A/N: Thank you all for the positive feedback! I'm so happy you all like the story so far! :D


Sebastian

Pity.

He'd never felt pity for anyone at the court, because there was no reason to; many were well-off, and many were well-married. But seeing the deadened look in the girl's eyes as she pushed her food around her plate caused the emotion to arise in his heart.

Because he knew what it felt like, to not belong.

He couldn't help but glance at her every so often, knowing full well that she'd never return them. Francis, who sat across from her, managed to engage in some polite conversation with her, but otherwise no one spoke to her. Sebastian was more unfortunate with the seating arrangements- the woman sitting across from him kept chattering on and on, never stopping for so much as a breath. It was clear she was trying to flirt, and under normal circumstances he would've done so in return. But these were not normal circumstances.

When the ward had risen, presumably to retire to bed, she had done so with the face of one heading to the Gallows. As she passed he caught her by the arm, but with the way she flinched one might think he had struck her. He hadn't planned it. It just happened.

"You are safe here," he said to her, green eyes meeting her brown ones. "No one will hurt you." It was the first time he'd seen her look at him, and she stood there, unmoving, unyielding, to his look of concern.

"I can take care of myself," was her stony reply as she jerked her arm from his grasp.

And then she was gone.


Lyanna

Another day.

She felt as though she was counting the days she spent in a prison cell, they passed so slowly. Her days were filled with the most mundane activities, and she often excused herself to bed straight after supper.

Her father must have truly hated her to send her here.

The sunlight filtered down from the large rose window that dominated the top of the Queen's Tower. Its glass was the clearest and finest a craftsman could ever hope to produce- because only the best was offered to the Queen of France.

Today that queen and her eleven ladies-in-waiting, chosen for their good breeding, fine manners, and gracious speech, were scattered around the room, sitting on padded chairs and cushions pushed together for better gossiping. They worked at their embroidery as a musician played the lyre quietly in a corner, their soft murmuring being the only thing penetrating the music. Catherine sat in the center, flanked by two women and a master craftsman who stood off to one side for consultation.

Lyanna kept her head bent towards her work, meticulously pulling the needle through the thread over and over again. Her hands fared much better when they were clutching the leathery straps of horse reins; it was only morning, but she had already pricked herself no less than five times. She knew she had to be more careful, but she was so bored by embroidery that she didn't much care.

She found that she didn't care about much these days, the feeling only intensified by being inside the French court. The feast held upon her arrival was an uncomfortable affair for everyone present, including Lyanna, even though it was held in her honor. The ladies all fawned over Sir Gavin, casting suggestive glances in his direction as he dined. She too attracted attention, but of a different kind. Whispers narrated her every move, wide eyes watching as she handled a knife and fork. Did they think she was some kind of sideshow, a new addition to its House of Freaks? At this thought she stabbed into the fabric with much more vigor than initially needed, creating a button-sized hole.

Calm. Be calm.

She knew she should be grateful to the king and queen for treating her with such kindness, and she was- it was just no one else was. As she followed the Queen's ladies through the corridors to get to the Queen's Tower, all she could see were hands cupped around mouths as they whispered, smirks leering at her in the morning sunlight. When they had sat down they had all blubbered over her like she was a newborn child:

"Oh, Lyanna, you poor dear, let us show you the way the French sew."

"I don't know what they teach you in England, but surely it can't be the same as our way."

"Can you measure? I'll measure your thread if you like."

They all thought her some kind of ill-bred savage, as a lower-classed idiot servant girl. But she set her jaw and refused all their offers. They peppered her with phrases like, "Are you sure? I really don't mind," their voices going an octave higher on the emphasized words, but by then she was already deliberately bent over her cushion, determined to show them that she could sew just as well as any of them.

"Oh, dear me, Lyanna... what have you been thinking to let your cushion become so... tangled?"

She looked up to see Katlyn, the eldest daughter of one of the queen's cousins. She seemed to be the ringleader of the court ladies and always seemed to have a little sneer reserved just for Lyanna.

