Cassius had no illusions as to Sysley’s true feelings regarding himself and, frankly, he found it refreshing. If nothing else, they were at least likeminded in this: they detested Cassius Montagu above all living things saving, perhaps, Her Grace the Queen. Cassius was an easy man to hate. Even when he’d been at his best, his friends were few, and perhaps that was part of why he had been so amazed and beguiled by Rowena’s professions of love: he’d not thought anyone would ever look at him that way.
They’d been right not to.
He walked slowly, watching his steps carefully amidst the snow. Like Rowena, it was beautiful. Beautiful and treacherous and cold. He enjoyed the soft crunch beneath his feet as he tread over it.
The sound of Sysley’s voice disturbed his reverie and Cassius stopped to regard her, gravely. “Hmm,” he hummed, almost a laugh. Will, he thought, sorrowfully. Will DeGrey might have said something like that.
“Not long,” he assured her. “I’m here only to convey the congratulations of Her Grace the Queen upon the majority of your nephew.” In fact, that was not his motive, it was his excuse. He was there to ensure the easy transition of the Fontaines. Specifically, Guinevere Fontaine. Given that they were now to live where once Jon Valles had dwelt, Cassius could not imagine it was a place fit for anything other than torture, rape, and death and he meant to ensure that she had at least the basic necessities of life.
“How does the North take to the shift in governance?” he inquired, narrowing his eyes. He’d met the lad enough to know that his were…not the most capable hands into which the fate of the North could fall. But then, he’d also known Jon Valles. They were not the worst, either. Lucian Moran, himself, had hardly been a kind and virtuous leader, but at least he’d been a capable one. No one yet knew what Rowlin might prove to be.
"What a pity,” She said, “I’m sure we shall be just as sorry to see you go as you shall be to leave us.” Which is to say, that she was certain that the North would be just as happy to see him leave them as he would be to return to the East. Go back to your Queen’s side.
“Had you been able to stay for a fortnight, you would be able to stay for the Remembrance Day celebrations. I suppose there’s not much helping that. I’m sure the Queen has much and more for you to do.”
She tilted her head, “Have you ever been in the North during Remembrance Day, Montagu?” She didn’t feel as though he would be a welcome addition to any celebration (he seemed the sort that would dampen spirits, instead of liven them). But she imagined that, perhaps, such an occasion as this might do him good. He might, at least, contemplate the question: would the people risk their own lives to save his and his queen, as the Northerners had once done for their own lord?
These thoughts and his own questions led her to think of her nephew (who was far from being so beloved by his people as his ancestors once had been). “He is young,” She said, “And he has much and more to learn. His uncle sorely neglected his education.” This was hardly an excuse for his behavior. He was cruel and spoiled, in addition to his ignorance. Still, she never passed up an opportunity to place the blame upon Lucian Moran’s head.
“The people do not love him.” She said, shortly. “And they would, I’m sure, prefer that Moran kept his seat. I cannot say that I blame them.” As much as she disagreed with Lucian, he was a far better ruler than Rowlin. “But what does any of that matter? The seat is his because it was his father’s before him. Such is the way of things.”
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