Byron hadn't expected to be sitting in his rooms with a bloody bandage around his forearm, but he was. After taking a stroll through Denerim (that was a lie, it was to keep up appearances for everyone, to show he wasn't hiding) he'd found himself near a mabari. A large one, friendly seeming enough, and like any full blooded Ferelden man had kneeled down to pet it without thinking. The fact he had gotten bit was entirely his fault (he'd approached the mabari, he'd dared to pet it), but it didn't mean he hadn't cursed loudly after it'd happened. Being bit by anything hurt and the fact the dog had hung onto him until he'd needed one of his guard's to step in and help him pry it off of his arm only meant his arm looked like he'd gone to war.
Didn't mean he'd punished the dog though, he'd just made sure someone tossed it a hunk of meat before he'd made his way back to the palace and gotten patched back up. He wasn't about to kill an innocent creature just for not liking to be touched.
So as the moons started to rise, Byron found himself fussing over the itchy bandages on his arm, sighing. Grumbling under his breath as he ignored the bloodied shirt on a chair nearby, thrown there haphazardly when he was allowed to not be a king and just be himself in his rooms trying to relax. Trying to not find a reason to go outside and work off the energy he had buzzing under his skin, and instead spend time with his wife and relax.
It's not that bad, you know. It didn't mean to bite me, I was the idiot, defending the mabari again to Fran as he glanced towards her, his own companion not in the room with him at the moment, banished to outside the door.
Franziska had fretted over Byron, tending to the bite wound with more care than one might expect from her. At first, she'd argued the dog should be sentenced to death. But he'd refused, and she'd eventually let the matter go. Fran truly despised mabaris, and had banished his companion out of the room the second he'd arrived home injured. Only the best physician would see to him, with the glaring eyes of an angry wife over their shoulder. Fran was no healer, but she wasn't an idiot. The wound was jagged, and inflamed, he already had an infection brewing.
You are an idiot! What kind of king goes around petting random rabies-infected mutts?! She scowled, squeezing her fingers around his wrist tightly for a moment. You don't know where that dog has been! Nor what it's had! Where will the kingdom be if you fall to an infection that could have been avoided? He scratched at the bandage and she snapped at him, Stop scratching. She scolded him, swatting his chest. You'll get an infection.
Mabari are perfectly fine and friendly creatures to approach, Byron grumbled as he glared down at her hand on his wrist, stopping him from scratching at the bandage. It was hard to tell Fran why exactly he hadn't been worried, why he'd tried to be friendly the creature in question, and it truly wasn't just because he was Fereldan and the beast a mabari. But that meant telling her things, and well....Byron wasn't good at that.
And I can't help it if it's itchty, Fran. If it's going to get infected then it would be by now anyway and scratching it won't change that fact, more a loud grumble as she swatted at him and he snapped his jaws at her much like a hound would, trying to get her to stop. Not that he noticed it at all of course, it more habit and natural than his usual grumble and sighing. So I'm fine, alright? Perfectly. Fine.
Franziska scowled, I'll believe you when the court physician agrees. She muttered, sourly. And as quickly as she'd grabbed his arm, she released him, dark eyes narrowed at how he'd snapped his teeth at her. Like a fucking mutt. That infuriated her, more than she'd show.
You have to stop being so un-professional. We're running a nation. She sounded like her mother, who had scolded her for similar issues in the past. Gods, how the tables turned. And she didn't even have her mother around to talk to about her marital issues. You're the best thing in this fuckin' country, she muttered, shoving at his chest as she stood properly, and moved away from him.
I've had much worse, he'll agree with me, Byron countered as he watched her back off. Alert brown eyes watched her move about the room even as he settled back into his chair, tried to stay still even. All predatory almost, or like a guard dog defending his territory as she spoke and he tried to not take it too much to heart. Just tried to take it as her caring and being concerned and not a direct attack at him.
Not being unprofessional approaching a dog, He grumbled, more like himself as he started to bounce his leg up and down, clasping his hands together in front of him as he leaned forward in the chair he'd claimed for himself, a plush armchair near the balcony entrance. We like and very much embrace mabari in this country, Fran. It's more odd if I didn't approach it and greet it and try to find where it's owner is.
Again back to defending the dog and consequently himself as he chewed on his lip. Because of course Fran had to get sappy at him at the end and actually make him feel guilty. Glad someone thinks so. Doesn't mean I won't do dumb shit.
Franziska scoffed, and turned her back towards him. Fuck you, old man, and your weird dog obsession, too, she was being a brat now. Looking for any dig that might hurt him; he'd worried her and she wasn't sure how to process that. Or the fact it meant she cared.
