A.N.: This chapter is for skyesaysno, thank you so much for your amazing review!

This is a continuation from the last chapter! I got really annoyed by how Feyre dismissed the human realms as having zero culture whatsoever, so I'm going to have Nesta put things to rights! I'm fascinated by the idea of how the humans founded their own societies after the Wall went up, and perhaps because House of the Dragon is still on my mind, I'm going to weave some elements of that into human history and the creation of the Republic of Prythian (the human nation). I was also annoyed how little SJM focuses on the aftermath of the war with Hybern in practical terms – beyond Feyre offering art classes to orphans…

A House of Flame and Flower

07

The Warrens

A few days later, the sun was shining, without any true heat: ice had settled during the night and the sun was now too weak to thaw it, though the countryside remained stunningly beautiful. Everything sparkled prettily in innumerable hues of green and silver: pillowy white clouds tumbled lazily overhead, though there was no breeze. Here and there, Nesta caught the call of birds and faerie-song: whenever her ears twitched, Tamlin would comment on what it was she was hearing. Once she was familiar with the sounds, Tamlin began to test her: he would ask her to identify each new sound as they heard them, riding along gentle hedgerow-trimmed lanes that curved idly around idyllic hills and meadows strewn with wildflowers that seemed immune to frost, tiny explosions of colour and fragrance that came like bursts of vitality amidst the threatening tang of snow. It had yet to snow but it was only a matter of time. Nesta was curious about the aquatic flowers that thrived in picturesque brooks and streams winding through the countryside like silver ribbons, over which ancient, tiny bridges had been erected, covered with moss and fungi and wildflowers, claimed by nature centuries ago so that, now, they seemed utterly natural to the environment. Beautiful woods spread as far as the eye could see, carpeting the gentle hills, granting picturesque views in all directions, and carving through them were rivers that gleamed silver in the sunlight: lakes shimmered as bright as mirrors and Nesta found herself smiling, invigorated by the cold and the beauty all around her, by the green, by the bird-calls and faerie-song.

If there was a finer way to explore Tamlin's lands than riding on horseback along the lazy, ancient paths, Nesta did not know it. Since she had arrived in Tamlin's lands, she had never been further than the gardens closest to the palace, and always within sight of the ruined palace, as a point of reference. Remembering Feyre's early antics here, Nesta had no desire to get herself lost and put herself in a vulnerable position.

Antares had had Tamlin's fierce golden stallion and a stubborn but intuitive silver mare saddled for them before dawn. Nesta had squashed her disappointment at not getting a glimpse of the fledgling. She may be ready to venture beyond the palace gardens: but Antares was not ready to meet her. She respected that, disappointed though she was.

Tamlin had spent the ride through the palace grounds giving Nesta a relaxed riding lesson. He said it was clear Nesta had had riding lessons but lacked confidence in the saddle. Nesta agreed: she had lost her confidence in riding.

She had lost her confidence in a lot of things. More accurately, her confidence had been ripped from her.

The only thing to do now was to build that confidence back up. She had done it before, she constantly reminded herself, even when the sheer variety of faeriesong she heard in the hedgerows seemed overwhelming. How was she ever to remember all the nuances of Fae culture?

Tamlin took advantage of their time together as they rode through the exquisite countryside. He seemed conscious of the fact that Nesta had no idea where to begin when it came to learning about the world of the Fae. Every time they heard faeriesong, or he caught sight of a particular faerie in the hedgerows, he drew her attention to it: he told her what the faerie looked like, its diet, its preferred habitat and how it cleverly outwitted any potential predators, even their mating dances – and among the faeries, they truly were dances. He told her which faeries were considered nuisances by the majority and which were best just left alone: he told her which faeries were commonplace, and those that even he, over five hundred years old, had barely glimpsed but twice in his life.

A few hours later, the horses plodded idly through a gap between two small hills and the path forked: a small wattle-fenced green featured a signpost, yet Nesta was too distracted by what lay beyond to read it. Sheer delight spread through her body as she beheld the sight of a village such as she had never seen: rather than build on the hills, whoever had settled here had built into them, instead of spoiling the incredible countryside. Tiny rolling hills tumbled over each other, and set into each were perfectly round doors painted in bright colours. In a gentle dip between the hills were allotments overflowing with winter crops, even a scarecrow. There was a lovely pond into which frogs and amphibian faeries jumped on their approach, making the flowers that grew on the surface shiver and dance. Everywhere Nesta looked, plants and flowers and trees thrived, cohabiting the area with the Fae. Bushes and flowers tumbled over low fences that sectioned off front-gardens in which residents had stationed rocking-chairs or spindles and little tables selling fresh eggs: flagstones set out haphazard paths to those vibrant doors and beside some were small round windows glowing amber, trinkets on the sills and lace curtains providing privacy. Some residences were marked simply by one of those vibrant round doors, others had a couple of windows, some had redbrick additions overgrown with clematis, but the finest – and these were built into the top of the highest hills – featured beautiful front-gardens overlooked by umpteen windows, and providing stunning views all around. She almost did not notice the wisps of smoke from chimneys set sporadically through the hills, utterly charmed by the clothes-lines that were strung up between saplings, the beehives that were dotted about, the goats that were allowed to wander as they pleased and the snow-white ducks that waddled toward the pond, one of them ridden by a small faerie wielding a crook.

