Blackfeather Woods hang your head upon my throne

He swells with rage, and though he looks frigthening — tall and muscular as his father, and perhaps just as frightening as he was, Potema merely glared. He could huff and puff all he wanted, but he was still just her son. She had seen him small and young, weak and pathetic, she had feed him and cleaned him. She refused to be cowed by her own offspring. She stared him down until one question broke her stoicism. Memories of the incident, half in her own memories and half from stories flooded in — all hurt her. She flinched but stayed quiet, watching her son disappear with promises of vengence and retribution floating on the wind. 

And just like that, another son was pulled away from her on ideology's sake.