Oh, her mother would cane her right now, if she were alive. I'm going to my rooms, since you're in a mood. She decided, after a moment. She slept separately from her husband, most nights, often with a maid or another servant in her bed. Shameless, even though the door between the suites could be opened on a whim.
Oh right, because being a brat is such a good way to show you're an adult, he wasn't afraid to call her out on it. Wasn't afraid to point out to her that she was in fact, being a brat, especially when she resorted to name calling. And it's not a bad thing to care about dogs! I don't judge you and your literal army of cats. The fact that he had, over the course of their engagement and marriage, given her cats as well was proof enough of that.
He was utterly convinced his family would shake him and tell him to act his age after this, to behave and not rise to his wife's bait. That? Wasn't possible, not with that anxious feeling to just run free or curl up under a bed and hide to avoid the inevitable judgement from Fran when she found out. He didn't care if she slept in a different room, hadn't cared truly even if he'd tried his best to bridge that gap with her. But it wasn't a marriage of choice after all, and he didn't have it in him to force her to do something. But of course you're just going to walk away. You don't even want to wait to hear the official assessment, you just want to call me an idiot and then fuck around with someone else.
He leveled a glare at her, not stopping the bouncing of his leg nor doing very well in hiding the hurt there as he spoke. Byron was convinced of a great many things that were, perhaps, not true.
At least I'd know where I got it from, unlike you.
She stopped in the doorway, between her room and his, fingers curled around the doorknob. You seem so certain, that the physician will declare you healthy. There's no need for me to wait around, and smother your confidence. Her words were pointed, like sharpened knives. Each carefully chosen, to let him know that he was the reason she was going to her rooms.
A pause, and she exhaled quietly, Besides, I'd hate for the physician to get the wrong idea and assess me instead. She was well-aware the physician had been trying to pin her down for an assessment; he wanted to figure out when there might be a royal heir. She'd deftly avoided his pressing requests.
She turned the doorknob, as he insulted her outright. At least they keep my interest. She spat, turning to glare over her shoulder. Any attempt to seem cordial was gone, now. I'd rather fuck the maid, then touch someone who doesn't have the balls to make a move. Harsh, given she'd rejected many of his attempts early on. Eventually, he'd stopped attempting to initiate.
And she grew to miss the puppy-dog pleas. Resented him, because he respected her decision. She pushed the door open, and shut it roughly behind of her.
Just because for once, I know better than you doesn't mean you should go off and hide if you give a damn, he outright snapped at her that time, hiding the pain he felt at expressing that bit of fact. That constant nagging worry that she didn't care and like all Antivan's was just manipulating the situation to her advantage. The worry that he didn't express because it felt like an insult to Fran, but why not let it all out now?
But of course then the topic of the physician rolled around to her and he shook his head, his leg bouncing stilling for a moment. I'd take the brunt of his attentions, let you slip out. There'd be no confusion or chance for you to be cornered. Because he had been playing interference wherever possible with the healer, given her time to slip away if able. He knew why an heir wasn't going to come any time soon, he didn't need others to learn of it, didn't need those rumors going around about Fran.
As she grew harsh at him however, his leg went back to bouncing, that little anxious tick he had. Too bad you're bad enough in bed to have to go through so many of them. He didn't care how much of an insult it was, didn't care how much it hurt her. She'd been the one to stop accepting his advances, she'd been the one to tell him no and choose others over him. It was entirely her choice and he wasn't about to force himself on her.
But as the night grew on and Fran slumbered in her room, Byron found he couldn't sleep. For all it wasn't a full moon, the fight from earlier had set off his own worries and anxieties and it had trickled into his dreams, nightmares really as he'd laid in bed and tossed and turned. Low deep growls escaping him before he'd relented to pulling himself out of bed and nudging open the adjoining door to Fran's room. He hadn't head her have a guest over for the night but it wouldn't do for him to not be cautious as he looked inside, and when he was assured it was safe entered her room and closed it. He had no thoughts of harming her, not even based on his suspicions of her past deeds. But she was his wife and at one point they had cared about one another, they had worried and fussed and perhaps had more lust then most but it had worked for them.
And Maker help him, she'd always managed to soothe his anxiety in the past.
With a careful sigh he transformed, bones creaking and his body aching as he turned into an oversized mabari, a different coloration than that of his own companion Samson, but still a handsome one if he thought so himself. With a quiet sniff around her room, just once, just to appease the worry of another coppery smell that may be hiding where it shouldn't, he carefully climbed into bed with her, curling up next to her with a quiet sigh to attempt to get some sleep before the inevitable cold shoulder once again.
