#// MILADY HAVE MERCY ON THIS POOR KNIGHT OF YOURS

[crusaderce]

“ Please don't leave me. ”

⁽ @soverina ⁾ ― ： meme - prompted ( not accepting )

How long has it been since he heard such a plea- one that was meant only for him to hear, one that was meant to persuade and convince him to turn back. Perhaps it has been a few years, hundreds, centuries- so long ago that the whispers of those who had said them before were long gone. A tiny speck in a pile of ash- and yet even so ... one would think a VAMPIRE would be able to continue walking- the plea of a human was something that should fall deaf to his ears. And yet Crowley found himself stuck, no longer could he will his boots to continue moving nor could he force his stance to remain faced away from the voice that called to him- perhaps the regret shall come later as he would turn his body.

He would hate to admit it, but he knew when he would see those crystal blue eyes that he would be rendered helpless. Others would laugh at such a sight, the very IDEA that he- Crowley Eusford, a Ruthless Progenitor- would turn at the plea of a human woman. And yet here he was, eyes settling on her form and confliction in a hear that has long sense stopped beating. But if that was the case, then why must it twist in his chest so painfully ?

The WHISPERS OF WAR- chanted in his ears, to turn and continue down the path that could very well lead to self destruction. Such a world like this has become, a world that was ready to drag everything it could seize its claws into. And Crowley finds himself weak, but not to the thorns that would pierce into his skin. Wishing to drag him into hell, but instead he found himself weak against a woman that has chipped away at a wall- watching it crumble and standing on top of the bricks and declared her desires for the world to hear. Crowley cannot remember when he has seen someone so BRAVE & yet so f r a g i l e appearing ...- she was an enigma on its own. Someone that could face the cruelest of words and retort. Someone that would beg a monster like him not to leave, and Crowley found himself wavering.

Maybe he was pathetic, or maybe he was allowing desires that had been covered in layers of dust and cobwebs to finally crawl up to the surface. Just as when his large hand would go about cradling the side of her head- she could so easily fit in the palm of his hands.

He could crush her with one hand, but she could destroy him with a single sentence.

His body bends as his forehead presses against her own- the clashing of harsh scarlet against the water blue eyes made him wonder just how someone could ask him to stay, " It's quite frightening to know how much a word from you can make me bend ... " It was scary to know how much influence she had over him, and how much he allowed her to have.

" ... Ask me once more, and I won't be able to leave you ever again. "

[housedeaubemarle]

The Grand Hunt - Part 4: The Trophy

Part 1: The Call

Part 2: The Tracking

Part 3: The Hunt

(written with @escherstrange-ffxiv who keeps on being amazing and mindbogglingly strong - we did it! We finished it!)

~*~

“Excuse me sir, has something happened? Why does everyone look so worried?”

The airship port worker furrows his brow, scratching his head under his tweed cap. Considering how the questioner has just stepped off the ship, a thick cloak round her shoulders and luggage in hand, the question makes sense.

“Horde attack about two hours past, lady - terrible business. The guards are out there now, sweeping the grounds; Ishgard even sent the Knights, and no wonder - two blasts they threw and the ground shook like nothing else. Hear tell they’ve already sent word to Twinpools for the dragon hunters.” He grimaces. “Think there were some casualties, poor souls.”

The eyes of the lady before him widen visibly. “Fury have mercy.”

The worker shakes his head. “Once a dragon, always a dragon.”

��I beg to disagree,” is a sudden reply. It comes from an Elezen who steps up neatly beside the lady. He’s visibly taller than her, but also wears travel garb, with bags in both hands. “Nidhogg’s hordes don’t speak for those who seek peace with Ishgard.”

The dock worker is about to object, but sees the glint in the newcomer’s dark brown eyes, even as his posture is relaxed, and voice civilly smooth.

“Well, can’t blame a man when half the cliff is gone,” he says gruffly.

“No, perhaps not.” He looks sideways at the woman, whose brow is wrinkled in concern. “Come on, Dine. Sooner we get home, sooner you can get that look off your face.”

She nods, then looks back to the worker. “Thank you. Fury keep you,” she says kindly before moving away with her companion.

The worker bows shortly, still stinging a little from her companion’s remark. He turns back to his duties, not quite hearing a shocked “Cillien!” from behind him. 

Some way away from the airships, Cillien faces his employer, his face the very picture of surprise. “Lady Oudine?” His blue eyes dart to the person with her; the shock increases sharply. “Lord Remont! Wha- how-”

Remont tilts his head in some confusion. “That should be our question considering how we had planned this as a surprise.”

Cilien stares at him as if he were speaking Doman. “S-surprise?”

“Yes, Rem said he’d come home with me to visit Mamma,” says Oudine with no less bewilderment. “We took the first airship out of Tailfeather, and the wind was with us. But we just heard there was an attack-” She stops. “Why are you here?”

“I… ah…” Cillien looks back and forth between his masters, trying to find the right words. “Well-”

“Cillien, I found them!”

Everyone looks up to see a much shorter Hyur running towards them, panting from his efforts. “It took some doing but they’re-” He screeches to a halt, suddenly realising exactly who Cillien is standing with. “Milady! Milord!”

Oudine’s mouth opens again to see another familiar face, in a completely unexpected place. “Lamb?”

Remont’s eyes jump from the dismay on Cillien’s face, to the horror in Lamb’s, to the utter stupefaction of Oudine’s. He puts a hand on his sister’s shoulder bracingly, as he asks, “Who exactly have you found, Lamb?”

~*~

“Isillud…? Izzy.”

The exhaustion is too deeply set, so it takes a few more shakes before the grey Elezen can bring himself to bleary consciousness. Stiffness and aches begin clamouring for attention across his body, resulting in a heartfelt groan. The waking world is too cruel for someone who’s been through as much as he has in one morning. Eventually, very eventually, his eyes focus.

A very tall, rather tanned Elezen, with short chestnut hair and an undercut, vaguely familiar dark brown eyes and attractive cheekbones, looks back at him. He wears a small smile as he places a mug on the bedside table.

“It’s been a while, cousin.”

It is a familiar scene with a familiar feeling: The languid tone like silk in his ears, the aroma of coffee tickling his nose, and too-bright sunlight pushing through the thin curtains.

The only difference is that Isillud Losstarot isn't buck naked; he checked.

That's when he realises he's still in the present: He's at Falcon's Nest, he brought Rewelle here. He sits up but the room begins to spin and he falls back onto the pillow. "Rewelle, will she be alright…?"

That that should be Isillud’s first question makes Remont’s smile grow. 

“She’s been stabilised, the healer told us, but still not awake,” he says, putting the back of his hand against Isillud’s forehead, gently brushing his bangs aside, to check for a temperature. He puts it to the side of the patient’s face as well, for good measure. “We won’t move her home until she regains consciousness.”

Satisfied that there isn’t a fever, he settles a thin blanket back over Isillud, now a little paler from his exertions. Remont sits back in the wooden chair next to the bed.

Isillud leans into Remont's hand, reluctant enough to look a little pained when his cousin returns to his chair but awkward enough to not look him in the eyes. "I see," he simply says.

“I’m sorry to wake you, but the innkeeper said you’ve been out cold since you got them to see to Rewelle. Had to check if you were rational, in addition to being alive. Also to keep Dine from worrying herself to death over you.” The smile becomes rather rueful. “Her concern also involves your brother despite his absence. Do you wish us to let him know where you are?” The dark brown eyes take on a curious gleam. “Or are you expecting him shortly?”

Remont's question assures him that Joshua and Escher weren't around at least, though he silently prays they made it to Ishgard without rousing suspicion. "Just tell Joshua we are…well." His pretty face frowns a little, "...What are you doing here?"

The other man considers his response. Izzy looks like he's been crumpled up and thrown about like a - while still beautiful - scrap of paper despite the stoic message for his own brother. Whatever agreement they'd had in the past - when they’d found out exactly whose son each of them had been - doesn't preclude a little levity to try and ease the tension.

So he just says lightly, “Taking care of you, since it seems you can't be trusted to do it yourself.”

The tips of Isillud's ears flush slightly pink at Remont's answer. He's still your cousin, Izzy, he reminds himself. "I just do it differently," he retorts, sulking slightly. Remont might remember that he sleeps in and used to neglect regular meals but it doesn't mean he'll admit it. Not to family, anyway.

Remont chuckles. In culinary terms, it’d be a dark chocolate brownie of a laugh: delightful, warm, maybe just a little too rich for comfort. Just a touch.

“Very well, little cousin, though I’m not sure I agree with your methods.” He leans back in the chair, looking as comfortable as if it were the plushest armchair known to man. “I’m here to visit my dear old mother - a surprise from her darling boy whose new haircut I’m sure she will adore.” He turns his head left and right rather proudly.

Isillud can't help but smile at the cornrows in the side. "She will certainly have much to say about it. I don't think I fit the style, though I do see its appeal."

Remont almost asks whether his cousin sees the appeal in the haircut itself, or on him specifically, just to see if the smile will become a blush. 

Instead, he continues, “Also I wanted to see my celebrated cousins for myself. Dine says you’ve been acquitting yourselves well in high society.” 

Isillud twirls a lock of his hair, partly flustered and partly proud at Remont's compliment. "It's all Joshua, really. He has a knack for it I never had. And you? Are you still adventuring?"

“I'm flattered that you think me, a spoiled highborn son, an adventurer,” says Remont with a boyish grin. “Say rather I've not been travelling much, not since we’ve expanded the Ranch’s breeding facilities to keep up with demand. Even I’ve had to be on hand, getting up at odd hours to help feed the chicks and check on the nests. Yet I never thought I’d see orders coming from the likes of Doma, so it's worth it.”

"Never thought I'd see the day Remont de Aubemarle becomes a chocobo rancher instead of bounding off on the next adventure. Perhaps you might take up the mantle of Viscount too?" Isillud teases.

The other Elezen just smiles; he's not about to take easy bait like that. “Hardly. ‘Tis Dine’s good management, I believe, much like Joshua’s knack.” He gazes at Isillud for a short minute, as if looking for something. Then his smile seems to grow quite gentle. “Such reliable siblings we’ve been blessed with, Izzy. Strange, isn’t it, that they care so much for us in spite of our own opinions?” 

Isillud snuggles back into bed, loosening a button on his collar; he's not slept fully clothed in bed since childhood and it smothers him so. "As we do for them. It goes both ways."

Remont doesn't miss the flash of neck and collarbone, and also doesn't take such bait, sitting quite comfortably in his chair.

“Will you tell me what happened, if I ask nicely?” His tone would be more suited to asking whether Isillud prefers tea or coffee.

Isillud's beaming smile is half hidden by his pillow and the soft strands of white hair falling over his face. "Let me hear your best attempt first, cousin." Even if Remont is a cousin and older, he's not going to let him off easy.

Remont snorts in amusement, enjoying the look of angelic innocence radiating off the other Elezen. it's the white hair, he thinks - quite a halo-like appearance. He moves his chair, just so he can lean closer.

“If you wanted a bedtime story, you could've just asked.” And because Remont can't help himself, he reaches out to stroke Isillud's soft hair, like he's soothing a child to sleep.

