me a proposal to provide aid to Plegia for their continued cooperation and alliance, and as a way to put any bad blood behind us."
He places a paper in front of Chrom, then hands out the rest to the various attendants who distribute it amongst themselves before finally passing a copy on to their superiors. Some, like Thorpe and Boldyn, give the proposal a mere cursory glance, while others, like Canute, read it in depth. The Hierarch reads over it with a frown, Maribelle's eyes dart across it as she skim-reads it, then glances at Chrom.
After waiting for a minute, Robin continues: "Because of the wars and various other skirmishes, what little agriculture Plegia has is gone. The next harvest season is almost a year from now, and they are already facing food shortages, and if the situation gets worse, a famine."
Chrom nods along. He's heard this before, but it still pains him to imagine. Even in Ylisse's darkest hours, they were still blessed with fertile lands and dense forests to scavenge and hunt. Any stories of famine he's heard come from Plegia, and each is more terrible than the other.
"In summary," Robin continues, "I propose Ylisse uses its extensive food storages to provide short-term food aid to the people of Plegia—"
"These are for emergencies only!" Thorpe speaks up and is met with a similar outrage which drowns out Robin's voice.
Chrom raises his hand. "Quiet!"
At the Exalt's command, the voices die down. Ignoring the various disapproving scowls and grimaces, Chrom gestures at Robin, even if he feels like he's leading a friend into the lion's den. "Continue."
"... I would like to believe that a neighbour in need of food classifies as an emergency in most people's eyes," Robin says, and right on cue, Chrom eyes the Hierarch who looks between the two with a soft frown. "In any case, Plegia's population is small enough that what it will take away from the stores can be recuperated in the next harvest. Beyond food, Ylisse would also provide with farming equipment and tools, whose manufacture will be enacted by the Exalt's decree—"
"And you'll be using my forges for that," Boldyn mumbles.
Robin pauses, then nods at the man. "You'll be compensated at market rate."
"Which will come out of the royal treasury, which is funded by our taxes, so I might as well be paying myself now, right?" Boldyn says with a chuckle as he looks around the room and is met with some approving smiles.
"This is how such agreements have proceeded in the past," Robin answers with a diplomatic smile. "But if you wish, we could settle on an alternative — perhaps a tax break for the upcoming year?"
Boldyn scowls and mutters something under his breath to an attendant behind him, who holds back a laugh.
Robin's smile thins. "If you find any shortcomings with my plan, I'd be quite eager to hear them."
"I said that it is clear where your loyalties lie, tactician."
"Of course. They lie with the wellbeing of the people of Ylisse."
Though Robin's remark is met by a scoff and a few more mutters, Boldyn merely crosses his hands and stays quiet.
Another noble raises her hand. "Doesn't Plegia have plenty of coin? Why should we be giving away our food for free?"
"Much of their treasury was used during our war with Valm," Robin immediately answers. "Attempting to ask them for payment would be like trying to squeeze blood out of stone."
Ricken's uncle, Cornelius, raises a shaky hand. "Would Plegia even accept our offer? Our late Exalt, Lady Emmeryn, tried to bridge the gap between our two nations but..."
His voice dies down and Robin glances at Chrom.
The Exalt swallows a lump in his throat to steady his voice before he speaks. "And is why we must try to uphold her legacy."
Unlike Robin's words, his are not met with any mutters but with fleeting looks among nobles with varying degrees of agreement. The Hierarch sighs and nods, even as the archbishops look disapprovingly at him.
Thorpe raises a hand before he immediately speaks. "Her legacy?! She was killed, your Grace, driven off a cliff! Surely you of all people—!"
Chrom momentarily sees red. "And I killed the man responsible!" He's upright before he realises it, and it's only Lissa's hand on his that stops him from doing something rash.
Chrom sits back down and takes a deep calming breath. "Gangrel is long dead. Do not try to use my grief over my sister to further your own agenda, Duke."
Thorpe's lip curls, but he lowers his hand at the same time as Boldyn scoffs. "I see now you are not like your father, Your Grace."
Lissa's grip on his hand tightens as Chrom barely suppresses the urge to get up and throw a haymaker at the duo.
'Not like your father'... That damned phrase was hurled at Emm every time she chose peace over violence. This seemingly mere statement of fact served as a cloaked condemnation, but if she ever brought up how it was used as an insult and an indication of the council's lack of support, she would be laughed off as paranoid, so all she could do was smile and endure it.
Chrom sizes the two men up. Thorpe is a miserable husk of a man that would die from an awkward fall. With Boldyn, Chrom may need to put up a bit of an effort, but he'd be no more difficult than a well-trained bandit. However, he's the Exalt now, the new symbol of peace for Ylisse. He can't go around challenging obstinate nobles to a duel.
"No I am not," Chrom eventually says, and because he can't stop himself, he adds: "I'm glad you finally realised that."
