A/N: Hey guys! Long time no see... oops. The only thing I want to preface this with is a note to beware the time skips between sections :) Otherwise not everything will make sense.

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An Heir

Branwell House, Aconite, Eastern Idris, Late September 1514

A month ago Jocelyn had been begging Valentine to take her home, now she was wondering when was too soon to suggest they return to Alicante. She felt guilty, her parents were so thrilled to have the honour of housing her and her esteemed husband- especially since her father's fading health kept him from court. And Valentine had gone out of his way to bring her here.

The summer progress had stretched on as for long as the fair weather and bonds of kingship would allow. Which was far too long, Valentine's senior councillors were keen to remind him. Now their neighbour France was no longer at war, the King had to act quickly if he wanted Idris to reap as many of the benefits of the newly established peace as possible. But Jocelyn had been reluctant to return to the city and her husband subsequently indulgent.

She had spent so long effectively in a glass case once Valentine had been informed of her pregnancy. And after the first weeks of this summer saw her confined to the same darkened chambers for months leading to her labour, well Jocelyn had sworn she would never take fresh air for granted again. Mercifully little Jonathan had come early; if she had been left to endure another moment in confinement Jocelyn swore she would have to taken to gouging tracks in the wooden panelling with her fingernails to accompany her descent into insanity. Valentine laughed at her now, believing in his naivety that she exaggerated. That infuriated her, but it was impossible to truly remain angry at her husband these days. He was the happiest she had ever seen him- never blunting that brilliant smile and drifting around court as if he had been freed of all cares. This had been their summer of celebration; with their healthy baby son at their side Valentine had been thrilled to go on a tour of his kingdom and show his boy off. He had deliberately delayed setting off on progress and tarried at Princewater for her- until their baby had been born.

Valentine was jubilant to have his legacy secured. Moreover, now he had proof to shove down the throats of all those who criticised his marriage that God blessed it by blessing them with their strong, perfect son. Jocelyn too had to her cause for merriment, her position secure at last she could face with gloating pride the seas of envious courtiers who despised her common heritage and dramatic rise in the world. She had done all that was asked of a wife, a queen. The present King loved her more than ever for it and her son would be the next one.

She also knew she was lucky that she had lived to revel in her triumph. Childbirth was the most treacherous ordeal a woman could experience, but not only had Jocelyn borne a thriving male child, she had also bounced back from her tribulation remarkably. Within a week of Jonathan's birth she was up and about, striding out to stroll among her summer flowers despite the midwives horrified protests. She supposed it was the common blood in her, she had informed a perplexed Valentine merrily, where princesses wallowed in their misery and delicacy she had no intention of lying about helpless. Pains were worked off much quicker in clean air and with brisk walks.

That had also spurred on her enthusiasm to take to the roads; she could not fill her lungs enough with the floral scented air and she wanted to feel the sun and rain on her face, to reassure herself that the blood and agony of the childbed was behind her. For now at least.

She knew that she would have to go through it all again, queens bore sons where they could. Though the prospect of anything befalling her precious Jonathan sent terror and rage coursing through her with equal power, the reality was that childhood was a hazardous time and not every child made it to maturity. Jocelyn knew that well enough- since the little brothers and sisters her parents had borne after her were now buried in their churchyard, none of them living long enough to walk. While the terror of labour stayed with her it was already dissolving rapidly, and the possibility of more children was far from abhorrent to her; she could not relinquish that image of a little girl that would be all hers.

Jonathan was a boy and a prince, who would one day soon enough be entrusted wholly to the care of men to raise him for kingship. Even now he was put in the care of other women, since queens apparently had more important, honourable things to do than feed and change their own babies. All because physicians (men needless to say) had persuaded themselves that the sooner a woman's milk dried up the sooner she could conceive again.

But a daughter... with no great duties to undertake until she were of marriageable age, she would be placed solely in the care of her mother. Even Valentine was more inclined to entertain the prospect of a little girl with more enthusiasm now he had his precious son and heir.

But not yet. Thought it would be scandalous and possibly heresy to admit it verbally- effectively denouncing her scared task as Valentine's consort- Jocelyn was in no haste to repeat the experience of pregnancy. She had these months of respite at any rate, having only been churched a week ago and therefore at long last liberated from Princewater. Cleansed of the stain of Eve's sin she was only recently permitted to be seen abroad and fit for the company of men once more. The first act of her freedom had been to make for Branwell House, her childhood home. Her mother had been with her for the travail of labour and a source of immeasurable comfort during the days- yes days she had struggled to bring Jonathan into this world. But she had missed her father desperately, and there was something wonderfully sentimental about returning to her parent's house a parent herself. It was also a relief to depart from the bulk of the court. Jocelyn wondered if she would ever get used to living out every waking moment under the scrutiny of dozens of pairs of eyes. God knew, she had yet to so. Because Sir Granville's home was so modest Valentine had stripped away much of his entourage and sent them back toward Alicante, tarrying with only his closest companions at Branwell House so his wife might return to her home for a short time.