“The innkeeper says a man carried the lass in, and said he'd been hired to escort her to her cousin's in the Nest. They'd gotten caught in the attacks and she'd gotten hurt terribly. Please get a healer at once, the man had said, and a clean, airy room. Don't bother about him; he would shift for himself. Of course that wouldn't do, so this most compassionate proprietor had one of his workers give the man a room while they hastened for help for the poor young lady.

“Cillien and Lamb, the reason we found you, say the innkeeper perhaps had misheard. Lord Isillud had merely been kind enough to offer his escort for Rewelle to her cousin's at the Nest, particularly since her ladyship the Viscountess requested for both the lords’ assistance. They are here because they'd heard of the attacks and became worried.”

Remont's fingers don't stop their slow, languorous movements, just like his calm, even voice.

“It is extremely curious why you didn't take the easier route of the airship, and somehow ended up just outside the Bridge where the cliff got destroyed.”

His touch reminds Isillud of when his mother used to put him to bed, her long fingers gently massaging his scalp as she told stories of illustrious and noble ancestors.

"Extremely curious indeed," he murmurs, hovering over the edge of sleep with such gentle ministrations. "Why, it almost seems like it was entirely orchestrated to get rid of some ne'er do wells who had attacked one of the Viscountess's staff…and perhaps as a warning sign to the ignoble who employed them."

Remont just hums in reply, saying nothing more. He watches his cousin's eyes close fully again, making sure to keep patting Isillud's head till the breathing is slow, and even-paced.

“You and your brother have done much for us, Izzy,” he whispers. “I wonder if you even knew the risks you undertook.” He drops a quick – and to his credit, quite fraternal – kiss on Isillud's brow then rises to quietly leave the room.

Outside, his sister stands, hands crossed, staring at the door of Rewelle's room as if it had committed a cardinal sin. 

Only when he calls her name and touches her shoulder does she look up. The glare softens at once. “Is he alright?”

Remont nods. “Come, we shouldn't talk here. Let’s take a walk outside.”

The siblings head downstairs, where Cillien is having an overdue bite to eat. He stands when he sees his masters appear, but Oudine waves him back down. 

“It’s alright, please carry on with your meal. I must confer with my brother on what to do next.”

“Yes, milady.”

Remont throws him a smile as he nods at Cillien's plate. “Any good?”

Cillien returns a helpless grin. “Aubemarle has spoilt me hopelessly, milord, but it will do. Cook would have an opinion or three, I shouldn't wonder.”

Remont chuckles, and even Oudine finally cracks a smile. “Good man.” He gives Cillien another nod and walks with his sister out of the inn. 

Instinctively, Oudine tucks her hand around Remont's elbow as they begin their aimless stroll. The streets bustle with activity - people are running back and forth, spreading news and rumours alike. Several armoured men move amongst the crowd.

“It seems we owe our cousins thanks,” says Remont in a low voice, unfazed by his surroundings. 

“How so?” 

“Izzy alluded to an attack on one of the staff, and an ‘ignoble’ whom the attackers worked for.”

Oudine stares out into the street, swiftly putting theories and possible pieces together. “Ajax.” Her brows meet in a fierce glare. “That bastard arranged an attack on Rewelle?”

Remont is probably the only person who wouldn't bat an eyelash at Oudine swearing. “I am unsurprised. Even Tramault can't make things disappear if Ajax is involved directly.” He narrows his eyes. “The Losstarots must have lured Rewelle's attackers out of the city. I assume they had plans to get rid of them somehow, but dragonfire would have changed everything. I can't quite account for Joshua, but then, it's best for the head of the Losstarots not to be seen.” 

Oudine’s mind races with this new information. “Then that means they used Rewelle as bait. Joshua and Isillud might have been discovered. They could have been killed.” Her grip around Remont's elbow tightens. “Idiots.”

Remont pats her tense hand. “Rewelle wouldn't have agreed if she didn't want to.”

She shakes her head. “She's a maid in our employ. There is something to be said for power imbalances.”

“Like the one between us and the Gaussains,” replies Remont calmly. “I think they had little choice.”

Oudine falls silent, but her hold on his elbow does loosen a little.

“Why?” She asks at last. “Why would they do so much for us? For Rewelle? They're finally starting to see progress within Ishgard - the name of Losstarot is becoming more known for their generosity amongst the lowborn and abilities to the high. Why risk all that for… for such distant kin as us?”

Remont looks at his sister. “I thought you liked them.”

“I do like them, hence I refuse to treat them as tools to be used when convenient and put away when not,” says Oudine with frustration. “Rewelle too is not an object for us to move as and when we please.”

“...Dine.” now he pauses, so he can look her in the eye. His voice is gentle.

“Have you considered, perhaps, they also like our family enough to help us? That when they heard Rewelle was in trouble, they helped because it was right to do so, Gaussains or no?”

Oudine stares up at her brother's serious expression. Then she looks down, shaking her head at herself. 

Remont pulls her into a tight hug. “I'm sorry I left you with those Ishgardian beasts for so long, Viscount. You seem to have forgotten that there are trustworthy men even here.”

She closes her eyes, leans her forehead against his shoulder. “Then stay longer this time, Rem. At least long enough to help me hunt down one of them.”

He smirks. “You're set on it then.”

“Yes.” She raises her head, and the expression on her face resembles the Dowager's when provoked. “Gaussain has overreached.”

Remont's smirk widens. “Understood, milord. First, we have to take care of our injured.”

She nods. “I have some ideas.”

~*~

Early the next morning, a carriage draws up to the Losstarot residence. While Remont remembers Isillud's tendency to sleep in, they also want to check on Rewelle and Lamb who's been tasked to watch over her while the Aubemarle party returned to Ishgard the evening before.

Remont jumps down to go knock on the front door. 

“Remont de Aubemarle,” says the Elezen to Ser Drouhont. “Apologies for such short notice, but we're here for Lord Joshua de Losstarot. We'd like to bring him to Falcon's Nest, if he would be so kind as to accompany me and Viscount Oudine.”

"Mine apologies, but the young lord was entertaining an eminent Sharlayan scholar until late last night and is now nursing a dreadful headache. He has given express orders to not be disturbed." Drouhont bows deeply. "May I have the honour of passing him a message when he wakes?"

Remont only just manages to bite back a laugh at this frank declaration. He knows of Joshua enough to conclude Isillud isn't the only one paying for their part in this scheme.

“I understand. Pass him my sympathies, and an invitation to the Polar Head inn, in Falcon's Nest. If he can't rise, please reassure him we will return his brother safely before the day is out.”

When he returns to the carriage alone, Oudine just raises her eyebrows inquiringly. 

He grins. “Joshua is indisposed, but I've left the message. I'm sure he'll come find us.” Or not, depending on how long his head keeps pounding.

Oudine casts a doubtful look at him. “I know it's early but isn't he worried about Isillud?”

Remont snickers as the carriage goes on its way to the airship port. “Don't fret, Dine - those brothers have their own way of taking care of each other.”

Meanwhile, Drouhont closes the manor doors with a quiet click then drifts to the drawing room where Joshua lies with an ice pack on his head, shoes kicked off haphazardly and resting at a table leg.

"Fuck you Izzy, you left me with a fucking madman," Joshua mutters, the few short years spent in Limsa showing in his colourful language. He doesn't even move his head to look at Drouhont. "Who was it?"

"Lord Remont de Aubemarle came to bring you to Falcon's Nest to see your brother. I told them you are unwell as per your orders and he said he will return Isillud safely before the day is out."

Joshua tenses. He moves his head but moans when the room spins, returning to his initial position on the pillow. "So he's well, and they've found out."

"That would seem to be so, milord. Shall I prepare a carriage?"

"What for, to yell at him? We all know what happened. I'll yell at him when he comes back." Joshua turns to the backrest - the patterns are more soothing to sore eyes - and curls up. "Keep telling people I'm sick, Drouhont."

"Very well, milord." Drouhont bows and drifts out the door. He wonders briefly if his ex-commanding officer is aware of it yet.

~*~

Ser Lucille sighs at the slightly wider gap between Black Iron Bridge. "Dragonfire, you say?"

"Well, there was a report of a Sharlayan scholar at The Pike doin' some research."

She rolls her eyes. If it's who it is, the dragons are less paperwork. "We'll find them if we have the time. For now focus on weeding out the dragons. They must be around somewhere."

~*~

Sydney takes a sip of Thavnairian chai - hot, burning, and creamy, just the way he likes it. A half-folded letter is tossed carelessly onto a side table. "Nasser."

A tall broad-shouldered Raen pokes his head out from the kitchen, wiping his spice-laden hands. "Sir?"

"Our guest should be reaching the airship landing soon. Could you pick him up and bring him straight to his destination?"

"You do not wish to meet him?"

"I don't want to hear a common thug's desires." He removes his pince-nez to wipe the lenses.

"Very well." Nasser hangs up his apron by the door and heads out.

~*~

Back at the Polar Head, there is a knock, then another, on the door of Isillud's room. 

Lamb the footman had also been tasked to see to Isillud's needs. While it might have been a chore some days ago, Lamb now would run to Dalmasca and back if Isillud wished it. Anything could be done for the one who saved Rewelle.

“Lord Isillud?” 

Isillud groans at the door. Not even when he was in exile was he subject to so many interruptions. Instead he throws the pillow over his head and sleeps some more.

Lamb can’t help grinning when he hears the groan from within. Instead of leaving, he opens the door quietly. Without another sound so as not to disturb the snoozing figure in the bed, he leaves a can of hot water, an enamel basin and a fresh towel on the bedside table. On the chair, he drapes a clean shirt and trousers - originally Cillien’s - since he’s fairly sure Lord Isillud would prefer a change of clothes when he wakes, even if it’s just humble cotton and linen. 

He leaves as silently as he entered, then moves onto another room. Its occupant doesn’t open her eyes until he hovers over her.

She blinks awake, focuses on his face, and offers a smile. “No luck then?” she asks in a hoarse, weak voice. It’s still music to Lamb’s ears after her entire ordeal. 

It is well after midnight, in some blessed hour, when Lamb is jolted awake from where he’s bent over, half sleeping on Rewelle’s bed. His lower back yells mutiny at him, but it is nothing since he’d just felt someone touch his hair.

The candles have gone out, but he can vaguely see her looking at him.

“Thank the Fury and all the gods,” says Lamb fervently, grasping her hand and pressing it to his lips without thinking. He gets up to see her face closer, still holding onto her hand. 

“Where…” she tries, but the sound is weak and creaky. She winces at a pain that shoots into her torso.

“Falcon’s Nest. Lord Isillud rescued you.” 

She breathes out, relieved. “Is he… safe?”

“Yes, he’s alright. He’s fine.” 

“Good…” Her eyes begin to close again, sleep regaining its hold. “Stay, please?”

The grip on her hand gets tighter. “I’m not going anywhere. Not without you.”

Rewelle smiles, then drifts back to sleep.  

He shakes his head. “Think milord’s sleeping off the amount of heroics from yesterday.” 

