Family, Duty, Honor

Morgana was enjoying the gathering so far. There had been good food, good wine, and even better company. She had opted for one of her purple dresses today, red hair half plied up elegantly on her head. She knew she looked nice and enjoyed being able to show off her outfits without a coat. She had ended up in the great hall, food and wine constantly out for the visiting nobility. She poured herself another glass of wine, looking around the room to see if there was someone she could talk to. Someone made their way over and she smiled. “I will say this, the south knows what they are doing when it comes to entertainment. I can appreciate that.”

Leyla had stuck to her sister’s side, as she normally did in situations where she didn’t know many people. While Leyla was charming, she lacked her sister’s outgoing ability to speak to a new person without hesitation. “That is very true.” Leyla’s eyes were fixated on the grand decorations around the feast room, but her eyebrows perked up when she saw a handsome-looking knight. “That knight over there, underneath the half-Targaryen and half-Velaryon banner. He’s quite easy on the eyes, yes?”

The night of the coronation was meant to be a joy for the North. But that hadn’t been the case. It had ended with a man dead and tensions between the North and South were as bad as ever. Morgana hated all of it. Not just because her friend and new King was hurt by the events, but that a good party was ruined. Everyone was on edge, herself included. It was as if all trust was thrown out the window. She made her way towards the great hall, freezing when she heard someone at the other end of the hallway. “Who’s there?” She was about to grab the blade she now kept on her thigh. “Show yourself.”

Leyla smiled, happy that her sister was far more independent than she was at her age. “It is only me, sister.” She said as she put a kind hand on the small back of her back. “Scary night, tonight, isn’t it?” Leyla knew that she had begun to carry a dagger on her, but asked anyways, “Do you have that dagger of yours on you?” 

It didn’t happen often and certainly not since she’d arrived in the North but Gwenys was a bit bored. It was the conversation she’d somehow been roped into. The man standing before her had let her know he was a high ranking member of someone’s army and proceeded to launch into a detailed tale of just how he’d amassed his riches. Her wine had gone cold and her feet were getting a bit ache-y, all from standing in the one inescapable spot she’d been stuck in from the moment he began talking to her. As people enjoyed their time around her, Gwen found herself thinking two things – one, she’d gotten herself into this mess. She’d bumped into him, went to apologize, introduced herself, and suddenly, they were talking and she was stuck. Two, she hoped her look of boredom wasn’t too obvious to the gentleman but clear enough that someone would save her and soon. 

As Leyla passed by a knight and one of the Arryn girls talking, she noticed the look on her face out of the corner of her eye. She came to a stop, placing her hand on her elbow. “Lady Arryn!” Her voice was happy, and although she had only met the Arryn sisters once, she was unsure of which one she was touching. “I haven’t seen you since my wedding,” Leyla lied- unsure if any of the Arryn’s had attended her wedding. Her eyes following up to the man in front of her.  “You’ll have to excuse us- I’ve not seen my friend in such a long time.” She interlocked her arm with hers and took a small step forward. “Good night, Ser.”

After they were not within a hearing distance of him, she let out a long sigh. “Gods, it seemed like he just wouldn’t stop talking! I hope I did good.” She laughed. 

“Would that I could abandon my throne.” He chuckled, patting once more the Direwold head carved into the armrest. “But I have lords and ladies to greet. I will get by on ale and food. And when it comes time for bed, trust me, I will seek it.” He rolled his shoulders, then, trying to unlodge his cramped muscles just a tad.

“Duty. Aye, thorn in the side of so many dreams.” He muttered, before taking a final sip of his cup and slamming it on the table. The slamming brought a young boy, who had jumped up from his post almost immediately. He took the cup and went to fill it again with a bottle from further down the table. Whe he returned, Edrik smiled kindly at the lad. “Thank ye, Jon.”

Then, he returned to Leyla and nodded at her own cup. “Do ye want some more? Jon’s real fleet on his feet. Good lad. My mother insisted I get myself a personal servant boy. Gods forbid I tie my own bloody bootlaces.”

“Hey, ale and food isn’t a diet that many can complain about.” She said, chuckling. “Good.” She smiled at him, happy for him, as it seemed that despite his current state, he took good care of himself. Sleep was always important, at least in her opinion, and being a king of a kingdom so large, she knew rest would be very important to him.  Before Leyla had a chance to respond to what he said about duty, she jumped when he slammed the cup on the table, her hand slightly raising to prevent herself from getting hurt. The sound and his quick movement that she had seen out of the corner of her eye had scared her so much that she had gasped and flinched, even bracing herself for pain. She slowly set her hand back down, resting it on the base of her wine cup.

