Franziska had demanded to go home; but the days following the reception of the letter delivering her father's death were chaotic. She'd taken to climbing into bed with the king, burying her face against his chest when she wanted to scream and lash out. Darkspawn were in villages and outlying cities. The Hinterlands were in ruins. There were more important things than her father's funeral. She'd realized, when she'd calmed down, that she had no idea when the letter was written as her mother had not dated it. So... when it came to it, she chose the country she served now. Luckily, before they had a chance to enter the battlefield, the darkspawn were away from most areas of civilization, but then news came that the Forest was having trouble.
Elves had fled, camps and shanty-towns now existed around major villages and towns, including Denerim. The King's men had disappeared when they had entered the Forest; they had not come back. She shifted her weight, adjusting her own armor as she listened to the men talk. It'd seem Fereldens were not inclined to acknowledge their future queen, but she let it go for now. She was wracking her brain for reasons why people were disappearing in the forest.
Eventually, the debriefing was done. Their horses were brought forth, and hitched nearby. They leaned into Byron, as they tightened one of the straps of his armor. Don't do anything stupid. I'm just startin' to like you. They stepped back, patting down the metal of his armor, searching for anything that might get him caught on something. Once Fran was happy that everything was right, they stepped back and reached for their own armor. It was lighter weight, leather. Ferelden in style rather than the usual Antivan Crow leathers; it'd been made for them shortly after they'd come to Ferelden.
Her armor was built to be light, for speed and ease of movement. She shook herself, grinning as she turned to study Byron. Dark tresses had been tightly braided against their head, coiled into a bun so that it was entirely out of the way. Franziska reached for the handmade staff fingers curling around the wood. The topmost part of the staff was sharpened, glistening black metal. The last thing the royal reached for was a belt that contained daggers; leaning to check the blades tucked into the rest of her armor.
What do you think we'll find in the forest? She inquired, almost absently.
Byron had taken to Franziska's mood as well as he could after the news of her father was known to them. He'd let her come and go to him as they pleased, taking the snippets of sleep for himself where he could. For while Fran had been dealing with her own issues, Byron's kingdom had slowly gone to shit. Naturally, as things do when one thing happened another shortly followed. Long hours spent figuring out where people could go soon turned into hours poured over maps and discussions with advisors.
It'd truly been a breath of fresh air for him when he'd managed to convince them he had to go and see what was going on. Byron wasn't cut out for politics; nor for the waiting in the background as people came to Denerim to try and make a home in hovels and whatever else they could. He'd been all but raised on the battlefield, or so he'd felt and the chance to step back into it, into his comfort zone he took with gusto. The fact that Fran was with him, hadn't balked at the idea of it, made him feel better. At least he wouldn't be leaving them behind in Denerim with her thoughts, and perhaps a bit of action would aide her in dealing with the news about her father. It certainly had for him when he'd gone through similar.
As the debriefing settled and Byron relented in allowing himself to be put into far more armor then he appreciated (his advisors hardly knew how he used to go onto the battlefield, shirtless with but a helm for armor and come out of it laughing and bloody), he watched Fran. How she leaned against him before checking his armor and seemed to care and he relented to the extra bit of fuss they all had about him. But as Fran turned to gather their things, Byron stepped forward, checking their armor in turn with practiced hands. Mmm, only just starting too? He chuckled though because he could hardly blame them before he waved Samson to his side as he dug out the jar of paint for the hound, teal in color as he kneeled down to start the well practiced motions of drawing on the dog's warpaint.
As for what's out there? Who knows. Something nastier than Darkspawn I suspect, otherwise my men would've come back. He'd sent some of his best out into the Forest, had taken it personally when they hadn't made it back. His focus on the dog for the moment and readjusting to the heavier weight of his plate armor, helm nearby and ready to be put on for when he was ready. I'd say a dragon but I'd rather not curse us with that.
Franziska grinned, Well, I mean, you're pretty swell. She teased, leaning into his touch with practiced ease as he checked her armor. Then his attention was on the mabari at his side, and she knelt next to them; watching carefully.
Why does he get painted? Antiva did not have mabari, nor did they have the practice of painting the dogs for war, so that they'd recognize who was on their side or not. She was still learning Ferelden's customs, and sometimes it reminded them that they didn't really belong here.
Mmm... Do you think the Elves are okay? She should be concerned about Denerim; it was in the line of fire on account of how widespread the phenomena had become. But that meant nothing to Franziska. Her parents had shown her that caring for the people before oneself builds better bonds when you're in power.
The grin he had at her teasing was becoming more and more common when Fran was about. Not that he was a particularly dour individual before, but he'd taken to the crown with a seriousness that often felt odd to him until she'd come about and he'd learned to take her teasing with practice eased.
