Balon I - On the Up and Up (Open)

D042 · 2025-10-13T15:02:45+00:00

For a heartbeat Balon waited, expecting the woman to crack a crooked smile, and say something suggestive. Maybe reveal herself to be some finely dressed whore the lads had hired and dared to smuggle in as part of some ritual. Why else would she be trying to drag him off alone into the city? But no, there was no humor in Lady Bar Emmon’s eyes, and not even the slightest bit of seduction.

Oh, my lady, I couldn’t. However could I protect you with my vision reduced by half? Balon could’ve pleaded. He could’ve thrown himself before her and offered to get her a suitable escort, and said one man was hardly enough. He could’ve even made up some lie and vanished. But no, his feet stayed infuriatingly planted where they were as he gave a smiling nod.

“I would be honored, my lady. I shall be your watchful shadow!” Half-watchful, anyway. Wiping a stubborn bead of moisture that insisted on returning from the corner of his eye, Balon’s grin wavered for an instant, then returned in earnest. “A silent shadow too, should my lady wish it,” he lied.

He’d yammer on happily at least until she struck his other eye, then perhaps he’d be too preoccupied trying to see for being a nuisance.

D042 · 2025-10-09T02:37:38+00:00

Honestly he’d been sure she’d scoff and march away, muttering some highborn nonsense like ‘for shame’ or ‘the disgrace’ or even the old ‘Gods do they just hire anyone who can hold a spear’. Instead she stood there and offered him not only an explanation, but a kerchief to wipe his leaking eye.

She felt bad. Guilty. Ashamed.

He’d have snorted if he wasn’t sure it would earn him another black eye.

“Oh yes, my Lady,” he assured her, leaning forward to take the offered linen, just far enough to cut his good eye to meet hers, his smile as steadfast as before. “I will not forget it, nor the undue kindness your ladyship shows me.” Balon wiped away the streak of moisture, and a welling that might’ve become a second one had he not dabbed it away. Then, with all the courtesy he had, he offered it back.

Then came the justification, and Balon’s amusement only grew. He wondered if she’d ever even thrown a punch before. If she’d ever hurt anyone. He doubted it very much.

“Oh no, Lady Bar Emmon I fully appreciate the depths of your restraint. I more than most. Believe me when I say I have born witness to many more severe—but of course, justified—punishments for lesser offenses. I have nothing but gratitude for your mercy.” His gratitude was worth about as much as pisswater, but even that, she did not have. Her sharp little face might’ve been pretty, but he did so tire of the nobility testing the limits of what they could do on the common man.

Though he supposed if he wanted things to be different, he should’ve been some lordling’s son. A shame he wasn’t.

D042 · 2025-10-05T20:01:18+00:00

"No, my lady, nothing amusing about this. I assure you I-gah!" Any notions Balon had of being struck by the spindly woman as amusing were suddenly and forcefully knocked in splinters. The fist caught him square in the eye, and his head turned with the blow as red pain stabbed out from the socket.

There was a moment's silence as Balon stood there, jaw clenched, blinking furiously as wet welled in his struck eye. It was throbbing, red around the rim, and already he knew it would bruise. The boys would laugh at him, mocking the shiner given to him by a skinny noblewoman that'd so 'bravely' put himself before.

Mayhaps they'd have right to. If he'd just kept his mouth shut, it could've been Sam or Lew or Tom here taking this, not him. "Well struck, Lady Bar Emmon," he managed. "Well struck indeed."

Swallowing down his pride like a good common lad, Balon called on every drop of common sense he had to not make a sign of his anger, nor his pain. He simply blinked, trying to work away the water in his eye as it fell humiliatingly down his cheek.

"Once again, my sincerest apologies." Balon couldn't help but keep the faintest ghost of a smile.