The village was, simply put, beautiful. Care and a love for all things growing permeated the very air and Nesta's heart sang because of it. She admired Tamlin's unending gardens but she adored this village. To the left of an enormous oak tree was a small lake, at the edge of which was a picturesque mill and a handful of buildings, these ones raised above-ground but centred around a green full of bushes, flowers and trees, between which were strung lanterns glowing with fae-light.

"You like it, then," Tamlin said, smiling to himself as he watched Nesta's face. Unless she was nettled, she tended to be very guarded with her emotions: she gave little away. And most of the time, he forgot how young she was: her beautiful face was always so stern and thoughtful. Yet now, an innocent wonder illuminated her striking face. Her eyes glowed softly silver, the corners of her lush lips lifting. Delight: that was what he saw in her face.

It was the same look that had shone on her face when she had returned from her walk to find him in the kitchen: delight. She had been delighted that he had returned. She was delighted by the Warrens.

"It's beautiful, Tamlin," she said earnestly. Tamlin grinned to himself, pleased. He would have wondered about anyone who could come to this place and not be entranced by the simple, earnest beauty of it. "How many homes are there?"

"In this village? Just over seventy," Tamlin told her. "Only twelve are occupied at the moment." He nodded to the windows glowing amber, the wisps of smoke unfurling rapturously from one of the chimneys. He smiled as she gazed wistfully around, yearning in her expression. He chuckled softly, "Are you regretting that you've stayed at the Gardens?"

"They do look wonderfully cosy," Nesta said softly.

"Would you like to see inside one?" he asked. He needed to inspect them all, anyway. Not just so that he could designate his Triumvar to different residences, but to ensure they were not falling into disrepair. Though the Fae who had lived here had returned to their families, he did not want to discourage anyone from returning.

Nesta's eyes glowed and she nodded eagerly: they nudged their horses into motion, but instead of guiding them through the gentle paths and allotments, Tamlin rode to the stables near the mill: Nesta hissed with pain as she moved to climb out of the saddle. Muttering to herself, she winced when Tamlin approached her to help: she rested her arms on his shoulders and let him circle her waist with his hands, lifting her out of the saddle. He set her on her feet and offered to stretch her legs until the pain dwindled: she grimaced but nodded, her hands on his shoulders for balance as he stretched her legs.

"You should start riding regularly," he told her quietly.

"I've been walking daily," Nesta said, and he heard the grimace in her tone. She exhaled sharply.

"That's good," Tamlin told her. "You're building up muscle, I can feel it. Riding will strengthen your core and your legs."

"I wish you'd let me ride around the village," Nesta admitted, and Tamlin laughed softly.

"You can handle a little discomfort," he told her, and she gave him an irritated look. He knew her well enough to know there was no true heat in the glare. He grinned and felt her peeved glare as he strode away, not feeling a whisper of pain from their ride. It had been a wonderful, gentle ride. He hadn't enjoyed just riding his horse for ages. But he had enjoyed even more teaching Nesta: she seemed to absorb everything. And by the Mother, she was sharp. It had been a little unsettling to begin with, starting to appreciate just how Nesta's mind worked. She had clearly been educated: and she was curious, analytical. She thought about everything in greater depth and came out with questions that made him think carefully before he responded.

He led the way through the village, leaving Nesta to dawdle behind, charmed by everything, from the painted bird-boxes to the lean-to in the pumpkin patch full of gardening tools to the little semi-circular post-boxes attached to each garden gate, the tiny faeries chittering within flourishing herbs and the tall flowers waving in a half-hearted breeze. She didn't seem aware that she was smiling as she hopped over a precarious bridge balanced over a bubbling brook, or that she was peering eagerly at pots overflowing with flowers unique to the Spring Court set into the porches overhanging some of the round doors, curious about an outdoor oven built into a redbrick chimney attached to the side of one Warren with a vibrant red door, and which had a knocker shaped like a plaited wreath of dough, a sweet treat popular in the Spring Court. She was charmed by a short ladder leaning against the side of a Warren with a yellow door, for easy access to the 'roof' where a washing-line was strung up between two gnarled apple trees. He idled his way toward the occupied Warrens, letting Nesta explore, saddened that the majority of his tenants, who had put such hard work, love and pride into their homes, were not here to witness her awe.

