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Thou hast me, if thou hast me, at the worst; and thou shalt wear me, if thou wear me, better and better. And therefore tell me, most fair Katherine, will you have me?
Henry V, Act 5 Scene 2
[this section by shuofthewind]
Shara, she thinks, is going to lock her in the audience chamber and not free her for weeks, after she returns. Jyn settles the hood over her head again, and touches the letter in the inside pocket of her cloak, one more time, just to be sure. She can hear Shara now. You stole an airship, left the country, ran directly into the hands of an enemy government, and you didn’t take me with you, you gods’ damned fucking fool.
(Shara is not particularly reverent, which is why Jyn likes her. Jyn has no patience for the feckless, drooling courtiers who try to flatter even when she’s being idiotic.)
And she’s not stupid. She might be reckless, sometimes—all the time, says a voice in her head that sounds remarkably like Bodhi, you’re reckless all the time—but she’s not stupid. Besides: it’s not as though she ran off to Scarif. She’s in Fest. Festian royalty may have a reputation for being double-dealing, backstabbing, thieving snakes, but they’re not going to take the monarch of another country captive. They’re not Corellian.
She touches the letter again, and rocks back and forth on her toes.
There are reasons she chose Fest. Good ones. Lah’mu is an agricultural nation, not overtly militarized, not particularly mechanized. If there’s to be a war—and there is, no matter what her advisors would wish to believe—then Lah’mu, with its rolling fields and its landlocked edges, is going to be the first to fall. And out of every territory they share a border with, every nation they feed, it is Fest, not Corell, not Corusca, and certainly not the Stafar Imperialists, that treats them with what could be called respect.
Times are desperate. She is desperate. She has no other choice.
The latch clicks, and she jumps. She can’t help it. Jyn rests a hand to the knife beneath her cloak, hidden against the bone of her hip, as the side door slinks open, oiled so well it barely sighs. Fest is almost always drowning under meters of snow, and the tapestries they hang on every wall to keep the chill out muffle the world, like the palace is encased in cotton wool. The man who slips inside is slim, like a rapier, fine-boned and well-tended even with the scruff on his cheeks, and when the door shuts behind him, there’s another, strangled snap of a lock.
She hasn’t seen him this close, before. Cassian Andor, First of His Name. Her spies say people called him The Bastard Prince before he came to power six years ago, barely twenty, after the regency had finally been toppled. Nobody really dares call him the Bastard King. He’s thinner than he is in the photographs, she thinks. Thinner and slightly more grey, like something’s washing color out of him, leaving behind tired lines around his mouth.
“I am given to understand you bear a letter from Lah’mu.” He folds his hands behind his back, and does not move. “The seneschal said you were commanded to deliver it only to me.”
Jyn fidgets with the hem of her cloak. It’s time, she knows it’s time, but—her tongue won’t come undone from the roof of her mouth.
“Well?” One eyebrow lifts, and there’s a spark of curiosity beneath the smooth mask, now, a hint of—something. “Do you have the letter or not?”
“I thought,” she says, “it would be best to discuss my proposal in person. I hope you can forgive my intrusion.”
Cassian Andor stills, and waits. “Proposal?”
Jyn sweeps her hood back, and lifts her chin. Please recognize me. And he does—his eyes go a bit wide, his lips part, and then the mask snaps right back into place. He takes a step forward, and then stops. She wets her lips.
“I come to broker an alliance,” she says. And then: “And to make you a proposal of marriage.”
[end of section by shuofthewind]
That cracks the mask; his chin jerks up in a startled motion, and his gaze sweeps over her from head to foot, making her feel exposed despite the heavy concealing cloak. But after one deep inhale, all his cool composure is intact again.
“Your Majesty has my full attention,” he says, with a slight bow. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you in person. Both of your proposals are—intriguing, but I need to hear more detail.”
The tension in Jyn’s spine slackens, and if it weren’t for all of her childhood deportment lessons she might slump in relief. She’s almost grateful for the matter-of-fact way he took her unprecedented idiocy (another comment from the Shara in her head) in stride.
