I like how the mood in Twelfth Night changes so fast from light-hearted romantic comedy to moments of unsettling cattiness and moody broody protagonists. I hope I did it justice. And this was hard to write in part because it meant hauling ass to my bookshelf (and very dry wikipedia articles) to research what exactly might be discussed at a negotiation table.

Robin is also in danger of being very, very screwed...in more ways than one.

Many thanks to the wonderful Iturbide, ellisama, and newmrsdewinter for putting up with me and being such great sources of inspiration! Please read their fics.

Robin's habit of waking much too early roused her from her uneasy sleep. The servants were still resting within their pallets, but freshly laundered clothes were laid out for her, and her Grimleal robes, still smelling faintly of soap, hung neatly within the dresser. Robin chose a simple chemise and schaube for the day, making sure to straighten out her bedsheets before silently slipping out.

Her guards, Karel and Rood, woke at the sound of the door, following her wordlessly to the castle gates. Gregor was already awake and waiting; they spoke briefly, before sharing a quiet embrace and secretly passing their letters to one another with the unspoken promise to read them later. Watching him ride away into the early morning mist left her heart heavy and leaden with loneliness.

And so she was directed to the main hall for breakfast in that state, staring glumly at her bacon and eggs—not even the extra rashers the cook gave her were any comfort. Chrom was a sympathetic presence, attempting to engage her in conversation, asking of how she slept, was the bed to her liking, were her clothes a proper fit. Robin appreciated his words, she really did, but she could only manage a few grunts of acknowledgement and shakes of her head as she tried to choke down her food. The suspicious glances of his councillors, and the other ambassadors and few others who littered the hall, did nothing to ameliorate the anxiety gnawing at her appetite through the pit of her stomach.

Upon concluding breakfast, the morning bell rang to signal the beginning of the day's activities. Chrom and the assorted company filed in silence out of the hall and into an anteroom connecting the extensive gardens to the castle.

Robin much preferred the arrangement of Chon'sin's palace gardens, with their cool maple lanes, gleaming river rocks arranged around larger cairns, and peach trees dropping their soft petals into ponds as an audience watched from lacquered bridges. Still, Ylisstol's castle was not lacking beauty nor grace: the healthy green lawn was awash in dew as heavy mist blanketed the grounds. Neatly trimmed hedges enclosed a maze, and oaks and bushes with young buds guarded the perimeter of the inner walls. Stately beds of irises, the national flower, were arranged in plots of blue and yellow blooms that seemed to bow in deference to them as they walked by in single file.

Robin remembered the Ylissean myth of Naga bringing life to their land with her tears. The seedlings fed by her water grew into irises, and in the Old Tongue, their country was named after the colourful flower. Their branding too was of an iris, drawn in a stylised manner such as to match the image of a torch bearing Naga's Fire. Chrom's Mark seemed to burn a brighter blue as she stared back at it on his bared arm.

The small mausoleum was a clean marbled white. It was guarded by the statues of King Marth and Queen Caeda with their weapons held aloft; she with her lance, he with a past version of the Falchion, whose blade now rested in the red scabbard that hung on Chrom's hip. At the base, in the faded script of the Old Tongue, it read 'For the Good and Glory of All.'

The prince spoke with the custodian keeping watch over the entrance, a war monk who Robin realised was actually a rather delicate looking man rather than a woman. The pale sunny yellow of his order's garb was quite the contrast to the gray dawn rising. Chrom shared a few words, thanked him, and ducked under the low overhang of the door. It seemed as though they were not supposed to follow, or at least, not yet. The few moments shared between the envoys outside were tense and uncomfortable.

"Do you think he'd actually try one of his little bloodmouth rituals in there?" the man named Valentine whispered loudly.

"It would be the height of disrespect to do so," was the scandalised reply of Minister Oswynn.

Robin's ears burned red. She knew she was disliked. She did not come expecting to be welcomed with open arms. And yet, for them to air their grievances in such a public fashion…

Minister Eschmann said nothing but placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. Basilio flanked her left and began discussing inanities such as the poor morning weather. Robin allowed her raised hackles to lower, not entirely at ease, yet somewhat relieved; she could count at least a few allies on her side. The khan was a powerful man who was not easily given to quarrelling and was more than well connected, while Eschmann was a minister of the crown and thus able to exert considerable influence along with his high birth. Basilio, however, could count on his foreign status to protect him from the machinations of Ylissean courtiers...Eschmann could not.

