Disclaimer: Not mine.

A/N: Yes, it's been too long. I've been busy writing fic over at Goldenlake, so this story has kind of taken a back seat. I'll keep posting updates for this story on , but for new stories of mine you might want to check out The King's Own, a new Tamora Pierce fic archive that's really easy to use. Just a warning, because I'm a bit lazy and might not get around to posting all my new stuff here. For a link to The King's Own (and Goldenlake), go to my profile.

Hope you enjoy the chapter :)

"I, er...your Majesty?"

King Jonathon was jolted awake, his quill screeching haphazardly across the eleventh, no, twelfth decree he had been in the process of fixing his signature to. Attempting to look somewhat alert and king-like, his attention finally rested on the young page (Gods, they were getting smaller every year!) who was hovering inside the doorway of his private study. Jonathon arranged his face into what he hoped was a welcoming expression.

"Yes, my good lad?"

"Your Majesty," the boy bowed low, before continuing, "Sir Gareth of Naxen requested that I inform you that Her Royal Majesty the Queen—"

"Yes, yes," Jonathon waved his hand impatiently, "what about my wife?"

The boy gulped, stuttered, cleared his throat, and:

"Her Majesty was seen leaving the Palace grounds with some of the Riders in the direction of the Royal Forest. Riding." He added.

Jonathon's eyebrows knit together ferociously. The page took this as his cue to leave.

Closing the door mutely behind him, the page looked up just in time to see Sir Gareth himself strolling towards him. The Younger. Sir Gareth the Younger. Knew I forgot something.

"What's that Ferell?" When Ferell merely shook his head—no use admitting to people that you talk to yourself, after all—Sir Gareth grinned a conspiratorial grin at him, motioning to the door. The sound of the King arguing with himself could faintly be heard through the polished oak.

"Told him, have you?" Ferell nodded. Sir Gareth's grin broadened.

"Well, lad, you'd better run along then, free time's not what it used to be."

Gary watched the boy trot off down the hall until he was round a corner and out of sight. He then smoothed back his hair, steeled himself, and opened the door.

"You!" were the first words, or word, rather, that greeted him. He tried to stop a smile from spreading across his face. Jon looked positively livid with frustration.

"Yes , Sire, it is I: noblest of knights, bravest of soldiers, most dashing of..."

"You." Jon was pointing at him now, his temper more under control than it had been a moment ago, "The page said that you saw them riding out, why didn't you stop her!?"

"Stop her? She's the Queen, Jon! I couldn't bloody well drag her from her horse, now, could I?"

"You could have tried!"

Gary sulked while Jon continued to glare at him.

"It's not easy, you know," Jon went on, straightening and restraightening the pile of papers in front of him, "I have to worry about her all the time. It's not like she's got a giant pumpkin in there, it's a baby. My baby. If something were to happen to her..."

"I honestly think you're worrying too much."

"Really."

"Yes, really. Thayet wouldn't do anything that would put your heir in harm's way; you have to start giving her credit for all this. She knows what she can handle."

Jonathon scowled. "You're right, of course. But I'm not sure how much more I can handle. It's only been a few months, for Mithros' sake, can you imagine what I'll have to deal with when she's as big as a--"

"Look," Gary said, "Worry about that when it comes. Enjoy these carefree days you have left. And finish your paperwork."

He left after those few words of wisdom, and Jonathon felt his anger deflating. He needed to rage, to be angry at someone, but now he didn't have the motivation. Gary was right: he needed to enjoy himself while he had the time. Now, where had he put his sword?

*****

The training grounds were surprisingly empty; the pages must still be in their academic classes at this time of day. Walking down towards an empty practise court, Jonathon gave his sword an experimental swing. It had been a long time since he'd done any physical activity for he'd been cooped up in his study most days, signing paperwork and overviewing the running of the kingdom. He was just thinking that he should have brought someone to fence against when he saw a page running in his direction from the corner of his eye. He lowered his sword with a sigh. What now?

"Your Majesty," the boy panted, bowing low. Jonathon was getting rather tired of young boys who had the bad habit of turning up when he least needed them. He motioned for the lad to continue.

"Baron Cooper is waiting in your study, Sire, I asked him what business he—"

"No, it's alright lad, Baron Cooper doesn't need a reason," Jonathon sighed. He dismissed the page and looked resignedly at the sword in his hand. He was too busy to make time for himself now, what would it be like when the baby arrived? Would he even have time to be a good father?

*****

When he entered his study—he may as well put a bed in there, considering how much time he spent there—George had made himself comfortable in his desk chair, his back to the door.

Jon always got a strange urge to try and sneak up on the former King of the Rogue, he wasn't quite sure why. As always though, he remembered that he was a grown man (and a king!) and grown men sneaking up on each other was not done. Unless they were trying to kill each other.

"Jon," George said in greeting, startling him from his thoughts. Turning to look over his shoulder at Jon, he gave him the once over. "You look a right mess."

Jonathon scowled. "And so I should, I've been run off my feet lately." He pulled up the chair on this side of his desk, since George had stolen his.

His spymaster raised an eyebrow in interest, "Thayet giving you trouble?"

"She's only the start of it. Look George," Jon sighed, rubbing his hands over his face, "I'm a busy man, what do you want?" Seeing George was strange; he looked his usual self, though there was a tightness around his eyes that told Jon he was worried about something. Still, he looked much better than Jon looked and felt, which was unfair.

George looked him in the eye. So this is business, Jon thought. George hardly ever talked directly to him about spymaster work, more often sending information through Myles or his agents at the palace.

"I haven't had word from my man in Tusaine for about three weeks now," George said, hazel eyes grave, "I want to know how this whole 'war' has come about without me hearing a thing about it, and permission to send two more agents across the border."

Jonathon clenched and unclenched his jaw. "I can't tell you that George."

"Why not."

The way he said it, it wasn't a question. Was George angry? Jon wondered. "I just can't, not at the present time," Jon said, rising from his seat, "You can send your agents. I want a report as soon as they're in position." He motioned to the door with his head.

George rose from his seat slowly. As he passed by Jon on the way out, he looked down at him for a moment, and in that moment Jon could feel all his authority slipping away.

"They're already in position. You'll have your report in a week," he said without feeling.

After George had left—Jon wished he had slammed the door, or something—the room was eerily quiet. He looked at the papers scattered over his desk in dismay; he was back exactly where he had started, except now he had a strange feeling in his chest that he couldn't shake.