#god how skinny I used to draw jasper | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

onemilliongoldstars · 5 years

Text

a crown seldom enjoyed - chapter 19

To maintain the fragile peace between north and south, Clarke of House Tyrell is sent to live in Winterfell as an act of faith between the two kingdoms. There, she is put under the protection of the first queen in the north, Queen Lexa of House Stark, Daughter of Wolves. A woman draped in steel and silver, wolves at her heels and rumoured to be a manifestation of the fury of the old gods; Clarke refuses to be awed be her quiet violence and cold smile. Instead of fostering unity, the meeting of the wolf and the rose lights a spark that spreads through the rest of Westeros, threatening to burn it to the ground.

19/25

clexa game of thrones au

read on ao3

Book Two: Chapter 5

The tunic that she wears is almost unbearably itchy, and Raven has to press her hands together behind her back as she waits for the Grand Maester to rise from behind his desk and hobble around to peer at her through the low light. The clothes are not her own, instead stolen for her by Octavia for this endeavour, but she tries to seem as natural in them as possible when the Grand Maester’s eyes run over her. Even stepping foot into the castle was enough to send a bristle of warning down Raven’s spine, but Lady Clarke needs her dearly in this and after all Clarke has done for her Raven cannot refuse.

“You must be here to replace my damned boy,” The Grand Maester says at last, and the words startle her so much that for a moment she is unable to find her words. The old man continues, not seeming to notice her silence. “About time, that oaf disappeared days ago.”

“Disappeared, Grand Maester?” Raven manages, at last and the man grumbles his agreement, settling into an armchair across the room.

“No good rascal, always getting into scrapes, out whoring and drinking until all hours,” He complains, scowling up at her. “But what am I to do with you? I need a boy, not a girl.”

“I’m a fast leaner Grand Maester,” She protests, fiercely, “I’m young and strong, I can fetch and carry with the best of them.”

His eyes crease and he observes her again, this time more closely. “Hmm,” He agrees at last, motioning to her with his cane. “Get to sorting those herbs girl and we’ll see if you can stay.”

“Yes sir,” She darts to the herb box he had gestured to, taking the time to linger over the names carefully labelling each compartment. They work quietly together, and while the smell of incense irritates her nose and the light in the room is almost too dim to work by, Raven is glad for something to keep her hands busy and working. The Grand Maester is mostly quiet, he asks for herbal tea and sweetmeats, and deigns to share some with her, but otherwise they are silent. When Raven shows him the sorted herbs, he regards her with pursed lips and sets her to a more delicate task of cleaning and sorting his medical tools. He stands to watch her this time, leaning on his cane, and she tries to make sure that her hands don’t shake under his gaze.

“Did you become interested in medicine after your leg was injured?” It’s the first words either of them have spoken in over an hour and Raven’s fingers fumble so sharply that the scalpel she holds slices straight into her thumb. She hisses a curse, and goes to stick the digit into her mouth, but gnarled fingers catch hers before she can and the Grand Maester tuts, leading her back to his desk. Carefully, he cleans the wound with a substance that makes her grimace, and begins to bandage it.

“Well?” The Grand Maester asks, as he works. “I asked you a question girl.”

“Oh,” Raven swallows, pulling her eyes away from her bleeding thumb. “Yes, Grand Maester.”

“What’s wrong with it?” The Grand Maester inquires, and Raven swallows back her automatic retort.

”Born with it, m’lord.”

The Grand Maester finishes with her thumb and peers down at her leg with interest. “Does it give you much pain?”

“Some.” She answers, tightly and the Grand Maester’s eyes are clearer than before when they meet hers again.

“Take ginger or feverfew to help with the pain,” He tells her, “I know you won’t trust me enough to take it from me, but you should be able to find that at the market.”

Raven’s eyes widen in response and she stutters, “I trust you, m’lord.”

“There’s no use in lying,” He tells her plainly. “I’ve never seen a Maester’s apprentice with the hands of a blacksmith before.” She stares at him, her mouth hanging agape, and when he smiles the skin around his eyes wrinkles. “Tell Lady Clarke that I am truly baffled by what killed her father, and I’m conducting investigations of my own.”

---

In the room above the tavern that Raven has called her home for the past few weeks, Clarke sits upon the bed, leaning back on the headboard as she picks at the meats and cheeses on the platter before them. Here, the door is locked and the noise of the tavern downstairs is just dim enough to be comforting. A fire warms the room and the servant’s garb that Octavia stole for her is comfortable. Clarke could almost pretend that things are more simple than they are, but as Raven takes a long drink of her mead and opens her mouth to continue speaking, she remembers far too abruptly why they are here.

“He says that he has no idea what happened to your father, but he’s trying to find out too.”

“And he didn’t have you executed the moment he realised you were a fraud?” Octavia’s eyes dart to Clarke, “Maester Titus would have killed you on the spot.”

Raven quirks a grin at her words, but shakes her head. “He let me go and told me to report all back to you.”

“Could it be a double falsehood?” Octavia muses, around a chicken leg. “To trick us?”

“But then why tell me about the runner disappearing?” Raven counters, pursing her lips. “We didn’t know about that.”

“And Grand Maester Orrin has been here for as long as I remember, he is loyal to the Baratheons.” Clarke adds, quietly, and they glance at her.

“Do you think they know that we know?” Raven leans forward from her place in the chair by the fire, stretching out her back and her leg. The scent of her ginger tea fills the room, strong and heady.

She considers for a moment before answering, her fingers going to the pocket of her dress where an offending strip of parchment sits, burning a hole. “I don’t know,” She admits, at last, “When I speak with Pike, he seems to think I am as helpless as a lamb but… this came under my door today.”

She pulls the note from her pocket and smooths it out on the bed covers. Octavia leans over from her place beside her, her eyes narrowing as she reads it aloud for Raven’s benefit.

“Courtyard, dusk?” Her eyes widen, swivelling up to look at Clarke with alarm. “You think this is Pike’s doing?”

“Who else?” Clarke shakes her head, “If the king wanted to see me, he would just ask for me. I think Pike is trying to scare me. I didn’t go, of course.”

“You should have told me about this earlier,” Octavia snaps, angrily. “How can I keep you safe when you don’t tell me these things?”

The words are so fierce that Clarke is left blinking and amazed at her words. Finally, gathering herself, she replies softly. “I know, I’m sorry. I will next time.”

“We have to move more quickly,” Raven insists, her brows narrowed, “It isn’t long before they work out what you know.”

“I need you to try and find the runner,” Clarke takes the parchment in her hands and lifts herself from the bed, pacing across the room to crumple it into her hands and throw it in the fire. Together, she and Raven watch it burn and Clarke continues, seriously. “If he’s still in the city, we have to know about it. He’s our only lead.”

