Summary: Strange how different to conversations can be.
Ratings: G
a/n: continuing my little regency au, also posted on Ao3
The news comes one morning, amidst an argument.
Several days have passed since the dance and Ashford Meadow, and predictably (unfortunately), all has returned to normal. Your days have been spent fulfilling social calls, tutoring your sisters and the local children, taking turns about the banks along the river with Lyanna.
She still has not forgiven you for switching yourself with her during a dance with your brother.
You argued that, since you have been nothing but caring and supportive in her quiet attraction to your brother, that you should be allowed to help where possible since you’ve promised not to complain or jest about her feelings. That, to Lyanna’s irritation, was decidedly reasonable. Then the moment quickly passed, thanks to her shifting mood that left nothing to linger on. It was a trait you wish you shared.
And one that you currently wish your family would share too.
Despite the return to normalcy, there is still talk of your brief encounter with the prince. Talk that your mother has had to navigate carefully. It would not do to boast to early of a potential situation, but it is also unlikely that anything would come of a small exchange during an otherwise eventual evening.
You and a prince? A foolish fantasy. A fantasy you did not envision late into the night as sleep eluded you.
What cannot elude you is the brewing stress on your mother’s face. She hides it well, at first. A downwards tick of her lip, a breath that is a little too forced, flattening her already neat skirts.
“Is something the matter, mother?” You try for nonchalance, not looking up from your book, hoping that whatever irks her isn’t troublesome enough for further comment.
As if you could be so lucky.
“Yes, actually, there is something the matter.” Both you and your brother, who has been reclining with his own book on the chaise in the corner, snap to attention. There is an ache in your shoulders from where you had been slouched over, now forced back and upright.
“What is it?” Rickard asks in a way that is supposed to feel gallant, but you see the act for what it is: appear as the helpful one and lessen the attack. You were only a second too late.
“The matter is that both of my eldest are already well ingrained in society and are yet to find matches.”
Ah.
This matter.
“The girls are now entering their first Season, for the love of mercy. Should they find matches before either of you...”
“Then surely it would be a cause of celebration. They are wonderful girls.”
“Rickard... you miss the point.” Your mother is on her feet now, flattening her skirts no longer a balm for her nerves. She paces on front of the fireplace that stands empty. Any heat comes from your mother’s tone. “How do you think it will look if my eldest children remain unmarried for another season? How would it reflect on those same girls you compliment so much?”
“Mother,” you begin with too much bite. This is a song sung over and over, and one that slowly brings your blood to a boil. “It is no simple matter-”
“Of course it is! It is yourselves that make this so difficult.” She turns from you to temper the bitterness in her voice. It does not work, and her next words come out cold and quiet. “Your father and I have been far too lenient with you. We have let you regin freely for too long.”
Something tired and mean stirs in the back of your mind. “You said we could choose our prospects as we liked, as long as you and father approved our reasons.”
“And you remain unmarried.”
It is a cold blow. But it is the truth, and is that not the worst part?
From the shift in her expression, a decision has been made. Both you and Rickard brace for its impact.
“I shall be the one to pick your suitors, who you will meet with, and if you do not choose one this season, your father and I shall make the decision.”
It feels like there is a lump of lead sinking in your gut at the same time your heart begins to crawl up your throat. Rickard is no better, clutching at the arm of the chaise with whitening knuckles.
“Mother,” he starts, failing at sounding reasonable.
Your mother holds up a hand. “No. I am not here to negotiate. As your parents, it is our duty to secure you suitable matches. We were lenient with you, as we could afford to be. Which, need I remind you; many people do not get that privilege. But this has gone on long enough.”
For a moment, you are left in silence. The drawing room has never felt so suffocating, but there is no leaving, not when your future is so precarious. Part of you, the loudest, angriest part, stands indignant. It is not bad enough that you are wholly dependant on your father, unable to secure employment for yourself. But now the one chance you had at deciding your future by deciding which man you would bind yourself, your care and your future to, has been stripped from you. A smaller part of you, one that is intrinsic to your being the ever-loyal child, folds. It folds in the face of duty and societal expectations; it folds to the fact that your mother was once where you are now.
Despite this, despite knowing that the woman who has now taken your choice from you has had this done to her years ago, the bile in your bones does not fold.
For her credit, Lady Eldreeve does not flinch when you stand fast enough to send your book across the floor. “Mother, I will not be paraded about like some prized mount!”