"Not of court gossip, surely," Lyanna replied. Katlyn's lip curled.

"Be mindful of your tongue, Davenshaw," she hissed. "Or you will be sent straight back to England in disgrace."

"My family is already disgraced, Lady Katlyn," she said curtly. "Perhaps your gossip is not up to date."

Katlyn's face flushed scarlet, and she was about to answer when another voice rose up above the others.

"Oh, bother, I'm out of thread."

Lyanna, happy for a chance to go, leapt to her feet. "I'll go fetch some more." She smiled at the woman who had spoken, whose name was Karen, or Sharyn, or something along those lines.

She returned her smile. "Thank you, my dear. I believe Nostradamus- our court physician- has the key to the linen storage. Tell him Lady Gracelyn has sent you for it."

Gracelyn, that was her name. A very southern name in Lyanna's opinion, but she seemed kind. Lyanna laid down her sorry excuse of embroidery on her chair and paused long enough to curtsy in front of Catherine, who nodded in absentminded permission for the girl to leave.

"Thank you, your grace," she said, dropping another curtsy and hurrying across the wooden floor as quickly as she could while taking the approved, ladylike steps. Her steps had never been very long to begin with, especially compared to the great lengths her brothers could cover, but now she was supposed to go even more slowly. A lady must not walk, but glide, the ladies had told her on her way to the tower. Do not move your arms at your sides- simply hold them in place, and glide.

For heaven's sake, she was a human, not a swan. People walked. People even occasionally ran. But not ladies. Never ladies. Once she was out the door she returned to her normal pace, swinging her arms as much as she pleased.

She was halfway across the courtyard before she realized that she didn't actually know where Nostradamus' chambers were, if he had any. She couldn't go back to the tower and ask, because that would give the ladies more of a reason to snicker behind her back- and she refused to give them that satisfaction. So, left to her own devices, she turned down corridors on pure instinct only, quickening her pace as she went. Surely the court physician would have a sign outside his door. But as she walked she found no such sign adorning any door, or any sign at all for that matter.

Frustration was beginning to seep in. Stupid filthy French castle without any signs- she turned the next corner in a huff and nearly ran into someone, failing to stifle a small shriek of surprise.


Katlyn

How dare she.

How dare that- that ward walk in the Queen's Tower and speak to her that way. She, Katlyn, was one of the two ladies-in-waiting that were directly related to the Queen, and therefore had some authority over the others. Perhaps words like that were allowed in England, but she was in France now. She would have to adhere to the rules of the educated, not those of her savage homeland... if they had had any to begin with. When they had met Katlyn hadn't even shook her hand, not knowing what dirt was still stuck under those disgusting fingernails she'd have.

But yet, as filthy as she was, Bash couldn't keep his eyes off her.

Katlyn sat across from him at the feast, and they'd talked- or rather, she'd talked. He listened and he answered her questions adequately, but his eyes would flick over to Lyanna's direction, sometimes more than once per sentence. But it wasn't love in his eyes, nor was it lust. It was something else, something that Katlyn couldn't put her finger on. But she was certain of one thing. Bash had never looked at her like that, at least that she knew of.

It was a strange feeling. Katlyn had never had trouble before keeping a man's attention. Many agreed that Katlyn Geoffrin was the most beautiful of all Catherine's ladies-in-waiting, and certainly the most captivating. She loved to flirt and she loved to charm, but she loved even more to do it with Bash. She had even fantasized that she and him might marry someday, because a bastard marrying royalty would legitimize him. So Katlyn saw no reason why he shouldn't just get on with it.

Until Lyanna came.

When Bash had spoken those few words to her as she was leaving, Katlyn heard the change in his voice. It had become more... heartfelt, as though he understood her emotions exactly.

Which is impossible, Katlyn thought stubbornly as she weaved her threads. They barely know each other.

Katlyn set her jaw as she bent over her embroidery once more. It was time people started realizing that she didn't play games. And when she did...

...she always won.