There are more people staffing the castle kitchens alone than there are in the entirety of Snowgate, or at least so it seems to Bellegere. She's never been around so many people in all her life. Betimes the sheer noise is enough to drive her half-mad. The summer she'd fostered here, there hadn't been quite as many people. Or, truly, there were, but they had all been elsewhere: hunting and questing and patrolling, always doing things that had to be done. Now, as autumn begins to approach, there are fewer places to be and fewer things to do except ready for the harvest and the coming winter. A fair number of nobles are wintering in Camelot as well, no doubt aiming to curry favour with their new king. They're fools to think it will work. Those who strive to numbered amongst his confidantes are precisely the ones who will never achieve it.

She's proud of her cousin. Though she hadn't known a great deal about Uther's rule—she's never truly thought of him as her uncle at all—she knew that he'd been on the harder side of strict, and many of his edicts bordered on cruel, depending on how one looked at it. Many of them have already been rescinded, including the raiding of Druid camps, bounty hunters exchanging captives for coin, and the immediate sentence of death for the use of magic. He means to do more. She knows he does, seeing bright glimpses of ambition about him like sunlight on the feathers of an elusive and iridescent bird.

Bellegere wonders which member of the council he's going to replace next. The old lord he had dismissed was older than Gaius. Drawing her knees up towards her chest, she peers out the window into the palace gardens. Long fingers tweak her hair playfully, and she turns in surprise.

"Hiding from your tutors again?" Merlin asks, grinning.

She turns to face him, unfolding her legs from the window seat. "I've finished my lessons already," she replies, trying not to sound quite so sullen.

Still, he frowns a little, tilting his head to eye her up curiously. "What's wrong, dear heart?" Only he and Arthur ever call her that, and though she's certainly too old to be coddled, not that she ever really was coddled in the first place, she doesn't think she'll ever be too old to be called 'dear heart.'

It doesn't make her feel all that better today, however. "Father's forbidden me from joining the squires," Bellegere replies bitterly, anger knotting up hot and prickly in her belly, fists tightening on her trouser legs. It isn't fair. She doesn't have to be a knight, she just wants to be able to learn those strong-yet-graceful forms and stances, a lovelier dance than she's ever seen in any damned ballroom. Roland could teach her, yes, but everyone knows that the knights of Camelot are the finest to be found in all five kingdoms. "I'm the child of a noble family, why can't I learn with them? That…damn code doesn't say a girl can't be a squire."

Merlin comes to sit on the unoccupied half of the window seat, drawing up one long leg to prop his heel on the edge of the seat, arm hooked around his shin. "Indeed it doesn't. Have you spoken to Arthur?"

Bellegere shakes her head. She doesn't want to tell him, really. Her cousin loves her dearly, she knows it for a certainty, but he still respects Father's wishes. She doesn't want to make him unhappy by bothering him with questions she already knows the answer to. He has enough to worry about as it is without her pestering him. "He lets me have my bow. I suppose I should be thankful for that," she murmurs.

"Well…yes, but…perhaps you don't have to be a squire," Merlin supposes, and she casts him a puzzled glance. What does that mean? A small, sly smile pulls at his mouth. One arm sort of twitches, almost like a shrug, but when he turns his hand palm-up on his lap, the silver stripe of a slim knife glitters deadly-keen. "Your father barred you from the squires. He hasn't barred you from me."

She holds out her own hand, and he places the knife in her palm. "It's…it's so small," she protests, closing her fingers around the warm hilt.

"So are you," he chortles. Bellegere swats his arm. "Daggers and knives would suit you better than the longsword. I mean it. You are small, Bellegere. You're growing, but you shan't ever be a giantess, you know this. Reach is important. Near every man will have greater reach than you, which means you will have to be much too close in order to reach him."

"How will having a smaller blade help that?" Bellegere exclaims, baffled by his reasoning.

Merlin's other wrist flicks, and a knife thunks into a doorframe opposite their seat. "Because you cannot throw a sword like that." Quick as a viper, his arm coils around her, and she gasps softly at the cool touch of another knife against her jaw, though it's just the flat of the blade, not the edge. "And you cannot draw a sword before I can bleed you." He lowers his arm—the knife disappears some-damned-how—and he rests his chin on his raised knee with a grin. When he opens his hand again, she places the knife back in his palm; a subtle little twitch of his fingers and it's tucked back up his sleeve, vanished again. "Think on it. That's all I ask. We're going to the Cockerel tonight. You can accompany us, if you'd like."