Her hands find purchase on her own hips as your mother snaps back at you. “Then how else are you to secure a husband?”
“I’ll meet one at a dance.”
Your mother scoffs most impatiently. “And how many fine young men have you turned away or left to the wayside in favour of your friends? Or of that Baratheon boy?”
It is your turn to scoff. “Then I shall marry Mr Lyonel, he’ll be agreeable.”
“You most certainly will not.”
“Rickard, do not start when you yourself have no match to speak of.” Your brother has the good grace to shrink in the face of your mother’s ire. Before she can turn her anger back to you, the door swings open and Millesal and Vera burst in.
They’re giggling and clutching at each other as if to steady themselves. It would be endearing if you weren’t so worked up at the moment.
“Oh, good!” Vera begins.
“You’re here. We have news.”
“Girls…” Her voice is softer, tired and restrained, but the tone has shifted. The room no longer feels like it is suffocating you. “Now is not-”
“Oh please, please, it’s important!” Vera says and Millesal adds, “And it won’t take long, we promise.”
Your mother folds at their excitement, and you take the opportunity to turn from them all. You make for the window, hoping the cool morning breeze would calm your nerves. The sunlight outside is gentle, dappled across the garden between your mother’s flowerbeds. A few of the staff are already tending to their chores, a few with carts and livestock passing the main gate in the distance.
The proves distracting enough that Vera and Millesal’s squeals startle you.
“Can you believe it?” Millesal exclaims as Vera cheers, “The entire season! Both, twice the chances!”
“What?” The word tumbles from you without thought. It is not uncommon to lose oneself in the conversation once the two girls get going.
Your mother, bless her patience, steps in to explain. “According to the mail carrier, Summerhall has been opened.”
“They’ve already placed enough orders to keep the baker busy for the month.” Vera squeals.
“Who?”
“Who else?” Millesal huffs, impatient as ever.
“By Prince Baelor and Prince Maekar.” Your mother announces, giving her youngest a sharp look. The chitter from your sisters is gone in a breath.
The thing about hope, is that it does not take much. A flicker is enough to ignite it, to set things ablaze. You remember the heat of the hall, the warmth of the hand that brushed your gloved one. There was a feather, a dance, and a mismatched pair of eyes that studied you as if you were worth the interest. And with this talk of marriage?
The thought is stamped out as quickly as it begins. You are no child, and you are no fool. What you are is a Lady of a small but honourable house, not quite noble but not obsolete. Certainly not a match for royalty.
Your mother is kind enough to ignore the emotions warring on your face.
“It shall prove to make this season livelier,” she says, aiming for light and almost succeeding. “But we have other matters to focus on.”
“Surely it can wait for the next Season, it would do us a great deal more to win favour from such a family.” Rickard interjects. He almost sounds like your father.
“No.” Too bad for Rickard that your mother has spent decades with the actual man her son tries to emulate. “This is Vera and Millesal’s first Season out, and I won’t let it end with their elder siblings unwed.”
“Do you not think it would be in their best interest to focus on the girls first?” You ask. There is a soft spot for your sisters that the rest of your family cannot help but give in to. It is the weak spot that usually leans to your favour.
It does not work this time.
Your mother’s lips thin as she holds her hands in front of her like a lady in waiting. You ignore the way one hand clenches over the other.
“We have made our decision.”
“By taking away ours?”
“It has been four Seasons, and you remain in this house. You are incapable-”
“I am capable. But I do not see why you have decided to take my choice away!”
“My girl, what part of four Seasons do you not understand?”
“I do! I do understand but-” There is heat in your eyes and the telltale sting of tears at the corners. Even with your anger, you know that this is too much. With as much poise as you can manage, you stand straighter and present yourself as calmly as possible. “Forgive me, mother, but I am not myself right now. Might I be excused, I am not in the best of humours to listen.”
She nods. She nods because she understands. Because she recognizes her own words and tone that has stopped many arguments from escalating within her own marriage. It is a testament to her kindness and care that she backs down as quickly as you do.
“Fine. Away with you, child. We shall try again tomorrow.”
There is no point in staying.
You have made for the door before Rickard can open his mouth with his opinion. Vera and Millesal have the good grace not to try. None of the staff linger or call as you rush past them, heading straight for the backdoor.
Mercifully, no one is in the back garden at present, so no one stops you as you continue to stride away from the house and off towards the woods that stand a few kilometres from the stonewall fenceline.