Franziska fumed at his insults, and that night she let no-one into her room, opting to sleep alone. She couldn't distract herself with sex forever, she knew that. It was an unfortunate truth, and perhaps she'd have been on better behavior if Violetta was home with her.
She was sleepind soundly enough, that the dog climbing into bed with her didn't wake her. Not until the next morning, when she fell out of bed, scrambling away from the large beast on one side of her bed. Eyes wide, she thought about screaming for Byron, before remembering how last night had gone.
Stupid man.
She'd have to get rid of this beast on her own, then. The wall pressed against her back was cold to the touch, and she exhaled softly. Here... dog-doggy, she whispered, trying to find something on her vanity that the creature might chase out of the room.
And while she did that, she was mentally searching for anyone awake in the surrounding area. The servants were used to the queen dipping into their minds with orders. She furrowed her brows, as her magic brushed across the dogs mind.
Familiar.
She didn't often enter her husband's thoughts; it was one of the most important things her mother had taught her. That it was rude to enter the minds of those you cared about. But she knew what his mind felt like; she'd brushed against it often when seeking a servant. Her magic withdrew for a moment, and she turned back to the bed, holding a hairbrush like a weapon.
Even though she knew she didn't need a weapon to get rid of the mutt, if she so desired.
Byron had intended to slip away in the middle of the night, or at least early enough in the morning to where Fran wouldn't be awake to notice. He'd only wanted a few restful hours snuggled against her, ignoring everything to actually enjoy being around his wife even if it was as a mabari. After all he knew his wife hated dogs and she'd more than likely turn around harm him if he was there when she awoke.
But the sleep was nice, safe and sound against her and he'd ignored the creeping in of the sun for a few more minutes of sleep, even going so far as to bury his face against Fran. Comfortable. Familiar. Safe.
Then she was awake and scrambling out of the bed and he woke with a snort and a confused sound, blinking his eyes slowly as he heard Fran from off the bed and he lifted his head up to look. That bit of nervousness at him, that worry, he took it all in and started to curse at himself for not waking sooner. For not getting out of dodge before he was in his present predicament, unable to turn back for worry of her reaction to his secret and for frightening Fran. That alone really, was what made him curse himself even as he backed up the opposite direction from Fran, eyes still on her in case she made a move to harm him, and all but fell onto the floor as his back legs slipped, hitting it with a thump before poking his head back up over the bed to watch Fran, all the while not noticing her brushing his mind, instead whining at her even as he kept the bed between them.
Dark eyes stayed fixed on the beast across the room from her, knuckles white from how tightly she was clutching the hairbrush that she'd grabbed. Eventually a maid would enter; not the maid she wanted, of course, but one of the ones that were covering Violetta's duties until her return.
Her magic continued to brush against the creatures mind. This wasn't a regular mabari; it was distinctly human, and she narrowed her eyes, reaching back towards the vanity, just under the drawer to slip a dagger from a hidden compartment.
Not a dog. Shifter. She whispered, mostly to herself. And then louder, Who are you? The panic residing slowly; she was recognizing more signs that this wasn't a regular dog. After all, Byron's dogs thoughts were so different than a humans.
Reveal yourself, before I summon the guards. One would be patrolling the morning route soon. She couldn't help but wonder where her husband was; he normally lingered in his rooms early in the morning, hopeful that she might pay him some modicum of attention.
Byron wished one of her maids would enter if only to give him an excuse to slip away and not have everything come crumbling down around his ears. But when no relief was forthcoming, and instead his wife seemed to piece things together, not fully but enough to recognize him as a threat as opposed to a friend, his whimpers grew louder. His ears flat against his head and he moved to try and hide under the bed, to not make himself a threat to her and perhaps give her a reason to leave so he could too.
Then of course she was calling him out and he huffed, still hunched over as if to hide from her as he focused and shifted back, slowly and painfully. Evident in his voice when he spoke, even as he kept his face hidden behind the bed, his hair really the only thing visible. I rather think the guards would wonder why you're calling them on your husband. So please don't.
What the fuck, and there went the hairbrush, thrown across the room towards his voice. No wonder you weren't worried about that mutt that bit you, she muttered, sourly.
She slipped the dagger back into its compartment, before she moved towards the bed, carefully climbing onto it to peer over the edge at him. This is fuckin' creepy, Byron.
Byron had enough sense to him to keep his head down until he heard the hairbrush clatter to the floor after being thrown, and only then did he lift his head up to look at her with a sigh. It was scared, no need to get mad at it. And really he had no other reason to be mad about being bit, sometimes it just happened with dogs.
He sighed as he laid down on the floor, stretching out his back as he looked up at Fran. Creepy? You think it's creepy that a dog wanted to curl up with you? Or that it was me?