This is only the first hurdle, though. He may not have dismissed her as an imposter, or thrown her out without a hearing, but she’s still going to have to marshal her arguments well enough to convince a cunning and subtle ruler that there are advantages in this arrangement for him. A tremor of nerves runs through her like a plucked harp string.
“Are you cold? The winter in Fest can be a shock to those unused to it. Please, take a seat by the fire.” He doesn’t touch her, but he nods toward the glazed tile stove against one wall, and she retreats in that direction.
Two rather faded armchairs are set in front of it. As Jyn gathers her cloak around her to sit down, she wonders what this room is generally used for. It’s a bit shabby, without the formal grandeur of a room where ambassadors or envoys are received. Most importantly, she reminds herself, it’s private. And she’s locked inside it, alone with a man who didn’t hesitate to kill his way to a throne. A man she hopes desperately (because she’s desperate) to convince to marry her.
Another shiver walks up her spine as a shadow falls across her. She looks up to see the King of Fest standing before her, two fragile glass snifters half-full of golden liquid in his hands. “Forgive the presumption, but I thought this might be welcome.”
Jyn blinks up at him. Of course, it’s not safe to take anything from him, but she can’t collect her thoughts quickly enough to find a polite excuse. He obviously understands her reluctance, because he raises one glass and drinks from it before passing it to her. She accepts it automatically, her hand cupping the thin blown-glass balloon, and takes a tiny, cautious sip. The brandy is good, warming her from the inside as the stove's radiating heat thaws her from without. She’s also burningly conscious of setting her lips to the same place where his were a moment ago.
He sits in the chair across from her, resting his ankle on one knee and casually dangling his glass from long, graceful fingers. Jyn nearly laughs at the thought of how cozy this domestic scene in front of the fire would appear to any observer. She can’t relax, though; her back is still bolt upright, not touching the back of her chair, and her fingers are tight around the stem of her glass. She licks her lips nervously, tasting the fiery brandy on her tongue.
The king watches her without a word. The soft whisper of the coal burning in the stove is the only sound in the room. He’s waiting for her to speak first, either out of courtesy or because it will reveal more of her character to him—probably both.
Jyn takes a deep breath. She’s never felt younger nor more untried. She may be a queen, but she’s not a diplomat or a courtier. She’s not practiced at making pretty speeches off the cuff, or spinning persuasive webs out of ambiguous words. She’s certainly not capable of outwitting a Festian at political intrigue. All she can do is state her case plainly and hope that he'll see its merits.
“Fest is rich in mines and metal, but land-poor. You need Lah’mu’s crops and our kine to thrive. We need your mountain passes and sea ports to ship our grain.”
The man across from her tips his head to one side, regarding her intently. “True,” he agrees. “But surely that’s a simple matter of trade? Not normally something requiring a formal treaty, much less an alliance sealed by a royal marriage.”
Jyn straightens her shoulders, squaring her chin and locking her gaze on his dark eyes. She has to convince him and her brief time is swiftly running out, so she strikes straight to the heart of her argument. “War is coming,” she says bluntly. “And my country needs an ally. I believe Fest is our best choice.”
He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and stares at her. Jyn licks her dry lips again, but she doesn’t blink or retreat.
“Why Fest?” he asks. “Instead of Corell, or—?”
Rudely, Jyn cuts him off. “Because you hate the Empire more.” Her spies have learned that much about the Bastard Prince, even though most of his early life is shrouded in rumours and mystery.
“Indeed.” His face twists in a half-suppressed snarl before he takes a deep breath and deliberately settles back in his chair again. “What have they done to earn your enmity?” he inquires.
“It’s not important.” Jyn shakes her head. He doesn’t need to know that she suspects the Empire’s hand in the death of her parents—not yet. “And there is another reason this alliance would be to your advantage, even more than mine.”
A faint smile at her clumsy bargaining gambit touches his mouth. “And what might that be?”
Jyn takes another swallow of brandy, to draw out the moment and because she needs it for courage. “You need an heir.”
