His mother had several different smiles. There was one reserved only for Steffon, only for her little boy, the one Steffon guarded jealously, always on the lookout that she was not being so free and so easy bestowing that smile to anyone and everyone.

There was another smile of his mother that Steffon did not like, that scared him, almost. This one had her lips pressed tightly together, as if she was smiling to stop herself from saying rude words, the kind of words she would be scolding Steffon for ever saying.

His mother was smiling that smile now as another one of her siblings approached her. She had laughed and laughed when Uncle Daeron attempted to sweep her off her feet and carry her away. She was smiling, and then crying, and then laughing, when Aunt Shaera embraced her. And she had smiled that special smile that was supposed to be only for Steffon when they visited Uncle Jaehaerys in his bedchamber. Uncle Jaehaerys had looked so ill and so miserable that Steffon did not mind his mother parting with her special smile for someone else, just this one time.

"That is your uncle Duncan," his mother said to Steffon, her eyes fixed on the man who was fast approaching them, her voice low, her mouth still smiling that smile Steffon did not care for.

Tugging at his mother's dress, Steffon whispered, "Is he a bad man?"

Frowning, his mother hissed, "Of course not. Why would you think that?" But Uncle Duncan had already reached them, and Steffon did not have the chance to reply.

He did not seem like a bad man, this uncle who knelt down on one knee and put his hand on top of Steffon's head.

"Do you know who I am, young man?"

Steffon glanced at his mother, who gave him a slight nod. "You are my uncle, Prince Duncan," he replied.

Uncle Duncan said nothing at first, his eyes never leaving Steffon's face. "You look so much like your father did, when he was a boy. I thought time had somehow been rolled back, years and years."

"Did you know my father when he was a boy?"

"Yes, I did. He was a royal page, your father, serving in this very castle. He was older than you are now, of course, when he came here. Seven, if I recall," Uncle Duncan replied.

"Eight," Mother interjected. "Ormund was eight when he came to King's Landing, the same age I was when I was sent to Storm's End."

Wide-eyed with curiosity, Steffon asked, "So you went to Storm's End, and then Father went to King's Landing, all at the same time?" So strange, these switching of houses. Why couldn't they each stay in their own house, with their own family?

"No, not at the same time," his mother replied. "Your father is older than I am, you know that. When he came to King's Landing, I was only two."

"It was right after your grandfather's coronation. That was when your father came to King's Landing," Uncle Duncan said.

"And then he went home to Storm's End when you went there, Mother? Did you go together?"

There was a long silence punctuated with awkward glances between Steffon's mother and his uncle. His mother was the one who finally spoke. "No, your father went back to Storm's End a short while before that, because his father, your grandfather Lord Lyonel, needed him."

"He was my squire at the time," Uncle Duncan said. "Do you know what a squire is?"

Steffon nodded. "Father has three, but only one came with us here."

Duncan raised himself up, his eyes finally meeting his sister's gaze. He asked, his voice tentative, hesitant, "Are you well, dearest sister?"

"I am," Rhaelle replied. "I am always well," she added, determinedly.

The look on Rhaelle's face seemed to have discouraged Duncan from asking or saying anything more. He put his hands on Steffon's shoulders, and with a kindly smile, said, "I hope you will enjoy your visit to King's Landing, young Steffon."

Why don't you like him, Mother? He's nice to me.

"Thank you," Steffon finally replied, after his mother's hand squeezed his palm, prodding him.

Steffon turned around to watch his uncle walking away, and spotted him being met by a woman in the courtyard. Uncle Duncan took the woman's hands, both of them, with a gentleness that seemed strange in a man who looked so strong. He whispered something into her ear. She had the saddest look on her face, and yet, Steffon thought she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

"Who is that?" He asked his mother, pointing at the woman whose hand was now grazing Uncle Duncan's cheek, tenderly, as if he was a sad child who needed her consoling.

His mother turned to look, and she flinched. Yet she could not take her eyes off the two figures, staring and staring until they started walking away and could not be seen any longer.

"Who is that woman, Mother?" Steffon asked again.

"Lady Jenny," his mother finally replied, her eyes now squeezed shut. "Duncan's wife."

"She is the most beautiful woman in the world," Steffon declared, with awe.

