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Chapter Text

There are many things about the Two Rivers that Iona Hattron finds surprising.

First, that she is to go there, at all. Andorran by birth, Iona hasn’t traveled anywhere near the Mountains of Mist in her entire life. Truth be told, she couldn’t remember traveling further than a day from the walls of Caemlyn until the day an Aes Sedai showed up to her door and whisked her away to Tar Valon.

She knows her father had favored Two Rivers Tabac. She knows the Dragon Reborn had come from those hills. That was about it.

“You are to go to the Two Rivers.” Cadsuane Melaidhrin says. Commands, really. The Amrylin Seat rarely said anything that isn’t intended as instruction. “That girl in Caemlyn has finally come to her senses about their need for counsel. You are to set off immediately.”

It’s a testament to her training that Iona doesn’t openly gape. That Girl undoubtedly meaning Elayne Trakand — Ruling Queen of Andor, Hero of the War against the Shadow, and, lest she forget, Aes Sedai. That girl.

“Yes, mother.” Iona says, bowing low. Her deep blue shawl stays neatly in its place. “As you say, it shall be done.”

Cadsuane leans back, fingers rolling against her stole with its rainbow ends. Her eyes never leave Iona.

“It will be a dual assignment. You are to counsel the newly crowned Queen of Saldea as have many Sisters before you.” Cadsuane purses her lips. “You will also ensure the young Steward of the Two Rivers does not make a complete fool of himself.”

Iona blinks at the instruction. Her face remains neutral, but her eyes are alight with question. Was the Mother so close as to be this informal with…She doesn’t have time to wonder. Cadsuane’s lips make a thin, pointed line.

“Do you remember what I taught you?”

Iona doesn’t gulp — she has more nerve than that. Her voice still feels dry under the Amrylin’s gaze.

“Yes, mother.” She answers. “I will ensure proper guidance of the Tower is both extended…” Iona pauses for a moment, a small drama but she thought it fitting. “…and heeded.”

Cadsuane scoffs.

“Save that for the nobles, child.” She dismisses like shooing a fly. “I’m talking about the other lessons.”

Oh. Iona’s eyes widen enough she has to focus on keeping her brow neutral. That lesson.

“Yes, Mother.” She answers, again, a lower tone than before. “Regarding the man and his…status.”

Cadsuane snorts, visibly rolling her eyes. Why must these young women insist on theatrics.

“He cannot be handled like a normal lord.” Cadsuane snaps. “He is normal; don’t you ever forget it. But the populace does not think him normal. Nor does the weave. He’s a fairy tale — the Wolf of the Dream. You cannot handle a ta’veren like you do a man.”

Iona nods, steeling herself.

“As you instructed, Mother. A man’s ego is a dangerous thing, and men’s collective ego even more so. The first step to taming a folk hero is in humanizing them. Make him aware that he is just as flesh as the rest of us. Make him feel it, then make the people feel it.”

Cadsuane nods, pleased with the answer and prompting Iona to continue.

“There will be no eliminating his status among the people, but allow them to form a distinction. Separate the man from the legend, and both may live. Allow his legend to remain, but let him be reborn in a visage that can be guided.”

Finally, a smile.

“Good.” The Amrylin says. “You were specially trained for this. For handling ta’veren . Remember this training and you will succeed.”

Iona curtsies, but from genuine praise rather than formality. 

“As you say, Mother.”

She turns to leave, but a final hand up from Cadsuane stops her steps. A wry smile on her lips.

“If that pup gives you any lip, remind him I’ll be watching him in his sleep.”

Iona doesn’t have a response to that, choosing only to bow even more deeply.

The second surprise comes just minutes after she steps through her gateway and into the small town of Emond’s Field. While still much smaller than Tar Valon or Caemlyn, her research had indicated that in the time since the fall of the Dark One Emond’s Field was well on its way to becoming a mid-sized town. Snow coats the ground, but there are enough people lining the small streets that the city feels alive even despite the winter chill.

“Ah! Aes Sedai!” A voice calls, footsteps crunching through the fallen snow. A round faced man bounds from a nearby building, hurrying to greet as the gateway snaps shut behind her. The man looks to be wearing his finest clothes - a tailored cloak with matching trousers. In a small town like this, coordinating clothes must mean the Mayor.

“Bradlywyn Al’Vere.” He says. “I’m the Mayor around these parts, but you can call me Bran.” He offers her his outstretched hand with a warm smile. “The Mother wrote ahead that we should expect you.”

For the briefest moment, Iona pauses. She knows that name. All Aes Sedai know that name. 

“Al’Vere.” She whispers, a mixture of reverence and shame creaking through the Aes Sedai veil. “Your daughter guided the Flame of Tar Valon through its darkest hours.” Iona’s eyes darkened, like she could feel the weight of a debt around her own neck like a stone. 

“It was a privilege to serve the Amrylin.”

Brad pulls back his hand, but his features soften. His smile is smaller, but more somber and real. He reaches around his neck and removes his own scarf, pulling the garment across his body and wrapping it around Iona. Her eyes widen, but she doesn’t resist.

“Come into the inn and be out of this cold.” He insists, escorting her softly through the snow. “Marin and I are always happy to speak with one of Egwene’s friends.”

She’s caught in a moment of profound emotion. The kindness. The weight of guilt. She forgets it’s still snowing as she stares into the man’s eyes. Brad seems to know her thoughts, giving only a paternal nod of his head, pointing to the door.

“On with you, Aes Sedai. You’ll catch cold in this.” He commands as lightly as a man could command Aes Sedai. “The other should be arriving soon. We’ll take you to Lord Perrin, together.”

Iona’s mind halts. Other?

Hakkan Buryoni narrows his eyes in clear and visible distaste. Iona mirrors the expression to the muscle.

“I was not aware.” He begins, and his voice grates in her ear. He’s young. Too young - he couldn’t be more than twenty five. All members of the Black Tower were children, especially compared to their Aes Sedai counterparts, but the misplaced confidence that somehow still found its way into their voices made even the noise grating to her ears. His black hair was slicked back from his tanned face. “That Aes Sedai would be stationed here.”

From her seat across the foyer, Iona folds her hands into her lap. The very picture of elegance.

“And I was not aware that Asha’man were stationed for anything other than construction or combat.”

Something in Hakkan’s eyes ripples. Men were so hot blooded, she swore she could boil water with less work than a fire.

“The Black Tower stands ready for all callings that might present themselves in the 4th age.” He forces back a bristle, tilting back his nose and doing his best to seem taller. “ New guidance for a new age.”

Oh. So that’s how he wanted to play? Iona’s shifts her gaze aside, content as he visibly grits his teeth at the insinuation he wasn’t worth the effort of her stare.

“I wish you much success, Hakkan Buryoni.” She replies, a picture of serenity. “It can be challenging to try and steer the ship when one is still learning to sail.” Hakkan’s back tightens like a rope. Iona barely surpasses the urge to grin. She does — but barely. It’s beneath her, but she goes in for the kill, regardless.

“I am sure you will prove up to the challenge.

By the way Hakkan’s cheeks flush, she imagines he has at least three or four retorts he’d like to say to that. Words likely more appropriate for a tavern. The door opens, ending their standoff as a man enters the foyer.

Perrin Aybara isn’t necessarily tall, but he is large . From back to bicep, the man seems to take up space in the most imposing way Iona has ever seen. His beard is long but well maintained. He wears simple riding attire, but the ends of his leather straps are stitched with meticulous care; betraying his standing. A golden wolf that matches the shimmer in his eerie golden eyes.

Iona opens her mouth to speak, but Perrin beats her to it. She is not used to being interrupted, and she hopes Hakkan does not notice.

“Ah, good.” Perrin says, his voice calm yet moments hesitation highlighting he did not, in fact, think things were ‘good’. “You both made it. Welcome to the Two Rivers. I’m Perrin.”

“Lord Steward Aybara.” Iona is on her feet before Hakkan could gape his mouth. She glides to Perrin side and holds the edges of her dress, dipping into a curtsey. “I am Iona Sedai of the White Tower. The Amrylin Seat bade me to serve you as I do the realm; humbly and without hesitation. May I offer my support and counsel for the betterment of your land and your peoples.”

Perrin shifts, extending an awkward bow in response.

“Welcome Iona.” He says, quickly correcting himself with a stifled cough. “Iona Sedai. I am pleased to welcome you to the Two Rivers and humbled to accept the guidance of the Flame.”

A bit stiff, but at least someone had instructed him on the proper response. Iona can work with this, she decides. Rough around the edges as her preparations had suggested, but no worthy task was easy.

“My Lord Steward.” Hakkan follows, clearly deeply unhappy to be second. Less than a bow, he more hinges at the hip. A gauche display, Iona thinks. The dragon pin against his collar glints as he moves. “I am Hakkan Buryoni. I am Asha’man. The Seal-breaker wishes you and your house health and prosperity. I am bade to your side to see that your success is achieved - for the good of the realm.”

Were she a less composed woman, Iona thinks she would have gaped. That was an Asha’man introduction? The subtlety of a hammer and the grace of a landslide. Surely, this was no way to approach a Lord such as…

Perrin shifts, his goldeneyes narrowing in focus.

“Buryoni?” He asks. “You fought alongside my father-in-law in the Andorran front.”

Hakkan rises like a soldier, his body snapping to a tighter posture and giving a curt nod. That of a soldier.

“Yes.” He answers. “General Bashere commanded that I support the gateway efforts regarding the dragons. I served the General until the…” Hakkan seems to squash the words he wanted to say, a ghost of some thought passing the man’s mind. “It was an honor to serve under him, sir.”

Were they comrades? Iona ponders. This was an angle she did not anticipate. Iona had fought in the war. She held an aptitude for healing, and it earned her a place beside the Yellow during the conflict. She was not so insecure as to doubt or compare her contribution against that of a man on the front lines. She had done her part and pulled her share — of that she had no question. But this new development, an Asha’man political advantage through serving alongside the Lord’s family,. This would need further details.

Perrin shakes Hakkan’s hand with a respectful nod.

“It was.” The Lord whispers in response before finding his voice once more. “Well, I am pleased to welcome you both to the Two Rivers. Would you care to follow me to our study?”

Iona nods, graciously stepping forward and up the stairs as Perrin pauses and waves his arms for her to pass first. Hakkan glares holes into her as she passes by. It doesn’t stop the small smile that stretches her lips.

“This is a first, if I’m honest with you.” Perrin explains as they walk through the hallways. “When Cadsuane and Logain first approached me with this…arrangement.” Iona makes a mental note how the man speaks of the situation like a child discussing taking a bath. “I confess I wasn’t overly eager. But with Faile’s responsibilities in Saldea and my responsibilities here, the idea of having separate counsel for each region felt wasteful.”

He rounds an upstairs corner, extending an awkward wave to his left as they passed.

“Elayne and Faile discussed the arrangements, and I suppose it’s time to try new things. This will be your room when we are in the Two Rivers. Your bedrooms are…”

Iona tries to pay attention, but her mind is far too consumed with analysis. So much information to string together. So many threads. So Mother had known an Asha’man would be posted here. Why had she not been informed? There were clearly layers to unwrap with this Asha’man, as well. Young enough to have spots and yet serving as counsel for two realms? There would be much for her to research in the coming days.