Bellegere brightens immediately. "You'll take me to the tavern?"

He chuckles, lowering his leg from the seat. "The Cockerel is not the Rising Sun. But yes," he admits, rising to his feet. "I'll teach you how to best your cousin at dicing."

Oh, hell, she'll go for that alone.

The Cockerel isn't the Rising Sun. The clientele is cleaner, comelier, and altogether soberer, and there's less chance that someone is going to have a chair smashed over their head by night's end. Bellegere doesn't recognise anyone, but Merlin and Arthur don't take any of the tables, instead going up a flight of stairs towards the back, into a closed room.

"You're late, villain!" Leon scolds laughingly, and Merlin makes a rude gesture in return, grinning.

A man with shiny hair and laughing eyes rocks his chair back on two legs, pointing towards Bellegere. "Hey, who's this, Queen Arthur? You haven't gone off and married without telling us, have you? Bit young for you."

Arthur pushes at the man's chair, making him teeter dangerously; he swears loudly and rocks forward with a loud thump, planting all four legs of the chair firmly on the floor. "Shut up, Gwaine. She's my cousin, which means you had best keep a civil tongue in that mouth of yours. Bellegere, this lout is Gwaine. Kindly ignore everything he says, if you would. That's Percival there, and Will beside him. Everyone else you know, yes?"

She does recognise everyone else—Lancelot and Morgana, Guinevere and Elyan. Bellegere smiles as she takes a chair at the large table next to her cousin.

"And I see my favourite patrons have returned," a new voice says as the door opens again, and Bellegere leans around Arthur to see who it is. He's dressed prettily in deep green but not overly rich like some nobles do; his hair is coiled up in a knot at the nape of his neck, a long ivory pin through it. His gaze falls on her. "With some new faces as well. Lady du Bois, it is a pleasure," he says warmly, extending a hand to her.

Surprised, Bellegere stands and leans forward a little to shake his hand. "Call me Bellegere. How did you…?"

"Dara knows everything about everyone, cousin," Arthur remarks with a grin.

"Certainly not everything," the man demurs, taking one of the last empty chairs. "Speaking of, Arthur, I have some suggestions for that question you put to me."

"And I'll be glad to hear it another time. I'm not discussing a single matter of court tonight. Now, where's the wine?"

Dara laughs at that, a full and husky sound, and he claps his hands twice. Not even a moment later, two attendants somehow appear from a corner of the room bearing trays of cups and large pitchers. The server pauses in handing Bellegere one, but Arthur waves a hand permissively. "Half a cup," he says. When he turns to speak to Dara, however, Morgana takes one of the pitchers, leans over, and fills Bellegere's cup near to the brim, winking.

The next few hours are quite nearly the happiest of Bellegere's life. They laugh and jest and exchange tales varying from comical to outright vulgar, wine loosening tongues and making everything all the more humourous. Gwaine has the most stories out of any of them, except for perhaps Dara. True to his word, when they bring out a set of die and betting tokens, Merlin does show her the trick of outplaying Arthur, though she's quite certain the wine is what outplays him.

Somehow, the conversation makes its way around to the subject of marriage, largely in the form of Elyan jesting that he'd left having a spring maiden for a sister and returned to a married woman, making Gwen and Lancelot both blush and laugh in turn. The wine makes her feel warm and sort of tingling, and she finds herself speaking as well. "You know, I used to wish I could marry you," Bellegere admits, prodding Arthur's ribs. "Then I wouldn't have to wed some prat noble Father chose for me."

"We're cousins," Arthur chortles, more amused than anything.

Rolling her eyes skyward, she swats at his arm and misses the first try. "Royals marry their cousins all the time."

"Usually they're more distant cousins, though."

"Yes, I know that now, but I didn't realise that when I was eight." She hadn't even considered the idea of being queen, only that she wouldn't have to marry some awful turniphead and she could wear trousers whenever she wanted.

Gwen giggles merrily, leaning into Lancelot's side. "Well, you always still can wed him, Bellegere, provided you don't mind sharing with Merlin," she points out; Arthur's mouth falls open, and Merlin knocks over his thankfully-empty cup.

