Chapter Text
Honestly he should have seen it coming- What with how his whole small council had been eyeing him lately. The King’s subjects were happy enough and loved him well but nothing was ever good enough for the nobility. They wanted everything; more taxes and more land-- They each had a look about them that the King had not been able to place until it was desperately too late.
They each looked like the hunting dogs when they’d gotten a taste of blood, rabid and unable to be controlled as they took down the fox and would not let their masters reign them in.
Now James Ryan Haywood desperately wished his family heraldry showed something other than the fox- sleek and orange next to a harsh iron gauntlet. Perhaps it would have been safer to be born a small Baron or a Lord with a flower for his heraldry- Rather than a Prince turned King. At the very least he would be safe and comfortable in his own home.
Instead, he was on the run for his life- disguised in the plainest clothes he owned and with nothing to show for his brief battle against attempted murder and treason than the wound on his right side. He could feel it pulling through the rough-spun black shirt and the bandages Kerry had hastily thrown onto him before pushing him onto a horse and sending him off, no guard and no sword.
That’s well enough- his dagger will do if anyone thinks robbing a plain man on a horse is worth their time, and swords draw questions; palace steel draws questions.
King Haywood can not afford questions.
Still, if he rides any farther as fast as he has been he will not survive the journey. [Especially because he has no idea where to go. Will his allies to the South save him? Bring him home with an army to overthrow the coup within his castle walls?] The wound in his side is definitely bleeding still, as there was no time for stitches. He could do with a rest.
But stopping on the road, out in the open? Even raised in a castle he knows the folly of the idea. He’d be dead by morning, even if the thieves only wanted his horse.
So the King reigns in his horse so that it trots rather than cantors, watching the road for any sign of a town or an inn. It has been far too much time since he was a young Prince with the ability to travel his lands. He barely remembers these southern hills with their winding and twisting dirt roads that lead up and out of the valley. He has been locked away in his castle far too long with pretentious Barons and their death-wishes. (Because he will have them taken care of, mark his words.)
He does vaguely remember the road coming up to his right- branching off to the beginning of the flat woodlands and then to the sea. There is a town at the edge of the wood which used to make a caravan to the port weekly-- If he can reach the port and pay passage on a ship, he knows King Burnie will be more than willing to help him. Their families have been allied for centuries.
So he turns his horse to the right, and travels on.
The Inn is crowded and loud- but it’s home.
Gavin has to hold back too much laughter as Michael thumps his hand down on the bar and sends Lindsay’s pewter mug spinning. It’s empty already, but she still knocks him upside the head for good measure. The warriors are his favorite customers, he cannot help but count them as friends.
Surely, anyone who visits his father’s Inn is a friend-- but these most of all.
“And another thing,” Michael says, tugging on the hood of bear’s fur that sits on his shoulders. “Those damned guards sealed off the pass! Can you believe that? It took us forever to get back here.”
“It did.” Lindsay agrees, rolling her eyes. Michael has been telling his story for fifteen minutes now.
“Would have been here three days sooner if we hadn’t been forced to take the long way around.” Michael continues.
“Yes, much sooner.” Lindsay says, grabbing her mug and handing it to Gavin so that he can refill it. “Wouldn’t have gotten that job to take out those wolves on the Eastern Pass, though.”
Michael pauses in his drunken rambling to hum appreciatively into his half-full mug; those wolves are paying for his drunken spree after all.
Gavin hands back Lindsay’s mug and moves out of the way so that Ray can get around the bar behind him. He’s got a heavy basket of empty mugs and bowls in his arms and he looks none-too-happy about it.
“Well I’m glad you’re back- especially because it looks like tonight Mogar is going to pay for my new pair of boots.” Geoff says from the other end of the bar. He’s busy setting a bowl of stew in front of the local blacksmith.
Jack's a good man; Gavin’s glad to see him out and about after that sickness passed through town two weeks ago. Hopefully he’ll be back to the forge tomorrow.
“I’d rather burn the place down.” Michael mutters into his mug- not yet drunk enough to allow for Geoff calling him ‘Mogar’. It was a phase he’s not proud of- it sometimes repeats itself when he’s plastered. He’d rather drink away the memory of being far too sure of his drunken self and falling off of a horse into a trencher screaming ‘Mogar the mighty’ than re-live it; even if it brought him to Lindsay.
