II-10: The Price of Fame IV
Greg Veder woke, groggy but alert, his brain swimming through the last bits of sleep, even as something felt off. His body wasn't ready to move yet, thoughts all slow and muddled like his head was stuffed with cotton. Bright morning light stabbed through his eyelids, making him wince and turn away. He squeezed his eyes shut again, feeling the warmth of the morning sun burning against his skin.
Too bright. Way too bright.
He shifted slightly, the straw mattress under him scratching his back like a thousand tiny needles. He grimaced at the feeling, still hating it after all this time. Rather sleep on the floor. At least that doesn't try to stab me.
Three months in Westeros, and no matter how many nights he spent sleeping on straw, it still felt like lying on a bed of porcupines having a party on his back. He turned his head away from the sun, the itch of the straw following him like an annoying friend who wouldn't take the hint. He'd give anything for a real bed—hell, even a half-decent pillow from Walmart would be amazing right now—but that was the least of his worries.
His muscles felt okay, just a little stiff from all the ale and the feast the night before, but something was weird. Everything felt wrong, like he was stuck in that space between sleeping and waking where nothing made sense. Greg blinked his eyes open, squinting against the sunlight pouring through the cracks in the window shutters like some kind of medieval spotlight. The air smelled thick with wood smoke, boar fat, and... something sweet and flowery that didn't belong.
He stretched his arm out, or at least tried to. Something warm and soft draped across his chest kept him from moving. He froze up, muscles going tight as his brain tried to figure out who besides Ash would be snuggled up next to him. The bear cub wasn't nearly this warm. Or this... human-shaped.
Please don't be what I think this is.
Curiosity won out over his growing panic, and Greg peeked open one eye to glance down. An arm. Slim, pale, dotted with light freckles that reminded him of stars. And blonde hair—a mass of pigtails falling over his shoulder, trailing down to the bed like golden ropes.
Oh shit. Oh shit oh shit oh shit.
He winced again, more from the shock than the sunlight this time. The girl's arm was still resting over him like she owned the place, her body curled into his side like a cat, breathing slow and steady. Her head was turned away from him, the pigtails swaying slightly as she slept, tickling his shoulder. What the actual hell happened last night?
His eyes trailed down before he could stop himself, face burning red as he realized she was completely naked. And not only that—his pants weren't on either. The sheets barely covered anything, and Greg felt his face heat up even more.
This is bad. This is so, so bad.
For a second, he considered just lying there, pretending this wasn't happening, but that wasn't gonna work. The details of last night started coming back in bits and pieces—ale, way too much of it, the feast with its endless plates of boar, and the village girls constantly refilling his cup, each one trying to catch his attention like he was some kind of prize...
Oh no. No no no. "Hyla..." The name came out in a strangled whisper.
The girl—Hyla—let out a soft groan at her name, shifting slightly. His stomach did a flip worthy of an Olympic gymnast, and he fought the urge to groan. This was not how he planned on spending his morning.
Greg slid out of bed like he was defusing a bomb, holding his breath as he lifted Hyla's arm and set it down as gently as possible. She stirred a bit but didn't wake, her blonde pigtails spread out across the pillow like a golden fan. For a moment, guilt twisted in his chest like a knife, but he shoved it down. Not now. So not the time to deal with this.
He spotted his tan breeches on the floor, grabbing them and sliding them on quick, lacing them up with fingers that knew what they were doing even if his brain was still mostly offline. His leather fingerless gloves came next, the familiar feel of them helping ground him as he pulled them into place. Last came his boots—somehow still clean despite all the mud and blood they'd seen—and he stood there for a second, staring at Hyla's sleeping form like an idiot.
She was so pretty, Greg unable to help himself but look at her for a few moments more, until he shook his head quickly. Time to go. Like, right now.
He slipped through the door of the small room and into the hallway, keeping his footsteps quiet on the wooden floorboards. The hall reeked of smoke, spilled ale, and the faint, lingering smell of roast boar that made his stomach do weird things. As he made his way into the main room, he glanced around, taking in the sight of people just starting to wake up in the village hall.
A few villagers were starting to stir on the long benches, groaning like zombies as they dealt with their hangovers, while some old women poked at what was left of the fire in the hearth. Greg moved through the space like he was playing a stealth game, avoiding eye contact as more memories of last night tried to surface.
When he reached the head table, his eyes landed on Ash, curled up on top of his bag like the world's furriest backpack. The cub looked totally wiped out, tiny legs twitching as he dreamed, probably chasing something in his sleep. Greg couldn't help but smile, crouching down to give the cub a quick scratch behind the ears. Ash grumbled in his sleep, rolling onto his back like a dog, still hanging onto a piece of boar meat in his mouth. Hungry little gremlin.