So he can tell whose friend from foe when he's on the battlefield, Byron answered, not at all bothered by her not knowing. She wasn't from Ferelden, just as he wasn't from Antiva and they both had their own views of the other's homes, and gaps in knowledge. It's not hard for him to lose the scent of me or you even, and attack on accident. So he gets painted and in turn so do I, and Byron in turn made sure do as he said, running stripes of the teal paint over his face. As should you, probably. He's a good dog, but sometimes he gets confused, and as Samson barked and leaned up to nuzzle Byron's face he chuckled.
As she asked about the Elves, Byron bit his lip, taking a moment to rest his forehead against Samson's to think, uncaring if some of the dog's warpaint rubbed off onto him. I hope they are, as like Fran, he'd been raised in turn to care for the people. If the people were cared for then leading them was easier and better for all. But going in with that hope and getting it dashed is likely not the best of plans. At least personally. Publically... He was learning to hold his tongue, as he hoped Fran had.
Franziska leaned into Byron, watching as he painted himself, too. Huh. Does he see color? She inquired, studying the way he'd marked his face. She tapped her fingers against her own cheeks, humming quietly. Do you think I need it? She was reminded of the way elves wore vallaslin.
Franziska had not learned to hold her tongue; her parents were very loud people and she'd learned to be loud to be heard. He brought up the public nature of the elves, and she settled on the ground, huffing up at him. I think we should close the alienage. Make it less segregated, better facilities and residencies for anyone, not just elves. You're king. Can't you do that?
I'm not sure if he does, Byron paused as he leaned back as if assessing the Mabari with a critical eye, only to get licked in the face, relenting in dropping his seriousness with a chuckle. But I've been informed that if I'm wearing red for his sake, then it's near impossible to tell my blood from paint. So. He shrugged as if it wasn't that uncommon for a man to be such a bloody mess that it was impossible to tell where he was bleeding and where he'd slathered himself in paint. And I think you should wear it, just in case. Especially if you want to stay near me.
As she huffed and sat down, Byron glanced at her, raising an eyebrow. Not bothered in the least, more curious as to what brought it all on. Within my power more than likely to decree such a thing. In practice? How would we go about it? Not everyone in Denerim is as open minded as us, where would they go?
Fran hummed, Okay. Paint me. A demand, not a request. Though this didn't stop her talk about the alienage and the elves. They'd stay there, if they wanted. Or move into better neighborhoods. I think they deserve some kind of settlement for enduring what's basically legally slavery for so long. The Crown should pay them, and do repairs and changes to make the alienage an open neighborhood. Safer.
The demand was met with another raised eyebrow from the king and confused woof from the Mabari, before said Mabari circled around to curl up around Fran. Almost as if staking his own claim on her, much to Byron's amusement.
Ah yes, go into better neighborhoods where the people are no better than those before me, he started to dip his fingers into the kaddis, the heavily scented paint he'd used on both himself and Samson now starting to be painted on Fran's skin with ease and more delicacy than he'd had on himself. With the coin that we somehow have as a nation, after the last however many years of battles and uprisings and meddlers in Crown affairs. Making the alienage safer and better is one thing, his fingertips brushed delicately over their cheek as Samson pushed his large head up under Fran's arm. We're not broke, but we've a war on our doorstep and soldiers to pay. So how do you propose I do all this?
Franziska raised her eyebrows as the dog curled around her, as if he was marking her as his. She listened to Byron, puzzled as he applied the paint carefully to her face.
Have you considered culling those who pose an issue? She tilted her head slightly. Some might think Antiva was ran by a dictator; but in reality the queen of the nation was a dangerous woman with ties to the right people.
If someone who disliked a policy went missing... no-one in the nobility questioned it, for the queen was a Crow. Growing up in a family of Crows meant that Franziska was used to people disappearing when it was required for the better good.
I know some people that could cull the nobility, she offered, helpfully. Alternatively, if you're against murder, we raise money for the kingdom. Raise taxes, or hold fundraisers with the other nations. My mother's done it all the time, talked to foreign nationales and convinced other rulers to lend aid at times.
Unlike Byron, Fran had been raised from the age of four to rule in some capacity; she had lands in the Free Marches that she was lord over. She had money, more money than she'd ever need from her father's death... and her adopted father's coffers.
I cull nobility I lose my throne, Byron had learned to not pull his punches around Fran. She deserved to know as much as he could tell her, at least until she didn't earn his trust any longer. And quite possibly you. And the rest of my family. Which also was a concern for Byron, who had a large enough family that he cared about, that he was known to care for, that those threats lingered over his head.
