He watched the boy spin the Herculian girl through the reel, his eyes narrowing as the candlelight caught the sharp, cocky grin on Basil's face.His father's grin.
The lad had his mother's high, aristocratic cheekbones, but the stride, that swaggering, was pure sellsword, pure paternal.
The king felt a hint of pride making port in his chest.
He twirled the grand-daughter of his father's vanquished enemy with all the effortless audacity of a man who had never tasted the mud of a retreat or the bile of a lost campaign.
Thirteen winters old and already dancing upon the ashes of dynasties without a single drop of ash on his velvet.
He had perhaps seen the metal of war firsthand, but it was one thing to witness it with little part in the over-all concotion, just a small cog int he whole machine, and another to be the one jerking the wenches of it to get a reaction..
One day he would be the one leading it.How would he fare then?