Although she dwelt now in the finest houses money could buy, it was this brownstone manor on the fringes of forest that still held the place of home in her heart. A heart that had leapt at the sight of her father- though leaning heavily on a cane- standing in the lane to wave her a welcome home. She had been happy at first, to watch her mother fuss over the grandson Jocelyn had to fight tooth and nail to convince Valentine to bring with them- his physicians were spouting some nonsense about too much open air leaving the babe vulnerable to evil spirits and miasmas. And it was so good to see Luke again, reinstated at Valentine's side as though he had never been gone.

That was Jocelyn's doing too, one of the first things she had done as the mother of the Crown Prince was to wheedle him back into the Council chamber, a feat she achieved long before Jonathan had been christened. Amatis still lay between them: a sheathed sword, a covered but unhealed wound in spite of their refusal to utter her name. Now that she had given him a son there had been few of her desires Valentine could resist, and the fact that already her boy had the sharp features and the silvery fine hair of the King was sufficient to quiet any complaints about Luke's conduct in the months before he had left court. Besides, it had seemed silly to pass through his own lands and not have Luke as their guide. Luke may be Valentine's right hand once more and Jocelyn at the peak of her influence, but still Amatis' name was not to be uttered, nor her situation to be remedied.

It was truly impossible now, with the new Duchess of Broceland due to join Jocelyn's household permanently and her belly starting to swell.

Hence Jocelyn's eagerness to bolt back to the capital, to where her rooms would be full of other women and petitioners and she would be able to pretend the new Lady Herondale was not there. But no- the Duke was shadowing Valentine once more, here among the honourably selected companions to come with them. He was rarely not in Valentine's wake these days, although increasingly more trawled along than a willing follower. Her husband found a peculiar joy in insisting Stephen hold their son, and Jocelyn had at first shared in his mirth. The sight of the brawny, surly Duke awkwardly rocking in his arms the squirming babe who disinherited him had been thoroughly amusing. The other lords had taken to calling him 'the nursemaid', a taunting Jocelyn felt could only be good for the man's insufferable pride. Stephen had always quietly disliked her, looking down his nose on the woman who he was certain knew nothing worth hearing, but while Jocelyn had been confined he had set about undoing most of her hard work at court, and trying to steal Valentine away from her and replace her with his own influence. He had declared himself her enemy, so Jocelyn would gladly mock him alongside Valentine, who delighted as much in her laughter as she did.

But now the jest had soured. Only three days ago Valentine had been urging Stephen to take Jonathan off the young nursemaid's hands in her father's drawing rooms. The Duke had been huffily reluctant, trying to politely wriggle his way out of it, but his monarch had been insistent. "Take him, Stephen!" He had cried with jeering glee, then added with a chortle- "You need the practice, cousin!" The comment had not resonated with Jocelyn immediately but once it had the laughter had ceased, the final giggle almost choking her. Surely not, she had thought desperately, God would not be that cruel-

Hearing her merriment cease Valentine had looked over and smiled her, putting on the warning smile that signalled to her she had best start wearing one herself, whatever she thought or felt. "The Duchess is with child too, darling."

To his credit, Stephen had seemed as astonished as Jocelyn at the situation; pleased, but still disbelieving. It did not seem just to him either, that he could achieve in a handful of weeks what Amatis had longed and prayed for over a decade. It should not have been that easy, Stephen seemed to think, though he never said so. "She is certain of a boy, she tells me," He offered gruffly instead.

Now Jocelyn knew that the child Amatis would have sawed off her right arm and sold her soul for was in the belly of another woman, she struggled to find peace or joy in anything. A woman -who Valentine had also deigned to inform her yesterday- was to join her as a lady in waiting permanently.

"No" she had attempted to put her foot down, only for Valentine to sweep the carpet out from under her, sighing and fixing an exasperated stare upon her as though she were being unreasonable. "I do not want her!" Not now she had added to herself, feeling as though Celine's protruding stomacher was a personal betrayal. She had spoken of children with the woman and they had parted in a sort of friendship, but now the reality of Stephen having sired a child on a woman that was not Amatis was staring at her- she felt ill. If Celine was to have a child there was naught to be done about it now, but she did not have to waltz about the court exhibiting her condition in front of all the people who had been Amatis' friends, God in heaven: her brother.

"Jocelyn, she will attend you! She is the Duchess of Broceland. It would look amiss if she did not join your household. It would be a slight to her and my cousin. It may send a bad message; that we do not approve of her marriage. The marriage which was my doing, let me remind you." He had taken her hands in his and stepped closer. "We acknowledge her with every honour. You will welcome her with open arms. Thus we acknowledge her and the child she carries."

That snared Jocelyn's attention, and saw her abandon whatever line of protest she had been about to pursue- "What?"

Valentine smiled at her, the way he usually did when he had surprise for her: a picnic planned or some new jewel or foreign delicacy to treat her with. He lifted her hands and kissed her folded fingers. "You will see, God willing." Then, more firmly, "For now you will do as I told you."

"Valentine..." He hushed her softly. Stubbornly, she had voiced her argument anyway- "Surely it is pointless now? She will be leaving to have her child..."

Valentine had only snickered and shook his head, as though there was something endlessly amusing about her persistence. "Not for months yet." he grew sterner- "Do not fight me on this, Jocelyn. I will hear no more of it."

