Head to the feasthall.

"T-That was remarkable." you admit, several minutes later, one of the Beathans cuddling up against you on either side.

"Definitely a novel experience, huh Edward?" Donald chuckles.

"The two o' you were incredible." Jana concedes. "Jus' watching yous goin' at it was... and you." she leans over you, looking at her husband. "Your hatred's gettin' so convincin' I'm to thinkin' it's not entirely an act."

"What can I say, love?" Donald smirks. "I jus' take the frustrations I actually feel and... exaggerate 'em."

"Ach, do you shite!" Jana laughs, swatting at her king, your shared lover's torso.

"If only Daena was here." you slur. "We could have made the teams equal."

"The elf's far from here." Donald admits ruefully. "Holed up in Clovra."

"Guarding our Harris." Jana finishes. It made a certain amount of sense, you supposed. It would be foolish of the couple to bring Donald's heir into battle with them, and it wasn't like he could stay at his usual place, the Spring. Jana's warriors having vacated the structure. No, the Beathan capital was likely the safest place for him.

"She may not be Beathan, but she's sworn to me." Donald reminds you. "No one I'd trust more wi' me son's safety."

-

The three of you lie together a bit longer, cooling off and cleaning up, before departing together for the feast.

"Ach, you're in for a treat tonight, Edward." Donald remarks, strolling towards the castle's feast hall with you. "Woman who's organised the celebrations tonight is famous throughout all of Beatha for her kindness and good cheer."

"There she is now!" Jana remarks, pointing out a surprisingly familiar figure amidst the burgeoning bustle of the feast.

Bezoriana, or her human glamour, approaches, curtseying to you and Donald in turn.

“Edward this is Moira, known throughout Beatha as the Merry Widow.” Donald introduces her, naturally unaware of your intimate familiarity.

“Moira” is a plump, somewhat matronly woman, with dark hair, a freckled complexion and a kind demeanour to her. Of course, you can practically see her true form beneath. She's swollen with child. Your incestuous offspring, you remind yourself.

“It's truly an honour to make your acquaintance, sire.” Bezoriana demurs, bowing her head to you, even as she emphasizes the last word of her greeting.

“Your presence here lightens my heart, Lady Moira.” Donald tells her, his queen nodding in agreement.

“Only a pity it's taken a war tae bring so many together.” Bezoriana states, with mock sorrow. In truth, conflict and **** suited her well, allowed her to more easily ply her trade, as it did all your grandfather's descendants. “We've quite a feast planned though. I daresay it'll be an event grand enough to dispel all foul memories of today. And thoughts of Deanian armies yet to come.”

“We can only hope so, Good Widow.” Donald tells her. The four of you talk a little more, before Donald and Jana are pulled away, by the constant need for judgements and assessments of strategies to come.

You are left alone with your aunt. Finding a quiet corner of the feast hall, you continue your conversation, with a little more openness.

“Surprised tae see me, nephew?” Bezoriana winks.

“A-A little.” you admit.

“As I told you in Sinnabarrow, I'm practically famous around here.”

“The Merry Widow. A rather cute fiction.” you observe.

“There's a bed for me in every corner of Beatha. And usually some human fool enough to climb into it with me.” Bezoriana giggles.

“Donald included, I take it?” you ask.

“Y' getting' protective, Edward?” Bezoriana sniggers. “I saw the way he looked at you.”

“It's nothing like that.” you evade. “It's simply... I thought the seed of a king might be of value to you. To Grandfather's cause.”

“Whatever gave you that idea, nephew?” Bezoriana says, an eyebrow raised, a soft hand cradling her belly.

“Ah, but you're right, a' course.” The Bee admits. “I'd like nothing more than to bear the new king's spawn. The fates, alas, have transpired against me. First time we met, I was with child, the second, some years ago, I had him right where I wanted him, but he was called away to war.”

“With Dean?”

“Aye, with Dean. And here we are, meeting for a third time, yet I'm too busy carrying your daughter to conceive his child.”

“H-hang on, my daughter?” you ask, taken aback.

“I've borne a hundred children in my time, love. Or more. You get to know the difference.” Bezoriana says casually.

A surge of conflicting emotions goes through you. Somehow, knowing it's a girl your aunt will bear you makes it more tangible, more real. At the same time, some small part of you is relieved your firstborn son still has a chance of being more human, of being someone you can actually publicly acknowledge. Of course, Bezoriana was not your only aunt...

“Find me after the feast, should you fancy. These Beathans are alright, but truly, none can fuck as well as those with the Blood in them.” Bezoriana propositions you, before returning to her preparations.

The thought is not unappealing. Some art of you has always wanted to know what bedding a pregnant woman is like...