The king’s mouth remains curved in amusement, though his dark eyes aren’t smiling. “All monarchs do,” he says, his tone gently mocking. “Including you.”
“I have one,” Jyn says. “I’m happy to let my cousin Bodhi inherit. He’s a good man and would be a good king. But you…” There’s nothing that will soften the insolence of her next words, so she swallows and forges ahead. “You have no children or surviving kin, and no obvious successor. If you were to die, Fest would plunge back into civil war.”
“Quite likely.” His voice is dry and precise, as though they weren’t discussing his own mortality. “But I’m a relatively young man, so I have time. And perhaps I already have a bride in mind.”
“I doubt it. If you choose someone from any of the noble families of Fest…” Jyn shrugs. “As soon as she bears a child, your in-laws would have an excellent motive to oust you and install another regency.” Even if the Festian aristocracy weren’t notorious for its scheming and backstabbing, the king hasn’t endeared himself to them with many of his policies that are meant to improve the lives of the common folk. They support him—for now—because it’s better than continued war, but that balance could tip the other way at any moment.
“You’ve paid close attention to Festian politics.” His voice is still mild and even, with no hint of what he truly thinks about her analysis.
“I have.” Jyn dares another glance at him, longer this time, studying the lines of his jaw and cheek instead of meeting his gaze. The firelight bronzes his skin and hair, lending him the healthy colour he lacked before, and she realizes with a shock that the king of Fest is handsome.
She’s not certain whether the fact she could find him attractive might make marriage to him any easier. In some ways, after all, it would be much simpler if it was just a cold, dispassionate transaction with someone who repelled her; this thoughtful, soft-spoken man seems to be someone she could like. And yet, he’s still a killer. Festians are infamous for never attacking face to face when they can slip a knife in your back. Jyn might be able to trust him to work with her, but only so far as it benefits his interests—she can’t afford to forget that.
“Do you actually have a letter? May I see it?” he asks.
Startled out of her musings, Jyn nods. She fumbles her hand into the pocket inside the lining of her cloak and pulls out the letter—in her own hand, sealed with her personal signet. He breaks the seal and scans it quickly, taking barely long enough to absorb the contents in Jyn’s opinion. Then again, it only contains the few simple arguments she’s already laid out for him, set forth in more formal language, and her non-negotiable terms for marriage: mutual military aid; no merger between their kingdoms, with alternating periods of residence in each; their first child to be heir of Fest, the second of Lah’mu.
He folds the letter carefully back into its creases and tucks it inside his waistcoat. Jyn’s fingers twitch and she almost tries to snatch it back. But that’s childish; the die is cast, and whether he has proof of her overture or not doesn’t matter. Either way, if he chooses to betray her, she’s in his power.
“Before I give my answer,” the king says quietly, and her eyes snap up to meet his, “I have a question for you.”
She nods. Of course he’d have his own conditions to put on any such agreement.
He leans forward and looks at her searchingly. Once again she notes the faint dark smudges under his eyes and the way their corners sag slightly, and wonders how much he sleeps.
“What are you afraid of?”
“What?” Jyn’s hand jerks and the brandy in her glass nearly slops over the rim.
“You could have presented this proposal in a more conventional way,” he says. “Sent an envoy to open negotiations. Instead, you came alone and unannounced. Unprotected, even. Which makes it seem as though you wanted the possibility of this alliance to remain a secret.”
His dark eyes pin her to her seat and she swallows. This is more honesty than she expected to have to share so soon. But if she can’t trust him that far, then why is she even here? She has to take the plunge at some point.
Jyn gulps down a last mouthful of brandy and forces herself to set the half-full glass down on the hearth before she says anything more. She needs all her wits about her to fence words with the King of Fest. “There was—an accident. My horse threw me. It might have been nothing, but…” She shrugs. “I’m a good rider and Phoenix had always been a reliable mount. The more I thought about it, the more suspicious I became.” She rubs her right wrist absently. Her thick riding gloves had protected her hands from broken skin when she fell, but her wrist was badly sprained and it still twinges with pain from time to time weeks later. What hurts worse is the loss of her favourite old mare, a gift from Jyn’s mother as a filly—but Phoenix broke her foreleg and had to be put down.