The greatest betrayal was that of her own heart, which now dared to leap at the sight of Celine Herondale's happiness, for a brightness that clung to her and would not be tarnished by the chilly reception she received. Whatever her inward treasons Jocelyn made herself as aloof as possible, greeting her new lady with all the necessary pleasantries while delivering them as unpleasantly as possible. She made a point of doing so both in Luke's sight and hearing in the hopes that it may mend some rifts between the two of them. Sorry as she may have once felt for Celine, if losing her friendship was the cause of maintaining and rekindling Luke's, then she would pay it with ease. Or so she had once thought.

Now, watching her perch on Valentine's arms and laugh- truly laugh (the sweetest tremor of sound Jocelyn had ever heard) it was difficult to begrudge the young Duchess her joy. While finding the woman in such fine spirits ought to have smoothed out whatever misgivings she had about shunning her, since it proved that she was not so greatly in need of the protector Jocelyn had once thought she would be, it made being cold challenging. Nay; impossible. Her attempts to brush the woman aside went unnoticed. Celine Herondale, resplendent in sky blue and sapphires that had once belonged to another, had long ago abandoned the fight to keep the smile off her face. Jocelyn meanwhile, could not keep her eyes away from the obvious bulge under her new companion's skirts. There was a lingering sense of déja vu in the air, in finding herself seated adjacent to the Duke and Duchess like this, before a meal she had no appetite for, but much had changed since then. And it had not.

Now Jocelyn was a mother, and Celine was about to become one. The discourse over dinner was not about to stray from the topic for very long either. The young queen had envied her mother's crisp refusal to dine with them, and had almost even envied her father his frail health and ability to take to his bed for the day. Lady Branwell (the former Lady Granville now a baroness, as of her daughter's announced pregnancy. Raising her parents in the world had been Valentine's attempt to wash out the salted wound that had been Luke's exile) had extended her dining parlour and kitchens to her sovereign, but she was not about to extend her welcome to the women she called "the French hussy" without much caring who was within earshot. Jocelyn was beginning to doubt whether even her mother's storming in here and calling Celine a whore and an adulteress to her face would dim the shining exultation that was writ so plainly on the Duchess' pretty features. Nor was it likely to halt the hand prone to disappearing under the table at regular intervals to brush against her gently swelling stomach.

Celine had reached that point in her pregnancy where the earliest and most treacherous months had been weathered, and with them the worst of her sickness should have passed. Evidently she were far enough gone for the euphoria to sink in (though with Jocelyn's experience the fabled contentment had yet to be encountered) and her burden was just enough to be perceived under the many layers of her gown but had yet to make her cumbersome. All of which should have been thoroughly distasteful, but it was plain to behold that the lady's unwarranted veneration of her husband had not waned and if anything the anticipated arrival of their child had amplified it. Much as she may have loathed the situation, if not earnestly the other woman, Jocelyn still could not peel her eyes off Celine. She made a veritable Madonna.

Recalling herself at that stage in pregnancy all that came to mind for Jocelyn was poor skin, an unshakable fatigue and either gorging or disgorging herself frequently. Her irritability could not have been further from the serenity Celine would seem to float around in, buoyant on the bubble of her belly. Envy was not the sole reason for Jocelyn's struggle to smooth her glaring expression out at all, but given her already present conflicted loyalties and discomfort her baffled jealousy was not improving the mood any. In fact, while Stephen seemed to reflect her surliness and Celine immune to it, Valentine had taken to pinning one displeased eye on her. She knew that before long she would be told how unacceptably unreasonable she was being- and reminded how he expected more form her "of all people." She was supposed to be his helpmeet after all. She dabbed at the corners of her mouth with as much delicacy as she could muster, as if that soft touch of fabric could urge them up into a convincing smile.

As Céline melted to another bout of laughter and Jocelyn automatically felt a laugh of her own spring up to join she realised it was small wonder Luke was disgusted at her. She made the perfect Janus, publicly shunning the woman and privately playing the bosom companion. She had thought that by now she would have reconciled who she had been with who she now was, at last aligning the knight's daughter and the queen- pummelling them into one if need be. Now she wondered if she was not letting one murder the other. She had thought that Valentine loved her for who she was and as such no serious change would be necessary, that the court would love her for their King's sake. That had been a silly daydream. Letting her laughter drain away she wondered of she need have truly bothered.

Aside from the one unimpressed glance Valentine had not looked twice at her. The dainty, gleeful Frenchwoman captivated him. And would for the foreseeable future.

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Stephen had yet to decide of being back in the very bosom of the King's friendship and confidence was to be celebrated after all. He had slaved to try and regain Valentine's approval, had been doing so for months, since he had agreed to marry Celine in the first place. He may as well wholeheartedly commit to this damned course. If only to prove to himself he could commit to something.

He was not blind, he could see Valentine's faults all too clearly. He never knew when to stop; once something he desired caught his eye he would fling himself and everyone who touched him to hell in order to get it. And he was never capable of seeing when an aim were impossible, or even not worth the difficulty of its achievement. Stephen supposed the old King had to bear the brunt of blame of that, God knew the first King Valentine and his wife and not exactly been warm and loving people, but they had poured every hope and aspiration onto the only heir they had ever been blessed with. They had sheltered and pampered him in many ways, out of fear that their one legacy might be lost to the slightest misfortune. As a result Valentine was not always inclined to be reasonable. It was his way or no way.

