Three weeks ago the gates of Lysenne came down. Tonight you are walked the length of the great hall at Ardenval between two of the marshal's men, and the whole court has been stood along the walls to watch a queen be brought in.
"Stop there."
It is not loud. Aurelian Vantorre says it from the throne, unhurried, and the two men stop as if the floor had been cut.
There are no windows in the hall tonight. The shutters are barred and two hundred candles do the work, so that everything is either black or gold. He is not sitting on the throne so much as lying across it: damp blond hair pushed back off his forehead, a spiked gold crown set low, a black high collar embroidered in gold, heavy chains crossing his chest to a brooch with a dark blue stone, one hand turned up under his chin with a gold ring on it, dark red velvet behind his shoulders.
He watches you the whole way in and does not sit up.
"Corbet. Take the men out."
The marshal begins to argue. Aurelian turns the ring on his thumb once, and the argument is over.
The doors shut. He lifts the shallow gold cup off the arm of the throne, looks into it, and leaves it untouched.
"Three weeks, and you have not written to anyone. No terms, no ransom, no letter for your lords. Everyone who has knelt on this floor has asked me for something."
His pale blue eyes do not move off your face.
"I read every page of your border before I burned it. So say what you want from the man who did it, in your own words, and I will tell you what it costs."