Eirwen rode forth, Vicomtesse Pertrellan by her side, the two flanked by half a dozen knights. The rest stayed behind, guarding the sides and rear of the carriages, just to be certain. Not that it was needed, as only Vicomte Carraig and two of his servants were present. Still, better they stay alert now, than underestimate a situation and endanger their own lives.

Ailbe Carraig stood tall, an impressive figure. She rode up to ten paces from him before greeting him. "Lord Carraig. What brings you to my path today?" She kept her face and voice ice cold, not wanting to give anything away. 

He nodded in her direction and kneeled, his sword standing on the ground, hands wrapped on the pommel and his head bent down in subservience. "Greetings, your Grace! I, Vicomte Ailbe Carraig, greet Duchess Eirwen Verglas, ruler of the western territories. I have come to offer my aid to you."

She looked down at the man, seeing, hearing, feeling no insincerity from him. Straight to the point, acknowledging her as ruler. He wasn't even surrendering to her, he simply stated it as an obvious fact, that she was in charge, not the Flamehearts. He knew.

She ignored the presence in her head that she could have asked for clarification. She should do this herself. But she wasn't ready to just blindly accept the man in front of her. As she overlooked him, she noticed an important detail, a white band on his left upper arm. "I see you are wearing a mourning band. May I ask who it is for?"

He kept his head down, as she had not acknowledged him yet. "The seventh Duke of Flameheart, short but fair was his reign." Oh, he knew alright. Not the outcome, but the plan. It did make her wonder, though. Why mourn a man if his death was far from certain?

"I see. Why?" She saw the man stifle for a moment, at the same time the presence in her mind grew hesitant. It seemed neither were expecting her to keep asking and weren't fully comfortable with the line of inquiry. Still, Carraig answered quickly.

"It was the Duke's last order. To mourn him, if we must." He raised his head and looked at her, a violation of protocol, but then again, so was her interrogating him instead of acknowledging him. "And I must. This is my second day of mourning him, six more remain."

Oh Aodhán, you were a fool. This man considered you family. Had you asked, he would have trained you in his family's technique. Not even the king or a parent would get that much full mourning from the western territories, only a beloved child would. She could feel the same realisation sinking in for him, his presence in her mind freezing, nearly weeping, at being confronted with such respect and love for him.

"Very well. Rise, Lord Carraig. The fact you rode here the moment you heard of my arrival, shows your loyalty. The Bulwark of the West shouldn't be on his knees, gathering dust." He got to his feet, resisting the urge to dust off his clothing after her remark, and looked at her in silence, awaiting her next order. In his eyes, she noticed him thinking over what she had just said, realising how unexpected that level of detail was from her. The calculative attitude annoyed her, even though she had chosen to throw the hint at him herself. So she decided to distract him once more.

"Take your horse and ride with us. I am assuming your companions are meant to act as messengers if needed. You may send them to your castle, inform them that you are accompanying us to the Flameheart estate. That is, after all, your intention. To either guide me there or to your castle. That is why you came here to offer your aid, so you can serve as my guide and escort. Why you are by yourself, standing tall to make clear to everyone that no bandit can stop you from serving me."

She mostly said it for the rest to hear, so that both her own and his servants understood his intention properly. Declaring it in his stead, taking control of the situation. A feeling of admiration came to her from their eavesdropper, impressed by the successful analysis she had performed with the hints provided. A similar feeling was on the face of the Vicomte, who nodded and silently got on his horse. A nod from her sent off his servants, who rode towards Castle Carraig. The man himself she gestured to her right, keeping Vicomtesse Pertrellan on her left. Her, the shield, he, the sword. A look of pride appeared on the man's face as he understood that she accepted his loyalty and permitted him to fight for her.

From behind came a touch of envy, quickly suppressed. But his place was silent support. While Vicomte Carraig's presence here was supporting her rule over these lands.

[...]