Raven opens her mouth to respond, but they are interrupted by a tremendous banging on the door. They all jump, turning to stare, and Clarke’s hand goes to the dagger hidden in her skirts. She hears a shrill rush as Octavia draws her sword, and the banging only becomes louder.

“Raven!” A voice cries, as the girl takes the carving knife for the meat between her hands. “Come on, please!”

The voice is enough to make Raven hesitate, her grip on her weapon loosening, and she walks stiffly to the door, pressing herself against it to call through.

“Who is it?”

“Jasper!” The voice answers, more shrilly, and Raven’s shoulders fall, throwing the knife to one side as she unbolts the door and swings it open to allow two figures to all but fall inside. One rushes the shut the door behind them as the other staggers across the room, as if to put as much distance between the exit and himself as possible.

“Jasper, what-” Raven sounds exasperated and annoyed, turning to glare at the skinny men trembling by the fire, but the other man, a little shorter and darker haired, shushes her.

Moments later it is clear why, as another set of footsteps comes pounding down the corridor, fists banging heartily on the doors until they open, and Jasper’s face pales at the sound. His eyes dart around desperately, settling on the window, and Clarke hurries to his side before he can do anything rash.

“Quickly, under the bed,” She hisses to them both, and they are miraculously obedient, hurrying to follow her instructions.

“Clarke,” Octavia protests, but Clarke waves her away, pushing her too beneath the bed. The rattling of their door returns moments later, accompanied by angry shouting, and she shoots Raven a warning look to stay quiet, hiding her dagger once more between her skirts as she pulls the door open, one hand resting upon it so that only a slither of the room is visible, covered mostly by her body.

A wiry man stands on the other side, wearing a navy cloak and a grubby doublet, an axe in his hands, and he seems taken aback when she offers him a pretty smile, his grip on the axe slackening.

“Can I help you?” She asks, as innocently as possible, cocking her hip against the doorframe. His eyes are drawn down her body and she watches him from beneath her eyelashes.

“’Ave you seen two men?” He asks, at last, his eyes flickering to the room behind her.

“Not in the last hour or so.” She smiles coyly, “Have you lost someone?”

“Someones.” He grumbles, still trying to peer past her. “Heard anyone come past here, miss?”

“There was some terrible shouting earlier,” She agrees, amicably, “Someone banged on my door, but I didn’t see fit to open it.” Her eyes linger on him and she smiles again, “I’m glad I thought to open it to you.” The words surprise him, drawing his gaze back to her, and he grins. “I think they went upstairs.” Clarke adds, helpfully, and the man nods, turning away as she shuts the door again and slides the bolt across.

Octavia’s head appears from beneath the bed, glaring at her, and Clarke watches as she hauls herself out, brushing at her uniform.

“That was dangerous,” The guard growls and Clarke rolls her eyes.

“You’re too conspicuous in that.” She gestures, and the two men causing all of the trouble push themselves up to lean against the bed.

“Thank you,” Says the darker haired one, his voice coloured with relief. “Really.”

“That was some witchcraft, enchanting him like that.” The second observes, his eyes narrowing a little. “Ain’t never seen any of Axel’s men distracted before, and they’ve seen plenty of pretty girls.”

“You’re welcome.” Clarke arches an eyebrow, crossing her arms, and Raven glares at them both.

“What are you two doing here? What’s all that?”

“Axel may be thinking we cheated at dice.” The second man admits, and the first casts him a scathing glance.

“Because you did Jasper.” His eyes find Octavia and Clarke again, and he gives a weak, but good-natured smile. “Sorry, I’m Monty, this knucklehead is Jasper.”

“Octavia,” The guard introduces herself gruffly, with a glower and Clarke nods in their direction.

“Clarke.”

“I’m sorry we disturbed you.” He sounds sincere, his voice a little more rounded and proper than his friend’s Flea Bottom accent. “Thanks again for taking us in Raven.”

“Stop bloody cheating,” Raven grumbles, “You’ve already been chased from half of the taverns in town, if folks figure you out you’ll be strung up from the rafters.”

“Tell him that,” Monty jerks a thumb at his friend and Jasper sits heavily on the bed, huffing with annoyance.

“Axel needs to back off, it’s his fault half of the city is struggling for bread. Some of us have to cheat.”

“You’re not struggling for bread,” Raven shoots back, harshly, but it seems to slide from Jasper like water from a duck’s back.

“I could be.”

“What did he do?” Clarke asks, curious and Jasper rolls his eyes, as if just the thought of it irritates him.

“He helped start those riots that wrecked most of Flea Bottom.”

“He did?” Clarke’s eyes widen, and she tries to keep her intrigue from her voice as she continues, “How so?”

“Just turned around one day and started shouting about unfair taxes and the price of food.” Monty shrugs, “He’s a leader around here, people look up to him-”

“They’re scared of him.” Jasper puts in, fiercely.

“Anyway, when he started suggesting rioting like all of those others people listened.” Monty settles on the bed next to his friend, more carefully. “Not that Axel ever really had something to riot about, he keeps half of the whores in town in business.”

“Has he said anything about the riots since?” Clarke leans against the high back of Raven’s chair, “Nothing’s really changed.”

“Of course not, none of them have!” Jasper raises his eyes to the ceiling. “So what was the point of it all? They don’t even care if it really changes, they just wanted a chance to plunder when the Gold Cloaks weren’t watching.”

“Do you know other people who started the riots?” Raven asks, and Monty’s eyes narrow even as Jasper continues, barely hesitating.

“All the big guys in the city, everyone with a bit of swing. It didn’t do no good.”

“Surely the Gold Cloaks did something?” Clarke wonders aloud. “They’re the city guard, they’re sworn to keep the peace. Thugs encouraging people to riot should have been something to concern them.”

Jasper snorts loudly. “As if the Gold Cloaks have ever helped the city, they’ve been crooked for years.”

Monty makes a small noise of protest, and Jasper rolls his eyes fiercely.

“They’re not all like that,” Monty puts in, quietly, “Some of them are good men.”

“Just because Miller got you out-” Monty shoots him a glare and Jasper’s mouth snaps shut over his words. He continues sullenly, after a moment of silence. “Most of them are shit.”

“You’re only saying that because they catch you.” Monty answers, with faux lightness to his voice, and Jasper wrinkles his nose in annoyance.

“You know one of the Gold Cloaks?” Octavia asks, finally, and Monty gives an awkward, stilted nod.

“Captain Miller, he’s Captain of the Dragon Gate and the West Barracks.” Monty pulls in a slow breath, unable to meet any of their gazes. “He’s a good man.”

Clarke swallows, there is something to Monty’s manner which makes it clear why he is so intent on protecting Captain Miller’s reputation, and she feels a flurry of sympathy for him. “I’m sure he is,” She says, quietly, and Monty gives her a small, slight smile.

