Honor was for chumps.
That was the principle Aurion lived by ever since he'd been spirited away to this deeply inconvenient world. In the modern age, honor meant absolutely nothing. It didn't pay rent. It didn't fund early retirement. It certainly didn't buy beachfront property.
If the other squires in the melee wanted to fight with honor and fairness, he fully supported their journey of self-expression. He, on the other hand, would be doing whatever was necessary to win that purse.
Compound interest demanded sacrifice.
Lining up and waiting for the horns, Aurion sized up the competition. Most of them looked like they'd trained by aggressively hitting fence posts. As a squire to a hedge knight whose entire retirement plan was "win tourneys or starve," Aurion had been thrown into melees since he was tall enough to hold a shield without falling over.
He rolled his shoulders beneath his used mail and tested the weight of his blunted sword. Rounded edge. Dull tip. Still steel. Steel didn't care about honor.
Ser Gregor—the budgeting asshole—had, of course, issued him equipment that looked suspiciously like it had survived two wars and a barn fire. The mail sagged. The straps creaked. One gauntlet had someone else's initials scratched inside. He could practically smell the hepatitis.
Talk about inspirational.
To his left, a broad-shouldered boy adjusted a borrowed shield like it might bite him. To his right, a lanky one mouthed a prayer with his visor already down, probably asking the Seven for dental coverage. Further along, two squires wearing the same heraldry grinned at each other and bumped shields.
Back-to-back. Fight fair. Protect each other. Aurion almost felt bad.
Almost.
Alliances were the first thing to die in a melee. You didn't win by being the strongest. You won by not being where the strongest was swinging. Ideally, you also won by being where the weakest was standing.
The horns sounded.
The line immediately dissolved into chaos—boots digging into dirt, shields slamming, the dull clang of blunted steel ringing across the field.
Aurion did not charge heroically forward.
He sidestepped.
Two overeager idiots collided mid-charge like particularly ambitious battering rams. One stumbled. Aurion stepped in and drove the rim of his shield into the boy's nose with a crunch that was anything but noble.
Down he went efficient as always.
A sword swung at Aurion's right. He barely caught it in time, steel ringing loud enough to make his teeth hum. That would be a bruise tomorrow. Possibly several. He made a mental note to complain loudly about it later.
The attacker pressed hard—a thick-armed squire with a grey kite shield painted with some very bright, very stupid towers. No finesse. Just enthusiasm and inherited confidence.
He tried to bulldoze Aurion backward.
Aurion obliged.
One step then two. Three.
Then he stumbled—dramatically, convincingly. He deserved an oscar or whatever equivalent Westeros had.
The grey shield surged forward to capitalize.
Aurion dropped. Not back, down to the ground in one smooth motion.
He hit one knee and swept his sword in a vicious horizontal arc at ankle height. The blunted edge smashed into shin just above the sabaton. The joint folded with a yelp that would echo nicely in memory.
Before the boy could process his new relationship with gravity, Aurion surged upward and shoulder-checked him.
They went down together.
Aurion landed on top.
He did not punch the helmet.
Helmets were hard. Aurion was not that stupid.
Instead, he pinned the boy's arms, wrenched free the very expensive shield, and used it to batter the helmet.
Once.
Twice.
Thrice.
With each hit, the struggling got less coordinated and more regretful. A whimper escaped the dented steel.
Good enough.
Aurion dropped the shield, confiscated the sword, and stood. He ignored the brief flicker of guilt about possibly gifting someone lifelong headaches.
CTE was a future problem.
He bent over, dragging air through his visor.
Worth it.
A shadow fell across him.
"Stand."
Calm. Commanding. Used to being obeyed.
Aurion straightened slowly and turned.
White shield. Black swan, wings spread dramatically like it paid rent on that field. Fresh paint. Polished mail. Proper fit. The whole ensemble screamed, My father owns three vineyards and a minor fortress.
The visor lifted.
"I am Brandon Swann," the boy said evenly. "Heir to Stonehelm."
Aurion tilted his head. "Good for you."
"You fight without honor."
"And you fight with a pretty bird on your shield," Aurion replied evenly, his tone mocking. "We all have our crosses."