The king reaches out and takes her right hand in his, turning it over gently to examine her wrist and the heel of her palm, where the yellow-green shadows of a fading bone bruise still linger. His touch is light and impersonal, no more seductive than the physician who’d treated her, and yet Jyn can feel herself flushing to her hairline. She stays very still and prays that the wavering gaslight will mask the rising colour in her face.
“Yes, we heard news of the accident here,” he murmurs. He looks up at her and another fleeting smile flickers across his mouth, this time actually echoed in the crinkles around his eyes. “It was dismissed as the consequence of your youthful recklessness.”
“I am not reckless!” Jyn protests.
“Really, your Majesty?” he says, raising a skeptical eyebrow. “Your presence here would argue otherwise.” The ghostly smile comes to life as a full curve of his mouth that is unexpectedly warm and charming.
At his dryly teasing tone, Jyn can feel her blush burn even hotter. His warm fingers are still wrapped around hers and his thumb too close to the betraying leap of the pulse in her wrist. She tugs her hand back toward herself and he releases it instantly. She curls her hands around each other in her lap, the right one still warm from his touch.
“Jyn, please,” she manages. “If we’re to talk about this seriously, you can at least use my name.”
He regards her levelly. “Not Ginevra?”
She shakes her head. “No-one calls me that.” No one but that smirking Imperial bastard Krennic, at least. She may be Queen Ginevra the Third on all official documents and proclamations, but to her family and friends, she’s always been Jyn.
“Call me Cassian, then, Jyn,” he says, and the sound of his softly accented voice wrapping around the syllable of her name is strangely pleasing. “So you suspect our Imperial friends were behind this supposed accident.”
“Yes.” Jyn refuses to give in to the nervous instinct to glance around the room when he dares to state it so plainly. He must be very confident that this room is safe and secure. Again, she reminds herself that to convince the king—Cassian—to agree to her proposal, she has to trust him enough to share her worries. At least some of them. “I have no proof, but the timing was suggestive. Their envoys have become more pressing of late. They hinted at finding me a husband among the lords of Scarrif. I put them off, and then…”
“The accident,” he says softly.
She nods.
“It would likely be prudent to keep our betrothal a secret,” he muses. “In case they decide to try something else before the wedding.”
“Are we betrothed?” she asks, startled into asking a direct question. “I have yet to hear your answer.”
Cassian sighs and rubs his brow wearily, and she wonders why the thought of marriage is so off-putting to him. Maybe he doesn’t find women appealing—or at least, not women like her. She knows what people see when they look at her: pale skin, dark hair, ordinary features, and a small, slight frame. Jyn is not particularly beautiful or impressive. Unless she’s garbed in state robes and coronet, she lacks the regal presence that a queen ought to have.
It shouldn’t matter. Jyn doesn’t have to be a beauty for this; it’s a political and diplomatic bargain, a formal exchange of benefits, rather than a true marriage of individuals. The kind of relationship her parents had is not common among the nobility of any land, let alone kings and queens of rival nations. If Cassian is a loyal ally to her and a civil husband, that is all she can expect, and more than she needs.
“Fest will stand with Lah’mu.” He holds his right hand out to her. Jyn’s fingers tremble with relief as she lays them across it, feeling the warm tension of his palm. He turns his hand to clasp hers. “As an ally or a consort, whatever you choose, I am yours.”
Jyn’s heart beats wildly as if it’s about to fly into her throat and choke her. Cassian’s words are mere courtly manners, of course, but the low, rough tone of his voice and the intensity in his eyes are confusing. They make it seem as if he is pledging himself to her in all sincerity—which makes no sense. He wouldn’t be so foolish as to offer that to her. Nor should Jyn be so easily beguiled.
She looks down at their linked hands, the dark ruby signet ring on his forefinger gleaming like blood in the firelight, and swallows. It’s safer, more binding, if this alliance is sealed with a marriage. Once she’s wed, the Empire can’t keep sending unmarried envoys with more and more pressing suits. “I need both,” she admits, fighting to keep her voice clear and steady.