When will they turn on him? she wondered.

They're grown men. You should start worrying more about yourself, the snide voice at the back of her head growled.

"You may now proceed," the monk said.

The interior of the mausoleum was small, and permeated with an air of antiquity and deep sadness. Down the steps, down below the earth, rested the crypt of King Marth and Queen Caeda, the hands of their tombs joined together even in death. Robin knew that there was a separate burial ground for monarchs outside Ylisstol, yet supposed that this tiny place housed only the most venerable, judging by the fact that Marth was far from the first ruler of his house. However serene the faces on the marble shielding their remains, the slack expressions made a disquieted frisson run down her spine. Like they were somehow able to watch her through their closed eyes.

They continued further below ground, silent visitors to the few other men and women mouldering inside their vaults. The place had been built in such a way that sunlight from the oculus in the domed roof was allowed to penetrate the space with a blinding ray of light, passing through a hole in the floor to keep illuminating whatever it could reach. The stairs leading them down each successive level curved around the wall and the tombs with no rail to keep anyone from falling—the trip was made with everyone sticking closely to the wall.

At the very lowest level was Chrom, head bowed, hands clasped over the Falchion's pommel as he knelt before Emmeryn's grave. Great care had been taken in shaping her effigy. Her curls were arranged in a halo around her face, her Brand delicately carved into her forehead. With her hands held loosely over her heart and a peaceful smile playing about her lips, it was almost as though she was merely asleep, with the figure of her loyal knight Phila resting at her feet.

It was a sight that was uncomfortably underscored by how badly damaged their bodies were upon returning to Ylisse.

The monk from outside had now joined them and supplied censers for himself and Kospa to light. Sweet incense filled the room as the assembled company tried to make way for the clergymen to circle the effigy in prayer, cramped as it was with so many people in such a tiny space. When they were done everyone came forward to pay their respects and ask her to bless them and the proceedings: first the Ylisseans, then the Feroxi, then the Rosannois and Valmese.

As the only Plegian, all eyes then turned to her.

Nerve wracking? Yes. Everything and anything she would do was up for scrutiny and criticism. But there was protocol, there were customs and conventions to follow. No matter how ill they would speak of her, Robin would pay Emmeryn her dues and honour her.

She slid down to one knee and arranged her schaube around her carefully; Robin placed a hand on Emmeryn's marble foot, and wryly noted that the stone almost matched her skin colour. Taking a deep breath, she recited the familiar words:

"Blessed be the Six-Eyes, may He continue to See beyond us for as long as our blood walks this earth."

Shocked susurrations swept throughout the crypt at the mention of Grima. She forced herself to ignore them.

"May He See this soul and witness it, May He shelter it within the cover of His wings so that it may safely ascend to those Exalted spheres beyond the boundary, and be laid to peaceful rest. For this we give our blessings."

And with all being said and done, Robin brought her thumb to her mouth, pricked it with her sharp teeth, and pressed a little dot of blood to the stone.

The uproar was almost immediate, yet was swiftly put down as Chrom sprang to his feet with a shout. "SILENCE!"

His councillors had the decency to look shamed; however deep their offense towards Grima's faith ran, it was no excuse to start a brawl upon the grave of their previous exalt, and their indecorous behaviour marked a poor start for the day. Chrom himself was shaking with undisguised rage.

"We give our thanks," his voice fought to maintain a semblance of control, "for your presence, and for your blessings. We hope that they reach Naga's and Emmeryn's ears and they find it fit to smile upon us this day."

"Hear hear," was the disgruntled murmur.

"Your Highness," hierarch Kospa hastened to Chrom's side.

The monk bade the rest to take their leave as Chrom spoke to the minister. When Robin made to join them, the prince's arm suddenly shot out and held her hand in a firm grip. She arched her brows but said nothing at his grimace.

"Please leave us," Chrom asked the clergymen. Robin noticed the monk surreptitiously trying to wipe the spot of blood off Emmeryn's foot before climbing up the stairs with the hierarch. The cloying scent of incense lingered, and she was reminded that she was alone with the prince and the remains of his sister and her knight.

What an awful start of the day this is turning out to be...

He turned pleading eyes to her. "I'm sorry—"

She stopped him mid sentence. "I've a feeling you will be apologising many times over soon. Please...save your breath."

Her words were not unkind. And yet, Chrom looked as haggard and tired as any man who had not slept in many days. And they were not yet even through with the first day.

