A/N: I can't believe I forgot the mention this last chapter, but: this fic WILL include spoilers from Revelation and Conquest. Not as many as IP, but spoilers nonetheless. The Revelation spoilers won't show up for a while, but you still shouldn't read if you care about them.

Naoremonth and BabyPuffin: Ding-ding-ding! We have winners! Their moms are indeed based off their secondary classes! You get…um…the satisfaction of knowing you were right?

Well, technically, everyone in the court is going to be dead eventually, sans the royal siblings. But Jeanette and Josie…I have something special planned for them. Also, be aware that the concubine wars didn't end until sometime after Elise's birth, which is not going to be covered by the fic, so some people may survive until then, to be killed off-screen in the years between this and Fates.

Cipher92: Yep, I'm aware. I've actually pinned her conception to July—her birthday is in March, and nine months before that is July, so that's approximately the time she would have been conceived. Azura says Elise was born after she was kidnapped (after Cheve, basically), and the fake Garon seems unlikely to want to engage in that sort of activity, so the real Garon was probably still alive at the time.

Ramix: Thanks, I wanted him to have something good going on, and from the sounds of it he really did love his first wife. Unfortunately, the concubines he'd still have a good relationship with are the ones who would have been genuinely nice and loving—the ones who would have died early on.

I've seen that a lot in regards to Camilla, and while she certainly was a victim, I highly doubt she never committed any similar crimes herself. In every portrayal I've seen of "deadly decadent courts", people who aren't willing to commit underhanded atrocities don't survive long. And like you said, I liked the new spin it gave to her over-protectiveness of her surviving siblings.

I did consider going with your initial interpretation of Garon, but I realized for that iteration of him to keep the concubines around, he would either have to be dumb to not realize the consequences, or uncaring by realizing the consequences but continuing his behavior anyway. Neither paints a good picture of him, so I went for a more tragic route, where his womanizing is an addiction, a genuine and fatal flaw. And Leo does point out that women were already fighting over him, so add in a pinch of ambition and boom. Disaster.

"It is getting harder to sneak past the Hoshidans deployed all along the Bottomless Canyon. Their soldiers are set up near all the main pass exits, ready to strike, and we can never tell where their ninja are. Attempting to go over has met with failure, as their archers have sharp eyes, easily spotting and felling any wyvern riders. We still have several secret paths they haven't discovered, so it's still possible to raid them for supplies, but it takes longer; the villages near the border are under guard, and battles are no longer free of casualties."

The soldier, a promising and up-coming cavalier named Gunter, finished his report with the customary salute, hands locking behind his back as he bowed. Garon steepled his fingers together, hiding his frown behind them as he gazed out the window. His office was set in one of the highest towers of Castle Krakenburg, giving him a nearly 360 degree view. As the castle was underground there wasn't much to look, at truth be told, but the sight of the surrounding stone walls was somehow comforting.

It had been several months since the missive from Hoshido. The new year was almost upon them, and Nohr was experiencing its usual bitterly cold winters, the frequent snowstorms hiding the barrenness of the ground beneath white. At first, everything had been alright. Their raids procured less food than they would have obtained just by training, but there was no monetary cost at all. Garon had actually been able to use some of the saved coin to finish a project to improve equipment for Nohrian miners.

But then, a few weeks ago, Sumeragi had deployed Hoshidan troops along the border. Garon had to admit he hadn't been expecting that. To be completely honest, he'd thought the movements of Nohrian soldiers would scare the Hoshidans into backing down with a whimper. Apparently they have some spine after all.

It was a blatant warning not to continue, and they risked a war with Hoshido if they did. While Garon knew his army was larger, better-trained, and better-equipped, he was still hesitant. It was doubtful any countries would take the side of the "warmongers", or be willing to trade with them, if they provoked Hoshido. They would be in a race against time, fighting on hungry bellies, and even if they invaded Hoshido he wouldn't put it past them to burn their own farmlands simply to stop Nohr from taking them. And of course, the intra-court politics were always a pressing matter.

But they needed to eat.

"Spread the word that any criminal who wishes for a royal pardon can earn it by raiding Hoshido for food," he finally said. "Have them sign up at the mercenary guild's headquarters in Windmire. Give them weapons and armor—nothing with the insignia of the Nohrian army, of course—and point them at the border."

And if the Hoshidan soldiers happened to kill some of those criminals? Well, the world was better off without their kind of scum.

Gunter bowed sharply. "It will be done." He turned sharply on his heel, walking briskly to the door.

"How are your wife and son?" Garon asked suddenly, bringing the cavalier to a halt.

