It had always been Alexander’s hope that his ascension to the throne could be handled peaceably, no matter the constant building evidence that his hopes were childish dreams. It’s with a sense of resigned irony that he now watches over one of Philip’s many wakes: in the murder of his father, he has found the most peaceful path.

There is still an ache, of course, for the loss and for the conspiracy. He had seen the hints and hoped that they were only deluded aspirations, threads of obsession, fruitless. He was wrong, and yet he is not suffering for it - prospering, by contrast.

( Would he have saved his father, if he knew? )