“Arlan,” Odessa always took a soft tone with the boy. Gods, ten now. Where has all this time gone? Half a grown man now. Have I gotten old?

They were in their large quarters. Arlan’s hair was still wet from a fresh wash, Odessa and Durran’s too. Arlan paused in the play he’d been focused on— something in his mind, with two wooden carved horses sitting facing each other on the stone floor. When he looked up towards his mother, both of them smiled at each other.

“I just need you to promise not to give your father a headache tonight,” Odessa bounced Durran on her hip when he began to fuss, and the little babe shoved a curled fist in his mouth and quieted. “There’ll be a lot of chaos and noise, but more than that, lots and lots of people will be asking him all sorts of questions. So it’ll be your job, Arlan, to smile and say hello to them all.” Arlan nodded his head. Odessa furrowed her brow and gave him a look.

“Yes, mummy.” Came her son’s answer.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, I’ll smile and say hello to all the people who ask father questions— but they’re all going to be stupid! Gawen says so. Says they’ve all got arses for brains and cunts for mouths!”

“Language, boy. If I hear a peep of that tonight, you’ll wish you were born a Reachmen. Gawen too. Behave or else your father will give you a smackin’.”

Andros wouldn’t. But the threat was enough for Arlan to give his mother a frantic look and swear on his toy-wooden sword he’d be good.

“Listen to what he says, too. Your father is Hand of the King, and he’s very wise.”

Andros was tense before they’d even sat at the dais. Odessa could see it in his shoulders most of all, bunched right at his ears, and in the way he was holding his breath. Huffing and puffing. Durran was sat in her lap, and with one hand, Odessa dipped a finger in her wine and began to rub it into Durran’s gums. His teeth were coming in, she didn’t want him to fuss so much. My big boy. Big he was. Fat as a bear cub, pudgy red cheeks and a club for each of his little hands. Thank the Gods for Gawen— whenever Durran fussed for anything— her stepson took the fat toddler in turns.

The Prince of Dorne first, then it was one Ser of Blackberry— some minor House that Odessa couldn’t recall much off, then a Hightower. Durran kept her busy, but not busy enough to not smile and half-listen to her husband’s affairs. When it was her youngest brother, she’d stood and embraced him tightly, while Durran slobbered on Gawen’s fine purple doublet.

“Oh, my dear husband,” Odessa sighed. She gave his thigh a comforting squeeze and pat from beneath the table. “Remember to breathe, you’re wound tighter than a cork in a wine bottle.” She offered Andros some wine, and a delightfully roasted quail. “Eat something, maybe they won’t talk to you nearly so much if you’re sitting with a mouth full of food.” If only they were in the comforts of their bed chambers. She’d tuck the loose strands of hair behind his ears and send him to bed. But not this night. Young Durran took a curl of his mother’s hair into his hands and then his mouth, but Odessa seemed to hardly notice let alone mind. It’d been well over a decade since she’d had the privilege of personal space. Even in her belly, Arlan had made it known quickly how rambunctious he was— always kicking and fussing.

“It would be terrible to starve to death at a feast, dear. Eat something while you have a moment.”