"She would be, wouldn't she," his mother muttered under her breath. "How they love the Prince of Dragonflies and his Jenny, all the singers and storytellers spinning their yarns. Such pure love, such sacrifice. Everything they gave up for the sake of their one true love; his crown, her freedom to roam as she pleases. That may well be, but what about the price other people had to pay? No one cared about that."

Steffon did not understand, and the tone of his mother's voice was frightening him. "Mother?" He called out.

His mother finally turned her attention to him. "You must never say anything to your father about Lady Jenny," she warned him. "And certainly not about her being the most beautiful woman in the world."

"Why not?"

"Just remember that."

Steffon blurted out, "Did Father want to marry her too?"

Mother actually laughed, but it was an unpleasant sound, not at all like her usual laughter. "No, it's not that at all."

"Then why?"

"I will tell you later, when we get home."

"No, tell me now!" Steffon insisted. He was tired and cranky. It had been a long, exhausting day in a strange place, his father was nowhere to be seen, and his mother was like a frightening stranger saying and doing things she had never done at home. Even her laugh was different. Home. He wanted to be home. And more than anything, he wanted Mother to be Mother again. The sob escaped him.

His mother sighed, beckoning Dalla to come closer. "This boy needs a nap," she said, handing Steffon to his nursemaid without a second glance, without even a hug. She would have hugged him at home, no matter how annoyed she was with him at the time. Fresh tears assailed the boy, and it was Dalla who soothed him, saying in her sing-songy voice, "There, there. Now, now."

When Steffon woke from his nap, opening his eyes slowly, he saw that he was not in the room he had been given to sleep in Maegor's Holdfast, the room next to his parents' room, the room where Dalla slept in a cot next to his bed. This was their room, Mother's and Father's.

His mother was in the room, talking in a low voice to someone. Not his father. It was a woman's voice replying to his mother. Steffon opened his eyes wider, and saw Aunt Shaera and Mother, sitting around the table, eating, drinking and talking. He spotted a basket filled to the brim with peaches on the table. Steffon loved loved loved peaches, but they were not always easy to come by. Peaches were grown in the Reach, not the Stormlands, Father had told him, when Steffon asked why they could not have peaches every day.

And now here Mother was, with bountiful of peaches on the table, and she was calmly eating a slice of cake and talking with her sister seemingly without a care in the world, without even bothering to wake Steffon up. Mother knew how much he loved peaches. Sulking, Steffon closed his eyes and pretended to sleep again, only to open them again from time to time, spying to see if his mother had finally remembered that she had a son who loved peaches.

How could you, Mother?

He could hear the conversation between Mother and Aunt Shaera well enough, without really understanding most of it. They were talking about someone who was not yet with child, after twelve long years of marriage.

"Not even a miscarriage?" Mother asked.

"No, nothing. At all," Aunt Shaera replied, with emphasis.

"I suppose it does not matter in the slightest," Rhaelle said. "Duncan will not be king now. He is not desperate for an heir." She paused, before continuing, "They seem happy enough, at any rate. Still madly in love, I suppose?"

Shaera hesitated, her eyes watching her sister warily. "Will it make you feel better, if I tell you that they argue and bicker every day, that they cannot stand the sight of each other?"

"Is that the truth?"

Sighing, Shaera said, "No."

"It will not make me feel any better, even if that is the truth."

"Then what will, Rhaelle?" Shaera asked, her hand reaching out to her sister, her eyes glistening with tears.

Quickly changing the subject, Rhaelle said, "You have given Jaehaerys an heir. The succession is secure."

Shaera disagreed. "One son is hardly secure. What if something happens to Aerys?"

"Is he often unwell, like his father?"

"No, he is in very rude health, thank the gods. But still, you never know. Daeron the Good thought the succession was secure. He had an heir he was proud of, one he made his Hand and placed a great deal of trust in. And yet Baelor Breakspear died suddenly in a foolish mishap, and Baelor's own sons died along with Daeron himself in the Great Spring Sickness. Thank the gods Daeron still had other sons and grandsons. But what if Baelor had been the only one?"

"There is still your Rhaella," Rhaelle pointed out.

"They will never allow a woman to sit on the Iron Throne. You know all the precedents. The Great Council that made Father king never even considered Uncle Daeron's daughter."

"She was simple-minded, poor Vaella. Your Rhaella is not."

"No, they will consider our brothers Duncan and Daeron before they ever consider Rhaella. And both Duncan and Daeron are unlikely to have heirs of their own. What then? Will a Blackfyre sit on the Iron Throne after all?"

