"Rose of Gilneas rolled heavily through the deep waves, and Asenath Gilton frowned, her turbulent blue eyes focused on where the horizon should be. Not this. Not now. Her flame red hair whipped in the gusts, and she tightened her perfect cupid's bow lips in thought.

"Avery!"

"Doin' the best I can!" The bosun shouted back, and she sighed. Well, it was called Stormwind for a reason, but truly, with everything riding on this voyage, couldn't fate have smiled on her? No, obviously not. Rose was a heavy merchantman, she'd been equal to every challenge that Asenath had thrown at her before, but Stormwind's waters were pushing her to her limits. If anything else was on the line, Asenath would have ordered her back to Gilneas in a heartbeat, but she could not. This was simply too vital. The prince, her beloved Liam, must have that medicine. Or else.

"We need to step down the sails, Mistress Gilton!"

No. Not today. Rose would just have to have the heart of a vessel of Gilneas. "Leave the sails. We have to be close to shore." They had to be close to Stormwind. Even if the city was in ruins, her bay was the topic of legends. It'd be risky, but then again, what wasn't? Asenath was a Gilnean. She thrived on danger. She was more than equal to it…

The deck pitched at a crazy angle, and all that filled Asenath's view was a rushing wall of foaming flint water surging towards her.

"So beautiful." Ah, she was dreaming. Or Liam was leaning over her, and would awaken her with a gentle, loving kiss…

No, she was awakened by a rude poke from what could only be a stick. Her eyes flew open. She wasn't in her lavish, silken bed. She wasn't in Rose's captain's bunk. She was on a length of pale champagne colored sand. The sky was very blue above her, and it met a teal colored horizon. Three…men…stood around her and she scrambled to her feet. Never in her entire life had she ever seen such disreputable sorts, scrawny, thin, unshaven and very near naked. She felt lightheaded from the very impropriety of it all. And even worse, their gazes were nowhere near her face, but much lower, planted firmly on her bosom. She blushed wildly, crossing her arms over her chest and trying desperately to look imposing.

"Mine. I found her."

Oh, no. That one didn't even seem to have teeth. Asenath would rather die than have that touch her. What were these devils? Surely they couldn't be men. No man looked like this; these had to be the apes that her atlas referenced.

"She should go to the King."

"Yes. The King." The third agreed, and that seemed to be the apes' final consensus, because the tallest of them grabbed her by the arm and started to head down the coast.

For such a scrawny sort, he was terribly strong, and only grunted when Asenath threw her weight back to see if she could break his hold. Not a chance. Where they taking her? Who was this King? Every second was precious; she didn't have time for this. Liam was dying…

"Look, I have gold." She pulled out the locket that Liam had given her, a treasured belonging, but she'd rather have him alive than keep it. "Just let me go, please, it's desperately urgent…"

"Pfft." The man dragging her along hissed, "I have you and your gold. And both go to the King."

Asenath's heart sank. This was not going well, at all.

He dragged her along for over an hour before he came to one of the most desolately primitive camps that Asenath had ever set eyes upon. It looked decidedly trollish, little more than a collection of huts made from peeled logs tied together and thatched with bundles of reeds. A King here? Really? And that was when she saw him…

He was a god. There was no other way to put it. A primitive young male god, striding towards her, wearing nothing but a loin cloth and a string of teeth around his neck. He was tanned golden, his wide chest crisscrossed with pale scars, heavy with rippling muscles. He had long, pale blond hair, and a heavy beard braided in an intricate gather. His eyes were as inscrutably gray as the seas that had pushed off her of Rose's deck had been during the storm.

"Aaaahhh…" Asenath struggled for words. How could something this terribly uncouth be this damned attractive? He'd be a glory if only he was dressed correctly. ..

He gazed at her in a strange mix of threat and measurement, and she could swear his nostrils flared as if he was scenting her. "Who are you?" He demanded abruptly, and yes, his smoldering eyes did linger where no gentleman's would, following the curves of her lush body.

"I am Asenath Gilton, owner of the Rose of Gilneas." He looked unimpressed, or uncomprehending, she wasn't quite certain. "A ship. From Gilneas. North of here. And you are?"

"Varian Wrynn, King of Stormwind." He proclaimed, leaning his massive body on the shaft of the war axe he wielded.