"True enough. I'll let you keep Merlin if you let me have a sword and mail." Bellegere glances sideways and snorts at the look on her cousin's face. Did he truly think they didn't know? One of the first lessons Roland had taught her was that in order to see that which is not there, gaze upon what is. Granted, he had been speaking of watching an enemy's body language to guess their next move, but the same principle applies to a great many things. And she's never seen Arthur look quite as happy as he does when he's with Merlin. Most simply didn't notice because they never bother to really look at him with intention to see him. If they did, they might notice the way Arthur brightens whenever Merlin comes into the room, or how Merlin will gaze after Arthur with an expression of tenderly affectionate pride when he thinks nobody is looking.

"How long have you all known?" Merlin asks in a strangled voice.

Morgana smiles a slow, pleased smile like a cat licking cream and swills her wine about her glass. "Well, I had this persistent headache constantly plaguing me at night which suddendly disappeared. Quite like magic, one could say," she replies. A flush creeps up the side of Arthur's neck.

Turning in his seat, Merlin reaches over to swat Lancelot's shoulder. "You swore you wouldn't tell Gwen!"

"I didn't!" the other man protests, then casts an apologetic look towards his wife. "Forgive me, but I did promise."

Guinevere gives an understanding nod, patting his hand. "I understand. He does make the most pitiful little face, doesn't he?" she giggles, casting a teasing glance towards her friend, who flushes. "I figured it out myself, Merlin. You started staying in Arthur's chamber even though you said you never would. And those mornings after you stayed, you hummed on the way to the kitchens for breakfast."

Merlin buries his head in his arms. "The rest of you?" he asks, muffled by his arms.

Across the table, Gwaine raises his tankard in a toast. "I heard you lot talking the day we met, remember? Poetry from a dead man?"

"I didn't realise it was meant to be a secret," Percival says with that wide, unexpected grin of his.

Will shrugs his wide shoulders, a wry little smile pulling at his mouth. She doesn't think he likes Arthur all that much, but he's obviously dear to Merlin. "You and that damn humming."

Bellegere puts her head down laughing, seeing the expressions on their faces. She loves them dearly and she knows they are intelligent men, but gods' mercy, they can be stupid.

Soon after, Dara calls for the attendants to come clear the table, and one by one, their merry company begins to depart, drowsy with wine and ready for their beds. Bellegere is feeling warmly weary herself, watching as Leon embraces his younger brother in farewell, and then it's only the four of them: her, Arthur, Merlin, and Dara, who is still mostly sober as well. Arthur and Merlin stumble and trip their way out of the room down the stairs, leaning against one another for support and laughing a little as they get wrongfooted.

"Come along, my dear. I'll walk with you to the citadel," Dara offers as they step out into the cool night air. There's a full moon hanging overhead like a fat pearl, so torches are few and far between, bathing the streets in silvery-grey-white glow.

Bellegere doesn't think twice about tucking her hand around proffered his arm, letting the other two walk a few paces ahead of them, a little unsteady but upright. She likes Dara. He doesn't speak to her the way most do, as though she's a child or too simple to take his meaning. He addresses her in the same manner he might address Arthur. She imagines that if he can talk to her like that, then she can speak to him frankly. "If I ask you something, will you answer me true?" From experience, she knows it is better to ask before she properly asks. Questions make people uncomfortable. Or at least, hers do.

"Of course."

"Are you a courtesan?" Nobody had openly said it, of course, but from some of the things that'd been said earlier, the jests made, she could piece it together for herself well enough.

Dara doesn't hesitate. "I was. Now I work mainly in a proprietary capacity. I take patrons of my own choosing, because I am fond of them, not out of any strict need."

She cocks her head up to look at him. In the moonlight, he's lovely to look at, and his face is openly serene. "You aren't ashamed?"

"No. I know what I am. I know it, and I wear it like armour so it doesn't become a weapon instead. If anything, I am glad for it."

"Why?"

"Girls, bastards, and whores." Dara turns his gaze down to hers, a small, wry smile on his face. "We will always be underestimated by everyone. It won't change today, it shan't change tomorrow. Perhaps not in our lifetimes, perhaps not ever. But if it will not change, then we must use what we have been given and play their own game against them." He stops walking, and she halts beside him, gazing up at him in silent question. They're near the drawbridge, close to the citadel. Merlin and Arthur have already gone on ahead, unheeding, and he gently slides his arm out of her grip. "If I come any closer, the guards will certainly recognise me. They've been at the Pavilion often enough for it. Go on. My reputation is what it is, but yours can still be tarnished. Goodnight."

