who: @domericstone when and where: the eyrie, set after the ambush which happened to percival templeton. context: hmmm.
graham found him in the solar, the fire long burned down to nothing but smouldering ash, though the air was warm still—too warm, like it had been trapped there with the silence. domeric hadn’t moved. not when the door opened. not when graham’s boots scraped over the stone floor. just sat there, hunched slightly over some paper he hadn’t read, or had read too many times. back straight, face stony, shoulders drawn like a man preparing for a blow. it reminded graham too much of how he used to sit when their father was still alive, pretending to be asleep so malcom’s wrath might pass him over for once.
“you’ve got that same look he wore before a lie,” graham said, voice low, not unkind, but not soft either. he didn’t wait for a response, didn’t expect one. “and gods help us, look at that, you’ve got his stillness too. like a wolf waitin’ for the wind to shift.”
he let the door close behind him with a dull but impactful thud. the light from the window was thin, gold-veined with dust, the sort of late-afternoon hush that always made things feel older than they were. graham crossed to the table and poured himself a cup of wine, though he didn’t drink it, just held it between his hands. he studied domeric’s face, the too-sharp line of his jaw, the shadow under his eyes. malcom’s face, but younger. leaner. with more hunger. not for food. for place. for certainty.
“they’re sayin’ it was you,” graham said, tone low and flat, but firm. “that you ambushed lord templeton out past the lands of longbow hall. had men waiting. blades drawn. no chance for talk.” he didn’t look at domeric when he said it. couldn’t. not yet. he stared instead at the bare hearth, as though fire might flicker there if he looked hard enough. there was a simmering irritation which grew within graham royce, for it had been him who had plucked domeric from the dangerous situation he had found himself in the north; it was him which had found him a position at court, and watched him grow. would he now attack percival templeton, one of graham's long standing allies? as though the royces and templetons had not known one another since they were boys?
he swallowed, jaw tightening. the words didn’t come easily, not when it came to malcom. not when the man still echoed in every corner of their bones. “father was a cold bastard, and that’s puttin’ it kindly. but you know what he never was? subtle. a man like malcom would’ve ridden up with a banner and made a feast of it. but this... this was clever. hidden. calculated. you can’t imagine how much worse that makes it.” the words were laced with accusation now; as though he were offended domeric thought he would merely ignore and pretend this never happened. he turned then, slowly, to look at domeric proper. the boy—no, the man—he’d fought to raise higher than his bastard start. a brother by blood, if not name. his mother had been gentle, graham remembered, in the few whispers he’d heard of her. a grafton girl with soft hands and softer eyes who died too young. not like their own mothers, beaten down by malcom’s rage or by the world around him.
domeric had something else in him. something graham had always tried to protect. or deny. “you’re my blood,” graham said, voice rougher now. “i’ve never spoken it aloud, not where ears could catch it. but that doesn’t make it less true. i’ve shielded you like a brother, because that’s what you are. and gods help me, i still see you as that scrawny boy with cut knees and too much pride, standin’ outside the tilt yard just to watch me train.” he stepped closer, the fire of his gaze searing now, the lines around his mouth carved deep. “but if you touched percival... if you ordered it... domeric, i need you to tell me."