A/N: This story is a part of a series being written by the Jane and the Dragon fanfiction. A complete list of stories can be found in my profile. Now with hyperlinks!
For buscuitweevil, Amelle Kyre, Kyra4, Jatd4ever, poshkat, Solitare44, and so many others, who are always raising the bar.
Sorry, but I seem to have lost all my fluff.
Jester can pinpoint the moment, the exact fraction of a second, when it stops being funny.
Funny -humor in all of its complex and wondrously scintillating forms- is his bread and butter, his livelihood, his reason for being, the hard certitude of his very existence.
He knows it is shallow and foolish, but Jester is a fool, and thus accepts his understanding with good grace and general gaiety.
The funny, or sudden lack thereof, is immediately noted and cataloged. It feels like the retreating waters of an empty beach just before the crushing force of a tsunami barrels back down on any unwary stragglers.
This...this... comic tragedy that is playing out before him… this is no longer funny.
The slightly bemused look of merriment slips from his face when he realizes what he is witnessing is no longer posturing and bluster, it actual combat.
The two men before him are really and truly trying to hurt each other.
It is brutal.
For the most part, the afternoon had gone swimmingly.
Jane had been able to sneak away for an hour or so of training before her mother pulled her aside with a stern look. Jester himself had recently completed his own acrobatic exercises. His loose shirt paid silent testament to his exertion, still sodden with sweat despite the cool breeze of the afternoon.
Comfortably perched on the wooden railing where Sir Ivon leaned, Jester shifted in nervous anticipation. He had finished in time to watch the various knights, squires, nobles, and visiting countrymen pair off to spar.
Ah, a truly champion opportunity for levity.
No formal activities had been planned for the afternoon. After exhausting the delights of their luncheons, many of the nobles had wandered into the practice yard. Some of the younger set were eager to join in the matches, ready to practice their own forms of strutting braggadocio.
Good-natured ribbing and friendly banter created an almost festive atmosphere. Many of the combatants enjoyed showing off, winning, losing, laughing at one another's failures or successes.
A jolly diverting pastime, overall.
Looking much like a horse ridden hard and put away wet, Gunther had been less cheery.
Jester studied Gunther at length. He'd seen that sallow-eyed expression on many a face.
Had even donned it once or twice.
Gunther, the enduring would-be-knight that he was, wore the sickly tattered remains of a night of excess. A quick glance at Gunther's boots confirmed his shoes wore the splattered leavings as well.
It made Jester smile in sympathetic amusement.
There was no set beginning of the matches. It was just practice after all. Two unmatched fighters would meet, clasp hands in fellowship, and begin hacking away at one another.
It was all very entertaining.
Bedraggled but focused, Gunther had been sparring with one of the castle guard when Algernon -surely the bastard gilded child of Apollo, himself- approached.
Algernon's smile was cool and calculating, his mustache turned up in mocking simulacrum of friendliness.
Gunther, for his part, made no reaction at all.
With a nod and thanks to the retreating guard -because that is what good William does, retreat-- Gunther silently turned to his new opponent and readied his sword.
They were nothing alike, yet somehow entirely the same.
Jester's poetic heart, a traitorous and fickle item of discord, is decidedly not sorry to observe that when the two are compared directly, Gunther is sorely lacking.
Of the same basic build and height, they could have been cut from the same bolt of blank cloth, shorn from the same Olympian sheep. But that...that is where the similarities ended. If Algernon was a wool washed in sparkling rivers and hung in glittering honeyed sunshine, Gunther had surely been dyed with the black oozing ink of midnight. If Gunther is bronzed skin, brooding brows, and savage twist of contemplative mouth, Algernon is the illuminating embodiment of open-faced golden perfection.
Both men were predatory in their movements, testing strengths, searching for weakness.
Jester is so familiar with the of sight Gunther sparring with Jane, it's funny to see him pair off with another man. Sure, Gunther often sparred with the other knights -had been doing that just a moment ago, in fact- but it seemed odd. Jester cocked his head at the wrongness of this particular fight.
Gunther is brute strength tempered by long, lithe grace. Algernon… he was the incalculable unknown.
The match starts off like any other. The men aren't sparring as they would while training for close-quarters combat, that hilarious hacking and slashing in frantic pandemonium.
They are doing a careful dance with broadswords.
It's a fetching display of man and muscle and purely for show.
The gathered crowd loves it.