After a long silence spent staring into each other's eyes, he broke contact and rubbed the bridge of his nose wearily. "...I believe they are waiting for us," he sighed. Chrom slung an arm over Robin's shoulders as they ascended the marble stairs, feeling increasingly tired with each step they took.

Not yet seated at the negotiating table and already she was at the centre of a dispute. It was going to be a very long day indeed.

The sun, which had risen fully by the time of their exit and burned off the morning mist, briefly blinded them with its brilliance. Frederick was not dressed in the full suit of armour he wore the previous day, yet he shone in livery sporting Chrom's deep blue colours. The effect was ruined by his scowl upon seeing the pair arm in arm, so Robin gently removed Chrom's hand from her shoulder. They were surrounded by Pegasus Knights; Ylisse's company of elite soldiers, traditional guardians of the Exalt since the times of Queen Caeda. Their leader, a stunning redhead Robin recognised from the battlefield, wore the pale blue uniform that previously belonged to Phila.

"Formation, ladies!" she ordered. The knights under her command snapped to attention and formed a circle around the ambassadors. The captain stationed herself at Chrom and Frederick's side and, with a loud, short whistle, they all began moving forward as a single unit.

The day was late enough in that it meant several courtiers were now out and about, giving their daily rounds throughout the enormous gardens. They (along with several gardeners, servants, and guards) stared openly at the procession as it was led past the fountain, past the flowering bushes planted by the arcade, and into the castle keep. As much as Robin would have liked to examine the gorgeous stone flooring more closely, she was swept up by the pace of the men surrounding her.

Two knights detached themselves to open the massive oak doors; they stayed behind, while the ambassadors were all ushered in along with the knights' captain, and the doors sealed shut with a loud groan.

And thus the feeling of urgency turned to one of dread.

The council room was a handsomely appointed space dominated by the enormous, darkly stained beechwood table that ran the length of the room. A sumptuous crimson carpet —a kilim of Plegian make, Robin noted— rested underfoot. It echoed the tapestry that depicted Naga and her champions slaying Grima and Medeus and the Plegians that were crushed beneath the weight of the dragons. On the opposite side, a lovingly painted portrait of Emmeryn rested snugly between the wooden paneling.

Robin was sure that the seating arrangements were intentionally prepared so as not to place her next to the other members of Chrom's cabinet: to her left sat Eschmann, whose round belly poked her elbow every time he breathed; to her right, Basilio and the Feroxi who served under him. Chrom himself sat at the head of the table, with a minister at each side helping him arrange his voluminous blue ermine cape into his chair. With his gold and midnight blue jerkin, golden stole and girdle, and the circlet resting on his Oxford blue hair, he looked every bit the prince that he was.

A few minutes of small talk were shared. Chrom bade everyone to sit down with a bang of his gavel. "Now then," he cleared his throat. "First is roll call. Cordelia, if you please."

The Pegasus Knight captain (Cordelia, Robin reminded herself) produced a long roll of parchment that she passed on dutifully to Chrom, who signed it first in the common script, then with his cursive signature before passing it along counter-clockwise amongst his privy council. Robin was the last to sign, and allowed herself a quick peek at the rows of names before signing it herself:

YLISSE:

Chrom Aidan Murtagh

Anton Kospa

Tobias Falstaff

Sionúir Ó Fearghial

Fabian Trengrouse

Balthair Urquhart

Pherick Oswynn

Daveth Valentine

Harald Eschmann

Frederick Armstrong

REGNA FEROX:

Basilio Antonius Aquilius

Lon'qu

Maor Khalili

Roshea Dianthos

Arian Gonzaga-Foscari

Miloah di Nigris

ROSANNE:

Henri Viaur

Ghislain du Berry

Celice du Berry

Alpine du Berry

Mycen Almstadt

Clive Bertrand

VALM:

Pheros Milen

Egídio Cervantes

Ignatius de Loyola

Farber Hafen

Dalton Fortier-Sachs

Camus Rudolf

Hers was the only Plegian name in the roster. While Robin was not illiterate, reading and writing were not prioritised on the same level as game theory, war simulations, and combat practice; she felt very ashamed of her chicken-scratch signature compared to the fanciful curlicues adorning the rest of the page, particularly from the Rosannois.

She supposed that, judging from what she felt was a checking spell on the parchment, roll call was also a way to root out impostors should they attempt to gain access to them. Frederick was allowed a say in the proceedings given his position as Chrom's lieutenant general. Odd that, as the only woman in the room, Cordelia's signature was not present, but Robin realised it was most likely due to her merely acting as a guard. In any case, the amount of wards and muffling spells placed on the room would not be very effective as some would mostly likely discuss the events outside the place anyways.

