Chapter Text
The first time Beaivi met a Lord, she stole his horses.
She didn’t exactly go in with the intention of doing so. She was performing at the same tavern he was drinking at, and just so happened to see the way he treated his horses when he handed them off to the stable boy. Cruel and demanding; absolutely no respect for the creatures working for him. It disgusted her. So, she decided to take matters into her own hands. That night, she snuck into the stable and made the horses follow her back out. Plausible deniability; nobody had seen her steal them.
It was the first time she had controlled a horse. Her father, the strongest skinchanger in her clan, had always claimed it was unwise to go into the mind of a prey animal. They were always on edge and that flightiness could rub off on you. The horses weren’t timid, however. They proved to be sturdy as they looked in spite of the mistreatment they endured. One of them was quite mean and prone to biting, but she didn’t exactly blame him. She named them Orran and Fjorne, found a cart for them to pull, and thus had herself the Southern version of a sled team.
From what she understood, the Lord was not happy that his horses were missing, but she did not stick around long enough to reap the consequences. Nor did she fully comprehend the implications of such a slight against a man from a noble house. She had learned to fear angry old women with rheumy eyes and giant clubs for bashing the heads of man and beast alike, not rich Southern folk with their odd clothing and customs.
And she was about to find herself at a Tourney full of them.
She knew the grounds would be loud and crowded, which was exactly how she wanted it. That meant more people listening to her music, and thus more people who may be inclined to throw some coin her way. Gold, preferably, but only the wealthy folk who were really charmed by her tended to do that. Particularly when they were drunk. So, the moment she caught wind of a huge tournament in Ashford Meadow, she decided it was worth the potential trouble. It was a strange combination; keeping her head down but also being a performer.
Luckily, their beauty standards were different down South. She had been one of the more desirable women in her clan, strong and sturdy and with full hips, but down South they seemed to like their women more… waif-like. Someone who, even if one threw a dozen seal skins on her and stuck her in the warmest hut available, wouldn’t survive the winter. Beaivi herself had survived twenty winters there (well, twenty-one, as it had taken her some months to make her way down to the wall). However, in the South, her features just straddled a middle ground of unusual and unnoticeable.
In spite of that, she decided it would be best for her to set up camp off the festival grounds, more into the forests. She had arrived closer to the evening, purposefully so, as she knew that’s when the festivities would truly begin. She just had to make sure she wasted very little time bathing and setting up. She maneuvered her cart down a narrow stone path and into a clearing where she was shocked to find a couple of horses already tied to an elm tree. She parked her cart next to where she intended to set up camp and released her own horses from their straps.
“You two all right up there?” She called across the clearing.
The horses ignored her. That wasn’t uncommon with their kind. She led her own up to the tree, and after securing them, turned to face the two horses tied opposite.
“You weren’t abandoned, were you?” She asked.
They didn’t seem abandoned. In fact, they were two of the most well maintained horses she had ever seen. Likely, whoever left them there intended to come back for them. Hopefully not while she was bathing, as she did not want to deal with the awkward looks and even more awkward conversation. The men down South did not like to see women they weren’t intimately acquainted with undressed.
So, she left the issue alone, patting the strange horses’ necks before going back over to her cart to unpack.
It was a big deal to her, getting ready for her shows. If only because she had to wear a dress. She much preferred trousers, and if she was at a normal inn or tavern or other kneeler gathering place she absolutely would. However, she was going to walk into the lion’s den, as it were, and couldn’t afford any of the wealthy men she came to entertain looking at her sideways because she was dressed like a man. Or worse, they’d realize she was dressed like a ‘wildling’.
(She didn’t really like that word, wildling. Maybe the people of the walrus clan were wild, but her people were resourceful and prosperous herders, not pillaging brutes.)
After she set up her tent and secured her belongings, she went over to the nearby stream to bathe. The water was cold — freezing, if she was being honest — but she had felt worse. Still, it made her miss the hot spring she and Vresa had found one summer. The flash of golden hair and smiling eyes froze her heart in place, and she quickly splashed cold water on her face to scrub them away.
Yrla, a beast of a sled-dog that she was certain had to be half wolf, jumped into the water beside her. She had been dead to the world for the past several hours, sleeping so deeply that her legs twitched from dreams. Now, she was soaking her white fur in the water as if to rouse herself.
