Lot and Uther talk over drinks

Uther downed his glass, slammed it down on the table and smacked his lips delightedly. “Ah, that’s the good stuff. Camelotian cherry brandy, the best that you’ll ever find. Better even than your Lothian plum brandy, my friend, you have to admit.” A brassy guffaw exploded from him, with no intention to soften the insult.

Funny that, Lot thought, funny that everything on the Continent was Camelotian, except when it wasn't – when the meaning was restricted to only that region at the heart of the Continent, which had opened its jaws and consumed all surrounding it. A kingdom Uther had always called the greatest, even before it went and did good on that promise of vastness. A kingdom that will always be the best there is; those it subsumed into itself can only hope to reflect a sliver of its brilliance.

The cherry brandy was excellent, though.

It also worked wonders to sanitize Lot’s wounds, to strip – at least in part – the resentment off his heart like rust off metal. The world was fuzzier, shinier, the disappointing, ugly shapes of reality blurred, more reminiscent of a past where Lot still called himself King and his friend was not a thief.

He reached for the decanter to pour himself another round. Uther himself was much like the booze he brought – potent, too much for the senses, yet so compelling, pulling you all the way to the bottom of the glass. And like the booze, he too proved to provide a nasty headache down the line.

Uther leaned back in the armchair and curled his finger, beckoning the flames in the hearth to rise higher. The fire spit and hissed. “So,” he said, “heard you want to get hitched. Found the girl yet?”

Lot slowly swilled the brandy round his mouth and the question round his mind. He’d made his intentions no secret, and had started considering candidates from his Duchy and beyond. At two and thirty years, it was high time that he found a wife and secured an heir.

Uther himself seemed to lack both at the moment, a fact that intrigued, befuddled and concerned the whole of the Kingdom. He hadn’t remarried since Igraine died, which did not come as a surprise – Uther’s bed had as much traffic as a city’s main street – but the striking absence of any offspring raised many questions, with hardly any answers given.

“Are you never considering marriage again, Uther?”

He grimaced as if he’d tasted cheap, foul brandy. Though even that he’d been willing to swallow, provided it burned hard enough to scrub away the sober senses that may protest to a second round. “Never again.”

Lot swirled the colorless liquid round the tumbler, watched the tiny eddy form within. “Well, no fault in that I suppose. You’ve never lacked for company, either way.” Uther laughed knowingly, heartily, and Lot went on, “though I do believe people are worried about one thing in particular.”

Uther grinned, a dangerous flash of teeth. “What thing?”

He knew, but wanted Lot to come out and say it. “The heir.”

Uther snorted as if he’d just said something funny, shook his head, drank. “Trust me, it’s all handled, nothing to worry about.” He winked. “I’m your king, aren’t I? Don’t I always think of it all?”

Perhaps it was the absolute confidence in his smirk, or the alcohol blazing through Lot’s veins, but he felt inclined to completely believe Uther on it. All's handled and settled and the kingdom has nothing to worry about. He's done everything he's set his mind to, hasn't he? Always came through, all the way to the top.

“But it’s your future heir we should be talking about, and who you want to pop it out for you. Have you thought of anyone?”

“Not anyone in particular, no.”

He’d sifted through his options, choosing the noblewomen that may be interested in an offer; selected them based on title, wealth, influence and what else they might bring to the table, but these weren’t the only criteria that preoccupied him. He’d tried to avoid the families that had been the most dissatisfied about his reigning decisions, and who had been vocal about it too. He wanted someone pleasant and endearing, some sweet, delightful thing to brighten these gloomy chambers, to soothe the nights he questioned and regretted his choices. He’d prefer it if she were young, too, younger than his weary years. The older he grew, the more fonder he become of those doe-eyed girls, who have yet to see so much of the world, grew fonder of their elastic, pert youth. And the less of the war they’d seen themselves, the less they remembered, the better.

“Forget about them all,” Uther waved one big hand through the air, sweeping out of the way all other candidates, “I’ve got the girl for you. She's pretty. She's young. She can be a bit of a handful, I’ve heard, has a bit of a temper, but nothing you couldn't handle, eh? She’s royal blood too, and would have been crowned queen and sat her ass on a throne if it weren’t for me. And she’s a sorcerer to boot.”

Lot’s drunken mind riffled and winnowed through the royalty he knew, after all there were many asses from under which Uther had snatched a throne, including his own. He couldn’t possibly mean –

“It's Igraine’s daughter,” Uther cut the tension. “Morgana.”

"Wasn't she sent to Avalon, to be a priest?"

"Oh well, whatever." Uther shrugged. “That’s beneath her, isn’t it? Beneath someone who is my own ward. Sending her there was Igraine's wish, and I couldn’t be bothered to argue. Do you think Morgana really wants to be a priest when she was born a princess? We're doing her a favor, friend.”

“How old is she, anyway?”

“Sixteen, fifteen, something like that. Looks just like her mother. She's noble,” Uther went on, “but she did grow up among that bunch of Avalonians." He spat the word as if it were an insult. "They live like lord-less peasants, those ones. You'll likely have to educate her on how to be a Duchess and all that, but there's time for everything. But think, Lot – ” he reached over the low table between them to grip his arm with bruising enthusiasm “–you'd get some magic in your bloodline. That alone should make you say yes."

That was indeed worthy of consideration. The Solomons, the most influential sorcerers in Lothia, had stirred clear of marriage and offspring with monarchy, even when entanglements did happen.

“So?”

“Isn’t she...upset, though?” Lot carefully asked. “About the war, the siege, all that happened to her family?”

“Ah,” a wide grin, all teeth, split Uther’s face, “I reckon she’s upset with me, but what’s she got to do with you?”

Lot shrugged. The world was warm and hazy around him.

He'd be doing Morgana a favor, he’d be landing a helping hand. He’d be honoring Igraine herself. Morgana must be wishing to return to court, have some honor, dignity and nobility restored upon her, which Uther had stripped her of. The king of Camelot had taken something from them both.

"Besides, she may be no blood of mine, but ink-on-paper she's still my daughter. So," Uther wiggled his bushy eyebrows, "I'd happily welcome you into the royal family, Lot. You could even start calling me father."

Lot promptly, tersely said, "No."

The other man threw back his head and laughed. "What an unruly son I have."

"Fuck off, Uther." Yet the corners of his mouth tugged up. It did sound like a good match, a good deal.

"What say you, friend?" Uther filled both their tumblers and raised his up, the flames in the hearth glinting off the glass, brandy rendered liquid fire. "Give the word, and I'll fetch her right away."

Lot clinked his glass to Uther’s and smiled. "Perhaps I should start wedding planning then," he said jokingly – only half jokingly. The idea had taken roots and bloomed past the drunken haze and past the morning headache.