The fallout from twelve minutes of silence was not loud.
The meeting with the Iron Isles envoy had happened in the Sun Gallery, hidden behind a thin veil of logistical error. Cassian had heard the terms—the real terms—that the King had tried to keep from him. The trade deal was no longer a simple matter of coin for him.
Inside the antechamber, the King's primary advisors were scrambling. They spoke in hushed, urgent tones, trying to figure out how to repair the damage. The Duke of Valen sat in the corner, his face a mask of polite concern that didn't quite hide the predatory gleam in his eyes. He had gotten what he wanted: a Prince who was now questioning his father's honesty.
Lord Varos stood by the window, his back to the room. He didn't join the argument. He didn't offer excuses.
"The Prince was supposed to be at a fitting," a senior minister snapped, pacing the rug. "How did he end up in the Sun Gallery at the exact moment the envoy was being escorted through?"