Rewelle chuckles, though it aches to do so. “No armour, yet a knight.”

Lamb tucks a loose strand behind her ear. “For which I’ll be eternally grateful.”

She looks at him with her dark eyes, taking in his expression. “...thank you, Lamb.”

“Whatever for?”

The smile, even with lips as pale as hers, is rather like early summer: lovely and bright. “Everything.”

Lamb can’t say anything to that, so he just leans over to kiss her forehead. “Could you keep anything down, do you think?”

“Not yet. Maybe… maybe after her ladyship arrives.” Rewelle sighs. “She knows?”

Lamb smiles helplessly. “I think she and Lord Remont worked it out. She said she had a plan for you.”

“...am I going to lose my job?”

Lamb laughs the first hearty laugh he’s done in weeks. 

~*~

“I left him some things in case he woke up before you arrived, milord, but so far he hasn’t stirred.”

While a much-relieved Oudine has gone in to visit Rewelle, Remont laughs outside in the corridor. He holds a box in one hand. “I expected as much. I’ll take it from here, Lamb. Thank you.”

The footman bows with an amused smile, letting his master be. 

“Izzy, I’m coming in whether you're ready or not,” he says out loud. 

Within the room: "If you're not naked and down to fuck, I'm not accepting," Isillud mumbles softly into his pillow through gritted teeth. What does he need to do to get some proper sleep around here??

The door remains shut. From experience, Remont has to surmise he's being cussed at. 

“I've no idea what you're saying, but it can't be good,” he says with much amusement. “Do I have to eat all of these eclairs myself then?”

Oh, to be torn between sweets and sweet slumber, Isillud's eyes snap open but only to consider whether Remont meant literally or figuratively. "Urghhh," he groans, rolling out of bed (still in his previous clothes because he's lazy like that) and shuffling to the door, swinging it open.

To Remont, Isillud is, in a word, amusing: the messy hair, tired circles under his eyes, clouded green irises - no one would believe this was the absurdly beautiful Lord de Losstarot who visited the Viscountess just three days past even.

He takes about five seconds to absorb the details of this shambling husk of a noble, then grins.

“Dear cousin, if you're going to insist on being a hero, then you'll have to bear the consequences.” Remont holds up the box. “Half a dozen of ‘Lord Isillud's favourites’, with Cook's compliments, since ‘his lordship actually asked for it a while ago’.”

He ruffles Isillud's bedhead affectionately. “Have a few of those, then get dressed if you please. Rewelle and Dine would like to see you.”

"I didn't ask for it to turn out that way," Isillud mutters, scratching his hair and his crotch with the coordination of a seasoned pro before taking the box. "...give me half a bell."

After scarfing down three, he finally feels human enough to wash his face, wipe the grime and dirt from his body and change into the clean clothes laid out on a chair, though the gloves stay on. He claps his hands to dispel the dust as best he can, pockets the ear clasp, then heads out to meet everyone, prim and proper as he can look in the given circumstances.

In the corridor, Remont smiles approvingly at Isillud’s improvements. “This way, my lord.” He leads the way to Rewelle’s room, and opens the door.  

Inside, on the same kind of bed Isillud wishes he was still in, Rewelle lies under some blankets, covering her up to her shoulders. Her complexion has barely any colour in it, and the morning light shows scratches and bruises across one side of her face. But her eyes are open and clear, looking at Oudine who sits closely by her bedside.

When those same eyes catch sight of Isillud, Rewelle gives him the widest, warmest smile she can manage. She would have done the same even if he had been covered in slime and mould. 

“Lord Isillud,” she says hoarsely, but in a welcoming tone. 

Oudine glances up at him and though she doesn't really smile, she wordlessly vacates her chair, gesturing towards it. 

Thinking it a courtesy that should last no more than a few minutes (Rewelle needs her rest after all), Isillud stands at the foot of the bed, politely declining Oudine with a shake of his head and a raised palm. 

"How are you holding up?"

Oudine steps aside as her brother uses one hand to gently push him forward. “You won’t hear her from there,” says Remont.

Isillud is duly moved closer to where Rewelle’s head rests on the pillow. She can’t help a tiny laugh at the way the nobleman seems so hesitant, quite unlike any highborn she’s seen before. “Alright enough, milord.” Her eyes shine up at him despite the lack of strength in her voice. “More than I would be without your help. Thank you for saving my life.”

He is about to speak, but stops. What does he say?

You're welcome.

It was nothing.

'Tis your courage that saved you.

Nothing works. She must not know it didn't go to plan. Oudine will have our heads if she knows how much danger Rewelle was in. But they already know she was out where she shouldn't be, and he brought her back; the circumstances are too suspect; too timely.

Between the choice to tell all or to leave questions, he answers the only question that needs answering: He takes out the ruby clasp and gently places it on her blanket. "They will harass you no more, Rewelle. Breathe easy."

Remont sees the ruby glint under the light, and recalls years ago, when he was still regularly haunting all the smoky clubs and lounges highborn Ishgardian sons patronised, how often Ajax's older brothers had complained they couldn't wear other jewels in front of their father. That everything was about those ‘damned Thavnairian rubies’ they couldn't get rid of. Seems like the baby of the family was allowed to bend the rules, thinks Remont with some wry amusement.

That last question is answered as soon as it is asked. It had been five summers in exile, five summers of shame; five summers of having your family torn apart and scattered to the winds, not knowing if anyone had survived. Not knowing if you could survive without hope of regaining what you'd lost.

His sister is reflecting on a different memory. He said that to me when he visited us the first time, thinks Oudine from where she stands. I wonder who gave him similar reassurances. Why it was needed.

Breathing easily, concludes Oudine, would have been a luxury.

From where she lies, Rewelle looks down at the valuable earring. Her eyes widen at the implications. She tries to lift her hand but her body still feels too heavy. So she wiggles her fingers from out of the blankets at least, managing to pinch Isillud's loose sleeve (Cillien's shirt had been a few ilms wider in just about every measurement - a common occurrence when your frame is as rake-thin as Isillud's).

“Then… it's over?” She even glances at her masters, as if to seek confirmation. Remont smiles, Oudine nods. Rewelle looks back up at her rescuer, whose face is all kindness, and tears cannot help but spill over.  

Months of torment ended. Yisa avenged. There is hope again for the normalcy she had once enjoyed before all this. She could walk freely again, on her own, without fear.

Though it hurts to do so, Rewelle breathes in, so she can speak a little louder, with more emphasis. “I can never repay you, milord. Not in this lifetime. But you will be in my prayers every night. Thank you, truly.”

Isillud's sleeve slides a little off his shoulder, gooseflesh showing on his grey complexion. He simply nods. He doesn't deserve her gratitude, not when he's the reason she's in bed. He looks at Remont, silently pleading, ‘Can I go now?’

Without missing a beat, Remont steps forward. “Come, Rewelle. Lord Isillud is a rather shy individual,” he says, winking at her conspiratorially, and moving her hand gingerly back under the blankets. “And Lamb will turn us into porridge if we keep you up any longer. Do us a favour and rest; there’ll be time later.”

Rewelle smiles through the tears. “Yes, milord.”

Remont puts both hands on Isillud’s shoulders, not bothering to put the sleeve back. “Almost done, cousin. Courage now,” he murmurs as he steers Isillud out of the room, without letting him go. 

They wait outside, Isillud confused – more courage? Again? –  while Remont is poker-faced and keeps his hands on Isillud’s shoulders. Then Oudine emerges from the room a minute later, shutting the door behind her. 

She gazes at Isillud, more serious than he has ever seen her. Every time they have met before, whether in public or private, Oudine has always had a welcoming smile and a kind greeting for him and Joshua. This… is new.

“You risked so much more than your lives, do you know?” she says, low-voiced, her grey eyes directed straight at his green ones. “This is Gaussain we face. Gaussain, with direct line to Durendaire. Gaussain, with such wealth and power, Haillenarte had to be extra careful in rejecting their offers - Count Baurendouin himself would have capitulated, if not for Lord Stephanivien.”

Remont squeezes his shoulders; warmth goes through Isillud’s skin. Courage.

“Gaussain holds us Aubemarles in his hands, at least until recently. I was too young and desperate to understand when he offered to help after our father died, but that is Tramault’s way: find the weak, hold them by the neck until they go limp or die.” Her fists are clenched tight, white at the knuckles. “And Mamma decided it was fine to ask you to do this, to endanger yourselves for us, when you and Joshua have worked so hard…!”

In one swift movement, Isillud is yanked from Remont’s hold into a tight hug, Oudine’s fierce whisper beside his ear and her arms around his shoulders.

“Don’t you dare do this again, Isillud de Losstarot. We could have lost all of you…!”

She knocks the wind out of him with her sisterly embrace and the implications of his involvement begin to dawn on his groggy mind.

The rules have changed. They are no longer commoners where what the rich do have nothing to do with them, nor does getting rid of a spoilt brat's thugs simply stop at the thugs. In Ishgard, the chain is long, sometimes obscured by multiple links as it trails up, up the long ladder of command, winding and doubling back on rungs.

They have yanked the chain. Once Tramault de Gaussain cottons on to what he and Joshua are doing, there is no turning back.

But this is what Joshua wants. For noble House Losstarot to be where it was. Where we were. If it means knocking House Gaussain off its pedestal, it is the path we choose to walk.

A hand slowly, carefully creeps up Oudine's back and pats it. Once, then twice. 

We will rise, we will rise. And when we return then the reckoning begins.

"Thank you for your concern, cousin."

[May the Rood ever flourish.]

-

The End (for now).

[ampleappleamble]

—

Debriefing the Crucible Knights went about how Axa had expected it would. She and her companions had staggered out of Heritage Hill only to be immediately escorted back to Crucible Keep along with the little girl they'd rescued from her family crypt, the poor waif falling asleep on Edér's shoulders as they'd made their way through town. Once inside, they'd had their wounds tended to and their bellies filled as they recounted the events of their harrowing mission, repeating themselves over and over to one bewildered Knight after another. By the end of the evening, rumors, misinterpretations, and half-truths about the "end of the Curse of Heritage Hill" were all anybody in Crucible Keep could talk about– unless one preferred to gossip about the mysterious Watcher of Caed Nua instead.

Restful sleep was coming harder and harder to Axa, and the troubling trend had continued as they'd bedded down in the barracks that night. She'd woken the next morning feeling worse than she had when she'd laid down the night before, and her attitude had very much reflected it. She'd particularly let her ire show when her breakfast had been interrupted by a man who'd introduced himself as Penhelm, a name she recognized as the one belonging to the Knight that Osric had sent her after the day before, hoping she could recover his family's breastplate from the snooty little gossip.

"Is it true that you're not actually a Watcher, but merely a Cipher? Like the... others of your kind down at Hadret House?" Arrogance and curiosity mingled in his insufferable smirk as he spoke, not even having had the decency to wait until she'd finished chewing.

"That depends," she'd replied, her mouth still full of bacon. "Is it true you steal people's family heirlooms after talking shit about them and getting them kicked out of the service?"

