A/N: Slightly AU—I have taken some poetic liberties with Tros. Reviews are most welcome!
The messenger, carrying the sacred mark of Olympus, presents me with a set of moon-colored horses, they who have carried immortals on their backs. He tells me my son is the newly-laureled cupbearer of the gods; he seems apologetic for my loss.
A son who bandied women about and left them half-swooned on the doorstep? More a credit to his mother's beauty than even my sublunary brains. How much drunkenness have I induced in despair of ever having legitimate grandchildren?
Is this the equivalent of arranged marriage for one's son?
Shame I never thought of it before.