Lindsay grins about the burn as Gavin fills mugs for Ray’s tray to take around to refill customer’s cups.
The Inn itself is well built and comfortable, the lower floor dedicated to tables and chairs and benches where the townsfolk gather for supper or a drink, and where travelers spend their evening before retiring to their rooms on the second and third floor. There’s plenty of travelers in tonight besides the warriors: a monk, a merchant, and a few lads from a ship waiting to escort something back to port with the Caravan that’s leaving in three days being the newest arrivals. The ships men are all missing (Probably searching the town for the brothel one block over) besides the one lad who’d shaken his head at the thought of heading out. He was in the corner now, playing a game of cards with some farmers who call out ‘Caleb why!?’ every so often. Lucky bastard must have been winning.
So, to reiterate- It wasn’t odd to see travelers coming in to his family’s Inn. Gavin had years of experiences with guards and merchants and rogues alike under Geoff and Griffon’s careful teaching--
But it was odd to see a man walk in with a hand carefully cradled to his side, looking pale. That never boded well, even if the traveler was as fair haired and blue eyed as this one was. Usually people were at least pink- not grey faced. Northmen were an odd lot; Gavin had always been told- but they tended not to show up places already injured.
“ ‘Lo, friend. Having a drink?” Gavin asks, leaning over the bar pre-emptively. The man seems nervous, maybe tired. He’d like to get him in a seat before he topples over.
“A room.” The stranger says, but then he seems to catch himself. He straightens out, puts on a smile.
It’s very convincing- very distracting. Gavin will give him that.
“Please.” The man says, finishing off the earlier request.
Gavin is so distracted that Geoff takes over for him. He’s thankful for it- he doesn’t remember where his tongue has gone, but it’s no longer in his mouth.
“Three coppers for the room a night and we’ll throw in dinner.” Geoff says over his shoulder- more focused on the glass of strong brew he’s pouring than on his new guest. He’s on auto-pilot.
“Is there still a caravan to the port? It’s been some time-” The man says, trailing off. Geoff turns once the drinks are poured to look over at him.
“It leaves in three days.” Geoff says, looking over his guest. The man seems to go a little more limp under the gaze- like he’s trying to seem plain. Geoff takes in the rough-spun clothes, the long pants- the glint of good leather boots...
“I’ll have three nights then, and boarding for my horse.” The man says- And Gavin can’t be imagining the glint of gold in his fingers as he hands payment over to Geoff, breathing something into his ear and receiving a nod in return.
“Lad,” Geoff says, looking to Gavin now. “Lead our friend up to the empty room on the second floor. Get him anything he needs.”
Gavin nods and moves out from behind the bar and nods his head toward the stairs, their guest follows him. He knows he’s not imagining the effort it takes for the stranger to climb the steep stairs, or how once they turn the corner out of plain view he once again walks differently. He’s got a hand to his side again but he stands straight and tall and very sure. Griffon would call it a power stance- something she learned as a guard for the castle years ago.
Perhaps this man is a guard on the run. Gavin will make sure to keep him out of Michael’s reach- the warrior is not fond of guards (besides Griffon, whom he makes an exception for as she’s retired) . They make his life difficult unnecessarily.
There’s a ring of keys on Gavin’s belt- he slips it off and finds the duo set for the last empty room on the second of three floors and unlocks the room, moving inside the dark space with the ease of someone who’s been inside it before. A few seconds in darkness and then he has the gas lantern flaring to life- a matchstick in his right hand already burning toward his fingers. He hisses as he shakes it out, nearly burning his thumb.
His guest is still waiting outside the door, staring at him.
“Uhm-” Gavin says, stepping backwards away from the door. It almost feels crowded, though this is a spacey room holds only him. “This one’s your key, for your stay.”
He holds out the iron key and watches. The stranger takes a moment, but he ends up stepping into the room and taking the key from Gavin’s fingers. As their hands brush, Gavin can feel the cold touch of his skin- something that should be far warmer. The air that pushes past them at his movement is warmer than his skin.
