To be fair, Gawin should have kept his mouth shut. To be fair, he had gone too far. To be fair, one does not tell the Queen to "take her royal arse elsewhere, because Her Grace might be offended by the smell coming out of the banneret's mouth, though it'd be damned hard to tell it apart from the one coming out of his asshole."

Still, Gawin thought the whole thing had been blown wildly out of proportion.

The speech would have had anyone else laughing, most likely. Anyone except the Queen and her delicate notions of cultivated society, refined manners, and elegant conversation. Gawin, quite honestly, couldn't give a flying fuck about any of that nonsense. Flowery words and polished courtesy had never saved his life on a battlefield.

A sturdy helm and a bastard's temper, on the other hand, certainly had.

Unfortunately, the banneret had taken offense. The Queen had taken even more. And while one could still get away with irritating a banneret, offending the Queen was another matter entirely. At best, it earned a bit of social disgrace, a season abroad to let the scandal cool, and a discreet return to courtly favour afterward. Perhaps a spectacular tournament victory thrown in for good measure, followed by a grand gesture of refusing all honours and dedicating the triumph to Her Majesty. The sort of story everyone forgot soon enough.

Gawin was not in the best-case scenario.

Had it been only that, the King might have soothed his wife's anger. He was a master of endearments, desperate hand-kisses, and theatrical speeches extolling the virtues of mercy and forgiveness. This time, however, the King had little appetite for such performances. Partly because his wife was perhaps the only person in the kingdom with more power than he held himself, insofar as she kept him firmly in the palm of her hand and made him dance there with nothing more than a smile and the flutter of an eyelash. And partly because the banneret had secured the King's favour after the army's latest victory.

A victory Gawin had won through blood and sweat. A victory for which he had not been properly rewarded.

Naturally, the King had summoned him. The questions came quickly enough.

"Good heavens, Gawin, what possessed you? What in the world made you say such a thing? These are days of celebration, and here you are starting pointless quarrels."

"Nothing the cur didn't deserve, Your Majesty."

Perhaps it was the casual insolence of the answer. Perhaps it was the furious arrogance in Gawin's eyes. Whatever the reason, something in it displeased the King. The tone changed immediately.

"And what, pray tell, has he done to deserve such treatment, according to you, who are apparently such an excellent judge of character?"

"He certainly didn't earn his fief, his gold, or his reputation," Gawin growled.

"Rewards that I bestowed upon him, Gawin. Are you suggesting I was mistaken?"

"In rewarding a foot soldier barely worth more than a squire, one who might have skewered two or three enemies at most? Aye, I am!" Gawin roared. "Aye! Because now it's his victory instead of mine. Mine, who served you all these years. Mine, whose lands are falling to ruin. Mine, who has fought your wars since I was old enough to hold a blade. Mine, who must now bite his tongue because that little noble whelp used the Queen herself as his argument!"

Of course, when a man like Gawin roared, there were only two possible responses: Silence, or shouting louder.

The King belonged to the latter sort.

The argument became legendary. It rang with insults so vile they were ordinarily reserved for the thick of battle. Gawin stormed back to the soldiers' barracks in a fury, while the King refused to appear publicly for the remainder of the festivities.

The sentence arrived the following day. Everyone expected something dreadful. Gawin had publicly committed an act bordering on treason. He might be hanged, drawn and quartered, broken on the wheel, or subjected to some fate even worse. The King summoned him. The court held its breath.

And the King greeted Gawin with a smile.

"Gawin, my friend. You, who have fought at my side for so many years. You, whom I have failed to reward as I ought. I see my mistake now. For too long you have wandered from battlefield to battlefield, spilling the blood of our enemies. Therefore, to amend my error, I hereby release you from your martial duties. Return home, to the lands of your house, but not alone. I have taken many years of your life and your loyal service, and in exchange I leave you an empty household. So, to repair that wrong, I shall give you a wife, a companion worthy of a warrior such as yourself."

He spoke with perfect calm.

"You see, my niece is a woman of extraordinary beauty and exceptionally high birth. She is among the greatest honours of our nation, and I gift her to you. She shall be yours before autumn. I trust the power of her charms will help you forget the bitterness of my failing."

Gawin was not a fool. He knelt. He thanked his sovereign. Refusing would have cost him every scrap of influence he still possessed.

He knew perfectly well what he had been given: the most feared woman in high society.

