Post by Griff on Apr 12, 2013 10:42:33 GMT 10
Title; Hand in Marriage
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1296
Pairing: Alanna/Jonathan
Round/Fight: 1/A
Summary: Jonathan asks for Roger's help with a small problem.
Warning: Implied canon sexual encounters
-
“Well,” Roger eased the classroom door shut behind him and crossed his arms. “I assume you have some dour news, if your face is any judge.” Jon merely rubbed his palms across his breeches out of nerves and stared at the nearest bookshelf. With a sigh, Roger moved to lean against his desk and waved to the nearest chair, “Take a seat and tell me what’s happened.”
Jon shuffled to his seat with the shame of a boy half his age. “Do you remember,” he mumbled, “when you found me reading Endo Capthari’s ‘Voices of the Gift’.”
“Yes,” Roger quirked a brow. “I remember telling you it was far too advanced, that his methods could easily cause mania in the unsuitably trained, and that you were far better off turning your attentions towards the assigned readings you regularly neglected.” He uncrossed his arms. “And I also remember it being during your years as a squire. I admit, I’m impressed you managed to listen to me this long. Your stubbornness usually out does your good sense in a matter of weeks, if your ego doesn’t trump it entirely.
“I’m going to need something to drink for the rest of this,” Roger decided, pulling cups out from the small cupboard in the corner. “Tea?”
“I didn’t listen,” Jon huffed, “I just didn’t like his theories on casting, residual ether, and active charms. They were useless. I only went back for his structural work.”
“Then you’re a greater fool than I thought. His theories may sound incredible, but they are also very much correct. If you don’t bother to follow his principles of magic, his structural work is shoddy at best.”
“Yes,” his cousin snapped, sulking into his seat. “Thank you, I am familiar.”
“So,” Roger waved his hand over the empty pot as he added water and raised the temperature to a boil. “You obviously have your wits about you, as precious few as they may be, so I assume the problem lies elsewhere. Likely, say, in a broken charm?” He looked over his shoulder. “If you’ve gone and mucked around in my tower and contaminated my work room, I will pull you over my knee. I don’t care how old you are.”
“No, nothing happened to your precious work room,” Jon rolled his eyes. “I don’t practice anywhere near there. It’s...” He trailed off and began shifting uncomfortably rubbing his palms together between his knee. “It was a pregnancy charm.”
He looked up imploringly. Roger merely stared back. Jon shrugged guiltily and muttered, “She’s pregnant.”
“Oh gods be good,” he exclaimed, pushing aside the teapot and the cup as he began pacing. Roger pinched the bridge of his nose. “You can not be this stupid. You are the crown prince, Jonathan. Any child of yours is placed in the succession! What were you thinking, laying about with city rats and flower sellers, letting little bastards grow!”
“She’s not a flower seller!” Jon objected. “She’s a lady!”
“That chit, Delia of ... Elder?” he snapped his fingers in victory, “Eldorne!” He paused, “I fail to see the issue. Delia is a girl of fine breeding. Unexpected, of course, but marriages have been rushed for smaller reasons.”
“It’s not Delia,” his cousin dismissed, “and she refuses to marry me.” Jon sighed and leaned forward, seriousness returning. “See, that’s the problem. She won’t marry me. Says she has too many things to do and being tied down in frumpy dresses and silly baubles will ruin it.”
“Good,” Roger exclaimed. “Problem solved. Get rid of the baby, go your separate ways, everything is concluded without mentions to anyone. Is that what you need? Normally, I would send you to Duke Baird but I can see why you wouldn't want him knowing about this. I can have something made for you by nightfall.”
Jon sat up in horror, “No! No, we’re not - She’s not doing that. She already said. I didn’t even known about the baby until after she decided she was keeping it.”
“So you’ve managed to impregnate a lady of good breeding who refuses to marry you or do away with the child,” Roger summarized. “That’s all well and good, but you know your parents won’t let it stand. Any chance of sending her away?”
“Not where it’ll stay quiet. And I know my parents won’t let us be, that’s why I’m here.” Jon leaned forward and began his speech, obviously well rehearsed. “I can’t have a bastard and she doesn’t want to be queen. You don’t seem interested in taking a wife, but still need a child to carry your title. If you marry her, you won’t have to worry about finding a wife, she won’t care what or who you spend time with, and no one will know the child’s mine.”
“You want me to marry a woman I have never met to hide away your secret love child so that its mother doesn’t have to be queen?” The absurdity rang loudly in the empty room.
However, it didn’t seem to reach Jonathan who simply smiled and nodded, “Exactly.”
Thoughts ran through Roger’s head, maps of succession and bloodlines, calculations of risk and impediment. “Fine. Give me this lady’s name so I can consider it.” A simple brew in afternoon tea would do away with a child one way or another.
