*Jon*

It was Archer who brought the news of the Westovers' rebellion. He presented it to the rest of the Council in the same way in which he might present new statistics on the state of the kingdom's trad, which is to say, with a blank face and a calm voice, as he shuffled through a stack of papers until he found the report he was looking for and passed it to the queen.

Elizabeth read through it once, her face stony, but steadily loosing color, and then read through it a second time. Her hands began to shake. She finished, and, wordlessly, held out the document. Her eyes implored her councillors to do something–anything. 

Jon sat, frozen, unsure what to do, as both Declan and Lord Rolond reached for the papers. Declan got there first and snatched them away with a glare that seemed to convey some message for his sister's father. 

The other councillors exchanged discreet glances, far from oblivious to the heated exchange. It was clear there was a rift in the Council; they could only hope no one would be forced to choose sides. Jon was sure that he, personally, wouldn't be able to choose between his two friends, but he hated to think on what the others might do. 

Declan finished reading, his mouth set in a grim line, and handed the report to Jon. The news, written out in the precise hand of one of Archer's agents, was almost a relief: Lord Westover had finally crowned his son and declared war on Elizabeth. At least, now, the Council could stop worrying about when it would happen and skip straight into action, without a shadow of a doubt that they were mistaken in reading the signs. 

Jon handed the report to Idris and turned to Archer. "So, Westover finally made his move." It wasn't a question. 

Archer sighed, straightening the pile of papers before him. "Yes, finally, as you so bluntly put it." Elizabeth looked up, startled, her expression dropping quickly into a furious glare. 

"You knew," she accused, her eyes snapping dangerously. "You all knew–expected, really–that this would happen! And not one of you, my councillors, thought to warn me?" 

The councillors were silent. None of them dared to so much as look at their queen. Jon kept his eyes latched on his lap, his mind sorting through excuse after excuse, and discarding them all. It was Lord Rolond who eventually dared to speak up. "We thought you were already aware, my queen." His tone was affectionate, a father to a daughter, forgetting, plainly, that the queen had no regard for family, especially within the confines of the Council. 

Elizabeth's eyes widened in fury, the corners of her mouth pulling taught. "My lord, you may be my father, but you are also my subject and advisor." She turned her angry gaze upon the rest of the Council. "It occurs to me that I've given you too much license. Within these walls, you will council me, as my councillors should, and inform me of all that concerns my kingdom and my governance. This goes for all of you. Am I clear?" 

Around the table, the councillors hurried to confirm that their queen was, in fact, clear, and that they'd be quicker, in the future, to report all their concerns to her. Jon chimed in with them, his gaze darting from one man to the next, wondering how many of them would uphold that promise. 

The queen realized in her chair. "Good," she said, rather coldly. "Now, is there anything else I should know, or will I have to torture you all to get it out of you?

Again, it was Archer who had the news. "The Warlord of Theoria is hosting a birthday celebration for his ward," he said evenly. "I have it on good account that every ruler of importance is sending ambassadors with gifts for the girl. It seems the Warlord plans to honor her in some way, perhaps with a palazzo or a title that would equal those of his younger sons. He would make her a princess, I believe, and perhaps use her as a Peaceweaver." 

The queen–indeed, the entire Council–was silent. Archer took in their unresponsiveness, and went on. "Lady queen, we must, at the very least, send an envoy with some insignificant trinket. We do not want to risk offending the Warlord, not with the Westovers' rebellion and the Reynes threatening our borders."

Elizabeth was frowning; Jon could see she was not convinced. He was fully on Archer's side in this. They could not risk losing an important ally with enemies now on both sides. 

"My queen," Archer said  smoothly, undeterred. "I have been informed that even the Westovers are sending someone. If we do not do the same, we run the risk of appearing as though Gavin Westover is the true ruler of Valoria, and not you. I am sure none of us wants this." 

It seemed Lord Dor was in agreement with Archer, as well, for her added his own bit, for all that Elizabeth was all but convinced already. "Lady queen, if you'll allow me, I believe I could arrange a suitable–and inexpensive–gift for the chit." 

"A sword, perhaps," was Idris's sly nudge, accompanied by a surprisingly bloodthirsty grin. "And a man to cut out her little heart with it." 

Elizabeth held up a hand. "In response to Idris's suggestion, I have already made plans in that area." She paused, running her quill between her thin fingers. The councillors could almost see her mind whirring as she thought. "Lord Archer," she said finally. "If you are so set on this envoy idea of yours, the you shall be my ambassador. Lord Dor, you shall be in charge of arranging the gift." 

And, with that, the queen rose, signally the end of the meeting. Jon scrambled to his feet, even as the queen swept from the room, and hurried after her, moving as quickly as his stunted legs would carry him. "Lady queen, a word, if you please?" 

Elizabeth paused in the hallway, one eyebrow delicately raised, waiting patiently for him to catch up to her. "Is it about what was discussed today?" she asked as soon as Jon reached her side. "Do you disagree with any of my decisions, Commander?" 

"Neither," Jon said hastily, scraping a bow. "I have a hypothetical question to ask." When she nodded at him to continue, he did. "On the subject of a certain troublesome, blonde young lady, if, hypothetically speaking, of course, I were to petition for her hand in marriage, would I, hypothetically, have your permission, lady queen?" 

Elizabeth's face was puzzled for only a second. "You're speaking of Lady Mary," she said, crossing her arms. "In response to your–purely hypothetical–question, yes, were you to ask, I would grant you permission." She paused for half a heartbeat, her eyes searching Jon's face for something that she didn't find. "Are you asking?" 