All of that considered, the Duke ought to have known better.

Being invited to dine privately with his monarch signified that things were at long last starting to go Stephen's way, only for him to destroy the new, fragile harmony between himself and Valentine permanently.

It had started off pleasantly enough; the usual banter swaying back and forth, laughter, fine wine and reminiscing about their shared boyhood. The two of them had more besides an ancestry in common, at any rate they'd once had.

Both of them born to great expectations (Valentine arguably moreso) and the only possible heir to their respective destinies. As the only heir apparent to the crown Valentine had been smothered most of his life. He had, for a boy who would one day govern single-handedly the entire realm, relatively little freedom. Stephen's mother meanwhile had exerted every piece of influence she had to ensure that the education provided for the young Crown Prince was shared by her son in its entirety. The young duke to be would have been called to attendance of the king to be anyway by sheer virtue of his good birth, but that had not been close to enough to see Lady Imogen placated. She would have had Stephen eating off the very same plate as Valentine if she could, and although as far as old Queen Seraphina was concerned the Christ child himself could arrive at their court and not be fit to polish her son's boots, somehow Stephen's position at Valentine's right hand was consolidated. Knowing his mother, Stephen could happily accept that the queen had simply relented to shove the duchess back into silence. Whatever the cause the result had been two boys inseparable. Until of course Lucien Graymark had appeared on the scene from nowhere.

Ironically, Stephen had been responsible for the arrival of the man who supplanted him. Not long after Amatis was established at court her brother was being thrust into Valentine's presence: quiet, clumsy and serious Lucian Graymark. Who would have thought that stony face would disguise the stone that would send so many ripples through their closeted, comfortable world at court. For it was through him that Jocelyn Fairchild first made His Majesty's acquaintance and from there on the two of them were rarely very far from the King's side. The new blood at court put many of the old favourites' noses out of joint, and despite vowing to his father on his deathbed that he would do no such thing Valentine had married the knight's daughter before the old monarch was even cold in his grave.

Stephen's father had been one of the old giants toppled by Jocelyn's influence, deemed too old and stubborn to be of use to a new young King. While Stephen had managed to cling on, a great many were less fortunate. His father never voiced any regret over arranging his son's marriage to the Lord of Aconite's eldest daughter, even as he grew to see it was that wedding that sent less of a ball and more of an avalanche rolling. Much as Imogen had sniffed that the match was "beneath him" it had transferred a sizeable portion of the central westerlands into their pockets, pockets that were nicely lined by a more than generous dowry. Lord Graymark had paid almost every penny he had, beggaring himself for the dowry that would make his daughter a duchess. Stephen was glad the old man had not lived long enough to see just how poorly that investment had paid off.

While over the years his mother had warmed in many ways to his first spouse, there was no fiercely flowing loyalty that urged her to hesitate in spurning Amatis in favour of Celine and her now ripening belly. If his new wife made good on her promise and delivered a son then Stephen could anticipate that his mother may just have her canonised. She'd waited over a decade fruitlessly for a grandson, she reminded him incessantly- as though Stephen had been elsewhere for the past ten years.

The quiet snarl of the nearby fire and the crackling laughter across the table brought him back to the present, to where Valentine was poised at the other end of the table, elbow propped on an armrest and the wine filled cup of finest Venetian glass raised. He did not move to take another sip, the glass was almost full, only the slightest quiver of the ruby black liquid within denoting where the drink skimmed beneath the rim. Although his face held a bright merriment Valentine had taken little more than a sip of his wine all night. Stephen had shown no such restraint, his own glass and been emptied and refilled several times. It was a token of the air of celebration that was almost oppressive, hanging around this court and clinging to each member like woodsmoke, that the glasses had been aired tonight. Usually Valentine reserved them for diplomatic meetings or celebration banquets.

As ever it was not long before the cause of the King's unquenchable happiness was referenced. The Duke bore it as long as he could before interrupting, "I expect to know the joys of parenthood soon enough," half spluttering over another long draught of the nicest French wine that the royal cellars had to offer.

Valentine's mouth twitched.

"Would you credit my mother is happy? Or as happy as that wretched witch is ever likely to get, I fathom. She has Celine tortured with her fussing, simply dictating each morsel that passes her lips and every step she takes these days." All of which Celine bore in an unruffled silence and with her undiluted smile, naturally.

The settlement was far from disagreeable, Stephen was glad to keep his distance and transfer his pregnant bride wholly into his mother's care. He had no reason to cling to Celine, no need to even touch her anymore. His work was done here, henceforth she dwelled entirely in a world of women's matters and secrets. And if his lack of attention riled her, or indeed if that loss of what little interest he had take disturbed Celine, she must hide it extraordinarily. He could not credit it, her face was one of the most open he had encountered. Oddly, her acceptance of his long absences and the slightly callous manner in which he had left her at the mercy of Her Majesty's household irked Stephen more than it did Celine. Sometimes he would be particularly terrible to her, just to see if that cheerful forbearance might be chipped. It could not.

Still, please God she did have a son. Then they need never repeat this cycle. He told Valentine as much, "One can only hope that there's a boy at the end of this. Then we need never trouble ourselves on the subject again."