He takes a seat on the edge of the bed, and Gavin can see the glint of pain at the edges of his eyes.
“Can I-” Gavin starts.
“Your name.” The man asks, looking up.
Gavin is thrown, watching the man look up at him through travel-tossed hair and speak so quietly. He freezes up, but the question hangs in the air.
“Gavin.” He answers, walking backwards toward the door. He remembers his father’s orders, sometime before he reaches the doorway. “Can I get anything for you?”
The man on the bed doesn’t answer for a moment, but then he grimaces and his voice is strong.
“The most potent spirit you have and some bandages, or cotton. Please.” He asks, palming his side again. “And I don’t suppose you might have a needle and thread.”
Gavin feels bile rise in the back of his throat at the thought of what those items suggest, but nods his head. They have all of these things- they are not the most savory establishment in all the kingdom after all.
“Right, I’ll get that for you...” Gavin says, trailing off. He does not have a name for the man on the bed.
The stranger’s eyes flicker up through his hair again, looking at Gavin.
“Ryan.” He offers, sounding a bit chuffed at the name.
“Ryan.” Gavin agrees, backing out of the room. “I’ll get those for you then. I’ll just be a moment.”
Gavin makes good on his promise and brings Ryan a bottle of something clear as crystal that smells stronger than sword polish along with a roll of cloth bandages. There’s also a medium sized needle and a spindle of thick black thread- He’s glad for the color, any red won’t show through.
Once he’s left alone with the door closed, he can laugh about the horrible decisions he’s made.
He pulls off his shirt and throws it to the floor- not worried about the state it’s in so much as the state of his side. The red has completely seeped through Kerry’s quick medical handiwork and left a mark of gore on Ryan’s abdomen. It’s not the worst he’s ever had- There was that jousting accident that gave him the scar peeking out pale and puckered from under and around his right arm- but it’s very near the same. His left-hand side is on fire.
He pulls the cork from the bottle of grain alcohol with his teeth and downs as much of it as he can swallow without sputtering, cursing the burn down his throat. It leaves him hazy enough that peeling off the old bandages and pouring some of the remainder of the alcohol onto the stab wound doesn’t make him scream- even though he has to bite his knuckle as he presses the area dry with a bit of bandage.
The red keeps seeping through- He’s very glad for the needle and thread.
He needs two more long pulls from the bottle before he can tie a good enough knot and hold the needle straight. There’s a moment where he doesn’t exactly remember how to go about sewing something like this up- but then he goes ahead with it anyway. Better to have a closed hole in his side than an open one, even if the stitching is uneven.
How the ladies of the castle can sew all day he’ll never know; but perhaps it is easier when it’s not your own flesh and you’re not drinking to dull the pain.
It takes some time, but he finishes off the task with a grim smile and a heavy knot, pouring just a little more of the bottle onto the wound before he bandages it up as best he can. It’s nothing to his steward’s handiwork, and for a moment he thinks carefully about the young blonde man in his service. Is Kerry safe, he wonders. The Shawcross family is old and full of his friends, but they will never forgive him if their heir is dead because of his unfailable loyalty to the king.
He hopes Kerry is safe. He is too good a boy to die for a King who could not tell his own council was plotting treason.
Ryan leans down so that his head is in his hand, elbow balanced on his knee. His other arm drapes over the edge of the bed with the bottle half empty and limp in his hand. Perhaps, if he is not King enough to protect his own Steward, he would be better off fleeing into the Nightlands than sailing to Burnie for help. What sort of man deserves a kingdom if he cannot hold his castle?
There is a knock on his door.
“Enter.” Ryan says, voice deep and full for a moment. He can hear the command of it through his haze and fights to remove it immediately. He is not King James Haywood, here- He is Ryan.
The man from earlier enters his room, a tray in his arms.
“Something to eat, Ryan?” Gavin asks, head turned away as he shuffles into the door. When he turns forward and sees the mess of the bloody bandages and Ryan’s fresh covered wound he turns flush. It makes Ryan think he’s not a fan of blood.
“Not sure If I could stomach it.” Ryan answers honestly, tapping the significantly lighter bottle against his leg. Gavin doesn’t turn away from him, still staring- It makes Ryan raise an eyebrow.