Needless to say, she had gotten nowhere trying to convince him to do right by Osric. So on her way out, she'd passed through the scriptorium and, with a careful eye and a whispered word to Aloth, she'd left Crucible Keep that morning with Penhelm's soul lineage affidavit tucked away in her satchel.

She had been on her way to Hadret House to have the affidavit examined for authenticity, hoping to gain a bargaining chip that might pry the heirloom armor from the little bastard's hands, when a messenger had appeared at her shoulder, letting her know that her presence had been requested... at Hadret House. She'd almost laughed at the absurd coincidence– until the messenger told her exactly who had summoned her there, his tone low and reverent.

"Who is Lady Webb," she'd asked, "and what exactly does she want with me?"

The messenger had been young, with a casual, almost flippant air about him, but he had still had the good sense to lean close and keep an eye out for eavesdroppers. "You don't know her, milady? She's the directress of Dunryd Row, Defiance Bay's investigative peacekeeping force. No one's actually met her face to face, in... I don't know, a long time. But they say that despite her advanced age, her mind is a steel trap and her will is an iron fist. She and her Cipher operatives keep the city safe from threats that most kith are never even aware exist..."

Axa had listened, at first. She'd tried to listen. But as he'd spoken, as he'd thrust the wax-sealed summons into her hand, she'd found herself distracted by an all-too-familiar feeling. Something was pulling her toward Hadret House, something that had nothing to do with Dunryd Row or Ciphers or Lady Webb, and she'd turned away from the messenger in the middle of his speech to pursue it, helpless to resist.

He was there. Just outside of Hadret House, on the far side of Brackenbury. He was there, and she approached him–

–she approached him, any confidence she'd had before dissolving now in her sick stomach, trickling down her trembling limbs. She couldn't do this.

She had to do this.

He was already watching her, but the impact of his gaze was no less powerful than if he'd turned dramatically to face her. It was as though he knew what she was going to tell him already.

Of course he does, she thought. He knows all. He knows what I've done. What I–

"You look as though you've seen a ghost, dear."

Lady Webb chuckled in her throat, but her face did not laugh with her. "Although, perhaps you have. After all, you are the Watcher who wrested the ruins of Caed Nua away from poor, mad Maerwald, as well as the Watcher who ended the... 'curse' of Heritage Hill, if my reports are correct." The old, frail woman rose from her desk, crossed the room with a deceptive grace. "And they are."

Axa kept her head low, but lifted her eyes to meet Webb's gaze. "Why have you asked me here–"

"–You know why I have asked you here, child."  With anyone else, she would have felt that she was being chastised, but with him, she only felt kind, fatherly concern. "Your fellow missionaries have reported a change in your behavior recently. You neglect your duties, you are quiet and distant. What troubles you so to make you act this way?"

Tears stung her eyes. Her whole body quaked. Her breath caught in her throat. The quivering pit in her stomach broadened and her heart fell into it, and for a second she thought she might actually vomit, but instead it was her confession that flew from her mouth:

"Your Eminence, I... forgive me, but I wish... I wish to leave the order."

He folded his hands, frowning–

"You're not a stupid woman, Axa Mala. You should know why I've asked you here. Defiance Bay's concerns are my concerns, you see, and evidently, they are yours as well. But neither of us is overly fond of beating around the bush, so let's cut straight to it, shall we?" Lady Webb stopped at her bookshelf, turned to face Axa again, her keen eyes piercing the other woman's mind, her soul. "Why do you seek the Leaden Key?"

She had known, somehow, that Webb would ask her that, but it still took her by surprise. Nevertheless, Axa didn't waste time asking how she'd known. "I'm looking for someone. A man I saw in the ruins of Cliant Lîs. He... did something to me. And I need him to undo it."

The wizened old Cipher nodded at her, then, let her eyes slip shut, her face twitching–

–"You have been nothing if not an extraordinary asset to us," he said, slowly pacing as he spoke. "Your conviction in our cause has inspired your contemporaries to greatness, and together with them you have brought the light of redemption to thousands, if not more! What could possibly shake your faith in yourself like this? Your faith in us?"

Somehow, without her realizing, he had ended up crossing the room to stand directly before her. He looked into her eyes, worry and sorrow emanating from him. "What's wrong, Anthea? What happened?"

She squeezed her eyes shut but she still saw him in her mind, still saw the compassion in his eyes that a despicable sinner like her could never deserve–

Lady Webb opened her eyes, gasping softly.

"The gods are cruel," she murmured. "The man you seek is none other than the grandmaster of the Leaden Key himself: Thaos ix Arkannon."

The name echoed in Axa's head, the bearded man's masked face floating before her mind's eye. It felt like she'd always known him, or at least known of him, but only now could she put a name to the face.

"Thaos," she whispered–

"I cannot stay, Your Eminence. I'm... I'm tainted, wicked and weak." Anthea lowered her head, letting her tears fall to the floor. "I've done something terrible, something I can never undo, an unforgivable act of blasphemy. I fear– no, I– I know I am beyond redemption."

She curled in on herself, wracked with sobs, unable to continue. Shame and guilt burned her face, but she knew she deserved to burn for real, to burn forever. But even to cleanse her soul with holy flame would be too kind a mercy for a traitor of her magnitude. How could he, how could the gods ever forgive such a miserable wretch like her?

His hand fell onto her shoulder, steady and strong–

"He is a man unlike any other," Webb explained, her voice quiet and serious as she made her way back to her desk, hands folded behind her back. "The Leaden Key is an organization dedicated to obscuring, muddling, and destroying information, including any evidence pertaining to themselves or their activities. There's no way to be sure, but what little we've found suggests that they have supposedly existed for over two thousand years." She looked pointedly at Axa, one eyebrow cocked. "And it was Thaos who founded them."

"But that's impossible," Aloth blurted. "Even the longest-lived elves haven't even come close to..." He trailed off, twisting his fingers together anxiously, dropping his gaze to the floor.

"You'd think so, wouldn't you?" Webb sighed, one drooping corner of her mouth briefly lifting into a smirk. "But when it comes to the Leaden Key, little is as it seems. If what we've managed to learn about him so far is true– and there's no guarantee that it is, but it's the best explanation we've got– he is one of Woedica's Favored, an agent of the Queen Who Was who has been gifted with the blessing of eternal life. In practice, this means that every time he dies, Thaos' soul is guided by Her hand to be reborn in an almost identical vessel, and once he reaches puberty, he Awakens to all of his past lives at once, in order to continue the work of his Mistress on Eora. So strong is his soul, in fact, that he can supposedly even project it out of himself and into others, crushing the will of lesser souls and usurping their bodies for his and his Queen's own ends." She regarded Axa with pity. "He is almost certainly the most dangerous, elusive, powerful man on the face of the planet. And while I can't deny being grateful for the company, you have my deepest sympathies that your path has also crossed with his."

"Why was he in Teir Nowneth the night the machine was activated in Heritage Hill?" Axa demanded, her head spinning. "What was he doing in Cliant Lîs? How did he Awaken me–"

–"So you have sinned," Thaos proclaimed gravely. "You have erred, stumbled on your path, and now you would cast yourself into the Void. Is that it?"

Anthea wanted to cover her face with her hands, wanted to run, to hide, but she could barely even find it in herself to draw the breath to answer him. "What I've done, no god could forgive me. Now or ever."

He brought his other hand around, then, gripped both of her shoulders firmly. "My child, my dear child, if you truly believe that then I have utterly failed you, as a teacher and as a leader. There is no sin so grevious that it cannot be absolved, no path so dark the gods cannot light the way to salvation! As long as you do not turn your back on Them, They will never turn Their backs on you."

She knew it couldn't be true. It was too good to be true, and nothing in her life had ever been half so good. Not since she was a child. But... would he really lie to her like that? He never had before. At least, she didn't think he had. Anthea slowly lifted her head to look at the man who would save her from herself–

Lady Webb sat back down, letting her chin hover just above her steepled fingers. "That's what I'd like to know. There's quite a lot I'd like to know about Thaos ix Arkannon and the Leaden Key, as I rather imagine you would, too. That's why I summoned you here today– to work with you, pool our resources, compare notes. The Key has been... active as of late, and where they go, you seem to follow, righting their wrongs. As you did in Heritage Hill." She smiled, her thin, red mouth like a slit cut into her face. "I'd like you to continue to do so, and to report your successes back to me. In return, Dunryd Row's resources shall be at your disposal should you need them, and with a bit of luck– well, a lot of luck, in truth– perhaps we two can corner him and get our answers at last."

There was something behind Webb's eyes, something mysterious and passionate and unrelenting that Axa couldn't quite place, but she knew instinctively that it wasn't for her. Whatever it was that drove this woman, whether it was a thirst for vengeance or a desire for the truth or a need for justice, the ferocity behind her eyes was only for Thaos.

She could respect that.

"Very well," Axa replied, "I accept–"

–"I... I want to believe that's so, Your Eminence," she stammered, "but even if it were, I don't deserve Their clemency."

"Some among the gods would see you punished, it's true," he murmured. "But the sting of the lash passes in an instant compared to the eternity afterward in which you shall enjoy the boundless mercy, the cleansing forgiveness, the all-consuming love of the gods. That is what makes one deserving– devotion. As long as you devote yourself to Them, They will return the faith you place in Them a thousand fold."

The tears fell afresh from her eyes, this time from sheer relief. Somewhere deep in her heart, she must have known he could make it all right, could show her the path to absolution. He always did. That was the real reason she had come here, wasn't it? What had she been so afraid of?

Thaos smiled warmly at her, his hands still gently clutching her shoulders. "Stay with us, Anthea. We need you. The gods need you. They have entrusted you with the truth of Their Word– will you return that trust?"

"I will," she whispered–

"Now, before you go– what was that bizarre display you put on just outside our door?" Lady Webb was already looking through another stack of documents, but she spared Axa a bemused glance. "It's not a good look, dear, standing around with your eyes glazed over and your mouth agog. You're liable to catch flies."

"I'm an Awakened Watcher," the orlan retorted curtly. "The memories from my past life tend to be a bit more vivid than the ones other Awakened kith might experience. And I don't exactly control what I see or when I see it."

The old Cipher shrugged. "I meant no offense. Only trying to warn you that you may have unwittingly broadcasted your whereabouts to someone who seems to have a bone to pick with you." She gestured vaguely toward the door to her office, and it swung open, an orlan man stepping in as though he'd been expected.

Webb looked at Axa the way a jaded teacher might at an impudent pupil. "Well? Show him the affidavit."

She blinked, and somewhat reluctantly, she reached into her satchel and produced Penhelm's affidavit, the one Aloth had pilfered for her at Crucible Keep. "Uh... Can you tell me if this is genuine?" she muttered.

The older man took it from her, looked it over briefly, and shook his head, wrinkling his nose in disgust as he handed it back. "Not at all," he pronounced. "Being perfectly honest, it's a rather shabby forgery, too."

Webb sighed, shuffling her papers. "Thank you, Kurren; you may go." The orlan gave her a respectful nod and left to return to his work downstairs as the directress of Dunryd Row grinned wryly at Axa. "Now you have your bargaining chip. Penhelm is waiting for you on the street outside. Do exercise caution, dear, and try to keep the blood off of my siding. We've only just had it repainted last month."