Valentine's smile peaked, "You really crave a son, Stephen?" He made a vague tilting motion with the wine glass and his brows darted upward in surprise, "Pity. A girl would be so much better for all concerned."

Stephen swatted away the servant who had stepped forward with a refill, like he might a particularly bothersome fly. Why must they hover? He demanded silently of no one, they ought to complete the one task they had and disappear promptly. "What the devil does that mean?"

Valentine's reappeared smile quirked upwards to one side again, "Think about it" he coaxed, each syllable sleeker than the last. The subtle change screamed to the familiar ear that there was something Valentine wanted here, but thinking hard was an impossible trial for Stephen's alcohol saturated mind. He slurped on his drink instead of replying, attempting to convey his dilemma as best he could. It would truly take something supreme to divert the King, however. "I have a son now, were you to have a daughter..." He lowered his glass at last, it landed upon the table with a quiet thud and Valentine slid his fingers over the base, continuing; "A union between our bloodlines would solidify the line of succession immeasurably. The final old dynasty blood combined with that of me and mine- no one could dispute the right of that lineage to the crown of Idris."

Softly as Valentine made his proposal, the words still pounded through Stephen's head and his dull protest broke free of him before he could stop it, "No. No." The briefest of pauses before another, "No."

A death knell.

"No, none could stand in our way once-"

Stephen burst into a noisy, grating and uncontrolled bray of laughter. This was ridiculous. "I mean no to all of it Valentine" he spluttered, dragging his sleeve across his mouth as he tried to choke back the continuing chortling.

Valentine's brows rose so high that his upper forehead was crumpled into furrows of astonishment. "No?"

The King could probably count on one hand the amount of times he had heard that phrase, at least so bluntly. Drunk and more than a little insulted, that amused Stephen further still. He shook his head and snorted on, "There's no way. For one, I believe Celine when she tells me to expect a boy. Even were she to give me a daughter- I would not give her to you."

Valentine's eyes could well have been chips of charcoal, one could almost imagine the heat of his rage building behind them, seconds from bursting to flames. "You have had too much to drink, cousin." His voice was dangerously low and full of threatening sympathy. "Too often you reach for the wineskin of late and I have noticed it. I spared you any comment because I know your pride, but if it keeps driving to such folly-"

"I would rather be a defiant drunkard than your meek puppet sober" Stephen rasped out, head swimming not just from the drink but from the repressed anger of almost a year now, that rankling resentment that had simmered just below the surface for years in fact- each time that Valentine dismissed him and put his own ambitions and desires aside. "Pray tell Stephen, what it is exactly I have done to you that was so dreadful? I rose you up at this court-"

"No more than was my birthright" he snarled in return.

Valentine blinked, his jaw beginning to stiffen with real fury, "Or is it your matrimonial misfortunes you think to blame on me? Was ridding you of a barren wife such a disservice?" He lurched forward in his seat with such force that the chair beneath him screeched, and although there was still the remnants of the roast hog on the table between them the King and his wrath seemed startlingly close. "And why do you think I did all of that Stephen? Because I felt sorry for you? Because your lady mother had you tormented about a legacy and I gave a damn? Do not flatter yourself; it is far from personal." His Majesty made a show of lifting a fork and spearing the air before him with it jauntily, "In fact, I look upon you and I can see exactly why no Herondale will ever sit on this throne again. Yet your blood is far too precious for the line to die with you, though initially I thought that convenient. No, there must be some merit in it, and in time I came to appreciate there are more benefits than drawbacks to keeping you and yours around. So let me measure my kin and yours. I gave you Celine so that you would at last father a child, a child with Herondale blood. A Herondale girl, I pray, to become a Morgenstern queen. In spite of you and your damnable attitude, I would reward your line most profoundly."

Stephen clenched his fists atop the tablecloth, watching the firelight flicker over his tense and protruding knuckles before letting his eyes slide upward to his King. They snagged en route back upon the carcass before him, to the ripe garnet of an apple clenched in its jaws.

No pig at this court dared squeal. You just took the juicy rewards Valentine saw fit to give you and let him carve you up as he pleased.

"I have no objection to any daughter of mine being a queen. How could I? With ease I could make her one at any court in Europe. My complaint is that to make her queen of Idris I would have to surrender that child to you. That I will never do Valentine." He narrowed his eyes as ferociously as he could, "Let me assure you, it is personal."

For a wonderful moment Valentine looked as if he had been struck by the heel of the Duke's hand as opposed to his words. "You have ruined me, and the abomination here is that it took me years to see it and half my bodyweight in wine to say it."

"I ruined you," Valentine pronounced the echoed statement with vile amusement.

"Yes!" Stephen pressed on, "I was not always like this; never used to be this heartless, ruthless man. Mayhap I was always selfish- never to the point that I would do anything to anyone to achieve my desires. You taught me that for you did the very worst possible and then persuaded me that God and circumstance mitigated it. Have you any idea what is going on in this country- the suffering that occurs in the city just beyond these palace gates?"

At this point Valentine began to rock with laughter- "A champion of the people now are we? Let me assure you, you are the very last of a long list of people they might cry out for as their hero."