“I can’t do that,” Jonathan shook his head. “She has too much at risk.”
“I’m supposed to agree to this without having ever met the woman?” Roger scoffed, “You’ll excuse me if I don’t quite trust your taste in women, Jon.”
“She’s lovely!” Jon defended. “Very lovely, I promise.”
“Oh, I’m sure, but what if she’s short.” Roger pointed out, “I’ve never been particularly fond of short women.”
“She’s...” Jon seemed at a loss, “She has more than enough personality to make up for it.”
“Oh gods,” Roger gagged in revulsion. “She’s hideous, isn’t she? You’re trying to convince me on her lovely personality.”
“I never said it was lovely, she simply has more than enough to make up for her height,” Jon corrected, “and she is pretty!”
“Blonde or brunette,” Roger fired back.
“Red.”
“Green eyes or blue.”
“Neither.”
“Favorite hobbies.”
“Insulting me and doing the opposite of what I say.”
“Hmph,” Roger considered. “Why not ask young Gary to hide your dirty secret, or perhaps Lord Raoul?”
“Because Gary is going to marry Cythera, it’s only a matter of time before he finally finds the stones to ask, and if either of them found out I managed to get her pregnant, they’d kill me.”
“Your squire, then.”
Jonathan’s face shuttered, faded first to ghostly white before exploding in vibrant shades of crimson. “I can’t ask Alan.”
Hm, Roger considered with interest. A red haired lady with connections to the intriguingly annoying Trebond. “Very well. I’ll do it.”
-
“What crawled up his bum today,” Raoul asked as he watched Alan storm off across the training courts.
“I think Jon gave him the talk,” Gary lowered his voice and gave Raoul a pointed look. “Ya know, about his... little problem.”
“What problem?” Raoul asked, confused.
Gary pat his belly demonstratively, “Alan’s little bun in the oven. He’s been packing away the sweets like a babe during Midwinter and he’s starting to go soft. I mentioned to Jon that someone should have a word with him about it. I know it shouldn’t matter, we all dealt with the stress of our ordeals in our own way, but it’s three weeks away. Alan needs to look his best for his knighthood, not like he’s already gone to seed like Sir Myles.”
“So, Jon talked to him about it and that’s why Alan’s in a mood?”
Gary shrugged, “Well, as of this morning, Jon’s got a black eye and Alan’s in a strut. What else could it be?”
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1296
Pairing: Alanna/Jonathan
Round/Fight: 1/A
Summary: Jonathan asks for Roger's help with a small problem.
Warning: Implied canon sexual encounters
-
“Well,” Roger eased the classroom door shut behind him and crossed his arms. “I assume you have some dour news, if your face is any judge.” Jon merely rubbed his palms across his breeches out of nerves and stared at the nearest bookshelf. With a sigh, Roger moved to lean against his desk and waved to the nearest chair, “Take a seat and tell me what’s happened.”
Jon shuffled to his seat with the shame of a boy half his age. “Do you remember,” he mumbled, “when you found me reading Endo Capthari’s ‘Voices of the Gift’.”
“Yes,” Roger quirked a brow. “I remember telling you it was far too advanced, that his methods could easily cause mania in the unsuitably trained, and that you were far better off turning your attentions towards the assigned readings you regularly neglected.” He uncrossed his arms. “And I also remember it being during your years as a squire. I admit, I’m impressed you managed to listen to me this long. Your stubbornness usually out does your good sense in a matter of weeks, if your ego doesn’t trump it entirely.
“I’m going to need something to drink for the rest of this,” Roger decided, pulling cups out from the small cupboard in the corner. “Tea?”
“I didn’t listen,” Jon huffed, “I just didn’t like his theories on casting, residual ether, and active charms. They were useless. I only went back for his structural work.”
“Then you’re a greater fool than I thought. His theories may sound incredible, but they are also very much correct. If you don’t bother to follow his principles of magic, his structural work is shoddy at best.”
“Yes,” his cousin snapped, sulking into his seat. “Thank you, I am familiar.”
“So,” Roger waved his hand over the empty pot as he added water and raised the temperature to a boil. “You obviously have your wits about you, as precious few as they may be, so I assume the problem lies elsewhere. Likely, say, in a broken charm?” He looked over his shoulder. “If you’ve gone and mucked around in my tower and contaminated my work room, I will pull you over my knee. I don’t care how old you are.”
“No, nothing happened to your precious work room,” Jon rolled his eyes. “I don’t practice anywhere near there. It’s...” He trailed off and began shifting uncomfortably rubbing his palms together between his knee. “It was a pregnancy charm.”
He looked up imploringly. Roger merely stared back. Jon shrugged guiltily and muttered, “She’s pregnant.”