After a few minutes, ten at most, it becomes clear to Jester that Gunther and Algernon are in fact not participating in the same friendly demonstration as the other participants. The two men are circling each other in intense observation, taking measure, assessing. Their swords meet with regularity, ringing in the clamorous cacophony of the practice yard.
They are evenly matched in skill, both having spent years underneath the punishing practice of a hardened master. Jester thinks perhaps Algernon is a tad faster, his strikes rapid and well-placed. Gunther has the advantage of a slightly longer reach and years -years- experience sparring with someone who can spin him about in circles.
Strike, parry, repeat. Charge, rush, sidestep. Their swords clash again and again. It's almost frustrating to watch, neither gains ground nor loses it, no participant the clear better.
And Algernon...it is odd. He's not actually attacking Gunther, not making any real attempt to best him. The cocksure youth rushes only to immediately step aside, lunges then abruptly retreats, strikes or swings wildly with no apparent intention of connection.
Algernon's mocking laugh is decidedly unfunny.
It doesn't take long for Jester -who is by no means a warrior of ANY kind- to see what Algernon hopes to accomplish with his repeated dodges, strikes, malefic titters. It takes no time at all for Jester understand that Algernon is trying to rile Gunther in any way possible.
To Algernon, Gunther is No One. Not a squire, not a knight in training, not a rival of any kind. He is a toy, to be tossed aside and forgotten after it is broken.
Algernon is using Gunther entirely for sport.
It amuses Jester darkly. Algernon should not underestimate his opponent, but Gunther remains unruffled, looking for an opportunity to change this game.
Gunther changes tactics. Rather than continuing to poke and prod at Algernon's well-shored defenses, Gunther goes on the offensive, attacking any opening, searching for crack in Algernon's skill.
Algernon pushes back with a gloating smile. His smug visage is a odious confirmation of Jester's suspicions. In taunting Gunther, Algernon had hoped to rile the squire into an attack, and he has triumphed.
Gunther must have seen Algernon's self-satisfied furtive look, because he doubles his efforts.
The display is so spectacular, the jeers from the crowd so loud, it draws the attention of the other combatants. Tired from their own exertions, the other sparrers are happy to put down their own swords and join the onlookers watching the two men fight.
Soon it is just Gunther and Algernon.
Jester can't help but chuckle at the stark contrast between them, the dual dichotomy, as they circled. Two celestial bodies, pushing, pulling, orbiting on a central point of gravity.
Jester glances at Jane, where she is standing with her mother. Lady Turnkey has her hand on Jane's wrist in a discreetly unnecessary show of parental control. It's clear Adeline does not want Jane here in her sparring gear, in front of all her potential suitors, but Jane had been practicing for nearly an hour and thus the damage is done.
The Lady-in-Waiting won't risk additional censure by publicly ordering Jane away.
Jane is focused on the fight, face remarkably impassive.
Strange. Jane's face has always been vibrant mosaic of rippling defined emotion.
In passing Jane might have appeared bored, or disinterested, or even just tired of the day itself. But Jester knows Jane, he knows her like every ballad he's ever written, every witticism he's ever quipped. He can see with bright lucidity she isn't just watching the skirmish.
Jane is paying attention with the every part, the aggregate totality, of her entire body.
The tension of her shoulders. The slight twitching of her unfurled hands. The glazed lack of focus in her eyes. Even the way she stands belies that fact that she most certainly not relaxed.
Gunther takes another hard blow and her eyes flicker to his attacker. A tight hidden frown, almost crosses her face. Almost. It's just a tightening of the muscles around her mouth, so slight and so fleeting it would have been easy to miss.
As it was, Jester might have missed it if he hadn't been staring directly at Jane, carefully gauging her as she gauged the participants of the match.
With sudden insight it hits him that Jane disdains, NO, absolutely despises, the fair wheaten Algernon. Her distaste is thick, palpable. Now that he sees it, he can't unsee it. It pulsates around her. Sooty ichor spilling out of the rancid, tarnished core of a frightened heart.
It wounds him to apply such a description to his beloved Jane.
Her scorn is not surprising in itself, the lady has made her feelings known freely- but is it actual hate? As long as Jester has known her, Jane has been fair and forgiving.
It also comes as a surprise that as she looks back at Gunther, now circling his opponent, as much as she abhors Algernon, she loves Gunther.
No, that is not correct either.
More so.
As much as Jane hates Algernon, she loves Gunther a hundred, maybe a thousand times more.
Jester lets out a startled bark of laughter.
Jane loves Gunther.
Not in that friendly camaraderie she shares with everyone, not in that sibling-like devotion she bestows on Jester himself… No, she loves him.