"Actually," the little woman smiled slyly, "I think I've got a better idea."

—

[agirlingrey]

Here's one more: Elia Martell or Lyanna Stark?

MAKE ME CHOOSE.

*shakes fist at you and quickly NOPEs out of here* I hate you.

I love both of them, as you very well know, and I really hate Rhaegar’s thoughtlessness, his obsession with the prophecy and his stupid, emo face. ( Really, you were a crown prince and a grown man, get your shit together! ) And I also think that BOTH WOMEN DESERVED BETTER! I will fight anyone who fights me on this.

That being said, I am going with ELIA MARTELL. And the reasons for that are not character-based ( we know very little about both women, sadly ) but rather, NARRATIVE-based. You and I have talked about this in length, but let me put our hours of screaming and incoherent chats in caps into proper words.

The reason why I tend to feel for Elia Martell SLIGHTLY more than Lyanna Stark is because of the different ways the narrative ( and the characters ) treat the two of them after their respective deaths. Elia’s death was HORRIBLE BEYOND WORDS, and Lyanna’s ( dying of childbirth at the age of sixteen ) was not pleasant either. However…

WARNING: Spoilers and quotes ( lots of quotes ) from all of the books, as well as lots of feels and anger. You have been warned.

Lyanna is remembered as a bold, beautiful young woman who was wronged by a man who should have known better ( all of which is TRUE ), died a tragic death and whose memory people honour still. I don’t think anyone has ever said a negative word about Lyanna, ever? Sure, Cersei calls her ‘insipid’ at some point but come on… Cersei. Even TWOIAF, supposedly written by a maester, points out that Rhaegar’s behaviour was wrong, and explains how Lyanna’s brothers and betrothed rushed to defend her honour as soon as the prince gave her the crown of flowers. All in all, I would say that Lyanna Stark has been PUT ON A PEDESTAL, especially by Robert Baratheon but also by the general consensus in Westeros. I would even argue that a portion of the fandom is guilty of this, too.

Lyanna had only been sixteen, a child-woman of surpassing loveliness. Ned had loved her with all his heart. Robert had loved her even more. She was to have been his bride. ( A Game of Thrones - Eddard I )

“She was more beautiful than that. Ah, damn it, Ned, did you have to bury her in a place like this? She deserved more than darkness…" ( A Game of Thrones - Eddard I )

“Having Stark beside him will only make him worse. He’s still in love with the sister, the insipid little dead sixteen-year-old. How long till he decides to put me aside for some new Lyanna?” ( A Game of Thrones - Bran II ) *LOL Cersei.

“Beautiful, and willful, and dead before her time.” ( A Game of Thrones - Arya II )

“You never knew Lyanna as I did, Robert. You saw her beauty, but not the iron underneath.” ( A Game of Thrones - Eddard VII )

“I had no wish to marry after Lyanna was taken from me, but Jon said the realm needed an heir.” ( A Game of Thrones - Eddard VII )

“Good,” he said, smiling. “I will give Lyanna your love, Ned. Take care of my children for me.” ( A Game of Thrones - Eddard XIII )

“"Robert was betrothed to marry her, but Prince Rhaegar carried her off and raped her,“ Bran explained. “Robert fought a war to win her back. He killed Rhaegar on the Trident with his hammer, but Lyanna died and he never got her back at all.” ( A Game of Thrones - Bran VII )

Tyrion looked down upon the farewells from the high deck of King Robert’s Hammer, a great war galley of four hundred oars. Rob’s Hammer, as her oarsmen called her, would form the main strength of Myrcella’s escort. Lionstar, Bold Wind, and Lady Lyanna would sail with her as well. ( A Clash of Kings - Tyrion IX ) *There was literally a ship in the royal navy, named after her.

Where was the beautiful Lady Lyanna that King Robert had named in honour of the maid he’d loved and lost? ( A Clash of Kings - Davos III )

“You ride like a northman, milady. Your aunt was the same, Lady Lyanna.“ ( A Storm of Swords - Arya III )

“Prince Rhaegar loved his Lady Lyanna, and thousands died for it.“ ( A Dance with Dragons - The Kingbreaker )

“The northern girl had a wild beauty, as he recalled, though however bright a torch might burn it could never match the rising sun.” ( A Dance with Dragons - Epilogue )

These are by no means a COMPLETE collection of quotes about Lyanna, but there you have it. She is remembered fondly ( except by Cersei, understandably ), or at least never negatively. She is bold, beautiful, with an ‘iron underneath,’ willful, great rider, lovely, etc… I don’t doubt that all of these things were true, that her end was tragic and she was caught up in something she had very little control over. (*side-eyes at Rhaegar aggressively* ) But my point is, people in the narrative grant her the RIGHTFUL respect she deserves.

Now, what about Elia Martell?

Aside from Oberyn and later Doran, we never get the same level of CONNECTION about her like we do about Lyanna. In fact, she is often described as the following: the woman that her husband overlooked in front of everyone, who had ‘frail health,’ and who watched her children die before she was raped and murdered. Yes, we get a few ( very few! ) positive comments about her as well, but even they are TAINTED with these reminders. Let’s take a look.

Princess Elia of Dorne pleading for mercy as Rhaegar’s heir was ripped from her breast and murdered before her eyes. ( A Game of Thrones - Daenerys I )

Some said it had been Gregor who’d dashed the skull of the infant prince Aegon Targaryen against a wall, and whispered that afterward he had raped the mother, the Dornish princess Elia, before putting her to the sword. ( A Game of Thrones - Eddard VII )

Ned remembered the moment when all the smiles died, when Prince Rhaegar Targaryen urged his horse past his own wife, the Dornish princess Elia Martell, to lay the queen of beauty’s laurel in Lyanna’s lap. ( A Game of Thrones - Eddard XV )

“Is a secret still a secret if everyone knows it?” In Casterly Rock, it was common knowledge that Gregor Clegane had killed Elia and her babe. They said he had raped the princess with her son’s blood and brains still on his hands. ( A Clash of Kings - Tyrion IV )

No doubt he was waiting for Prince Viserys to mature, or perhaps for Rhaegar’s wife to die in childbed. Elia of Dorne was never the healthiest of women. ( A Storm of Swords - Jaime II )

“But that was the tourney when he crowned Lyanna Stark as queen of love and beauty!” said Dany. “Princess Elia was there, his wife, and yet my brother gave the crown to the Stark girl, and later stole her away from her betrothed. How could he do that? Did the Dornish woman treat him so ill?” ( A Storm of Swords - Daenerys IV) *No, Daenerys. Rhaegar treated his Dornish princess ‘so ill.’

“It is not for such as me to say what might have been in your brother’s heart, Your Grace. The Princess Elia was a good and gracious lady, though her health was ever delicate.” ( A Storm of Swords - Daenerys IV )

“Viserys said once that it was my fault, for being born too late.” She had denied it hotly, she remembered, going so far as to tell Viserys that it was his fault for not being born a girl. He beat her cruelly for that insolence. “If I had been born more timely, he said, Rhaegar would have married me instead of Elia, and it would all have come out different. If Rhaegar had been happy in his wife, he would not have needed the Stark girl.” ( A Storm of Swords - Daenerys IV )

“Elia need not have been harmed at all, that was sheer folly. By herself she was nothing.“ ( A Storm of Swords - Tyrion VI )

“Elia of Dorne,” they all heard Ser Gregor say, when they were close enough to kiss. His deep voice boomed within the helm. “I killed her screaming whelp.” He thrust his free hand into Oberyn’s unprotected face, pushing steel fingers into his eyes. “Then I raped her.” Clegane slammed his fist into the Dornishman’s mouth, making splinters of his teeth. “Then I smashed her fucking head in. Like this.” As he drew back his huge fist, the blood on his gauntlet seemed to smoke in the cold dawn air. There was a sickening crunch. ( A Storm of Swords - Tyrion X )

It had to have been the madness that led Aerys to refuse Lord Tywin’s daughter and take his son instead, whilst marrying his own son to a feeble Dornish princess with black eyes and a flat chest. ( A Feast for Crows - Cersei V )

The old knight hesitated. “Princess Elia was a good woman, Your Grace. She was kind and clever, with a gentle heart and a sweet wit. I know the prince was very fond of her.”Fond, thought Dany. The word spoke volumes. ( A Dance with Dragons - Daenerys IV )

A bride for our bright prince. Jon Connington remembered Prince Rhaegar’s wedding all too well. Elia was never worthy of him. She was frail and sickly from the first, and childbirth only left her weaker. After the birth of Princess Rhaenys, her mother had been bedridden for half a year, and Prince Aegon’s birth had almost been the death of her. She would bear no more children, the maesters told Prince Rhaegar afterward. ( A Dance with Dragons - The Griffin Reborn )

His choice would have been a young maiden not long at court, one of Elia’s companions… though compared to Ashara Dayne, the Dornish princess was a kitchen drab. ( A Dance with Dragons - The Kingbreaker )

Poor victim Elia. Who was frail in health. ( Did we mention it like, twenty times? Good. ) Who was raped after watching her children get murdered. Okay so she was sweet and kind but also vERY FRAIL OF HEALTH!!! 

Like I said earlier… THIS ISN’T ABOUT ELIA VS. LYANNA. I absolutely loathe it whenever I see these women pitted against each other. Though that seems to happen very rarely, thankfully. This is about HOW THE NARRATIVE TREATS ELIA AND LYANNA DIFFERENTLY. I am very sad about both of their deaths, and firmly believe that both deserved much, much better. But the fact that Elia doesn’t get the respect she deserves even after she died ( except from those who personally knew and loved her ) tugs at my heartstrings.

That’s why I always find myself more drawn to Elia Martell. Trying to compensate for the narrative’s misgivings? Maybe. SHE WAS ELIA OF DORNE. SAY HER NAME.

@faithserum | ACCEPTING.

[fableweaver]

Arc of the Masked Queen

“And then what did you do milady?” the Lady Madeline said as she poured Lucia another cup of tea. Lucia took a sip of the tea calmly. She had told her story to the ladies of court almost every day now, yet they still wanted to hear it. The women of court surrounded Lucia, serving her every whim and simpering like dogs at her feet.

“Oh come now you have heard this story a thousand times!” Cecelia said. The shift in the Queen’s solar was subtle, but noticeable. The center had shifted to orbit around Lucia now, Cecelia and Pricilla now seated a little more to the side. Neither seemed pleased by this change. “It is disgusting and mannish of her to…”

“Lady Cecelia,” Lucia said coolly, and she saw the queen wince, her round cheeks quivering. “I prey to Lun that you do not suggest that I let my baby die? After all, a mother would do anything to protect her child even when it resides under her heart.”

“No Lady Jeanne,” Cecelia said softly. Though her eyes burned with hatred, her face was milky white with fear. Especially since the other women of court were glaring at her for interrupting the tale. Pricilla sat tearing up a pastry with her nails, her pretty face set in a pout.

