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ellebeebee · 6 years

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A Summer at Crescent Hall

Another fic for @queenscrownvn bc I cannot resist.

AU where Roy does not die, and the MC stays at her family estate. Going along with the events of the game, negotiations take place with Tawar and the peace has various degrees of reception among the Sinado nobility. The royal court retreats to the D’Voline estate for summer, along with all the game’s LI because of course. 8)

4968 words, Noah/MC, general rating, on AO3

Genevieve charted the numbers in her head in lieu of anything else to occupy her; the extra food (especially the abundance of extravagant sugar and spices), the added members of service, the linens and all the renovations… And she mused about the new trade all of the village shopkeeps and the taverns would receive. It boded well for the higher-end products the keep brought to market days; extra income in the village pockets and desire for rarities would help offset these sudden new costs.

It’s not like it really mattered, though. The royal treasury had already provided for the court’s stay at the D’Voline Estate, the coinage accompanied by Lord Emry’s neat and very correct correspondence. Still, it helped distract from the weight of the cumbersome heavily-embroidered gown she wore and the sear of the afternoon sun on her shoulders.

The steward and her guard captain sweated silently at her elbow, and other high-ranking servants and even some early-arrived minor nobility arrayed out behind her along the south end of the courtyard. The protocol for welcoming the king was quite clear, so here they all were-- waiting. The distant cheering and shouts from the village heralded the royal procession just as much as the messenger pigeons. Stablehands and footmen fidgeted along the far wall, stiff in their bright livery.

Genevieve kept her shoulders straight enough to please any governess as-- finally-- horses and carts thumped up the great bridge and passed beneath the portcullis. She held her hands folded against the green silk of her skirt and inhaled into a placid, amenable set in her face. A princess feels no heat nor cold, a princess shows no discomfort or acts unbecoming--

Roy’s horse, Dauntless’s hooves rang a familiar pattern against the smooth stones of the courtyard, the sound drawing up old memories. Watching her brother work a mischievous knob-kneed colt out in the hard dirt yards around the palace stables. Surrounded by richly garbed knights, Roy headed the column with his shock of the family black hair soaking in the glare of the sun. He’d grown a beard. Since when did he wear a beard?

He grinned as he walked Dauntless toward her. She waited until the appropriate distance and dropped into a deep curtsy.

“Your Majesty,” she said.

Behind her, all of the other keep’s residents fell into their own curtsies and bows and a resonant chorus of “Your Majesty,” filled the polished stone bounds of the courtyard. The stablemaster hurried forward, taking Dauntless’s head, and Roy waved away an offer to help dismount. He’d schooled his mouth into a straighter line as he swung down, but his dark eyes still sparkled as he gestured for her to rise. His gold-trimmed cloak fluttered with some unseen breeze born of a royal aura, or some such, and a familiar scent of horse and leather polish wafted as he took her hands and tugged her forward.

He kissed her cheeks. “It has been too long. Your Highness.”

She resisted the urge to rub where his stiff bristly beard had scratched her, and also resisted the urge to glare. Here she was, doing her best to stuff down the heat in her chest and the smug idiot-- When it had been too long, too many years of clenching fists while waiting for news from the battlefields. She wasn’t about to let on, though. After all, they were siblings.

“You honor us with your presence, Your Majesty,” Genevieve intoned formally, loud enough to carry. She stared hard at Roy.

His mouth twitched. Turning, he waved away his knights bowing to both of them to make way for the royal carriage that had rode on their heels. Bianka stepped down, taking Roy’s hand. She was much as Genevieve remembered: elaborately dressed and jeweled and beautiful, wearing an entirely self-assured set in her brow.

She curtsied again, with another clear and proper, “Your Majesty.”

Bianka’s sharp eyes studied her. She tipped her head in a graceful acknowledgement, a tinkling of her earrings accompanying her returned pleasantries. Strictly speaking, the Queen should ride beside the King in these sort of situations, but perhaps there was good news to be heard. She had never been particularly close to Bianka, which was a shame as they both shared a sense of duty to Sinado and a love for Roy at least, but maybe that could be repaired a bit in the coming weeks.

And if the certain events that Genevieve suspected were approaching, it may be their last chance.