Oh, dear. How very, very, very sad that was. If he'd been able to become what he was meant to, he'd be a wonder to behold. A haircut, decent clothing, and the ladies would be swooning around him, those chiseled features, the regal bearing…"

Banastre, Lord Russell, sighed in disgust. "You know, Glory, I remember this as being much better than this." He muttered, parking the open book on his chest and staring at the ceiling above him. He was dead meat. He needed to come up with something soon, or Evelyn was going to kill him. The mastiff puppy gazed lovingly at him from the rug but didn't move, at least until the bassinet pushed up to the couch that Banastre lounged upon made an abruptly annoyed and decidedly goat like bleat.

"I hear you, Smidgen." He sighed, standing. That got the puppy immediately underfoot, wiggling and whining in adoration, but Banastre had eyes only for the infant he plucked out of the basket. It was a scene that would bring an unsuspecting viewer to a full cardiac arrest, the male worgen and the barest handful of human baby in his grasp. "Catherine. Catherine Russell. It's a good, solid, noble name." And Evelyn wouldn't even begin to buy it. She was like a mastiff with her teeth caught in a leather pull toy. He was going to give up. He knew it. She knew it. He was just delaying the inevitable. "Catherine." He tried again, unwrapping the baby and resting her on his belly fur. She settled immediately, her fingers tightening and loosening on fistfuls of it. It was the dead of a Gilnean winter, and he'd come straight out of Northrend for her birth. Fur was something he had in plenty.

"Catherine?" Evelyn demanded from the doorway, and he sighed in defeat. "No, it's not Catherine, damn it!"

"Imogen!" He barked back, and the baby opened startled eyes.

"No. Not Smidgen. Damn it, Ban. You are not naming our daughter Smidgen. .." There was heat in her voice, and she cursed as she tripped over the puppy who had decided to swarm her ankles instead.

"Imogen is not Smidgen." He tried to sound reasonable, but Evelyn was all too well aware that he'd settled on it because it sounded so much like Smidgen. It was terrible, but to him, the nickname had just stuck. Like glue. He looked at the baby, and all he saw was a Smidgen. And it was all his fault, he was the one who had first called her that. "Midge. We'll call her Midge!"

"Noooo." Evelyn's voice was baleful and he cringed. "And let me guess, Catherine isn't it, either?"

Lielielielielie… It would be so easy, just lie. He used to be able to do it. Look Evelyn in the eyes and tell her it was Catherine. Give Smidgen a nice, normal, noble name that no one would ever question.

"No." Damn him for even having mentioned anything. Once she'd known, once that glancing statement he'd made when his guard was down was out, he was doomed. It was over. "Evelyn, Catherine is a nice name. Or Nicola. We could name her Nicola. Alexandria. Lenore."

"No." Her expression was the very focus of stubborn immobility. "Tomorrow, Ban. You run out of time tomorrow." She picked up the baby from his chest, apparently oblivious to the fact that Smidgen snatched out more than her fair share of her father's belly fur. He yelped without thought, a high pitched noise that caused the underfoot mastiff puppy to hide under the table. "Sorry." Evelyn murmured, and smoothed his coat down with a quick pat. "Didn't realize she had you."

He eyed her warily. She was tired, but every attempt he'd made to help had been met with bitter resistance. His thought was that they'd come home from Dalaran, to Gilneas. Their firstborn needed to be born here, on Gilneas. It was right. He had a title now, they were nobility, there would be servants. A nurse, or a housekeeper, a cook, a girl of all work, something. Evelyn was dead on her feet, and if he heard one more paragraph about how his wonderful mother had managed to raise three children, keep this very same house, cook and do whatever else it was that Beatrice Russell had apparently managed with a graceful ease, he was going to bite someone. Hard. Evelyn had even been peeved that he'd taken a semester off from classes; she'd apparently expected him to start back just a day or so after Smidgen had come into the world.

Tomorrow. He sighed, shaking his beard in defeat. She was right, he'd have to have it all figured out by tomorrow. He slouched up to bed, and paused in the doorway. Evelyn sat in bed, propped up by a mound of pillows, nursing. She looked tired, her hair was in disarray, but he'd never seen anything more beautiful in all of his life. It was a travesty to read what he'd been reading, so fake now that he understood what was truly real. "What?" There was an edge of apology to her tone, she knew she'd been sharp with him lately. He considered pressing for a real apology, then let it go. He could do without it.