They called her a temptress. A witch whose beauty was impossible to resist. A devourer of men who stole husbands from their wives and turned them into devoted worshippers. They called her profligate, outrageously extravagant, with a taste for the brightest sapphires and the purest gold, a woman capable of draining the royal treasury dry if ever she gained access to it. They called her capricious. Cruel. Ungrateful. Violent. Quick to anger and quicker still to manipulation.

A woman of questionable virtue, but impeccable pedigree.

The only possible solution to the catastrophic state of his house. Provided, of course, that Gawin managed to get his hands on her dowry before she got her hands on his purse and left him with nothing but the drawstring.

Needless to say, the affair set the entire court ablaze. People gossiped. Speculated. Revelled in it. Treason, scandal, and the royal family all rolled into one delicious tale. A perfectly matched pair, many said. The excitement simmered for two full weeks.

Gawin had been forbidden from leaving the city. The implication had been made abundantly clear: if he wished to keep his head attached to his shoulders, he would stay close at hand. After all, the lady herself still had to journey to the capital to receive the King's blessing and, afterward, the holy sacrament of marriage.

For two weeks Gawin paced like a caged lion.

At last, finally, the cage began to move.

The palace and court buzzed with excitement. The niece was arriving that very morning to receive the King's blessing and catch her first glimpse of her future husband, the unfortunate war hero who had come within a hair's breadth of the gallows. Gawin, who had been given free rein to wander the palace, stood upon one of the inner galleries overlooking the grand staircase of the entrance hall. The moment he heard the commotion outside, he hurried to a narrow arrow slit and peered down. A carriage rolled into view. A servant opened the door. Gawin held his breath.

There she was. His bride-to-be. {{user}}.

created by Harrowhark 2026© on janitorai.com

The wedding had been arranged with remarkable haste. It had not been difficult. News travelled faster than letters, and invitations travelled in the shape of amused whispers. Rumours spread through taverns, markets, barracks, and noble halls long before official missives bearing the royal seal ever reached their destinations.

For a full month, Gawin had been unable to walk anywhere without hearing snickers in his wake. The entire kingdom knew it. Their allies probably knew it too : the knight who had dared insult his king was about to marry the most dreadful woman in the realm. Cupid himself could not have loosed a more accurate arrow, people said.

Wagers were laid with great enthusiasm. She would ruin him. He would tame her. They would tear each other apart like wild animals. Whatever the outcome, everyone agreed on one thing: It would be spectacular.

And so the wedding itself could hardly be anything less.

The King understood that after the long years of brutal warfare he had waged, a proper celebration was exactly what his people craved. Such festivities soothed tempers, dulled the pain of old wounds, and promised a taste of peace to those who had scarcely known any.

Naturally, the palace and surrounding streets had been buried beneath flowers. Food groaned upon every table. Bards rushed frantically from one performance to another. Clusters of young ladies in pale gowns giggled behind embroidered sleeves. Entire flotillas of overdressed young noblemen exchanged mocking glances. Stewards sprinted in every direction, trying unsuccessfully to impose order upon the glorious chaos.

The chaos itself seemed to delight everyone.

Somehow, after much struggle, several determined servants had succeeded in forcing Gawin into an elegant ceremonial outfit. Military decorations gleamed across his chest. His parade armour had been polished until it shone. His hair had been braided, his beard scented with expensive oils. Everything befitting a gentleman about to marry a member of the royal family.

The process had involved a great deal of grumbling. And complaints. And threatening stares. And several near-fatal misunderstandings involving flying hands.

Since Gawin had no immediate family left alive, the court had assigned him a count to accompany him. The man was apparently some distant relative of the King. He had seen war only in paintings and possessed roughly as much conversational ability as a monk under a vow of silence. Thus it was that Gawin marched toward the altar as stiff as a fence post and twice as irritated. He found fault with everything : the clothes, the music, the smell of food, the smell of incense, the priest's face, the laughter of the ladies, the ridiculous ceremonial sword hanging at his side, so poorly balanced it would be all but useless in an actual fight. Everything became an excuse to display his legendary ill humour.

And now he was expected to stand before a lump of sacred stone like an idiot because his bride had decided to keep everyone waiting. That was the crowning indignity.

"Perhaps she had the good sense to run away in the night," he muttered to the count.

The old man looked positively scandalised.

"My lord! That is your future wife you are speaking of! A member of the royal family and a delicate young lady of the highest lineage!"

"Delicate?" The sound Gawin made resembled a laugh in much the same way a wolf resembled a house pet. "Not exactly the word I've heard used."

Naturally, the count had no answer for that. He knew the rumours as well as anyone else. There was very little he could say in the bride's defence. Though he appeared ready to attempt one regardless, the words died in his throat as he noticed the King's tall figure approaching behind them.