The gravel path from the house turns to a worn track in the grass where you and your siblings would normally trek along. The open field is easy enough to cross, and the breeze isn’t cold enough to warrant a coat. Mud and grass stains will be an issue for later.
Among the beech and oak trees, with a few hawthorn and hazel, it is easier to let loose your temper. It is easier to breathe, and the birds don’t seem to mind the way you stomp over the dried dirt and fallen branches. You follow a well-worn path to a small stream, no more than two metres across, and follow the gentle flow downwards.
The water twists and curls around the rocks and debris beneath the surface. There is a gentle babble and the sound of birdsong above the quiet breeze. For now, in this quiet forest as the sun continues to rise, it is just you and the stream and the trees and the ease of being alone.
It is a long while before you notice the person several metres ahead of you.
You startle at the sight.
A tall man, with a lithe build beneath his grey tailcoat. It is a fine coat to match the black and silver embroidered waistcoat beneath. His pants and boots are also dark in colour, leaving only the collar of his shirt the brightest part of the outfit. He has foregone a hat, opting to let his dark hair flutter in the breeze. You are close enough to watch recognition glide over the unease of his face, the suspicion in his mismatched eyes melting into mirth.
Prince Baelor smiles at the sight of you.
“My Lady, a wonder to find another soul out here.”
“Your Highness!” There is no hiding the alarm in your voice. You curtsey quickly, ignoring the heat of embarrassment as it spreads across your face. “Forgive me, I did not see you. I thought it was only me.”
He strides closer with an ease of a man at leisure. No airs or graces about him as he removes his gloves to take your hand in his. Prince Baelor bows like he is at court, not in some rural forest next to a young Lady of little standing. His eyes are still warm when he looks at you.
“I thought the same. But it is a stroke of luck to find such fine company here, of all places.”
You can still feel the roughened texture of his hand as he lets you go. The lingering warmth of his skin is matched only by the growing heat in your face. He smells of ink and cedar, and you realize only after the scent has been swept away in the breeze that you are…quite close. Close enough that you can see a streak of purple in his blue eye, the small ink stain on his jaw, the few grey hairs at his temples shining in the sunlight.
“I believe I did not properly introduce myself,” he says warmly.
“I know who you are.” The sound your hand makes as it slaps across your mouth is loud enough to drown out your gasp. You begin to apologize but the prince is already laughing.
“Peace, my Lady, there is no need for apologies. I understand that I am not an obscure man, but manners matter regardless of who is involved. I am Prince Baelor Targaryen, son of King Daeron, heir to the throne and Hand of the King.”
He says it like he is listing his lessons. Simple, manageable things that one can hold. The idea that one man can still stand beneath the weight of such titles leaves you baffled. It takes you a moment to remember that it is only proper to introduce yourself. And you do, cringing slightly at how brief and easy your introduction is.
That is until he repeats your name. It’s slow and measured and cradled like he’s enjoying saying it. The heat from your face sinks lower at the timbre of his voice. You pray that whatever look has crossed your face has not given you away. That would be the end of you, surely.
“And what has you out here in the woods, my Lady?” He turns and begins to walk along the stream; his shoulders still tilted towards you. Following him comes instinctively.
“I was in need of some air.”
“Oh?”
“I-” Was angry, flustered, indignant over losing the one choice you thought you had. “There was a disagreement, and I thought it best to remove myself for the time being.”
Prince Baelor nods along, brows creased and his mouth turned down. “If it helps you, I am willing to listen. However, I will not force you to face such ill feelings again if you do not wish.”
“That is kind of you, your Highness. But I will have to take you up on the latter, I am not yet ready to face those thoughts.”
“Of course, my Lady.”
It should worry you, you think, to be alone in the woods with a man. A prince, but still a man. If anyone were to stumble upon you, unchaperoned and very much alone, you could swiftly wave any freedom your parents allowed you goodbye.
But as quickly as the thought comes, it is overtaken with the belief that it is ridiculous to be wary of such a man. Stories from the capital city paint this man as noble and polite, well-mannered and respectful to all he meets. And there is in the way that he glances at you that is inviting and open that pushes any suspicion or worry from your mind.
“Then perhaps,” he begins, voice gentle and polite. “Would you be open to speaking on other matters? Ones less emotionally charged, mind you.”
You look up at him, at the way he tilts his head in question, at the creases around his eyes and mouth that can only be attributed to some level of pleasure. The creases deepen as he smiles at your agreement.