He enjoys the sour look that comes over them, as well as a few other nobles in their faction. For far too long they tried to appeal to Chrom when he sat in Lissa's chair, trying to get him to dispute Emm's decisions and lead the council into a deadlock. Chrom never did, always taking Emm's side on such matters. Their appeals only made Chrom hate them more, for they just saw his skills with the sword and assumed he was another bloodthirsty dastard.
"Well!" Canute announces with a laugh after no one else speaks up. "I was going to stay silent, but since no one else wants to address the elephant in the room, I guess it falls to me to say what everyone has been thinking!" His laugh peters off to a vicious grin. "Why is there a Plegian in Grima's garments seated on His Grace's right hand?"
The table descents into another argument, many in support of Canute while others, Maribelle included, against the man.
As the table squabbles, Lissa passes a note to Chrom. 'DISMISS ME AND FOLLOW MY PLAN. WE'RE ALMOST THERE,' it reads in Robin's handwriting.
Chrom crumples it. One thing he knows that Robin is still naive to, is that he must not allow any of them a sliver of a foothold. Emm was always stalwart in her opinions for a reason, even if the council descended into chaos.
"Robin will stay where he is," Chrom says and he has to raise his voice to be heard over the ruckus. "He earned his position as our tactician and our key in victory over Validar and his forces. Anything else would be an insult to his work."
And though Chrom faces the table's disapproving stares, he is most concerned at the daggers he can feel Robin staring at the back of his head. "My word on this is final." He risks a quick glance at Robin, who's giving him an even look, bordering on a scowl.
Ah well, Robin will get over it. It's not the first time Chrom adjusted part of their plans. At least this time Robin can't bribe the shepherd in charge of chores to make sure Chrom gets latrine-digging duty as revenge.
Though Chrom's words have calmed down the table, they have not stopped the argument. Thorpe's granddaughter lets out a particularly scathing remark at Cornelius, followed by Boldyn's laughter. Chrom's eyes narrow and he opens his mouth to quiet them—
"That's quite enough!" A voice rings out across the table, and Chrom turns in surprise at Maribelle. She's never heard her yell outside of the battlefield.
As the attention turns to Maribelle, she primly clears her throat to speak: "Tell me, my esteemed peers, we are all adults here, are we not? Yet some of us still insist on arguing like children." Her eyes narrow as they travel across the table. "If any of you do have any arguments against Sir Robin's proposal that have actual substance instead of hurling unbased accusations at our master tactician, who, as I have seen first-hand, has performed nothing short of miracles on the battlefield against Ylisse's enemies, then I would very much like to hear them." She taps Robin's proposal. "From what I understand, we will offer supplies that we already have in surplus, and we will benefit from having a neighbouring country that rebuilds its trade instead of letting it be a bandit-infected wasteland."
Her words are met with silence until a noble raises his hand. "And what of the future? How can we be sure we're not merely rearming a future enemy?"
A reasonable question, considering all the other nonsense that's been said at this council. "Our last war with Plegia was because of their Mad King, Gangrel, who's long dead," Chrom says.
"And who is its leader now?"
Chrom turns to Robin, who shuffles across a few papers. "Based on our units stationed near the border, the Grimleal are currently overseen by a wisewoman, but there are rumours the Plegians are calling for a general assembly of their cities' leaders to determine their next regent."
"So, a lawless land!" Boldyn says. "Again, what's stopping us from annexing them? We can still offer our generous aid to our new subjects and get rid of the threat of Plegia. Kill two birds with one stone, no?"
"You'll be met with resistance throughout the country," Robin immediately says, and Chrom doesn't understand how he can stay so calm. If the same was asked of Chrom about Ylisse, he'd be furious. "Plegia's power structure is more decentralised than Ylisse's. There's not one or two forts you can take that would give you control of the whole region."
Boldyn scoffs. "By that same logic, their forces will be easier to pick off. I don't see why you insist on letting them get away with—"
And Chrom's anger reaches its boiling point.
"If you are so eager for a war with Plegia," he speaks up and Boldyn's grin falters, "then I will personally make sure each one of you is placed in the front lines, alongside your fellow conscripted soldier."
Chrom fully expects the council's subsequent outrage, but he stays resolute, his expression set in a stony mask.
"This is an outrage — Your Grace!" a pale Canute hastily yells. "You can't—"
Chrom absolutely fucking can. His father did so as a punishment for those that fell out of his favour. It never crossed Emm's mind and though the threat doesn't sit well with him, the idea that they can think they can still stir the same type of trouble is even less acceptable.
"I can and I will," Chrom evenly says, staring Canute in the eyes. "This is a case where I can be exactly like my late father, Duke Canute."
The man goes from pale to red in outrage but he sits back, too afraid for his own life. Thorpe looks ready to argue, but a hand from his equally pale granddaughter stops him in his tracks.
Good. That took the wind out of them, for now.
"There will be no invasion of Plegia," Chrom says, his gaze sweeping over the table. "We're here to discuss how to negotiate with them, not attack them."