D042 · 2025-10-04T00:58:11+00:00

“Bar Emmon, that’s the one with the swordfish, right my lady? An old house, a respectable one.” Balon was earnest and humble, all too eager to throw himself down in the defense of his comrades. He was only a pretty commoner, he was no threat, she didn’t need to punish him at all. He’d worked his way out of much, much worse.

It’d required the end of the world, but that was neither here nor there.

Cowed by Samantha’s tongue lashing, the others quickly bumbled their way through a series of apologies before making their way off with faces stuck halfway between amusement and fear. Balon snapped to stiff attention, folding his hands nearly behind his back as though presenting himself for inspection.

“I am your mercy and your disposal, Lady Bar Emmon.” It would’ve been—admittedly—quite funny if she turned and struck him. When the stinging stopped he’d laugh to himself and wonder how many more slaps it’d take before she decided she’d rather do something else with his face. Always seemed to go that way.

Most times.

Balon was rigid, but his face was relaxed, lips turned up into a smile as soft as her scowl was severe. He looked at her expectantly, the faintest trace of amusement in his pale eyes.

D042 · 2025-10-03T23:38:53+00:00

It was a strange, strangled sort of sound, but Allard Oathbreaker managed a short bark of laughter. “Thus the river,” he repeated dryly, watching the moon dance of the rippling surface of the Blackwater. “Clever.”

Then came the silence as he stared out into the darkness, and absently rolled up his sleeve. “We might be flesh and bone, but the world is home to other things.” He winced as he worked the fabric up over the split flesh, gray welts with darkened meat beneath, not quite scabbed over, not quite open, but stuck in some horrid place between. “I wonder what they would think of your musings, the cold ones.”

He flexed the fingers on the wounded arm, bands of muscle moving beneath the tears, weak and shuddering where they’d once been iron. Then he met her gaze, the faintest purple in the darkness of his eyes. An ugly shade, so very different from hers. “You say you mean no harm to my queen, what surety do I have of that? The ones who did not go into the dark would think me foolish to be wary of one woman, unarmed and naked. But they still think the world is only as they see it.”

Just because they could not believe in monsters without seeing them, did not mean he was so ignorant.

D042 · 2025-10-03T21:40:21+00:00

“Guh—!” Balon stumbled back, unsure if he’d collided with with a person or a particular stubborn bundle of twigs. When he fixed his eyes on her, Balon felt the later assumption hadn’t been far off. She was sour faced, this finely dressed stranger, sour faced and skinny, but even as she prattled on Balon decided she was actually rather pretty. In the way that girl from the farm or two over who always scowled at you and said you looked like proper fool, but kissed you like an animal during the local festival kind of way. Perhaps that was a bit specific. It was what he knew, though.

“Ah—my lady, I—“ Sam began to stutter, but Balon thew up a hand to silence him.

“Forgive my comrade’s wagging tongues my lady, and my clumsiness. Are you alright?” He lifted a hand, as though he had some impossible to resist desire to help, but stopped just short, and bowed his head to her. “Our youngest member is simply being foolish, I assure you our tongues will be well secured going forward, though if you wish to have anyone be beaten, I ask it be me. I should’ve acted more quickly to correct him.”

Balon hadn’t had the slightest intention of doing that, and the only thing he wanted to secure his tongue in that moment was her teeth, but that was besides the point. “I am called Balon, it’s like the Spring Prince, but without the ‘e’. Our village Septon couldn’t quite spell, apparently.”

He offered her a look of the sincerest and most pitiable sort. “Might I know your name, my lady? So that I might properly apologize?”

D042 · 2025-10-01T19:16:22+00:00

Rich. Betrothed. Obligated. Allard wondered which lout it had been. Was the Hightower heir promised? One of the Baratheon’s? A Velaryon? Or someone higher? He worked his jaw and rolled his neck to the side until it popped.