“Captain Miller is fine enough,” Jasper agrees, at last, but continues, “But that doesn’t mean that half of the City Watch aren’t paid off by the Lannisters. It’s only got worse since Lord Pike came here.”

“You think they were paid to let the riots go on longer than they should have?” Octavia demands, and Jasper nods stubbornly.

“There was no way it should have been that bad, where did Axel and those guys even get those longswords from anyway? I’ve never seen anything like it!”

“Do you trust Captain Miller?” Clarke asks Monty, quietly, and the boy thinks on it for a moment, before nodding.

“With my life.” He vows.

“Can you ask him to help us?”

Monty eyes her for a moment, suspicion clear in his gaze, but eventually he gives a nod. “I’ll ask him about that night.”

“Do you think you can ask around, see how all of those guys are doing now?” Clarke looks at them both, her eyes travelling across them. “See if they have a little more coin to spend at the dice tables now?”

Jasper just shrugs, but Monty’s eyes only narrow further. “Why?” He asks, at last and Clarke arches an eyebrow their way.

“I just saved your skin, for one.”

Monty grimaces, and Jasper half shrugs, leaning back against the bed. “Sure, we can ask around for a pretty girl. Maybe afterwards we can get a drink- ow!” He startles upright when Octavia aims a sharp kick to his shin with the toe of her large boot.

---

Waiting has never been Clarke’s greatest skill. Unfortunately, there is little to do but wait and hope that Monty, Jasper or Raven will find something of value, and so she is left to spend her days of leisure within the confines of the castle. After the note that was slipped beneath her door she is always wary for some further form of retaliation by Pike and his men, but nothing out of the ordinary occurs and so she is left to try to fill her days. Lady Fern and Lady Mira remain in the capital, and she often joins them for their late morning walks around the gardens. This morning, Lady Fern’s handmaiden accompanies them to look after the lady’s little boy, who has as much energy as a pup, running about between the hedges and bellowing, despite his mother’s constant attempts to quiet him. It is only her handmaiden who is able to calm the boy, and as they had watched her lead him by the hand around the statues in the garden, Lady Fern had laughed tiredly.

“I don’t know what I would do without Margo, the day she decides she wants to marry shall be the death of me.”

The words had plucked at the strings of heartache in Clarke’s chest, and she is left thinking of Reya as she excuses herself earlier than usual and makes her way back to her chambers. Pushing open the door, she is surprised to find the shutters thrown wide open and the bed covers striped back, the whole room filled with light and refreshing morning air. A girl stands near the bed, changing the linens, and she startled up at the sight of Clarke returning. She is young, perhaps eighteen summers, and light haired, with rosy cheeks.

“Oh,” She rushes to bob a curtsey, linens still clasped in her hands. “M’lady, I’m sorry I didn’t expect you back so soon.”

“Don’t worry,” Clarke’s eyes sweep the room, but she finds nothing amiss, and wanders to the open window as the girl keeps working. Something tickles at the corner of her mind, and she turns back to watch the girl with open curiosity. “You are?”

“Harper, m’lady.” The girl doesn’t pause, securing the new linens neatly to the bed, with frightening efficiency.

“Harper,” Clarke rolls the name around in her mouth, wondering at it. “How long have you worked in the castle?”

“My whole life, m’lady.” Harper gives her a tentative smile as she begins straightening the luxurious bed fittings.

“I’m sure it’s far busier now, with everyone remaining after the coronation.” Clarke returns her smile, hoping to put her an ease.

“It is,” Harper answers, ruefully, “It’s good to be busy but the new help they’ve hired…” She tuts, clicking her tongue against her teeth. “Trying to teach them is like carryin’ water to the sea.”

The words pull a laugh from Clarke, and Harper’s smile widens. There is silence for a moment as Harper fixes the last of the trimmings on the bed, and then gathers the dirty linens from the floor. AT the door, she hesitates and Clarke’s eyes are drawn back to her, expectant.

“I’m sorry for the impertinence but… can I ask you whether you’ve heard from Prince Wells?”

Clarke’s brows narrow and her voice is tighter when she responds. “What do you care of Prince Wells?”

“Nothing, only-” Harper shifts uncomfortably, chewing on her lip. “I knew the prince growing up, he was friendly until… it wasn’t proper any more. I worry about him.”

The affection in Harper’s eyes is genuine, and Clarke’s softens when she sees it. “If I hear anything of him, I’ll let you know.”

“Thank you,” The relief in her voice is palpable, and she glances down at the linens in her arms before saying, cautious again. “And if you ever need help slipping away from the castle… I can find you better clothes than this.”

Clarke’s eyes widen, her gaze flickering down to see that Harper is holding the servant’s clothes she had abandoned under her bed in hopes of smuggling it back to Octavia.

---

Octavia’s jaw is clenched so tightly that she fears it may break at any moment. The soldier’s mess hall in Kings Landing is strangely similar to that of Winterfell- mess halls around the world all serve the same purpose she supposes- but far more ornate, with arches, high ceilings and weapons decorating the walls. A hearty fire burns at one end of the hall, but the warm weather means that people aren’t huddled around it as they would be in Winterfell, instead soldiers sit around at benches, eating and drinking and playing dice. Several soldiers, however, are gathered around the woman currently fawning for their attention.

Lady Clarke is about as relaxed as Octavia is tense. She sits as if she is made of water, soft and flowing, her shoulders and arms bared by her daring dress, and her hair falling in gentle golden curls that the soldiers cannot seem to take their eyes off. Octavia shifts, angry and uncomfortable, and tries to stop her hands from drifting to the sword at her belt. She wonders whether the queen would care a jot that Octavia protested furiously to this plan, if it ends up killing Clarke. She suspects not, and the thought of returning home to Indra’s wrath makes her swallow audibly against her dry throat.

“I see you brought a guest Snow,” The voice at her side startles her, and she turns to see a small man beside her, a green as fresh snow, his cheeks flushed from the heat outside. He wears the uniform of the Gold Cloaks and seems to be sweating. Despite her distaste for most of the men acting a soldiers in Kings Landing, she has had to find a few allies, and Anthony Yoke is one of them.

“She insisted that she wanted to see the mess hall.” Octavia sighs, watching as Lady Clarke laughs at something the man beside her has said and gestures to the walls. “Says she gets bored.”

“Bored, what a luxury,” Yoke sounds annoyed, but his eyes don’t stray from Clarke and when he steps closer, Octavia reluctantly follows, until she can hear all that is said in this little circle of admirers.

“And that?” Clarke gestures to the crossbow on the wall, “What does that do?”