While Nesta explored, Tamlin set about his errands, knocking quietly on some of the doors. At one Warren, children spilled out of the front-door with eager smiles and giggles that rang out like chimes, reaching for his coat pockets: he withdrew a handful of sweets, to their delight, as their mother appeared. She rolled her eyes and apologised for her children's lack of decorum, even as she took a sweet herself, dimpling as she dipped a polite curtsy. Tamlin reached out with his magic and retrieved a wicker basket and offered it: it was filled with lengths of linen and new sewing-needles, beeswax candles and balls of twine, packets of sugar and spices, cheeses, Nesta's homemade jam, a loaf of her bread and some of the small cakes and biscuits she had baked over the last few days, a cooked gammon and a whole side of smoked salmon.

Nesta, he noticed, remained a few paces away, rather than approach. She simply observed, and he saw the shrewd glint in her eyes as he bid the female goodbye, rumpled the hair of her youngest and took care to latch the garden-gate behind him, lest a piglet make a bid for freedom from its pen. He repeated the process of gift-giving eleven more times: the last visit was to a simple blue door with no windows and wood for a fire stacked neatly beside a wooden armchair that overlooked the pond. Beside the chair was a large pot overflowing with flowers, not a weed in sight, and nearby, tucked into the tall grasses, was a fat hen clucking over a brood of chicks. The resident of this particular Warren was accustomed to Tamlin but he was glad that Nesta kept her distance: the door opened a few inches, and Tamlin smiled grimly at the scarred, weather-beaten face that peered anxiously at him. The Fae relaxed somewhat, as much as they ever relaxed, and after a murmured conversation, Tamlin handed over the offerings.

He led Nesta away, through the allotments, and she observed, "They're familiar with you."

"I visit when I can," he told her. "But it is hard. Not the work but the isolation. The Warrens used to thrive."

"They will again," Nesta said confidently, and Tamlin nodded as they made their way through the allotments, observing the small crops favoured by the residents. Nesta glanced at Tamlin. "Who was the Fae living in that last Warren? I've never seen such scars."

"Orrin is a Hybernian prisoner-of-war, freed after the last battle," Tamlin told her frankly. She blinked. "He, and many more like him, were stranded here in Prythian. The Warrens are some of the villages that agreed to host freed prisoners-of-war. Orrin is the only one in this Warren but in others, there are far more."

"And how do they get on?" Nesta asked curiously.

Tamlin sighed. "What Orrin had survived even before the war, I believe there is nothing he cannot withstand. As it is, he is surrounded by decent Fae… You wonder what lives they led. What lies or threats brought them so far from their home..."

"I never considered the soldiers who surrendered after the battle," Nesta said quietly. She never liked to consider the battle at all.

"Most do not care to think about it, that those we took up arms against are just like us," Tamlin said grimly. "It makes it easier to slaughter entire armies when they have surrendered."

"Like Lord Tarquin did, you mean," Nesta said shrewdly, and Tamlin winced.

"I…am a general now but once I was a common foot-soldier. You follow orders," Tamlin said, sounding tired. "It is not always right. With the wrong commander, you risk committing massacres, and worse. But executing those who have lain down their arms in surrender…that also is an atrocity."

"I wonder why he did it," Nesta said thoughtfully.

"By all accounts, Tarquin is a very decent male," Tamlin said, shaking his head. "But he is also very young and new to the position of High Lord. I imagine there were many attempting to whisper in his ear about showing his strength as High Lord of Summer."

"And they believed a massacre would do that?"

"It certainly sent a message," Tamlin said, "though likely one Tarquin regrets."

"After the battle…how many were there?" Nesta asked.

"Those who surrendered? Many. They saw the ferocity with which we fought to defend our home, the appearance of the strength of our alliance with the humans. Perhaps they also saw themselves in those they had been ordered to kill. They could not do so," Tamlin said quietly. "Hybern's true fanatics died with him, of course, but some deserted during the battle… After, many fled across the Spring Court – and the human lands. For many months I tracked them down. A deserter is the most dangerous kind of criminal: they have nothing left to lose so they won't hesitate to commit unspeakable acts."

"What did you do when you found them?" Nesta asked hesitantly, though Tamlin saw her glance over her shoulder toward the plain blue door.

