“You’ll have to get past your cousin Talwyn first and she’ll skin you alive before she gives you anything,” he said in singsong to his daughter.
“—you will all bow down before me in fear and—oooh,” she suddenly said. “Shiny.” She reached down to pick up something off the table but was quickly tackled from behind by smaller versions of herself. She hit the table hard while those five versions pummeled her. Even the smallest and youngest, barely a toddler, got in several good punches to the child’s head before they all jumped up and yelled, “Destruction-ho!” Then they scrambled off the table, charged past Gwenvael—who, Elina guessed, was also a dragon—and out the door. The toddler was the slowest, so she stopped to hug the large dragon’s human leg.
“Love you, Daddy!”
He stroked the toddler’s golden head. “Of course you do. Because you are wise.”
Laughing, she fled out the door and by now a boy and a tall, well-built, attractive young man, with round pieces of wire-held glass perched low on his nose, was helping the battered child off the table.
“Go upstairs and clean yourself, Arlais,” the boy ordered.
“I already told you I don’t take orders from you, mummy’s boy,” she snapped.
The boy didn’t respond. He simply stared at her with cold grey eyes until the girl threw up her hands. “Fine!”
She stormed off, and Gwenvael, now standing near Elina, murmured with pride, “The boy has eyes just like his mum.”
“And her intelligence, thankfully,” Bram muttered.
“Not everyone can be as smart as me, dear Uncle Bram.” Gwenvael’s smile never seemed to fade. It, like the male’s handsomeness, seemed to go on and on. Endlessly. Elina didn’t know if she found that annoying or enrapturing. “Although I don’t know how my daughter can think she’ll take over any kingdom when she can’t seem to focus on one thing at a—oooh.” He reached down and picked something up off the ground. “Look! A gold coin.” He blinked. Glanced off. “What was I talking about?”
“Focus,” Bram said.
“Ahhh, yes. Focus.” He was silent for another moment. “What about focus?”
The boy who’d helped the girl up now moved toward them, but when he was close, Gwenvael suddenly opened his arms wide.
“Son—”
The boy immediately stopped and held both hands up as if to ward the dragon off, his head slightly turned away. “No,” he said flatly.
“But—”
“No. We discussed this. You promised my mother.”
“But I’m your father—”
“Not by my choice.”
“—and I love you.”
“Not as much as you love yourself.”
“Can you blame me?” Gwenvael demanded. “I am perfection.”
The boy focused on Elina’s table mate. “Uncle Bram . . . ?”
“I’ll talk to your mother, Var. But you know I can’t promise anything.”
“Talk to your mother about what?” Gwenvael asked, finally lowering his arms. He began to slip the coin into a pouch tied to his sword belt, but stopped and focused on Elina. “I’m sorry. Do you need this because of your impoverished state?”
“Gwenvael,” Bram chastised
“Father,” the boy chastised.
“What?” the golden-haired one asked Bram and the boy. “It was a fair question. She’s one of the poor barbarian hordes of the Steppes. This meal is probably the first she’s had in years.”
“Elina,” Bram said, “I am so sorry.”
Elina shrugged. “He is decadent, imperialist Southlander dog. He could not survive in our beautiful but harsh lands. But such pretty face as his would be made use of by many of our warriors.”
“Wait,” Gwenvael asked, still grinning at her. “What did she mean by that?”
“Guess,” the boy told him before training those shrewd slate-grey eyes on her. After a moment, he said in her native tongue, “May death find you well this day, beautiful lady.”
Shocked to hear a lazy Southlander speak in any language but his own, Elina grinned and replied, “And may death find you very well, young lord.”
“I had heard one of the mighty Daughters of the Steppes was in our lands, but I had no idea it would be one so beautiful.”
“As smooth as worn stone you are. Did you learn that from your father?”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Where did you learn my tongue?”
“I study many languages. Yours is harder than most and I am still . . .” He struggled for a moment. “. . . learn cow.”
Elina smirked. “Learning. You are still learning. Cows have little to do with it.” She shook her head. “But you are very good. I am impressed.” Which was something Elina rarely was.
“Thank you.” He gave a small bow. “I am Unnvar, son of Dagmar Reinholdt, also known as the Beast of Reinholdt—”
Elina smiled and said, “I always knew the Beast was not a man. Only a woman can strike that kind of fear.”
“—Grandson to Northland warlord The Reinholdt, and Dragon-Human Prince of the House of Gwalchmai fab Gwyar.”
“In all that barbarian banter,” the golden one said, “I did not hear my name.”
“And you won’t,” the boy flatly replied before turning back to his uncle and returning to his Southland tongue. “Talk to my mother as you promised, Uncle Bram. My patience”—he glanced at Gwenvael—“wanes.”
