Snippet #1473760

Raban was still drinking in the sight of the sword, bow and armour, the conversations taking place around him nothing more than a distant buzzing in his ears. Hearing a sudden cry of surprise and murmurs of alarm, he turned his head to see his mother slumping sideways in her throne. For one awful moment he thought she had been felled by some arrow or poison, perhaps an act of vengeance launched by the Winslers, and he glanced around wildly, looking for the source of the attack. Soon he realised that she had merely fainted, and he resisted the instinct to rush to her side in concern. His mother had her servants nearby to attend to her, and she would want him to maintain his composure.

Lionel was already taking action, hurrying the noble guests out of the room and on to the great hall. In these troubled times, they could ill afford to show any sign of weakness to their enemies. There was no telling what the Winslers and the Greyhardts made of the Queen's swoon, but it would certainly do the Damians no favours for the other Houses to believe the Queen in poor health. Raban wondered why his mother had fainted. It was most unlike her; she was usually calm and collected no matter the situation.

When most of the court had filed out of the room, Lionel advanced to the Winslers' gifts and examined them. He called Raban over, drew the longsword from within and began to twirl it. Raban had to jerk his head back a few times, fearing that Lionel meant to strike him, but Lionel inverted the sword and passed it hilt-first to Raban, offering it to him. Raban could hardly believe his eyes. Why would Lionel do such a thing? Was the sword cursed or poisoned? It was true, perhaps, that Lionel had a Valyrian steel blade of his own and didn't truly need one, but that had never stopped him from denying anything to Raban before.

Slowly, Raban reached out with trembling fingers. He was sure that Lionel would snatch the sword away at the last minute, but miraculously he did not, and Raban's fingers closed on the finely-worked hilt. He grasped and lifted the sword, feeling its balance, moving it through a slow arc. It was heavier and longer than it should be for him, but it was so beautiful he didn't mind. Raban felt his face stretching itself into a broad grin. He turned back to Lionel and thanked him sincerely. Could it be that Lionel truly meant what he said about regretting his cruel behaviour and wanting to make up for it? This was the brother Raban dimly remembered from the past, whose courage and valour were matched by kindness and affection.