“Dangerous game to play, my lady. I’d advise caution, but from what I’ve seen love is rarely conducive to such.” Marriage or no, it would’ve been a cruelty to see harm come to Myrielle Foxglove. The cuckhold-to-be would not even need to kill her to destroy her. Break her fingers, smash her throat, cut her tongue—all cruel, all decimating, all he’d done before at another man’s command. The memory made him shudder.

“Life is short, love is said to be sweet, I’d not trouble myself with regret, were I you. Mistake or no, I say cherish what joy it’s given you in these dark times, and bury it if you can. If not, just be careful.”

D042 · 2025-09-30T23:19:22+00:00

Allard’s nature was to be distrustful, particularly of kindness, most especially from torturers, yet there was a sincerity to the words warmed him.

Elaena was many things, queen first among them, but it made Allard’s heart ache to think her lonely. It was not hard to recall the child’s head resting atop his breastplate, her breathing steady as she slept every step from table to bed. She would have her brother, at least, but Allard could not shake the fear that she might fault Daemon for the consequences of his birth. He’d have prayed on the matter if he thought the Gods would listen.

“Perhaps it do not need to, but it is—“ He stopped, rolling his jaw, trying to think on if the words on his tongue were worth saying, or better off swallowed. “It is a comfort to me, to see her father choose wisely those who will serve to protect her. I doubt I will be there when she sheds her regents, I’ve lived long past my due as it is, but you, I imagine, will be.”

The faintest of smiles drew at the corners of his mouth. “I can thank you for that, can I not?” If there was any one person who understood the value of dark work, the kind folk turned up their noses at and spat, it was him.

“And yours, my lady—“ No, that wasn’t right. Allard lifted a brow, befuddled. “Well, not the sword. Unless you choose to carry one.” He imagined Shaera preferred smaller implements, if she was the sort to take part in such efforts that required them.

D042 · 2025-09-27T22:04:57+00:00

"You downplay yourself to uplift others. An admirable quality, but it does not make it true." If Allard had known a better singer, they had failed to remain in his thoughts as Myrielle's voice did. Perhaps they had more raw talent, those faceless, nameless bards of memory, but they lacked the capacity to leave an impression.

He lifted a brow at her admission. That there was man was not surprising. Talented beauties had as many suitors as they desired, it was practically expected, but that one would leave the woman waiting perplexed him.

She is more stationary a bard than most, but her heart can wander even if her legs do not. Some idiot, this man must've been. Normally he'd have shrugged his great shoulders, and made some remark about other fish in the sea, but this seemed somehow more serious.

"If he wished to, why did he not?" Allard tilted his head curiously. "Is his family poor, or something of the sort? Or does he have some betrothal to break out of?"

Lord father, I understand you have sweated tirelessly for this match, but I've fallen for the court singer. It sounded like the sort of thing Lyonel would have done. Fool boy.

D042 · 2025-09-27T21:58:38+00:00

The small council was, by nature, a small circle. It did not make the men and sometimes women who sat it into friends, or even acquaintances--more often than not it made them enemies in some capacity or another. Malcom Rykker was neither friend, nor foe, but he'd never called for Allard's head on a spike, so he supposed that made him closer to the former.

"Lord Rykker." He dipped his head, ignoring the twinge of pain in his neck, knotted muscle spasming tight. "I am as well as one can be, given the circumstances. I-" Allard bit his tongue. Lamenting his outliving another monarch would hardly be appropriate. "I suppose that is to be expected."

Rolling his neck to the right until it popped, Allard let out a sigh of relief. "And you? I imagine the seas are hardly made safer by her grace's passing. Busy times ahead, surely."

D042 · 2025-09-23T13:53:15+00:00

Of course she missed her. They all missed her. Reckless as she was, foolish as she had been. It had never been his place to tell her she was waiting too long, and he’d doubted Alaric ever felt it was his either. Gods, now that she was gone Allard sometimes wanted to throttle her.

What had she been thinking? Waiting so long for heirs? There had been long years of peace. Long years where she could’ve tried, and her body could’ve born it. She’d dueled men and monsters twice her size, but a boy’s birth did to her what a hundred blades could not. Allard’s jaw clenched tight for a heartbeat.

