Aelin Galathynius appeared, her face and hands clean, but clothes still dirty. At her side stood that towering, silver-haired Fae warrior-Rowan Whitethorn. Whom the royals had spoken of with such fear and respect months ago.
She frowned up at her consort. "Yrene, at least, doesn't seem like the sort to hog the blankets and snore in one's ear all night."
Yrene coughed as Prince Rowan only smiled at the queen. "I don't mind your snoring," he said mildly.
"Brute. I like that. Better than 'buzzard', right?"
"On that lovely parting note, we're going to finish up our dinners. Enjoy your evening, we'll see you on the battlements tomorrow, and please do rot in hell." Then Aelin was turning away, a hand guiding her husband inside. But not before the queen threw a grin over her shoulder to Yrene and Chaol and said, eyes bright—with joy and warmth this time,
"Congratulations."