The man beside her, a hulking Lannister man hiding under the cover of a gold cloak, and one that Octavia had pointed out to her earlier, smiles indulgently. “A crossbow, my lady. It can shoot a man fifty yards away and kill him dead.”

Clarke pulls in a delicate, surprised breath and places a hand over her mouth, as if she can’t imagine such violence. If she weren’t so worried, the display would make Octavia laugh. “How terrifying! Did you have to use those during the revolt?”

“Not quite,” The Lannister man passes her a goblet of wine, which she accepts gracefully. “The fighting was much bloodier then, a lot of close combat.”

“Were any of you hurt?” Clarke looks about her group with wide eyes, and a few of the men step forward t show them her battle wounds. “The common folk must have been ferocious to be a match for fierce fighters like you.”

“And armed to the hilt.” One of the men puts in, eagerly, and Clarke’s eyes widen in faux surprise.

“Really? Even against city guards?”

“Even against us.” The Lannister man agrees, grimly. “Fought like pigs an all.”

“Axes, swords, daggers, bows, they had it all m’lady.” A Gold Cloak tells her, earnestly.

“Surely the common people shouldn’t be armed like that?” Clarke’s brows crumple, confused, “To such an extent that they could defeat trained and brave warriors such as yourselves.”

“Aye, it was a strange fight,” Another man muses, “Normally revolts die down the moment they see the guard, but they fought hard as nails before suddenly- nothing.”

Clarke opens her mouth to speak, but they are disturbed by voice rising in joy and surprise behind them as someone steps into the room. The soldiers around them twist to peer at the newcomer, and several faces light up in recognition as people push themselves up and go to greet him. From where she stands, all Octavia can see is a shock of dark hair and a Lannister uniform, but the other soldiers evidently recognise him because they shout out their welcomes and clap him on the back and shoulders.

“Finally finished babysitting all that gold, Blake?”

At those words, Octavia’s breath catches in her throat. Her eyes move, but the rest of her body is frozen, and she can only strain to see through the crowds welcoming him to catch a sight of the newcomer. A part of her doesn’t dare hope- surely it is a common name even down here in the south- but the rest of her feels as if someone has lit a flame in her stomach and she is struggling not to be engulfed by it.

The man laughs, shrugging them off with good humour. “If I never go back to the Twins again, it’ll be too soon.” He answers and the group around Clarke wains away to welcome him in, so that Octavia can see him more clearly. Her brother has grown up, into a tall, strong man, with dark hair so rumpled she is sure it’s been months since it has seen shears, and a healthy beard across his chin and neck. His eyes are just as they always were, light and mischievous.

Bellamy sees Clarke first, his brows pulling together as he offers her a curious bow, but his eyes swing around the group and land on Octavia. For a moment she fears that he will not know her, a his lips part and his eyes run over her body, and then his eyes widen.

“Octavia? Is- is that you?”

She can barley speak, her throat is so tight with emotions, and so she only nods, two short, sharp jerks of her head. From the corner of her eye, she sees Clarke rise gracefully from her place on the bench and move towards her, as if she could do anything if Bellamy meant her harm.

There is only silence as everyone looks between them, and Bellamy is the first to move, breaking across the circle in three long strides before throwing his arms around her. The action takes her breath away again, and she isn’t sure how to feel, lifting her arms to awkwardly return his embrace, patting at his back. She feels him shiver beneath her and when something wet falls against her neck, she realises with a jerk of surprise that he is crying.

As if from a distance, she hears Clarke say. “Give them some space, please.” There is a shuffling, as the curious soldiers do as she bids, and when Bellamy finally leans away from her, Clarke offers him a handkerchief with a small smile, before settling on a nearby bench. She is close enough to hear them, but she angles her body away as if she isn’t listening, and Octavia appreciates the effort.

Bellamy looks vaguely absurd, a grown man patting at his cheeks with such a delicate handkerchief, and Octavia stares at him, drinking him in. When he speaks, it’s as if all of the memories she had long forgotten resurface, like the sun cresting a hill; she always knew they were there, but everything is much clearer now.

“You’ve grown up,” Bellamy says at last, his hands still grasping her forearms as if he can’t stand not to touch her.

“So have you.” Her voice is hoarse and croaking, but they both grin at the vain attempt at humour.

“You got away,” His hands squeeze her arms, his voice breaking. “How did you get away, O?”

The name brings a rush of emotions back, and she feels like a child again. “I- After the Greyjoys sold you in Lannisport they took me to the Starks.”

“I know,” Bellamy’s eyes darken, furiously. “I found one of the sailors drinking at a tavern a few years ago, I beat it out of him. He told me those bastard Greyjoys slavers gave you to the Stark daughter as a gift.” He spits out the word, and Octavia shrugs off his grip on her arms, her eyes darkening.

“No,” She snaps, “Well, I mean that is true but you’ve got it twisted!”

“The Wolf Queen has had you captive all of these years!”

“No!” Her agitation is drawing attention to them and she huffs, pulling Bellamy a step closer to the wall and lowering her voice. “She didn’t hold me captive, she let me go. When she was just a little girl, when I first arrived, the first thing she did was free me.”

Octavia will never forget that day, so small she barely knew her own name, trembling in the Great Hall in Winterfell, her feet bare, her hair unwashed, her hands tied before her. The little Stark lady, sombre even then, with grave eyes that stared out at the proud slavers with unbridled hatred, taking a dagger from her belt and marching towards her. Gentling when she saw Octavia flinch away, murmuring soft reassurances as she carefully cut the bindings and threw them to the ground.

“Not only is slavery an offence against life and justice,” She had told the Greyjoy men coldly, “But against the crown. Take them away.”

“She gave me a home and an education, warm clothes and a bed,” Octavia tells him now, her voice hitching with emotion. It isn’t often that she thinks of those times, but with Bellamy before her it’s impossible not to remember their parents and the small cottage they lived in on the Flint Cliffs before the Greyjoy slavers came. “I was always free to go, but why would I?”

“So why are you here?” Bellamy seems unconvinced by her account.

Octavia’s eyes flicker to Lady Clarke’s turned back and she hesitates. “The Queen sent me here with Lady Clarke, to protect her.”

Bellamy’s expression hardens. “You’re no slave, but you’re still doing her bidding.”

“I could have refused,” Octavia retorts. “And you? You’re a Lannister now?”

“I am,” He straightens, and she sees the way his hand falls proudly to the hilt of his sword. “Lord Pike’s man.”

Her lips thin, and his brows twitch, sensing her anger. “How did you become Lord Pike’s man?”

“I worked in the stables at Casterly Rock for some time, they gave me a chance to be a soldier and I went from there. Now I’m here.” He gestures around, his eyes meeting hers with reluctant approval. “It seems we’ve both done well for ourselves.”