A flicker of irritation. Suppressed quickly.
"Yield."
Aurion glanced at the chaos around them—mud, groaning squires, someone crying about a tooth. Like hell he was going to just surrender to some spoiled lordling.
"Tempting," he said. "But I'm saving up for an island."
Brandon lowered his visor with a crisp metallic click.
No more talking.
He advanced properly—even steps, shield angled, sword tight and efficient. No wasted motion. No flailing.
Annoying.
Their first clash rang sharp and clean. Brandon's blade struck with practiced precision. Aurion blocked, arm vibrating from the impact, and snapped a cut toward the hip.
Blocked.
Reset.
Brandon pressed with a tight sequence—high cut, shield pressure, low thrust. Controlled. Disciplined.
Aurion feinted high and snapped low.
Checked by Brandon's lowered shield.
Steel scraped along Aurion's mail, hard enough to promise colorful bruising.
"Oh," Aurion muttered. "You're actually competent."
Brandon did not dignify that with a response.
They circled. Boots grinding into churned dirt. Around them, the melee raged, but this was different—contained. Focused. Nobody wanted to interrupt their little duel, it seemed.
Brandon lunged.
Aurion slipped and tried to hook his leg; his move was anticipated and shoved back with some effort.
They broke apart, both breathing harder now.
Brandon advanced again, cuts clean and practiced. Aurion blocked, parried, deflected—working harder than he liked.
He tried another low sweep.
Brandon jumped it cleanly and answered with a tight strike that cracked against Aurion's helmet hard enough to rattle his ancestors.
The world became fuzzy and if someone looked hard enough, they could probably see cartoon birds circling his head. Ser Gregor was going to kill him for that, if he survived this.
When it cleared, Brandon stood there—sword pointed at Aurion's throat, shield high, stance pristine dripping with sickening victory.
"Yield," Brandon snapped loudly.
Aurion stared at the blade inches from his visor.
He smiled.
He had endured professional bullying under Ser Gregor. He was not losing to a swan enthusiast.
"Sure," he said.
And kicked dirt into Brandon's face.
Just a sharp scrape of boot through churned mud.
The visor was down; however the eye slits were not airtight.
Brandon flinched slightly.
But enough of an opening.
Aurion slapped the blade aside and lunged inside his guard. He drove his forehead into Brandon's visor. The clang was deeply satisfying.
Brandon staggered with a grunt.
Aurion hooked his foot behind Brandon's ankle and shoved hard with the shield. Balance—so carefully maintained—finally betrayed him.
Gotcha.
They crashed down. Aurion twisted mid-fall so Brandon hit first.
Hard.
Air whooshed from noble lungs.
Aurion kicked the sword hand before it could recover. The blade skidded into the mud.
Brandon tried to rise—
Aurion kneed him in the ribs, just under the plate edge.
Aurion dropped onto him, pinning his arm and wrestling away the swan shield.
He pressed the rim of the shield against Brandon's throat and leaned.
"Still want honorable?" Aurion asked pleasantly, chest heaving.
Brandon bucked, strong and furious, even now trying to escape properly. Aurion drove an elbow into the inner thigh earning a hiss of pain for his efforts.
Dirty but extremely effective.
Aurion leaned close so his voice carried through steel.
"You were winning," he said conversationally. "That's the issue."
A horn cut through the field.
Melee over.
Aurion eased up and stood.
Brandon lay there a moment, breathing hard, pride very loudly injured.
Aurion offered a hand.
Brandon slapped it away and stood on his own.
Aurion shrugged. Fine, he could be petty too.
"Good fight," he said.
Brandon said nothing, but the glare behind the visor promised vengeance.
Aurion looked down at the swan shield in his hand. He grinned with some effort. The adrenaline was still pumping. But he was going to feel the new bruises and cuts tomorrow.
Honor was for speeches.
Winning was for people who wanted beachfront property.
-
Aurion discovered, as he was being peeled out of his armor like an overcooked crab, that victory had a very specific aftertaste.
It tasted like iron. And regret. And possibly someone else's dried blood.
"Hold still," the healer snapped.