“—you will all bow down before me in fear and—oooh,” she suddenly said. “Shiny.” She reached down to pick up something off the table but was quickly tackled from behind by smaller versions of herself. She hit the table hard while those five versions pummeled her. Even the smallest and youngest, barely a toddler, got in several good punches to the child’s head before they all jumped up and yelled, “Destruction-ho!” Then they scrambled off the table, charged past Gwenvael—who, Elina guessed, was also a dragon—and out the door. The toddler was the slowest, so she stopped to hug the large dragon’s human leg.
“Love you, Daddy!”
He stroked the toddler’s golden head. “Of course you do. Because you are wise.”
Laughing, she fled out the door and by now a boy and a tall, well-built, attractive young man, with round pieces of wire-held glass perched low on his nose, was helping the battered child off the table.
“Go upstairs and clean yourself, Arlais,” the boy ordered.
“I already told you I don’t take orders from you, mummy’s boy,” she snapped.
The boy didn’t respond. He simply stared at her with cold grey eyes until the girl threw up her hands. “Fine!”
She stormed off, and Gwenvael, now standing near Elina, murmured with pride, “The boy has eyes just like his mum.”
“And her intelligence, thankfully,” Bram muttered.
“Not everyone can be as smart as me, dear Uncle Bram.” Gwenvael’s smile never seemed to fade. It, like the male’s handsomeness, seemed to go on and on. Endlessly. Elina didn’t know if she found that annoying or enrapturing. “Although I don’t know how my daughter can think she’ll take over any kingdom when she can’t seem to focus on one thing at a—oooh.” He reached down and picked something up off the ground. “Look! A gold coin.” He blinked. Glanced off. “What was I talking about?”
“Focus,” Bram said.
“Ahhh, yes. Focus.” He was silent for another moment. “What about focus?”
The boy who’d helped the girl up now moved toward them, but when he was close, Gwenvael suddenly opened his arms wide.
“Son—”
The boy immediately stopped and held both hands up as if to ward the dragon off, his head slightly turned away. “No,” he said flatly.
“But—”
“No. We discussed this. You promised my mother.”
“But I’m your father—”
“Not by my choice.”
“—and I love you.”
“Not as much as you love yourself.”
“Can you blame me?” Gwenvael demanded. “I am perfection.”
The boy focused on Elina’s table mate. “Uncle Bram . . . ?”
“I’ll talk to your mother, Var. But you know I can’t promise anything.”
“Talk to your mother about what?” Gwenvael asked, finally lowering his arms. He began to slip the coin into a pouch tied to his sword belt, but stopped and focused on Elina. “I’m sorry. Do you need this because of your impoverished state?”
“Gwenvael,” Bram chastised
“Father,” the boy chastised.
“What?” the golden-haired one asked Bram and the boy. “It was a fair question. She’s one of the poor barbarian hordes of the Steppes. This meal is probably the first she’s had in years.”
“Elina,” Bram said, “I am so sorry.”
Elina shrugged. “He is decadent, imperialist Southlander dog. He could not survive in our beautiful but harsh lands. But such pretty face as his would be made use of by many of our warriors.”
“Wait,” Gwenvael asked, still grinning at her. “What did she mean by that?”
“Guess,” the boy told him before training those shrewd slate-grey eyes on her. After a moment, he said in her native tongue, “May death find you well this day, beautiful lady.”
Shocked to hear a lazy Southlander speak in any language but his own, Elina grinned and replied, “And may death find you very well, young lord.”
“I had heard one of the mighty Daughters of the Steppes was in our lands, but I had no idea it would be one so beautiful.”
“As smooth as worn stone you are. Did you learn that from your father?”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Where did you learn my tongue?”
“I study many languages. Yours is harder than most and I am still . . .” He struggled for a moment. “. . . learn cow.”
Elina smirked. “Learning. You are still learning. Cows have little to do with it.” She shook her head. “But you are very good. I am impressed.” Which was something Elina rarely was.
“Thank you.” He gave a small bow. “I am Unnvar, son of Dagmar Reinholdt, also known as the Beast of Reinholdt—”
Elina smiled and said, “I always knew the Beast was not a man. Only a woman can strike that kind of fear.”
“—Grandson to Northland warlord The Reinholdt, and Dragon-Human Prince of the House of Gwalchmai fab Gwyar.”
“In all that barbarian banter,” the golden one said, “I did not hear my name.”
“And you won’t,” the boy flatly replied before turning back to his uncle and returning to his Southland tongue. “Talk to my mother as you promised, Uncle Bram. My patience”—he glanced at Gwenvael—“wanes.”