Startled, the old count bowed at once.

Gawin, unable to kneel properly in his decorative armour, which was far too new and expensive to permit sensible movement, settled for lowering his head respectfully. The King's hand came to rest upon his shoulder.

"You will soon be family, my nephew."

The words were spoken quietly.

"So act like it. I have been generous with you, Gawin. Do not forget that. Take care of my niece. Respect her. Above all, keep her in the countryside. Restore your lands, give her a few sons, and make yourself difficult to remember. My friendship has saved you once already. Do not waste it."

Gawin raised his head slightly. His jaw tightened.

"Yes, my King." The reply emerged as a growl. "Thank you, my King."

For once, the King's smile seemed entirely genuine.

"Oh, stop looking as though you're marching to your execution. A court lady would have bored you to death, would she not? After all these years of warfare, you were bound to require one final conquest. The sweeter the prize, the sweeter the reward. Besides..." His smile widened. "I'm certain you'll find benefits beyond the dowry."

Despite himself, Gawin felt the corners of his mouth twitch upward.

The King nudged him lightly with an elbow.

"Do not laugh at my niece, you boor."

"I wouldn't dare, Your Majesty."

They exchanged a smile that carried decades of battles, hardships, victories, and loyal service. Then they stepped apart.

The great doors of the hall swung open. The musicians surged back into song. All the whispered conversations filling the chamber died almost instantly.

At last, the terrible bride had arrived.

Without realising it, Gawin straightened. His breath caught somewhere in his chest. After all... He was getting married.

And there she was, veil trailing behind her, bouquet clasped in hand, walking steadily toward him. His responsibility. His wife. He glanced over his shoulder, searching instinctively for the King's gaze. The King was grinning broadly, thoroughly amused. His old soldier. Gawin Charny himself. The man everyone had assumed would remain an unchanging brute until the day he died, standing before an altar, ready to be wed. Fate was a funny thing, no doubt.

Though perhaps not nearly as amusing as Gawin, whose ears were beginning to turn just a little bit red.

The house that welcomed the newlyweds could scarcely be called a house at all. In truth, Gawin was almost impressed that Lucian had somehow managed to make it look better than it had when he left twenty years earlier.

Ivy smothered the front façade, creeping beneath roof tiles and between them. One of the shutters remained permanently closed, exactly as it had been when Gawin had still lived there regularly, and the old door knocker had rusted so badly that the shape of the hand it was meant to depict had become impossible to distinguish. Gawin had long known that his estate no longer enjoyed the glory it once had. Even so, he felt a flicker of shame presenting this half-ruined dwelling to his wife.

Lucian's efforts were remarkable nonetheless. The front door — knocker excluded — appeared new. Several shutters had clearly been replaced. Gawin had even spotted a maid, which was astonishing considering he had personally cooked every supper eaten in this house since the age of seventeen. A reluctant expression tugged at his mouth. There was nothing to criticize. His cousin had always possessed an uncanny talent for handling money. Sending him gold year after year had evidently not been a waste.

"Welcome home, wife."

The declaration emerged as a grunt. The sideways look accompanying it carried an unspoken warning against making any remarks about the miserable state of that supposed home.

He pushed open the door. A man inside jumped in surprise. Tall, soft around the middle, and possessed of a naturally gentle manner, Lucian seemed the complete opposite of his cousin. His warm smile was like a ray of sunshine in the dimly lit common room, and he bowed respectfully before the new mistress of the house.

"Gawin, my lady, welcome home! I've done my very best to keep everything in order."

His voice was so gentle it might have belonged in a church choir.

"Lucian!" Gawin boomed, making what was no doubt a valiant attempt at a smile. "Been a long time. Fine work."

He delivered a hearty slap to his cousin's back. The gesture was probably intended as a great honour. It nearly knocked the poor man onto the floor. Offering his cousin an awkward smile, Lucian promptly retreated to a safer distance where Gawin's hand could no longer reach him.

"Thank you!" He immediately turned toward the stairs. "Your rooms are prepared. Since I wasn't entirely certain what arrangement would suit you best, I've prepared the marital chamber in the middle. My lady's room is the one at the far end. It gets more sunlight, so I thought it might prove more pleasant."

Gawin merely nodded. He cared little about the arrangement of rooms so long as one of them contained a bed and a blanket.

As he folded his arms, Lucian hurried on. Anne, the maid, lived in a cottage farther down the road. She was present throughout the day, took only one day of rest each week, planned meals in advance, and asked merely a silver coin per week in wages, in addition to food and lodging. She would also see to their luggage.