Her mind drifts, arriving on the largest mystery so far — her new Lord. There isn’t a child in the Eastern continents who doesn’t know about the Wolf of the Dream. The Bane of Slayer or the Slayer of Lanfear. Friend of the Dragon; Perrin Goldeneyes. She’d called for every useful report on the man and who he was, but as she watches him slowly bumble through a tour, she decides she will have to start from scratch.

Perrin is described as a giant; in stature and in presence. The stature part she confirms immediately. Broad and bearded, the man looks like he was chiseled from stone in the nearby mountains. His arms are nearly as thick as her torso. A result of his work as a blacksmith? She wonders. But if that were true, how were they still that size if he had given up the forge to be a full time Lord. He did, at least, still carry one hammer. The fabled Mah’alleinir , the first of a new breed of weapons forged in the One Power, lays quietly strapped behind his back.

Giant in stature, indeed.

But in presences? She has a harder time deciding. For all his stature, he seems so… simple? She struggles with the thought. A High Lord in name and title. A general of prestigious renown and, if she believes her sister’s notes, considerable talent. Despite all of these trappings, he seems to be trying so hard just to be normal — whatever that means. This man who is anything but normal. A man pretending to be normal had walked between an Asha’man and an Aes Sedai and reduced both to silence with little more than a few words. Is this how Ta’veren are? She wonders. Preying on you underestimation?

She would need to keep watch - there is much she does not understand.

Perrin turns, and Iona gives a polite nod realizing he’s holding yet another door for her. She steps through the threshold, taking in the new surroundings of a simple library. A woman in green sits languidly in a chair, alternating between turning a page in her book and twirling a small dagger in her right hand. Her olive skin and dark black hair peg her as Saldean, but her pointed features and dark eyes could be none other than the Queen of Saldea, Zarine ni Bashere t'Aybara

The woman glances up only just, a wry smile for her husband. Iona is left with the feeling that she’s being judged. Sized.

“Oh good.” She calls, closing her book with a pop to set it aside while turning to face the delegation. Iona notes that while she discards the book, she does not release the dagger.

“The mighty advisors are here.”

The largest surprise, by far, that Iona Hattron finds between the Two Rivers and Saldea is the surprise it takes her six years to unravel.

She likes it.

The revelation is entirely unexpected and it takes her another four years to come to grips with the why . It starts, she decides, begrudgingly, with the Steward of the Two Rivers. The first thing an Aes Sedai learns while at the Tower is how to advise nobles and rulers on logical, practical solutions to problems. The second thing they learn is how manage those same parties when they inevitably ignore the Aes Sedai wisdom for their own flawed thinking. Perrin Aybara does neither.

While rough around the edges, Iona is no longer certain after a decade of advisement that Perrin Aybara has not secretly been a king, all along. He is kind. He is pragmatic. He shows compassion. He passes judgement. Sure, he fumbles political introductions on occasions and his eyes drift to the forrest while receiving his daily reports, but that is nothing. These cons are ants next to a mountain of his greatest virtue. 

Perrin Aybara listens . 

There’s a saying in the White Tower; like an Aes Sedai joke, if such a thing existed. All blessings are possible through the Light. Except a man who listens. And yet, Iona finds herself with a man who not only listens, but engages with her counsel with wisdom and thought. She wonders if her sisters in the tower even believe her reports.

Perrin Aybara’s unexpected aptitude is merely half the equation, however. Faile ni Bashere t'Aybara, Queen of Saldea, proves ever bit her husband’s equal. If Perrin were a Two Rivers bow, strong and powerful but only drawn when required; his wife was the arrow. In another life, Iona thinks Faile would have made an exceptional Aes Sedai. The woman has political nuance etched into her veins and it is as if she dances through her opposition. Not all of the Borderlanders are pleased at the thought of a Queen who splits her time, but Faile dissuades them of these foolish notions with a speed that is both awesome and terrifying.

While Perrin tries to engage with Iona from the start, it takes Faile a good five years before she opens up to the Aes Sedai. It’s another two before she finds herself truly in her Majesty’s kindness. When the gates open, Iona is, for lack of a better word, floored. She had heard Faile insist to her husband ‘ Spying is a wife’s duty’ . She had thought it tongue in cheek.

A spy ring ! Full and funded and operating with a capacity that would make the White Tower stand on notice. Iona knows Faile keeps some secrets from her still, but the woman was as much a political savant as her husband was a general.

“You are not as I anticipated.” Iona remembers saying. It was the truth. Faile gives only giving a self-satisfied smile. 

“Outlanders so often believe the Borderlands only know war against the blight.” She replies. “But we are as comfortable in the war of words as we are war on the Darkness. Remember that, Aes Sedai.” Iona does not forget the lesson.

Under Faile and Perrin’s rule, both Saldea and the Two Rivers thrive . No longer needing a full war against the blight brings Saldea into what could only be described as a renaissance. The Two Rivers goes from a hamlet to a prominent dot on nearly any map of Andor. 

Iona feels an enormous sense of pride in both achievements. Yet another unexpected outcome. Though her face remains as ageless as all her Aes Sedai Sisters, Iona has walked this world for over two generations of men. She has seen war and peace, death and regrowth. The end of the 3rd age. The start of the 4th. But when she thinks on the last ten years - a paltry amount of time against over a century of service - she finds the certainty that settles in her stomach so strange.

It’s the best decade of her life.

The Wheel turns. Winter’s grip holds the Two Rivers like a vice, but Iona reaches forward and pushes her fire iron into the hearth. The logs shift, a renewed glow reflecting back to her. She sighs, leaning into her chair with a tangible contentment. From the back of her mind, a knot tugs. Annoyance, likely at the cold, reverberates through her mind. She tries to reply with the smug contentment of the warm. The knot tightens, hurrying its step. Moments later, the wood door hurries open. Iona speaks without bothering to turn.

“Tea is on the kettle, fool.” She says, but her voice lacks the ice currently clinging to the weather. “Since you chose to stay late, you have also chosen to pour me some tea.”

A man strides in, his heavy black coat high over his head and coated in a fresh layer of snow. He quickly slams the door shut, giving an audible sigh as he sheds the outer layer and walks to Iona’s chair. Learning down, he kisses her head and chuckles to himself.

“Welcome home to you too, dear.” Hakkan Buryoni rises, moving to press his hands near the flame. He grew up in Illidan. He does not like the cold. Warmth returning to his fingers, Hakkan twists his hands. Iona can feel a tremor, like a distant wave against another shore, through their bond. Saidin. The nearby kettle rises from the stove and hovers on a current of air to Iona’s seat. Graciously, she accepts the pour, but raises an eyebrow as she spies two additional cups.

“We expect guests?” She asks. Hakkan pushes his tongue against his teeth — a habit of his when he didn’t know how to respond. “Did Lord Perrin tell you what he wished to discuss?”

Hakkan nods, pouring his own tea but choosing to stand with his back to the flame. “Lord Perrin.” He began, giving Iona a distant stare.

“Wishes to speak with us both on the matter.”

Iona blinks. Hakkan continues.

“He and Queen Faile.” He emphasizes. “Together.”

“Together?” She asks, glancing back at the cups and rising from her seat in alarm. “As in they intends to come here?”

Hakkan nods. Iona frowns.

Strange. Very strange.

“And they shared nothing more than this?” She probes, adopting an analytical mind. “Any indication of what the subject would be?”

Hakkan opens his mouth to respond, but his gaze snaps as the sound of horses echoes over the storm.

“I think.” He says, setting down his cup and rising to his full height. His face steels, running a hand through his black hair. He looks so much older to her, now, than when they first met. Grown. She stifles a small thrill that runs through her spine.

“We might just have to ask them ourselves.”

A knock at the door, and Hakkan stands by for Iona’s lead.

“Come in.” She says, cool and calm. There’s a burst of cold air and Faile Aybara enters with a leisured pace. Behind her, Perrin takes up much of the doorframe and blocks the wind, but they both enter quickly and close the door. Hakkan strides forward, quickly accepting the Queen’s cloak. He tries to accept Perrin’s but as he always does, the man declines, removing his own. 

“Queen Faile. Lord Perrin.” Iona says, a graceful curtsey. “ Light be with you both. Please be welcome in our home and be warm.”

The Queen smiles politely, patting Hakkan on the arm in thanks and stepping inside. Perrin nods, a gruff thanks.

“Thank you, Iona Sedai.” Faile replies, easily. “I thank both you and your husband for your hospitality at my request on such short notice.”

Ah. So it was the Queen who pulled this together. Iona notes the information careful in her mind and she walks to the tea and begins to pour by her own hand. Faile graciously accepts. Perrin just accepts, but no less grateful. 

“You have something.” Iona presses, unable to stop her own curiosity and opting out of more pleasantries. “That you wish to discuss, my Queen?”

Faile chuckles into her tea, shooting Perrin a warning glance over the rim as she brings the mug to her lips.

“I seem to recall asking you to request an audience with Iona Sedai and Asha’man Hakkan, husband.” She notes with a casual indifference. “I see you’ve already told them why.”

“They would know you wanted something.” Perrin replies, voice like gravel as he accepts his own cup. The thing looks tiny in his hands. “They’re clever. Better to know we have a topic than idle chatter in this cold.”

“All we know, my Queen, is that you seek us both.” Iona replies. “But you can rest assured that whatever dramatics Lord Perrin engaged were amplified for effect by the time it reached my ears.”

Faile smiles brightly as both Perrin and Hakkan roll their eyes at the jab. Neither give a response, something the women clearly agree is the right answer.

“Then I will not delay.” Faile begins, setting down her cup and adopting the demeanor of Saldean focus. Iona remembers trying to decipher the difference between the mannerisms of a Saldean at war and a Saldean about to make conversation. Time had taught her they were one and the same.

“You are aware that Perrin and I occasionally visit the city of Caemlyn in the wintertime. This trip is not as a matter of state, but at the invitation of Queen Elayne Trakand. A personal engagement.” Iona nods severely. She is exceeding aware. This trip represents one of the most curios events on her Liege’s social calendar; something totally unique to them. When it first occurred, Iona had actually reached out to the White Tower for guidance on how to proceed. To her shock, the Amrylin Seat, herself, had replied.

‘ Do not interfere.’ The letter read. ‘ I will see to this matter, personally. ’

The Amrylin Seat, engaging personally in her assignment without so much as a hint of explanation? Iona had nearly fumed. Nearly. 

Collecting herself as the Aes Sedai she was, Iona made it her personal mission — and thus, Hakkan’s — to learn everything she could about this event. After a decade, she was no closer to an answer than she’d been the day she received her orders.

Iona inhales sharply, a tremble of anticipation echoing across her bond.

“We are, my Queen.” She responds as though describing the weather. “Do you wish to discuss your plans for this year? Hakkan and I have prepared an acceptable alibi for your departure, already.”

Faile sips her tea thoughtfully, eyeing Iona as a bird of prey surveys the ground. While Perrin’s Golden eyes hold the acclaim, Iona thinks Faile’s could be just as unnerving.

“There will be no need for gateways or alibis this year.” Faile says, and the anticipation Iona had worked so hard to bury bubbles like an eruption to the front of her mind.

“Oh?” She knows she’s said it too quickly to pretend she isn’t on the edge of her seat. “May I ask why?”