Gunter turned, smiling a little questioningly. "They are well, my lord. Alois is turning six soon, and dead-set on learning to ride and use a sword like his father. He's quite a handful for his mother, bless her heart."

"That's good to hear." It must be nice, Garon thought with a bare hint of resentment, having a loving family free of fighting. He missed having that. He used to have a little brother and sister, Marcel and Diane, and the three of them would play together often, filling the halls of Castle Krakenburg with their laughter. Their parents had been distant, too busy running the kingdom to have time for their children, but they'd been happy.

His brother had gotten consumption when he was thirteen and died coughing up his own blood. His sister had been married off when she was fifteen and died giving birth to a stillborn girl. His parents had died when their ship to Notre Sagesse was caught in a storm and wrecked. Garon still missed them all.

A polite cough echoed, and with a start Garon realized he must have been lost in thought for some time, Gunter patiently waiting for permission to leave. "Excuse me. You are dismissed, Gunter."

Days turned to weeks. Despite the animosity with Hoshido, Nestra, Izumo, Mokushu and Notre Sagesse were fortunately still willing to trade with Nohr—no military and mining contracts would have meant the collapse of their economy. The old year passed and the new came; the criminals were successful in their raids, and while Hoshido must have suspected Garon's hand in this, they had nothing to prove it with. Their soldiers remained in a deadlock at the borders. Garon received word from his spies that the Hoshidan queen had birthed her third child, and once again couldn't help feeling jealous. The king there had a concubine too, and had even had a bastard with her, but by all accounts they weren't fighting. Even Sumeragi's family life is better than mine.

But while the situation with Hoshido was in stasis, life at the court was far from. Power was success was prosperity; commoners struggled to climb the social ladder while nobles at the top struggled to put them down. Even his concubines couldn't help drawing an arbitrary line between those who were born to power and those who had bled for power; you were more likely to see concubines of noble birth temporarily ally with each other than with a lowborn. Even regular conversation was a battle with them.

One day, for example, as Garon was walking to breakfast, he passed Vesta and Bernice in the halls, both their smiles thin and knife-sharp. Camilla was at her mother's side as always, looking embarrassed to just be there, while little Leo was in Vesta's arms, his young, wide eyes taking everything in—they must have run into each other on their way to drop their children off at the classroom and nursery, respectively. "Lady Bernice," Vesta simpered. "You look absolutely dreadful this morning. Have you been sleeping well?"

"I'm afraid not," Bernice sighed, eyes fluttering to Garon, who began picking up his pace as subtly as he could. "The maids are quite terrible at their jobs, my bed has felt like stone for ages. You might want to have a word with your fellows, Lady Vesta, their incompetence reflects badly upon you."

"I certainly shall," the ginger replied sweetly. "Clearly you need your beauty sleep."

The rest of their "conversation" was lost to Garon's ears as he finally left hearing range. Vesta was from one of the several noble houses that produced servants, bodyguards and retainers for the royal family. She was witty and brilliant and skilled, and up until he'd slept with her had been one of Katerina's retainers. After that, Katerina had fired her, and Vesta had become one of the castle parlor maids. Despite that, she was well-respected among her fellow servants and had eyes and ears everywhere, with many of them preferring to side with her over the rest of the concubines. Bernice, being of common birth, hated her, and the feeling was mutual.

Besides court life, rumors abounded about a duke planning insurrection—Duke Emeric, to be specific, the late Gertrude's brother. Known for being hot-headed, Garon's spies had reported the duke had been enraged upon hearing of the mysterious deaths of his sister and niece, "ranting up and down throughout his estate" and vowing vengeance. He hoped the man wasn't foolish enough to actually try to rebel—Emeric only had a private army, easily dwarfed by Garon's own, and would be crushed with little difficulty. Now more than ever Nohr needed to at least present a united front.

Garon tried to always take a little time out of his day to visit his children. With the emotional neglect their mothers inflicted on them, it was up to him to make sure they knew just how loved each and every one of them was. Katerina liked to tease him about the journal he kept on him, full of careful information about their birthdays, likes and dislikes.

His first stop was always the nursery, where the ones under four stayed under the watchful eyes of their nursemaids. Each one had had their backgrounds checked and been thoroughly grilled before being hired, and were instructed to never let their charge out of their site or give them to anyone but Garon or their mothers. This morning's visit was dominated by Josie, who ran around excited about her upcoming birthday and how she'd be "a big kid" soon, and demanded everyone be just as happy.

The ones too old for the nursery were hired tutors and attended various lessons. It was usually a bit harder to meet with his elder children all at once, since the times they were together were the times they were busy learning. Visiting them in a group, additionally, usually resulted in them trying to compete with each other for attention. So instead, he went to each of their rooms in the evening, just before bed, speaking to them privately.

