Her tongue presses against her teeth, a consideration of the hum of alcohol in her system. Ten years living in a brothel, or near about, and she'd never indulged in such activities, but she would be lying to say she did not wander on it now. Often she would enjoy the company of the men and women there, true. Learn songs that would make her father blush for their vulgarity - such was the English way, she'd found out. Or such was the way of men and liquor and the brief interludes that made battle worth it.

"He did, but that would not be his true test of what it was to rule his many people, of many faiths." She taps her fingers against the tankard, letting the words play in her mouth before she gave them life. "To hold all his father had won, would still take blood. He still had to ride out, no matter how he might spare where others would enslave and kill. Akbar was still a child of the Mughals. "

She shakes her head, slow. "No, Akbar's challenge would be when he was to take a bride."