Chapter Text
Queen Sarah Hollander took Lady Ingrid Rancourt as her wife, marrying her at the edge of Lake Paramount during the summer. The Great Loon was perched behind them, with an eye as big as the moon and wings as large as a city.
A thousand years later, Shane stares at a painting of their wedding on his carriage wall, on the way to a tourney in the Westlands. Loons were never that big, but Shane appreciates the artist’s dramatic rendering.
Queen Sarah and Ingrid were real though, as said by a multitude of books. They fought a rebellion and two wars and had three sons and a reign that spanned six decades. They died rather old at the time, Queen Sarah at 56 and Queen Ingrid at 62, a few years later.
Shane is rather pleased with himself that he remembered all that, considering the previously mentioned books were forced upon him to memorize when he was younger. There is no one else in the carriage to be pleased with him, though. His parents are off back home deciding on which lord or lady to betroth him to, after begrudgingly allowing him to go to the tournament. They only relented because he suggested that there’d be noble bachelors and maidens there too. Now that he thinks about it, maybe this specific carriage, with this specific wedding painting, was chosen for this specific occasion. A reminder of his duty.
The wheels hit something and the carriage jolts. Shane hits his head on the wall.
“Sorry, my prince!” his coachman shouts from outside. “The road is not paved very well.”
Little wonder about that, Shane thinks as he slides his window open. They’re deep in the countryside, with its crunching leaves and thick mist. The Westlands’ royal city remains a blur from this distance, the port where they arrived even more so. They’ve been traveling on the road for hours, and it was right after sailing for three days. His legs are still a bit wobbly.
As time passes, the trees slowly turn into the silk banners of the Westlands’ noble houses, along with some sigils of other royal families from nearby countries. The smell of rotting wood becomes banquet roasts or hot iron. Steel swords trill from the training yard, with knights both young and old practicing for their melees.
Shane sighs as they pass through. His fingers itch to hold his own sword as well, maybe even a lance if he’s lucky. But instead of dropping him off the yard, they drive into the middle of camp, in front of the biggest pavilion.
Inside, King Scott Hunter sits on his throne. Beside him is his husband, Kip Grady, atop his own throne.
“You’re here!” Scott says. “I almost thought you wouldn’t make it.”
“Your Excellency.” Shane bows. “Of course I came. I would like to personally congratulate you on the wedding.”
The smile on Scott’s face is subdued, but genuine. It reaches the crinkle of his eyes. He takes Kip’s hand in his and kisses it softly. He turns back to Shane. “Thank you, Prince Shane. Your support means a great lot.”
Shane is sure.
Their wedding was, in truth, a controversy. King Scott Hunter married a commoner, and while there is no doubt of their love, Shane knows there are critics. Most of them are noble lords and ladies who sought to court the King themselves. So having a grand tournament like this was as political as it is sentimental: gather all your country’s powerful allies, from the great houses to the royal families across the sea. Their support would be enough to make any critic hold his tongue, before their words turn to treason.
“Will you join the lists?” Kip asks.
“I will, your Excellency.” Shane smiles.
Dawn is already settling when Shane’s squire informs him that his tent has been set up.
He decides to use the walk as an opportunity to take notice of those in attendance. There are more commoners than a usual tourney, probably due to Kip’s influence. Their tents are understated and more communal than that of the great houses. Of the great houses, Shane sees the Marlows of the East, the Prices and the Salahs. Shane sees House Pike’s sigil in one of the banners, a white stork on a grey background.
The loudest pavilion, nearing the edge of camp, was House Haas’, with the laughter of a party thundering out its thin fabric. Shane pauses at the entrance, peeking inside through the slit at the door. It’s what you’d expect at a gathering like that: clamorous dancing, the stench of wine, and all that debauchery. It’s honestly a bit too much for Shane’s tastes.
He steps back as a drunk man bumbles out the tent, steps uneasy, arm reaching out for a wall that does not exist. Shane grabs it before the man falls.
“Careful, sir,” he says.
The drunk man snickers, “Sir…”. His eyes are clouded over by alcohol when he looks at Shane. The drunk man studies him for a moment: eyes to mouth to chest. Then, he frowns, touching a gold brooch pinned near Shane’s shoulder. It was of the Great Loon, the mark of the North’s heir.