“It seems so.” The sight of the red and gold lion on his chest, and the words Lord Pike’s man leave a bad taste at the back of her mouth and she glances to where Clarke is patiently waiting. “I should go, don’t want to keep her waiting.”

“You’ll come back?” Bellamy suddenly softens, catching her hand with his and pulling her to a stop before she can go. She nods her agreement, and he smiles, releasing her. “It’s good to see you again little sister.”

The words draw a smile from her. “And you, big brother.”

When Clarke falls into step beside her, and they make their way back to the main section of the castle, the look that she gives her tell Octavia that she heard everything that passed between she and her brother.

“I’m sorry,” She says, when they arrive at her chambers, and she sounds more gentle than Octavia has ever heard her before. “I didn’t know… about your past.” When Octavia merely shrugs, unable to find the words, Clarke continues, kindly. “That was your brother?”

“Yes,” She glances up and down the empty corridor. “And he may be able to help us. He’s Lord Pike’s man.”

Clarke’s eyes widen and all of the kindness drains from them.

---

The letter from Lexa comes on a fine, bright morning, waiting for Clarke in her rooms when she returns from breakfasting with the king. Finn is easier to read day by day, and though her heart stings a little when she thinks of the boy he used to be, she cannot help but smile prettily at him. Every moment that they spend together, he opens up more and more, and she can tell that he is coming to rely on her and trust her. If Lord Pike is truly trying to persuade him that the north is a threat, Clarke knows she must stay close by and show Finn otherwise. Stepping into her rooms, she shrugs her shawl from around her shoulders and leaves it strewn across the back of a highbacked chair. The fire burns low in the grate, and the site of a folded piece of parchment upon her desk catches her attention. She doesn’t rush to it, assuming it is a note from one of the ladies of the court, inviting her to some humdrum activity she will hardly be able to stand. She calls for tea and Octavia, and meanders around the room, straightening things up here and there, leaving a vase of dying flowers close to the door to be changed, before eventually dragging her feet to her writing desk.

The sight of the dark direwolf seal draws her breath from her lungs, leaving her flushed and wide eyed, and she almost rips the parchment in her attempt to open it more quickly. Her heart is thudding so hard in her ears that she doesn’t hear the knock on the door as she reads, and when the door is pushed open behind her, she turns so violently, hiding the letter behind her back, that the maid startles.

“Sorry m’lady, I brought your tea.” The maid stares at her in surprise, and Clarke tries to soften her features, but can’t manage to say anything. Instead, she gestures to the table near the fire and stays frozen to the spot, watching the curious maid leave. Slowly, her heart still racing, she relaxes, and crosses the room to lock the door. Her eyes fall back to the letter, and she lowers herself shakily into one of the chairs by the fire to read what Lexa says.

The queen writes that she is sorry to hear of her father’s death and the death of the king. Though many people have expressed similar sentiments something about Lexa’s words – what more can I say to heal the ache that is surely in your heart now? I would not even presume to be able to find the words- brings tears to her eyes. She goes on to say that she is sure her mother is glad of her presence, and at this Clarke’s gut twists guiltily and she has to pull her gaze away for a moment to regain her composure.

Lexa writes that Winterfell misses her, that Aden sends his best wishes and he is dutifully training his puppy, though- and here Clarke can almost see the wry twist of her lips- he still insists on feeding it by hand and the little beast is sure to be the fattest dog in all of the north soon. The final words bring another ache to Clarke’s heart and tears spill silently over her cheeks. I cherish everything you left here in the north, and look forward to having you back in Winterfell whenever you feel able.

Her guilt and misery rises like a wave within her breast and for a moment she feels strangled by it, her breathing hitching as more tears spill from her eyes. Her fingers run over the parchment tenderly, as if it were the softest silk in the world, and for a moment she considers throwing it into the fire, in case anyone should try to read it. She can’t quite bring herself to do it, however, and instead she folds the letter carefully and tucks it beneath her mattress.

---

With a shabby, plain cloak, and a quiet afternoon, Clarke is able to easily slip away into the rooms reserved for the Grand Maester and his servants. The room for his runner sits on the floor below his own, so that he is available at all hours of the night to take potions to and from the Grand Maester’s chambers. There are no guards here, and the door hangs slightly ajar, so that when Clarke slips her way inside there is no resistance. Deep in the heart of the castle, the room only has one window, letting in a slant of light, and by that she can see a rumpled cot and chest thrust up against one wall, a desk against the other. Carefully, listening out for any approaching footsteps, she picks her way around the room, searching for anything that could tell her about the runner.

For the most part, the room is empty, though there are several empty wine bottles below the bed, and a chamber pot that looks as if it’s been used more for vomiting than pissing. She wrinkles her nose at that and slides it back beneath the bed. The chest is empty but for a few plain, nondescript clothes, and the desk holds nothing but empty sheets of parchment, almost untouched. The ink well is dry and full, and the whole room smells musty and unclean. She lets out a soft noise of displeasure at the utter lack of clues to be found, but the sound of voices from the corridor startles her from her reverie.

Hurriedly, she darts from the room and starts down the corridor, only to hear another set of footsteps approaching her. For a moment she is caught, utterly motionless, as she tries to think of an excuse to be there, but then a hand grabs her wrist and tugs so sharply that she is pulled behind a tapestry and through a door before she can think. As she gains her balance again, she finds herself pressed into a small space, against a wall, a candle the only light. She squints, her vision adjusting so slowly that she fears for a moment she will remain blind entirely, until finally Tris’s face peers out from the darkness, startling her.

Tris puts her finger to her lips, hushing her, and Clarke does as she says, waiting as they listen to the footsteps and then the voices pass them by, utterly undetected. When all is quiet and they are alone, Tris lets out a sigh of relief, and grins at her in the dim light.

“Lady Clarke, you seemed like you needed rescuing.”

The words pull a delighted laugh from her and she shakes her head in amazement. “I-I did, thank you.” She puts her hands to the walls, pressing against the rough stone curiously. “Where are we?”

“There are tunnels all around the castle.” Tris answers, as if it should be obvious, “Come on, I’ll show you out.”

Wordlessly, Clarke follows her, and as she does memories return to her, of adventuring through these tunnels with Wells when they were children. “Do you use these to escape your Septa?” She asks Lady Tris, grinning, as the girl leads her down the narrow tunnel and around a bend. “That’s what the prince and I used to do.”

“Yes,” Tris turns to give her a sheepish smile, and they turns another corner, coming upon a door. “She’s just so boring.” Carefully, Tris pushes open the door and fights her way through a thick bush, Clarke following her and grimacing when the branches snag at her clothes and hair. When the door shuts behind her, and the bush retreats from snatching at them, it is barely visible and Clarke laughs in quiet amazement.