Mother followed Bianka out the carriage, stately in pale grey silk and a slow and deliberate tenor to her steps and gazes. Their eyes met, and Genevieve had to swallow. Mother, at least, had been free to visit last year and write a bit more frequently than Roy, but it hardly made up for all the time separated inbetween. Mother blinked rapidly as well, but a small smile of approval turned her fine lips as Genevieve dropped into yet another very correct curtsy.

“Your Highness.”

Mother nodded and allowed her to rise. “You look very well, Genevieve.”

“My gratitude for your concern, Your Highness. I hope your journey was not over-taxing.”

Mother closed the distance between them and scooped her into a short, tight embrace. But they released each other before the display could become overt, and the Queen Mother guided her to the other dismounting guests. As the steward ushered the King and Queen on to their rooms for a rest, Mother made a round of seemingly routine yet polite introductions.

Even so, Genevieve summoned all of her etiquette and poise; as much as she would have liked it, the court’s visit to Crescent Hall was not a mere social excursion. Through the chatter and bustle of the small crowd, Mother presented her to the Quait heir, Lord Teiran and the emissary from Tawar, Lord Noah du Eirrault. Lord Teiran was not as she remembered, exactly, and the emissary was most certainly not what she expected. And of course, she greeted Commander Greyson, Lady Phedre, and Lord Emry. She had no doubt she’d be seeing more of the royal cabinet during the visit.

The sun had sunk over the edge of the high keep walls, trailing a periwinkle and lavender train across the sky, when they retreated inside with a few hours to prepare before the visit’s first feast.

“Goddess, there’s a bear in here.”

Bonny raised his great anvil of a head, stubby ears cocked, and he rumbled low in his broad chest. The royal family stood in the archway into a dim study kept cool with an empty grate and only a few candles and lamps to cut the humid summer night seeping in from the thin and tall windows. Genevieve ducked around Roy to cross the room and kneel by Bonny near his nice cool spot beneath great-great-so-and-so’s unicorn tapestry.

“Don’t listen to him, Bonny,” she told him.

“That’s ‘Bonny’?” Roy said, closing the doors behind Bianka and Mother. “From the way you wrote, I assumed he was some cute little lapdog.”

Bonny rumbled again and turned liquid black eyes to Genevieve. She scratched beneath the heavy muscle of his jaw.

“You can’t speak that way about him,” she scolded over shoulder. “He’s very sensitive.”

As Bianka and Mother sat at the plush brocade couches, the mahogany legs curling against their skirts, Roy crossed to a table where a servant had left a marble basin full of ice and chilled wine for them.

“I’m taxing you personally when we all starve because you’ve spoiled all the country’s hunting dogs useless,” he told her.

Bonny’s rumble turned into that gravelly precursor to an ear-thumping bark. Genevieve patted him and stood, snagging his ruff to pull him up and quiet his ichor. She sat beside Mother who smiled with a tired sigh. Bonny shoved his weight against her legs, his heavy eyes following Roy as he handed Mother a silvery goblet.

“He was a guard dog, not a hunting dog, Your Majesty,” Genevieve stated.

Roy raised a brow. “Beg your pardon. I was quite fooled by those slender limbs, those elegant haunches.”

Bianka heaved a pointed exhalation. Swiveling, Roy winked at the look she gave him. As he handed her her own goblet, her arched and heavy-lashed gaze flew from him to Genevieve. She straightened a little. Bianka was probably right. As much as she would like to take the family nightcap at face value-- especially after the tiresome affair of the banquet where she’d been seatmates with Teiran of Quait-- duty did not wait.

Mother reached over to touch her cheek, tucking a curl behind her ear. “What did you think of our guests, dear?”

Genevieve stroked Bonny’s ears thoughtfully. “I think I would like to hear more about the current situation before I come to an opinion.”

“Must we do this now?” Roy said as he lowered himself into the seat beside Bianka.

“The decisions aren’t going to make themselves,” Bianka said.

Roy’s previous, slightly tired, cheer evaporated as he turned his own wine around in his hand and avoided meeting Genevieve’s eyes. They all paused as a patrol of guards passed by in the hall outside. Elsewhere in the keep were no doubt many other little gatherings such as this with hushed conversations about all the intricate maneuvers of the game of court. Only the moon would bear witness to each whisper, every promise and exchange.