Leyla’s blue eyes darted around the table, wondering who had seen her get so startled. Leyla wondered if the king had noticed, or if he had drank too much to notice. She silently berated herself, trying to remind herself that the past environment she was in was in fact in the past, but her wounds were still healing. Leyla was unaware, but the hand that she had set on the base of her wine cup was visibly shaking. While he spoke, his words were hard to hear, but she could tell he was offering her more wine after the servant had poured him wine,  “Yes- sure. Thank you,” her voice was quiet and stammered, her entire demeanor different from before. 

Although she had often laughed with the king at his jokes, it was as if she didn’t even hear his joke about the bootlaces. Leyla let out a sharp exhale, trying to cool the feelings of anxiety that had just rushed through her. The color had slightly left her face, leaving her looking pale and flushed. What was she to say? Explain that she had spent a decade living with a drunken brute who bruised her more often than he kissed her? Leyla could not bring that up, especially here tonight, especially to the king.  “I apologize, my king,” she began, her voice still slightly more quiet than earlier. Although her body was no longer tense, her teeth had started to chatter out of anxiety. “I think I need fresh air.” She tightened the coat she wore around her as she started to get up. 

The music swelled behind him, as the notes scattered throughout the room overhead. The floors quaked with the many feet tapping and the room filled with voices, singing the words of a popular folk song. It was just the kind of night Edrik had wished for. Her sarcasm had him raising a brow, but only in jest. “Did I? I only waved my hand and looked ye in the eyes, my lady. No beckoning at all!” With a laugh he’d put his cup back to his lips, taking a sip. This time making sure that all the ale went down his throat, instead of down his beard and front.

Her compliments had him shrug humbly. “We only provide the drink and the food. My guests make the feast.” But he knew that this was one of those rare times where the tough shell of the north seemed to crack. The royal troupe, which in all honesty was a bunch of farmers who had notified Edrik that they could play an instrument, played their hearts out. 

“I have beer in my cup, my lady. What more could a man ask for? Eh, I don’t envy my father his reign. Today has been the longest day of my life.”

Once again, the King in the North had her laughing. She knew the king to be handsome, but did not expect him to be so jolly or humorous. It seemed that everyone was so quick to label the Stark’s as cold blooded people, void of any kind of mischief. 

“Well then- you know how to invite the right people.” Her statement was pretty optimistic, seeing as the rivalry between the two kings of the North and South was something she heard multiple people speak of in the last few days. “In any case, I’d like to thank you on behalf of House Tully. You’ve made our lodges very comfortable.” His positivity made her once again to remind herself to not live in the past, and to not hold her conscious so responsible for her past decisions. But then, as she stood there with a smile on her face, she wondered if the king had as many regrets as she did. “Very true, my king. You have much to be thankful for.” 

When he said that he didn’t envy his father, she was unsure of what to say, but when he confided that hit had been the longest day of his life, she couldn’t help but feel compassion. She remembered what she considered the longest day of her life- her wedding. “It seems that the longest days of our life always seem to have something to do with duty, does it not?” 

A GOOD FEAST IS MORE HIS STYLE .  drinks flowing and good company— he has been mainly surrounded by his fellow ironborn for most of the day .  and rarely has he been with a cup of ale in his hand ,  his crew was good at making sure their lot had their fill all during the tourney .  it has quite thoroughly put him in a good mood ,  best he’s been in since he docked in the north and began his venture to winterfell .  while he does give a damn about the stark king ,  even the ironborn would have to concede that he threw a decent enough party .          ❛  the new king in the north knows how to celebrate ,  it would seem .  here’s to hoping he has enough casks of ale to keep my people in good spirits for the rest of the night !  ❜

While her brother congregated strictly with those of the kingdom of the North, she was more interested in those who weren’t from her kingdom. After a brief conversation with the Southern Queen, she went on to find her sister. However, she wandered near a group of people that she could not quite place. As she stepped to her right to avoid a servant scurrying by, she stepped quite close to the man that was in the middle of giving the toast. She lifted her goblet up in agreement with what he said, though she accidentally clashed her goblet with his cup of ale, watching the clear-yellow liquid splash out of the cup.