He asks you endless questions, coaxing answers and clarifications from you with such ease time slips away from you. You don’t notice the bends in the stream or the angle of the sun. Step after step. Question, answer, question, laughter, until you realize that you have come to the edge of the forest. Then you both turn and head back, never once faltering in the rhythm that has been set.
There is talk of family, about your sisters and how everyone seems to soften around them. How, unspoken, the rest of the family has decided to bend over backwards to keep their naivety and joy unharmed. How your brother is the opposite and that, much to your chagrin, you and he are too similar to ever be close.
Prince Baelor speaks of his own family. No so much his father, but certainly of his mother. The fondness and calm that overcomes him when mentioning the Queen tells you that, like his looks, his affections favour her.
His brothers are another tale. He talks little of Aerys or Rhaegel, that they are mild in manner and that he cares for them. Prince Maekar is a different story.
“It is strange,” he says at one point, hands behind his back and a little lost in thought. “I never thought I would be so close to the youngest of my brothers. He and I are not entirely dissimilar, but the differences would normally keep others apart. And yet, I enjoy his company a great deal.” He looks to you across the stream, something calculative before it softens. “Not unlike you and Lord Rickard, I think.”
A laugh escapes you, breathless and surprised. “You speak as if you know him.”
“I did meet him at the gathering the other night. He was very much a balance of both parents. He asked for your feather.”
“He did not.”
The look on your face earns you a low chuckle. “Very much so. He said he would take it and return it you.”
“I can’t believe he did that. He hasn’t even returned it yet.”
“That is because I did not give it to him.”
That stops you. Prince Baelor continues for a few more steps before turning to face you. With his shoulders relaxed and his hands held behind his back, the prince looks the picture of a man at leisure. There is no confusion or questioning look on his face. He is simply waiting for you.
“You did not give it to him?”
“I did not.”
“Why?”
“I was charged with its care, and I would hate to disappoint the Lady who chose me.”
He carries on, leaving you for a moment with your thoughts. Thoughts that are too quick and flittering to handle. The racing of your pulse is no help either. He keeps his pace slow until you can reign yourself in and follow. By some kind mercy (his mercy, you realize later), the conversation veers towards easier topics: hobbies, history, the upcoming events of the Season. You ask if he and his brother are truly staying for the Season, and Prince Baelor laughs at how quick news can spread in such a small community. You note that he and his brother are not obscure enough to be excluded from the gossip mill.
By the time he has walked you back to the pathway to your home, the conversation has left you pleasantly spent, but with a quiet wanting that refuses to ease. He bids you farewell and good luck with whatever it is you must face at home.
In truth, you had forgotten why you were upset, and still, you cannot bring yourself to feel unease with the prince present. Even after you turn from him, after you have wandered all the way back to the fenceline, it is difficult to care weather or not your mother is still upset, or that your future is no longer yours to control.
All you can think of is the warm voice that puppeteered answers and conversations from you, and eyes that seemed to commandeer your entire focus.
The wanting, quiet and unbidden, does not cease. And you cannot find it within yourself to care.
The fire goes unnoticed until it has consumed everything. But you do remember the spark that began it all started with the briefest dance.
Warnings: none
Rated: G
First time posting a fic on this site, so excuse any issues with the layout. Prince Baelor has me in a chokehold and this is the result.
Regency inspired, heavy on the Pride and Prejudice themes, couldn't shake the idea of courting Baelor so I had to write it myself.
Only the original characters are mine, not those from the story or show.
Let me know what you think and enjoy!
~
The fire goes unnoticed until it has consumed everything. But you do remember the spark that began it all started with the briefest dance.
Thus far, the evening has been akin to every other dance you have attended. The candlelight has staved off the chill Spring breeze while keeping the room bright and cheerful to match the mood. The jovial music can be heard between the swells of conversation and the frequent pitch of laughter.
The halls of Ashford Meadow are beautiful. Dark wood and curved beams bring the rooms inward, offering a more inviting and intimate space. The Lord Ashford himself is a creature of comfort, and there are many benches and couches draped in blankets and cushions for people to gather and relax.
What usually functions as a grand dinning room has been cleared for the use of a dance hall. One to celebrate the coming year of harvest, and a new Season for the next eligible singles to step out into society. Tonight, however, is for everyone before the stress of presentations begin anew.
