Castles
Perturabo is silent, as he carefully constructs the fortress. He fits the blocks, apparently concentrated solely on this task. He's ignoring the two maids whispering about what happened to "that poor man". They don't worry about him hearing it, after all he's busy and he's a child. Even if he does hear, he won't understand.
This isn't true. He does understand them all too well. It's also from their gossip that he learns how the world works. Without telling him directly, they inform him of the backstabbing in the court. They teach him to distrust everyone. Who can he trust, if nobody tells him anything? He has no idea who he really is: the man who calls himself his father certainly had not sired him nor did the woman that calls herself his mother give birth to him.
They never mention that he isn't their child, as if they hope he won't notice. They lie to him. So, he cannot trust his parents.
He is left alone to gleam the truth from pieces of conversations he overhears and even then he cannot be sure if he really discover it. People lie not only to him, but to each other as well. "That poor man" believed his wife wouldn't poison him and now he is dead, his wife being incarcerated. He remembers them: her always smiling at her husband, nothing showing the falsehood. And yet… he is dead and she apparently poisoned him.
And so the boy learns in silence that he can only trust himself.
The patriarch of clan Dorn is content. His grandson is a bright boy; grasping things even adults have trouble understanding. He's growing up so quickly. That thought makes the old man frown slightly: the boy is growing suspiciously rapidly. When Rogal should have still been learning how to speak and he was already capable of reading…
At least he will see his grandson grow up into a man. He shakes his head at his thoughts: he is too old to be bringing up a child. Instead of being awed, he worries about growing old.
The object of his musings is not far away, piling snow up into a semblance of a fortress. It's a surprisingly accurate miniature, especially given what it is made of. With an air of finality Rogal slaps some more snow onto one wall, before regarding his work.
The old man cannot help himself. He smiles to himself as he scoops some snow into his hands and makes a ball. The boy is standing with his back turned towards his grandfather, so he does not notice the flying snowball until its too late.
Rogal yelps when the snowball connects. He turns around and glares at his still grinning grandfather. When it fails to produce any effect, the boy makes a snowball of his own.
They don't spend much time like that. Soon enough, the old man has to attend to his duties, but Rogal doesn't seem to mind. He follows his grandfather inside, the snow on their clothes melting as they enter the warm interior.