Faile gives her a sidelong glance, taking a quick view of the snowstorm raging outside.

“We are having a change in venue.”

Iona feels the sizzle of Hakkan’s growing intrigue in her mind and has to forcibly hold the emotions at bay. He is less successful.

“None at all, my Queen?” He asks, not bothering to not sound engaged. “If no gateways are required for a change in venue, do you intend to travel by traditional means? It will be more difficult to mask a journey from the public eye if it is too far.”

Iona sends a sliver of annoyance through the bond. She won’t have Hakkan let his eagerness outweigh his tact. She opens her mouth to smooth the discourse but Perrin beats her to the words.

“We go to the mountains.” He says, and Iona feels a weight in his voice that she can’t quite place. “Our hunting cabin atop the Mountains of Mist.”

Iona nods as he speaks, piecing together threads like a weave. The upper lodge is large, but remote. A project Perrin himself dedicated years to building - turning a tiny, burned shack into a multi-story manor. Iona had never understood the appeal, or why the people of Emond’s Field had seemed so moved by the work. It had taken Perrin, Hakkan, and and an old man who did not introduce himself to Iona, nearly four summers to finish. A long project, even with Perrin forging the ironwork himself and Hakkan lifting the materials with the One Power. Work had concluded nearly five years ago, and the old Man had stayed in the cabin until his passing late last summer. She tries to remember if she ever learned his name.

Iona shoves these idle thoughts to the side, going back to the matter with focus. Perhaps her Lord requires privacy? In mid-winter those passes are as difficult to scale as the walls of Caemlyn castle. If the goal is for seclusion, the result will be much the same. Plausible, but can feel gaps in her data. She needs information.

“I understand.” She replies, feeling brazen and not able to tell if it was her own or Hakkan’s. Damn that boy. “We can make preparations for yourselves, immediately. But what preparations would you have us make for you…” Iona’s voice shifts, just by a smidge. She see’s Faile’s eyes narrow in amusement. Iona hates how the woman thrives on watching others squirm.

“… Other guests?”

“None.” Faile says with a sniff. “They know the way. They will handle their own logistics.”

“And security?” Hakkan asks. A good question, Iona thinks. “Would you have us setup guards on the path?”

Perrin shakes his head, his eyes glazing softly as he stares into the growing blizzard.

“The wolves will keep watch.”

Iona sits back. Perrin says nothing more, and the neutral expression on her face shifts into that of a visible frown as her brow furrows.

No needed logistics. No accommodations for guests. No guards.

“My Queen.” Iona says, slowly finding her words. “May I have your leave to speak freely?”

Faile meets Iona’s carefully manicured stoicism with a frustratingly content smile.

“Always, Iona.” Faile replies, a verbal indication formalities could be dropped.

“You aren’t telling us something important.” Iona says, arms crossing beneath her chest. “You have something you want to ask but are allowing our known interest to steer this conversation. Please, speak what you wish.”

Faile’s eyes narrow even further, but it’s Perrin whose laugh comes out in a slow, steady rumble.

“Don’t play with friends, Faile.” He chides. “This isn’t the hunt. Out with it.”

The glare the Queen gives her husband could cut stone. Perrin is unfazed.

“We intend to ask you to swear an oath of secrecy.”

Iona opens her mouth but finds the right words are dried. She swallows, trying a second time.

“Excuse me?” She all but stammers. Faile continues, the playfulness leaving her eyes and a sudden severity falling like a hammer.

“There will be no guards and we will bring no servants. You are to tell no one that this event occurs or who you will see. Not family. Not friends.” Faile trails off, chewing on her lips like they were words.

“Not even the members of your Towers.”

The curiosity that had filled both her and Hakkan fizzles in an instant. Hakkan straightens, rising back on his feat and Iona’s eyes take a hardened sheen.

“You ask a heavy thing, Faile Aybara.” Her voice is ice. Dark and immovable. “For over a decade we have served your people. We have held our commitment to guide your realm with wisdom and purpose. We have kept our oaths to you just as we have kept our oaths to our Towers.”

Iona rose, if only so her gaze could look down at the Queen.

“If you would ask us to pit our oaths to our Towers to the oaths we live in your service, you ask to find new counsel. Neither the Two Rivers nor Saldea is a home for Oath breakers.”

Faile stays in her seat but the way her hands grip the wood of the table is like a vice. There’s an unsteady silence that lingers. Iona feels like she’s dancing on the edge of a blade.

Then, Faile smiles. Long and thin and tugging at the end of her lips in a way that makes her feel as much of a wolf as her husband. Behind her, Perrin grins. It’s naturally feral.

“Well, Faile.” He rumbles. “Seems you were right.” Iona blinks, Hakkan an open look of confusion. Faile nods her head with a smug satisfaction.

“I’m always right, husband. You know this.” Faile waives a hand absently, shooing away the praise. She bends into her pocket, removing two creased letters with fresh seals on their folds. Iona recognizes the crimson seal of the Amrylin Seat in an instant. Faile continues.

“I had a feeling you might feel that way, so I took the liberty of arranging more direct instructions from each of your Towers.”

For the first time, Iona actually feels like prey caught in a trap. Hakkan’s eyes are like saucers, his fingers pushing against the black wax and scanning into his letter. Iona holds hers, running the wax through her fingers and giving a long stare to her Queen.

“I think, Faile.” She says, rising and collecting the woman’s cup. Faile raises a single eyebrow, but says nothing. Iona moves with purpose to a nearby larder, swinging a drawer wide and pulling a simple glass bottle for the shelves.

“That we are going to need something stronger than tea to drink.”

Chapter Text

The ride up the Mountains of Mist is slow. The snow clings to the ground in a powder, their feet sinking nearly two fists deep with every step. Faile Aybara, Queen of Saldea, pushes them onward without pause. She walks beside their lone wagon, loaded with supplies, scouting the rode as Hakkan mans the reigns. Iona sits, a passenger in the cold.

“I was not aware you were such an adept cart driver.” Faile praises. The Asha’man chuckles under his breath, his chest swelling. Iona thinks his head does, as well.

“An Asha’man is ready to face many challenges, my Queen.” He replies. “From matters of state to the use of the One Power and everything in between.”

Iona rolls her eyes. That much bravado at this altitude could cause an avalanche.

“Lady Faile, please do not encourage my poor warder. If his expertise extends between politics and the source, I shudder to think what he will find beneath his skillset if this type of praise would continue.”

Faile weighs the response heavily, nodding as her agreement grows.

“A fair point, Iona Sedai. Men do too often find nobility in tasks despite dubious merit.”

It is easy for Hakkan to act cool; the air is freezing.

“Sticks and stones, my Ladies.” He sings to himself, snapping the reins a little tighter in his hands. “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but criticizing the driver gets you a seat in the back.”

There is a rustle of wind, a hidden force collecting a patch of snow and slamming it into the back of Hakkan’s head. Iona whistles innocently, ignoring his glares and letting the rush of Saidar ease from her mind.

They’ve driven for half a day, already losing Emond’s Field long ago to the distance and clouds. The tree line thickens as the road shrivels from stones to stone-suggestions. Faile brings a hand to their horse, taking the reins from Hakkan and guiding it by hand until the reach an opening in the mountain pass. The trees are so thick, it doesn’t look like an entrance at all. But Faile pushes through the first two layers and the three find themselves in a sprawling clearing, dozens of times larger than the road itself. Like a piece of the mountain carved out. A private oasis as rock and snow blocks the wind on either side and evergreen trees hide the house from view.

Iona takes in the view with an open gaze - it really is quite breathtaking. She visited a number of times during the construction but seeing it in the heart of winter is something special. The house itself is enormous for the region. The “Wolf Lodge”, as Hakkan affectionally calls it, is a three-story manor of wood and stone with beds for more than a dozen. The use of Saidin made construction possible in ways that had never before been available in these mountains. Sometimes, she thinks Perrin had more modest hopes for the land. Then Faile announced she was pregnant. Then the men got carried away.

The end result is fabulous. Faile and Iona allow the lapse.

With a final push, they navigate the cart into the clearing, and it lurches to a halt beneath the simple stable. Faile brushes against the horse’s neck as Hakkan extends a hand for Iona to descend. There’s already smoke trickling from the chimney, making the house look just terribly cozy in Iona’s eyes. Perrin emerges, covered in soot and ash, to greet them — likely wearing the cost of such a cozy warmth.

“About time you made it.” He says, a wry grin beneath his beard. He turns a chef’s knife over in his hands, pulling a cloth along its recently sharpened edges. “I was beginning to worry you’d gotten yourselves stuck, Hakkan.”

The Asha’man bristles for a moment, his grip on Iona’s hand tensing before returning to his gentlemanly duty.

“As I assured Queen Faile, my Lord, I am quite adept at many things beyond good counsel and the One Power. Cart driving in this accursed weather is one of those.”

Perrin chuckles softly, sensing the defense and pressing his attack.

“Is that so?” He asks. “Well, that’s fantastic. Let’s hope helping me carve venison is one of those skills — we need to begin the roasting, soon.”

Hakkan shoots his wife a narrowed glare as she gives a very un-Aes Sedai snicker.

“Of course, Lord Perrin.” He grits, notably less enthused than a moment ago. “Back in Illidan I was known for my ability to…”

Iona rolls her eyes, shoving the man forward to accept the knife from Perrin. Hakkan makes a vague sound that feels like a protest but stomps off into the snow behind the house with a sigh of surrender. Faile approaches Perrin lightly, a bundle of food wrapped beneath her arms, and gives him a small kiss.

“Everything went well?” She asks. Perrin nods, his face switching from amused to purposeful in the span of a breath.

“The wolves will be watching.” Perrin answers with a nod, eyes scanning into and through the trees. “They’re on their way now. I can feel them.”

Faile nods, content in the message, but when Perrin’s face remains tense, she gives him a small nudge.

“Was there more?”

He turns to look at her, a distant haze across his golden eyes and leans closer to her ears. Iona pauses her step, letting the crunch of snow beneath her feet fall silent. Her head tilts. What were they whispering about? It isn’t her business, of course, but then by the same token her business is the Lord Perrin and Queen Faile’s business.

Whatever he says to her, Faile’s eyes widen ever so slightly, and she gives a slow and shuddered breath. She doesn’t respond, only grabbing Perrin’s hand and giving a long and pointed squeeze before continuing on without another word.

Well, that isn’t suspicious, at all. Iona thinks to herself before flushing in embarrassment. The gal, trying to eavesdrop on conversations like she’s a novice! Whatever the Lord and Queen have to discuss, it is their business and their business alone. Pulling the edges of her skirt and trying to not outwardly look so blatantly curious, Iona gives a huff. She grabs another crate of food and following Faile into the cabin.

Perrin and Faile inviting them to join this journey is, at first, a rush. A sign of trust and loyalty. The kind of trust that would make any honorable man or woman proud to have been extended such confidence. It isn’t until two weeks later that Hakkan, while idly resting in bed, points out.

“If they’re not inviting any servants, who is going to prepare for this event?”