One of the highest levels of the keep, and with ancient thick walls, this study had previously been a stately bedroom and remained one of the quietest places. You could gaze out over the gardens and on to the mirrored surface of their valley lake. When the wind was just right, you could smell the sweet dough baking down in the keep’s bakery in the small hours of the morning. Genevieve loved every stone of Crescent Hall. In some ways, she loved it more than the royal palace. But she had always known that she would not be able to stay forever.

“The negotiations with Tawar are going better than we could have hoped,” Mother said.

“Much better,” Roy said.

Genevieve eyed him. “Are you… disappointed?”

“No. Not exactly. It’s just funny. You spend so many years bashing them on the head with a sword, trying to keep them from bashing you on the head-- and you get home and all you want to do is have a nice peaceful tea with them.”

“You’ve been… having tea with them?” Genevieve asked. “I don’t mean to sound…”

“More often than you’d think,” Bianka stated. “Or would like, I should think.”

Mother leaned forward. “Now there, don’t be unkind. Either of you.”

Bianka sipped at her wine.

Roy went on. “This emissary is alright Interesting fellow, and it seems we are well on our way to building a new relationship of political trust and all that-- at least, as far as one can with a nation that’s not centralized like ours.”

“Ours is not totally centralized, though,” Genevieve said. “At least, not in opinions, yes?”

Bianka rolled her eyes. “The Lord Admiral and his ilk are being difficult. And he has sent his difficult son to make the point that he very much wishes to be a thorn in the side of the negotiations.”

She breathed softly through her small and finely-bred nose to emphasize her utter contempt for the opposition.

“And yet we cannot risk antagonizing one of our great supporters,” Mother stated.

“Yes, but who needs enemies with an ally like Admiral Quait,” Bianka returned. “Ally indeed. He is a vassal of the crown, and ought to be put in his proper place.”

“Well, let’s try a few other options before releasing the Queen’s full fury on House Quait, shall we?” Roy said, slipping an arm around her waist and a small smile in her direction.

Bianka did not seem mollified by this, but appearances were deceptive with her.

Bonny laid his great head on Genevieve’s lap for her to scratch. She did so with judicious, careful strokes. “So currently the pressing issues are whether to mollify Lord Quait, and consequently his cabbal, with a gesture of support or to solidify the diplomatic relation with Tawar.”

Mother nodded, eyes approving. “Yes.”

Genevieve caught Roy’s eye. “Then we are considering my marriage to either Lord Teiran or to a member of the Tawarian envoy.”

Roy leaned back into the thick and silver-damask cushions of the couch, and she could see now in the shallow light of a few candles how much the mantle of ‘King’ fall on him like a stone. He had some lines now at his eyes, and that beard formalized him-- made him into more of a statue with that flash of distance and difficult decisions in his eyes.

“Yes,” he said. “Unfortunately.”

Mother tilted her head with a firm yet not unkind expression. “We have always known this would come. Genevieve most of all.”

Genevieve raised herself up. “If your soldiers can give their lives on the battlefield, then I can certainly perform my duty for your peace.”

“It isn’t the same,” he shot back. “You are my sister. You think I want to trundle you off to that awful Quait family-- And believe me, I know what they’re like-- Or exile you to Tawar, hundreds of leagues from your friends and family?”

“Perhaps it is not what my brother Roy wishes to do,” she said deliberately, “But it is what Your Majesty, my king, must do.”

His brow drew together over dark, tired eyes that stared back at her. Mother slipped her hand in hers and squeezed.

Bianka shifted. “You should know that Teiran has already approached us, with a very clumsy and very impertinent inquiry about you.”

The mere inconvenience of having to endure an inept political maneuver seemed to have insulted her to her core. She sniffed.

“And the emissary?” Genevieve said.

“He’s more difficult to pin down,” Mother said. “But I think if we broached the subject, it would be well received.”

She squeezed Genevieve’s hand again. The knit in Roy’s brow mirrored in hers, as if she said the words calmly yet felt quite differently. Genevieve couldn’t quite bear to think of being so far from her mother, either. They’d been living apart from years now, but at least they’d been close enough to make a visit only a moderately tiresome difficulty. Even letters to Tawar could take weeks or months.

“And this Noah du Eirrault would be the likely groom?”

