Hasar seemed to notice, too. And for all that this was meant to be a birthday party, the princess pondered aloud to no one in particular, “Perhaps Aelin Galathynius should drag her esteemed self down here and select one of my brothers to marry. Perhaps then we would consider assisting her. If such influence remained in the family.”
Meaning all that flame, all that brute power … tied to this continent, bred into the bloodline, never to be a threat.
“My brothers would have to stomach being with someone like that, of course,” Hasar went on, “but they are not such weak-blooded men as you might believe.” A glance at Kashin, who seemed to pretend not to hear, even as Arghun snorted. Yrene wondered if the others knew how adept Kashin was at drowning out their taunting—that he never fell for their baiting simply because he couldn’t be bothered to care.
Chaol answered Hasar with equal mildness, “As interesting as it would be to see Aelin Galathynius deal with all of you …” A secret, knowing smile, as if Chaol might very well enjoy seeing that sight. As if Aelin might very well make blood sport out of them all. “Marriage is not an option for her.”
Hasar’s brows lifted. “To a man?”
Renia gave her a sharp look that Hasar ignored.
Chaol chuckled. “To anyone. Beyond her beloved.”
“King Dorian,” Arghun said, swirling his wine. “I’m surprised she can stomach him.”
Chaol stiffened, but shook his head. “No. Another prince—foreign-born and powerful.”
All the royals stilled. Even Kashin looked their way.
“Who, pray tell, is that?” Hasar sipped her wine, those keen eyes darkening.
“Prince Rowan Whitethorn, of Doranelle. Former commander to Queen Maeve, and a member of her royal household.”
Yrene could have sworn the blood drained wholly from Arghun’s face. “Aelin Galathynius is to wed Rowan Whitethorn?”
From the way the prince said the name … he’d indeed heard of this Rowan.
Chaol had mentioned Rowan more than once in passing—Rowan, who had managed to heal much of the damage in his spine. A Fae Prince. And Aelin’s beloved.
Chaol shrugged. “They are carranam, and he swore the blood oath to her.”
“He swore that oath to Maeve,” Arghun countered.
Chaol leaned back in his seat. “He did. And Aelin got Maeve to free him from it so he could swear it to her. Right in Maeve’s face.”
Arghun and Hasar swapped glances. “How,” the former demanded.
Chaol’s mouth turned up at the corner. “Through the same way Aelin achieves all her ends.” He flicked his brows up. “She encircled Maeve’s city in fire. And when Maeve told her that Doranelle was made of stone, Aelin simply replied that her people were not.”
A chill snaked down Yrene’s spine.
“So she is a brute and a madwoman,” Hasar sniffed.
“Is she? Who else has taken on Maeve and walked away, let alone gotten what they want out of it?”
“She would have destroyed an entire city for one man,” Hasar snapped.
“The most powerful pure-blooded Fae male in the world,” Chaol said simply. “A worthy asset for any court. Especially when they had fallen in love with each other.”
Though his eyes danced as he spoke, a tremor of tension ran beneath the last words.
But Arghun seized on the words. “If it is a love match, then they risk knowing their enemies will go after him to punish her.” Arghun smiled as if to say he was already thinking of doing so.
Chaol snorted, and the prince straightened. “Good luck to anyone who tries to go after Rowan Whitethorn.”
“Because Aelin will burn them to ash?” Hasar asked with poisoned sweetness.
But it was Kashin who answered softly, “Because Rowan Whitethorn will always be the person who walks away from that encounter. Not the assailant.”
A pause of silence.
Then Hasar said, “Well, if Aelin cannot represent her continent, perhaps we shall look elsewhere.” She smirked at Kashin. “Perhaps Yrene Towers might be offered in the queen’s stead.”
“I am not noble-born,” Yrene blurted. “Or royal.” Hasar had lost her mind.
Hasar shrugged. “I’m sure Lord Westfall, as Hand, can find you a title. Make you a countess or duchess or whatever terms you call them. Of course, we’d know you were little more than a milkmaid dressed in jewels, but if it stayed amongst us … I’m sure there are some here who would not mind your humble beginnings.” She’d done as much with Renia—for Renia.
The amusement faded from Chaol’s face. “You sound as if you now want to be a part of this war, Princess.”