Iona Hattron has not scrubbed dishes since she was a novice in the White Tower, yet she stands side by side with the Queen of Saldea as they form a chain of progress. Iona supposes there’s a small lesson in this — if a Queen can do dishes, so can an Aes Sedai. But she hated doing dishes as a novice. She isn’t inclined to learn that lesson, now. Hakkan fairs little better. Preparing the meet takes another two hours from cleaning to stoking the fire and he had forgotten just how heavy a fully grown deer carcass could be. Despite the frozen air outside, both he and Perrin are sweaty, soot covered messes by the time they’re finished.

“That should be enough.” Faile finally says, and Iona looks at her pruned fingers and wonders how she ever survived years of this work as a Novice. “Hakkan, if you would be so kind as to warm the water tanks, I think we have all deserved a bath.”

The man nods, all too eager, and Iona follows him almost immediately. It’s childish, but she’s never as grateful for her connection to the One Power as when it allows her to have a hot bath. As she sinks into the water, Hakkan doing the same from across the wooden bath, both Aes Sedai and Asha’man let loose an audible sigh of content.

“Did he say anything to you?” Hakkan asks, breaking the soak after minutes of silence. Iona shakes her head slowly.

“No.” She answers. “He said something to the Queen as we approached, but I couldn’t hear it.” Hakkan’s face is disappointed, but nods in understanding.

“He kept staring out into the forest while we were cleaning the skins. I know he can sense the wolves even if he can’t see them, but this time just…” he trails off, spiraling a finger in the pool as a sliver of steam escapes the water. “It just felt like he was looking for something else.”

“Something else?” Iona asks. “But what does that mean?” Hakkan shrugs.

“I have no idea.”

They sit, content in the water but adrift in their curiosity. Iona is so lost in thought she’s startled when Hakkan abruptly stands, quickly reaching for a towel.

“Horses.” He says, and Iona hurries in the same motion. “I barely heard them approach. Must have used a gateway to get nearby.”

The Asha’man is out of the water and changing quickly into his familiar black cloak. Her runs a towel and brush through his long black hair, slicking it back along his head. Iona comes behind him, correcting his errant brushstrokes with a few of her own, earning a faux annoyed glance from the man.

“You go down.” She commands, shooing him from the vanity and kneading her fingers into the towel on her own hair. “I’ll be just a while longer. One of us should be standing ready to receive their guests.”

Hakkan snorts, eyeing his face in the mirror as he diligently straightens the golden dragon pin on his collar.

“Whoever that means.” He chuckles. Iona smiles and internally agrees. Externally, she smacks him on the behind with a brush and hurries the man downstairs.

“Go, fool.” She keeps her frown until he rounds the corner, a small laugh echoing down the halls. The moment he’s out of sight, she gives a small laugh herself.

But is a good question — just who are they expecting to come to this event? They’d prepared enough food for a feast for twelve, at least! Iona has never doubted how hard the chefs for the Steward’s manor or the Throne of Saldea work, but she feels a new, begrudging respect for turning out such buffets night over night. Whoever the guests were, she hopes they realize the effort they went through to prepare their meal!

She runs through what she knows in her mind, piecing together threads of interactions to try and form coherent theory. The secrecy is clear, and that almost certainly meant high profile. The Queen of Andor? A given. If this was a replacement for the Caemlyn event, she is doubtlessly a party to that. But is she the only Andorran? Caemlyn also implied perhaps members of the local Lordships. Perhaps Cairhienian merchants vying for favor with the crowns? But if that were the case, why choose a mountain top a thousand leagues away? Much less the Steward of the Two Rivers’ personal lodge?

No, the guests must be high profile but also personal. Borderlands royalty from Faile? A friend made during the War Against the Shadow? Iona feels a shimmer of excitement work its way through her mind — it’s been far too long she had a true and proper mystery. This was the best part of being an Aes Sedai — unraveling the mysteries and political intrigues of the world and grasping the strings between her fingers.

Iona taps against her serpent ring, rolling the jeweled piece across her fingers. She would figure out this mystery, just as she had done every mystery before. She would not be…

Iona stiffens, a feeling of abject shock surging through her Warder’s mind and flooding her own. With hardly another thought, she scrambles to finish her changing, rushing down the stairs as quickly as possible and her eyes searching for Hakkan.

She finds him. He’s standing with eyes as wide as saucers as he holds a woman’s coat in his hands. The woman, dressed in green but wearing a rainbow-colored stole around her neck, turns and looks Iona up and down.

“About time you came down, Daughter.” Cadsuane Melaidhrin says, her eyes scanning in that way that made Iona feel she is found left wanting. That everything is left wanting.

“Bad enough I’m out in this blizzard, to be greeted by a male channeler when one of my own daughters is about?” Cadsuane turns, shifting her gaze from Iona and addressing a still-stunned Hakkan.

“That will be all, boy. Stop your gaping and put away my coat.”

In a dual movement, Hakkan turns while Iona practically sprints across the room, bowing her head in a deep curtsey.

“Mother.” She whispers, trying to force the flustered butterflies from her stomach. “Forgive me, I was not aware you would be attending. Light be with you.”

Cadsuane didn’t turn, but a glow of power arcs through Iona’s senses. The door slams as if on its own; locking out the cold. Cadsuane’s gaze still leaves a chill on Iona’s skin.

“Rise, daughter.” The Amrylin instructs after an agonizing pause. “Late you may be, but you look presentable, enough.” Iona pushes her gaze even further downward, embracing the compliment no matter how backhanded as she rises.

“Well?” The Amrylin asks as Iona stands still. “Where is the pup?”

Iona opens her mouth to respond she doesn’t know, but a low and echoing voice calls out from the stairwell behind her. Perrin descends, a resolute expression on his face.

“Mother.” He says, but Iona can almost feel the amusement in his voice as he says the word. “You’re early. Please forgive us, we had only just finished preparing.”

“And Aes Sedai is never early, Pup.” Cadsuane replies, a single eyebrow raised in challenge. “She is where she is meant to be, when she means to be there. I should think yours would be more prepared.”

Iona’s cheeks inflame. She tries to begin yet another bow but hears the pop of a cork behind her and a low laugh from the Lord Steward.

“Iona Sedai is exactly where she needs to be and always is. Your faith in her is well deserved. Both Faile and I are humbled you chose to send us — how did you call it? The only woman in this Tower with any sense in her?”

Iona wonders if she can dissolve into the floorboards. The growing blizzard wouldn’t have been enough to cool the heat rising through her cheeks. If he is aware of her reaction to his defense, Perrin doesn’t show it. Instead, he casually walks behind Iona and reaches Cadsuane, extending a short but purposeful bow and a goblet of wine in an outstretched hand.

“We are humbled by your presence, Mother.” He says, sounding every bit the High Lord though the faintest current of amusement coursing through his voice. “Be welcomed in our home, Cadsuane Sedai.”

Iona’s eyes widen a fraction at the insolence, but Cadsuane merely accepts the wine with an amused smirk crossing her lips.

“Of the three of you.” She says, and Iona blinks. Three? “At least one of you learned how to speak like you weren’t a sheep herder.” She takes a sip, languid but eyes challenging. Perrin meets the gaze without flinching.

“That might be because I am a blacksmith, Mother.”

Cadsuane snorts.

“Insolent is what you are.” She replies, before glancing to the wine in her cup. “Illidan?”

Perrin nods. Cadsuane tilts a single eyebrow up before walking right past the man to find a seat at a nearby wooden chair. Iona considers that she’s never see the Amrylin sit outside of her chambers. As she walks away, Iona grabs Perrin’s sleeve in a way unbecoming of an Aes Sedai.

“My Lord.” She whispers with an urgency that makes her skin prickle. “You failed to mention that the Amrylin Seat would be attending. When you said guests…” she let the words slide away. Perrin face looks like he’s torn between sympathy and amusement, and it does nothing to help Iona’s stare.

“You’re going to want to steel yourself, Iona.” He answers, though he gives her hand a squeeze in a weak apology. Iona snaps her eyes to Hakkan, feeling the shock mix with his own through the bond. He’s already assisting Lady Faile in speaking with the Amrylin. Iona approaches in time for Faile to quietly hand both her and Hakkan their own glass of wine. She accepts it with a feeling that borders on relief.

“Am I the first to arrive?” Cadsuane asks Faile as the Queen of Saldea take a seat on a nearby stool. Iona considers it a mystery how the woman could look a Queen whether she was sitting on the Saldean throne or the ground.

“I’m afraid so, Mother.” Faile answers, nodding gravely. Cadsuane curses.

“Bloody ashes.” She whispers into her cup. Iona nearly chokes on her wine.

“Mother!” She exclaims through sputters. Cadsuane rolls her eyes.

“Hush, daughter.” She quips. “If tonight continues like it has started, you’d better start drinking your wine, as well.”

Cadsuane’s head tilts, an imperceptible thought crossing her face before easing back into her chair. Iona feels the chill but can’t focus on the source against her own jitters.

“I can feel that girl, now.” The Amrylin says. “Boy. Go fetch the door.”

Iona boggles as Hakkan stands and walks towards the entrance. By the confusion in the back of her mind, he’s just as confused by his compliance as she is.

“Really, Cadsuane.” Faile mutters, and Iona’s eyebrows threaten to leave her face. Since when had the Queen spoken to the Amrylin Seat like this? As though they were old friends from years gone by.

“You know how she hates when you call her that. If she hears you, Perrin won’t like you two fighting, again.”

Cadsuane gives a defiant hum, easing back into her chair and taking another drink of her wine.

“I will call her different when she acts different.” The Amrylin looks positively malicious. “Do you intend to rat me out, Queen of Saldea?”

Faile snorts but does not respond. Only choosing to drink her own wine in silence while Iona sits in shocked silence.

“Errr.” Hakkan’s voice comes from the door, uncertainty clear. “Announcing the…the Queen of Andor, Elayne Trakand.”

The woman that walks in is, by anyone’s definition, beautiful. Elayne Trakand almost glows. Iona wonders if it’s because of the rivulets of golden blond hair around her shoulders or if the woman was subconsciously forcing the One Power to create a glow around her. Her features are sharp and pressing, adding to an air of power and authority that seems to swirl in her presence. But there’s a second force, a grace on her features that counterbalances might with an overwhelming warmth. She wears a humble red gown, but the golden stitching of a dragon circling the garments link in a way that is nothing short of audacious. She wears only two pieces of jewelry - a brilliant ruby around her neck and a green snake wrapped around her finger.

“No introductions are necessary, Hakkan.” She says, her voice a song Iona wishes she could listen to all the time. “We’re all friends, here. But I will accept your offer to take my cloak.”

Iona isn’t sure Hakkan realizes that he had not, in fact, offered to take the woman’s cloak. He does so just the same. Perrin is across the floor in a moment, Faile rising from her own seat to join him.

“My Queen.” Faile begins, speaking for the two. “It is always well to welcome you to the Two Rivers. Light bless you.”

Perrin peeks up from his bow — Iona certainly hadn’t taught him that — and gives a cheeky smile.

“It’s good to see you, Elayne.”

Somehow, Elayne manages to appear embarrassed by the formalities. Iona wonders if the woman is even real.

“Rise, both of you.” She commands, though it doesn’t feel like a command. “Though I’m quite sure my sister Iona didn’t teach you to use your Liege’s first name in greetings, Lord Steward.”

Iona stammers on her own wine, thankfully setting the glass down and rising with a deep courtesy of her own. Elayne responds with a knowing nod.

