The Minivandian leaned back on his bench, a peaceful look in his eye as he gazed out at the lightening eastern horizon. A chill wind whipped around him, causing his beard and a curl of steam to flutter.

Behind him, he heard the portal to the great room open. Soft steps and an extended yawn announced the presence of his lady wife, Ruarin of Glendalaugh.

“And what are you doing out so early?” she grumped. Her hair, more silver than auburn now, was tousled and messy, and her eyes blinked at the sight of her husband reclining in the morning gloom.

“Enjoying some roasted chicory root and the fresh air,” he replied in a low grumble. “I’m reminiscing about mornings on campaign, enjoying a morning cuppa, before a hard day’s fighting.”

Ruarin snorted. “But, my lord, you’ve never done a hard day’s fighting.” They shared a comfortable chuckle.

Behind them, the door burst open. The youngest hound, now almost grown, shot through its opening and ran circles around Ruarin before rocketing out into the courtyard. Behind her, his dark blond hair almost as long as his mother’s, Elsked shuffled out. He wrapped his arms around himself for warmth and gave his parents a baleful glare.

“And what are you two doing out here so early?” he demanded. One bloodshot eye surveyed the tranquil scene. “Some of us treasure our rest!”

Dodzhevir rose and gave his son a courtly bow. He was careful to not spill from the earthenware mug in his hand as he did.

“Ah, my apologies, my lord,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “I give you greetings of the morning!” Ruarin stifled a giggle as she gave her son, the last scion of her father’s house, a curtsy.

“I’m trying to sleep after a hard night’s work, and I find you out here, talking loudly, and… and drinking coffee!”

“We are sitting upon our porch, marveling at the glorious sunrise the Lord has yet again granted us,” the Minivandian replied. His smile was gentle, but the glint of sharp white teeth sought to remind his son who was yet the master of the house. “I’m also contemplating with whom I should share the breakfast I already prepared.” He suppressed an urge to wink at the Lady of Eyre over that.

“The cinnamon rolls your father made before coming out here smell particularly good,” Ruarin added. Her lips quirked as she fought a giggle that threatened to erupt.

“Cinnamon rolls?” the Young Prince asked. His ice blue eyes flitted toward the house. After a moment, he acknowledged his parents with a nod and walked back into the house.

The Northman snorted, then took another sip from his mug. He sat back down on the bench. He moved to beckon his wife to join him, but she was already taking her place. She pulled his thick arm around him for warmth and snuggled in.

“Children,” Dodzhevir grunted. He brought his mug back to his lips while he leaned back into the bench to enjoy the morning. Beside him, Ruarin nodded as she yawned yet again.