He sat heavily at the head table, dropping into the same wooden chair he'd occupied the night before with a grunt. The wood creaked under him like it was complaining about his weight, which was stupid since he barely weighed anything. He buried his head in his hands, elbows resting on the rough wood of the table that still smelled like spilled ale and meat grease, and let out a long breath that seemed to come from somewhere deep in his gut.
The events of the previous night came rushing back, unwanted and heavy like a brick to the face. Hyla, the feast, the drinking—way too much of it—and then waking up beside her. Shit. This is so messed up.
He wasn't feeling sick from the alcohol—hell, he doubted he could ever really be, not with how strong his body had become since yesterday. With how tough he was, his metabolism probably burned through that stuff like a furnace now.
Still, his head felt... cloudy, like he was trying to think through a thick fog. The realization of what had happened, of what he'd done—or what had been done to him, maybe?—gnawed at his insides like a hungry rat. The whole thing felt wrong, twisted up in ways that made his stomach do backflips.
He'd slept with her.
While drunk.
And he didn't even remember how it happened.
All he could remember was the ale, endless plates of boar that kept appearing in front of him, and the constant flow of refilled cups that never seemed to empty. Like someone made sure of it.
I'm a virgin... was.
Greg frowned, the thought hitting him like a punch to the gut. Was a virgin. Past tense now.
This wasn't how it was supposed to go. Not even close. This was supposed to be something different, something special maybe, not... whatever this was.
"G'mornin', Lord Greg," Hod greeted, his voice way too cheerful for this early. "Feast treat ye well?"
Greg raised his head as the village chief strode up, looking far less groggy than Greg expected. The guy's walk was steady as a rock, his face not flushed or hungover like the others still stumbling around the hall like extras from a zombie movie. Greg realized, a sinking feeling in his gut like he'd swallowed lead, that he hadn't paid much attention to how much anyone else had been drinking last night. Flashes of the feast flickered in his mind—Hyla, Hod, mugs of ale being passed back and forth like party favors, and the way Hyla had smiled over his shoulder when the chief called her over. Hod had handed her a new mug of ale himself so she wouldn't have to walk away like the others did.
Something's not right here.
Greg frowned as Hod approached, his boots thumping against the wooden floor like a countdown. The chief noticed Greg's expression, his smile faltering slightly like a candle in the wind.
Greg stared at him hard, blue eyes drilling into the older man's face. Lord Greg—the title scraped against his ears like fingernails on a chalkboard, worse than usual. "...is Hyla your daughter?"
Hod blinked, clearly caught off-guard by the question, his face doing that thing adults do when kids ask something they don't want to answer. "...Ah, ye've met me Hyla, me pride and joy, she is.".
"...Why?" Greg's voice came out flat as a pancake, the word slipping out before he could think to soften it. It hung in the air between them like a sword.
Hod's face tightened up like someone had pulled strings, the fake smile he'd tried to keep plastered on quickly fading even as he fought to hold onto it. "Eh... m'lord? What d'ye mean, why?"
Greg stayed quiet, his face blank as a new sheet of paper. This fuckin' guy, I swear.
The silence stretched out like taffy, making Hod sweat. The chief swallowed hard, his throat bobbing like he was trying to get down something nasty, but before he could speak again, they both heard the sound of footsteps coming from the hall.
Just then, Hyla stepped into the hall, fully clothed in a slightly ruffled dress that had seen better days. Her hair was brushed back from her face, but the look of unease on her face was clear as day. When she spotted Greg at the head table, she quickly dropped into a curtsy, her eyes darting up only briefly before dropping again like they burned. "M'lord."
Greg watched how she avoided looking at Hod like he wasn't even there, her whole body stiff as a board, her movements careful like she was walking on broken glass. His gaze bounced between the nervous girl and the chief, something clicking in his head. There was a resemblance there—Greg hadn't noticed it last night, not through the haze of ale, but now, in the harsh light of morning, it was obvious as a neon sign to anyone with working eyes.
He turned back to Hyla, his voice dropping low like thunder before a storm, "...Why?"
Hyla's face went white as paper, her hands twisting in the fabric of her dress like she was trying to wring water from it. She didn't answer, just stood there looking like she wanted the floor to swallow her whole.
Hod took a step forward, his voice jumping up an octave, all defensive now, "M'lord, it's not what ye think. We jus' wanted ye to have a good time, that's all."