Bellegere nods as she takes a step back from him. "Thank you, Dara. Goodnight." As she hastens to catch up with her cousin, she decides that in the morning, she'll ask Merlin to teach her how to wield daggers.

Her natality comes with the arrival of autumn. Four-and-ten.

She's of age to be a squire now, yet with Father's edict still standing, she's left standing on the edges of the training field, watching the boys as they're given weighted wooden swords and taught simple forms, laying the groundwork for the more complex maneouvers to come. A part of her still burns at the bitter unfairness of it. A cooling balm to it, however, is Arthur's gift to her: a set of matched daggers. The blades are narrower, lighter, the hilt smaller to fit her hand. Merlin gives her a belt to hold them and a lesson on the northern ramparts. Morgana's gift doesn't come in physical form: the princess offers to teach her the finer points of falconry. Morgana doesn't enjoy blood sport and has an abiding dislike for hunting, but as it is a popular hobby of other noblewomen, she still knows how.

For a miracle, Father doesn't argue it, and so, with Arthur's encouragement, she goes to the royal mews and chooses a bird for herself. She paces along the mews, peering at the different birds, surrounded by the soft jingling of bells and the rustle of feathers. She turns to look at the royal falconer, a greying man with a scar on his cheek from a fractious hawk, then glances past him. In an emptier corner of the room, there's a boy feeding a clutch of downy fledglings gobbets of raw meat, head bowed intently to his task. Bellegere crosses towards him; he doesn't look up. "Which do you think I should choose?" she prompts.

The boy startles, as if he hadn't realised she was there at all, blinking in surprise. "Ohuh?"

"Which do you think would suit me?" Bellegere repeats, clasping her hands behind her back and tilting her head towards the birds.

"Oh." Clasping the dish of meat scraps close to his chest, he turns to look about the mews, then eyes her up. Not in the way some of the squires do, as if simultaneously scorning her for her tunic and breeches and wondering what she looks like beneath them, but as though he's actually considering her question. "Have you ever hawked before, uh…my lady?" he says, hesitating over the last as if not certain how to address her.

"No, not for myself."

The boy chews his lip thoughtfully. "Well, these falcons are easiest to train and hunt game bird well," he says, gesturing. "They'll serve you well for it."

Bellegere surveys the falcons he'd pointed out and singles out one, a smallish bird with a dark brown back and head and a creamy brown-streaked breast. "This one, perhaps?" she asks. She cannot name any detail in particular, but something about the falcon is appealing to her, perhaps the fierceness of its large eyes or the graceful sweep of its long wings.

"That'd suit, and she'll be pleasant to watch, too. Have you ever seen a merlin fly? They ring up beautifully."

Her lips curl. "A merlin?" she repeats; the boy bobs his curly head.

"A falcon fit for a lady," the head falconer puts in.

She ignores him. "May I see your glove?" she asks of the boy, and he hands it over to her. She works it on, the thick leather warm from his body, and coaxes the merlin onto her gloved fist, feeling the weight of it on her arm, the strong clutch of its talons on her hand. The falcon cocks its head to stare at her with one glittering black eye. "Oh, yes. She'll suit perfectly."

Bellegere names her falcon Kala. Arthur gets a genuine laugh when she informs him that of all the birds in the mews, she chose his lover's namesake. "You have your Merlin, and I have mine, cousin," she replies loftily.

When she is not attending her lessons or practicing her forms, she is out in the fields around Camelot with Kala, training the falcon and also hunting small game with her bow. Morgana accompanies her; not always, as she now has her own duties as a princess, but when she can. Being on her own, however, is something Bellegere is used to.

She isn't always alone, though. The boy from the mews sometimes accompanies her. His name is Mordred, and he adores birds of every size and form. He likes to collect their feathers and even wears a whistle around his neck made from a hollow leg bone. She'd thought him to be the falconer's apprentice, but he insists that he is Merlin's squire. She almost tells him that squires serve attendant to knights and are of noble birth, then decides against it. The belief will do him no harm. He is one of the few people she knows that will call Arthur and Morgana by name instead of title. When she asks how he knows them so well, he always gets a cagey way about him and changes the subject, and she lets him. She's never had a friend before and doesn't intend to frighten him away. It itches at her a little, but she imagines he'll tell her eventually.