He reached over to pet Samson's head as he stayed curled around Fran, marking her as his as Byron finished his painting on Fran's face. So you would have me raise funds for those in the Alienage, but not for those of my other citizens suffering due to the Blight? Oh where do I go to ask for such aide from other nations who would sneer at us mere dog lords for such a lofty plan in the hopes of no rebellion?
Byron had yet to see a true rebellion amongst his people since he'd taken the throne. His family had never had such an issue with their folk in the West Hills, and they made do with what they had. And who amongst my Arls would agree to such? Ferelden is not so rich nor so favored to ask for aide without some promise of something. How do you think I ended up here?
Franziska tilted her head, studying the man in front of her. Interesting. They drifted into silence, as Byron continued talking. And after a moment, she reached to pull the king for a kiss, grinning. I know how. After we settle this Blight, I know how we'll do it. The woman pushed herself to her feet, leaning to scratch Samson's ears. Franziska offered no more information into her great idea; the insight was not there to be had. No, he'd have to wait to find out later. Whatever lightbulb had clicked on couldn't be dimmed; but they had to deal with the Blight first.
It was so simple. At least, she thought it was simple. Then again, she came from a very rich nation with a proclivity for fear and eccentricity. She adjusted her knives, raising her eyebrows as she smiled up at the king. Well, if we survive this, I'll see you after?
Byron tipped his head to the side, watching his fiancée up until she'd pulled him in for a kiss. Breaking it only resulted in him leaning in for another himself before bumping his head against hers, before standing himself. Samson barked happily before gluing himself to his master's side while Byron hefted up his axe with ease. Of course you've a plan. One of these days I'll know what's going on in your head so I'm not surprised.
But he grinned, no ill intent behind his words or bite, just observation. And as he nodded he reached over to brush his fingers along her cheek, nodding as he blew out a breath. I've yet to not survive a Blight in all my years. I'll see you after, and we'll change this nation yet. He finished with a wink and a quick kiss to her cheek.
Franziska smirked upwards. Old man, and with those words, she rolled her eyes. Gesturing to a group of wardens that were heading out, Looks like this is our group.
...Fast Forward
A few hours had gone by, darkspawn after darkspawn fell to magic and blade. It was thrilling, this fight, enough so that she did not realize when Byron was no longer behind of her, watching her back.
She didn't realize until another person pointed her towards his form, he was laid out on the ground with a healer or a priestess, she couldn't tell from the distance, over him.
As she left the battle behind of her, she cast a necromancer spell, pausing long enough to draw the seal in her own blood. As skeletons began to dig their way out from underneath, they'd lunge into battle.
As she approached, whoever it was—a priestess, if the robes were anything to go by—was quick to reassure her that he was alive. Just injured.
You idiot. She grumbled, settling on her knees to assess him. Where'd your armor go? Dark eyes narrowed to slits, accusingly.
Byron had intended on sticking close to Fran. A mage, after all, required some amount of protection even one as well trained in the use of knives as Fran and he was well practiced in being that sort of protection. Thrived in it almost, truly, as he took down one foe then another...and another. And then Samson had found a particularly tough opponent that had drawn away his attention.
All to say, somewhere in his bloodlust he'd taken a fair few blows. Enough even, to worry the troops that didn't know him that perhaps they would be crowning a new king as he was stripped of more and more armor, either from damage that made it unusable or Byron refusing to wear it for long the longer the battle went. The fact he was bloody, awake, and still eager to go was perhaps more a sign he shouldn't be king then a sign of valor.
His brothers would call him a fool, really.
He hadn't even considered Fran, more so worried where Samson had wandered off to until he saw the Mabari try and find Fran , bounding up to her when she did near Byron with whines and nudges while Byron grumbled about the attention of the priestess. I haven't a clue where it is, he answered Fran while he tried to hide the worst of the injuries to his hand, mauled and bloody but still useable. Somewhere out there, I imagine. He pointed off in the vague direction of where they'd been fighting.
Franziska narrowed her eyes, pressing her hand against the king's chest. You're not staying on this battlefield. She reached to catch his injured hand by the wrist, glaring at him. Maker's tits, Byron. Growling the words, Franziska reached for the proffered bandages, and began to carefully wrap his hand. We'll find a healer to deal with this when we get back to the safe side of the field, she muttered. She couldn't stand the lengths that he'd go to, to stay in a battle. It upset her, moreso than it probably should have.
But then, she was sure he realized she was starting to care for him. He had become more than just another body in her bed, though she couldn't pinpoint the exact time this had happened. But it had likely been obvious when her father's death was reported to her and she'd tried to burn the palace to the ground; he'd reined her magic in, reined her in. Now it was her turn.