“Hey!” Beaivi protested. “You’re going to stink up the bloody tent!”
Yrla did not care. She swam lazy circles around her master.
When Beaivi was dried and dressed, she sat in the tent and braided her long hair. She was the reverse of most of the women in her clan with her dark hair and pale eyes, but hadn’t really gotten to note the fact until she encountered mirrors. Not that no one had ever pointed it out. Her milk name was Blue. Though she had since decided in her newfound vanity that her eyes were more greenish than bluish.
She looked nothing all that fancy, with her Northern-style braids and the green dress she’d stolen from a bar maid she had a toss with. But that was more than fine by her. Again, the line: just enough to blend in, but not enough to attract scrutiny.
Then, with her boots laced and her lute strapped over her back, she bent over and gave Yrla’s ears a rub. She had successfully filled the confined space with the stench of wet dog.
“You be a good guard dog and protect those horses with your life,” she said firmly. “And if someone tries to sneak into my camp, rip the bastard to shreds and roast them over a fire.”
Yrla let out a long yawn in response, showing off all her intimidating teeth. Beaivi took that as confirmation she would do both of those things to the best of her ability.
Satisfied that her camp would be left well alone, she went back up the rocky path back towards the tourney grounds.
It was not hard for her to pick a spot to sing at. She thought it may be, but one caught her eye immediately. And ears, for that matter, as there was clearly already music being played. Sounds of merriment carried over it. The tent was hard to miss in general; much larger than all the others, with a proper entryway decorated with large deer racks, and banners flying that depicted a rearing stag. Ah, they were a proud people, she observed. Strong and prosperous.
And maybe they even were serving venison. She had filled up quite a bit on (semi-stale) bread, but still craved meat. So, she set foot into the tent, and was quickly overwhelmed. It was bustling with people, most of them sitting down to eat though some were up mucking about. Shouting men, laughing women, and servers filling cups to the brim. Kneelers and their leaders alike filled the tent, it seemed. Oh, yes, this was a grand idea. There was no way any of them would remember her come morning.
She had to crane her neck to see, but at his own grand table towards the opposite side of the tent was the Lord. She knew he had to be the Lord, at least, as he wore a grand helm of antlers on his head. She moved to approach, but stopped. There was a feeling in the pit of her stomach that would not allow her to move further. Gods of frost and ice, why am I nervous? She had to brave the Bay of Seals and Nightwatch just to get out of the damn North, and she was nervous to talk to some man?
She gulped down some ale about it. And polished off a berry tart for good measure. She could not sit down and get comfortable, however. Her anxiety refused to let her. Instead, she practically paced around the tent, snacking and smiling at people.
Finally, after a few loops around, she straightened her spine and approached the table. The Lord had been laughing about something with the man sitting beside him, the sound booming across the room, but he quieted and turned around the moment he noticed the woman standing awkwardly in front of him. Up close, she realized just why she had been so scared to talk to him. He was incredibly handsome. His helm rested atop dark curls, and hazel eyes regarded her from beneath strong brows. His beard, streaked with silver, was well groomed, accentuating his chin. But worst of all were his hands, his elegant fingers playing with a small dagger. She had an impulsive thought about those hands sliding up her legs and towards her—
Beaivi, behave yourself. You can think filthy thoughts about the stupid Lord later.
He tilted his head up slightly, his eyes narrowing as he tried to figure out what exactly she thought she was doing. She was not thinking, really. At least now that the speech she had been planning had been so rudely interrupted by the thought of long, beautiful fingers sliding over her cunt.
Ahem.
“...May I help you?” He asked, waving one of those beautiful hands as if urging her to speak.
Fuck. I’ve been gaping at him like a dying fish this whole time, haven’t I?
She took a deep breath, straightening her back and gathering her bearings (and while she had the opportunity, stomping her carnal thoughts into dust).
“Begging your pardon, my Lord. My name is Beaivi; I’m a bard. I see you have already hired a band, but I was hoping I could sing for you and your guests. If that pleases you, of course.”
Thankfully, she managed to get out the words without choking on them. She liked what she had said; polite enough to stroke the ego of the man in front of her, but not so sniveling that she lost her dignity in the process. He studied her carefully, and she folded her hands together, nervousness creeping back into her stomach.