"Some fought. There were those Fae who wished to punish the people of my lands for Hybern's defeat. They would never stop unless someone forced them to," Tamlin admitted. "Then there were the others, the ones desperate to return home – and the ones who vowed never to set foot there again. When I offered them homes, they realised everything they had been told was a lie."

"You gave them sanctuary," Nesta said, and Tamlin nodded.

"They were at their most dangerous when they had nothing to lose; I convinced them they had everything to gain," Tamlin said.

Nesta sighed sadly, shaking her head. She watched Tamlin pause at one of the allotments overflowing with courge pumpkins. The sight of the large, slightly squashed-looking pumpkins was so familiar, it sent Nest aback to the allotment she had tended at the cottage. She told Tamlin earnestly, "It's a shame you let the world think the worst of you."

Tamlin glanced up at her from the bed of pumpkins. "Not the world. Only the people who don't matter," he said quietly, shrugging. "The same can be said of you."

Nesta pulled a face, acknowledging that he was right: she had never wasted effort worrying what others thought about her.

She watched Tamlin as he stooped to pluck an errant weed, carefully lifting it up to her eyes. "You see this?" Nesta peered closer and saw a caterpillar, icy-blue with spines that glittered like frost. "This is a chidbil. Common folk call them 'chillerpillars' – see how the leaves of the weed have become frostbitten at its touch? Chidbil thrive in the cooler months. They're not as common here as in the Winter Court. Some might assume they are pests: but they eat exclusively weeds and spin ice-silk that is prized, if it can be harvested properly. In the Winter Court, they farm chidbils for their silk. Some noble Fae children keep them as pets because they're so docile."

Nesta glanced from the chidbil to Tamlin, a little startled that he had gone from talking about prisoners-of-war and hunting down deserters to teaching her about chidbil in the same breath. She was touched by his gruff earnestness, his down-to-earth, humble attitude, showing that he both understood the people in his lands and had a deep appreciation of even the smallest, most innocuous faeries that made his lands their home.

"What do the chidbil metamorphose into?" Nesta asked.

"They don't," Tamlin said. "Though their nickname resembles the caterpillar, the chidbil is as it will always be: it will grow larger the older it gets." Carefully, he set the plucked weed and the chidbil dining upon it into a bed of weeds and straightened up, leading the way back up through the allotments, following the lazy paths winding past painted doors, and let Nesta examine all the details, answering her questions about the flowers flourishing despite the iciness of the day.

"I recognise some from home," Nesta told him. "Though they're far rarer, and only tend to flower where the land is undisturbed, deep in the forests."

They discussed the Fae names for the flowers, and Nesta told Tamlin the common names humans used for them, at least in Prythian. "I'm surprised," Tamlin said. "They're clearly magical: I would have thought humans would have ripped them up, root and stem."

"It was the High Fae we rejected, not the very nature of the world we live in," Nesta said, and Tamlin nodded to himself. Nesta dawdled by patches of wildflowers that tinkled and chimed in the breeze like glass bells.

He opened the dark green door of the finest Warren and was gratified that a wash of warmth greeted him, along with the sight of swept tile floors, an expensive carpet and curved walls panelled with polished wood that gleamed dark-gold in the faelights that sparked into life, warming the many windows to a golden amber glow. The lamp hanging over the front-door glowed and seemed to entice Nesta. She had forgotten the ache in her legs, it seemed, climbing the winding paths up the hills, and he caught her smile as she pushed open the garden-gate and beheld the fine bench surrounded by painted flower-pots at the foot of a short flight of stone steps to the front-door, greeted by flowers at every step.

Tamlin had always liked the Warrens. They were utterly comfortable, especially this one. Carpeted floors, panelled walls and many small round doors leading off the main hall: bedrooms, bathrooms, cellars, pantries, wardrobes, kitchens, dining-rooms, parlours and libraries, all on one level, with those round windows set deep into sills overlooking the great oak and the lake and all the hills for miles around. It was finely but sparsely furnished, though the cellars, library and the wardrobes were empty. It was perfectly ready for a new tenant: he poked his head into every room, assessing with magic what his eyes could not see. He could not house all of his Triumvar here but they would be comfortable in the village, for as little time as they would spend here: the majority of their time would be spent arguing things out in the Gardens.

"I don't know how anyone could ever leave this place," Nesta said wistfully. Tamlin smiled sadly. "Are they all like this?"

"This is the grandest Warren," Tamlin told her, "though the design is consistent throughout." He examined the parlour and nodded, satisfied: he exited the Warren and Nesta followed him to the bench that was situated to perfectly observe the winding paths, the allotments, the great oak and the lake.