"I was just thinking how beautiful you are." He said, truthfully, and her eyes spilled with tears. "Evelyn. Let me…" Let him help. Somehow. Her vicious, persistent anger with him over the baby's name was just a symptom. She was exhausted.

"I don't want a stranger in my house right now, Ban. Please."

He lay down beside her, staring up at the canopy. "Here. I think she's done. She settles best with you."

He didn't doubt it. The baby seemed to view him as a large, furry blanket designed just to get her to sleep. Evelyn wasn't the only one who'd been doing without sleep, and Ban snorted at the idea. He'd become so domesticated, he used to have no problems with staying up all night long, and then working the next day. He took the baby, running a cautious handful of claws through her hair. She had dark hair, exactly as expected, he just wasn't certain if she had his black hair or Evelyn's dark walnut brown. Her eyes were muddy, uncertain, again he couldn't tell. She was small, but… He hadn't quite realized how many main features he shared with Evelyn. They were just going to have to wait to see.

She finally slept and he transferred her back to her bassinet, a grotesquely beribboned and laced confection of pink and white. Evelyn had been hoping for, no, expecting, a baby boy. She was going to name him Hannibal, after Ban's father. Smidgen had come into the world definitely not a boy, and when Evelyn had asked him if he had ever considered a girl's name, stupidity had popped out. "I've known what I was going to name my first daughter since I was a child." And like most things he said that were utterly true, Evelyn had known it was so. And then, suddenly, the sanity of adulthood had walked through and Ban's mind was full of reasons why naming the firstborn child of his new noble line after a heroine in a series of badly written, overblown, and now hilariously inaccurate romances targeted at virgin spinsters like his Aunt Lucy was such a bad, bad idea. It had been amusing when he was twelve and avidly reading them, but he wasn't twelve anymore. This wasn't some nebulous probably never going to be born baby in his future, this was an actual, living, breathing, existing baby girl. His daughter. She deserved a name like Catherine. Or Nicola. He liked Nicola. It was time to grow up, and give her a real name. And he needed one by tomorrow.

He sighed, picking the book up from the floor where he'd left it, running a claw down its spine. Asenath and the King of Stormwind. Book number five in the series. When he was twelve, and stuck at Aunt Lucy's house because Bram and Evelyn had come down with the spots, he'd discovered Aunt Lucy's collection and had set to read them…all. She'd been happy for the end of his ceaseless questions, and he'd been happy for the end of trying to get intelligent conversation out of her. They had been marvelous books, taking Ban out of Gilneas City in a sweltering summer, and to a myriad of other places he'd never see…like Stormwind. He'd dreamed of finding a wife just like Asenath, beautiful beyond peerless perfection, the woman every man wanted. He'd throw his entire fortune at her, to give her the gowns and jewels she deserved.

He chuckled. Instead, he'd married Evelyn, the woman he'd been raised with, the woman who still tended to wear his clothes whenever she could get away with it. She wasn't beautiful beyond peerless perfection, but he'd be lost without her. She wasn't the woman every man wanted; she was the woman he wanted. And she had access to all of his accounts, if she wanted gowns and jewels; she could go buy them herself. But she didn't.

And he'd been to Stormwind… He replaced the novel in its empty slot, fifth from the left, staring at the titles. Asenath and the Rose of Gilneas, Asenath and the Prince, Asenath and the Mines of Ironforge, Asenath and the Highborne… It was time to grow up, to let all of this bilge go. They were foolish. He'd been to Stormwind, it was a vibrant, living city, not a stronghold of the Scourge. He'd met Varian Wrynn, and the man was no blond Barbarian King ruling the survivors of Stormwind from a cluster of huts. These were just a sad mix of heaving bosoms, impossibly handsome men, and some truly xenophobic and laughable writing. They were supposed to be read by hopeless spinsters like his aunt, who had never been married, was never going to be married, and had probably never even seen a naked man in her life. Not by twenty three year old married men with a baby already.