When their eyes meet again, the drunk man’s eyes are suddenly as clear as a lake. “I dreamed of a loon,” he says, voice heavy with a Southern accent. “It was chained up and howling. I think it was you.”
Shane frowns. “Are you threatening me, sir?”
“No.” Then he doubles over laughing, eyes glassy once again. He pulls himself off Shane’s hold to stagger off to another tent. He throws a hand up in goodbye, saying, “Be careful out there, wolf-bird.”
Shane stares as he walks away. He debates with himself on whether to follow.
“My prince?” his squire asks from behind. “Do you wish to join Lord Haas’ party?”
Shane shakes his head. “Pardon. Let’s go.”
#
Shane started his morning with a hearty breakfast, consisting of refreshing strawberry jam, buttered toast, and some lean bacon and eggs. He cut the fat out of the meat and ate around the yolk, and quenched his thirst with some honeyed tea. His squire offered some wine to ease his jitters, but he declined and simply asked, “What jitters?”
But he knew what his squire was referring to. He’d barely slept the night before, head filled with dreams about the matches, excitement coursing through him like a river. He missed jousting and melees and the like. There had been tourneys in the North, of course, but he never put his name in the lists. He knew it would be far-fetched to expect a challenger there. No one would dare hurt their prince.
But this is the Westlands. There are royal families all around. Surely he’ll be able to duel with the other knights.
He puts his armor on quickly once he hears the bell toll for the early morning, and he goes to the stables to fetch his horse, Noelle, a Northern, rouncey, chestnut coloured and beautiful. She’s armoured up in white and blue, just like him.
He’s been assigned the first tilt. He rides in the entrance of the arena as the spectators start to fill the stands. His squire is putting on his sigil, the Great Loon of the North, on the front banners for the audience to see. Shane’s opponent seems to be Sir Thomas of the Anderssons, one of the King’s first cousins. An exceptional knight, no doubt. Shane has heard about his aplomb at the Battle of Hatfield, a few years ago. It was also there that he sustained a rather brutal shoulder injury on his left arm, the very same arm that he uses for his lance. Shane could use that to his advantage.
As is customary at the start of each tilt, his squire stands in the middle of the field, facing the crowd, as he boasts of Shane’s character, of his gallantry and honor. Shane tries to not blush.
Thomas rides in only a quarter into the field before slowing his pace. He stares at the Northern sigil for an uncomfortable amount of time before calling for his steward. He whispers in his ear.
Oh no…
The steward gives a curt nod before going to the front banners and placing a white cloth over the Andersson coat of arms.
Forfeit.
Thomas bows to Shane from the end of the field. How courteous. How chivalrous. Shane can hardly stop his eyes from rolling. He gives a small nod in reply, not wanting to disrespect the man’s civility. But come on!
It happens again, with Sir Harrier Connors.
And again, with Dame Amelia Dubois.
They see the sigil and surrender with a bow.
By high noon, Shane resigns himself as a spectator, sitting next to Scott and Kip at the stands. He is a hundred of miles away from home and yet his title follows him even here. He is grateful, at least, that so many respect his country so that they dare not lay a hand on him for fear of war. He can’t help his irritation, though, and he makes it known through huffs of annoyance.
Sir Hayden Pike comes galloping out for the next tilt, crowd cheering and throwing flower petals as he waves. His squire stands in front of the king to boast of his sir’s bravery and boldness. His opponent is Sir Cliff Marlow, who, according to Marlow’s own squire, is braver and bolder than Sir Hayden. The crowd laughs. The trumpets sound. And they break four lances before Hayden unhorses Cliff. Shane allows himself a little smile at that. He and Hayden trained together when they were younger. He waves a hello when they see each other.
If Shane wanted, he could enter as a mystery knight; take his name off the lists and stay anonymous until the end of the tournament. All he has to do is ask his squire to hide his banner…
He sighs morosely. No, that would be too deceitful. Any true knight would be horrified to learn that they’d clashed with him without their knowledge.
But he keeps his armor on despite himself, still grasping onto hope that one would be brave or stupid enough to challenge him. If ever he does perish in a joust, he will force himself to become a ghost and beg his mother not to start a war over it. Please! Just one match! Then, he hears his mother’s voice in his head saying, That is not the type of match we sent you to the Westlands for.