While your family stand to the sides, clustered together with friends and those with potential, you are on your third dance of the evening. Some young lawman struck up the nerve once your best friend’s brother had finally let you go from the first two. The young gentleman is not as lively as Lyonel Baratheon, but few could match the energy of a storm.
He stands to the side now, leaning close to your brother in similar suits of dark grey, him with a shock of yellow poking out of his breast pocket while your brother sports a pale blue handkerchief. Beside them are your two younger sisters, dressed in lilac and pearl dresses, with new gloves and shimmering beads sewn into their hair. They followed your lead, having been to many more events than them, and there is something endearing in the way they hop and hover in the crowd to catch sight of you dancing with the lawman.
He’s handsome in a way that your mother would approve of, but your father would still find lacking. Unlikely to be a candidate for your hand, you think. And then you realize that you cannot remember his name. You’re certain he introduced himself. But then again, wine and good cheer has warped your senses. A heat rises to your cheeks that has nothing to do with the coy grin he gives you as he makes a turn past you. Smoke and printing ink cling to his collar and the pale curls at his nape.
Mercifully, the dance ends early with a chorus of applause. The confusion doesn’t last long, not when the crowd begins pushing towards the sides of the room. You’re swept up in the movement and lose your dance partner in the commotion. Shoulders bump against yours, and one of the feathers your youngest sister had clipped in has wiggled loose. Before you can reach up to fix it, the Lord of the house clears his throat from the entrance.
“My friends,” Lord Ashford calls out with a smile stretched across his face. There’s something strained in his tone despite the cheer in his words. “I ask that you all join me in welcoming our esteemed guests to this humble gathering. I hope you make them feel as welcomed as you have always made my family and I feel all these years.”
Everyone gathered knows exactly who the esteemed guests are before Lord Ashford can utter another word.
Standing with his head held his and a kind but polite smile on his face, is Prince Baelor Targaryen. Mismatched eyes, a neatly trimmed beard and dark curls combed back from his face. A handsome face, you think, even the broken nose adds an odd charm to him – more human than prince. He’s dressed entirely in black, with silver accents and a shock of red at his collar – his house colours. Despite the dark colour palette, Prince Baelor still seems to shine with his warm smile and bright stare.
The same cannot be said for his brother. Prince Maekar is more aligned with the stories than his brother. Stone-faced and serious, his sharp features and pale hair lend to his inhuman looks; too handsome and other to feel real. The look of discomfort eases what should be off-putting, especially with him fidgeting under the gaze of so many.
No one says anything about how terse and lacklustre Prince Maekar’s introduction is compared to his brother’s. Everyone is too busy watching as the princes step forward, striding through the parted crowd as naturally as a river through rock.
The heat in your cheeks travels down your neck and you can feel the tips of your ears burning. This is the first time in your life that the princes have travelled this far North. And now they’re barely a few paces away and getting closer. The shuffle had pushed you to the front, and the slow realization that you’ll be within arms reach of such figures has your heart crawling to your throat.
Prince Baelor and Prince Maekar are here. They are real, corporeal, men made of flesh and blood. You can smell the mix of spice and oak that permeates their finely cut suits, a blend that you feel you are unlikely to forget. It is only by your mother’s incessant training on etiquette that your body remembers to curtsey while your mind reels.
The first step taken is a feather falling.
It falls with an unnatural weight: hapless and hopeless, and it takes an age to finally land. You feel each heartbeat it takes to wait out the fall, each trembling breath.
The next step is taken in a long moment of uncertainty.
You dare not rise from your curtsey. With your head lowered, you close your eyes in the hopes that the princes will simply pass you by. That this dance (and you do not realize what it is quite yet) is over before it can begin in earnest.
For one agonizing moment, the world seems to stop. Part of you expects (hopes, prays) that it is Maekar who is closest, if only so he could ignore the accessory and carry onwards. Whichever prince steps before you does not give you that mercy.
In that slowed moment, where all the noise seems to fade beneath the thudding of your heart, the figure halts before you. That lone, pale feather flutters at the footfall. Small and helpless; much like you are in these crawling seconds. Your head is still lowered as one of the princes reaches down. Long, slender fingers curl gently around it, taking care not to crease it.
The next step is in the form of a challenge.
Mismatched eyes meet yours when you raise your head. Opposites, but both kind and singularly focused on you.
“Yours, my lady.” Prince Baelor speaks in a way you have not heard from many other man. Soft, sure, warm like a hearth fire. He tilts the feather towards you, and smiles at your hesitation.