“I’ve never heard a name like Beaivi,” he commented. “Where are you from?”
“The North, ser.”
It was an easy lie. Everyone assumed that she meant the Westeros side of the wall, naturally.
“I’ve never heard a Northern name like Beaivi, either.”
“Well, that’s because all the Northerners you know are lordly.”
This earned a laugh from him. He laughed with his whole body, she noticed, head titled back and shoulders shaking. The men beside him chuckled as well.
He leaned forward, elbows on the table. Now, instead of scrutinizing, his eyes had a playful glint in them.
“We are about to dance,” he said, “and I would much prefer you to dance with me than sing for me.”
Was that a joke? Beaivi laughed, just in case. Loudly. He was slightly taken aback, and she felt a blush creep up her neck. Shit. That was a proud man, one who was much more used to women laughing with him as opposed to at him. She may as well have stomped on his foot. Which she would likely do if he tried to dance with her, anyway.
“Forgive me,” she said quickly. “I simply, well, I’m much more talented a singer than a dancer. And just as well, I am usually only asked to dance by men who have introduced themselves to me.”
The eyes of the man to the Lord’s right widened slightly with amusement, and he took a sip from his goblet.
The Lord, mostly amused but partly offended, motioned to the tent around here.
“You’re standing here,” he said, “in front of me, in my fucking tent, offering me a gift of song, and you don’t even know who I am? Why Beaivi, I don’t know whether to be baffled or charmed.”
She shrugged. “Forgive me, ser. I’m far more familiar with House Stark.”
That was a lie. She would be able to name the current ruling Stark if he had held that dagger to her throat.
“Very well,” he said. “I am Ser Lyonel Baratheon, heir to Storm’s End.” He extended a hand.
Why’d it have to be hands? Of all the parts of a man she admired, why did it have to be hands first and foremost? On women, it was more carnal; she was quite a fan of large breasts. And that was all the better, as she usually wasn’t expected to touch them in order to get acquainted with someone.
Still, she placed her hand in the Lord’s. She noticed that it was a bit calloused; a man who did a lot more work than one of his status normally did. Probably because he was a knight. She bowed her head politely as he kissed her knuckles, mainly to avoid looking him in the eye. The feeling of his beard scratching across her skin still made goosebumps race up her arm.
“All right,” he said, releasing her. “Go on, then. Sing for me.”
“Oh. Uh. Yes, of course. I would be more than happy to. Should I—”
He raised a hand to stop her. “Stay right there. All eyes will be upon you here.”
She felt a blush coming again, despite herself, and hoped the low lighting of the tent was enough to conceal it.
“Uh, yes ser. Of course.”
“All right,” he said, his voice booming across the room. Some of the chatter subsided, but not enough. He slammed his fist on the table. “Listen up, cunts! Pay attention! This Northern girl is going to sing us a song.”
Oh. She could not tell if the encounter was going better or worse than she had hoped. She steadied herself, fingers grasping the neck of the lute. And with a deep breath, and a few plucked notes, she got herself into the correct headspace.
She sang one of the prettier songs in her repertoire; not a party number by any means. It was a ballad she had learned in the Riverlands about a woman searching for her lost love. And while she was used to people continuing to talk and party as she sang, the Lord’s words had made everyone sit at rapt attention. Or maybe her singing was just that good. She hoped that was the case. She had learned to pour heart into her words; to sing every song as if she meant it. Even the bawdy bar tunes that were usually about filthy sex acts.
When she finished, a loud clap sounded behind her. She looked over her shoulder to find Lyonel leaning back in his chair, smirk on his face, clapping for her. Others followed suit, and soon the tent was full of applause. She curtsied gratefully. Abruptly, she heard the chair behind her tip over as Lyonel jumped out of it.
“Let the festivities begin!”
Beaivi managed to sync herself with the band that was already there, having plenty of songs in common with them. It wasn’t that hard; they tended towards popular ballads and drinking songs. That made her job very easy. Instead of standing by them, however, she found herself closer to the center of the cleared tent, bodies twirling and stomping around her. Among them was Lyonel, who she found was not above drunken foolishness. He did not dance like a drunk man, however. Or any man she’d really ever seen. He moved as gracefully as the animal on his crest, promenading about, twirling around her as she played. The joy of the people around her was infectious, and she found herself grinning through most of the performance.