"I know that," Stephen snickered, "I know I will never be a man of principle. I let you take away the only good thing in my life, the only woman who may have inspired me to goodness. To anything. I will never be a good man, but I do not want to be a bad one. I have my own mind and I will not let you push me from square to square any longer. You may be master of the realm Valentine, God damn you at this point I may never be fully the master of my own mind and body again; but you will not take my child. He will be a better man than I. A better man than you. I will make sure of it and I will keep him far, far away from you. Him you will not ruin."

At that Stephen stumbled his way upright, flinging the glass back to the table with enough violence that it immediately toppled over, and with a loud crack the first fissure split its way across the clear surface. The remainder of wine flooded out, spoiling the white tablecloth and seeping into the very wood of the table. While the duke strode out of the chamber on unsteady footing Valentine was left to ponder the listless advance of red liquid.

Suddenly, between where the two men had sat across the decadent table there seemed to be blood.

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Havenfold House, Eastern outskirts of Alicante, March 1518

There was something altogether pathetic about being unnerved by a child. Especially one that had barely turned three. Yet here Jocelyn was, creeping like some kind of thief through her own nursery and stealing time with her children.

Covertly, she tried to slip her heels along the heavy carpets that blanketed every free inch of flooring, since a fear of childhood tumbles had been instilled in her. Her mother had insisted on the carpets, stuffing them into every corner and cranny she could locate the very moment Jonathan had successfully hauled himself upright (albeit using the nurse's fingers and not his mother's) and taken his first solo steps. Jocelyn was glad of them, as they in the least muffled her approach into the sunlight rooms at the front of the house that served as a playroom. Nonetheless, in spite of her efforts at stealth, the blazing gold eyes snapped to her almost immediately.

Years later and the startling colour of those eyes still threw her peace of mind asunder. Not golden brown, not flecked with gold, they rather were pure gold. She knew not where on earth the child had got them. Stephen's had been blue and Celine's an extremely ordinary hazel. It was one of the many puzzlings Jocelyn picked apart in her brains at late hours, when the rest of the palace was asleep.

Currently she schooled her features blank and whipped her strides onwards as if she did not feel the hot curiosity of that young gaze on her. She never could evade the sense that the child was judging her, that he assessed her with an intelligence far beyond his years. It did not help that when he moved he could do so with almost utter silence if he wished. His words were few and, even at three, three, gave the impression of being carefully selected.

In her mind Jocelyn had taken to calling him "the other Jonathan." She would not, could not, bear that he bore the same name as her own blessed son. But apparently it had been imparted to the yowling babe in his mother's parting breath, and for whatever reason Valentine had allowed it to stick when he had taken the orphan into their household. Put him in her nursery. Keeping her eyes turned forward as though she had been blinkered the queen paced to the little patch of sun below the slightly cracked open window and to the crib there.

Midwives were constantly wrangling back and forth as to whether or not fresh air was to be recommended with babes, some argued that the risk of chills outweighed any potential benefits, but Jocelyn had been raised in the country and had spent every moment she could rambling out of doors. Still, while she hadn't given leaving Jonathan to nap in the gardens a second thought, this time she worried. She constantly did with her youngest child.

Amalia was nowhere near as robust as her brother, and while her ladies all fell over one another to reassure her such was often the way with girls Jocelyn remained unconvinced. She needed no experience as a midwife or knowledge as a physician to see Amalia was not thriving.

Her little daughter blinked up sleepily at her as she were scooped up, not protesting with as much as a squeak or a wriggle. Jonathan had been an eerily quiet baby too, but not to this extent. With Amalia Jocelyn rather got the impression the child could not make noise rather than would not, as if she knew herself that every scrap of energy she had ought to be preserved.

As a result, the room was pleasantly quiet as the queen began to rock her youngest child; Jonathan had charged outside the instant that the rain had stopped and the nurses knew to give Jocelyn a wide berth when she visited. Not because she was some kind of demon in her governing her children's miniature household- though she had heard tales of mistresses who were a holy terror- Jocelyn knew that each of the women had been carefully chosen and knew perfectly well what they were doing when it came to the raising of children, even royals. But she saw little enough of her son and daughter as it were, her many queenly duties still kept her occupied. And even when they did not, Valentine was adamant that it was not proper for her to spend too much time and effort mollycoddling the children. She had tried to reason with him, but short of using the argument that not all mothers were a sealed up, stone-hearted harpy like his had been, she was not likely to sway him. As it were, she was struggling to sway him on very much these days.

He was increasingly shutting himself off with his councillors, and paid her very little heed. He pulled away from Luke too, she'd learned. Ever since Stephen's betrayal had come to light he tended to lean more on the new blood at court. Jocelyn tried to settle those concerns and focus on the child in her arms, but that only granted the conditions for yet another set of worries to breed. The two were not as distanced as she might hope, more than anything she was beginning to feel that Amalia's poor health was frustrating more than anything to Valentine. Shocking as that were Jocelyn had taken to avoiding the topic. There was no use in bothering Valentine when there was nothing he could do about it. No sense in annoying him needlessly. She tried to reassure herself that it was simply a case of her husband taking out his helplessness on her. Of course it was distressing their child was wasting away and there was naught either of them could do to stop it. Nonetheless, it was hard to ignore that there were more and more issues that she had taken to ignoring and yet more lines of discussion she was stopping herself from pursuing.