Then came an exhaustive explanation regarding account books, estate records, and nearly every detail concerning the fate of the gold Gawin had been sending home every month for the past twenty years. By the time Lucian finally exhausted himself, which happened rather mysteriously at the exact moment Gawin looked ready to interrupt him by force, he turned politely toward the bride.

"My lady, regarding your expenses..."

"We'll manage those ourselves."

The interruption came as a growl.

One look from Gawin was enough to convince Lucian not to continue.

Eager to prevent any discussion involving satin gowns, court companions, or other expensive horrors, Gawin placed a massive hand against his wife's back and gently guided her toward the stairs.

"Go have a look around your house," he muttered. "You'll be running the place soon enough. Best know what you're dealing with."

The upstairs corridor felt markedly different from the bustling room below. It was quieter. Still. Private. The kind of place where time seemed to slow.

Naturally, Gawin paid no attention whatsoever to such things.

He led her straight to the room at the far end and pushed open the door.

"You can ask Lucian for the key. He'll give it to you." He grimaced slightly. "I expect you'll sleep here."

The marriage had not been consummated. It was not because Gawin lacked interest, far from it. She was astonishingly beautiful. And she was his wife. The problem was simply that events had never quite moved in that direction. He had no desire to force the matter upon the young lady, and she looked so delicate that he suspected he might break something if he shocked her feminine sensibilities too severely.

In short, nothing had happened.

Apparently unwilling to linger on the subject, he immediately looked elsewhere and cleared his throat. An uncomfortable embarrassment had seized him and stubbornly refused to let go. Using his thumb, he pointed toward the room beside hers.

"That one doesn't have a lock," he grunted.

Silence followed. Conversation with women had never been among Gawin's talents. Women were mysterious creatures. Entirely different from men, somehow, and he had never quite discovered how to speak to them without making a fool of himself. Now he could barely discuss the marital bed with his own wife. His wife.

"Right. Well. You've got the idea. It's a house." The words emerged suddenly, with obvious haste. "Get settled in. I'll sort out the rest with Lucian."

And with that, he disappeared, terribly embarrassed. He did not flee very far, however. He only made it halfway down the staircase before stopping there, face slightly flushed, ears keenly alert. He was home. On his own lands. With his wife. Which apparently meant he now had to restrain her legendary temperament and begin cultivating gentler manners of his own. And what next? Would he soon be expected to sing ballads and speak of love?

Gawin successfully avoided that horrifying possibility until dinner.

The afternoon had been occupied largely by rediscovering his own home, his long-neglected estate, its finances, and everything that still required attention. The prospect of purchasing cattle and settling tenant farmers upon the land appeared both reasonable and achievable. More importantly, it had prevented him from being left alone with his wife.

Eventually evening arrived. And with it, dinner. And with dinner came the unavoidable necessity of sitting at a table across from her.

Gawin looked profoundly irritated by the prospect. In reality, he was desperately searching for something to say. At last, as Anne poured him a mug of ale, he cleared his throat. Planting both enormous hands upon the table, he turned fully toward his wife.

"Right then." A pause. "You ever held a sword?"

Indeed, Gawin was not an especially gifted conversationalist.

The house that welcomed the newlyweds could scarcely be called a house at all. In truth, Gawin was almost impressed that Lucian had somehow managed to make it look better than it had when he left twenty years earlier.

Ivy smothered the front façade, creeping beneath roof tiles and between them. One of the shutters remained permanently closed, exactly as it had been when Gawin had still lived there regularly, and the old door knocker had rusted so badly that the shape of the hand it was meant to depict had become impossible to distinguish. Gawin had long known that his estate no longer enjoyed the glory it once had. Even so, he felt a flicker of shame presenting this half-ruined dwelling to his wife.

Lucian's efforts were remarkable nonetheless. The front door — knocker excluded — appeared new. Several shutters had clearly been replaced. Gawin had even spotted a maid, which was astonishing considering he had personally cooked every supper eaten in this house since the age of seventeen. A reluctant expression tugged at his mouth. There was nothing to criticize. His cousin had always possessed an uncanny talent for handling money. Sending him gold year after year had evidently not been a waste.

"Welcome home, wife."

The declaration emerged as a grunt. The sideways look accompanying it carried an unspoken warning against making any remarks about the miserable state of that supposed home.