When she finished her final song, he came up behind her, clamping an arm around her shoulders. He leaned in close. He smelled of alcohol and spice; sweat and leather.
“Thank the Gods you can actually sing,” he mumbled into her ear. “The way you were pacing about earlier, I thought you were an assassin looking for an opportunity to slit my throat.”
“I would make a terrible assassin,” she retorted. “I haven’t even brought a dagger with me.”
He laughed loudly, clapping a hand on her shoulder as if she was another man and not a smaller woman. He was a storm of a man; loud, and boisterous, and easy to get swept up.
“Come, I’m tired. Let’s have a drink.”
“You still have room for more?”
“Oh, I could do this all night.”
He led her back over to his table, which still stayed in its place, while all the others had been moved to create room for dancing. From there, she could see everyone, and she was certain everyone could see her. So much for laying low; she was practically cozying up to the Lord who owned the tent.
“Hold on, hold on,” he said before she could walk to the other side of the table. “Here.”
He lifted up his helm, impressive antlers glistening in the light, and held it above her head.
“My Lady, I crown thee Queen of Love and Beauty.”
He placed it down upon her gently. It was slightly too large for her head, and slid down to rest upon her ears. She laughed.
“I’m no Queen, I’m afraid. Just a common bard.”
He snorted softly, waving her off. “You don’t even know what that means, do you? Have you ever been to a tournament before?”
“No. I mostly play at inns.”
He shook his head, rolling his eyes. “Gods, I’m starting to suspect you fell out of your mother’s cunt yesterday.”
“Twenty-six years ago, actually.”
She had almost said winters, but caught herself. They sat down at the table together, and he poured her a drink with another booming laugh.
“Where the fuck have you been, then? Whereabouts in the North are you from?”
He handed her the cup of wine, which she accepted gratefully. “A place that rarely sees sun,” she answered.
“Ah.” He took a swig of his own drink. “The same could be said of my homeland.” He sat back in his chair, studying her carefully, before suddenly jumping up as if he thought of something.
“Where the fuck did I—” He felt around himself, grumbling. “Balls. Ah, there it is.”
He released the cloak from around his waist. “To make up for your earlier insult, you shall be a Baratheon for a night.”
He threw the cloak across her shoulders. The heavy yellow garment was a bit too warm for the stuffy tent, but she didn’t complain. She just sat and tried not to gasp as his fingers brushed across her chest, fumbling with the chain.
“Now I’m a Baratheon? I thought only a noble lady could be such a thing.”
“For the moment, you are the most powerful woman in the room.” He was grinning, the candlelight casting flattering shadows across his features. She realized how close he was, practically leaning into her. “Name anyone in this room, and I’ll execute them for you right fucking now.”
She laughed and humored him, picking up the dagger he’d been playing with earlier. She used it to point at a bearded man who was dancing on a table.
“Him.”
“Lord Tyrell?” He asked, incredulous. “Are you trying to start a fucking war? Give me that!”
He snatched the blade away from her, and she laughed.
“I’m stripping you of your Ladyship. You’re just a Queen of Love and Beauty, now.”
“How does a Queen rank below a Lady? I thought it was the other way around.”
He shook his head, staring at her with fascination. “You truly have never been to a Tourney, have you?”
“Why would I lie about such a thing?”
He sighed, leaning back into his seat. She finished off her wine and poured herself another cup. While she hadn’t been drinking at as steady a pace as he was, the alcohol was starting to warm her belly.
“Tomorrow is the first tilt,” he said. “I will be challenging Ser Ashford. Come watch.”
She thought about it. Or at least, pretended to. “Hmm, all right. It’d be interesting to see you joust.”
“Interesting? Gods above, give me the helm. You’re exiled from House Baratheon.”
“Damn. And just as I was starting to grow mad with power.”
He placed the crown of antlers back on his own head before leaning in again, close enough she could smell the sweet wine on his breath. Close enough to kiss. She thought better of it. Entertaining a Lord was one thing; kissing one was a risk she could not afford to take. She finished off her wine to prevent herself from trying. For once, the South's strange customs of 'purity' and 'Don't fuck a Lord unless you're a Lady or a whore!' felt like restrictions instead of curiosities.
“The cloak as well.”