“Gavin?” He asks.
The man seems to come back to himself.
“Bloody- Wow, look at the state of you. Not to say- You don’t look- I mean... Oh bollocks.” Gavin sputters, setting down the tray on the dresser across the room from the bed.
The haze in Ryan’s head picks out something he hadn’t noticed earlier.
“You’ve got an accent.” Ryan notes, leaning back on the bed and grimacing at the feeling of his stitches pulling. Perhaps he has sewn them too tight.
“Well, yeah- I’m not native.” Gavin says, sweeping dirty bandages toward the doorway with his foot. He doesn’t look like the type to touch them, if he won’t even look at them. “I’m from the Free Lands.”
Ryan feels his eyebrows furrow, confusion written on his face. “The Free lands?”
“You might know them as the Nightlands.” Gavin answers, looking back and meeting Ryan’s eyes. There’s some worry, there. “You didn’t drink that whole bottle, did you?”
Ryan shakes his head. There’s still liquid in the bottle, though he’s becoming more sure he could fix that.
“I’ve been thinking of traveling to the Nightlands.” He says, noting that Gavin is out of focus in front of him. Odd. “Permanently.”
The out of focus man in front of him grimaces, and Ryan is pretty sure that means he disagrees with the idea. The thought makes Ryan chuckle.
“It’s not a very good place.” Gavin says, eyeing the bottle in Ryan’s hands.
“Is that why you left it?” Ryan asks, leaning back further. Now he is flush with the wall next to his bed- and that’s good. Leaning against it takes some of the pressure off of his side. It helps clear his head, some. “Because it’s not a very good place?”
Gavin is messing around with the tray. From where Ryan sits it looks like a pewter mug of ale and a trencher of hollowed out bread filled with meat and cheese. Not bad fare, for a place like this- his gold isn’t being squandered.
“It’s not- well, it’s not an easy place to live. No one to protect the people, there.” Gavin says.
“No King.” Ryan says, remembering lessons about the Nightlands and the people who refused leadership. He’s stuck wondering how he ever got the luck of being able to reach around from the subject of running away to kingship. He’s cursed.
“No.” Gavin agrees. “There are no Kings among the Free men. But I’ve found that living somewhere that has one drastically reduces the risk of dying in your sleep for nothing more than an errant turn of phrase.”
Ryan sees the man’s eyes flicker to the stab wound that’s badly bandaged on his side. He must look a state, after all. He lifts himself up and forward, putting the bottle of alcohol onto the bedside table. He’s had enough of it- he’s a large man but there’s not enough blood in him to hold what he’s had, let alone more.
“Are kings really all that useful, though?” Ryan asks, leaning down and picking up his dirty shirt from the floor.
There’s a quiet laugh from the man across the room.
“Don’t let my mother hear you say that.” Gavin says, picking up the tray and moving it closer- subtly moving the bottle of alcohol out of reach. Ryan can see by the ease of it that he’s done the same to other guests of the inn before- damage control. It shows good forward thinking.
“A Kingsmen through and through?” Ryan asks, feeling something like hope bubble up in his chest. Knowing he’s under the roof of someone who might not turn him to the nearest noble for a purse of gold would be some sort of comfort.
Gavin nods, looking away with his face still rosey. “She’ll gut any man who speaks against King James. But she’s gone for another two days at least- so you won’t have to watch your words too carefully.”
Ryan nods, thinking that over. Perhaps, here, he is safe the night.
Gavin is still kicking around his bandages, but Ryan can feel the heavy pull of sleep. He’d like to keep that matter to himself, as well.
“Thank you for your help, Gavin.” He offers as a dismissal, hoping it doesn’t sound rude. The innkeeper and, apparently, his son- (and how that works, when the older man is no ‘Free man’ at all and his son has an accent from the thick of it he’ll never know) have been more than accommodating. He doesn’t wish to be rude to them and lose what few good things he has.
Luckily, Gavin seems to get the hint.
“Oh- yes, well, Anything you need just knock on the far right door. We’ll answer at any hour.” Gavin says, pulling his arms behind his back as if he needs to hide them to squeeze through the door. “I’ll, ah- I’ll be around, should you need me.”