"Now that's out of the way then," Chrom said as the mild hubbub died down. "We can get down to business. The first call to that business, however, would be defining it in the first place. What is that we seek to accomplish beyond a vague idea of peace treaty?" His quill was poised over a clean sheet of parchment. "Any ideas?"

A bearish looking councilman's arm shot up immediately. "Reconstruction and redevelopment of cropland."

"Oh, that's a good one." Everyone jotted it down in their notes. "Yes, the fields are looking worse for wear...and we still have to decide upon a distribution plan for grain...thank you, Fabian." The councilman lowered his arm, satisfied. Chrom looked around expectantly. "Anyone else?"

Minister Kospa raised his hand delicately. "I assume general aid and reconstruction efforts will be included?"

"Yes, Hierarch." Robin placed the first point under the second, making sure to title the latter in a larger font.

A young red haired Rosannois volunteered his opinion. "Port reconstruction? Trade across the sea needs to be resumed should Ylisse be in want of silks and such."

"I believe that goes under the previous point, son," du Berry said.

"Oh."

"If I may," Falstaff interjected. "The issue of compensation was bound to come up in the discussion...shall it be negotiated as part of general reconstruction? Or even as a separate topic, given its scope."

An uncomfortable silence fell over the assembly. In spite of the luxuries surrounding them and clothing them, finances were a delicate topic, moreso given the unspoken expectation that some ought to pay more than the others. Nevermind the fact that there was little guarantee of transparency in how those funds would be used…or whether even acquiescence to payment would encourage others to demand more.

Or worse: who would stop them from getting what they wanted?

As it was, the Rosannois were eyeing the Valmese cooly. Robin fought the urge to shrink in her seat as Falstaff looked at her from the corner of his eye. Others were not nearly as subtle in their staring.

Chrom was not ignorant to the tense atmosphere. "Duly noted. It shall be revisited once we've agreed on the other points of discussion." Disgruntled murmurs followed to the tune of scratching quills.

"Now that we've broached the topic of compensation, I assume that we should also be discussing the application of the law," du Berry said. "Bandits roaming the land, entire cities that have gone rogue and refuse to submit to authority…"

"Criminals that need to be punished," Minister Valentine smirked.

Chrom cleared his throat loudly. "Restoration of rule of law to be added to the record, with the mentioned sub points," he declared tersely. "Any objections?"

"None," was the unanimous reply. Chrom looked carefully to Robin for a few seconds before turning away. "Any more points to be added before tabling this part of the session?"

Another long silence stretched out uncomfortably.

"Any at all?"

The Chon'sinese man sitting to Basilio's right raised his hand. "I don't know if this could be added to the previous point. However, we've encountered an unsettling number of Valmese," the distinctive feeling of hackles being raised made the hairs on Robin's neck prickle, "who even deny that there is responsibility to be raised on their part."

"What are you suggesting?" Pheros asked cooly.

"That there should be action taken against evading an issue." Lon'qu met his gaze head-on.

"And who might these 'unsettling number of Valmese' be, since they are of such concern?"

"Merchants. Sailors. The expatriates who populate our port cities to the west. We don't take kindly to people enjoying the benefits of the state and then turning around to stab us in the back."

There was a loud screech of chairs being pushed back as the Valmese delegation rose to their feet. "How dare—"

"Wait, wait, if Ferox is prepared to do this, then surely we may be allowed to do the same to the Plegians?" Minister Oswynn wrung his hands and looked to Falstaff for support.

Now it was Robin's turn to feel anger heating her skin. "You—"

"And who is to determine who is to shoulder the blame?" Cervantes, an ambassador with an impressive beard bellowed, despite being a tad unintelligible through his hair. "Are we to place innocent children and families on the same level as a unit of infantry?"

"That is superbly rich, coming from a turncoat such as yourself!" Clive shouted back.

"What of the Plegians?" Oswynn panted hysterically.

The loud crack of the gavel was heard crystal clear over the shouting. The arguing died upon witnessing Chrom and Frederick on their feet: the latter with his lips pressed impossibly thin and his nostrils flaring, dangerously quiet; the former very red in the face and a vein pulsing in his forehead, hummingbird-quick.

"Sit down," Chrom said.

