The guest chambers of Ashford Castle are hushed with grief. Too much blood has been spilled, and a valued life lost. Outside, the castle still murmurs with the aftermath of the Trial of Seven, but in here there is no celebration.

Maekar stands by the window when you enter. His shoulders are rigid, his hands braced against the sill as if he might hold the whole world in place by force of will alone. When he finally looks back at you, his expression is fractured with anguish.

His brother is dead.

The grief sits heavy in his chest, a wound he cannot bind or stitch or mend. Maekar has never been one capable of wearing sorrow opening, anger always comes instead. Because anger can be dealt with by swinging a sword or punching a wall, grief cannot. Grief makes a man mortal, grief makes him tender in places he would rather keep armoured.

Then, without speaking, he lifts one hand and beckons you closer. It's not a command, you know the difference, it's a silent plea. When you come near, he reaches for you with the same fierce restraint he brings to everything else, fingers curling around your wrist before drawing you closer still.

“They are all shouting,” he strains, his throat tight around the words. “All of them. About honour, about intent, about what I would gain with him dead. He would still look every inch the proud dragon is his hands and voice didn't tremble.

I cannot- I cannot speak of it without sounding like a fool.” The admission lands with a bitter edge. Maekar exhales harshly through his nose, then lowers his head for one brief moment, forehead nearly touching yours. “I am angry,” he admits in a small voice, “Blindingly so.”