Loves Gunther.
Deeply, profoundly, earnestly, with frank sincerity.
It is not just infatuation, a passing fancy, or some short-lived girlish passion, Jane loves Gunther.
And Gunther loves her back. Is in love with her.
It bounces around in his head, a mocking parody of everything Jester thought he knew.
His friend Gunther, is in love with Jane.
Because that is what they are. Jester and Gunther are friends now, not just passing acquaintances or compatriots or fellow members of the castle staff. Jester is not sure when that happened, exactly, but in this moment he realizes that Gunther is important, and part of Jester's own sense of identity. An extension of his own scattered self.
His friend, is in love with his Jane. An all-consuming, all-encompassing, deeply felt and closely held secret worship of Jane.
It's almost a physical blow.
A blow so swift it almost knocks him off the fence he's perched on. This is the unrealized knowledge that has been teasing the edges of his perception, the thing which has been pressing on his chest for so many weeks. Months perhaps? This is what has been tumbling, flipping, churning just below the reach of his own perception.
The uncharted territory of his heart that has given a hard edge to his smile and gleaming, biting teeth to his jokes.
His Jane?
No, Jester realizes, she has never, ever, not once, been his Jane. Any passing feelings of childish fondness no longer exists. If they ever truly did. Jesters heart lurches as he understands, knows if they had existed, they have long since been forgotten, crumbled and blown away as so much unremembered dust.
She is now, and probably always has been, Gunther's.
Jane and Gunther.
It cuts.
It bleeds.
It hemorrhages with anguish.
Yet somehow, it is amusing. Jester cannot help but spare a laugh at his own obtuseness.
Knowing Jane as well as he does, he perceives she's probably been just as unaware of her own feelings as Jester himself was.
It was so, blindingly, shiningly clear.
How had he been such a fool?
Jester studied her face with deliberate scrutiny. Lord in Heaven it was anguish to look at her. Her face was cool and inscrutable. Would seem to reveal nothing, nothing to the world -but to Jester it was all but incandescent with his revelation. She wholly shone celestial with love for Gunther.
She was the sun.
Halting and stuttering, his mind just stops. With all of Jester's fine education, loquaciousness, garrulous vocabulary fail him and all he can produce is a faltering-
Holy, sarding shite.
A subtle shift in the mood draws his attention back to the fight. The crowd seems to have stiffened, and are practically vibrating with tension. No one is chatting, no one is gambling on the outcome, no one is so much as moving as they watch the two men face off. The crowd has gone rigid in anticipation.
Because now Gunther and Algernon are no longer engaged in good-natured exercise, or even a ridiculously masculine display of whose sword is bigger, they are fighting.
Fighting hard.
Both men are sweating, panting in their exertion.
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Jane move, her mother pulling her away from the men clashing. Likely Lady Turnkey has noticed the shift as well -that woman misses nothing- and wants herself and Jane as far removed from the inevitable carnage as socially possible.
Jane resists at first, her feet digging in, but after a pinch and hiss from her mother, she acquiesces.
Jester sees Gunther's attention flicker towards the movement -no doubt he has been aware of Jane this whole time- and Algernon, following Gunther's line of vision, is on him in a trice.
Here, in this short measure, this quick tick of the hour, is where it stops being funny.
Here is where all of the humor has leached out of the day and evaporated under the blazing heat of their furious ire.
Algernon is without sportsmanship, without mercy.
With two quick swings of his broadsword, he manages to pin a distracted Gunther's sword hand against his chest. Algernon leans in so close Jester is afraid the frothy bits of spittle clinging to his mouth or the sweat which is has been pouring from his forehead will drip into Gunther's surprised, gaping mouth.
Jester doesn't think Algernon can get any nearer, they are already entangled like two heated lovers, but he does. Somehow Algernon leans in closer, so dangerously and threateningly close, and whispers something into Gunther's ear.
Time doesn't just slow down, it stops.
Jester can't hear what has been said -and is glad for it-- but with the sudden change in Gunther's demeanor and his newfound revelation, Jester is able to intuit its nature.
From his perch Jester can see with absolute and crystalline clarity the change in Gunther's expression. The false blankness, that invisible cloak of uncaring Gunther wears like a second skin falls away in an instant. Just as quickly, - by shades of villainous gray- a blackness rolls over Gunther's face, darkening his expression into a cracked, unrecognizable mask.