"That is a party-tree," Nesta said, pointing delicately to the enormous oak as she tucked her skirts beneath her and sat down on the bench. He reached out with his magic and brought out a wicker basket filled with food: Nesta's eyes sparked with delight. "A picnic?"

"I thought you'd enjoy it," he said, and Nesta's teeth – and her dainty fangs – flashed in the sunlight.

"When did you prepare all these baskets?" Nesta asked, her eyes sparkling. Then she frowned and sighed, saying quietly, "You didn't sleep. And I went and had too much!"

"You needed it," Tamlin said quietly.

"You need it," Nesta said. He shrugged. Sleep did not come easily, especially with the Tithe approaching and the Triumvar descending. There were glimmers in the not-so-distant future that coaxed him through, but more and more the enticement to endure everything else was the prospect of spending time with Nesta. Without her even realising it, she made him calm. She made everything seem more bearable. She gentled and smiled softly at him, asking, "What have you made us?"

"Cheap soldiers' fare, I'm afraid," he told her. Nesta was a phenomenal cook, had obviously had some training but taught herself much more. She cooked and baked with confidence and true joy: she was excited by flavours and textures, appreciated the simplest ingredients and played with spices, brought out the best in everything she used to make some truly mouth-watering meals. Tamlin had learned how to cook as a young soldier. Rich, hearty stews cooked low and slow, heavy sourdough bread, soups that filled the belly and kept them warm for hours. But he had always enjoyed breakfast. Porridge – he and Nesta argued over how to prepare it: he preferred it so thick he could stand the spoon up in it while Nesta enjoyed hers creamy – and a stuffed flatbread.

Nesta let out an appreciative hum as he handed her a stuffed flatbread, still piping hot as if he had just cooked them. The hot flatbread was folded around layers of cream-cheese, chilli jam, crispy bacon, cold sausages sliced in half lengthways and refried in the bacon grease, a poached egg and fresh coriander. He set out two tea glasses and pulled out a ceramic bottle.

"What's that?"

"Spiced hot chocolate," Tamlin told her.

"Sounds very martial," Nesta quipped, and Tamlin laughed.

"Dosed with whisky," Tamlin said, and Nesta smiled.

"Now that is simple soldiers' fare," she said. He laughed again. They sat back on the bench, enjoying the views, and Tamlin smiled to himself as he listened to Nesta enjoying her breakfast flatbread.

"What did you mean, about the oak being a 'party tree'?" Tamlin asked, licking chilli jam and egg yolk from his fingers.

"Amongst humans, we celebrate nature, as much as our ancestors. Our holidays and festivities are almost always centred around trees. In summer, we celebrate the solstice by stringing lanterns through the boughs of the largest, oldest tree, and spend the night dancing beneath them," Nesta said fondly. "The eve of our New Year always falls on the Winter Solstice and we celebrate with gifting trees – some people call them plunder trees."

"What are they?"

"If you are wealthy, or can afford it, you would buy a handsome fir and have it felled, and bring it into your home. It is usually decorated with lights and hung with tiny trays and filigree baskets and enamel boxes and delicate, beautiful receptacles all filled with delicacies, pastries and sweets and such."

"Ah, all to be plundered," Tamlin realised, and Nesta smiled, nodding eagerly.

"I remember Mama once decorated a plunder tree with glasses of chilled cocktails and savoury morsels just before guests arrived for a ball," she said, her eyes sparkling with delight. "And another year, Father gifted Mama her own little plunder-tree that he had decorated with strings of pearls and tiny silk pouches filled with brilliant-cut diamonds."

"That sounds rather magnificent," Tamlin said softly, aware of the look on Nesta's face: nostalgia warring with complete devastation.

"Oh, it was," Nesta gushed. "There were diamonds enough to make a magnificent parure. Mama's tiara and the matching necklace and brooches became famous when she wore them: so did her pearls. She set a trend that has lasted decades after her death." Her smile faded and Nesta fell silent. As happened when she was upset, her eyes shone, hard and emotionless as glass, yet her lips betrayed her, trembling slightly as she bit the inside of her cheek. Tamlin sipped his spiked hot-chocolate and reached out a hand, gently taking hers. He gently stroked his thumb against the back of her hand, a simple, soothing gesture.

A little while later, Nesta said mournfully, "But mostly, we leave the trees where they are: in the village, we would always come together on Solstice to decorate a fir tree together – we would decorate it with edible treats that we had spent days baking, ready to share."

"What are the origins of the plunder-tree?" Tamlin asked curiously.

