Interlude: Drunken Fathers Will Chatter vol 2

The King's private study smelled of oak, old paper, and the iron tang of the forge that clung to Brant's skin no matter how many times he washed. A fire burned low in the hearth, more ember than flame, ticking softly as the wood settled. Beyond the thick walls the castle had gone quiet for the night — no courtiers, no clerks, only the distant change of the guard somewhere below, boots on stone, gone as soon as heard. Two cups sat on the low table between them—heavy glass, not the delicate crystal used for court functions. The King had poured himself, filling Brant's to the brim with amber whiskey from a decanter that had no seal, no house sigil, just thick glass and a history of private conversations.

Brant turned his cup in hands still scarred from forty years of hammer strikes. The whiskey caught the firelight when he turned it, amber and slow. It was good — smoke and honey and a warmth that started in the chest instead of the throat. Better than anything he'd ever tasted in Sovringard, back when Sovringard was just a city and not a name he was learning to wear.

"She's in love with him," Brant said.

The King—Aldric LXIX, one hundred and twenty-two years old, ruler of Verdantis for eighty-seven of those years—lifted his own cup and drank. He didn't ask who. He didn't feign surprise. He swallowed, set the glass down with a soft click, and said, "I know."

"Not the crush of a girl with a prince." Brant stared into his whiskey. "Not the guard with her charge. She'd die for him. She almost has. Twice now."

"The Titanoboa."

"And before that. The assassin's blade, the night her heart stopped." Brant finally drank, letting the burn settle his throat. "She doesn't say it. She doesn't even know she knows. But I raised her. I know the shape of her silences."

The King nodded, pouring again for both of them. "Lucan is... careful. Methodical. He calculates everything except her. When she's threatened, he calculates nothing."

"He's a good boy."

"He's a prince."

"He's a boy who loves my daughter." Brant looked up, meeting eyes that had ordered executions and signed treaties. "And I'm going to scare the shit out of him."

The King laughed. It was a genuine sound, rusty from disuse, warm as the whiskey, and it changed the room — some of the king went out of him with it, and what was left was an old man enjoying himself in his own study, which perhaps no one alive had seen in years. "The father talk."

"The father talk," Brant confirmed. "Prince or not, heir or not, second son or beggar on the street—he comes near her with intent, he answers to me. I'll look him in the eye and tell him what happens to men who hurt what's mine."

The King raised his glass. "I would expect no less from a father."

"I'll make him shake."

"I hope so." The King smiled, something sly and sad in it. "I'll make sure he's wearing brown pants."

Brant snorted, whiskey burning his nose. "That's cruel."

"That's preparation." The King leaned back in his chair, the firelight catching the silver in his beard. "I gave Aldric the same talk. From his mother's father. Duke of the Eastern Marches. Terrifying man. Aldric didn't speak for three hours afterward."

"Did it work?"

The King's smile flickered. "He calculates still." He looked at Brant, something heavy in the gaze. "Lucan is different. He's been different since he was eight. Since he manifested."

"Since he met her."

"Since he met her." The King turned his cup on the table, watching the amber swirl. "Brant. I need to speak of something. Officially, and as a friend."

Brant set his cup down. The shift in tone was subtle—a king's gravity sliding beneath the father's warmth. Even the fire seemed to burn smaller for it, the room drawing in around the two chairs the way rooms do when something real is about to be said in them.

"The House of Sovringard," the King said. "It doesn't exist. Not yet. But it should."

Brant went still.

"Your daughter guards my son," the King continued. "She may marry him. She may not. But the possibility exists, and possibilities require preparation. A guardswoman who is also a commoner's daughter creates vulnerabilities. Political ones. Dangerous ones."

Brant's jaw tightened. "I'm not ashamed of what I am."

"No." The King's voice sharpened—not with anger, but with emphasis. "You are a master smith. You raised a Paladin in a one-room house. You kept her alive when the world wanted her dead for what she is. You have nothing to be ashamed of, Brant. Which is precisely why I am not offering you charity."