“Strip me of all my clothes while you’re at it, why don’t you?”
She clamped her mouth shut after the drunken outburst. Thankfully, he burst out laughing at it.
“We shall see where the night takes us yet. Now hand it over!”
She sighed, her own fingers fumbling with the golden chain. He sighed and reached over to help her, their fingers brushing together as they both struggled with the clasp. Gods of ice and frost, I’m fucking drunk. It did not look as hard as their fumbling fingers were making it seem, at least not from her vantage point.
“Fuck it,” Lyonel said, giving up. “I don’t care anymore. Keep it.”
He leaned back in his chair, head tilted towards the ceiling. It was unfair how beautiful he looked with his face lit in profile. Mainly because she couldn’t kiss him. Well, couldn’t was a strong word. She certainly could. Whether or not she should was the issue. She was almost drunk enough to not give a damn, and she took that as her warning to stop. It was hard when the wine was so sweet, though.
The music had slowed in tempo. In front of them, couples held each other, slowly swaying to the music. The drunken jigs and mindless movements were the last thing she had expected from the party of a noble. She quite liked it, actually.
“I just remembered,” Lyonel said suddenly. “You still owe me a dance.”
She snorted, looking over at him. “I never agreed to one, remember?”
“I still offered.” He got up, stepping awkwardly over the table as opposed to walking around it. At the opposite side, he motioned for her to join him.
Beaivi weighed her options for a moment. She wasn’t quite sure if she could even stand, all the wine she had been consuming catching up with her. Finally, she decided to stand up. She climbed upon the table as he had, and he actually grabbed her by the waist to bring her down to the floor. Gods, there were those hands again. Now she had to feel them pressed into her, burning her skin even through the fabric of her dress.
She had to get it together, but that was proving to be impossible, as the very next thing he did was tug her into his arms. One arm was around her waist, the other between her shoulderblades, pressing her flush against him. She snaked her arms around his waist in turn, her cheek pressing against his chest. Even over the music and noise of the tent, she swore she could hear his heartbeat.
Underneath the fabric of his black shirt, she could also feel muscle. He was not as bulky as the other knights she had seen, but clearly still strong. She could feel it in his arms as well, which gripped her as if he worried she’d melt away like snow if he didn’t hold on. It was comforting, in a way, especially with how he swayed her back and forth. It felt more like a long, warm hug than a dance.
Her eyelids grew heavy, and she allowed them to close. This is nice, she thought. I could get quite used to this.
Again, could as opposed to should.
“Are you falling asleep on me?” He accused. The feeling of his voice reverberating through his chest practically made her shiver.
“Mmm,” she grunted. She opened her eyes. “Forgive me. I get a tad sleepy when I drink.”
“Perhaps I should do the gentlemanly thing and walk you back to your tent.”
She pulled back, and his arms reluctantly slid down, his hands on her hips once again.
“Thank you for the offer, but that won’t be necessary. I am used to traveling by myself; walking in the dark is no concern. Besides, I’ve pitched my tent quite out of the way.”
“That’s not a problem.”
“Can you even walk?”
“I’ll use you as a crutch.”
She laughed, shaking her head. “All right, if you’re gonna be a stubborn arse about it.”
She did not believe he had been kidding about using her as a crutch. The moment they were out of the tent and in the fresh night air, he leaned against her, slinging an arm over her shoulders. She wrapped an arm around his waist, surprised at how much of his weight he was actually leaning on her.
“Who’s walking who again?”
“Lead the way,” he commanded, pointing straight ahead. At least he tried to sound commanding, but it came out half-choked by a laugh.
As they stumbled their way down the dirt road, they got some odd looks. Plenty of them, actually. She realized this was a terrible way to avoid attention. If she actually wanted her presence to be subtle, just another bard flitting about looking for gold, she would not be side-by-side with a drunken Lord and wearing his cloak.
Oh, fuck it. She began to sing to herself the way she normally would on a drunken shamble back to her sleeping quarters.
“Froze to the bone in my igloo home, counting the days ‘til the ice turns green…”
“I don’t know that one,” Lyonel cut in dismissively. “Sing something else.”
“I don’t know which songs you know,” Beaivi pointed out, annoyed.
He used his free hand to rub at his beard, thinking. “Ah, do you know that one? Fuckin… the one about the girl with three fingers.”