"Bleh." He growled, and the puppy whined, creeping submissively across the floor towards him. He sighed, and put her outside in the yard for the night, before he picked up the bassinet monstrosity, Smidgen tightly asleep in its lacy depths, and went to bed.

He woke to angry screeching, and sighed. That was a damp and hungry baby, and his best course of action was to stay the hell out of the way. He climbed out of bed and headed straight for the bath. He needed to be clean today, at his best. Breakfast, and at least Evelyn looked like she'd gotten some sleep. That was almost a smile she sent at him, or it could just be an acknowledgement that he'd run out of time. He sighed, tying his cravat while she dressed, and gathered up Smidgen. "Cold out there." He noted, and Evelyn nodded, bundling the baby up and handing it to him.

It was damp, bitter, and he cradled the baby closer, blocking the wind. At least the King was holding court in the city today, and not at the Manor… Banastre didn't want to consider taking that trip with an infant, especially in this weather. He waved down a cab, helped Evelyn and the baby in, and settled in for ride as Evelyn pointedly did not ask the question she had been asking for the past four days.

She didn't ask it when they arrived, and he handed her down, her carriage regal as she strode before him into the hall. Ban followed her, and realized what was wrong with the view… Genn's guards, members of his own pack, were in their usual places on the left side. And on the right, guards he didn't know. Human guards, not a worgen amongst them, all wearing the blue and gold of Stormwind.

Damn. He hopped to keep pace with Evelyn, who preceded him with a stately speed. "Evie." He muttered a warning, and she glanced sideways at him, then stared at the nearest Stormwind guard as if the man had just popped into being.

"Oh…" She looked as if she would like to reconsider, to retreat back into the hallway, but the herald had already seen their approach, and recognized them.

"Lord and Lady Russell." He boomed out of a worgen throat, and the buzz of muted conversation beyond paused expectantly. Ban sighed, shook his head, and reached out for the baby. Evelyn was more than willing to hand her over, and Banastre stepped into court.

The Lion Throne of Stormwind was set up on the main dais, flanked by two other thrones… Gilneas's throne to its right, and a smaller, nearly plain version of the Lion Throne to its left. Varian Wrynn, King of Stormwind, sat on the Lion Throne, Genn Greymane on the Gilnean throne, and a rather stiff Anduin Wrynn on the other.

Genn leaned forward when he caught a good glance at Banastre, and grinned suddenly. "So, finally, we get to see the new Lord or Lady Russell?" He asked, and Varian's usual glower lifted slightly, replaced by a questioning look. He was garbed in fine blue and gold, a far cry from a loin cloth made out of a tiger skin, and his thick, dark hair was pulled back in a tail. No virtually naked barbarian king here, but the Varian Wrynn that Banastre would recognize anywhere.

"Yes, your Majesties." Ban could feel Evelyn fade into the space immediately behind him. Although she'd die before she admitted it, he knew she found Varian Wrynn more than a little intimidating. "And it would be Lady Russell."

"A girl! Wondrous news. Come. Come. Approach."

Here we go, Smidgen.

He approached the thrones, bowing first to Varian, and then to Genn. Varian leaned forward, almost relaxed. "Leader of my pack." Banastre intoned, kneeling before Genn. "Our daughter…"

He could feel Evelyn's stare boring into the back of his head. Was he actually going to give up the name he'd been avoiding? Or play it safe? Time to grow up…let things go…

No. They'd lost so much. He wasn't going to give up everything. The books might be foolish, but they were part of a happier past. The name didn't carry any desolate weight, like naming her after his mother. There was no darkness tied to it, only a reckless, childish joy, and he needed all of that he could get. Decision made, he snapped his head up and stared Genn in the eyes. "Our daughter, Asenath. Lady Asenath Russell."

Genn shifted into lupine form, and stood, burying his nose in the blanket. "Asenath." He breathed, memorizing the scent of a new pack member. "She smells healthy. Strong. Good."

"Congratulations, Lord and Lady Russell." Varian offered, standing. "It's not often that my courts bring me good news, but this qualifies. Do you mind?"

"No." Banastre murmured, handing her over. Varian took her with ease, peering into her face, and Ban chuckled, realizing he was actually seeing Asenath, and the King of Stormwind.

May 21, 2012-May 21, 2012.