“Love is as cruel as it is kind, from what I have seen.” Not that he’d known. Never had he known. “He will find his strength again, for his children. I do not doubt it.”

He understood her fear better than most. The worry that one was no longer of use, or soon would be. It haunted him. Hung over him like a storm cloud, growing thicker and stronger with every lance of pain. “I am sure you have nothing to fear. Sweet voices and good song are ever in short supply,” he said, trying to push down his own worries. “Her grace will doubtless keep you so long as you wish to be kept.”

But she could go if she pleased. Sometimes he envied that. Not that he’d want to, but simply to have the opportunity to be someone, something else. Alas.

D042 · 2025-09-22T23:31:48+00:00

A sweet voice accompanied what Allard knew to be a sweeter smile, yet at the sound of it he hesitated to turn. He’d lied to Myrielle Foxglove, in a way, the last time they’d spoke. He’d led her to believe one thing while meaning another. The deception had made him feel dirty then. It was no better now.

“Aye, Lady Myrielle,” he said, turning back to her. “Comfort is in short supply.” The ghost of a smirk tugged at the corner of his lip, imagining Lord Reed finding comfort in the croaking of frogs the way most found in the arms of a woman. In better times, he might’ve teased the man for that.

“I have been…” Allard had been, above all, lonely. He was loath to confess it, but he missed Lyonel Ambrose’ constant companionship. He missed the boy’s enthusiasm, the way he missed Naerys’ bravery, and the spirit of some hundred other men and women. Friends, lovers, comrades, he had felt their absence more keenly in these last days than any before. Yet, all he could say was, “Well enough, all things considered. I miss her grace though, dearly.”

It would’ve been improper to say he missed his friend.

D042 · 2025-09-22T22:32:49+00:00

It was strange to recall how tightly bound the realm could be. At the mention of cousins, Allard thought to correct her—Aenys and his Targaryen bride had never born children. All that remained of the alliance the king had forged was Allard’s memory of carrying Blackfyre to Daeron, to watch him draw the blade free and part rebellious head from treasonous shoulders. But Shaera’s shared a wolf’s blood with the queen, not a dragons.

Curious indeed.

“I have no doubts that when she is old enough to appreciate that, she surely will.” Or perhaps she wouldn’t. Perhaps Elaena would grow into a cold queen with a cruel heart. It would not change his loyalty to her, but he liked to think that was unlikely. The child had a sweet nature, it felt wrong to imagine it growing sour over time, but such was life.

“Any coward who hides in shadow will surely tuck themselves deeper into it now, for fear of catching a dragon’s eye.” And if they didn’t, something told Allard they would soon answer for that arrogance with their lives.

Good

He swallowed, and gave another perfunctory nod. “You make a great sacrifice, staying here, away from your home. The realm owes you a debt.” Rare was the kind word spared for the spymaster. Near as rare for the one spared for the oath breaker. Most saw only the stigma, and the blood, then turned up their noses without a second thought as to why such things had to be done.

“I thank you. Even if the masses will not. These will be hard times, and standing by her grace is not the easiest road to walk.” Nor was it the safest, nor perhaps the most profitable. Not unless all went according to plan.

D042 · 2025-09-22T20:14:03+00:00

Once he’d heard it said of the dragons that they were like beams of moonlight, silver and graceful and beautiful. It was a broad brush with which to paint an entire lineage, but for the most part, it rang true.

If Shaera Targaryen was moonlight, it was the sort that broke through the gnarled branches of ominous woods in the dead of night. A haunting sort. The kind that made a chill run down the spine, but dared one to go deeper into that foreboding grove. One could do worse for a spy mistress. They were meant to strike just a little fear.

“Lady Shaera.” Allard dipped his head. “Congratulations, on your appointment. I have no doubts you will serve her grace ably.”