"I suppose our reverence for trees comes from their origins as points of reference: gather at the largest, oldest tree you could see," Nesta said softly. "The two most important tenets of our society – at least in the Republic of Prythian – are freedom and collaboration. We formed our communities around the most ancient trees as a symbol of their endurance, and we worked collaboratively to build our society from the ground up, as our ancestors fought together to secure the freedoms we enjoy."

"And the plunder?"

"To begin with, we combined our resources so that all had the means to survive, especially during the Terror," Nesta said, and Tamlin frowned, wondering what she meant. "Over the centuries, the plunder-trees have become not just a symbol of our ancestors' generosity but of our prosperity… People go out of their way during Solstice to decorate plunder-trees, especially for the less-fortunate. I will never forget our first Solstice at the cottage… We were utterly miserable. I had never been colder. The villagers gathered together in the night to decorate a small plunder-tree for us. Everyday items that we could not afford, even things like twine and bandages, bottles of medicine…things they had spare and knew we needed."

Nesta fell quiet again. Tamlin thought about all she had said: she had revealed more about human culture in the last few minutes than Feyre had in all the time she had spent in Spring.

"Feyre told me once that humans value money above all things," he said quietly, and even as he brought it up, he wondered whether he should mention Feyre at all, "and that you celebrate no holidays."

Nesta scoffed impatiently, crinkling her nose the way she did when she was irked. "She valued money above all," Nesta said waspishly, "as we had none. And as for holidays…I suppose she meant that we do not celebrate Fae holidays. Or that the way our family celebrated holidays was so far beneath her standards, they weren't worth mentioning."

"Both may be true, I suppose," Tamlin said, sighing. He glanced at Nesta, observing the frown-line between her eyebrows that only appeared when she was thinking of her sisters. "Has there been any word?"

"No," Nesta said, with false lightness in her tone. She redirected the conversation: "It's so clever to have built into the hills, rather than destroy the views." Once again, she unsettled Tamlin with her insightfulness: "But what about subterranean Fae? I'm assuming there are some."

Tamlin smiled softly, shaking his head. "It's one of the few things I've ever been absolutely rigid about, you know. Rapid expansion of towns and cities… When the Wall was raised, the Fae who lived in the south had to leave their ancestral homes. They had to come north or be lost beyond the Wall. My father never bothered himself with the fate of those who were not High Fae, but when I became High Lord, I tasked myself with finding everyone new homes: the majority of my people live in harmony with nature – with the woods and the meadows and the rivers." He gazed out across the great oak and the lake, the rolling hills beyond carpeted by endless woods. It was a privilege to be lord and master of these lands, to have the responsibility of so many lives. "To destroy any of them would be a direct assault on those who rely on such places as their homes, the source of their sustenance and incomes, the place of their greatest strength. Every inch of this Court is accounted for. And it has taken a long time to find the balance, though it is by no means perfect."

Nesta admitted, "I never really thought about it – Fae being moved from their homes to make way for the humans."

"You can understand why the Wall was so unpopular among our kind. All those south of the Wall were forced to migrate to lands that did not want them," Tamlin said heavily. "That's why Hybern so easily gained allies on the Continent. Spring lost a third of its lands when the Wall went up but the entirety of the Continent was split in half. The Wall provoked a crisis among the Fae, with hundreds of thousands dispossessed, bereft of their ancestral homes, separated from the links to their magic. Many wasted away. Entire family lines, species, brought to extinction. It altered our world irrevocably."

Nesta was quiet for a few moments.

"In Prythian, after a time at least, we were blessed with strong leadership that drove us to establish our identity as an independent nation. The freed slaves brought the unique flavours of each of the Fae courts to our culture: we honour them still. Many of our traditions and celebrations have roots that go back to human slave-cultures within each of the different Courts. We honour the unique heritages we have inherited and celebrate a shared culture that honours the past and the sacrifices made, as a reminder of what can again be lost. Prythian is one of the few human nations never to have suffered sustained conquest from continental powers: in fact, we are known to rebuff any invasion with swift and brutal efficacy. Our culture is one that is admired and envied across the world and there are those who have always sought refuge on our shores."

"As it is for the Fae, too."

"How so?" Nesta asked, sipping her spiced hot-chocolate.