The council lets out an agreeing murmur.
"And we have a plan as to how to approach them, which we have discussed. Now, does anyone have anything they would like to add?"
Chrom is focused on the nobles' side so he almost misses the Hierarch's raised hand.
"Your Grace," the man quietly begins, "there is still the matter of the Grimleal. You've seen firsthand the destruction they have caused across both countries." He sighs. "As we will be offering Plegia our aid, we can ask for conditions to be met, and one of these could be the disbarment of that faith."
The topic fills Chrom with dread, and though he can't turn around and look at Robin, he can imagine his tactician's blank mask.
Thankfully, Chrom knows enough about this topic from their little misadventures and one of Robin's very complicated diagrams. "Their religion is deeply tied with their national identity, as is Ylisse's. Asking them to renounce the Grimleal would be asking Lissa or I to abdicate the throne."
"Then I'm not sure if our two countries will continue to be allies after Plegia recuperates," the Hierarch says with a sigh. "They worship Grima after all..."
His words are accompanied by agreeing murmurs. Even Maribelle seems hesitant.
"Validar, the Grimleal's leader and the cause behind many of our headaches, is dead," Chrom starts even as he feels Robin go stiff by his side. This is another case where Chrom has to go off script and he wishes he could reassure his tactician that he is not about to spill all their secrets. "As a result, though they remain the authority within Plegia, they've been severely weakened and much of its upper echelons are in disarray, no?" And he indicates for Robin to speak, as he feels the man vibrate with tension.
"They did recently go through a leadership change, and their current leader was previously in charge of medical facilities and so has little military expertise," Robin says as he shuffles through more of his papers. "We're unsure of the details of how she came to power, but we do know she's more interested in rebuilding Plegia and keeping to themselves than trying to start another war."
And Chrom holds back a smirk at Robin's little lie. He's been informed of his tactician's little misadventure in Plegia, and honestly, installing that wisewoman as a leader was a surprising but very in-character decision.
"And we know all that, how?" Canute asks, though he is more subdued now.
"... I've done my research."
"Under my command," Chrom adds.
Boldyn let out a bitter laugh. "Ah, so you've already talked this through beforehand. What's the purpose of even holding a court then? Are we to be your dancing monkeys while you only listen to your little Plegian—?"
"Sir Robin is our chief tactician, so being informed about such matters and advising Exalt Chrom falls within his purview," Frederick speaks up and Chrom doesn't reply because of the sheer surprise of having Frederick of all people speak out of turn during court. "Though I apologize for my conduct and will promptly remove myself for this misstep, I'll not have you sully our Exalt's name with made-up accusations of conspiracy!"
And before anyone can speak, Frederick does just that. Lissa looks between Chrom and Frederick askance, as Chrom catches Robin concealing a smirk — wait, did he plan this? Did he have some sort of plan with Frederick in case the council went too rowdy?
In any case, that's taken the wind out of Boldyn. Frederick has attended Council meetings ever since he was appointed as an attendant to the Ealted bloodline and has never so much as breathed out of turn during them.
"... Considering the Grimleal, I'd like to meet its current leader first and judge the situation first-hand," Chrom says, and though his words are accompanied by more murmurs, these are of the concerned, not hostile variety.
"Are you sure that's wise, Your Grace?"
"As always, if anyone has any better ideas they should speak up," Maribelle speaks up. "If not, I will agree, but only contingent on your safety first, Your Grace." She switches her gaze from Chrom to Robin in concern, and Chrom has to hold back a laugh at Maribelle feeling protective of Robin over the Grimleal. Let it never be said that court doesn't have its funny moments.
"Now then," Chrom concludes. "All in favour of parlaying with Plegia and offering them Sir Robin's proposal?"
He raises his hand, followed by Maribelle's faction, and most other nobles. Boldyn's hand stays resolutely down, though Thorpe raises his after some prompting by his granddaughter. The Hierarch stares at Chrom for a long time, but he too eventually raises his hand.
And they have the majority... Chrom feels like a weight has been lifted off his chest.
He waits a bit longer for any stragglers to raise their hands, as they realise the tides of the council have changed. "And with this, I call this meeting adjourned. Well met."
An hour later, after a chorus of 'well-met's and creaking chairs, Chrom finds himself in a quiet corner of the castle, hurrying back to his chamber with a quiet Robin by his side. Lissa has already excused herself by saying she needs a long bath to recover from that torture, and Chrom would join her if he didn't have a small mountain of forms to sign.
Chrom gives Robin a small poke. "Thoughts?"
"Death threats should be allowed and encouraged," Robin mutters but does not elaborate. Chrom empathises.
\*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*/
Chrom: you get nightmares? that's rough bro, wanna cuddle?
Robin: ? sure ?
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Next chapter will be up next Friday. Reviews are appreciated (RandomFFnetUser i see u reviewing every chapter and I appreciate u 👍 This story does get pretty dark, and the worst has yet to come...)