As the door closes behind Gavin, Ryan’s foggy mind focuses on the unsaid ‘personally’ he’s quite sure Gavin meant to tag onto the end of his sentence. It’s not a bad thought- and a rather appealing offer- but instead Ryan forces himself to stand and lock his door. He stays upright a moment, wobbling, before moving back to the bed and falling to the sheets- and then he gives in to sleep.
Arriving back at the bar to catcalls is not new- but today if feels a bit more heated than the usual. At least Geoff is off in the other corner of the room, dealing with the backlash of the card game and, apparently, a cheater in their midst.
Caleb, the lad from the port, is apparently hiding cards up his sleeves. That can’t possibly end well.
“Did you get a piece of that? You were up there for a while.” Ray says, leaning over the counter to push a mug at someone who takes it and walks back to a bench in front of the fireplace. He seems to have forgotten that it’s his job to take care of the dishes, which he’s left sitting in the basket on the floor behind the counter. Gavin has no doubt he’ll end up taking care of them himself. Again.
“I bet he tips well.” Lindsay adds, grinning.
Gavin has to try and hold back on his words- because as much as he’d loathe to admit it he’s pretty sure he would have jumped at the chance, and he’d even offered. Ryan hadn’t been in quite the state to agree though, looking like he did.
Gavin shakes his head.
“You’re all mental.” He says. “Blokes just about run through- last thing he needs is a night with this.”
The lad gestures to his lanky frame with both hands. He adds in a hip wiggle for effect, and it sends Michael snorting into his drink- so he’s probably in the clear for teasing.
“Run through? Really?” Ray asks, leaning against the bar. “He didn’t look very hurt.”
“Left side- He was holding it tight right up until he walked in. Up in the room he asked for a roll of bandages and the strong stuff.” Gavin says, watching everyone nodding along. “He sent me off for needle and thread too.”
Both Lindsay and Michael wince at the implications; they’ve been on the other end of that request before.
This is an average night at the inn- there’s always one or two patrons with a story that they try and figure out. Making up backgrounds for people is a game that doesn’t cost them anything but time.
This one is too fun to ignore.
“Highwayman.” Ray says, giving the first guess.
“Guard running away from his squad.” Gavin counters, remembering the way Ryan held himself. It reminded him of his adoptive mother, castle raised and bred for the fight.
“He’s a Northman.” Lindsay says- though that’s far too obvious to be her guess. “So far from home... What could bring him down here?”
“I bet he’s crossed some noble somewhere- made them angry.” Michael says.
“A Northman who fell in love with a noble's daughter, was found with her, stabbed by her brother, and is fleeing from their court by moving as far south as possible.” Lindsay offers, setting down her mug.
“What if he’s noble himself- on the run from something even worse?” Michael asks.
The group processes the idea for about thirty seconds, and then they all begin to laugh- loud and boisterous.
Ray is hugging his stomach, caught off guard by the whole idea.
“That guy, a noble? Did you see what he was wearing?” Ray asks.
Gavin can remember the roughspun black shirt and the brown pants. But he also has seen the good leather boots- same as Geoff had noticed. He’s seen the glint of Gold shoved into his father’s fingers and the way the man is built. He’s pale and milky, not tanned the way a working man is.
“I dunno.” Gavin says, leaning back on the bar. “He’s certainly not a farmer- as pale as he is; and his boots are top.”
Lindsay shrugs. “Maybe he’s an ice harvester- they wear good boots don’t they? And they’re pale.”
Gavin has no idea what ice harvesters do or do not wear- but the man upstairs is certainly no merchant or shop keep. He’s a mystery.
“You’ll have to find out if any of us are right, Gavin. Same as the time with that lady with the fake dragon egg.” Michael says, finishing off his mug and thumping the empty pewter cup back onto the table.
It’s a challenge Gavin accepts the same way that Caleb accepts defeat and pools his card game winnings back onto the table, standing next to Geoff looking sullen as the men he’d tried to swindle collect their money back and eye him for a cheat.
Gavin of the Free has three days to figure Ryan out, just in time for the caravan to the Port takes him away.
He pours another round of drinks and lets the night slip away to early morning, thinking about all the work he has to do and the mystery man upstairs he needs to figure out.