"I am holding still," Aurion protested, which would have been more convincing if he weren't actively trying to lean away from the rag soaked in something that smelled like despair.
They had dragged the injured to a long canvas pavilion at the edge of the tourney grounds—white from a distance, significantly less so up close. Inside, the air was thick with crushed herbs, sweat, and the quiet misery of boys discovering the concept of consequences.
Aurion sat on a low stool while a thin, woman with deceptively strong arms yanked his mail off his aching body. It slithered off him in a metallic sigh and pooled at his feet.
He stared down at his torso.
Splotches of purple and an ugly red. Quiet the combination.
"Well," he said. "That seems excessive."
The healer made a noncommittal noise and pressed two fingers into the bruise blooming across his ribs.
Aurion made a sound normally reserved for stabbed livestock.
"Nothing broken," she said flatly. "Yet."
"Comforting."
She moved to his helmet. "Headache?"
"My ancestors are currently staging a revolt," he admitted.
The helmet came off with a sticky tug. Cool air hit his sweat-soaked hair, and for a brief, transcendent moment, he considered weeping with gratitude.
Then the healer grabbed his jaw and turned his head left. Then right.
"Good. If you vomit, faint, or forget your own name, you come back."
"What if I forget someone else's name?" he asked. "There are several I'd be happy to misplace."
She gave him a look that suggested she had buried funnier men.
"Sit."
He sat.
Around him, the pavilion hummed with groans and muttered curses. A boy two cots down clutched his hand at an unnatural angle while insisting he was "perfectly fine." Another lay staring at the ceiling, whispering prayers that sounded suspiciously like bargaining.
Aurion flexed his fingers experimentally. His right gauntlet hand ached in a deep, vibrating way that implied tomorrow would be educational.
The healer crouched and prodded his shin less than gently.
He sucked in a breath through his teeth. "Careful. That one and I have an understanding."
"Mm."
She pressed harder, and he reconsidered several life choices in rapid succession.
"Bruised," she said at last. "You'll walk. Poorly."
"Walking poorly is sort of my brand."
She reached for a jar of something green and aggressively herbal. Aurion eyed it with suspicion.
"If that's going inside me—"
"It's going on you."
She smeared it across his ribs.
The smell hit immediately. Sharp. Bitter. Revolting.
He grimaced. "I smell like a salad that lost a war."
"Better than rotting," she replied.
Fair.
A shadow shifted near the entrance of the pavilion. The canvas flap stirred with a draft of cooler air, and several heads turned despite themselves.
Aurion didn't bother looking.
If it was Ser Gregor, he would hear about "wasted opportunities" and "inefficient footwork" before he heard his own name.
If it was Brandon—
Well.
He adjusted on the stool, wincing as his ribs objected.
"You stitched anyone noble yet?" he asked casually.
The healer didn't look up. "Nobles can afford maesters."
Aurion smiled faintly. That much was true, maesters were for the nobles and the rich. Regular peasants like him made do with cheap healers like he currently was.
Cheap healer or not, he planned on living long enough to need her again.
The canvas flap snapped open.
Aurion closed his eyes briefly.
"Well," came a familiar voice, rough with age and deeply unimpressed with humanity as a whole, "If that isn't my halfdead squire."
Aurion looked up.
Ser Gregor stood just inside the pavilion, helm tucked beneath one arm, beard streaked with grey and amusement. His armor was scuffed but intact, his surcoat still hanging properly despite the mud outside. He looked like a man who had once believed in glory and now believed in coin.
Aurion gestured vaguely at himself. "In my defense, I won."
"Oh, I saw," Gregor said.
That was worse.
The knight's gaze traveled across the bruises, the green salve, the swelling along Aurion's ribs. He crouched without ceremony and prodded one particularly angry patch of purple.
Aurion inhaled sharply through his teeth. "You wound me."
"Apparently not enough," Ser Gregor replied.
The healer shot him a disapproving look. Gregor ignored it focusing on noting the new injuries littered across his squire.
"You fought the Swann boy," Gregor continued, tone almost caring.
Aurion stiffened slightly. "He introduced himself."
"Yes. They do that. Something those prissy nobles care too much about."