“Then let us be married.” Cassian bows his head and lifts her hand for a brief kiss. At the sensation of his warm breath and soft lips on her knuckles, Jyn’s hand twitches in his clasp and once again, he releases it immediately.
She presses her palms to her thighs and takes a ragged breath, trying to think clearly. In all her feverish planning to reach this point, all her carefully crafted arguments, she hadn’t managed to think past the moment of his hoped-for agreement. What are the next steps?
“The details of the settlement still need to be worked out,” he says gently, as though to bring her back to herself. “And when the wedding will take place. If your suspicions are true, for your safety, it should be soon.” He hesitates. “I can call in a cleric here and now, for that matter, though it may be difficult to find a few witnesses we can trust.”
“No.” Jyn shakes her head, ignoring the part of her that’s urging her to take his offer and seal their alliance immediately. Kings and queens must marry in public, or it’s too easy to challenge the legitimacy of it.
Her voice becomes steadier, more assured, as she concentrates on logistics. “Why not at the New Year? That would be a good pretext for you to make a court visit to Lah’mu. Then we could announce that negotiations had been carried out in private, and marry.”
Jyn is quite pleased with herself for coming up with that plan on the spur of the moment. It’s simple but logical, and it means the wedding can take place just a few months from now.
Cassian doesn’t smile at her again, but he nods decisively. Despite everything, Jyn feels a sense of lightness and her shoulders drop, freed of their nervous tightness.
And then she realizes how long she’s been here. The pilot can’t wait for her much longer. “I must go,” she says anxiously, standing and pulling her cloak around her.
“One moment,” Cassian says, rising with her. “I have something for you to take with you.”
*
Ten minutes later, when Kay enters the room through the concealed side door, Cassian is still sitting by the fire, staring absentmindedly into his second glass of brandy (a nearly unheard-of indulgence, but he needed to try and regain some of his equilibrium).
“Where’s the body?” his seneschal asks, scanning the darker corners of the room. “Don’t tell me you let her escape, you’re not so inept.”
Cassian looks up. “It wasn’t an assassination attempt.”
“Really?” Kay sounds skeptical. “Then it was the clumsiest attempt at an assignation I’ve ever seen. Normally, they at least try to bribe me for access to your bedchamber.”
Cassian half-laughs, shaking his head. “Not that either.” He hesitates, trying to frame what just happened in a way that won’t convince Kay he’s an idiot, and gives up. “I’ve just pledged to marry the Queen of Lah’mu.”
“What?” Kay drops the ledger of correspondence he was leafing through on to his desk with a thud. He stares at Cassian, his round spectacles reflecting the light like two full harvest moons. “Why in the name of the Force of Destiny would you do that?”
“Why not? She was on the list of potential brides you and Draven put together last month,” Cassian points out peevishly. “And you agreed with me that she was the most logical choice.”
“Yes, but there were still several other names to consider. And we meant to wait until spring to broach the idea with her advisors. Why would you jump into this without even consulting me, or Lord Draven...?” Kay’s quick mind spins together a web of connections, inferences and probabilities almost visibly and Cassian watches him realize what happened. “The messenger was the Queen herself.”
“Yes.” Cassian stretches his toes out toward the stove and contemplates its reflection on the gleaming leather of his boots, waiting for the inevitable scolding. He could tell Kay that he’s lucky it isn’t already a fait accompli; Cassian was fully prepared to drag in a priest and marry her right here on this threadbare rug if she’d agreed. But that wouldn’t improve his seneschal’s temper any.
Kay takes off his glasses and folds them neatly, setting them on top of the ledger. He crosses his arms over his chest and stares down at Cassian. “So you let a kiss from a pretty face convince you to do something rash and impulsive.”
“How much of a fool do you take me for?” he asks, and then realizes that Kay will no doubt have a precisely calculated number ready in answer to that question. “Never mind. Yes, she’s a lovely woman, but that’s beside the point. She didn’t try to seduce me.”
