At His Majesty's Pleasure Ch. 03

"Awful lot of effort for an..." She glanced back; therein lay her mistake. Her breath skipped for but a split-second. The unexpected glimpse of him shirtless jumbled her thought-train - she could not help staring at the lean muscles there, smooth and toned, the residual wetness from the wine offering a flattering sheen under the candlelight. It lasted only for an instant, but even that an instant too long. This was to be followed by a sudden and heightened fear that he might've caught her abnormal (alternatively, very normal) reaction, perhaps mistaking it for an appreciation it obviously could not have been, thus sending even her artificial confidence crashing down around her.

"... an execution," she ended quickly, hurrying out of the dining hall on even swifter heels. A little of the time before her sleep would have to be spent scrubbing the image out of her mind. That he was in peak physical condition should have been nothing surprising, after all. Doubtless he had been hardened by countless days of swordplay and riding and whatever other barbaric things he indulged in, which was all perfectly natural and definitely not worthy of note.

The generous scale of her lodgings and the opportunity to bathe, finally, did not come as any great relief. Stripping down from her masquerade garments, stale as they were from the journey, only left her feeling vulnerable with her naked skin exposed to the air.

Her wrists were still imprinted over with the fading red welts from the ropes, and there could not have been nearly enough water to rinse the taste of her own sash off her tongue. She sank into the tub, ever conscious of her forearm as she nursed it, gingerly, with tears now brimming from the corners of her eyes. Her wound continued to sting beneath the bandages, a sobering reminder of the way he'd squeezed and pressed against the residual marks of his own blade. It had almost gotten better.

Alais tended to herself, refusing any measure of assistance even when offered, to the point of acting outright feral when pressed. She relished the privacy she'd seized for herself. But was it really? Were there no eyes watching, ensuring that she did not catapult herself from the window or hang herself with her towels? The illusion of it was enough that all that dammed, forcibly internalized distress and abasement from these past days broke out into quiet sobs.

Did he really think this was reasonable?

If any part of this were reasonable, he might have gone through the more conventional avenues. Threats and coercion were probably still a given, but at least he would not have 1) stabbed her, 2) plied the bloody limbs off a tragically simple-minded knight as though he were her whipping boy, 3) gagged her, and 4) everything else from the past several days. If he were any less of a sadist, she might have conceded willingly, even debated in his favor. In fact - if he were any less of a sadist, he might have been almost perfect.

She liked to think she was perfectly amenable to so-called reasonable arrangements. But this was too much. The King was too much. This went far and above the threshold of what any sane thought process should consider reasonable. She could already imagine what a life with him must be like: the constant walking on eggshells, the daily threats, the vain and despondent hopes that perhaps, perhaps he could show more of the same (false) friendship as before, only for them to be trampled over the next time he had a poor sod vertically impaled if they so much as spoke to her in a potentially oblique manner. And then made her apologize for it. Elaborate as these extrapolations may have been, how could they have been anything if not realistic, given recent experience.

And yet, as he had so kindly articulated for her, what option did she have? If the lives of her family were at jeopardy, she knew she could not refuse. He had her trapped.

The water was scalding to her skin and heated by coals, from what she could recall of the fort. She had played here once before - many times before, when she was still engaged to dear Edmure - but none of that mattered now. Her wrist was still wrapped in the soiled linen, and she shuddered upon the thought of removing it, potentially exposing the wound to the misting bath waters. She took stubborn and uncomfortable pains and keeping that vulnerable skin raised far and above the water's surface.

She caught herself briefly in the reflection of the pool, and could not help but grimace at the rippling image. Her eyes were reddened from these private tears, streaking down soft, lily white skin and even softer lips. Dark locks clung wetly to her cheek, and she swept them aside only to flinch when a noise sounded distantly in the room beyond, as if someone had shown themselves in. Then there were footsteps, slow and casual, before the door was abruptly shifted ajar.

It was the King. He leaned against the entryway, casually, taking up just about all of it.