She settled herself in a nearby chair and started to sing softly, trying to soothe herself as much as her child. The true distraction however proved to be her discreet inspection of the interloper. He never ceased to baffle her. This Jonathan was a relatively quiet child, but equally if in the mood took him he proved insatiably inquisitive. He could walk and talk with the roots of that same sharp carelessness Stephen once had, yet there already lurked behind the bravado something of his mother's vulnerability. He was a child who kept himself to himself, already tending to avoid her Jonathan and even at times the nursemaids. They tended to overlook him, and Jocelyn wondered that were the cause or the product of his detachment. Yet the real source of her discomfiture were times when he would look at her and seem to look through her, as if he were evaluating her every move. The most unsettling part of it all was that when he did so he could have been Valentine's very likeness.

The realisation never failed to send a stab of something not quite anger and not quite dread through her. She longed to peel her eyes away from the child chittering to himself softly on the carpet, fiddling with some of the wooden toys the prince had discarded, but Jocelyn failed to do so. If anything her perusal intensified, searching for what she shrank from possibly seeing.

As though thinking of him had acted a conjuring, Valentine appeared in the doorway. His queen's head snapped up at the sudden unannounced entrance, and she felt her eyes widen in surprise as her mouth popped open. To say what, she never got the chance to discover, for Valentine's attention had yet to cross her. His eyes went immediately to the child that wasn't theirs and he paused to crouch and pat his head before advancing to where his wife waited, resisting a glower.

She would once have been relived to get an opportunity to be alone with him like this, but these days she never knew what to say. Once she had been glad of his company, now she seldom knew what to do with it. He asked her opinions less and less and tended to dislike them when they were offered more than he approved.

Valentine spared Amalia a peek before glancing at Jocelyn finally. "How is she?"

The anger fizzled out instantly with her quiet admission, "Much the same."

Valentine nodded slowly, dropping into the nearest seat and leaning forward, omitting a long sigh. "There is nothing else to be done." His eyes were piercing hers now, as though there were something of great importance in those words he wished to convey.

Jocelyn refused to be baited- "There is always hope, and prayer... she has made it this far against all odds-"

"I know, dearest, I know that. But you cannot spend all your days clinging to her."

"I do not," she protested roughly.

"Perhaps not physically, but you are letting this cloud all you do. We have another child Jocelyn. I know Amalia is dear to you-"

"And she is not to you?" The accusation shot across twice as viciously as she had intended, but there was no time to try and dilute or amend it, as Valentine broke in with equal force, "On the contrary! I had a particular plan for her."

"Have a plan for her Valentine. She is right here! Look at her!" The rising tenor of her voice shuddered with the beginning of a sob.

If anything, that sapped what remained of her husband's patience, seeing him press on with the harsh truths no one else dared tell her, "Not every child makes it to adulthood, you know that. It is more than common to lose a child-"

"But not my children!" She all but screeched in return, "I am the queen! My children are not anyone's!"

"That goes without saying. I have done all I can- paying a small fortune in doctor's fees and none of their remedies work. She is a sickly child, Jocelyn. She may well live, but it will always be as such."

For the first time ever, Jocelyn wanted to hit her husband. How could he sit there and provide her such solemn facts as if it were not the life of their own daughter they discussed? A small move caught in the corner of her eye, and Jocelyn was diverted from her horror-struck rising fury. She shot a fuming, tear blurred glance across to where the forgotten child had stiffened into place, wide eyed and seemingly alarmed to have been remembered.

That, in fact, proved to be the final proverbial straw. "Get that child out. Out of here right this instant!"

For a second Valentine froze, then with the sigh of the long suffering sprang up and began to usher the little boy out of the room, asking loudly as to the whereabouts of his nurses. Jocelyn meanwhile ducked her head down, kept biting back her sobs and clutched Amalia to her with renewed vigour, starting then to rock back and forth in her misery.

By the time Valentine returned to his vacated seat again, alone, he seemed angered further, "I appreciate that you are emotional, but there is no need to vent it on a child-"

"Is there not?" It was so universally unfair, that this child- who by many accounts should not have born- was the very epitome of health and happiness while her own precious little girl faded away faster than the summer roses at the first breath of autumn.

Valentine released another sigh, hesitated once more and then allowed himself to be baited, "What in the name of God does that mean?"

Jocelyn felt the vague hiccup of breath that followed her inability to swallow past her dry mouth. At first there was only the tolling of a dozen unfinished thoughts and questions in her mind: every happy glance Valentine had ever shot Celine and vice versa, his willingness to entertain the newlyweds, the insistence the duchess come to court. The demand that she be brought into his protection to give birth after her husband's arrest, the wild pursuit when she tried to leave, having the child seized from her still warm corpse and above all the insistence the boy be raised here. Like one of his own.

She forced her eyes to dry themselves and stare her husband straight in his. She did not want to appear hysterical, oh no- she need be perfectly serious when she asked this question. "Tell me once and tell me true."

Valentine's exasperation peaked; "Jocelyn-"

"Is he your son?"

