Sorza's hand twitched. Had his mother's palm not already found his brother's cheek, his own fist might have done the work. He was already drowning in the wreckage of his own failures; he did not need the child of their house chirping like a frightened bird over his shoulder.
"Is this the son that came from my loin?" their mother hissed, her hand retreating to the side of her head as if to steady a mounting headache. "What would your father say if he saw you now? A royal of the South reduced to a quivering mess of nerves without even a sword in sight!"
Edmure had always been a fearful boy with restless, fluttering hands. His long hair, which he allowed to drape limply over his face, made him look less like a man of royal blood and more like a willow branch swaying in a weak breeze. His natural disposition toward terror had only been sharpened by their father's death, though that was a poor excuse in the eyes of the woman who had carried him.