“Oh dear!” She gave him an apologetic smile. “I did not mean to do that- is that ale?” She asked, her voice rapid due to her intoxication. She noticed a few drops of it had got onto her cup, and Leyla pulled her sleeve over her wrist, not caring as she dried it off the goblet with her own clothes. “I have been wanting to try some- may I?” Perhaps Leyla had drunk a little more than her brother would have preferred her to, but she didn’t care- she was having fun. 

            BETHANY ALWAYS DID ENJOY INDULGING in the odd festivity , or two . if possible , she hoped to ignore the negative murmurs & disgruntled expressions which curse this joyous evening , and instead luxuriate in the fine wine and array of treats the northerners had in store for their guests .

& of course , she’s dressed for the occasion , her slim frame complimented by the silver silk which hangs delicately , decorated in myrish lace and rich embellishment . chestnut locks are , for once , tamed , her soft features framed by large curls and intricate braids . in her hand , a goblet of arbor gold , already half empty as hues orbit the room in a content trance . she only just manages to acknowledge the other beside her , a half glance offered , as lips curl to show a smile . she pays no head to who they may be before she speaks . “ —– that starks have truly SPOILED us . what , with so much fine wine and food on offer , i don’t know if i’ll even manage a dance this evening . “ 

Leyla was so focused with trying to place the lady in front of her that she barely listened to what she said, though she understood it was a compliment on the Stark’s hospitality. “Oh- I know. King Edrik has been such a gracious host.” She was holding her goblet upside down, the stem of the empty goblet in between her fingers, which hopefully sent a sign to a nearby servant that her cup was empty. 

“Forgive me, my lady. But I feel that we’ve met before. Are you of the Riverlands?”

Edrik laughed a hearty, booming laugh that roared over the crowd like a clap of thunder. He had just been recounting one of the few times his father’s quartermaster - punctual old man - had been late to his father’s summons. The bumbling apologies, the awkward shuffling of feet. Oh, it had been quite a sight. And Edrik had been almost unstoppably laughing. So much so, that he to leave the room.

The day had been long and blurry, but he was glad to sit in his throne and be able to spend some time enjoying the good things. After all the official pomp and fanfare was over, he could really use a drink. And drink he did. Mind, a man of his stature could drink quite a hefty sum of ale before finding himself affected. The first rushes were starting to assault his brain, however. It only added to the fun.

As his previous conversational partner walked from the podium, still laughing and quaking, he quickly found the eye of another. With a smile on his face he beckoned them over. He had to, seeing as it was ‘protocol’ and all that. “How very kind of ye to drop by.” He joked, as he took his cup to his lips. After a sip, where some of his ale almost spilled out for trying to talk too soon. Quite a sight he was. “I hope yer enjoying yerself!”

Perhaps Leyla had gone a bit heavy on the pours of wine she enjoyed so much, because after her second dance of the night, it was as if she could feel the wine swimming in her stomach. She had distanced herself, standing near the exit of the Great Hall, taking small bites of a piece of bread a servant had given her. 

In truth, she had drank a little too much- her brother had even offered to escort her back to her guest-chambers, but she had refused. This was the first event Leyla had gone to in nearly a decade, and she did not want to miss out on any part of it. Soon after eating the rest of the piece of bread she had asked for, she found herself holding yet another cup. Just as Leyla decided it was time to go back to dancing, perhaps with her sister, she caught the king’s eye and it was clear he wanted her to come nearer. 

Leyla managed to walk up to him gracefully, making sure to keep a tight hold of her wine cup as she curtsied. She laughed at his words. “Well, you looked so lonely over there, I had to come by. It wasn’t because my king summoned me over or anything of that sort.” She japed, hoping that her sarcasm made sense. She took another sip of her cup, and for a few seconds she was unsure of what to say to the king. “Yes!” She answered cheerfully. “It’s been ten years since I’ve attended a celebration, and I can say that my expectations have been outdone!” She briefly licked her lips, worried that the wine may have stained them. “More importantly, are you enjoying yourself, my king?”

He smiled at her, hoping that he had at least not deepened her sorrow with his own. Compassionate as he was, he hated seeing those he considered friends and vassals to be in pain. Any pain. He also knew, pragmatic as he was, that it wasn’t his place to fix their pain. He simply couldn’t. But he could pray for them, he could help them in his own way. He had always done that.

