Summary: The story of Lyria Whitethorn, daughter of Queen Aelin Ashryver Galathynius and King Rowan Whitethorn, and Tristan Havilliard, son of Queen Manon Blackbeak-Crochan and King Dorian Havilliard
A/N: And, after an eternity of procrastinating, I’ve finally updated!! I’ve also managed to draft out the plots of future parts but because of exams I don’t think I can update soon. -_- Sorry!! But, anyways, enjoy!!
Although they were close, Tristan and Lyria both had responsibilities they needed to attend to.
Tristan was well versed in court politics and magic, taught by his father, and trained in discipline of body and mind by Manon.
And, even though Manon and Dorian lived apart, Tristan never felt like they didn’t care for him.
Especially after the incident.
He’d alternate between Adarlan and the Wastes, but resided mainly in Adarlan. After all, he was to rule it one day.
Not that that had always been the case. What had seemed like a lifetime ago- only five years- there’d been another heir to the Adarlanian crown. His older sister.
But those memories were best left undisturbed. Tristan had long learned to lock the darkest parts of his life in the back of his mind; dredging them up left him paralysed.
Dorian had taught Tristan that the best way to know his people was to live alongside them. And so it wasn’t rare for him to dress himself in commoner clothes and mingle amongst them.
And as much as King Dorian II tried to vanquish the cruelties of the Adarlanian underworld, it was still rife in the streets.
Gangs, brothels, opium dens, they still fed off the innocent young who were cast out too soon. He’d learnt that from Lady Lysandra’s story.
She often frequented the brothels, with huge sums of money to buy the girls’ freedom and offer them homes in Caraverre. Tristan was awed by her tale, being cast out simply for having magic, chafing under Madame Clarisse’s ‘tutelage’, shackled to Arobynn Hamel.
Only to end up slitting his throat and fighting her way alongside Queen Aelin.
Tristan tried to follow her example- helping whoever he could and beating the life out of the lowlifes exploiting those weaker than them in dark alleyways.
He was beginning to draw attention to himself from those who he didn’t particularly want it from, which only spurred him to get stronger.
It was during one of these exploits that he found himself in a run-down tavern, seated in the corner with a tankard of cheap ale on the stained table in front of him.
The court may be a haven of whispered rumours, but the best tales came from places like these. And, although tavern brawls were common, some of the things he heard here made it worth it.
Tonight was like any other. Sailors and wretches were hunched over tables, with Tristan keeping a sharp ear out for anything that would interest him. The bartender- Adrian- flashed him a quick smile before returning to his work. He was an old friend of Lord Ren’s, and welcomed Tristan whenever he frequented.
Picking at his nails with his dagger, Tristan soon grew bored. There was nothing worth hearing today, apart from which noble was engaged to whom, so he drained his ale and got up to leave.
Just then, a hooded figure brushed past Tristan, his fingers glancing against his for a moment.
Leaving a small sheaf of paper in his palm.
The figure raised his head slightly and put a finger to his lips, before taking the seat that Tristan had occupied moments ago, crossing one leg over the other. He saw a flash of grey eyes before the figure flicked his wrist, motioning for Tristan to leave.
Tristan sauntered out of the tavern and hid in a gap between it and the adjointed building. His power sparked at his fingers, tendrils of ice forming around his hands. If this person meant trouble, he’d give it to them willingly.
The sheaf of paper was still in his hand, but he didn’t dare take his eyes off the street. This could be an ambush, and he’d had enough of those to last a lifetime.
“If I wanted to hurt you, young prince, I would have done it already.”
As Tristan whipped his head up, the hooded figure jumped from the shaky scaffolding that barely held the tavern together and landed neatly beside him.
He took no chances. In a heartbeat, the razor-tipped icicles formed out of thin air and hung, suspended mere millimetres away from the figure’s throat. “What do you want?”