"The biomes within Prythian's Seasonal Courts are unique in the world. Within my Court, for example, there are deciduous forests to the south, frigid waters along the east coast, tropical waters along the west coast with rainforests sharing the border with Summer, to name a few of the variations of the Spring biomes," Tamlin said. Ever since he was a boy, trailing his mother's skirts as she drifted about the gardens, and later as an adolescent in his father's war-band, Tamlin had always enjoyed learning about the natural world around him. He was more at ease amongst nature. "In Summer, for example, they enjoy a humid, tropical climate on the west coast, with lush rainforests and tremendous waterfalls and sweeping rivers; in the very heart of the land is a desert, with savannas surrounding it, grasslands that are drowned once a year in torrential storms, rejuvenating plant-life, and stretching to the east is the Grass Sea – an impenetrable labyrinth of grasses taller than any oliphant, full of rhinos and sloth-bears and water-buffalo and faeries that account for the majority of the unexpected deaths in Summer every year. The grasslands become swamplands the further east you travel and eventually, when the hippopotamus and crocodiles swarm the rivers alongside aquatic shifters, you know you're approaching the mangrove forests. At the border with Autumn, the mangroves become deciduous forests. Certain Fae can only survive in such unique biomes. Shortly before the Wall was raised, the northern Fae kingdoms on the Continent were overwhelmed by refugees. Many of them came here, to Prythian. If not for their losses during the war, the High Lords would not have taken them in: they would not have wanted the strain on their resources."

"But they hadn't given up lands, as the Spring Court was forced to," Nesta said.

"No… And they only took the refugees when it was intimated that these refugee Fae could take on the work abandoned by the human slaves," Tamlin said grimly. "The War is still within our living memory: many still ache to return home. When Hybern proposed breaking down the Wall, of course he had their attention. The High Fae wanted to punish the humans for their audacity at snatching their freedom by the edge of their blades…and other Fae wished to return home, where they could be strong again, where they are not treated as little more than human slaves were."

Nesta watched him inscrutably. Finally, she asked, "Why did you do it?"

"What?"

"Ally with Hybern." Nesta thought he was going to ignore her question, it took Tamlin so long to answer.

"When I was a boy, I used to listen to my father and brothers discuss how they would reclaim Spring lands from the humans. How they would use Hybern to do it," Tamlin admitted, gazing into his hot-chocolate.

"How?"

"Hybern was ancient and vicious and coveted lands and power. He had amassed his own power but he had also trained his own armies…well, you saw them. Even after the war, forced into signing a treaty that limited his armament, his restricted armies had the discipline to decimate any force set against them. Hybern understood the true wealth of the Continent and coveted it for its potential to bring wealth to his own realm," Tamlin said softly. "He wished to secure himself an empire that would last for millennia, constantly feeding his avarice and narcissism… My father and…and Amarantha used to discuss their plans." He tried to stifle a shiver. Just saying her name… "Father knew – he knew Hybern would send Amarantha as his best, his most vicious, most beguiling commander, clearing a path. She had it in her to bring the High Lords to their knees."

"And she did," Nesta said.

Tamlin agreed dully, "And she did."

"But not all of them," Nesta said, turning her appraising gaze on him, something like appreciation if not pride glowing in her silvery eyes. "You resisted her."

"For as long as I could… For all the good it did," Tamlin said, his blood running cold, his belly churning with nausea. His leg jigged erratically; Nesta reached out almost subconsciously and rested her hand on his thigh, her touch soothing him. His leg stopped jigging.

"How can you say that?" she asked quietly, gazing at him. "If you hadn't…we wouldn't be here… All this would be ash… What happened when she came?"

Tamlin shook his head, misery and regret for the past swirling in his veins. "I tried to warn the other High Lords."

"They didn't listen."

"Either they thought it was part of some political game and second-guessed the information I provided, or they sneered down their noses at me."

"Why?"

"I was the youngest of them – and all knew I was a foot-soldier in my father's army when I inherited the power," Tamlin said, shrugging. "They looked down on me until the moment she showed her hand. Amarantha knew all that… She thought it a delicious twist of fate that I was suddenly their only salvation. The one they had sneered at and talked down to, derided and ignored."

"Surely not all of them?"

"Thesan's always been decent," Tamlin conceded. "But even he was in thrall – the priestesses had weaselled their way into his Court. All the while, they were working for Hybern. Another weapon in his arsenal."

"What happened after you killed Amarantha?"

"I knew the chaos would be Hybern's greatest opportunity to seize Prythian…and my only opportunity to protect my people and secure my lands in the inevitable conflict," Tamlin said, gazing out across his home.

"So you made a deal with him?"

Tamlin fidgeted, and decided to tell her the truth. It was a truth his allies had known for years, but not one that would ever have reached the Night Court.

"I inherited more than just power when my father died: my father and Hybern had sworn a blood-oath," Tamlin said, stifling a shudder "I reminded him that he was beholden to it, for my father had worded the oath to include his progeny: Hybern's own spellcasting played against him – he had made the oath unbreakable by any force in the world. So he had to honour the pact he and my father had made, that in exchange for whatever armies Spring could muster to support his conquests, Hybern would honour my father's – my – claim to the Spring Court and all lands south of the Wall."