The next move is yours.
“Thank you, your Grace,” you manage around the dryness in your throat. The thrumming in your ears. You hold a gloved hand before you, and mismatched eyes follow the movement.
For his move, Prince Baelor lays the feather in your waiting hand and the heat from his skin prickles against your fingertips. Prince Baelor doesn’t release the feather right away.
“We can’t have such a lovely dove losing all her feathers.”
It’s a step forward you would never have dreamed of him taking. A step towards you but still giving you enough space to back away.
The next move is yours, with the prince still smiling politely at you. He seems to be enjoying the effect his comment has made on you. There’s something teasing in the tilt of his smile. It must be the wine, you think later, that makes you bold enough to smile back in the same fashion.
“It’s very kind of you, your Grace, to care about one feather. Especially as it is my only one.”
His answering grin tells you that that was the right step.
The feather is soft and almost ticklish as Prince Baelor swipes it back and forth across your hand. He watches it for a moment longer, contemplating. You see the moment he makes his mind up, and a new heat rises to your cheeks at the look in his eyes.
“Then perhaps I should hold on to this, to keep it safe. Would my Lady entrust such a task to me?”
A turn that is unexpected, but you have not faltered so far.
“I believe you capable, your Grace. I entrust its safekeeping to you.”
“You honour me, my Lady.”
When Prince Baelor bows to you, several gasps and whispers circle from behind. But they’re nothing compared to the thrill of seeing the King’s heir bowing so formally to you. Your answering curtsey is deeper this time to hide the widening smile on your heated face.
He is swept away by the time you’ve righted yourself. Just in time for a firm hand to find its way to your arm and drag you from the small crowd that gathers around you. There’s no chance to look at who has you until you’re pulled through the thick of the crowd and into the hallway which is, mercifully, much quieter.
Beside you, out of breath and scowling, is your brother Rickard. He’s older by a year and could be your twin if his face hadn’t shed the softness of youth. Now he is a young man with a haughty bravado and middling facial hair.
“What do you think you are doing?” He scolds like it is his duty, but he could never manage the ease with which your father handles authority. The Lord Eldreeve would certainly never pull you away with such a firm grip. It would only take a look. But Rickard is not Lord Eldreeve, and you are not cowed by him.
“I am being tugged along like some unruly beast by the unruliest of all.” You manage to wrest your arm from his grip.
“Not with me, fool, but with the prince.”
“He approached me.”
“You dropped your feather before him.”
“It fell of its own accord.”
“Oh, I’m sure it did.”
“I have no idea what you’re implying, idiot, but-”
A squeal of your name interrupts. Both you and your brother turn to see your sisters Vera and Millesal bustling towards you. Their joy is infectious, and even Rickard’s anger is banked for the moment.
They speak so quickly and over one another that you can only make out small pieces:
“Did you really speak – did Prince Baleor say? That feather – oh the feather – what a smart trick – I had pinned it right – thing you didn’t. Did he ask – will you dance with him? Are you – think mother would die if – father would have to let you – please tell us if you’re courting – imagine our sister courting – he certainly would – way he was looking at - you have to accept-”
“Girls, enough, enough,” Rickard interjects, his temper suddenly softer, almost playful. “You speak in circles and I am turned about enough as it is. No one is courting anyone. The prince was just kind enough to help our dear sister.”
“I was sure I clipped the feather in properly!” Vera cries before Millesal exclaims, “He kept the feather though! Surely that means he intends to talk again.”
There’s a cloud of irritation crossing your brother’s face at the possibility, so you interject before the girls notice. “And it would be an honour if he does. However, I’m sure he’ll be busy talking to many of the lords here, not I.”
“Yes,” Rickard joins. “Very busy. And the princes will most likely leave before the Season begins proper.”
For their sake, you hope so. You cannot imagine how many ladies and their mothers’ would be calling upon such fine suitors, your mother included. If they did stay for the season, there would be a great many more gatherings and dances, possibly even a tourney if the town could be rallied fast enough. But since they aren’t staying, you push the notion of such things firmly from your mind.
Instead of lingering on such fancies, you spend the rest of the evening swapping between conversation and dancing. At one point, you manage to drag your brother for a dance, only to switch with Lyanna Baratheon at the last second, which has your best friend bright red.
