The Lucky Bastards Club [Closed]

[Alistair Theirin]

((22 Solace, 35 Dragon; Afternoon; Quinton Yorath & maybe Constance Theirin ))

He was getting married in two days.

He was getting married.

IN TWO DAYS.

Maker help him.

Raw panic was nibbling away at the edges of Alistair’s nerves, gnawing relentlessly toward his spine. And he’d been banned from the kitchens after his last fitting of his wedding clothes had revealed them to be a bit tighter than they had been three days before. A few hours of vigorous weapons practice had taken care of it, and with eating constantly no longer an option for him, he’d parked in the practice yard, expending his nervous energy on the training dummies, as getting bruised up in sparring before the wedding was evidently almost as bad as not being able to fit into his clothes.

He’d given thought to having his interview with Quinton Yorath in the practice yard. His martial abilities were one of the few areas in which he had full confidence, but a bit of introspection had suggested that beating up a man whose loyalty he was hoping to secure on the off-chance that it might impress his soon-to-be (Maker help him) wife would be counterproductive.

Hence, the study. Fortunately, with most of Ferelden’s nobility already in Denerim for the (Maker help him) wedding, arranging the meeting had been a matter of a few days instead of the two-plus weeks that travel between the capitol and Gwaren would normally have taken. He paced restlessly within the confines of the room, mentally reviewing the strategy that he had worked out with Constance. She would not be present at the start of the interview, but she would be listening in the next room (Alistair had figured out soon after Eamon was no longer serving as Chancellor that this was how the Arl had kept tabs on Alistair’s supposedly private audiences. The door to that room was now kept under guard during such audiences until a better solution could be found). Whether she would join them or not was a decision that she would make once the meeting was under way, and Alistair was caught between wanting the support and hoping that he would prove capable of handling it on his own.

He was no longer a political novice, after all, but he wasn’t fool enough to think that he had anything approaching Constance’s experience in such things, and anyone that she recommended to succeed her in the teyrnir would be no babe in the woods, either. But that wasn’t what was really bothering him, was it? Quinton had been Constance’s lover, which meant that in two nights (Maker help him), she would be comparing Alistair’s performance in their marriage bed to that of at least one other living man. Saying that prospect was daunting was a bit like saying that the Archdemon had been a darkspawn with an attitude.

The missive that had been sent had given no reason for the summons. If, as Constance had assured him, Quinton Yorath did not know that she had told Alistair of their relationship, he might well be wondering if the King had found out on his own, and what that might entail. Alistair was honest enough to admit to himself that he derived more than a bit of satisfaction from that, even if he had no intention of punishing the man for something that was, after all, not a crime.

They had more in common than Constance, after all, he mused. Both bastards, unacknowledged by their fathers while they lived. Both with older half-brothers that had received the attention and birthright before dying. Both raised by other men, though how Braden compared to Eamon was unknown. Both ascended to positions not generally attained by illegitimate sons. As much as he instinctively wanted to dislike the man who had bedded his future (Maker help him) wife, he couldn’t deny feeling a bit of kinship with him, as well. But Constance had been frank about Yorath’s ambition, outright warned against trusting Misthaven's Bann. But Constance was wary by nature; with her past, she could hardly not be.

Alistair would make his own judgment, but he would do it with his eyes fully open.

 

[Quinton Yorath]

Constance Yorath was getting married in two days.

It was a curious thing to consider, and a part of Quinton wondered if it would even come to pass. But having spent considerable time with the woman, he did not doubt her ambitions nor her means of securing them. She would do what she felt she must, largely on behalf of her son, and partly to suit her own whims. For the time being, her whims led her to another bastard, this one with a kingdom to run as incompetently as he pleased.

That, Quinton suspected, was the truth behind her "whims." It would have been for him, and he'd learned through their various stages of... intimacy that they were not so different from one another. Catching the eye of Alistair Theirin--something she claimed to have little part in, despite Quinton's suspicions to the contrary--would only be to her benefit. In two days' time she would have the power to shape the country as she wished, unless the king grew sharper teeth than Quinton believed he possessed.

Her machinations would be acted on with subtlety, of course. Constance never did anything without weaving a spell of uncertainty over those involved. Even Quinton was susceptible to it, and he found himself wondering if she'd planned this all along. As much as he deceived others, he chose not to make a habit of lying to himself. Their dalliance was just that. Quinton was similar enough to Roderick that he'd become something of a balm to ease whatever sentimentalities lingered. He'd never been anything more to her, and to convince himself otherwise was the sort of foolishness he'd not allowed since his youth.

As for what Constance was to him, Quinton did not indulge in such questions. It was unsettling enough that he'd approached her after news of the engagement, laying out many of his cards to convince her to call it off. He'd not told her everything, only that he believed they were far better aligned than she would be with a man like Alistair. It was as close to begging as he was ever likely to come, and a part of him hated her for it. They could have achieved great things together. Now she would assume the role of queen as easily as she'd taken every other role, her own interests held close, never to be glimpsed by the likes of her husband.