Gregor stood and picked up the captured shield leaning against the cot. The black swan gleamed proudly against its white field.
He turned it slightly in the light.
"You kept it," he observed.
"It seemed rude not to," Aurion said.
Gregor huffed a low laugh. "You knocked him flat with his own shield."
"He was winning," Aurion said reasonably.
"I noticed."
That caught him.
Aurion blinked up at the knight. "You noticed?"
Gregor raised a brow. "I am not blind. He had you beat."
Aurion didn't deny it.
Gregor continued, almost thoughtfully, "Clean footwork. Good control. Expensive training."
"Annoying," Aurion muttered.
"Very."
The knight set the shield down and crossed his arms.
"And then you threw dirt in his face."
Aurion tilted his head slightly. "Tactically applied terrain."
The healer made a small choking sound that might have been laughter.
Gregor's mouth twitched — just slightly. "You fight like a man who intends to see tomorrow."
"I'm very attached to tomorrow."
"That," Gregor said, "Is why I tolerate you."
He stepped closer, shadow falling across Aurion.
"But listen carefully."
The amusement thinned, not vanishing — just sharpening.
"You embarrassed a noble heir in front of half the field."
Aurion shrugged as much as his ribs allowed. "He challenged me."
"That is not how they will remember it."
Gregor's voice lowered.
"They will remember that a hedge knight's squire made him look foolish. That you did not yield when instructed. That you won… inelegantly."
Aurion considered that.
"He told me to yield."
"Yes. They enjoy that word."
Gregor crouched again, this time resting his forearms on his knees.
"You may break bones in the melee," he said quietly. "You may knock teeth loose. That is part of tourneys."
His gaze locked on Aurion's.
"But pride?" he continued. "Pride lingers. Pride has brothers. Pride has fathers. Rich and powerful fathers."
Aurion's mouth flattened and pursed.
"Am I in danger?" he asked.
Gregor studied him a long moment.
"Not today," he said finally. "The boy will want a rematch. That's clean. That's simple."
Gregor's gaze drifted toward the pavilion entrance, where bright banners snapped in the wind beyond the canvas.
"His father, however, will want the ledger corrected."
Aurion's mouth twitched faintly. "I did win the purse."
"Yes," Gregor replied dryly. "Which was not the original plan."
He folded his arms.
"Lord Swann organized this tourney for his son."
Aurion blinked. "Organized as in—"
"As in funded it. Advertised it. Selected the invites. Chose the prize." Gregor's expression remained calm. "You do not spend that much coin on spectacle unless you expect a return."
Aurion glanced down at the swan shield leaning against the cot.
"…Fuck."
Gregor continued evenly, "A tourney at home. Familiar competitors. A purse generous enough to draw talent, but not so large as to attract killers. A perfect stage for a young heir to distinguish himself."
Aurion considered that.
"And I," he said slowly, "interrupted the narrative."
"Yes."
There was no irritation in Gregor's voice. If anything, there was the faintest trace of approval.
"You humiliated his son in the tournament meant to showcase him," Gregor said. "In front of bannermen, sworn swords, the Baratheons and smallfolk who will carry that story further than you can walk."
Aurion shifted on the stool. His ribs objected.
"Will Lord Swann challenge me?" Aurion asked.
Gregor huffed.
"No. He is not a fool. But he may remember your face. He may remember my name. And he will certainly remember that the story of today was not the one he paid for."
Aurion exhaled slowly.
"That's just great."
Gregor's mouth twitched; he leaned slightly closer.
"You fought well," he said. "You adapted. You survived. That is worth the coin I wasted on you."
Then his expression sharpened just a touch.
"But next time you step onto a field, ask yourself who paid to build it."
Aurion looked down at the swan on the shield.
Honor was for speeches.
Apparently, so were tournaments.
"Understood," he muttered.
Gregor straightened.
"Good make sure you don't habit of humiliating men who own castles and stone walls, one day you will discover that tourney fields are not the only places where accidents happen."
The pavilion seemed a little quieter.
Aurion let out a slow breath but nodded nevertheless.
Gregor's gaze flicked down to the bruises again.