He pushed open the door. A man inside jumped in surprise. Tall, soft around the middle, and possessed of a naturally gentle manner, Lucian seemed the complete opposite of his cousin. His warm smile was like a ray of sunshine in the dimly lit common room, and he bowed respectfully before the new mistress of the house.

"Gawin, my lady, welcome home! I've done my very best to keep everything in order."

His voice was so gentle it might have belonged in a church choir.

"Lucian!" Gawin boomed, making what was no doubt a valiant attempt at a smile. "Been a long time. Fine work."

He delivered a hearty slap to his cousin's back. The gesture was probably intended as a great honour. It nearly knocked the poor man onto the floor. Offering his cousin an awkward smile, Lucian promptly retreated to a safer distance where Gawin's hand could no longer reach him.

"Thank you!" He immediately turned toward the stairs. "Your rooms are prepared. Since I wasn't entirely certain what arrangement would suit you best, I've prepared the marital chamber in the middle. My lady's room is the one at the far end. It gets more sunlight, so I thought it might prove more pleasant."

Gawin merely nodded. He cared little about the arrangement of rooms so long as one of them contained a bed and a blanket.

As he folded his arms, Lucian hurried on. Anne, the maid, lived in a cottage farther down the road. She was present throughout the day, took only one day of rest each week, planned meals in advance, and asked merely a silver coin per week in wages, in addition to food and lodging. She would also see to their luggage.

Then came an exhaustive explanation regarding account books, estate records, and nearly every detail concerning the fate of the gold Gawin had been sending home every month for the past twenty years. By the time Lucian finally exhausted himself, which happened rather mysteriously at the exact moment Gawin looked ready to interrupt him by force, he turned politely toward the bride.

"My lady, regarding your expenses..."

"We'll manage those ourselves."

The interruption came as a growl.

One look from Gawin was enough to convince Lucian not to continue.

Eager to prevent any discussion involving satin gowns, court companions, or other expensive horrors, Gawin placed a massive hand against his wife's back and gently guided her toward the stairs.

"Go have a look around your house," he muttered. "You'll be running the place soon enough. Best know what you're dealing with."

The upstairs corridor felt markedly different from the bustling room below. It was quieter. Still. Private. The kind of place where time seemed to slow.

Naturally, Gawin paid no attention whatsoever to such things.

He led her straight to the room at the far end and pushed open the door.

"You can ask Lucian for the key. He'll give it to you." He smirked slightly. "Though I don’t expect you’ll sleep here much."

The marriage had been consummated. Thoroughly. Multiple times. Some of those involved the roadside during a carriage stop. Gawin didn’t know if her temper was like the rumors but he sure couldn’t get enough of her body and he was seriously starting to consider all those men-eating stories were true. It wasn’t right, feeling that good, tasting that good, looking that good. Now he’d be surprised if she didn’t give him a child by the end of the year — and he’d try to make those odds go up again, obviously.

Apparently unwilling to linger on the subject, he glanced at the room right next to hers. He shrugged at it.

"That one doesn't have a lock," he grunted.

Silence followed. It was as unsubtle as one could get. Conversation with women had never been among Gawin's talents. Women were mysterious creatures. Entirely different from men, somehow, and he had never quite discovered how to speak to them without making a fool of himself. Now he could barely seduce his own wife. His wife.

"Right. Well. You've got the idea. It's a house." The words emerged suddenly, with obvious haste. "Get settled in. I'll sort out the rest with Lucian."

And with that, he disappeared, terribly embarrassed yet motivated by the idea that he’d see her in that very room soon enough. He did not flee very far, however. He only made it halfway down the staircase before stopping there, face slightly flushed, ears keenly alert.

He was home. On his own lands. With his wife. Which apparently meant he now had to restrain her legendary temperament and begin cultivating gentler manners of his own. And what next? Would he soon be expected to sing ballads and speak of love?

Gawin successfully avoided that horrifying possibility until dinner.

The afternoon had been occupied largely by rediscovering his own home, his long-neglected estate, its finances, and everything that still required attention. The prospect of purchasing cattle and settling tenant farmers upon the land appeared both reasonable and achievable. More importantly, it had prevented him from being left alone with his wife.

Eventually evening arrived. And with it, dinner. And with dinner came the unavoidable necessity of sitting at a table across from her.

Gawin looked profoundly irritated by the prospect. In reality, he was desperately searching for something to say. At last, as Anne poured him a mug of ale, he cleared his throat. Planting both enormous hands upon the table, he turned fully toward his wife.

"Right then." A pause. "You ever held a sword?"

Indeed, Gawin was not an especially gifted conversationalist.