“Ah, something about old dogs and new tricks, my Queen.” Perrin says with a low rumble before sniffing the air loudly. “But, while we’re happy to have you here I smell something that brings me pause.”

There is a twinkle in Elayne’s eyes, her head shifting back. The regal presence shifting in as though it had never left.

“Oh?” She says, very queen-like. “And what is it that brings you concern, my Lord Steward?” Iona squints in confusion as Perrin makes long, dramatic sniffs in the air. Faile holds an amused grin, a twinkle of love in her eye as she watches her husband posture.

“Indeed.” Perrin says, urgently scanning around the room. “It’s a smell on you. Almost as if some dangerous beasts stalk in your shadows. As though something wicked wishes to…Attack you!”

Perrin surges forward, darting around the Queen of Andor — was she giggling? — and holds his arms wide. In a blink, three squirming blobs Iona had failed to see are yelling in indignant outrage. Perrin cackles with maniacal mirth as he hoists the three small figures off the floor in his massive arms.

“Put us down, Lord Perrin!” A young girl exclaims. She’s trying to make her face furious, but giggles are bubbling through her cries. Her hair is a brilliant red, braided behind her back in a single row. Iona thinks it reminds her of grown women in the Two Rivers. She has a child’s bow with training arrows firmly in her small grasp. The next figure, a boy of golden blond hair, stabs a toy dagger into Perrin’s shoulders. The blade retracts into its hilt on contact, much to the boy’s fury.

“You can’t do this!” He roars like a lion cub. Meant to be threatening but overwhelmingly adorable. “That’s cheating!”

The final figure, a raven-haired girl with dark yellow eyes and a slightly curved nose, only laughs, happily wrapping her arms around her captor.

“Stop it, Daddy! Put us down!”

At this final request, Perrin sets the three children back to the ground. They shuffle with their outfits, ruffling them back into place as they try and bury their amusement with anger. They’re not very successful.

“No using unfair wolf powers!” The red headed girl accuses, pointing a small finger. The boy next to her gives a grave nod and the raven haired one latches herself to Perrin’s leg.

“You did promise, daddy.” Amara Aybara says, looking up to the man and doing her best to make her eyes look big. “You promised it would be a fair fight!”

“And who says it wasn’t fair, little dove?” Perrin asks, running a hand gently through the girl’s hair. “Perhaps I didn’t use my powers at all. Perhaps you three just need a bath.”

“Yuck.” Thomas Trakand balks, gagging at the very thought. His twin, Brigitte Trakand, nods her head in fervent agreement. Both children pale, however, as Elayne’s hand rests behind each other their heads.

“I believe.” Elayne says, her voice a terrifying combination of Queen, Aes Sedai, and mother. There would be no backtalk, today. “That I specifically instructed you to bath before we traveled.”

All three children shiver, and Iona can’t blame them. Though she’s known Elayne for more than a decade, now, the woman before her is a far cry from the petulant yet talented novice she had once met.

A second voice echoes from the outside, quickly hurrying in and out of the cold.

“If the talk I had with my son just before we departed is any indication, your Majesty.” comes a cool and sultry voice says. Berelain Sur Paendrag Paeron enters the cottage, flanked by her husband Galad Damodred, Lord-Commander of the Andorran Guard.

“It would seem that our orders they clean themselves were deemed as…’suggestions’.” The woman says, a raised eyebrow as the children cower under her gaze. From the day Iona meets Berelain, she thinks the woman a character from a male fantasy. Tall and dark, lips and body curved in ways that seemed to defy nature itself. The woman’s mere presence inspires such an air of self-consciousness in any woman that Iona idly asks Faile if she thinks the woman was secretly a channeler. Faile laughs, dismissing the thought, but the Queen didn’t seem to dismiss the theory.

And if Berelain was the object of the male gaze, Galad was her equal on another spectrum. Towering and blond, the Lord-Commander wears mail beneath his tunic — unable to step down from his perpetual vigil of his sister and Queen’s safety. The dedication only increases the allure. A literal knight in shining armor. Iona feels a small ping of jealousy course through her bond. She gives Hakkan a pointed and warm smile. Turning back to the children, Elayne Trakand looms with her arms crossed at the First’s words. Caught in the range of her gaze, Iona feels as small as the children.

“Brigitte. Thomas. Amara.” She speaks. The Trakand twins shrink into themselves. Amara glances around desperately for the safety of her own mother, but Iona sees the girl is trapped. Faile’s eyes look even more narrowed than Elayne’s. Elayne looks to the Queen of Saldea for a brief moment.

“Bath?” She asks. Faile nods.

“Upstairs.”

Elayne turns to all three of the children, a flick of her hands and her eyes promising consequences beyond their worst nightmares. Iona would need to ask the woman to teach her that, sometime.

“Now.”

There’s a scramble of motion, and all three children bolt upstairs like they were fleeing a Trolloc. Elayne graciously accepts the glass of wine Faile offers her and returns the embrace the woman offers. Hakkan moves to help Berelain with her cloak, but Galad is already hanging it up with a small and smug smirk that looks out of place against his face.

“If it’s not one thing…” Elayne says, as she gives Perrin a small but strong hug.

“We hope she wasn’t too much trouble, Elayne.” He says, and the Queen fervently shook her head.

“Nonsense. We’re always happy when Amara comes. Hopefully, she’ll teach them some manners, one day. Light knows I’ve tried.”

She and Perrin make small talk for a moment with Galad as Iona returns to standing by Cadsuane. She watches as Faile rises to her feet in time for Berelain to stand just across from her.

“Queen of Saldea.” Berelain says. Faile’s lips tighten.

“First of Mayene.”

For a moment, Iona wonders if the door is open to the outside by the way the temperature in the room plummets. She knows that Perrin preferred to avoid discussions regarding the first of Mayene and the Queen of Saldea, but surely…

Iona breathes in, a small hitch. Was there still conflict here? Was the First a welcome guest? Iona stands, ready to run interference but stops mid step as the two woman smile. The tension evaporates like a morning mist, and they hug and talk as old friends. Next to her, Cadsuane gives a groan.

“How droll. They were quite entertaining during the war, I’ve been told.” The Amrylin seat sips her drink, face more annoyed than anything else.

“Peaceful the 4^th age may be, but I hate when all the drama happens offstage.”

Iona opens her mouth, not really sure how to answer that but prepared to just say something along the lines of ‘Yes, Mother’ before she stops, the sweet shimmer of Saidar crossing her mind. Cadsuane leans back, settling into her seat.

“Ah good.” She says to herself. “Some guests with spine, at least.”

There’s a shuffling by the door, four figures entering and then very quickly slamming the door behind themselves. The do not bother to knock. There is a woman in front, long red hair in rows down her side with eyes like a wildfire. She shivers but holds her chin high.

“Wetlander weather.” The woman says, accent as exotic as the rest of her. Iona doesn’t recognize her, but she knows the markings of an Aiel Wise Woman. The Wise woman straightens to her full height, casting as imposing a figure as Elayne in the doorway.

“It is good you have a fire, Perrin Aybara. We would be warmed.” She finishes, not even thinking to use a title. Iona doesn’t think she cares. At once, two different cries erupt from the gathering.

“Gaul!”

“Sister!”

To Iona’s surprise, it is Perrin and Elayne who call out and move from their spots, eagerly approaching the new guests. Elayne is first, the Wise Woman meeting her stride with a brilliant smile of her own. Both women embrace like they were family. Perrin, in a likewise manner, clasps the man — Gaul — so strongly Iona wonders if the two men will bruise each other just to greet.

So, this is Gaul, Iona thinks to herself, piecing the threads. The man is tall and seems quiet. He says very few words to Perrin, although he does seem genuinely excited to see him. The women behind him, also Aiel, seem equally happy to be reunited. They are warmer with Faile than Perrin when she approaches, the three women happy to talk and give only sidelong glances to the two men.

“That’s trouble if I’ve ever seen it.” Hakkan says next to her. Iona nods, albeit with a different interpretation.

“Who, the men?” She asks, full well knowing his intention. Before he can respond, she nods. “I completely agree.”

It is the other pair, however, that consumes Iona’s attention. Everyone with even a passing interest in history knows of the Keepers of the Dragon’s peace. That the Dragon Reborn himself was of Aiel blood. Those with a more intimate knowledge of history also know that the Queen of Andor is connected to a mysterious Aiel Wise Woman. Those who are Aes Sedai know this woman to be called Aviendha. They also know her to be one of the most powerful channelers alive.

“Sister.” Aviendha says, her voice dark and rich against Elayne’s brightness. “It has been too long. I am sorry to have missed our last meeting.”

Elayne runs a hand across the woman’s cheek, beaming just to look at the Aiel.

“Excuses are for later. I am just happy we are reunited.”

It would seem, Iona notes, that the extent of the relationship between the Aiel Wise Woman and the Queen of Andor is significantly more extensive than she thought. To call a woman friend is one thing, but sister? Iona spares a glance at Cadsuane, trying to see if any part of what was happening surprised the Amrylin. As usually, the woman is unreadable, though she is currently beckoning Iona’s husband over like a common servant. As the Amrylin presses Hakkan into refilling her wine, Iona is left disappointed.

“Goldeneyes.” The fire-haired woman says after the groups have caught up, for a time. It’s like an afterthought as she passes by. “You have four riders approaching by the woods. We spotted them on entry, but they had stopped to rest some time ago.”

There is a fleeting moment where Perrin’s body seems to lurch. Iona sees his fingers ghost at the hilt of where his hammer usually sat on his back. The massive hammer is against the wall, and Perrin’s hands clasp together, refocusing.

“Do I…” he says, his voice a razor. “Need to go?”

“Always so eager to dance, Goldeneyes. It is one of your better qualities, despite your attempts to deny it.” Aviendha replies with the hint a smile on her lips. “I do not think that will be necessary. We heard the sounds of what seemed to be some…horrid wetlander instrument when we passed.”

There was a point — somewhere between the Amrylin seat entered, Perrin tackling the daughter-heir of Andor, or when four Aiel walked in while a blizzard raged outside — where Iona thinks she would have found her composure over this madness. She was Aes Sedai, after all! She can’t be sitting like a fish with her mouth agape like some novice. Surely, she can dig deep and find the nerve to navigate this situation. All she need do is breath and re-take the situation in her hands. She can do this. She is focused. She is calm.

Then, an old Gleeman knocks on the door claiming to have gotten lost on the road of life. His speech is interrupted as the three behind him shove the fool forward. Moraine Sedai, Nyneave Sedai, and Lan Mandragoron enter from the cold. Iona can feel a synapse strain in her mind.

“Hakkan.” She whispers furiously. She’s barely hiding her shock, now and resorting to burying her face in her wine glass. “That is the most powerful channeler in the world. In the cottage.”

Hakkan nods, drinking his own wine but keeping a level eye on Lan Mandragoron like he was seeing a ghost.

“The man who killed Demandred.” He whispers like it’s an honor to even get to see him. To even be in the same place. And these people were just talking like they weren’t the heroes of the 3^rd age… Iona’s eyes widen.

“Hakkan.” She says, and the words fall soft on her tongue. “That’s what this is. This isn’t a political meeting.” She turns to look at him, because she finally gets it and feels in way over her head. “This is a gathering of the veterans of the War.”