"You did well," he said, almost offhand. "You adapted when you were outmatched. Most boys freeze when they realize they're losing."
Aurion didn't smile, but something in his shoulders eased.
Then Gregor added, more lightly, "Next time, try surviving with fewer visible colors. You look like shit."
"I feel like it."
Gregor stepped back toward the pavilion flap.
"We collect the purse at dusk," he said. "Stand upright. Limp discreetly. And for the love of coin, do not grin at the Swans. Nobles have long memories and they remember every slight."
"No promises," Aurion said.
Gregor paused at the entrance and glanced back.
"Moderate promises, then."
And he left. The flap settled.
The healer resumed pressing something sharp into Aurion's ribs.
"You anger nobles often?" she asked.
Aurion winced.
"Only the annoying ones."
She pressed harder.
He yelped.
Worth it.
-
The squires' melee had been more amusing than she initially anticipated. Maris had expected flailing. Posturing. The usual pageantry of boys pretending at war while their fathers measured futures in bruises.
Instead, she found herself leaning forward in her seat when one of them sidestepped the initial charge entirely.
He didn't rush, he waited as the others charged without a thought. Clever.
She only became truly interested when she spotted the oat boy — the one in mail that sagged like it had been inherited from three previous disappointments — smash the rim of his shield straight into some poor Frey's nose.
The crack carried even to the stands.
Maris laughed before she could stop herself. From the boisterous 'ha' from her father, she assumed it was a good move.
The Frey dropped in a most undignified sprawl, hands clutching his face as if offended by physics. Around her, a few older knights made noises of polite disapproval.
Maris tilted her head.
The oat boy didn't gloat. He didn't even pause. He moved on immediately, sliding through the chaos with the calm opportunism of someone who understood that melees were less about glory and more about positioning.
Interesting.
"Who is that?" she asked idly, not taking her eyes off the field.
One of her father's retainers shifted behind her. "Squire to Ser Gregor, my lady. Hedge knight."
"Mm."
That explained the equipment. The mail hung poorly across his shoulders, straps mismatched, shield plain and scarred. He looked ridiculous, more fit for a murmur than an actual squire.
Yet he moved like he'd done this before.
Maris's lips curved.
Her attention sharpened when a white shield entered the fray.
Black swan. Ah, Brandon Swann, the one who had been trying to charm her sister earlier during the archery competition.
Now it became interesting.
Brandon moved properly — even from this distance she could see the discipline in his stance. Clean lines. Controlled strikes. No wasted effort. His actions reminded her of the small army of squires back in Strom's End.
The oat boy, by contrast, looked like he had been assembled from spare parts and audacity.
They circled.
Steel rang.
Brandon pressed.
Maris leaned forward, elbows resting lightly on the railing.
The oat boy was good. Quick. Adaptable.
But Brandon was better trained.
There — a crack to the helm.
She saw the oat boy stagger.
"Yield," Brandon called, voice carrying faintly upward.
Maris frowned; this was how it was meant to go, though she could not hide her disappointment.
And then—
The oat boy kicked dirt into Brandon's visor.
Her brows shot upward.
"Oh," she breathed.
The move was crude. Inelegant. Dishonorable. Entirely effective.
Brandon flinched just enough.
The oat boy surged forward like a man who'd just been handed permission. Headbutt. Hook. Takedown.
They crashed to the dirt.
Maris watched, fascinated, as the black swan disappeared beneath a mess of limbs and momentum.
When the horn finally sounded, it was not Brandon rising first.
It was the oat boy.
Shield in hand.
Breathing hard.
Grinning.
Maris leaned back slowly in her seat, a grin forming.
On the field below, Brandon stood without accepting the offered hand. Her smile deepened at the frown that occupied her Floris' pretty face.
The feast tonight would be much more interesting than she had expected.
-
The feast began the way all proper feasts did — with noise, wine, and the careful rearranging of pride.
Lady Maris Baratheon entered late enough to be noticed and early enough to avoid comment.
The hall of Stonehelm had been dressed for triumph. Swan banners cascaded from the rafters in white and black, silk catching the torchlight so that they shimmered like wings mid-flight. Long oak tables groaned under roasted boar smothered in honey, trenchers slick with butter, wheels of sharp yellow cheese sweating in the heat.