“No, please. I was simply watching the folks down there. I am starting to freeze my stones of, if ye’d pardon my Andal.” He then turned towards her and took a step in. “And I reckon it’s time I pour something to drink down this parched throat of mine.” 

His long arm then snaked past her to gesture to the door that was behind her. “Ye have my gratitude for speaking to me, my lady. Most people try very hard to reach around my backside and stick plumage up there. And I am quite tired of my arse itching.”

Leyla chuckled at his words, and was surprised at how humble the king of the North was during their small interaction. “There is nothing to pardon, my king.” Her attention piqued when he mentioned needing to get something to drink, and that reminded her that her servant said they’d have warm hippocras waiting in her chambers. “As do I, my king. I’ll see you at the celebrations, I’m sure.” 

For a moment, his words made her think about all of the trials and people that monarchs had to deal with. It made her happy she was not a queen, or had been born a man and into a king’s shoes. “Oh no, the gratitude is all mine. And.. I do hope that your arse doesn’t get too itchy after meeting with all of your subjects during the celebrations.” She japed with a small smirk on her face, hoping that she did not take the joke too far. But, she reminded herself that he was the first to make such a joke of that nature. Leyla dipped into a low curtsy and rose up, a small still on her face. “Good day, King Edrik.” She said as a nearby guard opened the door for her and made her way away from the court yard, her mind on what was waiting for her in her guest-chambers.

      “Nel has a tendency to marvel at all weapons, even the ones that do little damage.” It was a trait of the young to be curious and wide-eyed over things gruesome and cruel, for they did not fully comprehend all that encompassed such a thing.  “He has yet to see them truly in action, save these tournaments.” Together, they watched as Nel disappeared and then she drew his attention back to her as the woman came closer to him. “Aye, they are different.” And while Quellon was not a soft man, nor the type to favor mercy, he did not expound on how to the lady before him. 

     “You were speaking to him naturally…” he commented on what he had observed before intervening. He was not under the impression that all mothers talked the same to their broods, but the tone she had used was reminiscent of some distant memory of childhood playing out in the back of his mind. 

Leyla shrugged. “As most boys his age do- but truly, he was no bother.” Leyla’s head turned to see if the tournament had started yet, and it seemed that the servants were still setting up the seats and the tents over them. Leyla noted how his clothes were different in comparison to other men in Westeros, and despite the rude comments she had heard about the Greyjoy’s over the years, she noted how calm the man before her seemed to be. 

Her eyebrows perked up at his observation of the way she was speaking to him. “Oh.. well, I had a boy around his age, younger, but around the same age.” Her words repeated themselves, only because she was still so lost in her thoughts over her boy. “Do you have children?” She asked, reminding herself to think in the present. Seconds later, she shook her head. “Forgive me, I’ve not introduced myself. Leyla, of House Tully.” She moved closer, offering him her hand to kiss. Although that was a normal thing for Leyla, she wondered for a second if ladies in the Isles did the same thing she did upon meeting lords. 

        cassian had quickly realized that attending a celebration as a ruling was far different than attending one as a knight. before he’d been able to spend most of the evening unbothered, spending his time with those he chose, most likely his fellow knights. but as a lord it seemed that everyone was seeking his attention. most of the conversations were full of empty words and endless small talk; however, cassian couldn’t shake the feeling that everyone he spoke to was searching for any weaknesses the new lord of ashemark might possess. he bore it all with a tight smile, but at the first opportunity of escape he quickly slipped away from the latest person who had claimed his attention.

          so focused on his escape, cassian didn’t even see the lady until they’d collided. his arm reached out immediately to steady the lady before he stepped back.          ❝  the fault is mine, my lady. i wasn’t looking where i was going either. ❞          his gaze had been focused on the floor; he’d thought that if he didn’t make eye contact with anyone they wouldn’t approach him.          ❝  are you alright? ❞

Leyla chuckled as she shrugged. “I guess we’re both focused on other things.” When he asked if she was alright, she gave him a quick nod. “Is this your first time here, in the North?” She asked, unable to place him to a particular region. “I am Lady Leyla Tully of Riverrun.”

“—-I, I, yes, my lady. Quite well. Just…pleasantries, you know? Half of them false, and all of them quite irritating at best.” He offered a genuine smile at her, however. “I do thank you for your kindness, however. There’s little need for a Northerner to do so, and yet you did.” 