Prince Baelor and Prince Maekar stay at the top of the hall by the fireplace, conversing with Lord Ashford and several other Lords who pass by long enough to talk at respectable length. Even your father, a large man built like a labourer who carries himself like a gentleman, stands before the princes for a while. Your mother is at his side the entire time, smiling and prodding your father before he can say something terse and cold.
You try to focus on the evening, the laughter that comes easily when talking with Lyanna, or the steps of each dance that has you spinning across the floor. Taking care of your sisters also proves less effective as a distraction from what has your heart fluttering and ears burning.
Every time you look toward the princes, Prince Baelor is already staring at you. He looks at you with a strange mixture of amusement, warmth, curiosity and something that you can’t tell is some form of anger or not. But each time he catches you catching him, all he does is give you a polite smile and a small nod before he rejoins the conversation around him.
It’s maddening.
As the night wears on, nothing more comes of it. Prince Baelor remains at the front of the room while you flit about amongst the crowd. There is no clear next step, only a pattern that repeats over and again. Never closing the gap but always pulled back enough to remember it’s there.
Later, on the journey home with your sisters asleep either side of you in the carriage, do you remember. Prince Baelor has your feather. Surely he had rid himself of it by now. A simple hair piece that could go to any young lady.
But then you recall Millesal’s words from earlier, and that little spark of hope sits warmly in your chest.
It is foolish, you think, spurred on by wine and the thrill of an enjoyable night. Come morning, all will be back to the norm, and such a thought will be gone from your mind. It is just a feather.
You rest your head upon Vera’s where it lays against your shoulder. The ride is smooth enough that the rocking back and forth has you at ease before you realize. A thought drifts in your mind as sleep begins to take you: the warmth of a hearth fire and a pair of eyes, one dark, one bright, following you across the room.
Let me know what you think! And let me know if you'd be keen for a part 2.
It’s been years since you were part of the gang. It’s been so long since Arthur died saving as many as he could. It’s been even longer since you lost people from your family like Hosea and Lenny, Sean, Jenny and those Callander boys.
It’s been, what feels like a lifetime, since you’ve seen Charles.
AN: this is part 1 of this fic, a nice little Charles Smith goodness for you (and myself). The title is from a Hozier song btw.
If you want to find it, I have it posted on Ao3.
Enjoy :)
~
The train whistle wakes you up like a stab to the head. It’s been a long ride, from Beecher’s Hope to Saint Denis. But you’d told John and Uncle that it was best you go alone, that neither of them would want to witness this reunion.
Uncle had joked that he did, unsurprisingly. But John had understood. He always did, like a good brother should. For the past few years, you’d been helping him and Abigail out when you could, when you weren’t working, yourself. Singing in bars and small shows earned well enough, but not often enough. So, you’d also taken up teaching, local kids and sometimes as a private tutor to folks who could afford it.
But ever since Abigail had left with Jack, and you really couldn’t blame her, you’d stuck by John since there wasn’t really anyone else anymore. You’d almost slapped him stupid when he told you he’d bought Beecher’s Hope; the rundown dust-pit of land it was. But it’s what Abigail wanted, he’d said, and that had been the end of it.
But this reunion is yours. John and Uncle know that. It’s yours and it’s been yours for over eight years.
When you get off the train, you’re hit with the reminder that you really don’t like Saint Denis. It’s like a fact that was lost to time, only to be discovered by being there. Dutch may have been wrong about several things, but his dislike for civilization was something you couldn’t disagree on. Pushing aside thoughts on that man, that time, you stride into town with a strong sense of determination. Most folk turn away from you, a few children jump out of your way, even. You’ve got one job to do here and you’ll be damned if anyone tried to stop you. It’s like the sweetest stab of pain; being so close but it’s still not enough.
Your feet carry you to the nearest tavern, one you and Sadie Adler had gone to when you’d been sent to scope out the town. Another ghost from the past you were joyously reunited with. But you weren’t here for her. Nor for pleasantries with the barman. You ask your questions and he wisely gives you directions without missing a beat.
As you near your destination, you notice a few others heading the same way. There’s some sort of excitement to them. Those that walk in pairs talk hurriedly between themselves while other men walk determinedly. You follow one such fellow all the way to Saint Saturnines. A few of them give you strange looks; a woman walking alone to whatever excites them so much.
It’s when you hear the crowd that your nerves suddenly kick in. Your determination wavers for a moment as you stand just at the gate. An old man brushes past you, looking at you funny, and you notice the cash in his hand. A thought clicks in your head and suddenly you realize exactly what you’re walking into.
