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kingofkingdom · 2 years

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The Lady of the House :: 1

Chapter One

Medieval!AU

“Letters are signs of things, symbols of words, whose power is so great that without a voice they speak to us the words of the absent” - Isidore of Saville

Pairing: Din Djarin x Female Reader (AFAB, she/her pronouns)

Rating: Teen

Warnings: Violence, gore, peril, period-typical classism

Author’s Note: Reader in this series will be based in part on the lives of both Margaret, Duchess of Norfolk and Margaret Paston. This story is set in medieval England, but I have done my best to keep her physical features vague, and as the story progresses her background will hopefully help lend to self-insertion. This will be up on my AO3 in a bit - more historical notes will be left there. Enjoy!

Word Count: 2.6k

He comes in the night, on the back of a horse with flared nostrils and hooves that shake the earth.

Your small village is not one to receive frequent visitors, tucked away in the dense woods as it is. In the landscape's soft bosom, green and quiet, the hunter is a stranger who cannot go unnoticed. He rides through every few months, takes a room at the inn, and departs before the next morning's first birdsong. Voices hush as he enters the tavern and deposits his coin on the counter. The only villager to have spoken to him is the barkeep, a man with eyes almost as shrewd as the hunter's.

Even his name evokes chaos. Din. Like the roar of a crowd, the clamor of voices and bodies and metal that exists in the deep recesses of your memory. Swords clashing, men yelling, blood spilt on muddy cobblestones.

When the hunter rides through, the women whisper. Some say their cousins in York have seen him slice a man's head clean off his shoulders. Others say their fathers knew him as a boy, that there was a time when he was kind and fair. The men claim to have taken him in combat, to have scarred him, that the chain around their necks was torn from beneath the hunter's cotte.

The hunter passes through like smoke on the wind, seen but for a moment, the smell remaining long after he departs.

Tonight the evening is cool and bright. The sun seems as though it refuses to dip behind the trees, keeping the earth golden and mischievous much later than usual. It is for this reason that the townsfolk are taken by surprise at the appearance of the hunter when they are still working. Their heads turn as he passes, watching the hunter, seeing that he does not stop at the tavern.

Tonight, Din Djarin points his horse's nose down a different path. He rides towards the estate that sits a small distance from the town, across the river, through thick forest and open farmland.

The family in the manor across the river has lived there since it was built nearly two hundred years ago. Constructed in the Norman style of imposing gray stone, it's a cold, uninviting structure meant more to be the placeholder of a conqueror than a place where someone might live. An outer wall, fortified at the corners by circular towers, protects the inner sanctuary from attack. It’s relatively small, but it projects an air of nobility and royal favour all the same. Clearly, the family who live here are well-off and have been for some time.

As Din guides his steed towards the building, he sees that it is bustling with activity. Fires burn in the narrow, arched windows and sentries keep watch outside the gates. Smoke rises from within and distantly, so faint he might have missed it if he weren't who he is, Din can hear the sound of an instrument being played.

It is clear that much business is conducted here. The hunter would be surprised if that weren't the case, given the flurry of activity present at all Norman strongholds across the island. A young boy rides past him as he approaches, carrying a leather satchel that likely holds letters to someone in the vast country beyond.

Upon his arrival, Din tells the guards his business and dismounts from his horse. He leads her through the front gate and into the inner courtyard where the main house is situated. The mare, called Crest, is one of his most beloved possessions, so he cannot help but watch as a stable boy takes her reins and walks her over to a hitching post. She begins to graze.

Inside, the castle is distinctly colder than the air outside. The walls are adorned with thick, delicately woven tapestries, and the ceiling is painted in bright reds and golds. A young woman approaches and beckons Din to follow, eyes downcast and hair hidden beneath a white veil that falls to the middle of her back. They pass through several doorways, up a winding set of stairs, and down a long, echoing hallway before the woman pauses at the very last door.

She knocks thrice, in quick succession. From inside, a voice calls out, inviting the two of them in.

Your back is turned to the handmaiden and your guest when they walk through the door and into the drawing room. Through the window beside your writing table you can see out onto the grounds below. Outside, two of the guards are engaged in conversation, smiling and laughing between themselves. Though a fire roars bright and hot just beside you, a cold feeling overcomes you and your hands clench where they're interlaced over your midsection.

