Post by lisabounce on Apr 5, 2011 11:45:02 GMT 10
Title: That Most Promising Squire
Rating: PG
Word Count: 601
Pairing: Roger/Alanna
Round/Fight: 1/G
Summary: Roger dogged her footsteps, those last months between her eighteenth birthday and her Ordeal.
Roger dogged her footsteps, those last months between her eighteenth birthday and her Ordeal. Outwardly calm as she made her preparations, settled her affairs and dined with Myles, with Gary and Raoul, with George, as she shared her lord's bed of an evening. (When he wasn't charming the ladies of the court – one might take one's squire but formalities, especially for one such as Jonathan had to be observed and the long, careful process of courting, of allegiances began, though nothing was brought to fruition, to promises or even to more than a smile and a nod.)
It was Jon's pleasure at night to see Alanna dressed in a gown of red and black silk, set through with deep, rust-orange highlights, hair bound up in a white wimple. He kept it in his rooms and laughed, quietly, at her terror that someone might see them, at her insistence that the doors and windows be warded before she would ever consent to the gown, pulling it off herself, quickly and uncomfortably, shortly thereafter each time. (It wasn't her purple woollen gown, kept carefully in a chest in the city, for those equally terrifying days in the markets of Corus, learning to check her stride, keep her eyes downcast and not strike a townsman down for taking liberties that would never be taken against a youth, even one so pretty as Alan.) She was angry, humiliated, after those evenings, that Jon sometimes seemed only to value her when she was dressed as a lady.
And Roger dogged her footsteps, appearing after weapons practice, in those moments when Alanna saw to Jon's mounts and his weapons or tended Moonlight. In those moments in the libraries where she sought out old tomes of magic and sometimes, romances.
He would settle himself, surcoat and hose and tunic all uncreased and unmarred, in a chair across from her and raise an elegant, impossibly handsome eyebrow at her choice of reading material. “Guy of Fief Cahir? Are you taking notes on how to charm the court ladies, Squire Alan? Lest you be the only the knight to pass his Ordeal without a fair lady's token on his arm?”
She would glare at him, remembering all the reasons she hated the man, even as he would smile. “Delia asked of you again, and I know you're not yet ...committed. She would appreciate a letter or some small token of your favour,” and Alanna would squirm uncomfortably in her seat, blushing until her ears burned. Sometimes he would merely sniff at Gilbert of Long Lake's treatise on warding, returning a moment later with a larger tome which he would deposit on the table next to her. “Jerel of Queenscove is somewhat less wrong on this topic. Please attend to his writings. I would so hate to see anything come to you.”
Other times, Roger would drum Alex back and forward across the training floor, barechested and sweating, before sending the younger man away on seeing that Squire Alan lacked a training partner that would, as he murmured to Alex, give the lad a decent study. Alanna found the Duke an exhilarating partner: a skilled swordsman, he worked her across the floor till it was all she could do to even remember to hold back sommat, to appear less threatening. He would slap her arms, her flanks with the flat of his blade as they worked, snapping “Keep your guard up, Squire!” and “Gods have mercy on you, leaving your side open like that, for no-one else will.” It was hard to hate him at those moments, when he spoke to her only with the concern of a knight for a squire lacking in skill and experience.
QC by: greenie
Rating: PG
Word Count: 601
Pairing: Roger/Alanna
Round/Fight: 1/G
Summary: Roger dogged her footsteps, those last months between her eighteenth birthday and her Ordeal.
Roger dogged her footsteps, those last months between her eighteenth birthday and her Ordeal. Outwardly calm as she made her preparations, settled her affairs and dined with Myles, with Gary and Raoul, with George, as she shared her lord's bed of an evening. (When he wasn't charming the ladies of the court – one might take one's squire but formalities, especially for one such as Jonathan had to be observed and the long, careful process of courting, of allegiances began, though nothing was brought to fruition, to promises or even to more than a smile and a nod.)
It was Jon's pleasure at night to see Alanna dressed in a gown of red and black silk, set through with deep, rust-orange highlights, hair bound up in a white wimple. He kept it in his rooms and laughed, quietly, at her terror that someone might see them, at her insistence that the doors and windows be warded before she would ever consent to the gown, pulling it off herself, quickly and uncomfortably, shortly thereafter each time. (It wasn't her purple woollen gown, kept carefully in a chest in the city, for those equally terrifying days in the markets of Corus, learning to check her stride, keep her eyes downcast and not strike a townsman down for taking liberties that would never be taken against a youth, even one so pretty as Alan.) She was angry, humiliated, after those evenings, that Jon sometimes seemed only to value her when she was dressed as a lady.
And Roger dogged her footsteps, appearing after weapons practice, in those moments when Alanna saw to Jon's mounts and his weapons or tended Moonlight. In those moments in the libraries where she sought out old tomes of magic and sometimes, romances.
He would settle himself, surcoat and hose and tunic all uncreased and unmarred, in a chair across from her and raise an elegant, impossibly handsome eyebrow at her choice of reading material. “Guy of Fief Cahir? Are you taking notes on how to charm the court ladies, Squire Alan? Lest you be the only the knight to pass his Ordeal without a fair lady's token on his arm?”
She would glare at him, remembering all the reasons she hated the man, even as he would smile. “Delia asked of you again, and I know you're not yet ...committed. She would appreciate a letter or some small token of your favour,” and Alanna would squirm uncomfortably in her seat, blushing until her ears burned. Sometimes he would merely sniff at Gilbert of Long Lake's treatise on warding, returning a moment later with a larger tome which he would deposit on the table next to her. “Jerel of Queenscove is somewhat less wrong on this topic. Please attend to his writings. I would so hate to see anything come to you.”
Other times, Roger would drum Alex back and forward across the training floor, barechested and sweating, before sending the younger man away on seeing that Squire Alan lacked a training partner that would, as he murmured to Alex, give the lad a decent study. Alanna found the Duke an exhilarating partner: a skilled swordsman, he worked her across the floor till it was all she could do to even remember to hold back sommat, to appear less threatening. He would slap her arms, her flanks with the flat of his blade as they worked, snapping “Keep your guard up, Squire!” and “Gods have mercy on you, leaving your side open like that, for no-one else will.” It was hard to hate him at those moments, when he spoke to her only with the concern of a knight for a squire lacking in skill and experience.
QC by: greenie