With the whipping momentum of a late summer squall, it overtakes Gunther in seething roiling mass of turbulent fury. When it finishes, if it ever does, Jester isn't sure he can even see Gunther through the obscuring haze.
He's reminded of Jane's quietly seething hate, and feels a pang of pity for the contemptuous noble.
Then that stopped moment in time is over.
Gone.
With a grunt Gunther pushes Algernon back and attacks, attacks, attacks in purified undiluted anger.
It's the only sound he makes during this new assault, as everything else is silent except for the clang of swords, their harsh breathing, the sinister hiss and snick of steel against steel.
On some level, Jester's poetic nature has returned. He struggles, then attempts, and fails miserably to assign words to scene which is unfolding before him. His mind stretches for the correct appellation, but can't quite find it. Gunther is not some foaming rabid animal or some wild demonic brute, overtaken by hellish fervor.
No.
Gunther has become an instrument of nature, the embodiment of berserking madness, an electric crackling being, bent on destruction.
He rages.
Algernon sees, and with sly satisfied smile, presses his advantage.
Rather than being cowed by the change in Gunther, Algernon leaps forward, his secret words clearly having the intended effect.
The clashing steel rings again, and again, like discordant thunder.
They strike and parry in increasing intensity, over and over. Gunther has the advantage, then Algernon. Gunther swings high and kicks out, Algernon dodges easily and repels with an attack of his own.
Back and forth, the struggle for domination until both are sweating hard, gasping for air.
Suddenly Gunther is in the dirt, Algernon's sword pressed against the place where his collar bone meets his neck. Neither moves, the discordant rasping of their breathing the only noise audible in the hushed courtyard.
Jester releases a breath he didn't know he was holding.
"Do you yield?"
Gunther doesn't answer, his loathing is pulling off of him like sheets of stinging sleet.
"Do you yield?" Algernon sneers, amused malice in his voice.
Instead of a reply Gunther reaches up and grabs the tip of Algernon's sword. Before the noble can react, can even process what is happening, Gunther gives it a powerful twist, pulls it out of Algernon's astonished hand, and throws it aside.
The practice swords are dulled for safety, but can still cut. Jester isn't surprised to see a bright bloom of crimson gush from Gunther's damaged fist.
The hateful Adonis' face barely registers his shock when Gunther tackles him at the knees, knocking him to the ground. Algernon is quick to recover, or at least attempts to. Rolling over he claws at the dirt in an attempt to get away, but it is too late.
Previously, Gunther's rage had been a hindrance, an unmanageable anchor, communicating all intended movements of his sword. Now here, grappling on the ground, his anger is a boon.
Gunther sits on Algernon's hips, forcing the other man's face into the dirt.
With a quick One!Two!Three! succession of punches, Gunther rains a series blows into Algernon's right kidney.
Algernon arches off the ground in pain and tries to curl to his side, but Gunther is ruthless. Jester has time enough to hope with wicked glee the hits hurt as much as they appear to, before Gunther shifts his weight forward to grind the noble's face into the rough ground.
With luck Algernon will be pissing clotted blood and spitting dirt for a week.
Maybe two.
Without warning, Gunther flips Algernon to his back and slams his weight into the man's middle, straddling his chest and pinning his arms. Grabbing two fistfuls of his shirt, Gunther lifts Algernon's torso up as far as possible, and THUNK! slams him back into the dirt before resuming his assault.
Stunned, Algernon pulls bends his legs, arching his back in a vain attempt to buck off his attacker. It doesn't work. Gunther lands punches with ferocious efficiency, but avoids Algernon's face. Jester can see blood flying, splattering as it drips from Gunther's ruined hand.
In a desperate attempt to free himself Algernon brings his legs up, trying to wrap them around Gunther's neck, torso, head, anything, so he can flip the squire backwards on to the ground. This fails. Gunther is far too heavy.
Between blows Algernon's mouth is a steady gush of vomitous insults. For what purpose? Perhaps he thinks he can distract Gunther further? His previous bilious whispered words had managed to rile Gunther into this frenzied state.
It's a pointless tactic, a squandering of precious breath. Jester can see Gunther is far to removed from coherent thought to betray such a weakness.
Jester's friend is gone.
All that is left is the anger, the fury,.
Gunther lifts Algernon again, Jester wonders if he's going to bludgeon the popinjay to submission with the very earth itself when Algernon manages to wrangle one hand free. With murderous intent Algernon reaches carefully for his boot where he is able to grasp the handle of a small, evil-looking dagger.
Freeing the knife doesn't take Algernon long.