Hasar waved a hand. “I am merely musing on the possibilities.” She surveyed Yrene and Kashin, and the food in Yrene’s stomach turned leaden. “I’ve always said you would make such beautiful children.”
“If they were allowed to live by your future khagan.”
“A small consideration—to be later dealt with.”
Kashin leaned forward, his jaw tight. “The wine goes to your head, sister.”
Hasar rolled her eyes. “Why not? Yrene is the unspoken heir of the Torre. It is a position of power—and if Lord Westfall were to bestow upon her a royal title … say, spin a little story that her royal lineage was newly discovered, she might very well wed you, Ka—”
“She will not.”
Chaol’s words were flat. Hard.
Color stained Kashin’s face as he asked softly, “And why is that, Lord Westfall?”
Chaol held the man’s gaze. “She will not marry you.”
Hasar smiled. “I think the lady may speak for herself.”
Yrene wanted to flip her chair back into the pool and sink to the bottom. And live there, under the surface, forever. Rather than face the prince waiting for an answer, the princess who was smirking like a demon, and the lord whose face was hard with rage.
But if it was a serious offer, if doing something like that could lead to the full might of the southern continent’s armies coming to help them, save them …
“Don’t you even consider it,” Chaol said too quietly. “She’s full of shit.”
People gasped. Hasar barked a laugh.
Arghun snapped, “You will speak with respect to my sister, or you will find yourself with legs that don’t work again.”
Chaol ignored them. Yrene’s hands shook badly enough that she slid them beneath the table.
Had the princess brought her out here to corner her into agreeing to this preposterous idea, or had it merely been a whim, an idle thought to taunt and gnaw at Lord Westfall?
Chaol seemed to be on the verge of opening his mouth to say more, to push this ridiculous idea out of her head, but he hesitated.
Not because he agreed, Yrene realized, but because he wanted to give her the space to choose for herself. A man used to giving orders, to being obeyed. And yet Yrene had the sense that this, too, was new to him. The patience; the trust.
And she trusted him. To do what he had to. To find a way to survive this war, whether with this army or another one. If it did not happen here, with these people, he’d sail elsewhere.
Yrene looked to Hasar, to Kashin and the others, some smirking, some swapping disgusted glances. Arghun most of all. Revolted at the thought of sullying his family’s bloodline.
She trusted Chaol.
She did not trust these royals.
Yrene smiled at Hasar, then Kashin. “This is very grave talk for my birthday. Why should I choose one man tonight when I have so many handsome ones in my company right now?”
She could have sworn a shudder of relief went through Chaol.
“Indeed,” Hasar crooned, her smile sharpening. Yrene tried not to balk at the invisible fangs revealed in that smile. “Betrothals are rather odious things. Look at poor Duva, stuck with that brooding, sad-eyed princeling.”
And so the conversation moved on. Yrene did not glance to Kashin or the others. She looked only at her constantly refilled goblet—and drank it. Or at Chaol, who appeared half inclined to lean across Yrene and flip Hasar’s chair right back into the pool.
But the meal passed, and Yrene kept drinking—enough so that when she stood after dessert, she had not realized precisely how much she’d imbibed. The world tipped and swayed, and Chaol steadied her with a hand on her elbow, even as he was none too steady on his feet.
“Seems like they can’t hold their liquor up north,” Arghun said with a snort.
Chaol chuckled. “I’d advise never to say that to someone from Terrasen.”
“I suppose there’s nothing else to do while living amongst all the snow and sheep beyond drink,” Arghun drawled, lounging in his chair.
“That may be,” Chaol said, putting an arm on Yrene’s back to guide her to the trees and tents, “but it won’t stop Aelin Galathynius or Aedion Ashryver from drinking you under the table.”
“Or under a chair?” Hasar crooned to Chaol.
Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was the heat, or the hand on her back, or the fact that this man beside her had fought and fought and never once complained about it.
Yrene lunged for the princess.
And though Chaol might have decided against pushing Hasar into the pool behind her, Yrene had no such qualms about doing it herself. One heartbeat, Hasar was smirking up at her.
The next, her legs and skirts and jewels went sky-up, her shriek piercing across the dunes as Yrene shoved the princess, chair and all, into the water.