“Now, where was I?” Lucia said taking another sip. She continued the story, telling it with drama and each time the ladies gasped or moaned in response to the horror of the story. Yet at the end they always applauded her, praising her for her bravery. Lucia, modest by most standards, tried not to let the praise go to her head, but it was very hard. Even the usurped Queen’s glare could not balance the adoration of the other women. Deciding that there had been enough praise however Lucia changed the subject.

“Pricilla,” Lucia said and the Regarian princess stopped tearing at her pastry to glare at her. “Have you thought of who you wish to marry yet?”

Her cheeks flushed becomingly, and she looked to her mother. She was only fourteen, still too young to think of a husband yet. Cecelia did not rise to her daughter’s aid, stirring her tea so hard Lucia feared for the fine porcelain.

“I’m too young milady,” Pricilla answered.

“Come over here, Lady Madeline make room for my dear sister,” Lucia said, and the women shifted so Pricilla now sat with Lucia in the center. “Now every girl dreams of her perfect husband, surely there must be a boy you have your eyes on.”

There was a chorus of agreement from some of the other women, mostly the younger ones. Lucia had noticed that the older women still clustered around Cecelia, but the younger around her.

“Well yes, since the Knights of the Sect came…” Pricilla said blushing. Depending on which god one served a member of the Sect could marry, the knights of the Sect being those that could.

“Oh you must have so many fawning over you!” Lucia said. “I can imagine them sending you flowers to win your favor.”

Pricilla blushed more because this probably was true, she was beautiful and the king’s daughter so of course there were many suitors. Lucia had steered the conversation in that way and the young women began discussing the valor or nobility of a certain knight or lord. All kept pushing for a relative of theirs to Pricilla, stating his noble traits and eligibility. Pricilla, now finding her center of power, began to preen under the attention.

“Lady Jeanne.” She turned at the call and saw Sherah standing at the edge of the crowd. She had a slight smile on her face, but she motioned Lucia over.

“Excuse me ladies,” Lucia said. “Pricilla, you take over here.”

Pricilla smiled at her and she stood and made her way through the maze of chairs over to Sherah. They said nothing as they walked from the Queen’s solar and back to Sherah’s office.

“Even I’m impressed by what you did last week,” Sherah said as she sat at her desk and Lucia sat across from her. “And so is Arian. The masses practically grovel when the knights go by. But this cannot last as you know. The Legion will begin to influence them again.”

“What can I do?” Lucia asked.

“Become their totem,” Sherah said with a bit of a grin. “There are many groups of people out there and we must reach all of them to guarantee that the Legion does not gain control. I’ve written up a schedule of a tour of the city that you will make once a week and visit each of the districts to gain the people’s favor.”

“But this will only work for Cair Leone,” Lucia said.

“That is all we can do right now the rest of the Sect is working on the rest of the Kingdoms, but we cannot send soldiers into other kingdoms without risking a war. Right now, King Lonna is very touchy, not just angry and sad over his son’s mutilation but afraid. I’ve heard rumors that his sons are riding the borders hunting for trouble or any reason to start some. And I know not to ask Jeanne to intervene.”

“The real Jeanne would never ask him to let soldiers into his borders and he knows this,” Lucia said. “He would never believe a letter sent by me, and we could never convince Jeanne to write one.”

“Exactly,” Sherah said. “The Mark and Nyrgard hold the Borderlands and that is where most of the trouble is coming from. And of course, to get to them we have to go through the Mark.”

“What of asking Hyria to help?” Lucia asked.

“That would mean asking for passage over their rivers,” Sherah answered shaking her head. “It’s not that King Wildlough wouldn’t agree; he would just charge us an arm and a leg to rent his ships just because he could. If King Tyr would ask us for aid in this matter, we could ride through the Mark on the pretense of aiding another kingdom, the Mark would have to let us through or risk upsetting Nyrgard.”

“Is that at all likely?” Lucia asked and Sherah laughed.

“I would more likely see Elrik cuddle a puppy than see Sten ask us for aid,” Sherah said. “Besides which my spy in his court has reported some dangerous happenings. It seems Sten has passed power on to his son Roland, walking a thin legal line in the peace treaty he signed. My half-brother Armand has left the Court of Legends to reside in a hunting lodge south of the mountains, leaving his son Modi in court.”

“Have you told this to the King?” Lucia asked.

“Right now, there is nothing we can do,” Sherah said. “The passes are closed in the high mountains. Only message birds get through, we can’t go and correct the problem. And without an invitation from either king riding through their lands could be very dangerous. I’d like to meet this Baroness of Stóstund though, she sounds impressive.”

“Who?” Lucia asked.

“She is the one who orchestrated this whole cue,” Sherah said; “And chose the perfect time to execute it too, just before the passes closed. By the time we can get through the mountains Roland would have been in power for months and be twice as hard to shake loose.

“That means that there are at least two Kingdoms that are near open war with us. Our allies would be Lir, Xin, Hyria, and Dridia. Daun would be little help cut off in the north, and Alda would do nothing if war was to come.”

Lucia said nothing to Sherah’s word choice of ‘us’ since she herself was Markian. She didn’t care either. If the Mark went to war with Regis Lucia would protect Jeanne even if that meant siding with Regis.

“And then there is the Legion eating at us from within,” Sherah said wearily.

“Let me see the schedule,” Lucia said and Sherah handed it over. Lucia still had trouble reading Regarian, having to mouth the words as she went over the list. “I can do this. Will I have guards with me?”

“You have a full ten knights who have sworn their loyalty to you,” Sherah said. “Bedivere was made their captain.”

“Good,” Lucia said pleased. “When will I go?”

“Tomorrow if that is alright,” Sherah said. “You inspired awe in the people. Not fear which I am amazed by. When you said mercy, they lost themselves to you. Many tell the story as if you commanded the gods to strike that man down and walked on air over the people.”

“Will I be able to live up to that?” Lucia asked. “I didn’t show them kindness, I felt like I was being cruel to them.”

“If so, they saw it as kindness,” Sherah said. “I think though the reason you were so successful in gaining their loyalty was because you were once like them. You know what a poor man wants to see a noble as and so unconsciously mirrored that desire. We nobles cannot meet the poor man’s expectations of us because we do not know what that is.”

Lucia thought that over and supposed it was true. She always had an image of a noble lady, a kind yet firm figure that was elegant and beautiful. Jeanne had met that image to Lucia. When she had gotten to know Jeanne’s flaws, her temper and pride, she realized that she would never do well among the other nobles or as a symbol for the peasants. It was these flaws that had made Lucia want to protect Jeanne. Lucia and emulated her impressions of Jeanne, smoothing away the temper and pride so that she could function in court. Of course, this made her the ideal image for the poor man, sweet and elegant yet kind and firm.

“I will do my best,” Lucia said.

The next day she rose early and went out to the courtyard where her contingent awaited. There were ten knights, Sir Bedivere among them, waiting by a palanquin. This palanquin was bigger than the last and more open, with flowing blue curtains and a fine seat inside. It took eight men to lift this one and they too waited patiently for her.

“Milady,” Bedivere said as he bowed to her. “May I introduce you knights to you?”

“You may,” Lucia said mildly.

“This is Sir Nathan, Sir Herbert, Sir Philip, Sir Robert, Sir Tristan, Sir Albert, Sir Jason, Sir George, and Sir Fredric,” Bedivere said as each knight knelt before her and offered her his sword. She touched each in kind with a gentle word and then turned to her palanquin bearers. The last time she had not acknowledged them, but this time she was out to make an impression.

“And your names?” Lucia said and they looked at her startled. They rattled off their names nervously and Lucia nodded to each in kind. “I am in your care,” she said before she mounted the palanquin and sat in the chair. This time the palanquin moved smoothly, the curtains barely even twitching. The knights surrounded the palanquin and they left the palace grounds.  

They marched out through the noble houses, passing other palanquins and nobles in carriages. All saw her and waved, Lucia answering their waves with a nod or a wave as well. Out of the central wealthy district they crossed into the merchant district. Here people watched her palanquin go past with a touch of awe and when one person dared wave to her, she returned her wave with wave of her own and a smile. After that more people dared to wave at her and she heard a few cheer her name as she went past.

She earned more attention when she would command a stop and exit her palanquin. She went out to a shop of mage enchantments and bought a few, commanding her purchases sent to the palace. She repeated this in a few more shops, the merchants nearly falling over themselves as she entered. Usually servants were sent out to buy things or some very well-off merchants got to bring goods to the palace. Nobles rarely did their own shopping.

They circled through the merchant district and into the craftsman district, where again Lucia stopped to visit some shops. The craftsmen were wary of her, a rare animal among them, but when she complimented many on their work, they warmed to her. As she left the craftsman district, she heard a few call out her name in praise.

As they entered Whore’s Ward Lucia noticed her knights tense immediately. Here even in the middle of the day, women lingered on stoops, corners, and verandas, advertising their wares. No one waved here, the whores watching her go past either startled or glowering. The men all fled at the sight of other armed men on the street. At one corner Lucia commanded a stop again.

“Milady I do not think…” Bedivere said suspiciously but Lucia had already gotten down from the palanquin. The women watched her warily and Lucia singled out one particularly gaudy woman. She was Xinian, her face painted red and hair dyed red. She wore red silks open wide enough to show her cleavage.

“Greetings,” Lucia said. The woman looked at her with challenge, but her eyes flickered to Bedivere behind her.

“Greetings milady,” the woman said as she performed a clumsy bow.

“Would you like a ride?” Lucia asked waving to her palanquin. The woman’s eyes widened, and she looked from Bedivere to Lucia in confusion. “Come, it is rather fabulous actually.” Lucia took the whore’s arm and led her over to the palanquin. Too startled to protest the woman let Lucia push her up onto the palanquin and into the seat. Standing alongside it, Lucia motioned her party on.

They marched on, Lucia walking alongside the palanquin which now bore the painted whore. The other whores watched amazed and then began shouting out to the whore in the palanquin.

“Wave princess!” They shouted. “You’re a noble you have to act it!”

Smiling now the whore in the palanquin began waving to her comrades. At first, she waved like the others, raising her arms over her head. Then laughing she sat still and tried to mimic a noble lady, and this brought more laughter from the streets. At last they stopped and the whore was let down, grinning from ear to ear.

“Thank you, milady,” she said this with genuine respect and Lucia smiled at her.

“We are not so different you and I,” she said lowly so that not even her guards heard her. The whore’s smile faded, and Lucia turned away, mounting the palanquin. She motioned them on, and they left the woman to be embraced by her comrades.

They left Whore’s Ward for Rogue Town. Lucia felt a lump in her throat to see the thieves’ quarter, memories of Seth rising up to haunt her. Worst there was nothing she could do here. At the sound of armed men most of the inhabitants ran for their holes. Lucia knew they watched them march through Rogue Town intently, but none showed themselves.

Lucia and Sherah had been unable to think of how to win the thieves and criminals of Rogue Town over. They were too cautious to earn their trust, and too greedy to just throw money at them. Force would only cause resentment and fear was something they lived on. There was nothing to do here but pass through to the Hangman Quarter. Here there were still many of the people Lucia had faced.