None of this...display...has. In the deep recesses of his awareness, Jester realizes all of this has occurred in the span of a few short minutes, but in that instant Jester thinks he feels what Gunther must be feeling.
Rage, bitterness, hatred, fear.
Jester isn't the only one who has seen Algernon go for the knife. There's a collective gasp as the knights and nobles see what is happening. See what will happen.
Thankfully, Gunther has seen it too. He releases his grip on Algernon's shirt, catching his wrist lightly, almost casually. He wrests a the dagger away and tosses it aside to join Algernon's sword.
"You would kill me?" They are the first words, the first intelligent grating sounds Gunther has made throughout this entire bloody ordeal. They drip with terrible, frightening rancor.
"I will kill you." Replies the downed noble, arrogant still. Using his free hand Algernon punches hard into Gunther's throat.
It's the wrong reply.
With a roar, Gunther wraps both hands around Algernon's throat and is choking, choking…
Faster than he's ever seen Sir Ivon move, faster than Jester would have thought the aging knight was capable of even in the blooming height of his youth, Sir Ivon is surging forward at a dead run. Smithy is right behind him. In no time they are on Gunther, pulling, yanking him off the purpling Algernon.
Pity, Jester rather liked that color.
Ivon and Smithy drag a still-fighting Gunther towards the stable, his feet scrabbling and kicking the dirt before him.
The crowd seems to tremble with furious sentiment. Jester casts his worried eyes around.
The group seems to be on a precipice of sorts. The edge of riotous intent.
Gunther isn't making any sound beyond a low, feral grunting, but it's clear he wants nothing more than to get free and finish what he's started.
He almost breaks away, yanking his arm free from the shorter Sir Ivon, turning in his single-minded desire to maim -or kill-- the beaten Algernon. Ivon latches back on and is clearly struggling to contain Gunther when Jester jumps forward to help.
With a literal spring into action, Jester takes a few long strides, does a cartwheel, a handspring and lands hard on Gunther's back, wrapping his arms around his neck.
Jester will never be raw power or bulky brawn, but he is wired strength from long years of acrobatics. He is also a substantial dead weight, when he wants to be.
Clinging like a trained monkey, Jester turns and gives a cheeky wave to the astonished crowd.
"That will be all for this afternoon's entertainment!"
With that, the tension breaks. He feels it more than sees it, his experience in front of people subconsciously assuring him the danger of a brawl has passed. He doesn't bother looking to watch them shuffle off -he's instead focused on holding on as Smithy and Ivon haul the struggling Gunther forward.
They pull him far back into the stables where the light and air is stale, before releasing him. Jester is glad they're far away from prying eyes because he's not sure the king would appreciate one of his men --deserved or not- losing control and pummelling his guest.
Yet the description is not quite correct.
Calling this crazed fit a lack of control would be akin to calling Dragon a cute, harmless little lizard.
Gunther's eyes are still wild, the whites seemingly swallowed by the endless void of his dilated pupils.
Gunther has no control, no composure, no means to restore his equilibrium.
It's harrowing to see.
Jester wonders where his friend, newly found and newly lost, has gone.
With another deep growl, Gunther picks up a forgotten bucket and slams it against the wall, shattering it in an explosion of dust and forgotten oats. This destruction apparently fails to satisfy because he grabs up the nearest thing he can, a low bench, and slams it against a nearby post. Over and over he batters the bench, blood still coursing from his hand, until it too, disintegrates.
Jester opens his mouth to say something... what he isn't sure. Funny is his life. He's well aware humor isn't going to calm this beast, or even distract it, but he feels like he has to try. Try something. He steps forward when Sir Ivon puts a warning hand on his chest.
"Och no, lad. Let Smithy handle this." He gestures over to Smithy who is stripping off his apron with a grim expression. "Ye'd only get hurt."
Smithy stalks over to where Gunther is now punching the wooden wall, leaving bloody marks from both knuckles and injured palm. His growl has dropped to a low moaning sound, punctuated with each collision of his fist. He doesn't hear Smithy's approach.
Smithy leans forward to tap a knuckle on Gunther's shoulder and briskly steps back, settling into a defensive stance.
Gunther pivots but before he can even fully turn, Smithy pulls back and CRACK! lands a heavy blow to his jaw. The hit snaps back Gunther's head, rocking him back on his heels and into the wall.
The hit sends echoes of pain through Jester's own sympathetic jaw.
Gunther seems stunned for a moment, a moment and a half at best, before roars --ROARS- and flings himself at Smithy.