They all did as asked. Many a man glanced warily at the gavel, whose handle was splintered and broken within Chrom's grasp.

The prince measured his words and tone carefully. "I can see that we have a sensitive topic on our hands. Now, precisely because accountability should be a goal to strive for, I do not think most would have a problem with including it in the agreement—" he was interrupted briefly by a few protesting ambassadors. Frederick's glower shut them up. "However. Should anyone try to abuse it for the sake of settling some personal score or vendetta...then I will personally ensure that the petitioner will be unable to enforce its application."

Silence.

"Any objections or additions?"

None.

"Good." Chrom sighed wearily and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I will call a recess. For dinner." He banged the remains of the gavel on the table and made sure that everyone had taken their notes with them before exiting the room himself.

As they were still sequestered from the rest of the castle's inhabitants, their meal took place in an adjoining hall reserved exclusively for their use. Judging from the fact that the kitchens had access to it, Robin deduced that they most likely served as a sort of central hub for the castle in addition to the throne room. In Plegia as in Ylisse the largest meal of the day was supper; yet here, she was still baffled as to the custom of organising a meal through courses, and while the country was certainly more amenable to the growth of fresh fruit and vegetables, the rich seemed determined to eat as much meat and dairy as they could muster.

The cook winked at Robin as she cut thick slices of smoked ham for Chrom and the rest, along with little puddings and roasted leeks. The pantler brought them great big loaves of rich white bread, and today most enjoyed cider brought out from the winter barrels to drink, with Robin quickly deciding that she rather liked the taste. She was carefully going over her notes as she munched on her sixth piece of buttered bread and decided to rewrite what she remembered of negotiation charts, if only to have a reference she could consult later.

To summarise: Ylisseans favoured a non-confrontational approach. Brief small talk opened up the business proposal, which was usually couched in vague, coded terms so as not to offend...and to conceal certain intentions. Resistance and deadlocks were usually bypassed by each party wearing each other down through stalling and understatements, after which a recess was declared. Having come to an understanding afterwards, proposals were repackaged in a way that might hold mutual appeal, and points previously agreed upon were restated. Strangely enough, the decisions were made at the following sessions. Robin supposed it was a way to hold others to their words. With a society as clannish and zealously protective of public image as the Ylisseans, she could see why it had developed so.

With the Feroxi, all arguments used to be settled with deciding whoever was best at bashing skulls in. War as a tiebreaker was an increasingly archaic model that was losing favour now that politicians were expected to show up to a negotiating table rather than an arena. However, their approach was straightforward, open, and often blunt. Not to say that Feroxi were incapable of keeping their secrets, but simply that honesty, however crude, was preferred. Confrontation was often deliberately provoked to force people to defend their goals and speaking points.

Now, the Rosannois model was just as verbose, if not more, than the Ylissean one, with the speakers expected to show passion and emotion in support of their stances: language, they said, was just as much an instrument of eloquence as it was reason. Appeals to logic would be expected, as would they be to emotion and the use of plenty of hypotheticals. Thankfully, they did not negotiate in such guarded terms as the Ylisseans: they would expect a conclusion to be reached at the end of a session and they would favour a clear majority of opinion, even if they had to bully others to achieve it.

The Valmese...were a bit of a mystery, to be honest. Her tutors were well travelled, but the subject of Valmese dialogue and etiquette seemingly eluded them. She had hardly come into contact with any before the summit, much less heard that much about them until the war. That, and she had only visited the continent of Valm once; but that was to Chon'sin, and many dynasts were not too keen on being labeled as Valmese.

Thinking of Chon'sin made her heart hurt. It reminded her of peace, of actually having time to be idle and at rest. Of Say'ri. Of the last time she shared happiness with Daraen before the storm.

"Are you alright?"

Chrom's voice jolted Robin out of her moping and almost made her drop her bread in surprise. "I—I'm f-f-fine." Gods, she sounded like an idiot. "Just thinking about the conference."

"I can see that," he said warmly. He reached directly into her space to spread out her notes. She hated whenever anyone else did that —foreign hands could disorganise them or worse— but kept mum as Chrom pored over them. There was no harm in it, even if she would have preferred he ask beforehand.

"These are all yours? Wow. If I'm ever to get a hold on this whole ruling thing, I should learn to take notes like yours."

Robin flushed unbidden under such praise. "Copying is bad," she tried to joke.

"It's not copying if you let me. And besides, the teacher isn't around to scold us," he winked.