Hakkan’s eyes widen, and she can feel his hand stiffen while it rests on her own.

“That makes…” he processes, scanning the room like a child reading stories of their favorite heroes. “They’re all here from the war. Every last one of them with a part to play in the —”

Hakkan is mid-sentence when he freezes, handing a startled Iona his wine as he rushes to stand beside the door. Snapping his body into rigid form, the Asha’man bows.

The door bursts open. A very annoyed Logain Ablar enters, his shoulders locked by the arm of a one-eyed man in a wide brim hat leaning on a dark black spear.

“A million thanks, my Lord Dragon.” The hat wearing man beams, his grin threatening to split his cheeks. Logain doesn’t level a glare, but Iona could swear he wanted to. “You know Tuon hates making her own gateways. We owe you one!”

Hakkan bows, head a full ninety-degree angle with his legs as Logain enters.

“Lord Dragon.” He calls out, a stiff urgency. Iona doesn’t need the bond to know his heart is pounding in his chest like a drum. Logain takes the greeting to pull himself from the man in the hat, who seems not to notice at all.

“Hakkan.” He greets, his voice an iron rod. But yet — casual? To Hakkan and Iona, it all feels a surreal. “You are…well, I hope?”

Hakkan takes it as reassurance that the current Dragon of the Asha’man seems as uncomfortable with small talk as he feels right now. Hakkan’s tongue is heavy in his mouth as he responds.

“Uh, y-yes, Lord Dragon.” Hakkan says, steady as he can. “I am well.” She can feel Hakkan’s shock in their bond and Iona does her best to suppress her own as to not feed his fire.

“When I received your instructions, Lord Dragon, I did not imagine you would be here…” Hakkan continues, awkwardly. “…In person.”

Logain seems to ponder this for a moment, breathing out in what Iona could have confused as a snort of amusement. It wasn’t, of course. The Dragon of the Ashe-man did not snort.

“Nor had I.” Logain answers, accepting a glass of wine from Perrin as he holds a leery eye on the hat-wearing man. “But I happened to be in counsel with the Empress at the time, and the Lord Prince insisted.”

Iona’s breaths in, her eyes snapping to the hat wearing man with a furor. Hat. Eyepatch. Empress. Prince. Surely, this couldn’t be…

A woman steps thought the threshold. She stands nearly half the size of the doorway, yet her presence consumes the entire room. Her eyes blaze in the night, dark pupils reflecting the burning hearth inside the cottage. She cocks a head to the side, her gaze quirking finding Perrin.

“The Seanchan Empress enters your home, friend of the Prince of Ravens.” She announces. Her voice carries the tone of royalty that makes even Iona snap to attention. “And yet the Prince shirks his duties to announce me. Will you correct this oversight?”

Perrin rolls his shoulders, rising to his full height as he steps over to where the woman stands. The door is wide open, but the woman seems content to ignore the cold. Holding a glass of wine high in his hands, Perrin bows.

“Light welcome you, daughter of Artur. May the light shine on this visit and may you be welcomed into our home.”

The woman smiles brightly, turning her eyes up as she basks in the introduction before proudly accepting the wine. Fortuona Athaem Devi Paendrag, Empress of the Seanchan empire, gives Faile a warm smile and a toast.

“You have trained him well, Faile ni Bashere t'Aybara. It seems that the knave I have plucked from this quaint village will continue to need more manners taught to him”

For her part, Faile accepts the praise with equal pride.

“Allow us a few more glasses of wine, Empress.” She says, cooly. “And I’m sure we will both find reason to correct their behavior.”

From his spot near Gaul, Matrim Cauthon rolls his eyes. The Lord of Battles would not be so easily intimidated. As Fortuona enters, a slightly taller woman shadows her every move. She greets her hosts with a polite yet formal bow before carrying on in some type of hand signals with the Empress. Before Iona could blink, the Seanchan woman strides across the room and looms like a predator behind the Prince. Mat does his best to not seem intimidated, but it isn’t working.

The door closes a final time, and one additional guest joins the party. A short haired woman with bowed raven hair. Though dressed in Seanchan clothes, her skin and eyes betrayed her as an ‘Eastlander’ more than any Seanchan garb could disguise. She makes her way to Elayne and Aviendha, all three women talking excitedly amongst themselves. There was not an Aes Sedai alive who couldn’t recognize the Doomseer of the Seanchan Empress — Elmindreda Farshaw.

Iona scans the room a final time, fighting back the dizzying feeling in her stomach.  These aren’t just veterans of the War. These are the heroes of it.  She doubts this much political or actual power has been brought into the same room since the war. And Perrin and Faile indicated this type of gathering happened regularly? Iona struggles to imagine the thought! What does this mean for the White Tower? The Black? She spent her life advising the powerful how to engage with each other, and now she sees them embracing as though they were family?

Iona’s mind is whirling, but she hears Perrin stand among the group and raise his hands.

“Who’s hungry?”

Chapter Text

Iona eats dinner next to Nyneave ti al’Meara Mandragoran. It is a constant fight to keep from wanting to ogle like a common Novice. She and Nyneave talk of the White Tower. Of Nyneave’s recent breakthroughs in healing those afflicted with a new disease that had caused havoc on the western coast. They discuss the Two Rivers, Iona sharing what she can of local politics. Nyneave is more interested in the Women’s Circle than Iona is, but she indulges the woman all the same. Thankfully, they don’t talk about Iona being jealous of how quickly Nyneave had been raised to accepted and Aes Sedai.

Overall, it’s a pleasant conversation. Iona doesn’t make a fool of herself, a fact of which she is immensely thankful.

Lan, Iona learns, is a man of few words. This isn’t a problem for her, Nyneave has no such problems, but Hakkan finds it a difficult process making idle talk with the man. It isn’t until Hakkan brings up his recent learnings of sword fighting that Lan’s eyes glimmer with something that almost feels like engagement. That quickly turns into a gruff but lengthy conversation in all the ways Hakkan was learning incorrectly how to use a blade.

Iona can’t stop herself. She takes a quick, nervous scan of the rest of the room. Nyneave gives a small but kind smile.

“It can be overwhelming, I imagine.” She says, also glancing down the table but clearly feeling a different emotion. Iona just nods.

“Just a bit.” She admits. She keeps her demeanor cool, and that was saying something. Her insides still felt like an explosion of butterflies. “Lord Perrin and Queen Faile neglected to share just who would be in attendance.”

Nyneave chuckles in understanding, a small smirk tugging the corners of her lips.

“You’ll have to be patient with those two. Neither is overly keen in what could be considered counsel.” She chides, and Iona is struck by the realization despite ten years of near constant engagement with Perrin and Faile, Nyneave still knew them both better than she ever could. They were flame forged — together. Though the time was short, the crucible was hot. It is a sobering thought.

“They’re good leaders.” Iona says back. She means ‘to her’, but Nyneave lets loose a small sigh of satisfaction at the answer, seemingly taking it another way. The woman seems so immensely proud of the answer. They both trail off as Perrin stands, looming over the feast with a glass in one hand and his knife in another. The small click of metal-on-metal silences the crowd.

“Everyone, if I may?” He asks for permission as though all eyes hadn’t already snapped to where he towers over the seated party. It’s something Iona had taught him, a way to maintain humility while commanding attention. Overly polite, she thinks, but very Perrin. He’s become a fine Lord. A good leader, indeed.

“Though it may not feel that way tonight, the days of winter in the Two Rivers are coming to an end. Just last week, the first days of full sunshine returned, and our Wisdom’s agreed the storms were almost over.”

Perrin turns, dramatically turning to look where snow was still falling. Iona almost laughs into her wine. And he insists that he’s still a blacksmith and not a Gleeman?

“I think Nyneave might still be the best at listening to the wind, but I do still believe our current Wisdoms. Winter is nearing its end. For the Two Rivers, this means the start of Bel Tine. For those of you not from the region, Bel Tine is a special time. It is the end of winter, the start of spring, but it represents much more than that. Bel Tine is the start of the renewal.”

Perrin’s speech is simple yet powerful. He speaks with noble’s grace but with the common man’s earnest tongue. He tells the tale of Bel Tine; its purpose and significance to not just the Two Rivers, but to their own story. He recalls the massacre. An act of unspeakable evil and a night of joy turned night of unspeakable loss. Iona can still hear whispers of the tale as she walked around town. The people of the Two Rivers never try to forget the tragedy. As awful as it is, and as hard as the times were, after, that moment was the start of the change. The catalyst of death that brought an explosion of life to the Two Rivers. Tragedy, yes, but a valued one. But how does one measure the value of life against the cost of death? Iona doesn’t know that answer.

She listens on, rapt captivation, as Perrin continues his tale. Nearly every name in the room is mentioned, at some point, and Iona watches each grapple with their own history. As his story ends, Perrin takes a deep exhale. He’s no gleeman, and the story is long and heavy. He takes a sip of his drink and squeezes his wife’s hand before continuing.

“But above all, I was taught one lesson about Bel Tine I would pass to you. Mistress Luhhan used to tell me that Bel Tine, before anything else like parties and contests and dancing, was a moment for gratefulness. For looking to what you have and thanking the light that you have it through the end of another winter.”

His glass is raised high. A toast.

“And the purpose that brings us here today is something to be grateful for.” He finishes, his eyes burning into his cup as though trying to manifest every word. “Whether it comes to pass or not, our purpose is to be grateful.”

There’s a moment, just a single moment, where the collective room inhales deeply. Iona is snapped from the toast by the sudden shift. Purpose? She questions. Did this gathering have a purpose? She feels Hakkan’s mind tick as well, his body leaning imperceptibly forward. Faile clearly notices by the small nervous twitch her hand makes against her glass, and Iona’s brow only furrows.

The drinks raise in agreement, and Hakkan and Iona awkwardly follow suite with their faces both lost in thought. It seems the rest of the room is equally lost in the moment, as not a soul even notices their delay. A silence fills the room as the people drink, only to be shattered by a simple, repeated sound.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

The Wheel itself grinds to a halt. The entire party is frozen, but Iona’s eyes are whirling. Perrin stops, mid-sip, and it seems the collective attention of the room swings like a hammer. There are so many reactions, it’s difficult to keep track of them all. Next to her, Nyneave’s body goes still as stone. Lan doesn’t move, but the way his hand flexes around his fork looks more fit for a blade than a utensil. Logain and Cadsuane wear their calm without pause, but Iona notes that the Amrylin’s finger is twitching against the wood. An uncharacteristic trace of anticipation flirting through her eyes. Thom thinks he’s being discrete, but Iona can see him grabbing hold of Moraine’s arm from underneath the table. For her part, Moraine only leans into him. The Aiel’s faces are stone, the Seanchan Empress steels herself — humor leaving her face while her posture assuming the dominance it knew so well. Mat isn’t wearing his hat, but his eye darkens behind a tuft of lowered hair.

Most interesting of all, however, are the three women at the end - Elayne, Aviendha, and Min, as they sit surrounding the Trakand twins. It’s almost too quick to notice, but the children’s bodies freeze, their eyes surging in something…is that excitement? Fear? Hope? Iona cannot tell. The Trakand twin’s snap their gaze to their mother in the same heartbeat. There is a sliver of time where Elayne seems lost in a different place. But then her features turn to iron. Iona can see her hand move and grasp against Brigitte’s own in response. On either side of Thomas, Aviendha and Min do the same to the boy. The children say nothing, but both turn their eyes to look at her and Hakkan - as though Iona was the one knocking! Like they were nervous, and the source of the mystery was them. Her mind whirls.