"Daeron … well, Daeron might still marry and father a son," Rhaelle said.

Shaera gave her sister a meaningful look. "That will never happen, and we both know the reason. Let's not pretend otherwise."

Steffon was confused. First, Mother and Aunt Shaera were talking about Daeron whose daughter was not chosen for something, and then about Daeron who was never going to marry. Could you have a child if you were not married?

(Later, back at Storm's End, Steffon would ask Maester Cressen this very question. The maester side-stepped the question about having a child without marrying, and instead wrote down a list of all the different Daerons, past and present. There were more than just two, it turned out. A lot more. Uncle Harbert looked on with pity when he saw Steffon pondering over the list. "Wait until you get to all the different Aegons. That was the bane of my existence during my lessons!")

His mother was speaking again. "That Redwyne girl Daeron was supposed to marry, she was wed to Luthor Tyrell not long ago."

Shaera reddened. "I know. We were invited to the wedding."

"We?"

"The king and queen, of course, but also the Prince of Dragonstone and his wife."

"Did you go?"

"Yes, we all did. Father said we must, or the Tyrells and the Redwynes would take it as an insult. And after what happened before … well, the crown could ill afford that."

"Daeron was not invited?"

"No."

There was silence for a long while, as Rhaelle brushed away crumbs of lemon cake from her dress, and Shaera's hand tinkered with a peach, without her mouth actually taking a bite.

"I'm not sorry I did it," Shaera announced suddenly, her voice defiant.

Did what? Steffon wondered. Had she taken the peaches from the kitchen without asking the cook's permission, like Steffon did that one time?

"Looking at Luthor Tyrell up there on the dais, looking all smug and leering and red-faced, thinking with horror, I could have been married to that. He looked like he could not wait to put his hand down my dress, when I was seated next to him during the feast celebrating the four betrothals. And I was only eleven at the time!" Shaera exclaimed.

"It was good that Father thought to keep one daughter unbetrothed, for use in rainy days," Rhaelle said. "Be honest, sister," she continued, her voice very hard suddenly. "Even if it was not Luthor Tyrell you were betrothed to, and someone you found less repulsive, you still would have wanted only one man, and no one else."

Shaera sighed, deeply. "It has caused Father much trouble. We both know that, Jaehaerys and I. And when Jaehaerys is king, he will have to deal with it too."

"Would you still have done it, knowing what you know now, knowing all the repercussions?"

"Have you ever asked Duncan that question?"

"No."

"Why not? What he did directly affected your life. What Jaehaerys and I did –"

"I do not care to listen to his excuses and his justifications, his regret and his remorse." Rhaelle repeated the question. "Would you, Shaera?"

"Gods forgive me, but I would. I would elude my guardians and run away with Jaehaerys a thousand times over. I have only ever loved him. I could never love anyone else. Do you understand that?"

"No," Rhaelle said. "How could I?"

"But you liked him! When Ormund was serving as Father's page, and later when he was Duncan's squire, you used to watch him, and make up stories about him. And he used to speak to you. Oh he was too shy to speak to me, but he spoke to you often enough. He made you laugh, I remember that. You used to ride on his shoulders and pretended that he was Balerion the Black Dread."

"I was a child. A little girl. He was in awe of his older sister, and he missed his little brother, but he never had a little sister."

"Was he so very different, when you came to Storm's End?"

"Everything was different. I was different. How could it not be, after what took place?"

"It could have still happened, naturally, in due time, you being betrothed to Ormund, even without … even without the whole business with Duncan and Jenny. Father and Lord Lyonel were fast friends in those days. Lord Lyonel's daughter as the future Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and Father's daughter as the future Lady of Storm's End, that notion would have appealed to them."

"Indeed. But it did not happen that way. Sometimes I think … that is what I resent the most, that it could have been so very different, our betrothal, our marriage. It was a house of misery and bitterness Father sent me to, when he sent me to Storm's End. And I was not the only one miserable; they all were, all the Baratheons. What chance did we ever have for happiness, Ormund and I, with that kind of beginning?"

"It is not too late," Shaera said, plaintively. "We make our own happiness, sweet sister."

"That's easy enough for you to say. I –" Rhaelle gasped. She had seen Steffon's eyes wide open, watching her. She stood up abruptly, walking towards the bed.

"How long have you been awake, my naughty boy?"

"I am not a naughty boy," Steffon said, still sulking.