"The hunter, Din Djarin, milady."

The door squeaks and slams shut again, closing you in with this famed, mysterious hunter. He's silent behind you and it makes the hair on the back of your neck stand on end. You let the silence continue for a moment, interrupted only by the sound of burning logs, before you turn to face him.

He stands there, hip cocked, a gloved hand on the pommel of his sword. His hair is mussed and his beard grows sparse on his jaw. He looks at you from under the ridge of his brow, the whites of his eyes gleaming in the firelight.

"How lucky am I, that the mysterious hunter would answer my call," you quip, meeting his dark gaze head-on. You don't fear him like the villagers do - this meeting can only go one way, which leaves no room for preconceived ideas of who this man is.

He raises a brow. "I mean you no insult, my Lady, but I was under the impression I was to meet with the Lord of the house tonight."

That makes you smile. Of course he would assume such a thing. "No, I am afraid it was I who summoned you, and with myself alone you will discuss the forthcoming matters."

His jaw works for a moment. "Your husband," he begins, speaking carefully, knowing the line he's treading close to, "does he know I am here, at your request?"

"Yes.” Whether he approves is another matter, but the hunter needn’t know that.

He considers this. "What are the matters you summoned me here to discuss, madam?"

You purse your lips, lifting your head, setting your posture out of habit. The light in the room has shifted; the sun is now below the horizon, so the space grows darker as only the firelight illuminates your faces.

“The Lord is currently away on business, tending to his late uncle’s affairs in the south. He is not due back for some time." You meet his gaze to underscore the seriousness of your next words. "There have been five attempts on my life since my husband departed. I have reason to suspect they were all orchestrated by the same group, though none of my knights have been able to track them down. I called you here to offer you substantial payment in return for their heads."

The hunter shifts his weight. He looks off to the side, staring beyond the parchment lying blank on your desk. You watch his face closely as he considers your words. Lines appear between and above his brows, and his lips turn down at the corners.

You can tell he's thinking about it, so you sweeten the pot, so to say.

“I can pay you one-third the reward up front for each man you pursue, and the rest once I have confirmation that they are dead.”

“I don’t work for hire, madam.”

You scoff. “Do you take me for a fool, Din Djarin?”

His eyes meet yours and something in them softens, ever so slightly. Outside, someone shouts, followed by raucous laughter.

“No, madam. I collect bounties placed on criminals by the crown, not by private individuals. No matter how pressing the issue may be."

The words make you bristle; they border on disrespect, suggesting that he is a man beholden to no one rather than a subject who regularly passes through your lands uninhibited. To act as though he is too good to collect your reward, despite not even knowing what it is. You tilt your head, clasping your hands behind your back.

Clearly this man knows not the implications of what he says. You should have expected as much from someone with his background, or lack thereof.

"I am the crown in every way that concerns someone of your standing, hunter. If you do not need the coin, then say as much. But do not let your frivolous self-imposed rules inflate your ego beyond your name."

That makes the hunter narrow his eyes. He takes a step forward, his broad shoulders looming over you, as though he intends to intimidate you into simply accepting what he just said. No, you think to yourself, not moving an inch, I am not a woman who can be bullied into obedience. You lift your chin so as to more easily look him in the eye.

"How quickly the lady of the house forgets her roots," he mutters.

The fire of anger within you roars to life, brighter and hotter than that which warms your faces. You feel your mouth curl down into an ugly sneer, eyes widening in shock. How dare he!

Just as you're opening your mouth to assure him of his imminent demise at the hands of one of your guards, a commotion can be heard approaching quickly in the hallway beyond the door. Footsteps, many pairs of them, all running, overlapped by the sounds of indiscernible shouting. You and the hunter forget for a moment your quarrel and each turn to look at the door.

"My Lady!"

The voice is that of your handmaiden. She sounds terrified, her words nearly screams as they echo through the stone walls of your castle. On instinct you step back, positioning the hunter between yourself and the door.

Another scream, this one cut too short. Men holler and then the door rattles violently. You catch a glimpse of the hunter drawing his sword before you're diving towards your desk, frantically searching for the item you know lies in one of its drawers.

