Gawyn knocked softly.

“Come.” Bryne’s voice was firm and familiar. Gawyn slipped in, then returned the door to its cracked position. Bryne sat at a rickety-looking desk, working on a letter. He glanced at Gawyn. “Just a moment.”

Gawyn waited. The walls were papered with maps of Tar Valon, Andor, Cairhien and surrounding regions. Many bore recent notations in red chalk. Bryne was preparing for war. The notations made it clear he felt he’d eventually have to defend Tar Valon itself against Trollocs. Several maps showed villages across the northern part of the countryside, listing their fortifications—if any—and their loyalty to Tar Valon. They’d be used for supply dumps and forward positions. Another map had circles pointing out ancient watchtowers, fortifications and ruins.

There was a methodical inevitability to Bryne’s calculations, and a sense of urgency. He wasn’t looking to build fortifications, but to use those already in place. He was moving troops into the villages he felt most useful; another map showed progress in active recruitment.

It wasn’t until Gawyn stood there—smelling the musty scent of old paper and burning candles—that he felt the reality of the impending war. It was coming soon. The Dragon would break the seals of the Dark One’s prison. The place he had told Egwene to meet him, the Field of Merrilor, was marked in bright red on the maps. It was north, on the border of Shienar.

The Dark One. Loose upon the world. Light! It made Gawyn’s own problems insignificant.

Bryne finished his letter, sanding the paper, folding it, and reaching for his wax and seal. “It’s a little late for calling on people, son.”

“I know, but I thought you might be up.”

“And so I am.” Bryne dribbled wax onto the letter. “What is it you need?”

“Advice,” Gawyn said, sitting on a stool.

“Unless it’s about the best way to quarter a group of men or how to fortify a hilltop, you’ll find my advice lacking. But what is it you want to talk about?”

“Egwene forbade me to protect her.”

“I’m certain the Amyrlin had her reasons,” Bryne said, calmly sealing the letter.

“Foolish ones,” Gawyn said. “She has no Warder, and there is a killer in the Tower.” One of the Forsaken, he thought.

“Both true,” Bryne said. “But what does that have to do with you?”

“She needs my protection.”

“Did she ask for your protection?”

“No.”

“Indeed. As I recall, she didn’t ask you to come with her into the Tower either, nor did she ask for you to begin following her about like a hound that has lost his master.”

“But she needs me!” Gawyn said.

“Interesting. The last time you thought that, you—with my help—upset weeks’ worth of her work to reunite the White Tower. Sometimes, son, our help is not needed. No matter how freely offered, or how urgent that help may seem.”

Gawyn folded his arms, unable to lean against the wall, lest he disturb a map showing orchards across the surrounding countryside. One village near Dragonmount was circled four times, for some reason. “So your advice is to let her remain exposed, perhaps to take a knife in the back.”