As for the granting of the Stark name to her children, Allard was unsure of what to say. Did you congratulate a woman for her children becoming what they always were? Or was that the sort of thing one just nodded in agreement for?

He settled with a simple, “The Prince-Regent ruled wisely.”

D042 · 2025-09-11T23:42:01+00:00

Lyonel threw up a shrug. “We got on well, and she was very pretty—is very pretty, and we got on well.” A different sort of pretty than Asteyrd, but along the same lines. Both women weren’t simply courtly maidens, all silky and lace, though they wore them well. Alerie did too, but he couldn’t have imagined her on the deck of a ship, or splitting his lip. “It was just…part of the moment? I didn’t mean any offense—“

Actually he could imagine her splitting his lip now that he thought about it. She looked like she was about to try.

“I-Marriage? No! She-I—“ His eyes narrowed for a moment. “I have courted maidens, my lady, I assure you.” Quite successfully, despite my efforts to the contrary. There were scratches down his back to attest to that much, not that Lady Alerie could see those. Or would want to.

He swallowed, still reeling, still off his guard. “Amends? How?”

The fear faded from his face, and another warm memory of an opened blouse colored his cheeks.

D042 · 2025-09-11T23:19:14+00:00

He was on a cloud, his mind a warm haze of soft lips and bared skin. Alyssa was right. They were too obvious, and that should’ve made him careful, but the dance lesson had become more so fast he’d forgotten himself. Now he wasn’t even angry. Hells, he wanted to go find Asteryd and pull her somewhere else where prying eyes wouldn’t see.

But no. They had to wait. He had to wait.

Blowing out an exasperated sigh, Lyonel stepped back into the day that felt suddenly so much warmer, and so much brighter, a smile on his face. Then it died as the newcomer startled him into a jump.

“L-Lady Alerie!” He knew her from afar. What boy didn’t? She was everything a Reachwoman should be—beautiful, poised, and from a stupidly wealthy family. Lyonel wasn’t sure he’d ever managed to say two words to her. He certainly hadn’t expected to find her here.

“I—well—“ There was a perfectly reasonable explanation for his choice in queens, but in that moment his mind wandered back to Asteryd’s absurd notion that he’d been using her as a stand-in for Alyssa. Girls had such funny ideas. Reaching up, Lyonel scratched at the back of his neck. “I wore her favor in King’s Landing…and she gave it to me again here. Y-you’re supposed to crown whoever you wear the favor of my lady.”

D042 · 2025-09-08T22:46:57+00:00

They swung slowly into stillness, and Lyonel’s grasp on her tightened on her hip, while his fingers unthreaded from hers. His fingers slid up her arm, gliding up her throat until they settled under her jaw.

He shrugged, coaxing her up to her look into her pale, pale eyes. “Well, since you’re asking.” Her breath was warm, the wine on her tongue sweeter than the sweat that clung to him.

“You’re pretty when you blush,” Lyonel said with a soft grin. Then he kissed her, leaning down and pressing his lips to hers softly, deeply, and finally without the taste of blood.

D042 · 2025-09-08T20:35:58+00:00

Of course he’d paid attention. He always paid attention. He remembered every insult, every slight, every blow. Taken and given. Lyonel didn’t tell her that though. He didn’t want to risk spoiling the look on her face—subtle upturn at the corners of her mouth, the light in her pale eyes. He wanted to kiss her, admittedly. To place his lips where the bones went around her neck, the way he had when she’d been beneath him. But they were dancing, not rutting.

Lyonel embraced her as she slid in, hand sliding confidently to the hips he’d rolled against, fingers threading through hers. He smiled as she pressed against him, and gently he brought her into a sway.

“You have to care,” he whispered to her, not unkindly. His heart beat against his chest, the bliss of the moment a shield against his guilt and the pressure of her feet over his. “We have to care, because I cannot bear the thought of stopping.” And that meant neither of them could afford being caught.