"Why do you admire them so?" Bellegere asks, leaning up against a battlement and gazing upwards at a murmuration of starlings. Mother liked starlings. She had always embroidered them. Quickly, she pushes aside thoughts of her mother, feeling the faint ache in her chest, and turns her gaze down to the lower town, people rendered as small as children's toys from this height. When she had mentioned her occasional discomfort in constant presence of so many people, Merlin had suggested she try going up to the ramparts for a while, as that was what he did when the same pressure plagued him.

Mordred shrugs as he unties a pouch from his belt and scatters a handful of crumbs and seed out in front of him; within moments, there's a conspiracy of ravens before them, squawking and fluttering. "I admire their freedom," he supposes, crouching on his heels and reaching out to stroke the nearest raven's glossy black feathers with a fingertip.

That much, she understands. When Kala flies, betimes it feels as though she takes Bellegere's own soul right along with her, sweeping along so fast and fine. Mordred was right in that, too. She flies like nothing else, swooping and turning, ringing up high and diving down to her prey.

"Who is that there, walking with Arthur?"

Bellegere turns and peers down into the courtyard. "Lord Joscelin from…Powys, I believe," she replies after a moment's thought. He's one of Arthur's new councilmen, first of many replacements he has in mind. She's not met him personally yet, but Father doesn't like him, so he must be a decent sort.

"Do you think Arthur will give Merlin a seat on the council, too?"

She snorts loudly. "Not if he values his own hide." If he doesn't, no doubt Merlin will have him sleeping in the antechamber for a fortnight. Merlin doesn't presume to rise past his station, even if that station is certainly beneath him. He'd be content to stay at Arthur's side nigh unto the next age, and he'd never once think to ask for any kind of reward or think he even deserved one.

"Hide! Hide!" one of the ravens squawks loudly, and one of the larger ones buffets at it with its scruffy wings in reproach. There's a crack in its beak that almost looks like a grin. Once they realise there is no more food to be found, they take off in a silken murmuring of wings.

Bellegere reaches down and cuffs his shoulder lightly. "Come on. Fetch Kala from the mews, and I'll get my bow, we'll fetch ourselves supper," she tells him, and Mordred brightens, scrambling to his feet.

With all the activity going on about the city, with patrols constantly coming and going in response to the usual harvest-time raiders, people bringing in tithes to the castle, most game has been spooked; Kala manages to take only a single quail. She's tempted to go further afield but decides against it. Father dislikes her being friends with Mordred, though he's begrudgingly allowed it due to Arthur vouching for the boy's harmlessness. Still, sharing company inside the city where everyone can see them is one thing, and going out to the Darkling Woods alone with him is another. So, she hands off Kala to Mordred and takes up her bow instead.

When they make their way back towards the gates, Bellegere carries Kala on her arm once more, the bloodied quail in her other hand; Mordred trails alongside her, a brace of coneys slung over his shoulder. There's a small child out there, chanting some bit of doggerel and swinging a cloth poppet in hand as she makes little towers out of pebbles and twigs. The girl looks up at them as they approach and gasps, dropping her poppet in shock. "Is it alive?" she asks, staring at Kala.

"She is." Bellegere smiles. "See, if you come closer, quietly, she'll turn her head and look at you, and if you move very carefully, she might let you stroke her breast."

The child edges close, extending a grubby hand. Kala shies away and beats her great wings. Bellegere calms her with a few soft words, but the girl's already backed away, clutching her poppet for reassurance, thumb in her mouth. "Does she bite?" she mumbles.

"Only her food," Mordred reassures, smiling pleasantly. "Her name is Kala. What's yours?"

"Jinny."

"Jinny!" another voice echoes the girl's, loud and strident. Another girl, closer to Bellegere's own age, comes striding over to them. "If you run off one more time, I'll put a lead on you and tie you up with the dogs, I swear I will!" she threatens, grabbing the child by the neck of her little gown like a pup by the scruff. She looks up at Bellegere and Mordred, clearly wondering if they're people she ought to be polite to or not.

"She's got a bird," Jinny says, tugging at the older girl's skirt. There's a likeness between them. Perhaps sisters.

"I can see it. Go back to Wymon and Tam now, and don't run off again!" she orders, turning Jinny towards the gates and aiming a light kick at her rump to urge her along. Jinny waves farewell to them and scurries off obediently. "Sorry if she bothered you…" She eyes Bellegere's bow and the dagger on her belt, Kala on her arm. "M'lady."

Bellegere shrugs. "She didn't. Call me Bellegere."