So, he makes polite conversation with the princess beside him. She’s nice enough. She has blonde hair and fair skin. She tells him that most of the royal family here are down the line of succession, first cousins or third sons. He is the only royal heir here. How must that be like?
Right now? Boring, he thinks. “It allows me to meet interesting people,” he says instead.
In his periphery, he sees his squire shuffling through the benches, muttering apologies to the other spectators. He leans down to Shane and says, “My prince, you are being called to challenge.”
Shane furrows his eyebrows. “What do you mean?”
“Someone specifically asked to challenge you.”
Shane’s heart jumps. “Me?”
He doesn’t need to be told twice.
Suddenly, he’s at the entrance of the arena again, saddled on his horse, Noelle. A few feet away, applause and flowers burst out from the crowd after his squire’s speech.
Shane steers Noelle to forward, just enough to peek at the sigil of his challenger.
His blood runs cold.
The Southern Island’s sigil was always one of Shane’s favorites. It is of the Spiraling Serpent, the ancient, immortal creature, around 1000 feet in length, with black scales and white eyes. The South’s royal family tamed it a thousand years ago, and made it their land’s sworn protector. No fleet can match the Serpent, no steel can pierce its skin. Their sigil is the black creature and its spiral, harsh upon a yellow sunset.
But that is not what was on the banner next to his. It would be easy to conflate the two, of course, but to him, it’s a clear bastardization of that symbol. It is a yellow serpent on black sky— It is a usurper’s crest.
Sneers erupts from the crowd, cruel and harsh, nothing like their reactions to the past challengers. No flowers. No applause. No squire to announce the honor of the disgraced prince Ilya Rozanov.
Shane’s heard the rumors; half-serpent, half-man, hot-tempered, drunk, and cruel. The Sea Snake Usurper, they called him, whose failed rebellion was washed out by a flood. His King Brother was merciful in the end, choosing to exile him instead of execution. Now he lives as a branded traitor, so Shane’s unsure how merciful that choice really was.
In the present, Rozanov rides in, head to toe in his black armor, almost brown from dirt. As he waves, the crowd’s scorn grows sharper, enough to pierce ones’ ears. This only seems to please the Usurper. He bows mockingly, blows them a kiss, and takes off his helmet with the biggest smile.
Oh.
He was the drunk man from last night.
Shane has no idea how to feel about that.
As per every tilt, the two knights must ride to the middle for a handshake, but Shane feels frozen in place, as if he was doused with water during a Northern winter.
His squire runs to him, shame etched on his face. “My prince,” he says. “I am so sorry. If I had known it was the Usurper, I never would have accepted.”
“It’s not your fault,” Shane says. “I’m sure he knew how to hide himself.” He remembers his own plan.
“Do you wish to forfeit?” His squire asks.
Shane frowns. His grip tightens and Noelle’s reins dig into the joints of his fingers.
Rozanov is already in the middle of the field.
He doesn’t do what Shane’s past opponents did, doesn’t immediately surrender upon the sight of the North’s coat of arms. No, he ignores the sigil completely. His gaze is locked onto Shane, daring him to come forward.
“Ready my lance,” Shane answers, before scurrying into the field.
“Thought you would back out.” Rozanov says as he arrives. He has a mole on his cheek that Shane didn’t notice before. They are of the same age, both the ripe age of nine and ten, yet Rozanov appears older than he. Under the sun, the toll of his hedonism sits fresh on his face. He smells of vodka and ash leaves and his blue eyes are leadened with eyebags.
Shane does not forget his manners. He bows his head and offers his hand, saying, “Good day, sir.”
Rozanov’s eyebrows shoot up at the title. He replies, “And good day to you too, Hollander.” His handshake is firm.
“Was it some prank last night?” Shane asks. “Get me off balance by talking about your nightmares?”
“Sorry, we talked last night?”
“Yes.” Shane blinks, slightly offended to be forgotten. “You said you dreamed of me. I was in chains, screaming?”
“Woah.” He puts his hands up. “I did not ask about your fetishes.”
Shane refuses to dignify that comment with a response, so he goes back to the end of the field for his lance. He watches Rozanov do the same.
Despite the circumstances, Shane can’t help but feel excited. Noelle brays under his touch, as if she could feel his heart beating fast and faster.