"Oh? So that was not a tantrum you were about the throw in the hall earlier?"

"Don't tell Father," Steffon whispered. "Please? Please, Mother? I will not say anything to Father about Lady Jenny, I promise!"

His mother closed her eyes, sighing. "What am I teaching you?" She muttered under her breath. Then, her voice louder, she said, "I will not tell your father, but only if you promise to behave from now on."

"I will," Steffon promised.

Gazing at her son's face, Rhaelle asked, "Did I frighten you, before?

Steffon nodded, tentatively.

"I'm sorry. This place … it does strange things to me."

"But this is your home."

"It was. It's not anymore."

Smiling, Steffon said, "That's right. Your home is with me, in Storm's End."

Eyebrow raised, Rhaelle asked, "Only with you?"

"With Father too, of course," Steffon quickly added. Then, leaning into his mother's ear, he whispered, "Can I have a peach?"

His mother laughed. "Of course."

Steffon was happily and busily eating his second peach when there was a knock on the door.

"That will be Aerys and Rhaella," Aunt Shaera said. "Their lesson usually finishes at this time."

A boy and a girl walked in, accompanied by a woman that Aunt Shaera told to wait outside. Their Dalla, it must be, Steffon thought, but this woman was older than Dalla, and she looked scary, like the wizened old witch from the picture books.

Cousin Aerys was taller than Steffon, but then he was two years older, so it was as it should be. Cousin Rhaella was older than Steffon by a year, Mother had told him, but she was slighter, and shorter. They both had hair like Mother, like Aunt Shaera. Hair the color of silver-gold, Mother said, not white, not really, it only looked that way under a certain light.

Even their eyes were the same. They all looked like a family, the four of them. He was the only one different in the room, Steffon realized, his gaze switching from one face to another. His hair, something Steffon had always been proud of – "it's really, really black, not just dark" - suddenly seemed conspicuously out of place.

I want Father! Where was his father? Steffon had barely seen his father since they arrived in King's Landing. "Your father has many things to attend to," Mother had told him.

His mother was looking at Steffon meaningfully, her finger pointing at the basket filled with peaches. Steffon took one peach, and offered it to Rhaella. To the lady first, his father had taught him, that was the chivalrous thing to do. Rhaella took the peach, thanking her cousin quietly. She was shy too; somehow that made Steffon feel better.

"Can't I have a peach too?"Aerys asked. "Is it only for my sister?"

Steffon could not decide if Aerys was being sulky, or if he was making a jape. But then Aerys laughed, so Steffon decided it was a jape after all.

"Of course you can," Steffon replied, handing Aerys a peach. "This is your home, you can have as many as you like. Well, maybe not as many as you like, because if you eat too many peaches it will make you sick to your stomach. It happened to me once. Maester Cressen had to make me drink a potion that tasted really, really horrible to make me stop throwing up."

There was a long silence greeting this. Steffon looked down at his hand. Had he talked too much? "Slow down," his mother sometimes said, "you're talking too fast."

"I like you," Aerys finally declared, solemnly, as if he had been examining Steffon, carefully, to see if he would do after all.

"Take Steffon to your playroom," Aunt Shaera told her children. "You can show him all your toys and your books."

As the door was closing, Steffon saw his mother and Aunt Shaera talking again, their heads almost touching, the expression on both their faces grave.

The playroom was very big, bigger than Steffon's own in Storm's End. There were toys of all sorts, but also many books, the ones with pictures and big, bold words below it, but also the ones with only words, small, cramped words with not enough space between the letters.

"Can you read?" Rhaella asked.

"Yes, I can," Steffon replied, proudly.

Rhaella chose a book – one with pictures and big, bold words, Steffon was relieved to see. "Should we read this one together? It's about a family of rabbits," she said.

"Do rabbits have family?" Steffon asked. He remembered eating rabbit stew once. The meat was chewy and Steffon did not much care for it. Cats had families; they made kittens. And dogs made puppies, although Steffon liked kittens a lot more than puppies. But rabbits?

"Yes," Rhaella replied, "rabbits have families too. See, this is the father rabbit, this is the mother rabbit, and these are their five children. Just like Grandmother and Grandfather, with their five children."

Pointing at the biggest of the baby rabbits, Steffon said, "And this is my uncle Jaehaerys, your father."