“That’s harder to say,” Mother sighed. “He is apparently of some status, but their ranks of course are not like ours. He does seem to command some respect among his peers, as well as the High King.”

Genevieve mused about this. Bonny had fallen asleep sitting up with his head in her lap. She supposed that as long as she could bring her dog and horse, most any type of husband could be endured. Or at least that was what she was going to determinedly think.

“Whichever problem has the greater need for me, I will of course acquiesce to,” she stated.

“Viv,” Roy scolded. “You’re not a treaty agreement-- a roll of parchment to be tossed to the highest bidder. Your happiness--”

“Is not the issue at hand. I am entirely prepared--”

Mother abruptly stood. Her sudden motion startled Bonny, and he jerked awake with a confused bark. Mother gave them one of her quietly commanding looks.

“It is late and this decision does not have to be made tonight. We shall continue to think on it, and watch as events play out. Shall we retire?”

They all pulled back, and paused. Bianka stood with her lips pressed thin.

“I will say this,” she said to Genevieve and Roy. “Both of you can’t drag your heels about this, blaming your indecision on this or that. Someone will have to decide what they want to do or whatever is the best course of action, and actually act on it.”

She swept past them all, and Genevieve stood for a quick and polite curtsy. Roy pressed a quick kiss to both her and Mother’s temples and followed after her, leaving them with a slightly awkward glance. Mother reached for her and linked their arms. She led them out of the study with Bonny trailing behind, grumbling sleepily.

Mother sighed. “I know I raised you to be like this--”

“Stubborn and impossible?”

“A perfect and dutiful princess. So is it terribly hypocritical of me to wish you weren’t? I hope you’ll be selfish and find some happiness for your own sake, dear.”

Genevieve did not reply. She hadn’t seen her mother in the flesh in a long time, and didn’t want to upset her with her real feelings that such a thing was truly of little consequence.

Ostensibly, His Majesty and the accompanying retinue of knights, courtiers, servants and their cartloads of trunks, absolutely necessary furniture and other accoutrements of rank retreated from the royal palace into the country to take in the cool breezes during the hottest months of summer. They certainly got their wish on only the second day of the visit, as the dawn broke chilly and grey, and by mid-morning thunder pealed against the valley walls.

The second day had been set aside as a rest period after the royal procession’s long journey, and no grand events or gatherings had been planned. The D’Voline ancestors’ portrait had gazed on empty halls when Genevieve left her rooms earlier, and she’d tread her favorite cloister (the one that opened on the square with the pink-ish marble fountain) with only her soft leather slippers leaving a whisper of footsteps in the dewey air. Well, that and Bonny’s deep huffing and the occasional tap of a long claw.

She’d kept a book clutched to her chest and hoped that after settling in at her favorite spot in the gardens that the chill would recede to the sun. She had not expected the sudden rain.

She’d walked far enough from the keep proper that she turned heel and trotted deeper into the gardens, lilacs caressing her shoulders and dahlias skimming her creamy linen skirt. Decades ago, a great-great-aunt had never married and practically raised her brother’s children herself. She believed in fresh air as helpful to learning, and commissioned a pavillion in the garden in which to tutor her nieces and nephews. It had one of the best views on the estate, looking over the lake framed by large and lovely willows.

More recently, the pavillion had at times been used as a tea room or for small celebrations. When she first came from the capitol, Genevieve had made it a personal project to use it as her private reading room.

It was closer than the keep, so as the first drops of rain quickened to a healthy torrent she dashed along the familiar path, kicking up puddles along the way.

Yet as she approached the pretty little structure with its ornate columns and plentiful glazed windows, she slowed at a few feet away. There was a figure inside. Bonny didn't move ahead, but she could feel him tensing beside her. Rain continued to pelt her head, so she continued. No point in getting drenched. Servants didn't come in unless instructed to so it must be some errant guest. There was plenty of room to shelter two people and a dog.

She pushed in through the arched door with Bonny on her heels. He growled.

The Tawarian emissary Noah du Eirrault stood at her book table in the center of the pavillion where she kept her current reads, her sketchbooks, and her parcels of notes on her different avenues of study. A quick scrutiny did not find any of her journals or letters disturbed, but if she had seen him from outside, it was not a far reach to assume he had seen her approach. She was not completely daft, though; while she was not intensely involved in court affairs, she had taken care to hide away any sensitive correspondence before the guests’ arrival.

