Sat on the floor with legs crossed was the Viceroy. A canvas lay on the ground, covered in tiny hand prints and wild swipes of paint.
But that wasn't the only thing covered in paint. So, too, were his robes, face, and his hair.
His laughter was light and musical.
He's grinning, staring at Samath, who is currently passed out with their child on his chest.
He can't help the soft chuckle in spite of clamping a hand over his mouth to quiet it.
He thought raising a child would heal old wounds. And to a degree, it has.
But it also has shown him what he missed out on and how differently things could have been.