“Uncle? What are you doing here?” Asher questioned his kin lightly, one hand brought to rub the sleep from his eyes as the other was used to support himself against the door to the apartment. He was dressed in nothing but non-matching socks and interestingly chosen boxers, which had little axes with googly eyes on them, exposing flesh and scars to the hallway and Malcolm.

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“You’ve heard much about Highgarden? Where are you from? Perhaps I’ve heard of it.”

“Are you okay?” 

He asked as small chuckle played off his lips; leaning down he offered a hand to his uncle whom had fallen back. Asher had never thought to warn him, he had figured Malcolm to know well enough that nearing a tavern or whorehouse one should expect a door to be thrown open with violence.

To him it is a miracle, a relieving sight having his Uncle stand before him; the irritated expression gone unnoticed, who cared if he had woken him? Laying besides Beskha in their own tent, a curious thought why Malcolm hadn’t wanted to share had lead to his mind drifting towards childhood memories; the happier moments of his past he could barely grasp in dreams. To him, Uncle Malcolm was a blackened sheep in his family as well. Surely, he would not be too upset to have been woken?