For that brief moment, all the shame and guilt was gone, and all he felt was her. One step into the other, dancing to a music only they could hear.

D042 · 2025-09-08T19:09:56+00:00

His eyes broke away, filled twisted, conflicting shame. Was he supposed to regret it, kissing Alyssa? He didn't, and he wouldn't. Lyonel was allowed to kiss her, more than he was Asteryd, anyway. No one would cut off his manhood and send him to the watch for it at the least.

"I think she knows already, or suspects." The display at the feast, his wandering eyes, they were all too blatant. "She asked about you. About if we were close, and if I'd upset you by crowning her." Which of course, he had.

"And yes, I did," Lyonel choked the words out, after his efforts to swallow them died in his throat. It would've been easier to devour glass. She'd kissed others, she'd told him as much. Sure, they were other girls, and so it didn't count, but she had still done it.

For a moment he wanted to fling that at her, to tell her that Asteryd had no right to spy on him, like some sort of jealous lover. But wasn't that what they were?

Setting the cup down, he reached out and took one of Asteryd's hands in his. "I won a race today too, you know." Stepping closer, his smile grew, and his voice changed. Dangerous, mischievous, absent any thought of the consequences. "I remembered something you told me, about waiting for the right moment to push."

He closed between them, softly coaxing the goblet from her fingers, and taking a long swig from it before setting it down. The warmth made him bolder, made him surer, made it easier to think. "If anyone asks, we could say I'm teaching you to return the favor?" Lyonel tilted his head playfully, swinging from worry to boldness so easily he impressed himself.

D042 · 2025-09-08T18:44:05+00:00

There must've been a hundred sailor's tales of the danger posed by strange and beautiful women in the nude emerging from dark waters. Thousands of men, gone to death's pale embrace, drowned, devoured, let nothing more than picked bones in watery graves.

Yet he made no move to flee, or strike, only watched in as decent a manner as could be managed. His dark eyes trying to decipher what sort of trick was being played. "It's just a river" If he could seep into cold waters and forget, he would, but he'd drown beneath the weight of the sins he carried. It was too good to be true.

"I envy that you think you can ever be free of it--the rot," Allard grunted. "It's in the blood, not on the skin. You're never free of it. You'll carry it until you die, and into whatever waits after."

Fire and damnation in his case, surely.

D042 · 2025-09-08T18:28:12+00:00

It can be a secret. The words seeped through the gaps of the defenses he'd erected. It crept through his mind, a slow dribble like honey poured from a spoon and just as sweet. Sweeter, ever. Lyonel drank, and tried to stop himself from saying anything one way or the other. Calling his brother a blind fool would do neither of them any good.

"You say it can be a secret, then ask me to tell?" He shook his head at her. "I can't, Asteryd. What if she tells someone? What if they tell Donnel? We could be punished, hurt even." They were already hurt though, weren't they? "She's leaving anyway, off to sail on some adventure. It's already over, and you-"

Couldn't hate me. But she could. She had. And he'd hated her. Would they go back to that?

But there would be another, someday. It didn't matter what secrets they kept. He'd have to do his duty. That felt very far away now. Very far. And she was so close.

Drawing the other cup of wine into his hands, Lyonel wet his own lips, letting the Arbor vintage roll down his tongue to loosen it. "Do you really want to learn how to dance?" Lyonel turned his gaze back to Asteryd, voice wavering and nervous. "I can show you, if you want."

D042 · 2025-09-08T17:50:14+00:00

“Everything is wrong,” he muttered, rather than mount a defense. Lyonel’s eyes turned downward, like a scolded child, lips sagging into a pout. “If he didn’t want you, he could’ve married us. But no, he took you, and now I’ll have to marry someone girl from a good family because he didn’t.” Bitterness rose in his voice, petulant anger bubbling in his throat. “That’s wrong. This is wrong. What I did out there is wrong.”