Aerys, who had been darting about the room restlessly, rearranging his tin soldiers as his sister was patiently sitting with their little cousin, finally came to sit by them. "No, that's not Father," he said. "That's Uncle Duncan."

"Why is it Uncle Duncan?" Steffon asked.

"Because he's the biggest, and the oldest," Aerys replied.

"No, he's not," Steffon blurted out.

"Of course he is," Aerys said.

Remembering the three uncles he had met, Steffon conceded, "He's the biggest and the tallest, certainly. But he can't be the oldest. If he is, he would be king after Grandfather."

"My father will be king after Grandfather," Aerys announced, with pride. "And I will be king after my father."

"I know," Steffon said, "Mother told me so. So Uncle Duncan can't be the oldest after all. The oldest son inherits, that's what my father said."

"Well, my father said –" Aerys began.

"Show Steffon your new wooden swords, Aerys," Rhaella hurriedly said. Turning to Steffon, she said, "He has two, but he will not let me touch either of them."

"They are very special," Aerys said. "They are carved to match the Targaryen ancestral swords, Blackfyre and Dark Sister."

"Is Blackfyre for you, and Dark Sister for your sister?" Steffon asked.

"Why would a girl need a sword?" Aerys scoffed.

"Dark Sister was Queen Visenya's sword," Rhaella said. "She was a girl too."

"She was a fierce queen and she had a dragon," Aerys said." You're only a princess."

Aerys showed Steffon the swords with great ceremony. "The man who carved them is very skilled, my father said."

"They are … they are …" Steffon did not know the right word. Could you call a sword 'beautiful', even a wooden one?

"They are my most prized possessions," Aerys said. "At least until the blacksmith is done forging a real sword for me. That will be even more magnificent."

They sparred, Steffon and Aerys, using the two wooden swords. Aerys was more skillful, but Steffon was quicker on his feet. Or at least he was, until he tripped on a bulge on the carpet and fell down. In a flash, Aerys had his sword on Steffon's throat. "Yield," he commanded. "Do you yield?"

"No. Never."

The door opened suddenly, revealing Uncle Daeron with his hands folded over his chest. "I heard such a ruckus. Well, well, what do we have here?" He asked, looking amused.

"We're only playing," Aerys said quickly, holding out his hand to raise Steffon up from the floor. "Show Steffon that move, Uncle Daeron." Turning to Steffon, Aerys said, "He can fight with both hands, at the same time."

"With two swords?" Steffon asked.

Aerys nodded. The boys handed over both swords to Daeron, who proceeded to dazzle them with his skills.

"Uncle Daeron was only eight when he went to battle with Grandfather," Aerys said. "My father and Uncle Duncan went too, of course, but they were older. I wish I could fight a real battle, with a real sword."

"You know your mother does not like hearing that. We should be rejoicing that there is peace in the land once more," Daeron said.

"But you like battles and fighting, uncle. There is nothing else in the world like being wedded to your sword, you said."

Daeron laughed, but he looked uncomfortable. "Where did you hear that?"

Aerys would not say.

And then Dalla came to take Steffon away. "You must wash and change for the feast tonight," she reminded him, when Steffon pleaded to stay a little longer. As he was leaving, Aerys suddenly and abruptly handed him the smaller sword.

"Here, take it," Aerys said. "You can have my Dark Sister."

Steffon was astonished. "Really?"

"Yes. If I had a brother, I would give it to him, but a cousin is almost as good."

Steffon really, really, really wanted the sword, but he hesitated, glancing at Rhaella. What about Rhaella? She was Aerys' sister. Steffon was only a cousin, and one Aerys had just met, at that.

To his relief, Rhaella was smiling, not frowning. "Take it," she told Steffon. "It is not often Aerys is generous with his things. This is one for the history books."

Steffon took the sword, thanking his cousin. After Aerys had bounded away ahead of them, Rhaella whispered to Steffon, "I never wanted the sword. I don't like fighting. But I was annoyed that Aerys kept saying that girls never know what to do with one. Some do. Queen Visenya knew what to do with a sword. She was even better than her brother."

"She was?"

"Once, Queen Visenya and King Aegon - the first king Aegon, that is, not our grandfather, he's the fifth – once they were attacked in the streets of King's Landing by Dornish assassins, and she was the one who saved his life, with her sword."

"Did your maester teach you that?"

No, I read it myself, in a book," Rhaella said.

