To many noble ladies, being betrothed to Daeron the Drunken was an embarrassment. They all whispered behind their fans about your husband and his habits. He was a coward, a drunkard, a disappointment to Summerhall.

But you couldn't care less.

You saw how their husband's behaved at the feasts. The other men danced with other women and ignored their wives all night. And if any of the ladies dared speak up they were sharply reprimanded. They could gossip about Daeron all they wanted but he would never speak to his lady wife that way.

You couldn't help but smile as they seethed with jealousy from their seats when Daeron stuck by your side all night. He wasn't nearly as drunk as usual, attempting to remain somewhat sober while you were in public together. You held your fork out and he ate from it giddily.

His pale eyes were fixed on you, like a puppy. You smiled in return, nodding at his own plate, "May I?"

Some of the noble women tensed in their seats. They would never dare ask their husbands to eat from their plate. Not unless they wanted a firm smack in front of the whole court.

But Daeron nodded, his golden hair falling in his face. He held out his own fork to you eagerly. "Go on, wife."