Genevieve looked up to find tall and broad-shouldered young man examining her with a sharp, unabashed and unavoidable gaze. Almost impertinent considering the near intrusion into her personal space. True, the pavillion was never locked nor had there been any warnings against entering it, but still…

His eyes travelled to Bonny, stiffening at her side and his hackles rising, and his blue gaze rove back to hers. She waited with both the chill of the rain and a tension hardening her posture, coiling in her shoulders. The chill also reminded her of her casual summer dress, with its pale thin linen. How did these Tawarians stand their arms and chests bared? Resolute, she stared back at the emissary.

He grinned, teeth white. “It seems I’ve somehow become a villainous thief. My apologies to you, Your Highness, and to your fierce warrior there.”

Genevieve nudged Bonny until he calmed. “Of course not, My Lord. You’re quite welcome here. You’ll have to excuse us as we’re not terribly accustomed to visitors.”

Still smiling, and still roving his eyes around like a voracious predator, he nodded to the table and its piles of books and parchment, to the array of small comfy settees, and to the little shelves with potted flowers and various mementos. “I take it this is your… what would you call this room?”

“My reading room,” she supplied.

She stepped forward away from the door’s draft and laid the slightly damp volume she’d been clutching onto the table. Instead of trundling off to his pile of horse blankets in the corner, Bonny stayed at her heels. Noah had her copy of A Seneschal’s Guide to Kingdom Expenditures in a single large-palmed and mahogany-skinned hand. Her eyes traveled back up to his.

She pushed away a twitch of her stomach; she hadn’t realized just quite how tall he was.

Noah put down the economics treaty. “It is a… pleasant place. I could see how it would be nice for reading.”

“If you were looking for reading material, you’ll find much more in the keep’s library,” Genevieve said.

“Oh, I’ve already found it,” he said. “And I look forward to getting more familiar with it.”

He paired the statement with another of those cheeky glances. She ignored it. And quelled any feeling of being small and scruffy with her wet hair sticking to her neck and her overly simple dress, just as damp and clinging and mussed. While he wore his fine furs and intricate tattoos and glittering gold earring with an enviable cavalier attitude.

He continued. “But it was a nice morning, very quiet and not crowded. I wanted to explore a bit.” That grin again. “And here I found this little jewel.”

Pulling forward a findly wooden chair with its back of carved flowers and hummingbirds, she sat at the table. He was difficult to read beyond that wolfish grin and the observant eyes. Had he been snooping and was he now attempting to rattle her to deflect suspicion? Was he laying some sort of foundation from which to pull tight the diplomatic knot between their countries? So to speak.

She’d expected a little more time before she had to deal with this. Straightening her spine, Genevieve met and kept his gaze.

“Sit, please,” she said. “The rain won’t slack for some time.”

He paused. Perhaps he noted her pointedly allowing him to take a seat. Good. Still, he retained that good humor about his lips and sat across from her.

They exchanged some polite comments about Kingdom Expenditures. Maybe because she had drawn up her metaphorical guard, she found him steering the conversation with deceptively simple questions that worked her reserve of knowledge. Which she had believed sizeable if not worthy of pride, but with his unfamiliar approach to the logic behind tariffs and exports and such-- she wondered. For several years she’d been shut-away here at the D’Voline Estate, and even before that her life experiences had been carefully choreographed by her parents and tutors.

Maybe she had always only been meant for a political marriage, but would she be able to manage even that? Everything she knew came from books. And not many printed from outside her own country, at that.

Bonny got tired of glowering at Noah du Eirrault while drooling on her knee, so he hunkered down in his corner with his bed of horse blankets. The rain dancing on the eaves and whistley dog snores punctuated a silence between them. The cool air slowed the drying of her clothes terribly, and her little leather slippers had constricted, wet and icey, until they chafed her feet. But, she would rather die than display anything other than a poised tranquility.

Noah coughed, and she swiveled. His coarse black locks brushed over twinkling eyes. Unprompted, he stood and bent beneath the shelves on the far wall. Genevieve realized what he was doing and shifted. In winter, the pavillion looked over an almost sugary frozen lake, with frosted trees all around, and the peace and quiet was even better. To take care of the cold, she kept a little brazier that she usually sent a servant ahead to light.