After everything that had happened in the gang, the idea of a crowd of men cheering for a fight doesn’t seem to bother you. The thrill you used to get when you went of a job with your fellow gang-members (it hurt to remember them as your family) spreads from your chest. You’re so close, you have to be, and your footsteps quicken around the corner.
“…but they hate a massacre, and you are a killer. I’m going now.”
“That man has no clue,” you say as casually as possible, even with your heart trying to crawl up your throat. You nearly sob when Charles turns around and sees you. He’s tired, he’s bloody bruised, and as handsome as you remember.
“Y/n?”
“Hello Charles.” The name slides so nicely along your tongue, causing a smile to split across your face.
“You’re alive!” He moves to touch you, bruised hands reaching for you, but stops before he can. It won’t do. His hands are rough, warm, dirty and so very much real in your own. Any breath in you leaves as Charles’ hands grab yours just as tightly.
“So are you,” you say, laughing a little. A hiss of a breath slips past your teeth at the nasty cut on his cheek. You lift one of your hands from his to gently brush some of his hair away to see it better. “Is that as fun as it looks?”
“Of course not.” He leans into your gentle touch as if starved. Maybe he is, you certainly are.
“Charles, I-.”
“I missed you.” Plain and simple. It makes your heart feel too big for your chest. You want to cry. To laugh. To run away as far and as fast as you can. As long as you get to see Charles’ face.
“I missed you too. I missed you so much, Charles.” You grab his face just to lean your forehead against his. A small sound escapes him; it’s soft and raw and too emotional for you to process. “I can’t believe I found you.”
“How did you find me?” Charles pulls back a little to look at you. Your faces hover closely like hummingbirds and bees around beautiful flowers. “It’s been years.”
“Uncle said he heard you were here.”
“Uncle? He’s still alive.”
“Yeah, so is John and Abigail. Jack and Sadie too.”
“I can’t believe it.” Charles’ hands drift to your wrists, not missing the opportunity to run them up along your arms. He doesn’t try to pull you away, just holds you there.
“Uncle thought you were in some kind of trouble.”
“Kinda…” It’s now that Charles pulls your hands from his face. It’s the look of shame he has that worries you the most. “I’ve been throwing fights for a few dollars.”
“Throwing fights? Charles… that’s really dangerous you realize?”
“I know…”
“So… what do you want to do?”
Charles pauses for a long moment. His eyes only leave your face for barely a second when he glances at the crowd to your left. You watch his face, studying everything you remember and nuances that time has given him. It’s obvious when a thought occurs to Charles; his face lights up a little and you wish he would smile outright like he used to.
“Let me go place a bet.” It’s nowhere near what you had expected, nor what you really want, but Charles smiles at your obvious confusion and slight disappointment. “People are going to bet more on me losing.” Charles admits quietly, leaning closer to you. “Which means I’ll get more money if I win.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, I kinda already planned it.”
“Well, is there anything I can do?”
Again, Charles hesitates with a quick flash of shame. He looks down at his bare torso, covered in blood and a few scars.
“Y/n, don’t take this badly. But I’d rather you weren’t here. I… I don’t want you to see me…”
“See you beat the crap out of someone?” Charles snorts a laugh and it’s still one of your favourite sounds in the world. “I’ve seen you do it before. But never shirtless.”
That gets his attention. It’s the smallest movement, but you catch the twitch of Charles’ mouth as a warmth shows in his dark eyes. Suddenly the air between you is barely enough for your lungs.
“I could give you a private show. Later. But for now… wait for me out front?”
You nod without thinking; as if you could ever say no to him. Charles gives you a warm, fond smile that makes your stomach flutter like you were some naïve girl. When he steps back and gives you a better view his bared chest and arms, that fluttering turns to burning.
“I’ll go wait by the road.” You stumble backwards a little; unable to keep your eyes off of him. Charles, on his part struggles to turn away from you. When he does, however, you can’t help but call out. “Oh, and Charles? I’ll kiss you if you win.”
He looks baffled at first, like he cannot process your words. But then there’s a joy in his eyes that reminds you so much of hope. It takes more effort than you care to admit, to turn from him. But it won’t be long now before it’s just you and Charles after so many years.
round four ► quote graphic (john marston, red dead redemption)
“Some trees flourish, others die. Some cattle grow strong, others are taken by wolves. Some men are born rich enough and dumb enough to enjoy their lives. Ain’t nothing fair. You know that.”
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