"Whatever armies you could muster?"

Tamlin's smile was wry. "When dealing with Fae, you must be specific. Hybern and my father were friends; they were just as proud and devious as each other. They respected each other's cutthroat, grasping natures, their viciousness. They considered each other equals."

Nesta frowned at Tamlin, though he could see she was not irritated: she was thinking. And Nesta was: she understood now why Tamlin had allowed everyone to believe that Feyre had shattered his court. If all believed he no longer held control over his lands, how could he command his people to take up arms to fight for him?

Feyre and the others believed whole-heartedly – and with a disgusting arrogance that made Nesta's blood boil – that Feyre had manipulated Tamlin into dismantling his own court from the inside out… What none of them realised was that he had been playing them all along. He had used Feyre.

She almost laughed out loud at the realisation. She yearned to throw it in Feyre's face, see Rhysand's reaction… Tamlin was too decent a male to do anything of the sort, though.

She said instead, "You disbanded your armies."

"I used my father's blood-oath to my advantage. He was…evil…and he knew how to use others to get what he wanted. He knew how to use Hybern's narcissism against him. The blood-oath was worded very carefully…" Tamlin shrugged. "Only the armies I could muster would support Hybern's conquests – but my father never specified how the armies should be mustered, or how they would be used…so I tasked a paltry legion with gathering crops."

Nesta beamed. "An army of farmers."

"To support the kitchens of Hybern's army-camps," Tamlin nodded, smirking subtly.

"But no warriors."

Tamlin shook his head, saying quietly, "My people are not fodder."

Nesta gazed at him, remembering a wash of bright white light, of pure power, radiating across a battlefield…turning swathes of aerial soldiers to ash in a heartbeat. Fodder, she thought. From what she had overheard between Cassian and Azriel, there were rumblings in the Steppes. Accusations that their High Lord had used the elite Illyrian warriors as fodder were becoming louder amongst the survivors. They claimed that he lacked any respect for the dead.

"I imagine Hybern didn't like that." Tamlin's lips quirked, though his eyes remained dull.

"He respected it. It was always part of their game – his and my father's. Outwitting each other, using words as weapons," Tamlin said, shifting uncomfortably as a nasty thought niggled in the back of his mind: his father would never have been outmanoeuvred the way he had been the night Nesta and her sister were forced into the Cauldron. He was all too aware of his strategic failures with Nesta sat beside him, warmth radiating from her as she sipped her hot-chocolate. "I may have failed before, but I finally outwitted him."

Nesta gazed at him, and he knew she understood what he meant, the failure he was referencing. She didn't address it, only said, "And he let you live?"

"Hybern respected deviousness and strength above all things."

"Is that why he never executed you for tearing Amarantha's throat out?"

"In fact, he laughed. I had proven myself superior in willpower by denying her for so long and in strength by so brutally murdering her," Tamlin said, wincing. "If Amarantha fell, that was her fault… Besides, he blamed her for losing the war, had been waiting for centuries to punish her for her mess with Jurian and Clythia."

"Why have you never told anyone about the blood-oath?"

"My allies knew of it: it was integral to our plans. Plans that went awry because –" Tamlin broke off, feeling himself becoming worked up. "Anyway, I owe no-one any such explanation. Certainly not now. They made up their minds what happened based on the word of –"

"Of Feyre."

"Her ignorance fed his hatred," Tamlin said, shrugging as if it did not sting.

"But you were beholden to an unbreakable blood-oath," Nesta pointed out. "You inherited it: you didn't forge it."

"I am sure Rhysand would have found a way to blame it on me regardless…" Tamlin sighed. "He will always be blinded by his hate and his prejudice. My actions will always be unexpected. So be it: my people are safe. That's what matters."

After a moment, Nesta mused, "I hate that word."

"Which?"

"Unexpected," Nesta said, frowning. "It makes things…small. It takes away accountability."

"How so?"

"Unexpected and underestimated are the same thing: but to be unexpected means you have literally gone above and beyond what others believe you capable of. It congratulates them for your achievements," Nesta said. "But to be underestimated…that means that someone else's perspective of you is wrong, that they are wrong…that they have to be held accountable for their failure to appreciate your potential."

Tamlin gazed at Nesta, and wondered aloud, "How did you learn to see the world the way you do?"

"Experience," she said grimly. "It is a brutal teacher, but you learn."

A.N.: I think we all wanted little more development regarding post-war Prythian, human culture and some much-needed insight into Tamlin's decision-making process throughout the series!