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, the fire throwing his shadow huge against the wall.

"I am granting you a dukedom. House Sovringard. The name your daughter carries becomes her house, her title, her protection. You will be Duke Brant Sovringard. Your wife, Duchess Eira Sovringard."

Brant's breath came slow. "Why?"

"Because my son's protector needs armor that isn't just steel." The King's eyes were steady. "Because you have earned it by raising the woman who may save this kingdom, and because I am a father who wants his son's love to survive the politics that devoured mine."

Brant looked down at his hands—scarred, calloused, black with decades of soot that never quite washed out. Duke. The word didn't fit. It itched.

"The naming," the King said, softer now. "Among commoners, parents choose their children's names. The child doesn't inherit—they receive. Hallah received Sovringard from you. Now you and Eira will receive it from her. Your old names become your middle names. You will be Brant Ironhand Sovringard. Eira Moonwhisper Sovringard."

"And Hallah?"

"She is granted the city's name. Hallah Valeris Sovringard." The King smiled. "The capital as her middle name. The city that would have killed her, now part of her title."

Brant closed his eyes. Valeris. The name of the place that had spat on his daughter for being poor, for being different, for being what she was.

"Head of House," the King continued. "You hold it until she turns fifteen. Then it passes to her automatically. She will be Duchess Hallah Valeris Sovringard, head of her own house, free to marry or not, bound to no man's lineage but her own."

"Fifteen," Brant repeated.

"Old enough to know her mind. Young enough that you have time to prepare her." The King refilled the glasses again. The decanter was nearly empty. "And if she marries Lucan, she comes to the marriage as an equal. Not a subject. Not a guardswoman elevated by favor. A duchess in her own right, royal kin by law as well as by my son's heart."

Brant picked up his glass. His hand was steady, though his heart hammered. "A duke is kin to the king."

"You noticed."

"You didn't say it."

The King met his eyes. "I don't need to. You'll understand it when Aldric looks at you." He drank, the whiskey disappearing in one swallow. "There are rumors. About my heir. Nothing I can act on. Nothing proven. But a father hears things."

Brant nodded slowly. "You're positioning Lucan."

"I am protecting Lucan. There is a difference." The King set his glass down with a heavy sound. "House Sovringard is not a bribe, Brant. It is a bulwark. For both of them. If they marry, they marry as allies. If they do not, she is still protected from those who would use her to hurt him."

"And if Aldric proves... unfit?"

The King's face didn't change, but something cold moved behind his eyes. "Then the kingdom will need a Paladin who is also a duchess. And a prince who is also a lover. And fathers who are drinking buddies who have already decided what their children cannot yet say."

Brant laughed. It hurt his chest. "You're a calculating bastard."

"I am a king. Calculating is all I have." The King reached for the decanter, found it empty, and rang a small bell by the fireplace. A servant appeared, took the decanter, and left without a word. "But I am also a father who watched his second son come alive for the first time when a scrawny girl from Sovringard looked at him like he mattered."

"She did," Brant said. "She does."

"Then we agree." The King extended his hand across the table—not the regal gesture of a monarch, but the clasp of a man who works with his hands, who understands weight and heat and shaping. "To our children. And to the terror we will inflict upon them."

Brant took the hand. The King's grip was strong, dry, certain. "To brown pants."

"To brown pants," the King agreed.

The servant returned with a fresh decanter. The fire burned lower, down to a bed of coals that pulsed slow and red whenever the room's air stirred. Outside the tall windows the night thinned by degrees no one in the study bothered to mark — the black going grey at the edges, the first birds starting up somewhere in the gardens below, the castle's bells still an hour from ringing the day awake. Inside, the castle of Verdantis stood against the night, and two fathers sat in the quiet, drinking whiskey, saying the things their children could not yet say, building the house their children would live in—stone by stone, word by word, glass by empty glass.

They were drunk by midnight. They were friends by dawn.