As he exited the room of one of his older sons, Damian, he saw his eldest hovering in the hall outside. Katerina was at Xander's side, smiling at him encouragingly. Garon raised an eyebrow; Xander looked as though he were going to faint, his face pale. He was unable to hold eye contact with the king as he approached, stammering, "Um…F-Father…"

"Yes, son?" he said kindly.

"G-Good night."

Garon smiled. "Good night, Xander." He waited a moment, and when Xander failed to say anything else, added, "Was that all?"

His son's mouth moved wordlessly for several moments. Then, face going from white to red at amazing speed, Xander turned and practically ran down the hall to his bedroom. Garon stared after him in puzzled amazement, then turned to the only one capable of explaining the situation. "What did I say?"

Katerina smiled, a little sadly. "Nothing. You know he's always been intimidated by you. In his mind, you're this great, unflappable man, the very picture of what a king should strive to be. And in his mind, he's just a weak boy who can't uphold your legacy."

"I've told him not to think like that," Garon sighed. As they started to head to their room he glanced down the hall, over his shoulder. "Should we go after him?"

His wife hummed thoughtfully, finally shaking her head. "No, I think it's best to leave him alone for now. He told me he was going to try talking to you for more than a few sentences at a time to change his 'ineptitude'. He must be terribly embarrassed, and no doubt will feel worse if we try to 'baby' him."

"Comfort isn't the same as babying."

"Try telling that to him. He can be quite stubborn and set in his ways." She gave him a mischievous look as they entered their suite. "Just like a certain someone I know."

Garon snorted, hands already beginning to remove his gloves and boots when his eyes spotted the object folded on the table. He went over to it, picking it up and examining it—it was a cape, long and red and lined with mink fur.

"Surprise," Katerina said, wrapping her arms around him from behind.

He glanced over his shoulder to meet her doe brown eyes. "A present? What's the occasion?"

"Nothing. I just thought you could use something nice."

"Did you make this?" he teased, knowing full well Katerina had a notorious lack of talent for typical 'ladylike' things.

"I hunted the mink," she said brightly. "Does that count?"

Laughter, honest, healthy laughter, broke out of Garon. Katerina smiled, delighted at her success in cheering up her husband. Still chuckling, Garon kissed her, and then they prepared to retire for bed.

The only warning Garon got was a prickling at the edge of his consciousness, his warrior's instincts shouting danger and pulling him out of his hazy dreams.

His eyes flew open in time to see the silhouette over him, the silver gleam of a knife as it came plunging down. With a yell he kicked out, his foot tangled in his bedsheets but still connecting with the assassin, staggering him just enough for the knife to lace through Garon's arm instead of his chest. The king threw the covers off and jumped up, his eyes flickering to Bolverk leaning against the far wall, then the assassin, who had regained his footing, gauging the distance.

Too far. Grimly, without taking his eyes off his opponent, Garon reached under his pillow and withdrew a dagger of his own. It had been a while since he'd used a blade, but it was better than trying to hold off a knife with his bare hands, or go for the axe on the far end of the room.

Out of the corner of his eye he could see Katerina on her feet on the opposite side of the bed, blinking away the last vestiges of sleep, facing off against a second assassin wielding an axe. His blood boiled in anger and he longed to go to her aid, but he knew better than to turn his back on a threat. He would have to trust that Katerina could handle herself, unused to unmounted combat as she was.

The room was dark, with the only light being a sliver from the crescent moon outside, just barely enough to see by. The assassin's face was hidden behind a mask, only his eyes visible. They narrowed at Garon, and then in a blur of movement the man rushed him. The king gritted his teeth, swinging his dagger to parry the blow. The clang of steel echoed throughout the room, and the two men strained against each other, trying to force the other back.

In a move the assassin clearly wasn't expecting, Garon dropped his arm and swayed to the side. The sudden lack of resistance caused his assailant to lose his balance, his knife slicing against the king's side in a shallow line. Taking advantage of his brief disorientation, Garon grabbed the man's wrist with his free hand and twisted.

He could almost hear the snap over the sounds of his wife fighting off her opponent. A slight intake of breath was the only sign of the assassin's pain—he was well-trained. But he was disabled and trapped and helpless, and it was easy for Garon to bring the hand holding his dagger back up and plunge it into the man's throat. With a wet gurgle, his assailant fell, dead.

Garon withdrew his dagger and immediately turned to see how his wife was doing. She had grabbed the nearest available object upon awakening—a heavy silver candlestick—and was managing to fend off the axe's blows with it. Before he could go to her assistance, Katerina, spotting an opportunity, spun the candlestick in her hands and slammed it into the assassin's face. He crumpled, blood pouring from his nose. She stood over him, panting, looking every bit the victorious warrior and queen she was.