She bit back a gasp. Her arm - the uncut one - immediately drew about the swell of her chest, though most of her was blessedly obscured by water and steam.

"Oh. My apologies." He made no effort to sound sincere, nor abashed; neither did he avert his gaze. If anything, he seemed amused. "I thought you were finished."

"You're not sorry." (Don't pretend to be.) "Please leave." She lowered herself further into the bath, until her chin touched the surface of the waters. An angry flush had begun to appear on her cheeks, her pulse thudding loudly against the back of her skull. The nerve of him. She could scarcely believe this new indignation - and for him to look so cavalier about the trespass only added insult to injury.

The burn of the water was agony against the cut, and the waters surrounding began to tint pink.

"Yes, of course," he said, that maddening smirk of his not disappearing. And yet, he lingered, his gaze lazily looking her over - taking in his fill with all the leisure in the world. It was so invasive. Her cheeks inflamed further, and yet she was helpless against his appraisal; that there was something mildly proprietary about his look also did nothing to soothe her.

It must have only been a few seconds, and yet it felt like an eternity to her before he shifted.

"When you're finished," he said mildly, "I'll be waiting."

Waiting for what -

He must have caught her expression, for a grin stole over his face. "To change your bandages, of course," he clarified, in a would-be innocent voice.

The bastard. Stoically, she did not deign to give him a response, though she did bite back against a pained whimper as the hot water seeped through her bandages.

The King inclined his head toward her, as if this had been a perfectly courteous exchange, and only then dragged his gaze away and left her to her own devices once more.

She lingered there for longer than what was probably necessary, angrily scrubbing last remaining tears from her eyes before forcing herself to stand. The water cascaded from her slim shoulders and the curve of her hips, and she shivered. There had never been so much humiliation in nakedness, and in pain - but she had no recourse but to endure, if she really was to be some kind of Queen.

The crying in a tub having had somewhat of a cathartic effect, she was considerably more composed as she padded into the antechamber, damp hair clinging to her skin and her hand cradling the smarting wound upon her arm.

Only a slip of a nightgown had been provided to her, and a sheer robe that she wrapped about herself in some effort to preserve modesty. Neither did nothing to quell that terseness of feeling exposed as he fell within view again.

For as promised, the King awaited her, along with a fresh set of linen bandages and a jade washbasin. "Have a seat," he said - half invitation, half casual directive.

She felt his eyes roam over her again, in that idly intrusive way, and did her best to ignore this - instead pacing over to the chair he indicated and lowering herself stiffly into it.

He eased himself down next to her in turn, striking a tall contrast even when they were both seated. She noticed that, unlike her, he was fully and comfortably clothed, while she had on only a gossamery layer of fabric or two; her barefoot toes scraped the floor, soft and pale, next to his sturdy boots. Somehow, this seemed only to accentuate the inequality that existed between them.

"...I could do this myself," said Alais, her voice small. Or perhaps a servant could. The resident healer. Anyone would be more appropriate.

"Nonsense. What kind of host would I be if I did not take care of my guests?" he returned, in that pleasant tone he was so fond of taking. "Let me see your arm."

He laid out a hand, expectantly.

She couldn't quite trust him, but he seemed out of that mood for inflicting pain. Her eyes lingered over that hand warily, before she finally gave up the notions of resistance (what would it do for her) and extended the arm in question, her sleeve sliding past her elbow with her palm and the tender skin of the cut facing up. Her hand looked so small and delicate in his, and she felt the callouses on his fingers against her soft skin. She looked away.

His grip was warm as it lightly encircled her wrist, lifting for leverage, as his other hand began to briskly unwind the old bandaging. It was impossible to resist flinching under that touch, knowing what his fingers had done to her just prior. She remembered the way his thumb dug directly into the cut, the joints in her hand stiffening. Her wrist looked fragile enough for him to snap with two fingers. But the King's movements were slow and careful as he unraveled closer and closer to skin - and if it wasn't for who it was, she might have even been termed his attention gentle.