“Relax, Tristan. I’m a friend.” He slowly put his arms up in front of him and drew back his hood, revealing a tanned face flecked with thin scars, unruly black hair, and a lazy smile. He looked to be about 30, and the ease which he carried himself with told him to be a thief of sorts. Or at the very least, trained enough to climb buildings.
Tristan, unimpressed, raised an eyebrow but didn’t move the shards away from the man’s throat. And said nothing.
The man simply sighed and rolled his eyes, and fast as an asp, hooked his leg around the back of Tristan’s knees and threw him to the ground. He dodged the ice shards as they were flung towards where he’d been standing moments ago, as he braced a knee on the floor and pinned Tristan’s hands behind his back.
With a sudden shink, Tristan’s iron nails sliced upwards into the man’s skin. He jumped back and swore, giving Tristan enough time to scramble to his feet. He stood with his back to the crack in the wall, and although he could run, he refused to. If this man was intent on harming him, who knows what he could do to others.
“Nice to see that the prince has some bite.” Although there were several deep slices in his palms and wrist, all leaking blood, and despite the fact that he was backed into the alley wall, he seemed completely at ease.
“Well, for someone who calls me his friend, you seem to have a strange way of introducing yourself.”
“Maybe so.” The man took a handful of gauze out of his pocket and leisurely wrapped his wounds. Tristan stalked closer to him, iron nails now fully unsheathed. “But have you read my note yet?”
The note? That sheaf of paper- he must have dropped it, because the man finished wrapping his hands and produced the note from another pocket, and held it out for Tristan to take.
Tristan, without shrinking his iron nails, took the paper from the him. He smirked, grey eyes twinkling with mischief or ill intent. Tristan decided not to analyse.
“I’m confident that you’ll find the information interesting, for personal reasons. Royals often frequent places like that,” He cocked his head to the side, in the direction of the tavern, “For gossip. And you don’t strike me as the type to care about who marries who.”
“I’ve been watching you.”
Tristan edged closer to the man, who didn’t retreat. “I don’t care who you are, but if you’re planning something-”
Smirking, he raised his hands in mock surrender. “Fear not, Your Highness. I am but a messenger.”
“A messenger who can climb buildings and fight as well as an assassin?”
“I have a complicated past.” He folded his arms. “And a lot of enemies. At least that’s something we have in common.”
Tristan opened his mouth to retort, but the man suddenly leapt and caught the dipping edge of the rusted pipe, swinging himself upwards and somersaulting onto the scaffolding.
With a roguish wink and a salute, he called out. “The name’s Nox, by the way. If you need me again, you’ll know where to find me.”
And with that, he vanished.
Leaving Tristan in the alleyway, nails drawn. And feeling incredibly stupid.
With a huff, he straightened and checked himself. There was a bruise blooming already on his shoulder, so he froze the skin around it.
His iron nails shrank back into his skin, and he unrolled the sheaf of paper. The writing was small and sloped, and the ink had bled as if water had soaked into the paper, despite it being dry.
“Tell the Queen of Terrasen to protect her youngest. Power and sway are much coveted, and those who seek it attack the weakest link in the chains of royalty.”
She was being targeted? For sway over Terrasen?
For a moment, he wasn’t in the dingy alley next to the tavern. He was back where he was five years ago, watching Astrian’s back from his hiding spot and she snarled at the dark shapes in front of her.
Memories of the incident flashed back to him, unbidden, as Tristan braced his hand on the wall. He clenched his jaw and squeezed his eyes shut, willing his breathing to stay even and the thoughts to vanish. He couldn’t break down here, not when he might be seen.
Tears pricked the corners of his eyes and he pressed his palms into his face, gasps shuddering out of him.
Marion was being targeted. He needed to tell Queen Aelin.
He didn’t stop to think that it might have been a false alarm, or a ruse to weaken Terrasen. Even if that were the case, it wouldn’t do any harm to guard her, just in case.
And if the chances were that Nox had been telling the truth, then there was no way he’d let Marion be hurt like that.
So, he put the note into his pocket and shifted into an owl, swooping across the Adarlanian rooftops and back to the palace.
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