"You wanted me to have a good time?" Greg's voice went tight and hard, his eyes narrowing as he glanced between them like he was watching a tennis match from hell.
Hyla shifted like she had ants in her dress, biting her lip but keeping quiet as a mouse. Hod, on the other hand, was quick to jump in, his voice rushing out like water from a broken dam, almost pleading.
"Aye, ye're a fine young lord, and ye did so much for our village, for Wald. We thought ye deserved a night... somethin' special, somethin' t' remember."
"Special?" Greg's lips twisted like he'd tasted something rotten, barely hiding how much he wanted to throw up. "So you decided that your daughter was just... just part of that?"
Hod's mouth opened and closed like a fish on land, but no words came out. He shot a look at Hyla, who was still doing her best statue impression, then back at Greg. "It ain't like that, m'lord... ye misunderstand. We just thought..."
"You thought what?" Greg snapped, standing up so fast his chair screamed against the wooden floor. Hod jumped back like he'd been burned, his hands coming up like he was trying to ward off a blow.
"M'lord, please—ye've got it wrong. No harm meant. We jus'... Hyla's a good girl, an' ye're a lord, or might be..." Hod's voice trailed off into nothing, like he'd run out of steam. "We thought..."
The entire hall seemed to freeze like someone had hit pause, everybody else still moving and working but somehow managing to barely make a sound, their attention locked on his conversation. The crackling of the hearth fire and the scraping of wooden bowls against tables just made the silence feel heavier.
Shit. Greg shook his head, his voice dropping lower, each word coming out like it hurt. "You thought getting me drunk and getting your daughter to have sex with me was a way to thank me?" His stomach twisted as he said it out loud, making it real.
Hyla's face went white as chalk, her eyes darting to Greg in a mix of fear and embarrassment that made him feel even worse. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out except a small choking sound that reminded Greg of a trapped animal.
Greg turned to her, his tone gentler but still firm as steel. "...Why?"
Hyla finally looked up at him, her voice shaking like a leaf in the wind as she twisted her skirt between her fingers, "I... I did what me da asked, m'lord. He... said it was for the best. An' ye were a handsome one, an' I... I..." Her words trailed off into nothing, like she'd run out of air.
"For the best?" Greg repeated, feeling bile rise in his throat. He could feel his pulse hammering in his head like a drum, but it wasn't from the ale. It was anger—and something else. A heaviness in his chest that felt like someone had filled it with rocks. This is so messed up.
Hod stepped forward again, more insistent now, his boots scraping against the floor. "M'lord, please. It's not what ye think. Hyla meant no harm. She's a good girl, an' I just wanted what was best for her." His words came out fast and desperate, like he was trying to patch a leaking boat.
Greg shook his head, his lip curling in disgust. "Sure," he said, the word dripping with enough sarcasm to fill a bucket. The taste of last night's ale came back, bitter and wrong.
Hyla's eyes flicked to him like a scared rabbit's, panic creeping into her expression. Greg wasn't sure if it was guilt or fear that made her look so breakable, but he couldn't deal with it.
Not now.
Not with his head spinning and his stomach doing flips.
Greg shook his head and stood up, his movements slow but sure as concrete. Both Hod and Hyla stepped back like he was on fire as he turned, walking over to his bag where Ash still snored away on top of it, totally oblivious to the drama show going on around him. He bent down, digging through the side pocket before pulling out five coin purses that felt heavy as his conscience. He dropped them onto the table in front of Hod, a few of the silver coins inside them spilling out with a metallic clatter that echoed off the walls.
"There's at least a... dragon, yeah, a dragon worth of coins in here," Greg said tiredly, his voice as hollow as an empty well. "Just take that. I gotta... gotta go." The words tasted like ash in his mouth.
"M'lord," Hod began, desperation dripping from his voice like honey gone bad. "Please, I..."
Greg cut him off, snatching his bag with one arm and scooping up the still-snoring Ash with the other, the bear cub not even twitching as Greg tucked him under his arm like a furry football. He didn't bother looking back at Hod or Hyla, couldn't stand to see their faces right now. "Thanks for the... the feast, I guess," he muttered, the words coming out bitter and flat.
Without another glance, he turned on his heel and walked toward the door, his boots thudding against the floor like a countdown. Hod and Hyla remained quiet behind him, their faces fallen as Greg left them behind, stepping out into the morning light.
He didn't look back.
V Card Swiped - 200 GP
Roll: I'm Not Rusty [Shovel Knight] {Lore} (300 GP) - No matter how long you go without practice and exercise, you will stay just as skilled.
Grimoire Points: 400