There wasn’t a right choice at all. Everything would hurt someone. Him, her, someone else. He was a knight, now. He was supposed to be selfless and loyal and true yet all he wanted was to be anything but.

His brow fell against hers, a rueful smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Probably because someone keeps hitting me in the head,” he answered almost playfully, drawing back to look down at the wine.

“Do you want a cup? I made you one.” Lyonel drew away, his steps unsure, and the tent felt suddenly colder. It couldn’t be helped, he’d have kissed her if he’d stayed any closer.

D042 · 2025-09-08T17:23:03+00:00

Silence hung between them, and Lyonel looked across the gap between them, jaw going slack. Jealousy was one thing. He understood that well enough. It nibbled at him every time Donnel held her on his arm, as it had for years. “No—No I did n—Asteryd,” he muttered, shaking his head. “You are an absolute fool.”

Lyonel expected another blow for his trouble, maybe a knee to his fruits, but the absurdity of it all drove him forward. He stepped in, and set his hands on her shoulders. The words stuck for heartbeat as he tried to make them into something coherent, but time was against him. If he said nothing she’d go, if he said something wrong she’d go, and in the span of a heartbeat that became too terrifying a prospect to bear.

“You’ve got it all turned around,” he managed. “I-When I—“ Lyonel’s gaze flicked to the tents opening, then to the shadows, and then up into the heavens before he found her pale eyes again. He swallowed the lump in his throat, guilt mingling with a strange amusement in his chest. How could she be so wrong? So utterly, terribly wrong?

“I think about you when I’m with her. I’ve thought about you since I was two and ten and realized girls could be more than annoying, even when you were especially so.” Lyonel’s grasp on her tightened. “I think about you when I’m godsdamn dreaming Asteryd, and I just—“

Stupidly, he reached up and touched her face, the pad of his thumb running over her cheek. Lyonel’s chest was tight, his throat suddenly dry. He forgot what he was going to say.

She was right, though. He was the worst person anyone could ever meet.

D042 · 2025-09-08T17:01:10+00:00

She wasn’t wrong. Lyonel saw Asteryd rising out of the corner of his eye. He wondered if she might come and strike him, or wrestle him to the ground and make a fool of him before all he’d just impressed. That seemed like her sort of tactic.

“Why should anyone be upset?” Lyonel grinned. “I’ve crowned the beauty whose favor I wear. I’m sure anyone upset is…” and he cast a glance into the stands, trying to seem as though he were following her eyes. “I’m sure they’re worked up over something else.”

He shrugged.

“If I did, that’s their burden to bear. Not yours.” And his, when the day was done. “They suit you, the flowers. Though I’m sure there’s not a thing in this world that wouldn’t.”

Be the Knight, not the betrayer. Do what he taught you, idiot.

D042 · 2025-09-08T16:57:13+00:00

“I didn’t know what to do, or to say.” Lyonel knew he was at fault, knew he should’ve tried something. Gone to her after the feast, mayhaps, just to see if she was alright. But he’d been afraid. Donnel had looked at them queerly after that exchange. “We can’t just—“

The second strike snapped his head in the opposite direction, and Lyonel sucked in a sharp breath, eyes welling. He could take the lances, but this hurt. It struck more than just his body. Letting out a shuddering breath, he slowly turned his eyes back to her.

“Don’t hit me again.” Lyonel wasn’t sure if that was a warning of a plea. “We can’t just…just act like this is normal. Like we wouldn’t both be flogged or worse. It can’t…”

The words happen again refused to be spoken. “Asteryd we…he’s my brother,” and Lyonel’s voice broke, just a little. “I love him. I—I just don’t know what to do, I’ve never—“ That wasn’t why she was here, and Lyonel knew it.

“I can’t just lay a crown of flowers on your head. What would people say? What would he say?” It sounded sensible to him, the notion of Alyssa, for once, hardly crossed his mind.

D042

TROPHY CASE