Even so, the memory did not seem far from his mind either, especially given the fresh repercussions that shown red against the bandaging. "Goodness," he said, in a tone of concern. His brows raised, going so far as to feign mild surprise. "It looks a little bloody there. I wonder how that might have transpired."

"Your handiwork, I think." He needed no reminding, but she uttered it anyway. She resisted the urge to look at the skin being undressed (it was likely still very ugly and broken from having tasted the cold bite of steel), but it was a wonder that she hadn't needed stitches. Perhaps a testament of his experience in inflicting pain and other sordid things? Did one pick up a certain dexterity after a while?

He slowly peeled back the last layers of the bandaging, quite gingerly. She found it bizarre how he could suddenly be so attentive in his movements, so considerate in his delicate maneuvering. When the last of the cloth slipped off, it was not nearly as painful as she had expected.

"I couldn't possibly know what you mean," he continued, in that same tone. The shadow of a smirk flickered over his lips. "I do hope you take better care of yourself."

Alais wavered between snapping back and pleading with him to stop mocking her. It shouldn't have affected her as much as it did, the frustration threatening to boil over once again. Instead, she exhaled it all from her. She would not allow him to taunt her into anger. She had a feeling that that would only entertain him, and was probably what he was after anyway.

When she said nothing, he took up a washing cloth, dipping it into the basin and then returning it to her forearm. "This will sting a little, at first," he told her. Then he touched the cloth to the injured area, gingerly, dabbing away at the redness there.

She did feel the uncomfortable prickles in her arm, little flares of pain, but it was quite mild, all things considered. Not one to be particularly histrionic - especially for a princess - she gave no sound of protest or discomfort.

Her gaze was still turned away, when she recovered enough sense of self to say, "You really don't think I was being reasonable? Under duress."

He didn't pause in his dabbing. "Reasonable is relative," he said. He had taken on a matter-of-fact tone, as though she were belaboring some point he thought they both understood. "Perhaps it was reasonable, under someone else's captivity. But you saw the game I played with that knight. Did it really seem reasonable to you to tempt my anger?"

Her wrist being tended to in his hands, again, should have been deterrent enough for her to pursue another line of conversation, if at all. And he was so...close that his sheer proximity would have been distracting by itself, if only for the wariness that constantly raced in her heart. But she was genuinely puzzled by this. The knight - Ser ... she never got his name - was directly opposed to him, sword brandished, as far as she could remember.

The best Alais had had was a fork in her defense.

"I didn't know your anger was that easily tempted," she sighed. "Maybe I should have." Maybe it was best not to ever speak again.

The King smirked. He continued attending to her wound in that inexplicably gentle way of his, allowing the warmth of the cloth to softly clean and soothe. (She hated that it was almost... nice.) "Throwing a goblet at me seemed inconsequential to you?" Nonchalantly, he noted, "I've killed for less." It didn't even sound like a threat this time - merely a note of interest. His gaze flickered to hers, looking more amused than anything else. "Come, let us put that behind us. I have faith you will keep all your fingers if you but make the effort."

She dodged his gaze, instead looking to her knees. There it was again, the risings of flustered warmth in her cheeks. There were few greater (conversational) insults than being treated as a child who knew no better. Since the moment did appear to fall under the grace of making casual conversation, she persisted, struggling but ultimately succeeding in seeming mild, as she said, "Please remember that I was under duress." As if she were no longer, with him so close. "But I'll promise not to throw tableware at you if you would refrain from - I don't know - stabbing or gagging me." She might have added 'kidnap', but it was already too late for that.

The cloth was stained red now, and he proceeded to wring it out in the basin next to them. A pinkish mist unfurled, and then he was back to pressing it here and there along her wrist. "That is where our understandings diverge, princess," he said. His tone was still pleasant, instructive, but she heard the subtle threat that lurked beneath. "You are in my power, and as such, you are in no position to barter. Should you accost me with more silverware, I can always make your situation more uncomfortable." That definitely sounded like a euphemism. "On the other hand, there is little you can do to me... beyond your small flares of defiance, which - while impressively inconvenient sometimes - ultimately can be stifled, if I desire."