Quinton would not stand idly by, of course. There would be a vacancy in the teyrnir, to be filled by Peter upon maturity, but no less vacant for the time being. He'd proven himself in the governing of Misthaven, neatly wrapping his once-failing bannorn and presenting it as a very profitable and sustainable gift to Gwaren. He would do the same as teyrn, once he was granted the title. Constance had not mentioned it, keeping a close watch on the leverage she held in an iron grip. Indeed, Quinton's assumptions were based off of his own ambitions and the eventuality of it all.

He would be teyrn. It was only a matter of how and when.

Perhaps that was a matter to be settled today. Quinton was prepared to entertain many assumptions, but the hope of Alistair Theirin making wise political moves was not among them. If Constance had given him counsel, though, it was a possibility and one he prepared himself for. He would act with grace and humility either way, as what bann would act otherwise when given audience with the king?

There was of course the unlikely possibility that he was being led into a trap. He did not put it past Constance and would have expected nothing less, but would Alistair be coaxed into such tactics? Quinton prepared himself for that, as well, already having decided he would not feign ignorance if questioned. Perhaps the morality of maintaining relations with his dear brother's widow was suspect, but it was hardly illegal.

It was certainly possible this was about neither the teyrnir or his relationship with Constance, and Quinton prepared himself for a wide range of possibilities as he was escorted directly from the palace entrance. Two boys playing at being knights led him down the decorated corridors, their armor gleaming with fresh police. They brought him to a room that was flanked on either side by two palace guards, one of whom announced his presence to the king. Once he was permitted entry, Quinton thanked his escorts and the guards alike and stepped into a large study, sweeping into a deep, respectful bow.

"Your Majesty. Congratulations are in order." He rose, smiling at the man. "I am honored for the opportunity to give them in person."

 

[Alistair Theirin]

“Bann Quinton Yorath of Misthaven,” Donal announced as he knocked twice and swung the door open to admit Alistair’s guest. Nothing in his guard captain’s voice or demeanor suggested that he held any opinions at all on Quinton Yorath, which was as it should be. Alistair had discussed the things that Constance had told him with Donal, because in addition to being the head of his personal guard, the man was also the closest friend that he had in the palace and possessed both a level head and far more experience in matters of a romantic nature. He had provided a sympathetic ear, and Alistair was confident that nothing that he had revealed would go any further; Donal took all of his duties seriously, even when he was encouraging Alistair to not be quite so serious.

He had agreed, for example, that it made no sense to hold Constance’s love life prior to Alistair’s proposal against her. And that paying close attention to her opinions on her former lover was a very good idea, even though Alistair was resolved to wait and form his own opinions of the man.

His first thought was wondering how anyone could have not realized that Roderick Yorath had a sibling; the resemblance was truly uncanny, but a longer look suggested that it might not have been quite so obvious, particularly when that sibling was kept well away from any chances for direct comparisons to be made. Roderick Yorath had worn his ambition and cunning openly much of the time, his piercing gaze and intense demeanor not dissimilar to the pair of raptors that he had kept. Even when he was smiling, the hard edges beneath had been palpable, the machinations going on behind the eyes very much evident, though their exact nature would not be revealed until he was ready.

Quinton’s features were softer, his green eyes alight with good humor and his face creased in a modest and open smile. "Your Majesty. Congratulations are in order,” he announced, dipping into a perfect bow and straightening smoothly. "I am honored for the opportunity to give them in person."

“Thank you.” Alistair didn’t have to feign the smile that came to him in response, even as a part of his mind was lining up the man’s demeanor with Constance’s description of him. Ambitious. Not to be trusted. Words that had also applied to his half brother, albeit far more openly. If his future Queen’s assessment was correct, Quinton might well be the more dangerous of the brothers.

Or he might just be a bastard doing his best to get by in a world where he was automatically judged for his father’s bad behavior. Alistair knew from personal experience just how much that sucked.

“Having everyone in Denerim for the wedding has definitely made these meetings easier to schedule,” he remarked. “Your trip was uneventful, I hope? Did you come by ship or overland?” Misthaven was landlocked, but it was not too far from Gwaren’s port, and a two-day sail was preferred by some to a week or more on horseback or in a coach.

“Something to drink?” he offered, moving to the well-stocked cart beneath the broad window. Ingram might bemoan it as beneath a King’s dignity, but offering a guest a drink was something that Alistair liked to do himself, and it meant that he didn’t have to have servants hovering around the room or waiting just outside the door to pop in when summoned. Because, quite frankly, that had always made him more than a little uncomfortable. “If I get any more bottles of wine or spirits as wedding gifts, I may cut taxes and just open a bar to keep the kingdom afloat,” he joked, though it wasn’t far off the mark, and made him wonder just what it was about married life that had people thinking he would need this much booze. “This whiskey that the king of Nevarra sent is quite good,” he suggested, pouring himself two fingers worth into one of the two crystal tumblers, then looking to Quinton. “But so is everything else.” Except the gin, but if that was the man’s preference, he wouldn’t judge.