DAMON RAVENSWOOD

“Splendid,” Valora chanted with a breathtaking smile, her hands seeking the touch of one another in the form of astounding claps. “He fought beautifully,” she said again, her voice as soft as her face. She seemed cheerful, she always was, for as long as Damon had known her—which had just been two days—but he was bored. He wanted to see his mother’s nephew fight with a sword, not the squabbles of two measly peasants that no matter who won they would end up losing when they clashed swords with a real knight. Their bout was a waste of time. If he was king he would never allow such maniacy.

Well, on the good side, they had at least ended their nonsense, now he could see Ser Maurin, his soon-to-be commander, with a steel in his hands. But even though he had been bored witless from the peasant bout, the fair lady seated next to him made it less daunting than it may have been meant to be. She had that charm, she might just grow on him soon enough.

“Quite a sword he holds,” Valora said as she turned to him, her claps ceasing. He was watching her, his cheek rested languidly atop his fist which stood like a slim hill on the armrest of his seat. Whatever she said he paid no heed to, his mind had wandered off to something else, something smutty.

Damon smiled softly. “Should we do it again tonight?” He asked her bawdily, in return, filling her mind with the scenes of their exploits last night. “You know I hold a greater sword than he.” Quite a profane jape he put forth to her, it did not make her smile though, if that was what he intended.

“Stop it,” Valora whispered as she pinched his hand, the one close to her and free from his cheek. “Stop saying such. I was speaking of real swords. Real steel, not whatever you have in your mind.” Her face reddened. Ravens, she was so easily flustered, and Damon liked it.

“Why should I?” He queried, his smile unabating.

Her nose twitched. “My mother is here.” She gestured slightly, and unnoticeably to any other but Damon, at the woman seated beside her.

Damon glanced at the Lady Eira of Blackwood, the plump woman dressed in a different attire from the one of the yester’s tourney. She wore a flowing rose-coloured samite gown and a shawl patterned in gold by the eagle of her house, but she did not wear a look of concern for them. She did not even have any look for them, the lady was not listening. Damon took his eyes back to Valora. “And what if she’s here?” He whispered… with a smile, one of the few hundreds he had given her already in such short time. “What does it matter if she hears?”

“It matters.” Valora grabbed his hand and gave it a soft squeeze. “It matters because I heard something at dawn.” Her face grew soft, it was always soft, but this time it was moreso than the others of before. She wanted to say something, but her mouth was not in agreement with her mind, Damon noticed, but little concern he had if her mouth did not want to give way to the words, she had to say it, now that it had piqued his curiosity.

“And?” He said matter-of-factly and a bit too sharply, his smile gone along with his prurient japes.

Valora’s eyebrows narrowed at him as her eyes began to search his face for the smile that had been there just a few moments ago. It was lost, but she still gawked at him for it nonetheless. “What is it?” She finally put forth words, the ones she could muster up.

Damon let her question of worry fly over his head. He was not interested. “And?” He put forth again, the question he had asked already once, he put it to her once more incessantly.

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She tightened her hands on his further, gentle it was, and soft and warm as though they were a feather cushion, but Damon was hardly feeling the warmth at this point. “My lord seems—”

My lord…? Damon intoned a spit as he was reminded of his position in this world, in this kingdom, in this realm. “I am fine, my lady, but I would greatly prefer if you just talked. You have something to tell me, something you had heard of at dawn, do you not?” His voice was still calm, as it should be. If it was another, a person such as Lord Varyn or any one of his slow witted guards, that kept ringing him along this way, he would have smacked them across the head, but this one was a lady, and the young lady of House Blackwood nonetheless, someone whose help he greatly needed, there was no way he could let himself lose his patience with her. He held his vexation deep within, nailed in a cask of strong oak.

She was not convinced, that much he could see as her thin eyebrows were still down in a narrow drop. “I do not think so.” She turned her face away from him and almost took her hand from his as well, only Damon did not let her succeed, he stopped the languid rest of his cheek on his other hand and let it fly sharply to grab her hand from completely slipping off his.

“I am fine, my lady. Truly,” he whispered, trying to sound as convincing as he could be. “Is it something you do not want to say to me?” He had to tender cautiously with her now, it would not do good to make her sullen, every single moment she might bear such an emotion would put his crown at risk, he could not have that. A war for the crown was coming, a war wave filled with the tears of his enemy he intended to bring with him, and he needed her on his side. At all costs.

Valora did not turn to him, but she at least replied, “It is something I want to say to you, only it is hard.”

A start… Damon thought. “Might I hear it from another?”

“You might.” She turned back to him now, her freckles devoid of the bashing red he always loved to see.

“Then would you hurt me so much as to make me hear it from the lips of any other but you? If it is something truly hard, if it is something that would bring me pain, then would it not be of a better cause for me to hear it from you? Your lips only soothe me, your words would no doubt make it less painful.” He tightened his hands on her palm. All sweaty they were now, warm sweats on her palm, even though the autumn cold had grown more than ever as it slowly shifted towards winter. His palms might be warm, but his heart was colder than ever before. His own season had gone over to winter before any other. Only the crown could warm it now, only the crown could bring him summer. The throne would be his hearth, and the crown its blazing fire.

Valora sighed, a one filled with dismal. “His Grace makes plans to announce it tonight at the feast. I am to wed your brother, Prince Dante.”

Damon grimaced at once, and his hands tightened, not softly, not gently, but a great deal hurtfully on the young lady’s. It was not the pain he had told Valora about that he was dealt with, it was anger and spite, and her words did not make it any less nor soothe him like he had said it would, it worsened it. The king, the bastard king was about to ruin it all tonight, he was about to ruin it all. The world had all grown silent to Damon now, the cheers of the throng he did not hear, nothing, nothing at all… until a whisper came, faint as the whistle of a swift wind.

“You’re hurting me,” it said. It came again. “You’re hurting me.” And that was when he heard it clearly, and it was no wind, it was the voice of his brother’s betrothed.

He snapped back quickly and loosened his grip. “I am dreadfully sorry, my lady.”

“No need for apologies, I understand,” Valora said, not taking her hand away from his. She did not care that she was hurt from his tight grip, she instead cared that he was angry. “I am sorry, Damon. I did not know before the sun rose, I swear.”

“I believe you,” Damon smiled, one a great deal fake enough for anyone to notice, unless they were the young lady, Valora of House Blackwood. “But I am not giving up on you.” He groped her palm and tightened his hands on them again, this time a great gentle. “I want you, my lady, and I will make sure I have you.”

The young lady, Valora of Blackwood smiled, but he was not speaking of her. The lady he spoke of, the lady he wanted, was the crown.