Was it her, or did the room suddenly become warmer? "Studying would actually put something in that big head of yours."

Chrom laughed a deep belly-laugh, attracting the attention of the several other men who were not already staring at them before, and his laugh tapered off awkwardly.

"Prince Daraen's notes are rather good," Chrom muttered lamely and scratched his neck.

"We are always more than happy to provide Your Highness with our own," Falstaff smiled curtly at Robin.

"Thank you."

Having finished eating, the table was voided with crackers and ale. Robin briefly eavesdropped on the youngest of du Berry's sons expressing his surprise that there were only three meal courses as opposed to the usual twelve. When du Berry explained it was the result of rationing, Robin had to fight back a snort.

The food seemed to have improved the mood somewhat upon the return to the council room. There was glaring, there was whispering, but thankfully, no one decided to start shouting or throwing things. A new gavel (courtesy of Frederick) was procured for Chrom and he banged it to signal that the meeting had resumed.

"Hopefully everyone is feeling refreshed and in much better spirits." Chrom's cheer was obviously forced.

Mutters of assent were mixed in with the sounds of parchment and quills being readied.

"Good. The previous points will be restated. Anyone voicing misgivings, objections, or general questions should say their piece now."

A Feroxi delegate, Miloah, raised his hand. "So the point on accountability shall be included in the final draft?"

Chrom paused. He was still deciding how to phrase it delicately enough to avoid another row.

It would not do for another argument to flare up—Robin could see him visibly struggling. She took pity on him and decided to bear the loaded question in his stead.

"I don't think it's necessarily the point itself that is the cause of contention," she said carefully, "as long as there is a guarantee that it will not be abused as a form of punishment. After all, the goal is to create a peace treaty. There shouldn't be any problems when the agreement is mutually beneficial."

With her phrasing, there was absolutely no way that any qualms against it would be seen as reasonable, and she allowed herself to feel very satisfied when she saw the same conclusion dawn upon delegates such as Oswynn and Falstaff.

Chrom shot her a brief, grateful look. "Thank you for your input, Daraen. Would anyone else like to add to that?"

Either everyone was satisfied by the terms she laid out, or no one could come up with anything else to say, given the silence; some seemingly gave up as several "no's" were spoken.

"Alright. That's the last point then: our focus should then be placed on general reconstruction, compensation, and restoration of order. Look how well we're getting along; only the first day and already we've been able to come to an agreeance."

Chrom's joke was not the best one, but his effort was appreciated and the laughs genuine.

"Anything else might be too derivative of the previous or might even be quite a bit too much. I suggest we keep the list to those, and anything else written under them." The eldest of du Berry's sons, a stern green-haired young man, spoke.

"I concur," Eschmann replied.

"Well then. Seeing as we have two separate agreements...I believe that your reasoning is sound enough. Would anyone else like to add a separate clause to this treaty? Please, speak up now, or else hold your tongue in the future." Chrom said.

A soft-spoken chorus of "no's" rose. Satisfied, the prince banged his gavel twice. "Then that concludes the delineation of topics. Let the record reflect that." The silent scribes posted in the corner scribbled his words hurriedly.

"That's all very well now, but we'd like to know what exactly is it that we're gonna talk about first." Basilio took a hearty swig from his goblet. "And we wanna know what exactly the budget is going to look like."

Oooh no. Talk of money so early in the game was going to rile someone up—

"Seeing as our coffers are far from overflowing, I propose some of the costs be offset with compensation payments. Surely Walhart would be as magnanimous as to extend that gesture to us?" du Berry suggested.

"Perhaps we would consider finances should you be clearer in delineating what is it exactly that you expect us to pay for," Pheros stated coldly.

"Do not play coy us with, General."

"Unless we have a guarantee of obtaining something in return, then your assertions are not even worth a half-pence."

"After the devastation you have wreaked upon our land and our people, you dare to suggest we owe you something?"

"Gentlemen—" Chrom warned.

"He's right,"· Basilio added. "There's no way we can come up with the goods since their ships torched Port Ferox. Unless they start rebuilding those ports themselves, or at least pay us enough for it, then Valm doesn't have a leg to stand on!"

"But why rely on Valm when Plegia possesses the fabled Morian Mines?" Oswynn again. Robin knew that his faction was vocally anti-Plegian, but broadcasting his intentions so openly at the table was foolish at best. "Bards and mages have spoken of rubies, lapis, gold and silver and sapphires and diamonds brought up from the depths of the earth, gems the size of a man's head and nuggets as large as a dog. Think of all the grain we could purchase, all the houses we could repair with but a single ingot from there!"