It was rare she caught Valentine entirely off guard- as a matter of interest Jocelyn could not think of another incident where she had managed to thrust him into such a confounded silence. His entire face had frozen, his eyes flared and his mouth fallen a little open. It took a long moment for him to compose himself long enough to splutter- "What?" She might have dropped the line of interrogation there and then, but she knew her spouse to be a convincing actor. Years of kingship taught one that if nothing else. So she seized in another breath so violently that her shoulders jerked and little Amalia, quite disregarded, gave a rare fidget.

She had endured months of holding the question back, of privately scouring the child's features for any similarity to her own son's, of pretending not to hear the whispers as to why the King was so happy to suffer the traitor's son. Better than suffer. He could have taken wardship of the boy and bundled him off to any other noble household, yet Valentine had chosen to disinherit the boy and then place him in the royal nursery. Finally, Jocelyn could take it no longer. She decided that even if she could not bear the truth she needed to know it. "Is he your bastard?"

The level tone stunned even herself, but Valentine was still trying to piece himself together after the last question, and quite unprepared for her to hound him on it. But, God help them all, hound him she would if that was what it took to get an honest answer out.

"Christ Almighty, Jocelyn. No. No. He's Stephen's son."

"Are you sure?" She snapped drily. She knew all too well that Valentine's instinctive response to many an accusation was dishonesty. "He hardly resembles him." And she had it on good authority that the Duchess's bed had not been one of the Duke's favourite haunts, though of course Valentine did not know she had knowledge of that.

"He is Stephen's son. I assure you."

"You do." It was too flat to be a question, yet there remained an imploring to elaborate.

Valentine shook his head disbelievingly, throwing his weight back in the seat and toying absentmindedly with the ring that never left his finger, that godforsaken sapphire that had always reminded his wife that the king was married to his country before he was her. He even had the audacity now to expel a rapid clatter of droll laughter, "You sound as if that is not the answer you wanted."

They were silent for a time then, Jocelyn not knowing what else to say and Valentine apparently not having anything further to say for himself. He was considering her now curiously, the brink of a decision obvious in the acuity to that gaze. At last he deemed her worthy of being party to the knowledge he was about to impart. "I shall prove it to you. Though things would be more convenient if he were my blood-"She gasped aloud at that, only to be ignored, "But alas- the boy is a Herondale through and through. Which is problematic by itself for obvious reasons, but why do you suppose I deny him an inheritance entirely? You think me prone to such acts of needless cruelty?"

Jocelyn dared not respond, though he was addressing her she could tell these were entirely rhetorical questions. "Because I wanted to make this boy mine Jocelyn. I wanted him utterly dependent on me. There is so much to be gained by having the very last of that great bloodline beg me for his supper, knowing that without my blessing and goodwill not so much as a crumb would pass his lips. I do not do so out of callousness, though I will not deny the sense of power gives me satisfaction. But it was God's will that Jonathan live and be delivered to my keeping. There is as much to be gained from his blood as it might cost us. Its value, ultimately, cannot be overestimated."

He smiled at her conspiratorially, though Jocelyn could not be certain she followed this at all. Until his eyes flicked downwards and settled on the babe dozing in her arms. "I would tie his bloodline to ours, my love." She stiffened, then lurched upwards into a straighter position and casting her eyes about the room desperately, as though suddenly waking to a strange surrounding. There was no one else there, of course, so eventually she had to return to Valentine. "You cannot mean it."

He shrugged, unrepentant. "It is my duty as a father to make plans for my daughter's future, is it not?"

"Not before she walks or talks," Or until we can be sure she has a future a hideous little voice at the back of her mind added. Valentine might have heard it, she may have said it aloud, for his smile slipped off his face and he grew irritable again.

That was why Amalia's failing health bothered him so, not because it made him feel impotent but because Valentine so hated it when his plans were thwarted. Again, there came that urge to put her hands on him and beat this hateful streak out of him, but overriding her desire to do that was her longing to press Amalia closer to her chest and spirit her far away from here.

But what good would it do? What good would any of it do? She could rail at him all she wanted, but nothing would put strength into the too-small body of her darling daughter. None of it would keep Amalia's heart beating and her breaths flowing. The helplessness came crashing over Jocelyn all over again, making her loathe her own vitality.

Valentine however, had yet to move from the previous topic, "It is a gift we have been given. The last of the Herondales was always meant to be mine, after all it was I who did so much to bring him into the world. I will rid Idris of the old dynasty once and for all, not through destroying it but by utilising it. No one could ever challenge the right of me or my kin to rule." It brought him to life, the very notion; that vision of the bright future for every King of Idris to come, the one had single-handedly constructed.

Then the sole hurdle that brought him back to the present. Valentine looked again at the tiny heap of blankets which all but concealed the little girl from view, but though his eyes were on Amalia his thoughts were beyond her. "Perhaps not this time. Perhaps not little Amalia. But this is God's will and mine. So if not this daughter, we shall have another."

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A/N: Thus the beginnings of Valentine's master plan is unveiled! If this is shoddier than usual its because I'm seizing what little free time I have to write and becoming that gif of Kermit the Frog at the typewriter :') But I would rather do this than essays. Also have started working on a cheeky side project that keeps distracting. Don't know if it will ever see the light of day but I will have to try and manage the infidelity :)