The girl glances over at Mordred, the coneys on his shoulder. "D'you want me to take care of those for you? My da's a butcher, I can do it clean," she offers, somewhat awkward in it.

"You can have them, if you'd like. This is enough for us," she replies, holding up the quail.

Immediately, the girl's eyes narrow slightly, and her mouth turns down in a scowl. She's got a scar on her lip that makes the expression all the more ferocious. "Keep your damned coneys, I'm no beggar."

"I never said you were!" This is precisely why she doesn't ever bother trying to be nice to people. She swears she'll never understand how Merlin can always be so kind and polite. No wonder Arthur always appears so tired, having to deal with people all day. "I didn't want them to go to waste, nothing more. Like as not I would've given them to someone else on the way to the citadel, but since you are no beggar, I'll take them with me." She pushes past the girl and strides towards the gates; Mordred trails after her quickly, though he wisely says nothing. Jinny is hovering just inside the gates, still clutching her poppet, thumb in her mouth. Bellegere stops beside her, aware of the older girl a few paces behind her. "Do you like roast rabbit, Jinny?"

"Wymon makes stew," the girl replies with a gap-toothed grin.

Mordred whispers, "Bellegere…"

She ignores him and carefully shifts the quail to her gloved hand without disturbing Kala, holding out her now-empty hand to him. He gives her an exasperated look but hands over the coneys by the cord tied around their hind feet. "Then here. You tell Wymon to make stew." She hands the looped cord to the girl, who near shrieks in glee. The coneys are near the same size as she, and when she runs back towards a gawky young man, presumably Wymon, they half-drag on the ground. Hopefully they won't want to keep the pelts, but at least the meat shan't take any harm from it.

"Slow down! You're gonna fall!" the older girl shouts after Jinny, striding forward. She turns to look at Bellegere, her mouth twisting, but then she says reluctantly, "Thanks."

"I wasn't trying to offer insult," Bellegere insists.

The girl jerks her chin in a short nod, scratching awkwardly at her unevenly cropped hair. "Da says I argue too much," she mumbles. It's not an apology, but it'll do.

"So does mine."

A man's deep voice bellows, "Ione!"

She heaves a sigh, making a face as though she's bitten into a rotten apple. "That's him now. I have to go. Bye, m'lady. Uh, Bellegere."

"Goodbye, Ione." Once the girl runs off, Bellegere starts back towards the citadel. People shift aside for her, darting glances cast towards Kala, then her bow and dagger, frowning at her breeches and tunic as well. None of them have a glare to match Father's though, and she ignores them easily, focusing on keeping Kala settled in the presence of so many people, aware of the falcon's talons clenching tightly on her gloved fist.

Mordred keeps pace alongside her, grinning like a loon. "That was very nearly sweet of you, Lady Belligerent," he teases.

"Shut up," she hisses, punching his arm with her free hand. To her satisfaction, he yelps a little and rubs at his arm. Their path back to the citadel leads them past Elyan's forge, and she pauses a moment to watch them. Elyan is carefully stoking the fire, peering at something in the flames, and Will is hammering out what looks to be a spearhead, the ringing of hammer on steel steady as a heartbeat. A thought leaps into her mind as sparks from the forge. She turns to Mordred. "Will you take Kala back up to the mews for me? There's something I need to do."

His brows knit together, but he nods. For lack of a glove, he takes off his vest and wraps it around his hand and wrist. "Will you be long? Roland might cane me if he knows I let you run about the lower town alone," he reminds her in all seriousness. It'd been the only way she could convince her captain not to follow her about at all hours of the day, promising to not go to the lower town on her own and at least keeping Mordred around if she did.

"I'll be fine, it'll only be a moment." She coaxes Kala onto his fist, then turns and retraces her steps, hurrying back down into the lower town. When she finds the butcher's shop, it doesn't take long to find Ione as well, feeding a pair of rather pitiful-looking curs scraps. There's fresh blood on her apron and the front of her kirtle, probably from the rabbits. "Ione!" she calls, and the other girl looks up in surprise, hastily wiping her hands against her apron. "Tell me, do you work for your father?"

Ione shrugs. "Not really. He teaches Tam and Wymon, not me. I just keep the knives sharp and make sure Jinny don't run off."

Bellegere grins, casting a glance up towards the citadel. If a blacksmith's daughter can serve a princess…. "How would you like to come work for me?"