While she had called for mercy the king did not agree and ordered those who had been captured to be put in the stocks or pillory, some even sat in crows cages over the streets. Lucia called a halt at the square and dismounted again. Bedivere followed, as well as one of the palanquin bearers with a bucket of water and large loaf of bread. Lucia went about offering water and bread to the men and women imprisoned in the square. Some she even washed their faces or feet.

By the time she left the square was ringing with Jeanne’s name, thought Lucia only felt a sour taste in her mouth. They thought her kind and merciful, but she only felt cruel. A truly righteous person would set them free, not offer them petty comforts of water and bread. And she knew she did not have the power to set them free, so how was she kind?

They moved on into Poor Man’s Paradise and Lucia put a perfumed handkerchief to her nose. She was no stranger to filth, she had lived on a farm, but the garbage dump was on a whole other level of disgust. The people here were just as filthy and crude, staring up at her palanquin in awe.

The knights led them to the center of the ruins where a large clearing lay. They set down the palanquin and the knights gathered baskets that had sat at Lucia’s feet. Sherah had arranged fresh food to be brought, but Lucia was not to distribute it. Instead she sat in her palanquin as the knights passed out the food, looking regal. When someone shouted a thanks, she inclined her head or waved to them. This set her apart from them, but still linked her to the food that was being handed out.

There wasn’t much food to hand out and when done they packed up and left. The knights almost had to beat away a few starving souls who had not gotten food, and as they left Lucia saw a fight break out over some of the food. She turned away, feeling like she had done more harm than good.

On their way back they passed through Odd Terminal. Again, there was little for her to do here as few people lived her. People just passed through this district, it was occupied mostly by warehouses. Lucia did see a few of the Rhodin and was surprised when they would stop to bow to her. She waved back to them but wondered why they actually acknowledged her. Curious, when they passed a Rhodin atop his wagon she called for a stop and hailed the man.

“Greetings sir,” she said to him and the Rhodin grinned and tipped his hat. They were almost level with each other on their perches. “Why do you and your kin bow to me as I pass? It is unlike the Rhodin to bow to royalty.”

“Royalty you are princess,” the man answered. “We owe much to one who stands against the Legion.”

“Why?” Lucia asked.

“They hunt us,” the man answered. “Unlike any have hunted us before.”

He tone was dark with fear and without saying more he urged his wagon on. Lucia turned and realized she was blocking traffic and commanded her palanquin on. Unsettled she thought over the Rhodin man’s words as they made their way back up to the palace. It was late in the day now, twilight starting to fall, and lamps lit over the city.

Lucia wondered if maybe the Rhodin could be persuaded to aid in the fight against the Legion if their people were in such danger. She knew little of history, but she knew she had never heard of the Rhodin fighting in any wars not even the Kings’ Wars. If not warriors though the Rhodin might make great spies, no one knew the roads like the Rhodin.

She resolved to talk it over with Sherah, but as soon as she returned to the palace her time was claimed by nobles who wanted to hear stories of her journey through the city. Over dinner in the great hall Lucia regaled them with her journey, and they treated her like one of the bards come to tell a tale. She was the center of attention, not because the nobles wanted to hear anything about the people of the city but because they were impressed by her. Lucia supposed some just wanted to get on her good side, but some seemed genuinely impressed by her.

She felt a bit of fear at this; they thought her someone of such confidence that she had commanded an entire mob that had tasted blood to stand down. Lucia thought it was only because she had killed the ring leader, cut off the snake’s head. She was no noble lady literally and was doing her best to act the part.

What didn’t help with her fear was Elrik who glared at her from his father’s side. He was always an enemy, but Lucia feared her new popularity had earned Jeanne a few more enemies. Not just those nobles envious of the attention, but those who saw her as a threat to their own plots. Lucia didn’t know them all, and trusted Sherah to keep her safe.

The days wore on and the constant attention was wearing on Lucia. She had never been one used to attention and she found she missed much of the solitude that had defined her life before this. The preparation for Isra’s Night didn’t save her from the attention, noble ladies begging to know what Lucia would wear to the masquerade. Lucia found now she was the one setting the fashion and decided it was high time she put it to the test.

“And what kind of mask will you wear?” Pricilla asked over tea. Cecelia still sulked at the edge, now even many of the older women had abandoned her.

“A Markian mask,” Lucia answered and the women all gasped.

“Are you sure?” Pricilla asked. “What does a Markian mask even look like?”

“They are made of embroidered cloth,” Lucia answered. “Women’s usually only cover their noses and eyes, while men’s cover the nose and mouth. Though there are some infamous that cover the whole head. Made of white cloth these are sewn to look like skulls and are worn by raiders, thieves, and bandits. They raid on Isra’s Night, taking young maidens away into the night to be their brides.”

The women all screamed or fanned themselves in mock terror, Lucia had told it with mock horror. But those tales were sadly true; many bandits did adapt those skull masks and raided villages to kidnap young girls. Only they were not interested in brides, only a night to take what they wanted. Her mother had locked her away most Isra’s Nights when she had gotten older, though she still remembered festivals as a child of candied sweet meats and peaches.

“Maybe I will wear a Markian mask,” Pricilla said, and many women started to agree but Lucia spoke up.

“I think I would like to see Regarian masks,” Lucia said. She really did want to see Regarian masks. She felt like the women would all get poor imitations of a Markian mask and she couldn’t bear the disappointment of it. “After all I am Markian so I should wear a Markian mask. I’ve heard such wonderful things about Regarian masks as well; all of you must have grand masks to wear.”

“Oh we do,” Pricilla said, her eyes shining with pride. “I have one that…”

“Don’t spoil the surprise!” Lucia said. “I can’t wait for Isra’s Night.”

“Won’t you feel left out wearing a Markian mask while we all wear fine Regarian masks?” Cecelia asked with barbs to her voice.

“Not at all milady,” Lucia said smoothly. “I will make sure to get the finest Markian mask I can.”

Cecelia only scowled at her and returned to her tea. Lucia was making her own mask. It had been some time since she had gotten the chance to sew, but she was enjoying the chance. She bought a fine blue silk and many different colored threads of the same quality. At first it took her several tries, a few failed masks, but at last she got one that looked marvelous. She had decorated it with a large cloth flower she had made, making several more to wear in her hair. She had made it to match one of Jeanne’s Markian gowns, planning to wear that to the masquerade.

“Lucia, convince Jeanne she is being foolish,” Bryony said as Lucia sat admiring her work. “She wants to go to the masquerade.”

“Everyone will be wearing masks!” Jeanne argued. “I don’t see what the problem is.”

“It is fine Bryony she’s right,” Lucia said. “Everyone will be in masks and so drunk that even if she lost her mask no one would recognize her. What will you wear Jeanne?”

“A Regarian mask,” Jeanne said as she retrieved the mask. It was a full-face mask, a fine white porcelain formed into the shape of a woman’s face. It had a bit of gold leaf around the eyes and brow but otherwise was unornamented. “I’ll look like any other courtier with this and one of my average gowns.”

“Good,” Lucia said nodding.

Isra’s Night came and both Lucia and Jeanne dressed for the masquerade. Bryony stayed behind in the rooms, stating the night was for the young. They left together and were joined by Bedivere in his own mask. His was a full face mask as well, ornate and with a large pointed chin. Going out into the main hall Lucia nearly gasped. Everyone was dressed in fine costumes of brocade and gold, masks and headdresses so ornate the people under them could hardly move. It was beautiful and for once Lucia was glad to be here.

Jeanne stuck by her side for a time, but when she saw Nicodemus who was obvious because he still wore his spectacles over his mask, she left to join him. Lucia let her be, she was in the center of a group of Regarian noble ladies, all praising her mask and costume. She smiled and praised them in turn, genuine as they all wore very impressive masks. She was surprised how long they could all talk about masks and jewels and clothes, yet she was finding she was enjoying herself.

As always there was a lot of food, all of it rich and delicious. Lucia had put on a bit of weight, but she was pregnant which was to be expected. Aldan wine flowed freely, along with brandy and cordial. Music played in an orchestra to the side, fine music that was beautiful and echoed through the hall. There was dancing as well, not the wild dances of Hyrians or the folk steps of the Mark, but elegant waltz and ballroom dancing.

At first Lucia and the other noble ladies just watched the dancing, but slowly they were drawn away by men asking them to dance. Isra’s Night was famous for arduous pursuits, sometimes not with one’s husband or wife. It was the thrill of a mask and disguise, thinking that no one would know if one were unfaithful. Lucia watched the dancing wishing that Seth were here. The servants all wore plain wooden masks, and she could only imagine what he would have made of those. Part of her kept watching the servants as if hoping he would appear.

She jumped when someone grabbed her elbow from behind and turned. She met not a plain servant’s mask, but a Regarian man’s mask. Elrik wore a porcelain mask, the chin pointed and square, with gold leaf and a crown on his head. She could see his blue eyes were like ice behind the eye holes.

“Let us dance milady,” he said as he dragged her out onto the dance floor. Lucia quickly got her feet under her as they began to dance, grateful for the lessons she had received. Elrik guided her around the floor in dizzying circles, his hands on her waist and holding her hand gripped her forcefully. “You have been busy.”

“Yes milord,” Lucia answered, trying not to wince as his hand held hers with bruising force. “Have I displeased you milord?”

For a moment she thought he would hit her, but then he reached out to her and stroked her cheek. Lucia’s father had been kind to her mother at times when she had been young before age and his old injury made him bitter. To her that kindness had seemed like a trap, honey to keep the bees coming back. Elrik never showed such kindness, he was to be king and thought people owed him loyalty so never need to work for it. This hint of kindness sent fear through Lucia and she tensed.

“Your mask is so beautiful,” he said softly. “It will be a fitting death mask.”

She felt the point of a dagger press against her side just as someone took her hand. Lucia was whisked away out of Elrik’s arms, back into the flow of dancers. She did not see the prince’s reaction through his mask but heard a startled shout from him. Laughter rang from the other dancers and audience and Lucia turned to her partner. The man wore a harlequin mask, a patchwork hat covering his head and matching his ragged costume.

“Milady,” Bower said with a tip of his head. The fool had stolen the prince’s lady.

“Thank you Bower,” Lucia said relieved. “You’re the best.”

“As always milady,” Bower said lightly.

They continued to dance, Bower a bit tipsy on his feet but otherwise graceful as he led her over the dancefloor. Soon she switched partners and was in a whirling dance around the floor, masks passing by in a blur. She left the floor to sit in a well-lit area, still aware of Elrik and the threat he posed. She sat catching her breath, watching the dancers, and though it was warm in the room and lights everywhere Lucia felt a sudden chill down her back.

It was not her brush with death; she had come so close so many times she felt almost immune to such things. Instead she felt a sense of dread settle over her, like something had happened that would change matters of fate. She shook her head and stood to return to the revelry of the night, determined to enjoy the night of the dead. The celebration went into the early dawn of the next day before people finally retreated to their own beds.