Until now, Jester had not appreciated just how large, how wide, how colossally massive his quietly courteous friend was.
Polite and unassuming, it was easy to forget that his gentle giant of a friend was in fact, a giant of a man. Years in the stables combined with the grueling toil of the forge had hardened his body into a solid slab of unforgiving muscle. Slightly taller than Gunther, Smithy was more than capable of bearing Gunther's unrestrained anger.
Blow after blow rain down on Smithy's arms, shoulders, sides. To Jester's horror, besides keeping his fists up to protect his face, Smithy lets it happen. Gunther is pounding on his friend. Smithy doesn't even attempt to fight back, only bothering to lower his fists to protect a side with a dropped elbow, or slap away a wild punch which comes too close to his face.
This is insanity.
Jester tries to step forward again, to stop this collision of fists and friendships, only to be stopped again by Sir Ivon.
"Don't. He'll be needing this."
And of course, the old dodger is right. Perhaps Jester has been underestimating the aging teacher-knight for all of these years?
It takes a few minutes, but Gunther begins to slow, the fight draining out of him as the adrenaline runs its course.
WHACK! WHACK! ...Whack!.. Whack.
Gunther's arms seem to grow heavy, slowing down with each swing. There is a slight pause in his assault as Gunther tries to catch his breath. He's breathing hard. Great galloping gusts of air bellow in an out.
Smithy takes the opportunity to step forward to lay an open-handed smack across Gunther's face.
It's embarrassing really. Smithy may be the size of a bull, but he's no fighter. It's a blow meant meant to injure a man's pride, to infuriate. Smithy uses it as pointed barb to jab at and further invoke Gunther's wrath.
Jester thinks it's perhaps a bit unnecessary -he hears a single low scoff from Sir Ivon- but the red stinging insult makes Gunther surge in angry offensive, attacking with renewed vigor.
It doesn't last long.
When Gunther takes a few stumbling steps back -perhaps in exhaustion, perhaps in shock- Smithy pounces. With a astonishing speed, Gunther is knocked onto his back and quickly pinned.
In mock parody of Gunther's fight with Algernon, Smithy straddles Gunther's stomach and arms, his corded forearm pressed hard under Gunther's chin. Gunther's head is forced back, his hands fumbling uselessly against Smithy's pressure. Gunther bucks a few times, grunting in frustration, trying to throw the bigger man off, but the effort is futile.
And like that, Gunther's body relaxes. A harsh cry of hurt tears from his throat.
The danger past, Smithy crawls off Gunther, who rolls onto his side and begins to sob with great wracking coughs of despair.
Jester feels tears prick his own eyes. Blinking them away, he looks at Sir Ivon.
"He'll be alright, lad." Sir Ivon makes a sharp nod towards the stable door. "Why don't you run along and make sure Gunther didn't kill that canny chancer?"
Jester is torn. He looks back over at his friends to see that Smithy has half-pulled a weeping Gunther into his lap, and is mumbling some repeated phrase into Gunther's ear.
"Are you certain?" he asks. Truthfully, Jester is not sure he can be certain of anything, anymore.
"Aye, he'll be fine." Ivon's tone is reassuring.
Jester gives them a last look and turns to leave, but not before hearing Smithy's litany, whispering it over and over like a prayer.
"She loves you back, you know. She loves you back."
Listed below are the related stories, in semi-chronological order.
A Troublesome Predicament by Solitaire44,
Jane Learns to Take a Compliment by Lareepqg,
Pepper Speculates by Jatd4ever,
The Misadventures of the Unfortunate Pants by Lareepqg
Jane Ruminates by Kyra4,
How Does One Conquer the Sun? By poshkat
The Cows and the Bees by Lareepqg
Dress by Biscuitweevil
Strategic Retreat by Lareepqg
Nothing to Fear by Jatd4ever
Complications by Kyra4
Disorder in the Court by Jatd4ever
Confessions to the Dawn by Jatd4ever
Interlude by Lareepqg
Presents of Mine by Lareepqg
What Is a Dragon To Do With Shortlife Rumors? By Jatd4ever
Fly Away by Kyra4
At a Glance by poshkat
An Unfortunate Intervention by biscuitweevil
No Joking Matter by Lareepqg
Please let me know if I have missed anyone.
A/N: Smithy's punch feels familiar to me, so I apologize if I have accidentally regurgitated someone else's scene. I couldn't find it in any of the books on my desk so, if I did, it was unintentional. If anything, I hope I was able to do it justice.