His father was waiting by the door when Steffon entered his parents' room, after Dalla had properly scrubbed and cleaned and dressed him, fit for a king's feast. "I gave you a bath just this morning. What have you been doing with your cousins to get so dirty again?" Dalla grumbled.

"We were playing," Steffon said. "Children play, that's what we doooo," he announced, in a sing-songy voice.

Now he rushed to his father's side. His father gazed at him from head to toe, then finally smiled, ruffling Steffon's hair. "You met your cousins, your mother told me."

"I did."

"Do you like them?"

Steffon nodded. "Aerys gave me a present," he volunteered.

"What present?" His mother asked, from across the room.

"A sword," Steffon replied. "It's in my room."

"A sword?!" His mother raised her voice.

"Not a real sword," Steffon said. "A wooden sword, for sparring. It's Dark Sister, only not really Dark Sister." My Dark Sister, Aerys had called it.

"Oh? Queen Visenya's sword?" Father asked.

"Do you know about Queen Visenya, Father?"

"Of course. Queen Visenya, King Aegon and Queen Rhaenys. Together with Orys Baratheon, they made Westeros into a single kingdom. King Aegon was the first king to sit on the throne, the one you saw this morning."

"Where Grandfather was sitting?"

"Yes."

"Someone should have made Grandfather a more comfortable chair to sit on," Steffon said. "Maybe the man who carved Aerys' wooden swords could do it. He is very good, Aerys said."

Ormund laughed. "It is not a chair, Steffon. It is a throne."

"Can't a throne be comfortable to sit on?" Steffon asked, puzzled.

"We will be late," Rhaelle reminded her husband. "And you, curious boy, you can ask your grandfather that question yourself, tonight."

Ormund frowned. "Rhaelle," he said her name, just the one word.

His wife met his gaze without faltering. "What?"

Ormund sighed.

"Oh yes, he will behave. Your son will not bring shame to House Baratheon."

"We must tread carefully."

"You worry too much," Rhaelle said. "Shaera was shocked to see how much hair you have lost. What happened to all that luxurious hair, she wanted to know."

Ormund smiled, ruefully. "I am too young to be turning bald. It runs in the family, it seems."

"I don't remember your father …"

"It skips a generation, supposedly."

Mother and Father were both smiling, but it was over all too quickly, because then they had to hurry to get to the feast in time.

Father was seated beside Uncle Duncan, the two of them talking earnestly in low voices. Father used to squire for him, Uncle Duncan said. Steffon tried to imagine his father as a squire, helping Uncle Duncan with his cloak and his doublet, handing him his gloves, polishing his sword and his armor, attending him at tourneys and so on and so forth. He could not really imagine it, in truth. His father was Lord Baratheon, he had always been that, in Steffon's eyes. He was Lord Baratheon even before Steffon was born, even before he married Mother.

Lady Jenny walked in and sat beside her husband. Steffon saw his father stiffening, turning his head down, concentrating on his soup. The conversation between Father and Uncle Duncan ceased altogether.

His grandmother was speaking to Steffon. "Your mother told me you celebrated your own nameday very recently."

"My fifth," Steffon said. "And how old are you, Grandmother? Are you very old?"

Grandmother laughed heartily. "If you want to win a lady's heart, you must never ask her age," Grandmother said, her eyes twinkling. Her eyes were black, black as night, like her hair. Not blue, like Steffon's eyes. The witch in Steffon's picture books had black hair and black eyes too, but somehow, Grandmother did not look like a witch at all.

"I will remember that," Steffon promised, solemnly.

There were so many dishes to try, so many delicacies to tempt him. Mother even allowed him to take a sip of wine, but not the wine in her own goblet. "This is Dornish wine. It's too strong for a boy." She gave him something else that tasted very sweet. Sickly sweet. Steffon grimaced, not liking the taste at all.

Uncle Daeron noticed. Grinning, he said, "Perhaps Steffon would like the taste of ale better. Shall I give him a sip, Rhaelle?"

Mother rolled her eyes. "Don't you start," she told Uncle Daeron.

That was when Steffon noticed Uncle Duncan staring at them. He was smiling, but he still looked sad. His smile was all wrong, Steffon decided. Mother should teach Uncle Duncan how to smile the right way.

Father was talking to Grandfather, something about levies and taxes. Lady Jenny was listening to Aunt Shaera, while carefully cutting up the meat on her plate into little pieces. Steffon stared and stared, and continued staring. Lady Jenny, Mother had said to call her. Why was she not Aunt Jenny?

