A little something that has been playing on my mind since I first started writing these two ...

A shrill cry was the only warning Prince Garsiv had before a small body barrelled into him, wrapping her tiny arms around his leg.

If he wasn't immediately worried by her shaking shoulders, he would have congratulated her on the death grip she held him in. She'd been improving her sword arm.

Surrounding him was a group of large men, highly ranked soldiers of Persia's vast army, every one of them seasoned battlers who had followed him into countless wars. Yet they all shifted uncomfortably, totally baffled by the child clinging to their Commander's leg.

Shooting them a withering look – useless bastards, the lot of them – Garsiv shook the young child's shoulders, but his brow furrowed at her silent refusal to shift even an inch as he tried to loosen her hold.

"Amira, what is wrong with you?"

Her head tilted back to look up at him, and as her tumble of dark locks fell away from her face, he could see the swollen eyes and the well-worn tracks made by many tears.

Right. "Out. All of you."

The soldiers nodded to Garsiv and mumbled their respects to the little Princess as they hurried from the room, but she ignored them all.

As soon as they were out of the barracks, Garsiv scooped Amira into his arms and carried her to a chair. She buried her face against the cloth of his shirt.

"Little one," he said, his voice soothing. It was a tone he often used to calm the horses. "What happened?" If that moronic stable-hand had chastised her for visiting Aksh again …

She shook her head without answering, her hair bouncing around with the motion.

"Please, Princess. Tell me what's wrong."

"I c-can't!"

Her wail broke his heart.

He'd see to it that anyone who made his little niece cry like this would know just who they would answer to for it. He didn't care if it was the King, the Highest of the High Priests Alamut had, or even her parents. In fact, if it had been Dastan or Tamina he'd march into the palace right now and tell them just what he thought of their parenting.

"Amira, tell me. Tell your Uncle what happened."

Her blotchy face rose to look at him, her chin wobbling with the effort to hold back more tears. "You're not my Uncle."

If his heart hadn't broken before, she well and truly shattered it with those words. "Yes, I am."

Amira shook her head. "Papa told me. He said he's not really your brother. Not even by half. And if you're not Papa's brother …" He could almost see the thoughts swimming through her mind as she tried to make sense of the problem she'd been given. "If you're not his brother, you can't be an Uncle."

"Blood doesn't always make family." His thoughts lingered on Nizam, and the trials his machinations had put the royal family through. Concentrating on the girl in his arms once more, Garsiv's expression grew stern. "Now, you listen to me. I am your Uncle, because I say so. If anyone ever dares to disagree, send them my way. I'll make sure they never tell lies again."

For the first time since she entered the chamber, Amira's eyes flashed with something other than sorrow. It was good to see his little spitfire returning. "Even Papa?"

Garsiv arched a brow at her. "Especially Papa. Dastan won't mention this again." If he knows what is best for him.

Her face breaking into a jubilant smile, his little niece threw her arms around his neck and held on tight. "I love you, Uncle Garsiv."

Grunting in response, Garsiv stood and slid her off his lap. "Right. I'm going to the garrison."

"Why?"

Clenching his jaw, he tried to a force a civil smile on his face as he said, "Because I need to hit things for a while."

"Oh, alright." Her exasperation and lack of surprise at his words shouldn't have made him feel as proud as it did.

Garsiv cleared his throat as she skipped away, shrugging off the pall that had dampened his mood. Now to hunt down those damned soft soldiers she'd frightened off with her tears.