Noah brought this brazier around to her seat-- how long exactly had he been poking around before she came?-- and bent over it, producing a flint from seemingly thin air. She opened her mouth but the protest trickled away reflexively and perplexingly, as his fingers poked at the brazier expertly and deftly struck the flint as easy as breathing. They were broad hands, with thick-padded fingers and an elegant splay of bones against the skin of the backs. Knuckles that worked like lute strings.

She noticed her reddened feet sticking out beneath her wet hem, and pulled them out of sight-- too quickly as he noticed and glanced up.

Biting her tongue against the curse she wanted to give at his expression, she cleared her throat. “Thank you. That was very kind of--”

“May I?”

Genevieve stared. Noah gestured to where her feet had retreated. It wasn’t untoward, exactly. It could almost be called chivalrous, except-- And it wasn’t as if it would be out of her rights to refuse, but-- With no reason to demure coming to mind, and on an enigmatic compulsion as if watching someone else make the decision, she nodded.

With a slow care, he lifted one foot towards him, his fingers behind her heel. Her chest twitched at the way her foot in his hand barely left the floor, her skirt hardly disturbed and not even revealing her ankle, and at the way his face-- like carved earth-- turned rapt to his own actions. He slipped the soggy leather slipper from her foot and took the other with the same attentiveness. The rough pads of his fingers barely glanced her skin.

It was like having a new maid of the wardrobe. But of course, none of her maids had ever had such wide shoulders that moved with such self-assured and cat-like grace. And none of her maids had a presence that felt too large, even kneeling. And of course none of them had such an unfamiliar scent. Not bad, just… different. Like a chord that she’d never heard that painted a hard and beautiful landscape. It was a personal scent, almost intimate.

Noah placed her shoes by the brazier to dry and stood. She found herself looking quite a ways up and trying to master her face and the pounding in her chest. Smiling, he prowled back to his seat at the other side of the table.

Goddess, what a-- How dare--

“I hope to benefit from the stay as much as possible,” he said. He paused deliberately. “So other than The Seneschal’s Guide to Kingdom Expenditures, what would Your Highness recommend to me from your library?”

Genevieve studied him. He leaned slightly toward her with that seemingly permanent smile tempered a bit. Despite herself-- despite her determination to guard against ulterior motives and to be annoyed-- she rather liked his sincerity. She liked his interest in her reading and their family’s collection of books. She collected her nerves enough to recommend a few titles, and they exchanged some subtle barbs over the topics.

The backdrop of the rain’s thrum petered off, and the light chatter of purple and blue birds took its place. Already, the chill was giving away to heavy summer humidity dragging a pungent petrichor in its wake. Her feet were comfortably warm and dry.

Noah stood. “Begging your pardon, Your Highness, I think I will impose on your reading room no longer.”

He bowed to her in the Sinadoan fashion, albeit a bit more embellished than strictly correct. He smiled.

She remained seated as befit her station, and raised a brow. “Then I thank you for your kindness, My Lord. And hope you have a pleasant day. If you need further guidance within the keep, remember you are always welcome to inquire.”

Maybe he’d won a few a points against her, but she certainly hadn’t forgotten him “stumbling” onto her semi-private room.

“Then I hope you won’t blame me if I come to depend on your company, Highness,” he said, eyes catching her.

She nodded, resisting the desire to roll her eyes. He turned, gave Bonny his own respectful bow (to which Bonny grumbled and turned over), and Noah du Eirrault strode from the pavillion into the damp but sunny garden.

Genevieve sat at her table, wiggling her bare toes and trying to remember all the assertions she’d given her family the night before. She did not know what to think of the emissary. She didn’t know what to even think of herself at this moment.

Bonus:

This is my hc for Bonny (x)

Unnecessary, I know, but consider this: Big Dog. Big Spoilt Baby Dog.

#queens crown #queens crown vn #queenscrownvn #noah du eirrault #fanfiction #my writing #a writing problem i never considered id have: do i write The Scene even if im afraid itll come off f//oot f//etish-y??#dont @ me #honestly writing bianka and roy was some of my fave #also lmao i finally named my mc #if u havent played the demo for this u definitely should!

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