Mairwen nodded, but otherwise wasted no time of the Prince’s, their goodbyes were often hasty yet no less insincere. Once again, she receded down the hall opposite to the direction of where Griffin had been escorted. It was a brief encounter, yet it weighed on Mairwen’s mind nonetheless to have shared the summons. To call upon Griffin on behalf of the King was a task that harbored no true pride for her as a stewardess, the only comfort in doing so was in the subtle warnings she was able to offer him regarding his father’s state of mind. 

As Griffin grew out of his childhood and into young adulthood, the Stewardess was almost always privy of Griffin and King Thorne’s strife and had witnessed firsthand the verbal lashings cast upon the young Prince on many occasion. She was not unaware of Thorne’s ill temper, and while she was admittedly compliant to his whims and upheld his irrational standards, there was a softness and quiet compassion reserved for Griffin that was otherwise absent for his father. Perhaps an ounce of pity, though none of these sentiments were ever worn on her tight-lipped face but rather through unspoken pardons she’d granted Griffin over the years. 

After all, she had on more than one occasion allowed the Prince to sneak back into the castle without stirring up a fuss directly to Thorne, who made it explicitly clear to report any type of insubordination or opposition to his commandments as both a king and a father. At the time, Mairwen merely stood tall over the adolescent, arms crossed and surly eyes narrowed at the boy to drill him on his whereabouts no louder than a whisper. She’d huff and say her piece about the necessity to be wary beyond the castle walls, and always made a point to chastise him on the state of his return, especially if he had been jaunting about the meadows or pastures unattended.

But Griffin was older now, and while he had acquired certain autonomies and privacies, he was not fully exempt from the King’s attempts to stifle the rebellious streak in him. So long as he was King, Griffin’s father saw to it that his word be made law, and the more the Prince resisted the more bitter Thorn had grown, resentful that his only heir dared to challenge his authority so publicly. They still had not recovered since Griffin’s last outburst in the royal courts, as however many weeks ago it had been. 

Thorne had tried his best to impose curfews, to double Griffin’s studies, and he’d even call upon his advisors to propagate favor towards his regime through bribery and incentives, if only he’d pledge allegiance to both the Crown and their forces loud enough to the courts — yet nothing managed to persuade him. 

So when the heavy doors had been pushed open and the Prince strode obstinately into the belly of the throne room, Thorne was already anticipating whatever little mutiny his son had planned against him, and instinctively his expression soured. 

“Seeing as I had tried to summon you [i]hours[/i] ago only to be told you were nowhere to be found, what choice did I have but to wait out your woolgathering? Dare I even ask where you have been since the morning?” 

Thorne skipped any attempt at pleasantries. He did not stand from his throne to greet his son, he merely rapped at the edge of the armrest with impatient fingers before he held up his hand altogether so as to silence any excuses or argument. 

“I am still making reparations from your last outburst at council, so do not push your luck today and listen to what I say. You may throw a fit on your own time.” 

The King did not rest his hand down, but merely redirected the gesture to the man standing beside him at his right shoulder. Hywel, the King’s head guard and right hand stood all but perfectly statuesque, one hand resting idly on the hilt of his sword and feet planted firmly on the polished tile. His militant posture did not falter when Thorne spoke his name aloud, and all the while his two dark eyes surveyed Griffin from the moment he stepped into the throne room. 

The guard wore no emotion, nothing aside from the vigilant and signature stare that often bore down on whoever moved to approach the King, be it a foreign diplomat or his own son. 

“I am appointing Hywel to you, as well as a new curriculum. This time I intend that it be followed. He will be at your side going forward, not just to serve but to mentor you as well. Do not try and squander this arrangement, Griffin. He still reports to me.”