Beaivi tilted her head. She had definitely heard it before; it was one of the filthy tavern songs men started to belt out when they got drunk enough.
“Who shoves them up men’s arses? Yes, I’m familiar.”
He laughed aloud, and began to sing. His voice was off key, and his words were slurred, but the entertainment the drunken serenade gave her more than made up for it. She sang along with him, and this garnered them even more strange looks. The Lord didn’t seem to care, however, so she allowed herself to do the same.
He did not slow down or hesitate when they left the grounds and started moving towards the woods. At least, he didn’t seem bothered by it until they’d gotten through a few verses of Alice With Three Fingers.
“Are you camped out in a fucking tree?”
“No, one of the meadows. With my dog and horses.”
“Horses, huh? You’re doing quite well for yourself, then, for a common bard.”
She didn’t correct him on where she had gotten the horses from. She stopped at the beginning of the rocky path. She didn’t want to lead him all the way to her tent, because if she brought him to where she slept, she may be too tempted to make him stay, and if she was going to have a drunken rendezvous with a Lord it certainly couldn’t be right after she let everyone else at the Tourney know they were connected.
“I can take it from here,” she said. “Let me just…”
She swore softly as she tried to take the cloak off. He watched, smiling down at her, his cheeks flushed and eyes dancing. She quickly had to look back down, focusing on the task at hand.
“Meet me tomorrow,” he said, “outside of the arena.”
She finally managed to get the damned clasp open, and slumped with relief as the cloak slid off her. Lyonel took it from her hands, slinging it over his shoulder.
“I will,” she said. “Uh, thank you for your… hospitality, I suppose.”
“And thank you, Beaivi, for being fucking fun.”
He lifted his hand up to her chin, tilting her face towards his. Her lips parted slightly in anticipation, all her apprehension having been killed by the intensity of his gaze. And the way his eyes drifted down to her lips, the moment he realized she was ready for him? Why, sent all her reservations straight to Hell.
Normally, when men kissed her, they started off a bit probing. Slow, then more intense as they got used to the feel of her. Lyonel was the opposite. His lips practically smashed into hers, and she let out a whine, which caused him to deepen the kiss further. He was not kissing her goodnight, but clearly with the intention of putting his cock in her as soon as feasibly possible. And fool she was, she let him keep going. Her fingers clutched his shirt, steadying herself, though neither of them were quite steady. She was stumbling back a bit, and he stumbled with her, and had she not been pressed into a nearby tree they would have both tumbled into the ground.
A low growl from far too close by interrupted them. Beaivi recognized it instantly, but Lyonel certainly did not. He pulled away from her quickly to find Yrla close by, teeth bared and ears laid back, her growl so deep Beaivi felt in her bones. She usually saved it for men who were threatening her master. Had Lyonel really been that rough? Yes, her lips were a bit swollen, and her skin was getting rubbed raw by beard, but dammit, it felt good. And her stupid dog had to go be such a loyal creature that she ruined it.
Lyonel sobered up in that instant, one arm shooting out to shield her from the perceived threat while the other fumbled for a sword that was not on his person.
“Maiden’s hairy cunt, is that a fucking wolf?!”
“She’s not a wolf,” Beaivi sighed. “Yrla! Heel! Damn you, you’re scaring him!”
Yrla stopped growling, but didn’t do much to heel other than sit back on her haunches. Her teeth were still exposed.
Lyonel whipped his head back around, incredulous. “You said you had a dog.”
“Yes, that’s her. Yrla.”
“Are you secretly a fucking Stark?! Because that, my dear, is no dog.”
“She’s half wolf,” Beaivi allowed. “At least, I’m fairly sure she is. She is indeed big for a dog.”
Lyonel shook his head, suddenly laughing loudly. “Gods, girl, you’re a fascinating creature. But I suppose I’ll bid you goodnight before your loyal companion sees fit to chew on my bones.”
Beaivi laughed. “Yes. Terribly sorry. She’s just quite wary of strange men.”
“I can see that.”
“I’ll… I’ll meet you at the arena tomorrow, yes? As promised?”
All the anger melted off Lyonel’s face in an instant. He dared to press another kiss to her lips, this one much more brief.
“You will not be disappointed if you do,” he assured her.