Robin fought the urge to roll her eyes. Of all the silly myths to exist, that one seemed to have captured the imagination of particular Ylisseans. "We would be happy to discuss a payment plan, Minister, should those mines even exist in the first place." Oswynn spluttered and blanched at her.

"Well, since you are so eager to discuss monetary issues, then we are happy to count with your cooperation." Valentine's tone was measured but the threat behind his words was poorly disguised.

Cervantes pounced on them, to Valentine's delight. "Well! If Plegia is so willing, then why not extend the offer to us as well?"

Seriously? Robin mentally groaned. Now was the time to be more assertive, she guessed. "Why should Plegia owe anything to Valm when we have not engaged neither as enemies nor allies?"

"I say—!"

Chrom's increasingly loud calls to order and the banging of his gavel went ignored.

A tall, thin man with sky-blue hair pushed his seat back and extended his hands out in a placating gesture. "Now, now, we would all be much more productive should we calm ourselves down and speak in a civilised manner—"

Du Berry gave him a scathing look. "Virion, you are in no position to speak on the matter."

The loud crack of splintered wood silenced them all rather quickly. Chrom had brought the gavel down upon the table with such force that an entire section had been sheared off, with only a few remnants of splinters connecting the table to the broken piece that rested at the prince's feet. He was sweating in his ermine and the throbbing of his vein had returned, stronger this time, as he struggled not to choke.

"Absolutely shameful," he finally ground out. "Barely the first day, and we already have had two arguments—no, not even two." He sighed and rubbed his nose. "This speaks poorly of us. We are here to discuss a peace treaty, and yet you all seem too eager to start at each other's throats. What's the matter with you all? Hasn't anyone learned anything? Doesn't anyone care?"

At least they all had the decency to look shame-faced. Robin herself felt deeply for Chrom. She did not want to cause any trouble and yet she let herself be carried away by her emotions and be provoked.

"I'm sorry," Robin apologised. "It was wrong of me. I let my feelings get the best of me."

Valentine was smug at her admission. Chrom gave her a sympathetic look and shook his head. "Please. At the moment, you are the least of my problems." Valentine's smile dropped like a dead fly.

Everyone else seemed to have caught on and they too offered their apologies—Chrom raised his palm up tiredly.

"Frederick, what hour does the clock strike?"

Frederick turned his head to face the timepiece on the wall (a curious contraption with numerals Robin did not know how to read), frowned, and turned to the prince. "Exactly six, milord."

Chrom swore under his breath. "Gentlemen, we are clearly not going to get anywhere farther today...and we're all late for supper. By the next session, I expect us all to make an actual effort and be on our best behaviour."

"Same hour tomorrow?" Clive asked.

"No. The day after. I'm sorry, I didn't realise I didn't say anything about the scheduling—the day after a session is a free day, to strategise, and so I may have the freedom to attend my audiences. Then the next day we meet again, and the day after is a free day once more...are we all clear on that?"

"Yes."

"I motion to adjourn this meeting."

Supper was held in the Great Hall this time, with Lissa and Ricken joining them all at the high table and the princess entertaining everyone with her humorous anecdotes and infectious cheer. Robin picked moodily at her chicken leg instead of conversing. There was a lot to plan for the day after tomorrow, and she was not looking forward to all the diagrams and matrices and simulations she would have to set up. It would mean a long night of scribbling away well after the fire in the hearth would have been banked down…

"Daraen?" Lissa was waving her hand in his face. "Everything alright?"

Robin blinked owlishly. "Y-yeah. Sorry, I wasn't really paying attention…"

"That's alright. Sometimes I do it too. But lately Chrom's been mooning around all the time, so really, you're not the biggest daydreamer in here." she tore into her bread and rolled her eyes at Chrom; her brother was again lost in thought to the tune of the lyre and of bards singing of unrequited love.

Robin raised an eyebrow, then returned to her food. It had been a long day; she did not begrudge the prince his hobbies or however he preferred to relax.

But staying in a mood would not help her own humours. However awkward socialising was, it would not hurt to indulge the princess and be friendly.

She turned to Lissa after gulping down a mouthful of chicken. "I like your hairpiece." Robin pointed to a strange, but rather whimsical cap made of lace, large white buttons, and a golden cord that held the components together.