“Oh gods be good,” he exclaimed, pushing aside the teapot and the cup as he began pacing. Roger pinched the bridge of his nose. “You can not be this stupid. You are the crown prince, Jonathan. Any child of yours is placed in the succession! What were you thinking, laying about with city rats and flower sellers, letting little bastards grow!”
“She’s not a flower seller!” Jon objected. “She’s a lady!”
“That chit, Delia of ... Elder?” he snapped his fingers in victory, “Eldorne!” He paused, “I fail to see the issue. Delia is a girl of fine breeding. Unexpected, of course, but marriages have been rushed for smaller reasons.”
“It’s not Delia,” his cousin dismissed, “and she refuses to marry me.” Jon sighed and leaned forward, seriousness returning. “See, that’s the problem. She won’t marry me. Says she has too many things to do and being tied down in frumpy dresses and silly baubles will ruin it.”
“Good,” Roger exclaimed. “Problem solved. Get rid of the baby, go your separate ways, everything is concluded without mentions to anyone. Is that what you need? Normally, I would send you to Duke Baird but I can see why you wouldn't want him knowing about this. I can have something made for you by nightfall.”
Jon sat up in horror, “No! No, we’re not - She’s not doing that. She already said. I didn’t even known about the baby until after she decided she was keeping it.”
“So you’ve managed to impregnate a lady of good breeding who refuses to marry you or do away with the child,” Roger summarized. “That’s all well and good, but you know your parents won’t let it stand. Any chance of sending her away?”
“Not where it’ll stay quiet. And I know my parents won’t let us be, that’s why I’m here.” Jon leaned forward and began his speech, obviously well rehearsed. “I can’t have a bastard and she doesn’t want to be queen. You don’t seem interested in taking a wife, but still need a child to carry your title. If you marry her, you won’t have to worry about finding a wife, she won’t care what or who you spend time with, and no one will know the child’s mine.”
“You want me to marry a woman I have never met to hide away your secret love child so that its mother doesn’t have to be queen?” The absurdity rang loudly in the empty room.
However, it didn’t seem to reach Jonathan who simply smiled and nodded, “Exactly.”
Thoughts ran through Roger’s head, maps of succession and bloodlines, calculations of risk and impediment. “Fine. Give me this lady’s name so I can consider it.” A simple brew in afternoon tea would do away with a child one way or another.
“I can’t do that,” Jonathan shook his head. “She has too much at risk.”
“I’m supposed to agree to this without having ever met the woman?” Roger scoffed, “You’ll excuse me if I don’t quite trust your taste in women, Jon.”
“She’s lovely!” Jon defended. “Very lovely, I promise.”
“Oh, I’m sure, but what if she’s short.” Roger pointed out, “I’ve never been particularly fond of short women.”
“She’s...” Jon seemed at a loss, “She has more than enough personality to make up for it.”
“Oh gods,” Roger gagged in revulsion. “She’s hideous, isn’t she? You’re trying to convince me on her lovely personality.”
“I never said it was lovely, she simply has more than enough to make up for her height,” Jon corrected, “and she is pretty!”
“Blonde or brunette,” Roger fired back.
“Red.”
“Green eyes or blue.”
“Neither.”
“Favorite hobbies.”
“Insulting me and doing the opposite of what I say.”
“Hmph,” Roger considered. “Why not ask young Gary to hide your dirty secret, or perhaps Lord Raoul?”
“Because Gary is going to marry Cythera, it’s only a matter of time before he finally finds the stones to ask, and if either of them found out I managed to get her pregnant, they’d kill me.”
“Your squire, then.”
Jonathan’s face shuttered, faded first to ghostly white before exploding in vibrant shades of crimson. “I can’t ask Alan.”
Hm, Roger considered with interest. A red haired lady with connections to the intriguingly annoying Trebond. “Very well. I’ll do it.”
-
“What crawled up his bum today,” Raoul asked as he watched Alan storm off across the training courts.
“I think Jon gave him the talk,” Gary lowered his voice and gave Raoul a pointed look. “Ya know, about his... little problem.”
“What problem?” Raoul asked, confused.
Gary pat his belly demonstratively, “Alan’s little bun in the oven. He’s been packing away the sweets like a babe during Midwinter and he’s starting to go soft. I mentioned to Jon that someone should have a word with him about it. I know it shouldn’t matter, we all dealt with the stress of our ordeals in our own way, but it’s three weeks away. Alan needs to look his best for his knighthood, not like he’s already gone to seed like Sir Myles.”
“So, Jon talked to him about it and that’s why Alan’s in a mood?”
Gary shrugged, “Well, as of this morning, Jon’s got a black eye and Alan’s in a strut. What else could it be?”