It smelled of wine and victory.
Or what had been meant to be victory.
Maris paused just inside the doors, gloved fingers resting lightly against the carved stag clasp at her throat. She let her gaze sweep the hall with idle disinterest that fooled absolutely no one who knew her.
There.
At the high table sat Lord Swann, smiling the way men smile when their teeth are involved but not their pleasure. To his right, Brandon wore composure like a second suit of armor. A clean doublet doing its best to hide his bruises. A faint swelling at the edge of his cheekbone that had not been there this morning.
Maris's mouth curved slightly.
How resilient he looked.
Her father's laughter boomed somewhere behind her — unmistakable, indulgent, carrying the weight of Storm's End with it. Several heads turned at the sound. More turned when they saw who walked at his side. Maris had been present at too many feasts to understand the attention she and her sisters drew.
Maris moved forward, measured and unhurried. The hall parted in subtle degrees — not out of fear, precisely, but recognition. A Baratheon did not need to demand space.
She caught sight of him further down the hall.
The oat boy.
Though scrubbed, he did not look transformed. The borrowed finery sat on him as awkwardly as his armor had earlier. His silver hair had been forced into something resembling order. A bruise colored one temple a dusky violet.
He was laughing at something said by a man in plain leathers.
Not at the high table.
Interesting.
Maris adjusted her gloves.
A lesser lord's son might have been invited upward in a display of magnanimity. A show of good sport. A gesture.
He had not been.
Lord Swann, it seemed, preferred containment to generosity.
She accepted a cup of red from a passing servant without breaking stride.
"Will you behave tonight?" Her father asked mildly, not bothering to lower his voice.
Maris lifted the goblet, watching the torchlight swim in the wine.
"I always behave," she said.
That was not, strictly speaking, the same thing as behaving well.
Across the hall, Brandon's gaze flickered — just briefly — toward the lower tables.
Toward the oat boy.
Maris followed it.
The tension between them hummed, subtle as a drawn bowstring.
Yes.
This would do very nicely.
She smiled into her wine.
The night had only just begun.
Cassandra was claimed for the first dance by some earnest Marcher lord with shoulders broader than his wit. He bowed too deeply and smiled too widely, and Cassandra rewarded him with the sort of politeness expected of a lady that suggested she could endure far worse for far longer.
Ellyn vanished soon after, as she often did, slipping through conversation and torchlight. Maris did not bother looking for her. Ellyn enjoyed observing from unexpected angles.
Floris, meanwhile, was surrounded.
Young lords formed a careful ring around her — brightly colored cloaks, large grins — each intent on distinguishing himself from the others through charm, flattery, or volume. Floris laughed at something one of them said, head tipped just so, dark hair catching the light.
Typical.
Her youngest sister always received the most attention. Softness drew men the way blood drew hounds.
Maris sipped her wine and let her gaze drift elsewhere. Her eyes returned, inevitably, to the lower tables.
The oat boy had acquired ale. His laughter came easier now, though he shifted carefully when he moved — carefully guarding ribs that would bloom darker by morning.
He did not look toward the high table.
Not once.
That, more than anything, intrigued her.
Most men would have glanced upward. Measured themselves against the distance. Wondered whether they might cross it.
He seemed content where he sat.
Or disciplined enough to pretend.
At the high table, Brandon had not been so restrained.
His jaw tightened as another lord clapped him on the shoulder, offering what was undoubtedly some variation of hard luck dressed as encouragement. He accepted it with the proper nod. The proper smile.
She knew Lord Swann had given his heir a verbal lashing over the failure.
He had spent a small fortune on this tourney — the singers, the purses, the invitations dispatched with flattering precision — all in the hope of presenting Brandon as polished steel before her father's eyes. A worthy match. A strategic alignment. One of the Four Storms secured neatly beneath a swan's wing.
It had been almost elegant in its ambition.
And then a hedge knight's squire had upset the plan.
Maris did not need to hear the conversation to imagine it. She had grown up among lords and their disappointments.