You can hear as the wooden door swings and slams against the stone wall beside it. Your fingers find the handle of your dagger and you spin around just in time to catch sight of the hunter's sword slicing a man's stomach clean through. Another attacker launches himself at you. Meaty hands grab at your arms and shoulders, the seams of your dress tearing under blunt, bloody nails. The length of your dagger finds one of the gaps between his ribs and he slumps, his breathing gone ragged and shallow and weak.

As you yank your dagger out of the man's side you look up and see that the hunter has taken down two more men and is occupied with a third, their swords locked crosswise together. The attacker, who you belatedly recognize as one of the guards who was stationed outside the gate not an hour ago, shifts his stance and presses forward, his blade inching closer to the hunter's face.

Din Djarin grunts and, in a move you've never seen the likes of before, uses his sword to twist the other right out of the man's hands. He shifts his grip and, fast as a streak of lightning, brings the gleaming steel down on the attacker's delicate neck.

The silence that follows is interrupted only by your shared, labored breathing. The hunter stoops to wipe his bloodied sword on the fabric of the headless man's tunic, then stands and faces you.

You grit your teeth, standing up straight, dagger still firmly gripped in your hand.

"Thank you," you tell him. He nods once.

"Gather your things," he says, as though it's the most obvious statement in the world. He begins searching through the men's clothing, emptying their pockets of coin and small weapons.

You balk. "Excuse me?"

"Gather your things," he repeats, "we don't have much time. There could be more approaching as we speak, we must go."

"We? I am not going anywhere with you, you… you…"

The hunter looks up at you with tired eyes. "Then you will die."

It is so blunt, so honest, that your mouth snaps shut with the realization that he's right. You look around the room - a space that was once a haven for you to execute your duties as a noble woman is now littered with the bodies of traitors. This place can no longer guarantee your safety, not when the very men charged with protecting you were the ones to nearly kill you.

A strand of hair has come untucked from your wimple and veil. You feel it brushing your forehead, out of place and irksome. With a trembling hand, you reach up and tuck it away under the white linen that marks you a married woman.

"Very well."

There are only a few things you know you must bring: your Bible, a wooden box filled with coin, your mother's ring, and an extra set of garments. You decide at the last moment to pack your parchment, wax, stamp, and writing implements, just in case.

Din Djarin walks with long, determined strides, sure-footed without room for question. Keeping pace beside him, you avert your eyes when you pass the body of your handmaiden; she was one of few kindnesses you were allowed in this place, and to see her light snuffed out like that of a candle would surely test your resolve more than anything else you've been through today. You follow the hunter down the stairs and out into the main foyer, where the grand front doors stand wide open. As you step through them, you close them behind you. You'll have to write to someone - anyone, but most likely your husband's brother, who lives the nearest of any of the family - to ask that they look after the estate. That they clean up the mess you've left behind.

It sours your heart to think of the damage you're causing the family, running off in the night like this, but if you stay any longer you'll surely be killed. Especially if you're alone, without guards.

Shutting and locking the doors must do for now.

Outside, all is quiet. A horse grazes on the lawn; you assume this must be his, for you've never seen the buckskin mare before. You immediately make your way to the stables, where your beloved stallion should be waiting. The ink-black horse, called Voyager, has been in your care since he was a colt. His temper is volatile with everyone except you and it's a small comfort knowing your companion will come along.

You saddle the horse with as much haste as you can manage, securing your belongings inside the leather saddlebags. Then, though your skirts limit your mobility somewhat, you mount Voyager and guide him out of the stables.

Djarin is waiting near the outer gates. He sits upon his horse with a hand on his hip, watching you. Though his expression remains stony, something in his posture tells you he's surprised to see you so comfortable in the saddle.

"What?" you ask, though it comes out a bit more defensive than you intended. "Surely you didn't think I spent all my waking hours in that dreadful tower, did you?"

The hunter says nothing. There's a beat, a moment of silence drawn out too long, and then he takes the reins in one hand and turns towards the path that leads away from your home. You'll have to cut through the forest to avoid the village, even though night has fallen, to avoid any chance of anyone seeing the two of you leaving together.

As you follow your reluctant protector away from your home, away from the monument to the family you married into not long ago, you do not turn and look back.

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