“I’d completely forgotten about those tunnels,” She admits, stretching and taking in their surroundings. “Are we in the Godswood?” They are surrounded by tall elm and alder trees, light and airy, and beneath them the grass is green and fresh, dotted with wildflowers. Somewhere, closer towards the centre, Clarke knows there is a great Heart Tree, covered in smokeberry vines. She remembers it from when she and Wells were children, but hasn’t been able to step into the Godswood since returning to the Red Keep. Something about the place feels too personal and private.

Tris nods, leading her back along the walls. “I tell the Septa I come in here to pray and then use the tunnels to go all around the castle.” She sounds excitable, as if she has been dying to tell someone this secret for a long time. Here, they are utterly alone, perhaps the only two people in the city to care about the Godswood. Clarke wonders how long it will be until Pike insists it is dug up completely. “You can get all the way to the kitchens, and the great hall, and even the king’s bed chambers!”

“Oh,” Clarke’s eyes widen and she stifles a laugh. “Well, I don’t think you should go there any more Tris, it might not be safe.” When Tris’s face falls, she places a hand on her shoulder and says, a little more softly. “But thank you for helping me.” They walk in silence for a few moments, before Clarke asks, more seriously. “Do you feel safe here?”

From the corner of her eye, she sees Tris cast her a strange glance. “I suppose so,” She says, at last, wary and unsure.

“If that ever changes, you can trust me, do you understand?” She hopes the girl can understand the gravity of what she’s saying, without frightening her. “Me, or Octavia Snow, or the Red Cabin in the city. You’ll be safe with us, or there.”

“Alright,” Tris presses her lips together in a look that is intensely reminiscent of Anya Mormont, and Clarke tries not to smile. “Thank you, Lady Clarke.”

“I’m only repaying my debt,” Clarke smiles down at her, and Tris offers a genuine smile in return. “Shall we go and see if the kitchens have any lemon cakes?”

---

When Lord Finn comes to her chambers, so excited he can barely stand it, and tells her of his idea to help the smallfolk, she feels something close to pride swell in her chest. She takes his arm, happy to allow him to escort her down to the courtyard where the wagons are waiting, filled at his command with the spare food from the kitchens. Together, they clamber into a litter and are carried out of the castle and into the streets of the city, accompanied by a huge retinue of guards. The people of Kings Landing haven’t yet seen much of their king, and so the litter bearing his golden insignia draws much attention. At Aegon’s Square, the litter is settled onto the ground and Clarke takes Finn’s hand when he helps her down. The guards are already setting down the tables carried from the castle and beginning to organise the food upon it, and Clarke turns to the king, taking his arm and saying.

“Let’s talk to people.”

“What?” Finn’s eyes widen, but he followers her without resistance, just as he did when they were younger.

They find two raggedy little girls hovering close by, watching with hungry eyes as the food is redistributed. The girls have baskets of flowers on their arms, and they recoil when Clarke and Finn approach, until Clarke crouches down so that she’s closer to their height.

“Hello,” She speaks as gently as she can, “Are you hungry?”

The girls glance at each other, clearly suspicious of the strange woman asking them questions, but eventually the older and braver of the two nods, her tangled hair falling in front of her eyes.

“In a moment there will be food on those tables for you to eat,” Clarke pats at Finn’s arm. “From the king.”

The girls’ eyes widen, but Clarke pulls herself up from the floor and guides Finn away before they can become flustered or afraid. Finn’s astonishment has transformed into joy, and together they make their way around the square, welcoming people to take food if they need it, and encouraging them to spread the word. The eyes of the small folk follow them with amazement, and people bob curtseys and murmur nervous thanks.

“This is incredible,” Finn murmurs to her, and Clarke gives him a radiant smile, nodding her agreement.

When their walk around the square is done, they stand to the side of the tables, occasionally passing out parcels of food, and she has the pleasure of watching Finn relax, until he is the picture of a youthful, generous king. Word of this will travel, and soon the people of the city will be singing his praises.

“Pardon me,” The voice is so startling familiar that she turns to see who is lingering nearby. Raven, a hood pulled up to cover her face, looks out at her sign a grave expression. She eyes her meaningfully, and says. “Some food, m’lady?”

“Of course.” The moment she overcomes her shock, she takes a parcel of food and moves towards her, handing it over and leaning close enough to hear Raven mutter.

“We found the runner.”

—-

#clexa #clexa gotau #clarke griffin #commander lexa #game of thrones #clexa fic

63 notes · View notes

patricianandclerk · 5 years

Text

Prejudice & Punishment

My Ask | My Ko-Fi | My Ao3 | Requests always welcome!

Rated T. Implied Drumknott/Vetinari. POV Nobby Nobbs. Homophobia.

Nobby hesitated a little as he walked down the stairs, down toward the cells. Sergeant Guster, Angua had said, had said he arrested Mr Drumknott as a matter of course, to distract from all the business with the men who’d tried to rough him up. He’d been in the Blue Cat Club with one of the stokers, and it’d been a gang of six who’d ganged up on him when the stoker’d had to go. Mr Drumknott had men who kept an eye on him, Nobby knew, but he hadn’t needed them to beat up the lads who’d come for him—

And Guster had tried to arrest him. He’d not even done any of the men that much harm, although he could have done, Nobby knew. He was only a little man and it was easy to forget, but he could be lethal, if he wanted to, could be right lethal. Mr Drumknott had been angry enough that he’d almost broke Guster’s hand, and then he’d been arrested for assaulting an officer of the Watch.

Guster was in Vimes’ office, now, pacing back and forth and sweating bullets, his skin pale and pasty. He hadn’t known Drumknott was the Patrician’s clerk. He’d just thought he was some invert, and that—

It wasn’t right.

Nobby knew that, that it wasn’t right.

Commander Vimes’d gone spare, when he’d found out, but Drumknott had said he wouldn’t leave the cell ‘til he had new clothes, and—

Nobby came into the corridor, and he looked through the bars.

Mr Drumknott was sitting against the wall on the concrete bed, one knee of his scuffed trousers drawn up against his chest, his boot drawn up and flat on concrete, the other leg outstretched before him.

Vimes was sitting on the other bed, his hands between his knees, his expression sour.

“… and I can’t say again how sorry I am,” Nobby heard Vimes say. “He’s not going to come out of this unscathed or without punishment. He’ll be stripped of his rank for this, Mr Drumknott.”

“Do you think, Commander Vimes? I don’t think he’ll have the time for that.”

“Now, Mr Drumknott. Sergeant Guster didn’t know better. He probably didn’t even realize—”

“Yes, he did,” Drumknott said, his voice cold. Nobby had never heard Mr Drumknott interrupt someone before. He was a quiet, fastidious little man: even though he disliked Nobby, had a go at Nobby, he was always polite about it, somehow. He wasn’t being polite now. He sounded furious. “And now, Commander, he’ll learn his lesson.”