Are they…holding them? She wonders. Holding them from what — a knock at the door? An entire evening of peace shattered by a single sound? Iona finds that every thread she thought she had woven together, an attempt at understanding this gathering, unravels through her hands like grains of sand. She can feel Hakkan thinking the same, but his eyes focus on the way Faile grips Perrin’s hand like a talon.

It’s Perrin, alone, who moves, and every eye in the room watches. Anticipation as thick as the falling snow outside. His body is hunched, lurching. Like a weight is strapped against his shoulder blades and every step towards the door takes physical effort. The man has been more relaxed than she’s ever seen, tonight, but now he looks as though he’s seen a ghost. He stands at the door, not moving to open it for so long that Iona wonders if he ever will.

There’s a second knock, and Perrin’s hand snatch the door open in a blur.

The man is tall. There aren’t many men larger than Perrin, but this man seems to cast a shadow through the doorway that consumes Perrin’s frame. He’s wearing a simple traveler’s cloak - something any merchant or tradesman would wear. He’s the only one not dressed like nobility, and Iona doesn’t understand why that doesn’t make him feel out of place. He’s got a light shadow of stubble crossing broad and squared cheekbones. With jet dark hair, his face would have cast an intimidating visage if there wasn’t a soft glow in the way his dark eyes stared back at the Steward.

No one says a word. The blizzard quiets; even nature not wishing to make a sound.

The man opens his mouth, but the first words don’t come. He swallows, trying again.

“I’m sorry I’m late.” He speaks. “I wasn’t trying—”

Perrin is forward before Iona can see what’s happening. He’s gripping the man so tightly, arms wrapped in a vice and he’s…shaking.

Is he… She wonders, an confusion consuming her mind. Is he…crying?

The only reason her head moves is because the sound of a wooden stool being kicked out from beneath feet is a thunderclap in the room. Mat Cauthon is standing, body hunched between long and focused breathing. The Empress reaches her hand to his, a subconscious action as her eyes never leave the man in the doorway. Mat gives the woman a reassuring squeeze before walking around the table to the threshold. As he stands a meter away, Perrin finally relinquishes his hold on the man. Black eyes turn to meet Mat’s, and the wind outside howls.

“Is this real?” Mat asks. He’s trying very hard to keep his voice even, but the tremors in his arms echo just as strong in his vocal cords. “Because if you’re not going to stay, I’m going to shove Ashandarei so far up your backside it…”

What kind of question is that? Iona openly stares. Is this a threat? An enemy? What is he even asking? The man, however, does not share her concern.

He gives a small nod, eyes locked with Mat’s. It takes Iona a moment to realize that isn’t fear in his eyes — it’s hope.

“It’s time.” He says, as though that makes any more sense. But it does, apparently. Iona turns again as Elayne shudders, unable to stop the sob that claws its way out of her throat. Aviendha is holding her a moment later, but Iona isn’t sure the woman is doing any better. She’s holding onto Min like if she let go, they’ll both fall to oblivion. There are little teardrops falling on the table from where Min is now openly crying. Before Mat can step forward, two small blurs — the Trakand twins — have leapt from the table and are gripping onto the man’s legs like he’s a ship’s mast in a hurricane. Mat doesn’t even seem to notice. He reaches forward, a single hand patting against the man’s shoulders while a smile crosses his lips. If he notices he’s crying, he hardly shows it.

“You know.” Mat says. “It’s about bloody time.”

No one corrects his language.

Iona looks to her side and can see Nyneave gripping the napkin in her hand so tightly she’s worried the thing might rip. Who was this man? Who was he to have this kind of effect on them all? A friend? A lover? A thought tickles the back of her mind, but she pushes it down because it’s nonsense.

That wasn’t possible. It must be something else.

Thom stands, making his way over the threshold as Perrin finally closes the door. He looks as near to tears as the rest, embracing the figure like a man embraces a son. Iona needs answers. She looks to the only person near her not currently falling apart. She is relieved to find the Queen of Saldea. Faile is calm, a relaxed expression across her features though her eyes are locked on the man with something like mixed wonder.

“My Lady.” She whispers, not wanting to take her eyes from the now growing party at the front of the room but unwilling to speak aloud without turning. “Who is this man?”

Faile doesn’t even turn to look at her. She just keeps staring, her eyes bouncing between the man and her husband and a feeling like contentment glowing through her face.

“That man.” She says, finally. “Is the reason we asked you and Hakkan to join us today.”

“Him?” Iona replies, somehow even more confused. “But I don’t even know him?”

Faile tilts her head from side to side, as though weighing whether Iona’s answer was correct.

“Perhaps.” She says. Iona is tiring quickly of this game. Aes Sedai do not sit well in ignorance.

“Queen Aybara.” She bristles, finding her spine and setting it. “This excursion has been riddle enough. Do not feel the need to continue to toy with—”

“She’s not toying with you, Daughter.” Cadsuane answers cooly as she takes Perrin’s vacant seat. Were Iona any less composed, she would have jumped. She hadn’t even noticed the Amrylin leave her seat.

“Mother.” Iona pushes forward, reigning her ire but only just. “I do not understand.”

“I would be impressed if you did, daughter.” Cadsuane’s reply is as quick as it is unfulfilling. “This will not be a matter easily understood.” The woman’s eyes never left the man as he continued his rounds of greeting the guests, but it was clear the Amrylin was deep in her own thoughts. Across the room, it was the Seanchan Empress trying to maintain her dominance standing before the man. He makes her seem a child.

“Tell me, daughter.” Cadsuane continues, not even bothering to look her in the eyes. Iona spies Logain pulling Hakkan aside, likely for much the same conversation. “What is it that I trained you to do when you arrived here?”

“I was sent here.” Iona begins, commanding her focus and forcing a reply that is acceptable. “As Aes Sedai to advise the Queen Faile and her husband, Lord Perrin.”

Faile leans back in her chair, a lazy sip of wine.

“And you’ve done a fabulous job.”

“Hush.” Cadsuane snips. “Queen you may be, but Aes Sedai are speaking.”

Faile clearly takes the threat with as much concern as a rabbit gives a deer. Turning back to Iona, Cadsuane leans in.

“Not that task.” The Amrylin corrects. “The other task.”

Iona frowns. Other task? It’s been a decade, was that not the…

Her eyes widen, mouth making a small and silent ‘oh’ as realization crashes into her.

“How to handle ta’veren.” She whispers. “Deconstructing man from myth.”

Cadsuane lets Iona stew in her growing realization. Faile grimaces, shifting in her seat.

“Perrin would switch you both if he knew that was what you officially called this little test.”

“The Pup would no more switch us than he would switch you.” Cadsuane replies, cooly. “Though, that being said I’m not sure he hasn’t considered it.”

Iona whirls on Faile, a visible shock.

“You knew?” She accused. Accusing a Queen? Have you lost your senses! “All this time you knew?”

“Knew?” Cadsuane chuckles but Iona doesn’t think it’s funny at all. “Who do you think told her what we were trying to do, here? She’s been as involved as you from day one.”

Faile doesn’t respond to the allegation, but the way she refuses to meet Iona’s eyes is proof, enough.

“Ta’veren do not take to counsel.” Cadsuane continues. “They sew knits into the very Weave around them. It is as foolish to try and control their behavior as it would be to control the weave, itself. And your Lord is one of the most weave bound ta’veren since the days of Artur. That’s precisely why we sent you here. We needed to learn — to practice — how best to handle the situation.”

“Why me?” Iona asks the sensible question. “Your own experience with ta’veren is doubtlessly more prepared, Mother. You guided the Dragon, himself.”

Cadsuane sniffs.

“Would that reality be as fortunate as those fables you cling to.” She laments, a hint of annoyance tinging her words. “That boy no more listened to my counsel than a stone. For all my wisdom with ta’veren, I attempted to steer that which cannot be steered.” The woman’s eyes glaze, the crinkles around her eyes suddenly making her look so much older.

“The consequences of my failure were almost the entire weave, itself.”

Iona’s breath is a hiss through her teeth. This was not the version they had been taught. To imagine the Amrylin Seat failing at a task such as this was unthinkable. There’s something that looks like a memory floating across Cadsuane’s eyes, but it’s drowned in another sip of her wine.

“But that is my burden.” The Amrylin finishes. “And, coincidentally, the start of yours.”

Iona is, for the first time in years, uncertain of her own voice.

“So, you sent me here…” she begins. “To learn? What, exactly?”

“When I tried to steer ta’veren, I used the ways of old. Of listening, of speaking. Of truths and omissions. The ways of the Aes Sedai for three thousand years to try and set the path and have them follow. You were tasked with a different task. A flavor of the old, to be sure, but a difference. With you, there was to be a balance. You were not brought in to guide the Pup. You were brought in to guide things around the Pup. Not controlling the weave but shaping around what the weave wills.”

“Hakkan.” Iona says softly, because he was her first thought. Cadsuane gives a nod.

“Of the same intention — that’s why you both were sent. Were it just one of you, even the perception of your purpose would be the old way. With both of you, a balance was struck. You were advisors to the kingdom, not just the King and Queen. You served your duty but never attempted to sway the weave’s will as it appears through ta’veren.”

Faile speaks, a look between clinical and proud.

“Ta’veren do not usually survive the reason for which they are born.” She says, quite clearly pleased that her ta’veren had. “Cadsuane was wise to see the need for a new way to handle such an event.”

“Handle.” The older woman finishes, but Iona notices something that feels like a gravity in her voice. Something foreign. Something…reverent?

“And prepare the world for cohabitation with those who weren’t expected to survive their purpose.”

For a long moment, Iona is silent. She sets her cup down on the table with a dignified quiet, rising in her seat with her lips to an expressionless line.

“This has been…enlightening.” She says diplomatically, but the omission of ‘Mother’ doesn’t go missed by either Faile or Cadsuane. “And what, if I may ask, was the purpose of this experiment.”

“Still your tempter, Daughter.” Cadsuane cautions though not without a small smirk that feels like respect. “We do not think so little of you as to treat you like an object to be studied. Your work was to be a predecessor of what’s to come.”

Iona blinks, her annoyance stifled by curious confusion.

“A…predecessor? Predecessor to what?”

That question, however, goes unanswered. The man, towering even in a room of giants, finishes his greetings of the Aiel, Gaul, and begins walking over to where Hakkan and Logain stand. The man extends a hand. Iona can’t hear the words on his lips, but her bond with Hakkan explodes. Shock. Awe. Confusion. It shakes her body as she watches her husband and warder extend a slow and hesitant hand in response. There’s fear in there — but of what? Confusion and reverence and awe mixing in one of the most powerful emotions she’s ever felt through the bond. But there’s one feeling that surpasses all the others. It crashes over Iona in a tidal wave as the man turns and begins walking towards them.

Joy.

He’s stands across from Faile. Up close, she can see the tan on his skin from long days of travel. Where he managed to find the sun in the middle of winter was a mystery. His eyes are black and dark — is that a fleck in them? — but they look so kind. Faile chews on her lip, and Iona is floored to realize the woman is nervous.