It happened in the blink of an eye. A shadow fell from the ceiling behind her, briefly blocking the moonlight as it crossed the window. Katerina gasped, the tip of a blade emerging from between her breasts. Blood dribbled out of her mouth, flowing from the wound and staining her purple nightgown red. The third, previously unseen assassin withdrew her sword, and his wife, his Katerina, collapsed. Garon vaguely registered the sound of himself screaming, and disregarding all personal safety he charged, hands gripping his knife tightly.

She ducked beneath his first clumsy, angry blow, her sword—stained with blood, with Katerina's blood!—nipping at his chest. Before he could swing again, the doors burst open, the guards finally drawn over by the noise, and she broke away, knowing when she was outnumbered. She backflipped away from him and, to Garon's shock, darted through the secret passage behind his bookshelf—the passage he'd failed to notice was open, the hidden door swinging open on its hinges. His two retainers rushed into the room alongside the guards, hastily dressed with weapons in hand; Raoul immediately chased the assassin down the passage, several of the soldiers tailing him.

"Jeanette!" Garon roared when his second retainer made to follow, bringing her attention back to him. They still had difficulty looking each other in the eye now, years later. Sleeping with your retainer was awkward. Having a child with your retainer morseo. Having to keep serving with your retainer while she plotted to kill your other children and/or lovers? Indescribably awkward. But in times of crisis, in danger, they were able to act professionally and ignore their past affair. Such as now.

Jeanette's eyes widened when she saw the prone form on the ground, illuminated by the silver moonlight. The raven-haired adventurer rushed past him and ducked beside the queen, not wasting any time in pulling out Heal. Her staff cast a blue light onto everything as she began channeling the spell. Her brow furrowed in concentration. Garon gritted his teeth as seconds ticked by, waiting for the moment she would sit back in relief as Katerina's wound began to close.

Waiting, as the blood kept flowing and his wife's body kept twitching sporadically.

Why isn't it working?

Jeanette slowly pulled Heal back. Her blue eyes flicked nervously to Garon's red. "I…I can't…her wound is too great, I can't heal it…"

Is it really too great, or are you just letting her die? Garon wanted to accuse, but bit his tongue. He cast his gaze about desperately, but the guards left were young, inexperienced and untrained in healing, and they simply stared at their queen in horror. His chest felt as though a heavy weight had been dropped on it. Had it really only been earlier this very evening they'd been laughing and smiling?

Dusk Dragon, he begged wordlessly, save her, please, please save her.

But the god was silent, and Katerina continued to bleed out.

He shoved Jeanette aside to be next to his beloved, clenching her hand tightly, futilely trying to cling to her even as she slipped away. Her eyes, which had up until then been flitting about in shock-induced confusion, snapped to him. Blood dribbled from the corner of her mouth, which was trying to twitch into one last smile for his sake. "Sorry, love…" she murmured, her hand raising to brush away the wetness on his cheeks for a brief instant before falling to her side, limp.

And there, in his bedroom, uncaring of his bleeding cuts and those watching, King Garon cradled his wife's body close to his chest and wept.

The queen's death was devastating to Nohr—everyone had loved her, and everyone grieved her death, Nohrian black garments being set aside for mournful white. Peasantry who couldn't afford such things instead obtained scraps of white cloth and tied them around an arm.

There was to be an investigation, though they had very few leads. Of the three assassins, one had escaped, one had been killed by Garon, and the third, the one Katerina had knocked out, had committed suicide. He'd bitten through his tongue as he sat in his cell, rightly deciding that death was better than being tortured for information or betraying his employers.

Garon wouldn't be able to spearhead the investigation, but he'd told the man in charge he wanted every update, and submitted a list of names of possible culprits. Including the names of some of his concubines— he'd thought Katerina was safe from the infighting of his concubines, thought her status as nationally loved would protect her. But clearly he'd been wrong, and there were some he could think of who might have had a hand in this. Bernice had the ambition to try for the throne despite the risks, and her magic might have allowed her to divine a way to get the assassins into the castle. And then there were Vesta and Jeanette; the two, having been retainers for the king and queen once, were among the few who knew about the secret passage. Any of them could have done it.

Xander had tried not to cry when he learned of his mother's death in the morning. Garon's heart had almost cracked in two when he saw his young son, only eight, clenching his jaw as he tried to keep his face from contorting in the grief he felt and hold back the tears in his eyes. "It's okay, Xander," he'd said quietly. "It's okay to cry."