“Yeah, by being demoted, and put through disciplinary action.”

“You say it so pointedly, Commander – do you really think it’s me that makes the choice? His lordship considers myself and his staff to be an extension of himself. He considers it treason, for someone to lay hands on one of us without cause. To make up faux charges to arrest us for, simply because—"

“Everyone in this city has prejudices, Mr Drumknott. They don’t deserve to die for them when they can just be taught. You could talk to his lordship, I’m sure.” There was a tense silence, and Drumknott looked at Vimes so nastily that Nobby was surprised Vimes didn’t flinch.

“Why should I?” he asked softly, arching an eyebrow. “I don’t want to.”

Nobby heard Vimes inhale sharply. “’Cause you can give him a chance to make amends. Make it right.”

“Don’t you preach forgiveness to me, Commander Vimes,” Drumknott said sharply, and Vimes shook his head, but before he could reply, Drumknott turned to look at Nobby. “You may come in, Corporal Nobbs: you aren’t interrupting anything.”

Vimes looked up to Nobby through the open cell door, and Nobby stepped forward, moving reluctantly into the cell. For once, though, Mr Drumknott wasn’t glaring daggers at him, and he held out the box that had come from the Patrician’s Palace.

“They sent a new outfit for you,” Nobby said. “More trousers an’ a new shirt, that’s all, and your coat.” There was a red jumper clumsily folded on top of the box, and he saw that Mr Drumknott was looking at it very critically, his brow furrowed. His glasses were bent, Nobby saw. “Er,” Nobby said, “Fred— Fred said it’d taken a turn for the chill, that your coat probably wouldn’t be enough. That’s his jumper, Mr Drumknott, from his locker. It’s clean, Mr Drumknott! Angua sniffed it and didn’t even flinch.”

Mr Drumknott’s lips were parted in surprise, and he looked at Nobby for a long moment. “Sergeant Colon did that?” he asked quietly.

“Yeah,” Nobby said. “You don’t have to wear it, he said, you don’t have to, but he only thought, er, that you might be cold.”

He didn’t look cold, but he was shirtless. They’d ripped the shirt clean off his back, and the two bigger lads had bent him over a railing before Mr Drumknott had started breaking fingers.

Mr Drumknott was wearing just his trousers and his mud-spattered boots, and Nobby could see his chest, which was more athletic than one would expect, from a clerk. Way more. He was a little man, compact, but Nobby had always assumed he was skinny underneath all his suit and robes, like Vetinari, but actually he was built more like— Well, not even like Vimes, because Vimes had muscle on him, but always carried that skinniness from the Shades, with his knobbly knees and skinny joints.

Drumknott was built like Lady Sybil: muscular, but not in a defined, showy way, just in a sensible, meaty way, with padding over the muscles. He looked like the sort of man who could throw another man across the cobbles (which he had done today), but he was still soft at his edges, with paunch at his belly, with a round, soft breast.

He had scars all over.

Some of them were nasty ones, shiny, thick burn marks from a clothes iron or the side of a stove, but Nobby recognised some of them. Marks from a belt, them, he knew what they looked like, what they felt like. He could see spots where he’d had nasty falls and grazes, where it’d scarred up, and there was a mark on the left side of his ribcage, where a rib’d broken and come through, once upon a time. His dad had been a grocer, Fred said, in Nap Hill. Fred’d always thought he was a sound man, ‘til after he’d been killed when Drumknott was a lad. He’d had gambling debts, and he used to hit his kids, Fred’d said.

He’d said it so sick, like, so low and quiet. Jasper Drumknott used to hit his kids so much they bled and bruised and screamed, Fred’d said, and Fred used to drink with him, and take free sausages off him, and thought he’d been a sound man.

He’d all but run to get the jumper out of his locker, just now.

“That was very kind of him,” Drumknott said quietly, and he stood slowly to his feet. Nobby wondered if he remembered Fred being friendly with his dad. He didn’t know. He didn’t remember most of his own dad’s friends these days, except to avoid them, if he saw them.

“And Igor says he can have a look at your eye, Mr Drumknott,” Nobby said as he held out the box, letting Drumknott take it from him. “If you want.”

“It’s merely a bruise, Corporal Nobbs,” Drumknott murmured. “There’s no dizziness, difficulty focusing, no hyphema. I don’t require medical attention.”

“What’s that?” Nobby asked. “Eye-feema?”

“A bleed in the eye,” Drumknott said, turning away, and Nobby stared at his back. Nobby’s back looked like that, albeit with more dirt and grime on it, and much skinnier. Drumknott’s back probably showed it worse, for that, with all the belt marks, and how pale he was. Nobby looked at Vimes, who met his gaze, and just silently shook his head.

Nobby swallowed.

Drumknott drew the shirt out of the box, drawing it on and beginning to button it up. He changed into new trousers, then, apparently not caring that Vimes and Nobby were there with him, but Nobby turned his face away, looking at Vimes instead.

“Guster’s in your office, sir,” Nobby said. “Um. Well, the man who delivered the box, um, from the Patrician’s Palace, he wanted to, er, go in your office, with him, for a second, he said, and Angua wouldn’t let him.”

“Good,” Vimes said.

“And then Angua punched Guster, sir.”

“Good,” Vimes said, and then coughed. “I mean— Well. I’ll see him in a minute.”

Nobby saw Mr Drumknott’s lip twitch.

“And there’s no sign of Stoker Blake, sir,” Nobby said.

Vimes got a funny, twisted look on his face, but Mr Drumknott’s face didn’t reveal anything as he said, “I don’t need my partner to escort me home, Corporal, worry not. I’ll walk back to the Palace on my own. I’m scarcely harmed.”

“Why’d you stay down here in the cells, Mr Drumknott?” Nobby asked, ignoring the warning look Vimes gave him. “You din’t have to – you knew you didn’t do nothing wrong, just defended yourself!” They were in another Watchhouse, by the Entertainment District. They were really gonna throw the book at them, Captain Carrot had said, in a quiet, grim sort of way that made Nobby shiver[1].

“I know the penal codes of this city inside and out, Corporal,” Drumknott said quietly. “Sergeant Guster arrested me on a wrongful charge, yes, but I could hardly be seen to be given special treatment, simply because I am the Patrician’s clerk. Initially, Sergeant Angua went to release me simply because she recognised my face. I could hardly be released without the proper paperwork in a state of appropriate completion.”

“Gods, you’re worse than he is,” Vimes muttered. He was Vetinari, Nobby supposed.

