Moonspear tŷ, nid cartref

Everything Charon says is true. Llewellyn listens intently, letting each word soak into his pelt like summer raindrops, warm and heavy. He knows that the story he brings and the past alongside it is not the most appealing to a ruler, especially one who has held this mountain for so long. A son of a deposed king, seeking refuge? History did not smile on fugitive princes.

But he is here, and alive. And for every argument Charon makes, Llewellyn has a rebuttal. . .or at least something to say on the matter.

"I am sorry you have not escaped the bitter taste of betrayal," he begins, staring with empathy clear in his eyes. "I can understand why you would not be so keen to accept me into your ranks." He looks to the north, where the waves beat harshly against the seaside cliffs. Is that faint rushing simply the blood in his ears, or can he really hear it, even in the bosom of the mountains? "My home will always be a part of me. I cannot, and will not, change that."

His gaze, twin shards of sapphire, cuts back to Charon. "But that home is forever changed, and my family is dead. The only family I can protect now is the one that chooses to take me in." His eyes flit up the mountain, lingering on the peak. What secrets, what bounties, lie there? "Honor is important to me. I am not one to break my word. And even if I were to return to Mynydd--whatever is left of it--I would not dare to rip your warriors from you. This fight, if I choose to undertake it, will be mine alone."

Llewellyn bows his head to the pale-furred king, closing his eyes as if in prayer. "The decision is yours, syr," he murmurs, awaiting his fate. "I will accept your verdict with grace, whether it suits me or not."