Suddenly, he felt his legs being kicked under the table.

"What are you staring at?" Aerys whispered. "What is so interesting? Tell me. Tell me."

"Nothing," Steffon said, flushing red. He turned to chatter with Rhaella and Aerys. Strange, it felt like he had known them for a long time. What would it be like, to have a brother, or a sister? He would have to share many, many things with this brother or sister - Mother's special smile, to name just one - but perhaps he would not mind so much.

Later, he heard his father's voice calling out his name, but it turned out his father was still talking to Grandfather. Then suddenly, Grandfather was calling for him. "Come here, child."

Steffon looked at his mother, who nodded, but Aunt Shaera was the one who stood up, took Steffon's hand and brought him to Grandfather.

Grandfather asked him many questions, about Storm's End, about his daily routine, about his friends, even about Dalla. Grandfather had a kindly smile and he sounded genuinely interested in Steffon's replies, but Steffon was painfully aware of his father sitting there looking tense and worried, so his answers were all very brief, afraid that he might say something wrong.

After a while, Grandfather asked, "I am not that scary, am I?"

Steffon shook his head. "No," he replied, and then suddenly Mother was by his side, saying that it was time he went to bed.

His parents argued all the way back to their room. They did not use any names, only he, she, him and her, so Steffon was not certain who they were arguing about.

"You could talk to him so easily, as if nothing had happened, as if he had done nothing wrong, and yet you could not even look at her. Is it more her fault than his?"

"Of course not. He was the one who broke a betrothal, not her."

"Then?"

"I look at her, and I see where my sister should have been. I see my sister laughing, thriving, happy. And most of all, alive."

"Blame my brother for that."

"I do not see you going out of your way to be friendly to her."

"Why should I? But at least I do not pretend that everything is still just the same, with my father and my brother."

"You have the luxury to be honest; you are their blood after all. I am not."

"Your father never pretended. He showed them exactly how he felt."

"He showed you exactly how he felt too. Would you rather than I am more like my father?"

"No! Of course not. How could you even think that, knowing the way he treated me?"

"Then what?"

Dalla grabbed hold of Steffon's hand, pulling him towards his room. Steffon was about to protest, but Dalla shushed him.

Later in bed, he could not fall asleep, tossing and turning, tossing and turning, over and over again.

"Do you want a song?" Dalla asked.

Steffon shook his head.

"What about a story?"

Steffon shook his head again.

Then he must have fallen asleep after all, because it was the loud thunder that woke him. Dalla was still sleeping soundly. Another thunder, louder this time. Dalla snored. Steffon ran to the door connecting his room with his parents' room. He opened the door.

"Mother," he called out. There was no reply. He could see the bed, even in the dark. He walked towards it. But his mother was not in bed, only his father, brows furrowing, his fists tightly clenching the sheets, but his eyes were squeezed shut.

"Steffon?" His mother's voice, calling out for him. She was sitting on a chair facing the bed, watching Father, as if standing guard.

Steffon went to her, sat on his mother's lap. "Is Father awake?" He whispered.

"No, he's sleeping."

"It was loud, the thunder," Steffon said, after a while.

"Dalla never woke?"

"She snores."

Mother smiled. "You are old enough to sleep on your own now. We will try that when we return to Storm's End."

"Did you have a Dalla, when you were a little girl?"

"I did. Her name was Mariya."

'Did she come with you, when you went to Storm's End?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"They wouldn't let her."

"They?"

"I pleaded and pleaded, but they said no."

"Who, Mother? Who said no?"

Sighing, she said, "No one. It doesn't matter now. It was a long time ago."

"Mother?"

"Yes?"

"Are you angry with Father? Did he do something wrong?"

"I am afraid for him."

"Why?"

"Because you can only pretend not to hate for so long, before –"

"Before?"

She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. When her eyes finally opened, she had that special smile for Steffon. "Oh, don't listen to me. I'm just an old woman rambling about nonsense."

"You are not old," Steffon protested.

"Oh? And yet you think Lady Jenny is more beautiful than me," his mother whispered into Steffon's ear.

"I never said that!"

"You said she's the most beautiful woman in the world." This, said in a whisper too.

"Yes, but … but … I don't mean you, Mother. You're different."

"Different? Is that a praise, or an insult?"

"You're special."

"I am, am I?"

"You're my mother."