- Posts
- 53
((OOC: Cloudreach 3, 9:35, Morning, Alistair Theirin))
Peter loved to accompany Constance to Denerim. If the excitement of seeing his uncle was not enough, trips to Denerim also meant spending nights at the castle with the King’s nephew and nieces. Peter adored those children. The children of a washerwoman were hardly appropriate playmates for someone of Peter’s pedigree. Some day he would become Teyrn of Gwaren. But these were no normal commoners. Their uncle was the King, a bastard king but still a king. Exceptions could be made.
The children would never inherit; Constance would personally see to that. It was one thing to allow a bastard to sit on the throne. He was at least half royal blood. His sister's children had not one of noble blood within their veins. That did not mean, however, that they might someday not hold some measure of political sway. Even the lowliest of gutter snipes might rise far beyond their station and find success. That success was even more possible when the gutter snipe called the King of Ferelden, Uncle. They might be useful yet to Peter in the future.
There were other benefits, as well.
Constance’s connection to the crown flourished. Play dates where the children ran about the castle gardens playing games of tag or Grey Wardens developed into overnight stays for Peter and private meetings with Alistair to discuss policy for Constance.
The morning after one of those sleepovers, Constance and two of her guard set off for the castle to retrieve Peter. She could, of course, have requested he be escorted home and the King would have complied. That would have robbed her of an opportunity to visit the palace and Constance never avoided such a chance.
As had become customary, she brought gifts for the children. She was not a woman without a heart. While she must always consider the children’s political value to her son and herself, they were still children. Even children of low birth were due some measure of compassion.
"Look high, but never fail to remember what is below."
It was a lesson she never forgot.
Upon reaching the castle, she was informed the children were playing outside in gardens reserved for the children. Constance heard them long before she saw them. Her son’s voice unmistakeable, he yelled out, “I will get you archdemon. I am not afraid of you!”
Grey Wardens, again?
Turning the corner around a set of bushes pruned to look like small animals feasting upon the lush green grass, she saw Peter running around with Rhodri, both boys with play swords in their hands. Peter jabbed at empty air; his face a study in concentration as he moved through some of his sword instruction. Anwen stood behind the boys, hand moving behind her back as if reaching for an arrow.
In front of the children, on his hands and knees, covered in a blank capped with giant purple wings, was the target of their attacks. Deep growls came from beneath the blanket as the man beneath moved about for the children. The wings flapped as he rolled his shoulders and Constance could have sworn there was even a tail wiggle as his backside swished back and forth. Whoever the man was, he was very much enjoying the part he set out to play for the children.
“We can do this together,” Peter exclaimed.
Before the children could slay the archdemon, however, Constance called out to her son, “Peter. I brought the gifts you wished to give your friends.” The presents, while picked out carefully by Constance, were never from her, always from Peter.
The times that Peter argued with his mother were few and far between. Well-behaved, as a child should be, he came at his mother’s call.
Peter loved to accompany Constance to Denerim. If the excitement of seeing his uncle was not enough, trips to Denerim also meant spending nights at the castle with the King’s nephew and nieces. Peter adored those children. The children of a washerwoman were hardly appropriate playmates for someone of Peter’s pedigree. Some day he would become Teyrn of Gwaren. But these were no normal commoners. Their uncle was the King, a bastard king but still a king. Exceptions could be made.
The children would never inherit; Constance would personally see to that. It was one thing to allow a bastard to sit on the throne. He was at least half royal blood. His sister's children had not one of noble blood within their veins. That did not mean, however, that they might someday not hold some measure of political sway. Even the lowliest of gutter snipes might rise far beyond their station and find success. That success was even more possible when the gutter snipe called the King of Ferelden, Uncle. They might be useful yet to Peter in the future.
There were other benefits, as well.
Constance’s connection to the crown flourished. Play dates where the children ran about the castle gardens playing games of tag or Grey Wardens developed into overnight stays for Peter and private meetings with Alistair to discuss policy for Constance.
The morning after one of those sleepovers, Constance and two of her guard set off for the castle to retrieve Peter. She could, of course, have requested he be escorted home and the King would have complied. That would have robbed her of an opportunity to visit the palace and Constance never avoided such a chance.
As had become customary, she brought gifts for the children. She was not a woman without a heart. While she must always consider the children’s political value to her son and herself, they were still children. Even children of low birth were due some measure of compassion.
"Look high, but never fail to remember what is below."
It was a lesson she never forgot.
Upon reaching the castle, she was informed the children were playing outside in gardens reserved for the children. Constance heard them long before she saw them. Her son’s voice unmistakeable, he yelled out, “I will get you archdemon. I am not afraid of you!”
Grey Wardens, again?
Turning the corner around a set of bushes pruned to look like small animals feasting upon the lush green grass, she saw Peter running around with Rhodri, both boys with play swords in their hands. Peter jabbed at empty air; his face a study in concentration as he moved through some of his sword instruction. Anwen stood behind the boys, hand moving behind her back as if reaching for an arrow.
In front of the children, on his hands and knees, covered in a blank capped with giant purple wings, was the target of their attacks. Deep growls came from beneath the blanket as the man beneath moved about for the children. The wings flapped as he rolled his shoulders and Constance could have sworn there was even a tail wiggle as his backside swished back and forth. Whoever the man was, he was very much enjoying the part he set out to play for the children.
“We can do this together,” Peter exclaimed.
Before the children could slay the archdemon, however, Constance called out to her son, “Peter. I brought the gifts you wished to give your friends.” The presents, while picked out carefully by Constance, were never from her, always from Peter.
The times that Peter argued with his mother were few and far between. Well-behaved, as a child should be, he came at his mother’s call.