The trumpets sound.
His first tilt.
Noelle rears and dashes forward. Dust flies behind her like smoke. Through the slit of his helmet, he sees Rozanov’s shield going up. He steadies his spear in his arm, watching the tip, taking aim.
The crowd holds its breath. Waiting. Waiting.
Crack!
He hits Rozanov’s shield. Rozanov hits his, and it is harder than what Shane was expecting. Wood splinters between them like lightning, and the crowd cheers like pouring rain. Shane is pushed back, almost off his saddle, but he doesn’t fall down. The rushing wind carries the sound of Rozanov’s cackling as he zooms past. Shane finds himself infected by that happiness and, in the shroud of his helmet, allows himself a grin.
His squire gives him another lance.
The next pass ends with a stalemate once again. And again, and again. Shane feels selfish for not wanting it to end, but for once it feels like the world isn’t such a heavy burden. There are no kingdoms. There is no history to carry. There is nothing else but them at this moment, them and their horses and their lances— crashing, breaking, laughing. A fifth round passes. Then a sixth, then a seventh.
In the eighth pass, Shane makes sure to couch his lance slightly off. Make your opponent underestimate you, he remembers the advice of his old trainer. Make them think you’re getting tired.
Rozanov may be disgraced, but he is a damn good jouster. He notices the bad angle immediately, and his hold on his shield loosens.
Shane is a damn good jouster too. He aims true.
Rozanov yelps as he’s pushed off. His horse slows to a stop when it notices him gone from the saddle. It looks around the arena before finding him on the ground. It trots over gently. Rozanov groans with his hand clutched over his stomach.
Shane lets out a breath.
Flower petals start to rain from the sky; violets and reds and yellows against bright blue. Only when the trumpets sound again does Shane hear the crowd’s ovation. The spectators spill out of the stands, hounding him with praises. He bows and waves and smiles, but at the corner of his eye, he sees Rozanov stand up alone, with just his horse to accompany him.
#
“Are you sure you won’t go to the banquet this evening?” Hayden asks after the day’s games were finished. They stay at the stables, a Westland healing witch tending to him in case he’s been injured. The crowd of spectators walk outside, muttering of their plans for the rest of the night. Even just hearing about it makes Shane weak with fatigue.
“I’m positive, Hayden,” he says.
“But there will be a table for all the winners of today!”
“You can have my plate, then. I’ll retire to my tent early today. I’ve grown weaker it seems. One tilt exhausts me.”
“Perhaps it’s from jousting with an exile,” Hayden says. “Can’t expect those types to be honorable. Must’ve cheated you.”
Shane frowns. “I didn’t find any dishonesty in his playing. Though, I’m surprised that King Scott let him add his name to the lists in the first place.”
“From what I heard, Rozanov served as his cupbearer a few years past.”
“Is that so?” Shane shakes his head. “The king must be more desperate for allies than previously thought.”
That earns him barked laughter from Hayden. “Glad to know courts haven’t taught you to fake courtesy.”
#
Shane resigns himself as a spectator for the rest of the tourney. He is disappointed at his own choice, but he can’t let himself duel another pariah, if ever there are more in the crowd. Some people already looked at him funny after that one match with Rozanov. Maybe to them, accepting it meant that he rejected Rozanov’s dishonor, that he saw that defiled coat of arms as the legitimate sigil. The thought makes him physically ill, so he sits the rest of the tourney out.
On some days, he sees Rozanov in the crowd across him, in the commoners’ area, whooping and cheering as if he wasn’t royalty. Well, Shane guesses he’s not anymore. He was stripped of his titles. There are no more expectations for his behavior. Perhaps there is freedom in that, Shane thinks.
Hayden is unhorsed by Sir Ryan Price, who is then unhorsed by Sir Troy Barrett, who is then awarded as the tournament’s champion, three days later.
#
“You go ahead,” Shane tells his squire after they finish packing up his pavilion. “I’ve grown tired of the carriage. I think I’ll stay in the countryside for a bit, then take Noelle and follow after a day or even a week. I don’t know. I’ll write.”
“As you wish, my prince. Let me assign guards to protect you.”
He’d really rather be alone, but knows that is a distant dream. “No more than two, please.”
It only takes three hours before he is kidnapped.