There was a long pause as she sat there, stewing on his words. Like all other things, this too came to an end.

"So it's too much for me to ask not to be gagged. Or stabbed, in the future," she remarked quietly.

"I didn't say that." The smirk returned. "You can certainly ask."

"It's too much to expect that I won't be stabbed or gagged," she clarified.

"Stabbing is unlikely," he provided, like this was magnanimous on his part. "It was not my preferred way to do things, but the circumstances were, shall we say, exceptional. And I will probably not deprive you of your voice unless you give me reason to. How could I do without our excellent conversation?" He sounded like he was making another joke, but she found it difficult to tell with him. "My point is that your comfort relies solely on my discretion, and occasionally my whims. Behave to my liking, and I will be generous. But do not mistake that for an equal transaction between us."

She shifted in her seat, the urge to pull her arm away reaching new heights. "So nothing is guaranteed. Even if I behave, I'm still subject to your whims."

"Generous whims," he correctly, lightly. "If you keep your hands off more of those deadly projectiles."

He seemed to have finished with the cleaning, and softly ran the cloth once more over her skin. "How does that feel?" he asked, solicitously.

Alais suppressed a shudder. It still thrummed with every contact, because of course it did, but she was conscious of his efforts to be gentle. To what ends? She smelled a ruse, but his presence was too distracting for her to process through until later. "...Better."

"How fortunate that you have me taking care of you," he said, apparently unable to resist more of his one-sided humor. He lay the cloth aside and took another, dry one, using it to delicately pat the area dry. "What would you do without me?"

She kept her peace, looking back to her knees. To answer openly would be to risk behaving not so well.

The King almost looked disappointed. He picked up the fresh linen, set next to the basin, and began winding it about her forearm, beginning at her wrist; as before, he took it upon himself to maneuver her arm, without invitation, and she could not but observe the proprietary undertones of his presumption.

"So you never suspected who I was, until I revealed myself?" he prompted.

Her knees were slanted away from him, as though the gesture alone would serve to widen the sparse amount of space between them. She held her silence, again.

He cocked his brow, his movements slowing. "Behaving entails answering questions when I ask them."

So he did want her conversation. The silence lasted until just before it became too much. "No. Maybe I considered it, but it felt unrealistic at the time." She fidgeted with the seams of her nightdress.

When she spoke, he resumed the pace of his ministrations, wrapping the linen about with an attentive eye. She again felt the care in his actions - it rose to something beyond standard concern, as if he was somehow bizarrely invested in caring for the injury that he himself had imparted. Perhaps he didn't like his toys to remain broken.

"Most kings have better things to do than abducting princesses," she pointed out, before she could help herself. She bit her lip a moment later - was it good behavior to show cheek?

Her uncertainty deepened as his gaze rose, looking directly into her own. He was unusually good at unsettling people, she thought - like some sort of languid snake, there was no telling when he might suddenly lash out, and it was that which made his moments of stillness uneasy.

But he only laughed. "I suppose," he said, amiably. "But you weren't just any princess." He finished his first set of wrappings, and reached to begin the second layer. She flexed just a touch, getting used to the new bandages, but otherwise remained still.

"Is the Vale that important?" she hazarded. The significance of that specific location wasn't lost on her.

"It is my only access to Bevairus, so yes," he said candidly, for once. As usual, he did not leave it there. "But I was, of course, also appropriately charmed by your own attributes." After a moment, he grinned. "I have never seen someone focus so diligently on the construction of a card tower."

That brand of teasing was almost benign. "Yours was taller," she returned.

"Perhaps. But I sacrificed stability for height," he said, with a humorous twist of his lips. "I could not compare when it came to those perfect triangles. And after I had seen that, how could any man resist?"

"I think you do an injustice to your own triangles. Modesty does not become you."

"It becomes me fine, I think, when my artistry is far surpassed."

She caught herself before she could continue - it felt like she had almost given in to the natural course of the back-and-forth, an echo of their banter from the gardens. Even if this was nothing like it.