Jon hesitated. "No," he said quietly. "Not yet. I haven't talked to her yet. I just wanted to be sure I'd have your approval to continue my suit." His heart felt like a lead weight in his chest. If he could convince Mary to marry him, he would have the one thing his father had always said would be impossible for a stunted fool like him; he would have wed a proper lady and started a family. 

"Well," Elizabeth said coolly. "When you've talked to her, let me know. Lord Poppleworth, Lord Domebeigh and two of the Penders have already expressed an interest, though none of them seem to see the use in gaining the girl's consent. All of them want me to force her into marriage, which, I might as well add, I may have to do if she turns you down. Good luck, Commander." 

And, with those comforting words, she left him to make his way back to his chambers alone. The hallways loomed all around him; his own shadow seemed monstrous, deformed and giant in the late afternoon sun. For a little man like him, a giant shadow was a lurking nightmare, a dream turned sour with the knowledge that it would never come true. 

He was nearly at his chambers when the sound of heeled shoes clacking rapidly against the marble floor stopped him dead. The hurried tread was accompanied by several other, quieter ones. 

As he flattened himself against the wall, Lady Mary rushed around the corner, her skirts clutched in both hands, her entourage of guards right on her heels. She caught sight of Jon, went dead white, and stopped in her tracks. Turning to her guards, she snapped, "Wait here." One of them looked like he was about to protest; she silenced him with an icy look. "I just need to speak with the Lord Commander. I'll be right there." She pointed at Jon. 

The guards relented, or so it seemed, for Mary rushed to his side alone, while the five guards waited at the end of the hall, their hands on the hilts of their swords. As Mary drew nearer, Jon saw that her face was pale and drawn, her eyes swollen and rimmed with red, her cheeks blotchy, as if she'd been weeping. 

Jon may have been widely considered a stunted idiot, and he may have been decidedly inexperienced when it came to affairs of the heart, but even he knew that being confronted by a weeping woman meant that he had to do something to comfort her, or at least to attempt to do so. He wouldn't risk saying that he would succeed, as this was new territory for him. 

He stepped forward to meet he, craning his neck to look her in the eye. For once, he wasn't embarrassed by his height,or lack thereof. "My lady, what is it?" he asked. Mary's eyes flashed with something akin to pure hatred–an emotion he wouldn't have thought her capable of, normally. 

"Lord Poppleworth," she spat, the name grating against Jon's ears. Her hands crushed the folds of her skirt as if they were lemons she was trying to juice, or, at least, as Jon assumed lemons were juiced. He'd never actually seen anyone juice any kind of citrus. "Lord Poppleworth–" Mary said again, as if she was trying to elaborate, and then promptly burst into tears. 

Poppleworth. The name sparked a little flame of unease in Jon's mind. He'd been one of the men Elizabeth had been planning to wed Mary to. "What about Lord Poppleworth?" Jon asked, beginning to panic. "Did he hurt you? Did he–" Thoughts of the man's hands touching the pure young girl before him, forcing her to do things, and, maybe, eventually, forcing her into his bed, began to whirl in Jon's mind. 

"Worse," Mary managed to choke out through her tears. Jon's blood roared in his ears. "He told me that I had best give myself to him now, as the queen was going to force me to accept him anyhow, and it made no difference if I was willing or not, or if we were wed or not." She broke down, her shoulders shaking with unrelenting sobs. "I can't stand the thought of being married to him. Oh, gods! I thought the queen would approve of your–" she caught Jon's look of shock, and attempted to backtrack, her eyes welling over once more. "I shouldn't have assumed... I mean, I'm sorry. We never talked about it, but I, I thought you might–"

Jon cut her off gently. "My lady," he said, feeling strangely faint. "I've just come from the queen, as it so happens. I was going to ask you this at a more... romantic moment, but, well, will you marry me?"

Mary's eyes widened, and she began to nibble her lip. Then, slowly, the tears began to flow again, and she went limp with what Jon thought must have been relief. Beneath her tears, and small began to dance across her lips. "Oh, my lord, are you sure you want me for your bride?" she asked. "I mean, do you want me for me, and not for my title? Do you want me even though I'm the disgraced daughter of a traitor mother? Because, if you don't, then you are no better than Lord Poppleworth, and I won't want you. Do you, my lord?"

Jon reached out and took her hand. "I do," he said simply. "And are you sure you want me, shunned, stunted old me? Mary, I'm more than twice your age, and I have no title or fortune of my own..." Slowly, innocently, unaware of all the risks that came with being his wife, Mary nodded. 

Jon felt black loathing begin to roil in his stomach. She was only just fourteen, this girl he'd come to love. She'd been hidden away for so long, the world had become, to her, an alien place. And Jon had spent the years she'd been locked up committing atrocity after atrocity, and she didn't have the slightest clue. 

He would corrupt her, this pure, innocent child, all to protect her, to keep her safe and alive. He would ruin her life to know she'd keep it. He would ruin her, probably sealing her death warrant in the process, for no one survived bearing a dwarf's child, just on the off chance that he might save her from something worse. And what was that something worse? The horrors and dangers of Elizabeth's hatred? An unhappy marriage to a man like Poppleworth? Or something else, something he could not yet predict?  Whatever it was, he had made his decision. Outwardly, Mary would be the one to pay, but there was no way anyone could understand how heavy a fee he was charging himself. 

He loved her, and his love might be the birth of her hatred. There was no way she could understand exactly what their union would mean. If he had been wise, or, perhaps, a stronger man, he would have walked away before now. But he was weak, and he was besotted, and he was in love. 

And he did not regret that love, nor lament his decision, because, at least for a short time, he could make Mary happy, and he would be able to keep her safe. 

He would marry Mary, and he would love her, and he would protect her, and hang the consequences.