“It’s been a long time, Faile Aybara.” He says, like they’re old friends just catching up. Faile straightens herself, forcibly burying the twitch in her fingers and rising as high as possible to meet the man’s eye. She’s over a head short, but it isn’t for lack of trying.

“Your majesty, Queen of Saldea, is acceptable.” She corrects, and Iona thinks she hears Perrin choke in the background. “If you’re going to be late in my home, you will extend some respect.”

The man smiles, extending a slow but polite bow.

“My apologies, your majesty.” He replies with the grace of a born diplomat. “If it’s any consolation, I believe I will be held accountable for the delay. I’ve been told I’ve taken far, far too long.”

Iona sees Faile smirk; the woman’s gaze is snapped to where three women sit patiently in the other corner with the children. They almost pointedly don’t watch the interaction, but Faile understands. She nods, satisfied.

“Accountable.” She flips the word across her tongue. “Yes, now that I do believe you will.”

She reaches out an arm, cupping the side of the man’s cheek with a warmth that feels utterly alien to Iona’s eyes. They all know him. Whoever this is, whatever this is, is a force. The wash of emotions from Hakkan flushes through her so dizzyingly Iona is forced to dampen the emotion just so she can think.

“You are welcomed under our roof.” The Queen says, though a light smack follows the warmth of her touch. The Queen drags a pointed nail across the man’s cheek; not hard but certainly pointed. “But you try and take my husband on another of your crusades, and you’ll answer to me, understood?”

The man’s laugh is like honey to Iona’s ears. It’s so peaceful, like it’s lulling her to relax and taking away all her worries. He turns from Faile, his smile still equipped but now staring at the Amrylin Seat as a man stares at their blood mother.

“Mother.” He says, and for a moment Iona wonders if he means it. The scoff Cadsuane gives in response is hardly a denial.

“Dramatic, as ever.” She answers, her eyes looking the man up and down in clear and open judgement. She lingers on his eyes, and Iona sees that strange black fleck swimming behind his pupils. “You send no notice, allow no plan. It’s as though you have a concerted effort to reject counsel given to you.”

The man shrugs — shrugs at the Amrylin?! — and gives an easy but small grin. “In my defense, I did actually get sidetracked…”

“Yes, I heard about the Southlands flooding.” Cadsuane sniffs, interrupting the excuse with the same sympathy she’s shown every excuse given to her in the past hundred years. “What was it that I taught you? Your rampant desire to play hero prevents you from seeing the bigger picture. If you can’t…”

“You know, I had time to read one of your books, Mother.” The interruption takes Cadsuane off-guard for a fleeting moment. Iona sees the woman raise an eyebrow — what counts for a dramatic response from the Amrylin Seat.

“My books are not public, boy.” She cautions. “How did you get your hands on one?”

He ignores the question, entirely. “And it was quite enlightening.” He continues with an easy sway. “In fact, I have to say I felt as though I was reading your opinion on things change. It was in your recent treatise ‘Learnings from Leadership’. You cited one of your Aes Sedai daughters as inspiration for what you were calling a need to adjust course in the way of the White Tower counsel. There was one quote I was particularly moved by: I see, now, there is a wisdom in other approaches — ones that were not taught in my day as an Aes Sedai. We were taught order and discipline, but, my daughters, in this time of peace we have an opportunity — an obligation — to reconsider the cost of such methods.”

The man gives what counts as a laugh, a low and light thing. Cadsuane’s body is rigid. Iona is struck by the ridiculous notion that Cadsuane looks, in this moment, like a novice being praised and isn’t sure how to respond.

“I particularly liked a quote you included from one of your daughters’ reports: Mother, I decided not to hinder the request. Generous deeds should not be checked by cold counsel.”

Now, it was Iona’s turn to flush like a novice. That was her. She had written that in a report to the Amrylin after Perrin had wished to use the crown’s purse to upgrade the local schools. It was outside of the budget, but he had just been so moved after visiting he came back in a flurry. Her Aes Sedai training had prepared her to reign in a man lost to his emotions. Kind as they may be, those funds were to be saved, to be monitored tightly. What if there was a war? A fire? Monetary discretion was a cornerstone of sound governance. And yet…

Iona remembers looking at the children, too. She saw them happy. Playing. What was the point of this saving if not to make the world better for the future?

She’d supported Perrin’s request. The man had hugged her so intently she was swept off her feet.

But that was her quote. The Amrylin had quoted her in one of her treatises? Iona scarcely found the time to read what she should for the Two Rivers and Saldea, much less the backlog of updates from the Tower. And here this man, this standing enigma, was quoting her in the open and didn’t even know she was…

Iona’s thoughts screech to a mental halt as she realizes the man’s gaze has settled to her. The breath shifts in her lungs, and she finds it difficult to bring it back. He’s not threatening. No weapons or channeling, but something when she looks at him makes her feel so terribly, terribly small. He has a hand outreached to her. A small but formal bow.

“I believe,” he says. “That we have not yet had the chance to meet, Aes Sedai.” Iona nods, slowly, accepting his hand but unable to get her body to do more than tilt her head in response.

“Iona Sedai, was it?”

“Yes.” She answers, cautious but breathless. She doesn’t know why it feels like Iona Sedai isn’t enough. Not for this, introduction. “Iona ni Hattron t’Buryoni.”

Why had she shared that? Iona inwardly staggers. The man smiles. Smiles like he already knew the answer but is so grateful that she chose to share it with him.

“It’s nice to meet you, Iona.” He says like they’re old friends. Iona doesn’t understand why she’s so happy with that. Why she’s not annoyed at the impertinence of informality. She feels like she’s talking to a King, but he speaks like a Shepard.

“You’ve been a great friend to Perrin.”

It occurs to Iona that no one ever calls her a friend to Perrin. Aes Sedai, yes. Counsel. Advisor. Confidant. She gets all of those and has accepted them warmly over the years. But to be so casually called a friend? The warmth that blooms in her chest is genuine.

“He and the Queen.” She answers, as proud as she is pleased. “Have been good friends to us. It is an honor to be able to stand by them.”

She can see Faile smiling, broad and un-tempered by Saldean stoicism. The man matches her smile with a hearty laugh that lifts the entire room. Iona feels lighter just at the sound, but it’s Cadsuane’s voice that brings her back down to earth.

“Well, boy?” She demands, her glass to her lips but letting her eyes maintain the pressure. “You’re here now. Is this it?”

Is this what? Iona wants to blurt out. She just might, if things don’t start making sense in the next three…two…

The man’s smile fades, but it morphs into something stronger. Something solid. Resolved. He stands at his full height and even Cadsuane looks a child.

“It is time, Cadsuane.” He speaks. The lightness in his tone is replaced by a thunder. The voice of Power. The voice of a King. Iona notices every eye in the cottage is locked on him. Elayne, Min, and Aviendha most of all. The man turns and finishes his words while looking at each of them. Iona buries a feeling of intrusion at the sheer passion of his gaze.

“I’m staying, this time.”

Cadsuane considers this answer a silence that echoes through the room.

“You understand this will not be what you hope it will be?” She asks. There was no emotion in her voice. No annoyance, no awe. This was the Amrylin — direct and calculated. “However, you think this is going to go, it will not be that. There is no returning to what was, and there will be no telling what will be.”

The man’s eyes are black. Iona thinks they look like fire.

“I understand.”

“Where will you stay?” She presses. “You can’t intend Caemlyn, much as you might want it. Seanchan or the Three-Fold lands would be better, but not without their own complications.”

He nudges his head towards where Faile and Perrin now stood side by side.

“Here.” He answers. “I’m going to be staying here.”

Cadsuane raises an eyebrow that clearly emphasizes she disagrees with the decision. Iona has seen this face before; it comes before the Amrylin lists why an idea is poor in excruciating, well organized detail. Cadsuane does none of that.

“You think that wise?” She asks, simply. “Of the places to start anew, you would choose the one place where you could be undone?”

There’s a shimmer, and the man’s dark eyes become clouded. There’s something happening, Iona knows, but her mind can’t piece what her eyes are seeing. Cadsuane inhales deep and sharp as the haze fades. The man’s eyes are now a yellow like the burning sun. The single black fleck remains.

“It’s only in the Two Rivers can a man with golden eyes feel at home.” He says and his eyes shimmer like molten gold. “Where people know not to question their past, but also know they mean them no harm. A man of the woods would be free to come and go, but mostly free to live.”

Iona is still trying to decipher what just occurred. Was that the one power? Could this man channel? Surely, Hakkan or even Logain would have reacted if he had used the power to shift his eyes! The questions mount, but Cadsuane narrows her eyes dangerously. She nods.

“That is…” The Amrylin does not give praise lightly. “That is logical."

Iona’s lips are moving before her mind realizes what’s happened.

“Who are you?”

“Yes, boy.” Cadsuane agrees. “Who are you?”

The man stares into the distance, eyes just a slight narrowed and hands twisting beneath his gaze.

“This story is of renewal — An opportunity not foreseen, but one taken. This is a story of forgiveness, and of starting the cycle anew.”

What did that mean? Forgiveness? Opportunities not foreseen?

“Elan.” The man says, and the way he postures makes Iona think it’s the first time he’s said it out loud even to himself. Cadsuane’s muscles tighten, but she lets the tension go with a practiced discipline.

“Hmm.” She responds. She shakes her head like she’s watching a play — a comedy in repeat. “You can’t help yourself, can you? You simply are compelled to do dramatic things.”

The man, Elan, lifts the corners of his lips and there’s something content in his face. Like things are right, again. He turns to Iona and finally looks at her. His golden eyes swirl, and she’s suddenly reminded of the wheel itself.

“Iona.” He says, and it’s like her name is etched in the air. “I fear that this mystery has far exceeded the patience you so graciously extend. You may call me Elan, but I imagine you will know me by something else.”

His eyes shift again, still golden but now blue, also. His hair is black and brown and red. His face is changing, morphing, but it’s staying exactly the same. It crashes into her. A meteor hitting and the only feeling she’s ever felt more echoing in her soul than Saidar itself. She knows his name. She’s always known his name. Lews Therin Telamon. Rand al’Thor. He was dead. Both of those men were dead. She knew they had died — she’d been at one of their burials!

But here he was. This was him. Elan. Rand. Lews. All separate. All the same. He’s turning, now, walking to the corner where two children are back at his side and three women who had managed to not show an ounce of emotion are now unable to stop the tears streaking down their face. Elan is there, and Iona thinks there’s tears in his eyes as well. The way they look at him, each a different expression but each expression the same overwhelming emotion.

“I don’t…” she says, because it’s the truth from her soul. “I don’t understand.”

“The Weave wills what the weave wills, daughter.” Cadsuane’s voice is a whisper, but there’s something happy in her voice. Something hopeful. “But of the many weaves, there is one that remains as true today as is has been in every age before.”

Cadsuane rests a simple, comforting hand on Iona’s shoulders. She’s witnessing something special. She knows it.

“The Wheel will turn, and the ages will pass…but the Dragon?”

Iona knows this saying. She’s known it her whole life. It’s etched in stone on the Amrylin’s Seat. A reminder of a time gone by. A promise of a time yet to come. She finishes the line without hesitation. It feels like a song.

“As long as there is Light in this world, there will always be the Dragon Reborn.”