It was rather entertaining. Hiding her smile with the glass of wine, Maris turned to the squire.
It was too tempting.
Maris watched him for a long moment over the rim of her wine, then decided the evening required improvement.
She set the goblet aside and rose.
The shift in the hall was immediate and deeply unsubtle. Lords straightened. Boys tried to look taller. One unfortunate knight nearly swallowed an olive whole.
Maris descended from the high table with unhurried grace.
At the lower tables, Aurion was in the middle of regaling his table with a story chicken leg in hand.
He felt it before he saw it.
The silence.
He looked up.
Dark hair. Blue eyes. A stag clasp that probably costs more than his horse.
Maris stopped in front of him and regarded him like a mildly interesting puzzle.
"Lady Maris Baratheon," She introduced smoothly, raising her hand for him to kiss.
Aurion blinked once but did not bother standing or accepting the gesture.
"Aurion," he replied. "No impressive titles, I'm afraid. I left them with my horse."
A faint ripple of laughter escaped someone nearby before being strangled.
Maris's mouth twitched. "No house?"
"I'm between banners currently."
"How inconvenient."
"It keeps expectations low."
She glanced briefly at the bruise on his temple. "You seem to have exceeded them anyway."
"That happens when people underestimate us grain-fed peasants."
Across the hall, Brandon's jaw tightened.
Maris extended her hand without further warning.
"Dance with me."
The table around him froze.
Aurion stared at her hand like it might explode.
"My lady," he said carefully, "I've been informed I walk poorly."
"You do," she agreed.
"And I suspect I dance worse."
"I find that difficult to believe after today's performance."
"That was falling with purpose," he corrected. "Very different discipline."
A few nearby squires snorted before pretending to cough.
Maris did not withdraw her hand.
"Are you refusing?"
He looked at the high table.
Lord Swann was smiling the way men smile before issuing threats.
Brandon was staring like he hoped sheer will might set something on fire.
Aurion looked back at her.
"I just want to confirm," he said quietly, "That this is not some elaborate punishment."
"For what?"
"Winning."
Her smile sharpened.
"Oh no," she said lightly. "This is a reward."
"That's worse."
A laugh escaped her before she could stop it. The insolence of this one.
"You are remarkably unafraid for someone in borrowed clothes."
"They're very brave clothes," he said. "I'm hiding behind them."
The musicians struck up a lively tune — the sort designed to encourage courtship and minor scandal.
Maris stepped closer.
"I do not ask twice."
Aurion sighed like a man walking toward his own execution.
"That's fair," he said. "I only survive first attempts anyway."
He took her hand. His grip was warm and steady — annoyingly steady.
They began the dance.
Aurion moved carefully at first — stiff, calculating each turn like a battlefield maneuver.
"You're counting," she observed.
"I am surviving."
"It's not a duel."
"That's what they all say."
She turned beneath his arm smoothly.
He followed half a beat late.
From the high table, Brandon looked one heartbeat away from grinding his goblet to powder.
Lord Swann's smile had gone thin enough to slice bread.
He leaned slightly closer as the pattern shifted.
"My lady," he murmured, "With respect, if this ends in my mysterious disappearance, I'd prefer a warning before I need to leave town."
"I don't arrange disappearances," she said sweetly.
"Good."
"I simply watch them unfold."
He blinked.
"That is not better."
She laughed again — openly this time.
The dance turned quicker.
Aurion managed a passable spin. Passable was generous. When it ended, he executed something that was almost a bow and almost a stagger.
Maris released his hand slowly.
"Well," she said, amused beyond concealment, "You did not disgrace yourself."
"That was my only objective."
"You aim low."
"I'm realistic."
From the dais, unwanted eyess remained on the odd pair. Maris smiled up at him, eyes bright with mischief.
"You may have complicated your life tonight."
Aurion glanced toward the high table. Lord Swann did not bother hiding his displeasure.
"I noticed."
"And?"
"I'll blame it on the concussion," He declared turning to leave the floor. "You owe me a bag of oats, make sure you pay up."
Blinking at the unfamiliar word, Maris watched him weave through the crowd of dancers.
What an odd one.