Leyla offered him a kind smile and nodded, for she understand what she meant. “False diplomacy is all it is,” she shrugged. A confused look washed over her face at his next words. “Why is that?” She asked, wondering what he meant. “There’s no reason not to be kind unless someone has shown you un-kindness.” 

“I wouldn’t know how to build a house, let alone a castle. But we have had bright men in our ranks who knew what to do. My grandfather’s Maester was one of them.” He smiled at her, hoping he hadn’t offended her in waving away her compliment. 

When her smile fell from her face he knew he had touched a sensitive subject and regretted it. He felt her pain, even if he didn’t know exactly from where it stemmed. It was universal. Loss. “Yer brother explained it to me, as best he could. He thought it would dishonour him infront of his king. I told him not to worry. And I’ll tell ye the same. I’m sorry ye lost yer boy, my lady.”

He then noticed her desire to change the subject and smiled through her words, even if they picked at a barely healed scar. “She’s with her gods, now. I can only be glad she no longer suffers illness.”

Then, he looked up, forced himself to chuckle and nodded. But Leyla touched on a very real worry that Edrik had. Cursed was perhaps too strong. But unfortunate? Yes. He quickly tried to pick himself up. He knew how he got when he lingered on thought. And linger he did, for hours. “If we are cursed, it is a curse of beauty, my lady.”

“Well, I’m sure there’s many more things that happen to be your forte,” she complimented again. She smiled and looked down when he said that her brother explained it to her, unsure of what to say in response. Leyla’s eyes returned to his when he brought up her boy. “Thank you. He was the light of my life, though my brother seems to think I will now be widowed and childless for long.” She’d be open to the idea of another marriage, only if she was able to get to know the man, and if they were of an age with each other. 

“Yes. You have to remember that they are no longer suffering. My son was very sick before he passed. I ended up learning it was easiest to take solace in the fact he was at peace.” It was clear that the King’s loss still saddened him. His joke caught her off guard, and a genuine laugh came out of her. “Once again, my king, you are too kind.” Leyla tucked a piece of red hair behind her ear before turning back to the king. “Do you often come here seeking alone time? I can leave you, if you wish.”

“Ah, please don’t splash in the puddle, Benedict!” 

Lysa’s voice rang out through the godswood, a harsh contrast against the relative quiet of her son playing among the roots and branches, now tip-toeing past the pools of mud and water barely hidden by five-pointed leaves. The Lady Regent bounced her younger son in her arms, looking on with worry as Benedict nearly tripped over the gnarled root of a tree limb. 

She had not been expecting company, but would not turn it away in the chill of the godswood, with little to do other than oversee her son’s actions. “The maester said that allowing him to play here will help him develop a connection with the old gods,” she near-mumbled, her brow furrowing as Benedict began jumping to reach a low hanging branch with leaves. “Two husbands of the faith and I’m afraid I still don’t understand the rituals.” Her tone was slightly pained now, with a redness in her eyes. “But, um, it’s what he would have wanted, I know that.”

Lysa gave a soft sniffle, giving baby Ned another bounce, as clinical as a motherly movement could be. “Forgive me, I shouldn’t have imposed upon you in that way. If you came to pray I-” She searched frantically for something to say. “I’ll take Benedict inside so he won’t disturb.”

Leyla was mesmerized by the Godswood. She had found the courtyard of Winterfell to be so breathtaking with it’s designs, she couldn’t help but allow herself to see what the Godswood looked like. As she thought of how non-disappointing the Godswood was in comparison to her expectations, a voice drew her out of her thoughts. She turned around, her red hair cascading down her back and flowing with the wind as she watched a woman eagerly walking behind her boy, with another one in her arms. 

Before Leyla could introduce herself to the woman, she found herself trying to listen to what the woman was saying. “Oh.” She said, realizing this woman had been widowed twice. “Well, it’s good of you to see to that.” As she went to say something again, she stopped herself, realizing that she wasn’t done speaking. 

It wasn’t hard for Leyla to connect the dots- she suspected her good-cousin had suffered from a similar sadness after she had children. “Oh no, my lady, please.” Leyla’s eyes looked around and spotted a bench. Leyla turned to her, ready to tell her that she was not imposing and to suggest that they sit at the bench and talk,but she could tell that she was on the verge of tears. “It’s alright.” Leyla reached out, her hand touching hers briefly before taking it away. “I do not pray to the Old Gods, and you are not imposing on me. In fact, I’d like to talk more. What is your name?” She asked, trying to appear as kind and gentle as possible. Leyla noticed her sniffle earlier, and her eyes were shifty as she wondered if she should offer to hold her youngest for her. “Here,” her arms slightly moved upwards to the child, but she stopped herself. “I only mean- may I? You seem overwhelmed- and children even that young are so heavy.”