Robin scolded herself mentally; Frederick's etiquette manuals had mentioned that pointing was in poor taste, but Lissa did not seem to mind and touched the buttons absently. "Oh...my Owain made it," a fond smile adorned her face. "'Course, he's not old enough to sew yet, so most of it was really me—but he picked the materials! And he told me how he wanted it to look."

"You have a son?"

"Yeah. He's my sweet little guy."

"He turns four in the summer." Ricken turned from his conversation with his father to join them. "He's rambunctious and feisty and loves playing with his toy sword."

Eschmann smiled at the mention of his grandson. "He named it 'dastard-whacker.' Wherever he got such a name, I don't think I shall know soon."

The conversation soon became easy and relaxed for her, hearing about Owain and his adventures with his friends Brady and Cynthia and Lissa's family and castle life. Robin was grateful that it did not turn to her or her own family. Perhaps they sensed her unease, but whatever it was, they never questioned her on it, and she was grateful.

However long and arduous the days turned, she hoped that she could at least enjoy nights and company like this.

How dare he.

He sat on the other side of the table, sandwiched between the princess Lissa and Eschmann's boy, Ricken. They were talking of their son Owain; laughing, sharing stories, offering up pieces of their happiness to him.

That filthy Plegian had no right to it.

Oh, he had heard things about that young man. That his mother was a witch who poisoned wells and spat frogs out of her mouth along with her words...that father of his was another matter entirely. That he spoke to the moon at midnight and offered blood and severed eyes, roasted upon a pyre of myrtle and myrrh.

That fell blood ran through his veins and marked his skin with proof of his sin just as Naga's purity and godliness marked Chrom's.

All that evil suffusing his very being, all that wickedness, and he dared to sully the late Emmeryn's grave with his dirty, fouled blood.

He. had. no. right.

He excused himself after supper to take his usual night walk. The fountain's gurgling and the scent of the irises soothed him, yet it was not enough to take his mind off his turmoil. Should he go to the Lady Margaret to request a sleeping aid? Another round by the lawn?

He would have rather gone to the mausoleum and begged forgiveness from Emmeryn, forgiveness for her death and the indignity of having her tomb desecrated by dirty blood and a prayer offered to Grima. But it was locked now, and visiting Her Grace would have only worsened the pain in his heart. Empty words that would have no effect on the evil now lurking within the castle.

But he had to do something.

"Whatever seems to be the matter?"

Who said that? He jumped in alarm, searching for that knowing, sibilant voice, terrified of an assassin waiting in the wings, or worse, him. Oh, it was foolish of him to insist on taking his walks alone!

"Who's there?" His voice quavered and he hated how obvious his fear was. "Show yourself!"

A low chuckle emerged from the shadows, along with a body: first a hose covered leg, then a torso, and a grinning, canny face followed. A tome rested within the person's arms, while a carefully lacquered nail tapped out a steady, thoughtful rhythm on its cover.

"You need not feel frightened." And yet he did feel frightened, as he was circled and assessed the way he had seen the castle cats do with the birds that foolishly wandered into their paths. Like he was a piece of meat to be snatched up and swallowed. "Your state of lament is obvious even at a glance...perhaps I can do something to remedy that."

He was...receiving an offer from this stranger?

No, he told himself. Pacts made in the dark of the night were for the dishonourable and the heretical. The night was when evil spirits such as witches and wraiths and ghosts gathered to talk. The night was when Plegians danced to the moon and offered up their bloody sacrifices, when assassins and thieves made their moves.

"I...you have nothing that could possibly interest me. Leave me be!" he gathered his robes close to his body and made to return to the keep.

"Not even a way to get rid of that Plegian?"

He stopped dead in his tracks.

How could he possibly know…?

"It's obvious, even from afar." He jumped when he heard that voice so close to his ear. "Having to share the same space with his ilk...how degrading. But please, save your worries. I can help you. I can make sure his presence never dirties the hallowed grounds you step on...as long as you listen very carefully to what I am about to tell you."

Know that twisted feeling you get as a writer when your beta screams at you? Sorry, Iturbide; but that cliffhanger was practically BEGGING me to write it!

Research for this chapter meant that if I was going to plot out this universe that had allusions to anything and everything from Italian Renaissance names to what a royal effigy looks like, I had to actually...go and do the research, which was fun but extremely tedious at the same time; luckily most of it was stuff that I'd already compiled way back in '14, so most of this chapter was actually me stressing over how to write it.

Thankfully, next chapter won't be as gloomy! Until next time.