“Kind of you to say so, Watch Commander,” Drumknott said softly, and he hesitated for a moment before drawing up Fred’s red jumper, and awkwardly drawing it over his head. It was too big on him – the sleeves were a little bit too long, and although it wasn’t too long at the hem, there was an awful lot of give around the belly.

Nobby had never seen Mr Drumknott wear a colour other than black or white before. It made his cheeks look even redder than usual, Nobby thought as he watched Drumknott adjust his glasses, or perhaps he was just blushing.

“Give us them,” Vimes said, gesturing, and Drumknott hesitated a moment before he drew his glasses from his nose, handing them over. Vimes took the frame in his hand, bending it in its place so that the arm of his glasses was straight again, and then he handed them back.

Drumknott took up his coat, and Nobby grabbed the box as they went back up the stairs, Vimes trotting ahead.

“He really going to kill him?” Nobby asked.

“I couldn’t say,” Drumknott said.

“Mr Drumknott,” said the Patrician as they entered the bullpen, and Nobby took a step back as Lord Vetinari came forward, grabbing Drumknott’s chin in a stern, concerned way that made Nobby think of the way the Patrician treated his dogs. It wasn’t superior, exactly, just that it was actually rather intent, almost paternal, and Drumknott didn’t draw away as Vetinari leaned in, one of his thumbs touching against the brow of Drumknott’s black eye. “Which one of them did this?”

“The blond one, sir,” Drumknott said quietly. “Mr Cuthbert, of Caddle Way, I believe.”

“They will, of course, be punished, to the full extent of the law,” Vetinari murmured, and Nobby watched the way the Patrician’s hand grasped at Drumknott’s arm, squeezing. Maybe it was paternal. Drumknott’d been his clerk for a long time, now, after all. It made sense that even Lord Vetinari’d care about someone, after that long. “Are you alright?”

“I’m angry, sir,” Drumknott said. “That’s all.”

“What— Mr Drumknott, what are you wearing?” Vetinari asked, leaning back to look at Drumknott’s ill-fitting jumper, and Drumknott smiled.

“Sergeant Colon worried I’d be cold, sir,” he said.

“Ah,” Vetinari murmured, and he glanced about the room, but Fred wasn’t here: he’d gone out to his own office, Nobby expected, to avoid all the fallout.

“Sir,” Vimes said, finally.

“I should like to bring the Sergeant back to the Palace,” Vetinari murmured.

The Patrician’s voice was a rumble, and Nobby saw Vimes’ shoulders draw back, ready to argue, but Drumknott said in a voice so low as to be as a whisper, “Perhaps you might observe the Watch Commander’s discipline from his office, my lord. It’s only the proper thing, as Sergeant Guster is directly under his purview.”

Vetinari was silent for a moment, his hand lingering on Drumknott’s shoulder as they met one another’s eye, and Nobby had no idea what they communicated to one another in that moment, but it seemed to span multitudes, a conversation, somehow, between two faces that didn’t change in their expression, two sets of eyes that were silently communicative in a way Nobby could scarcely comprehend.

“Mr Drumknott makes a fine point,” Vetinari said eventually, very slowly, not taking his gaze away from his clerk's face. “We shall… observe.”

Vimes relaxed, giving Drumknott a short glance.

“Right, sir,” he said. “Right.”

♔ ☩ ♔ ☩ ♔ ☩ ♔

Vimes demoted Guster right down to Corporal.

For a week, he didn’t say nothing. And it was down to Mr Drumknott and Vimes between them, Nobby supposed, if Lord Vetinari was convinced, that nothing happened to him, while he didn’t say nothing.

But then he did. Said—

Nobby didn’t even know what he’d said, exactly. He heard it from Fred, all para-whatsit, paraphrised, who said it while shaking his head, his teeth gritted, expression grim and distant. Fred had said Guster’d said… That the tailors had a chokehold on the city, now, that you couldn’t say nothing against it, anymore, that it wasn’t right.

He’d gone missing, then, that night.

No sign of him.

Nobby wasn’t surprised, really.

And he wasn’t—

Not that he thought it was good, for a man to disappear, but… He wasn’t a good man. It was one thing, to do little things here and there, but not to try and punish a man, for men trying to beat him up, trying to gang up on him. Acting like he was the criminal. And the other men, they were punished harsh, and that was good, he thought. The papers’d been talking about it, had been talking about the legislation, for harassing inverts, and talking about different words for it.

“Hullo, Mr Drumknott,” Nobby said as Drumknott came into Pseudopolis Yard, his boots making no sound at all on the wet stone, holding two parcels wrapped in brown paper and tied very neatly with string.

“Corporal Nobbs,” Drumknott said, with a small inclination of his head, and Nobby came up toward him, across the yard. Nobby squeezed the inside of his pockets to keep himself from reaching out to pick one of Drumknott’s pockets. Mr Drumknott hadn’t glared at him in two weeks, and he was surprised by how much he liked that.

The bruise was nearly healed on his eye, now.

“Here,” Drumknott said quietly, passing Nobby the two parcels. “Sergeant Colon’s jumper, pressed and cleaned, and some pastries from a café in Sator Square. There’s a note thanking him inside.”

“Oh, right,” Nobby said. “I’ll give it him.”

“Thank you,” Drumknott said cleanly.

“You couldn’t convince him, then?” Nobby asked, awkwardly.

“Pardon, Corporal?” Drumknott asked, tilting his head slightly.

“Er— The… Patrician. Not that I’m being nosy, or nothing, but Guster…”

“Ah,” Drumknott said. “I take your meaning. The Patrician had naught to do with Guster’s disappearance.”

“Well, ‘course you have to say that,” Nobby said.

Mr Drumknott smiled. It was a small, tight smile. “No, Corporal,” he said delicately, “I do not. The Patrician had naught to do with it.” Nobby swallowed as understanding dawned, but Mr Drumknott’s smile softened slightly. “You were kind, as well, last week. My thanks.”

“S’alright,” Nobby said. “Is Stoker Blake alright? D’he look after you, after?” Drumknott’s gaze flickered down toward the cobbles for a moment, but then he met Nobby’s gaze again. He'd been with Stoker Blake two years now, Nobby thought, or maybe three. It was a serious thing, he thought, but then, Mr Drumknott was serious about everything.

“I hardly need looking after, Corporal,” Drumknott said, although he smiled just slightly as he stepped back toward the gate. “But, yes, he was very attentive, I assure you. I must back to the Palace, now: this was but a short errand.”

“Bye, Mr Drumknott.”

“Good afternoon, Corporal,” Drumknott said, and turned neatly on his heel, walking away from him.

[1] The last time Carrot had thrown the book at somebody, it had been literal, and the man had suffered a rather grisly death as a result.

#as defined by dictionary #rufus drumknott #nobby nobbs #sam vimes #fanfic #dictionary writes

7 notes · View notes