"A king…m-must be st-strong…" Xander had sniffed in response. "And not show…n-not show…"

Then he'd crumpled, sobbing openly, and Garon took him in his arms and cradled his son like he was a baby again.

Everything had been done or was almost done for the funeral, which was occurring at the end of this week. His wife's body had been prepared, cleaned of blood and carefully preserved with magic. Construction for her funeral pyre in the middle of Windmire was finishing. Garon had sent word to a new street singer of esteemed talent—Ariel? Ariana? Arete? Yes, that was it, Arete—that he was commissioning her to sing there. Katerina had loved music even though she'd had no skill for it herself. She would have wanted it at her funeral.

And now, Garon had one more thing to do as he strode to the royal stables.

Katerina's wyvern was a beautiful specimen. Icarus, she'd called him. He was large with dark purple scales that glittered like amethysts in the scarce sunny days of Nohr. His temperament was ferocious in battle but gentle outside it, the perfect combination, and he had sired many new young wyverns, a strong future generation for Nohr's future wyvern riders. Dark eyes, particularly intelligent even for his species, and a fine frill around his head completed his look.

Now, lying with his head on wings, he didn't seem so magnificent. His once-shiny purple scales were dull, his frills were drooping, and soft croons emerged from his throat. He was mourning, in the way all wyverns mourn their riders. He perked up briefly when Garon came in, recognizing him as his rider's husband, then went back to his sad warbling.

Garon gazed at him for a long time. He knew, logically, Icarus needed to be killed. A wyvern allowed only one person to ride it, ever, and should the rider die would fall into listlessness. A wyvern that would not ride into battle nor breed was a liability, a drain on resources. Icarus would contribute far more to Nohr by dying than living. His meat would make for a fine stew, his claws and fangs could be fashioned into weapons or jewelry, his scales into armor, and his eyes and organs would find use in some dark mage's spell. Then, if the rider gave pre-mortem permission, what was left could be brought back as an undead mount for the malig knight division, though Katerina hadn't wanted that for Icarus. Not for her wyvern.

She had loved Icarus so much. In their youth, as foolish teenagers, Garon had actually been a bit jealous, and she'd laughed and planted a kiss on his mouth, assuring him he was the only man for her. Garon's fists clenched and unclenched at the memory.

Icarus crooned softly, sadly, nudging Garon's hand. His shiny black eyes reflected the grief in the king's own, the sense of loss and disorientation he felt without his rider—the same things Garon felt without his wife.

Even creatures as fierce as they, as battle-hardened as they, had hearts, and theirs were broken.

Garon turned to the keeper of the wyverns. "Make it fast," he said, not trusting himself to speak more. Ordering the death of Katerina's wyvern, even knowing it was for the best, even knowing she herself would have told him to do it, felt like betraying her, and he didn't want to spend more time on it than necessary.

The man bowed and, taking Icarus's reins, nudged the wyvern up. His throat tight, Garon watched the man lead Icarus away until he could bear it no more. He stormed off, angry at the man and the assassins and at himself and at the world. He went to his room, grabbed Bolverk, and, ignoring the things that needed to still be done, went to the training grounds where he smashed dummies until his palms were scrapped raw and bloody.

A few days before Katerina's funeral was due to start, the singer arrived at Castle Krakenburg.

Arete stood out for a number of reasons. She was beautiful in an exotic way, silky blue hair and unusual golden eyes, but her dress was plain and threadbare compared to the rich finery of those among his court. A little girl, no more than four, hid behind her skirts, only her small face visible. She ducked her head when she saw Garon looking at her. Her mother, despite her low birth, carried herself like royalty, and her curtsy was deep and formal. All in all, quite the mysterious picture she painted.

"My condolences for the death of your wife," she said softly as she rose. "I hope the investigation finds the perpetrators soon."

She speaks finely for a woman of the streets. "Your condolences are appreciated," he responded. "I have no doubt we shall uncover the men or women behind this plot, and once we do, they shall face the justice of Nohr." His fingers tightened around Bolverk involuntarily.

And that was that. A butler appeared to escort the singer and her daughter to the room they'd be living in for the duration of the visit. As they disappeared from view, Garon leaned back on his throne and sighed. Arete's words, while kind, had once again brought melancholy back to his mind.

Whoever is responsible for your death, Katerina, they won't get away with it. I swear it.

A/N: And there is our first look at Arete. I considered putting her appearance off 'til next chapter, but to me it flowed better at the end of this one. I've very little experience writing swordfights (or, well, dagger fights), so feedback is appreciated. I'm also eager to hear who people think is involved with the assassination plot, though correct guesses won't be told they're right, of course!