                    “ Forgive him. Nel is too used to the Ironborn festivities.” 

     Quellon broadened his smile, hand slapping down on the shoulder of younger boy, a son to one of his closest vassals. A grin lined with mischief crossed the younger’s face, but it quickly turned to sheepishness under Quellon’s grip. The situation was a distant echo of one familiar to Quellon, but the one he remembered belonged to someone of his blood rather than his land. His hand went from shoulder to the scruff of the boy’s shirt as Nel tried to make off with what had caused a dispute in the first place. 

      “ Ah-ah. Drop the sword. ” The wooden weapon was handed to Quellon with another wolfish grin and then the Lord Reaper released the young one with a simple command. “ Go watch the fights– and stay out of them! ” He yelled out the latter half as the boy disappeared in the slowly growing crowd and then Quellon was turning back to think about what he’d been on his way to do before the interruption, not noting that the person Nel had disturbed was still lingering. 

Although the boy had been no trouble, seeing and talking to a young boy made Leyla’s stomach turn. As he jumped in the air and hit the oak tree with the wooden sword, her eyes held nothing but sadness. Although Leyla had been good at fighting off the melancholy for the last three weeks, she could not help but think of her little boy. “Wow! You will surely be a strong swordsman- you already are!” 

She tried to put enthusiasm in her words, but her voice only grew quiet towards the end of her sentence.  Leyla licked her lips as she felt her eyes sting, and looked away from him for a moment, hoping her eyes would dry without any tears falling. When she heard heavy footsteps followed by a husky voice, she swallowed hard, quickly trying to regain composure. Her red hair bounced as she quickly looked in front of her, back to the little boy, to see the boy hand the sword back to him. 

“No, no. It’s quite alright.” Leyla forced a small smile, the apples of her cheeks rising. “He only wanted to show me his new sword.” As the little boy walked away, Leyla smiled at him and waved, moving closer to the man before her who was clearly Ironborn. “Ah, yes. I do not know much about the Ironborn festivities, though I do understand they are much different from us mainlanders.” Leyla tried to make a joke out of the way she said mainlanders, hoping the pangs of sadness in her gut would fade away. The little boy’s presence had her think of son far more than she anticipated it to. 

“Ye flatter me, my lady. That makes at least two women in the castle who think me handsome. Yerself and my mother.” He laughed, a laugh that bellowed through his chest and out into the hall with fervour and power. It came with being of this size. Lots of space in his chest for sounds to reverberate. 

On her note that Winterfell was beautiful he looked around and nodded, eyes glancing over the high walls, the grey stone, the snow and the barren trees. “It’s easy to forget her beauty in the cold. Bran the Builder was a man of vision, but I reckon not even he could have imagined the keep as it stands today.”

There was a moment of silene as the king in the north inspected the nooks and crannies of his keep, as he could see them. “I did hear. My condoleances for losing yer husband. I know what it is to be widowed.” 

Leyla laughed with him once again- whether what he said was humorous or not, she’d never dare to not laugh at her king’s jokes. However, her laugh was a mere giggle compared to his booming laugh. 

“It’s easy to forget a lot of things in the cold,” she countered. Leyla’s eyes looked around once more, she agreed with his words. “It seems that Bran the Builder’s descendants have inherited his traits for building.” A moment of silence followed, and Leyla clasped her hands together, deciding that she needed fur-lined gloves instead of simple leather ones. 

His words made her smile falter, and the light briefly left her eyes before flickering back. It was not because she mourned her husband, but it was for the fact that many people thought she mourned a monstrous man. “Thank you, my king. However, I mourn my son more. He followed his father into the grave six months later. Plus, my husband and I were not suited for one another.” Leyla knew that often, people assumed she had married Lord Mooton’s son, who was of an age with her. However, her husband had been older than her own father. Leyla’s mind desperately searched for a change of subject. “I, too, heard of your wife. You have my condolences.” She forced herself to chuckle. “Both widowed before our thirtieth namedays. I hope we’re not cursed,” she japed.