Snippet #1469368

Henry felt the calm, sudden urge to slap his eldest son, but restrained it. These days, it seemed, the boy was incapable of doing anything beyond pouting about his good fortune. It was disgusting; a prince, an heir to the throne, behaving like a spoiled child when his seventeen years should have made him a man. The old, familiar worry rose up in the back of his mind: let the Gods watch over House Damian and see to it that its heir did not blunder his way through kinghood. Still, there were years before that time would come. Henry was only thirty-seven and, unlike his own father, had not waited until he was old to beget his heirs. Perhaps marriage and children would temper Lionel. And yet he could not help but feel a sense of pride in his son's quick, sharp tongue. If he learned to reign in his bursts of anger, it would be as fine a weapon as his sword.

Still a boy, in so many ways, he thought.

Adelaide was another picture. She bowed her head in respectful modesty to the compliments given her and there was the twitch of an approving smile on his face, if only for a moment. How disappointed he'd been at her birth, when he'd hoped for his second son. Of course, Raban had happened along soon enough afterwards, and Adelaide had won him over with ease as she grew. Daughters gave you less trouble, didn't they? They didn't try to war with brothers and cousins for the crown. And they didn't make you sick with worry, wondering if they would fall in battle or shame their House in defeat.

"They will be here soon enough," Henry said and cast a glance towards Lionel. "Let us hope that Lionel has decided to stop playing the pouting, slouching child when they do."