Lucia, walking the gardens with Bedivere close behind her, looked for Jeanne. She feared going alone, but also feared Bedivere discovering she was a double. She peeked under bushes and in barrows, finding many people in various states of dress passed out from the night’s revelry. The only reason Lucia was not with them in such a state was because she had abstained from most of the wine, preferring to keep her head. She was tired though and longed for bed but would not leave without Jeanne.

At last she found her in a gardenia bush, asleep on Nicodemus’ chest. They were wrapped only in his cloak from the night’s chill, bare limbs wrapped around each other. Lucia took a moment to see that Jeanne looked almost happy and wondered how they had managed to couple without causing her pain. Maybe she had endured the pain for his sake and so gained happiness from that.

“I found her,” Lucia said to Bedivere over her shoulder, letting the branch she held shield Jeanne from his view. “Please turn away while I wake her and her chosen lover.”

“Yes milady,” Bedivere said, face unreadable behind his mask. He turned and walked away until he was out of sight, but still within earshot. Lucia turned back to Jeanne and Nicodemus and reached out to wake them gently. Jeanne grabbed her wrist and woke with a start, her eyes wild with fear before she recognized Lucia.

“Get dressed,” Lucia whispered. “You too milord.”

Nicodemus’ eyes were unfocused and afraid but they both dressed in the bush.

“Je… I’m sorry,” Nicodemus said softly. “If Lucia hadn’t found us…”

“Hush,” Jeanne said kindly leaning over to kiss him.

“He is right milady,” Lucia said. “This cannot continue this way.”

“I will not…”

“I know,” Lucia said raising a hand to forestall a tirade. “The forbidden only makes the heart grow fonder. I am only impressing caution on your part, you cannot meet publicly like this. The only reason rumors have not spread is because I am the public figure and have never been seen with Nicodemus.”

“I will think on your words,” Jeanne answered as she put on her mask and stood. She and Lucia left the gardens with Bedivere in tow and none the wiser. The court spent the day in bed recovering from the night’s revelry before life returned to normal. Her pregnancy had not changed, though she was pestered with questions daily about the child.

“I had my own discomfort every morning,” Sherah said over tea. They had regular meetings to go over news, plans, and laws. Lucia was still learning things daily from Sherah and was glad for this mental break from their work.

“Any tips?” Lucia asked.

“Mage enchantments seem to be the only thing that worked for me,” Sherah said. “But I’ve heard herbs sometimes work. In Lir they put all their stock in medicine, but I was too worried about poison to try any.”

“I think I will stay clear as well,” Lucia answered. “Of both enchantments and herbs.”

If someone could bribe an herbalist to poison her, they could bribe a mage to do the same.

“Suit yourself,” Sherah said mildly. She looked ready to start on their lessons again, picking up a book when there was a tap at her window. Sherah put the book down and stood, going to the window. A messenger bird sat on the perch, having tapped on the window with its beak. The Kingdoms all employed different messenger birds, all varied in type and appearance. This one was a small kestrel, Sherah handling it with care with a leather gauntlet.

She put the bird on a perch and removed he message tied to its leg.

“Who’s it from?” Lucia asked.

“My man in the Court of Whispers,” Sherah answered sounding puzzled. “He just sent word that the queen was with child.”

Lucia didn’t answer as Sherah broke the seal and opened the message. Her face went white as milk and she fainted, dropping the message which rolled under her desk. Lucia leapt to her feet and shouted, going to Sherah’s side.

“Someone help!” Lucia shouted as she knelt next to Sherah. She touched her face and took her hand trying to rouse her. She feared some magic had been set on the paper, but Sherah was at least breathing. The door burst open to show Bedivere and another knight had barged in weapons drawn. They saw Lucia next to Sherah and relaxed a little.

“I think she’s fainted,” Lucia said her hands shaking.

“Let me see milady,” the other knight said. Lucia stood back, Bedivere helping her to sit in a chair before he hurried out to fetch a physician. The other knight lifted Sherah up and laid her on a sofa. Bedivere returned with a physician who went over to Sherah. He produced some smelling salts and Sherah woke with a start.

“Easy milady,” the physician said. “You’ve just had a fainting spell, not uncommon in women of your age.”

Lucia saw Sherah’s eyes clear and flash a bit at that and she stood.

“I’m fine,” she said turning to Lucia. “Where is the message?”

“Under there,” Lucia answered. Before either of them could act the other knight bent and retrieved the message from under the desk and handed it to Sherah.

“Come,” Sherah said and Lucia followed her out of her office. The two knights followed them, but the physician stayed behind. Lucia had never seen Sherah like this, she wasn’t angry or commanding, and instead she seemed almost afraid. She led the way out of the women’s hall and to Arian’s private study, not even bothering to knock as she went past the two guards at the door.

Inside Arian sat at his desk, across from him Duke Drakon sat in one of the chairs. Both men turned at their entrance, Arian looking like he was about to argue until he saw the look on his sister’s face. She walked right up to his desk and dropped the message on his desk. Lucia noticed it was written in Lirian, hastily as the ink was blotted in places. Arian took it and read it, his face going pale. He dropped the paper onto his desk and Lucas picked it up but frowned.

“What does it say?” Lucas asked, Lucia guessing he could not read Lirian.

“King Son Rue is dead,” Sherah answered, her eyes never leaving her brother’s. “The Emperor Feng Loe now rules Lir.”

“This cannot be true!” Lucas said dropping the message as if it would bite him.

“It is,” Arian said shaking his head. “Her messenger didn’t even bother writing it in code, no point in hiding the truth from your enemy when he already knows it.”

Lucia sank down into the open chair, her heart suddenly cold.

“When?” Lucas asked at last seeming equally stunned.

“On Isra’s night,” Sherah answered. “He dated it. Other than that, there is nothing more to the message. If my spies are still alive, they would have fled. A coupe like this sends the rats running from the ship before it sinks.”

“Loe will need time to gain control of Lir,” Arian said. “We need to strike back before he solidifies his hold.”

“Not as long as you think,” Sherah said shaking her head. “On Isra’s Night I bet a good many of the nobility were already gathered at the palace. He would have kept them alive, sending back word to their families and holdings that he has hostages. Give him maybe a few weeks; Loe will have gained control of at least half of Lir.”

“Ruled by fear,” Arian said mildly. “We can break his hold on his people, without that he does not have an army.”

“Maybe,” Sherah said but Lucia sensed there was more to it. “I have word though that Loe deals with the Legion, he can gain aid by them.”

“The Legion is a nuisance, but it is no army despite their name,” Arian said turning to his papers.

“It will take time for us to gather our armies,” Lucas said. “And winter is setting in.”

“We cannot give Loe the winter to settle in,” Arian said. “We will be sending word to the bordering kingdoms to marshal their armies.”

“Alda will not move,” Lucas said. “Dridia has never had that much of an army though their spells will be helpful. And the Mark…”

He trailed off and turned to Lucia. They all knew Lonna would only give aid at the last moment, if at all. Arian held Jeanne as leverage of Lonna’s good behavior, even after cutting off his son’s hand Arian still had Jeanne so Lonna could not strike back. However, Lonna could drag his feet in aiding Arian in a war, claiming difficult times Lonna could deny sending men to Arian’s aid. Lonna would defend his own borders, but he wouldn’t lift a finger to defend Regis.

“I am sending word regardless,” Arian said to his brother-in-law. “And send word to Xin for mercenaries. I am putting Nicodemus on the Lirian throne.”

Lucia felt her heart constrict at that, Jeanne would not take this news well. She looked at Sherah and saw she her lips pulled thin in displeasure. She did not speak out however only nodded to her brother and left. Lucia gave a quick bow as well and hurried after Sherah.

“Milady, are you alright?” Lucia asked as they walked, Bedivere shadowing them.

“I need to be alone,” Sherah answered, her voice strained. “Please go tell my son of this.”

Lucia nodded, knowing where she would find him. She parted with Sherah and went off to the library, commanding Bedivere to wait outside. The library was deserted as always, dusty and dark. She found Nicodemus and Jeanne in one aisle browsing the books guided by a lantern.

“Lucia, what is it?” Jeanne said sounding worried. She must have looked pale because Jeanne led her away to a nearby chair and sat her down.

“The King of Lir is dead,” Lucia said. Jeanne grew still and Nicodemus sank into a seat as well. “Sherah received a message from one of her spies. Feng Loe is calling himself emperor and has taken the Lirian throne.”

“This will mean war,” Nicodemus said.

“Arian already plans on putting you on the throne,” Lucia said, and Nicodemus covered his face.

“No,” Jeanne said quivering with either rage or fear, knowing her it was probably rage. “I will not stand by as you go to war.”

“I won’t go to war Jeanne,” Nicodemus said raising his face to look at her. For a moment Lucia saw how he looked at her, his whole heart for Jeanne. “Arian knows I am not a warrior. He will lead his armies into Lir and restore order, putting me on the throne.”

“But that will mean…”

“We will be apart,” Nicodemus said finishing her sentence. “There is nothing we can do Jeanne, I will have to take the throne or Lir is left with Feng Loe.”

“There must be others in line for the throne,” Jeanne argued.

“There are but Feng Loe probably has had them all killed,” Nicodemus said. “If any still live their claim is lesser to mine, no one will support them, and they would seek my death for being closer in line. After war Lir will need a strong king. Jeanne, I have loved you for your loyalty and love for your country; you have done what is right for your people. Lir is my kingdom and I must serve it.”

Jeanne looked near tears and at the same time so proud of Nicodemus. She simply nodded turning away.

“This war will take time Jeanne,” Nicodemus said kindly rising to his feet and stepping towards her. She sighed as he wrapped his arms around her, kissing the top of her head. “It could be years before Arian wins out over Feng Loe. We have until then to be together, Arian will not ask me to join him on the war front in fear of risking me to assassins. We’ll have that time together. After… Well you could come and visit me in Lir, I’m sure you would love it.”

Jeanne hid her face in his shoulder and Lucia rose silently and left them alone. As she walked the dark aisles of the library Lucia wondered at a strange possibility. Nicodemus had said Jeanne could visit him, but maybe Jeanne could live with him. Jeanne couldn’t return home; the change would be noticed and once she was home the Mark may try to make war with Regis. For the sake of peace Jeanne had to stay away from home.

But Lucia had taken Jeanne’s place here; if the real Jeanne left it would never be noticed. It might be safer for Jeanne to leave the Court of Miracles. She could go with Nicodemus to Lir, not to be his wife as she was sterile, but to be his lover at least. It would be a happy ending for Jeanne, and for Lucia that was enough.

Lucia stopped walking when she realized she had been thinking of taking Jeanne’s place permanently. Had she grown so used to it? Had she become a person that craved power? She wasn’t sure, and while she feared Elrik she also enjoyed her lifestyle here. The thought of giving that all up was not appealing. And where would she go? Back home to squalor? Lucia shuddered at the idea of returning to her hovel. She would never find the same level of wealth as she had here anywhere else.

Her hand went to her belly, she had yet to feel the child in her or even show her pregnancy. This was her child, not Elrik’s or Jeanne’s, but hers; and she would not abandon it to the Court of Miracles. Feeling better about this decision Lucia walked away out of the library, her head held high.