If Ginevra—Jyn—had acted more seductively, Cassian would have been more suspicious. But she didn’t even shed her heavy cloak, or try to touch him, and the two times he briefly took her hand, she barely tolerated his touch. She hadn’t made any appeal to his senses at all. All her arguments had been coldly practical, even when she talked of heirs.
Besides, what she looks like is unimportant; it’s what she’s offering that’s attractive. She’s young and, if not exactly naïve, still far too trusting—he can’t believe she took the risk of putting herself in his power by coming to see him alone, in secret—but she was correct to point out that he sorely needs support from outside Fest at the moment. Of course, that will infuriate some of his own court even more, but it can’t be helped.
“Worse, then. She played on your regrettable streak of chivalry.”
Cassian groans. “Kay, please.” That hits uncomfortably close to the mark. Not that he believes Jyn deliberately sought to manipulate him, but when she admitted to being afraid, he found himself wishing he could be an honourable man for once. It would have been pleasant to promise to help and support her simply because it was the right thing to do, not because it was advantageous for himself and Fest. But he knows that will never be the case; he’s no knight errant from a story, he’s still and always the cunning Bastard Prince. And this marriage is the best of his limited options.
He tries appealing to Kay’s common sense. “Our reasons for seeking an alliance with Lah’mu still apply. I may have been a touch hasty, but that’s all.”
“Perhaps.” Kay sniffs. “Draven will be unhappy.”
“He ought to be used to it by now,” Cassian snaps, and then clenches his jaw, regretting the outburst. His relationship with his spymaster and former mentor is fraying now, perhaps inevitably, as Cassian strives to become his own man. He has no intention of being a puppet king.
To do the man justice, Cassian doesn’t think that’s why Draven rescued him from the massacre of his family all those years ago. Draven wanted to save one little boy, and the fact that boy had a remote claim to the throne probably played no more than a minor part in his decision at the time. But their disagreements have been honed to a sharper edge these past few years, since Cassian was crowned.
Cassian tries to believe that most of the terrible things they did during the civil war were necessary if they were to gain the victory. War is vicious, and no matter how justified those acts were deemed, they left blood on his hands that will never be washed away. What he did can’t be undone. But surely, now that Fest is at peace, now is the time to see what they can build. To try to make a better land for all, rather than simply hold on to the throne. To form alliances and a common front against the Empire. Why can’t Draven see that?
Wearied by the echo of the constant argument in his head, Cassian rubs his hand over his face. “I’m retiring. Please send up some snowgrass tea.” He doesn’t think he’ll sleep any time soon, as he contemplates everything that happened tonight, but he ought to try, at least; he’s exhausted. “Oh, and I need you to find me another copy of The Mountain’s Song.”
Kay’s eyes narrow. “What happened to yours?”
“I gave it to Jyn—Ginevra. We needed a way to correspond in secret, and there was no time to work out any elaborate method. A shared book cipher was the easiest to arrange.” And that was the only book within reach of which Cassian could easily find another copy of the same edition. The fact that it’s also his favourite book of poetry, that he can recite long passages of it from memory, which he learned by heart as a child to put himself to sleep—that’s immaterial.
“You gave her your personal copy. Sweet Force.” Kay shakes his head, muttering, but Cassian ignores it with the ease of long practice.
He doesn’t share with Kay that he also gave Jyn the silver ring from the little finger of his right hand, the one that once belonged to his sister. Nor does he mention that in return, she drew a chain off her neck and pressed it into his hand: a crystal pendant still warm from her skin. He’d slipped it over his head to lie concealed inside his shirt as soon as she left.
Why did he do that? He’s no infatuated boy, to be mooning over a lover’s token. He barely had the chance to learn what infatuation was; oh, he followed a few people with his eyes when he was young, desperately wishing he could speak to them, but he never took any opportunity for dalliance. Even if Draven had allowed it, Cassian himself knew that would make anyone in his position vulnerable. It was too dangerous.
As it still is. He takes a deep breath, feeling the heavy pendant shift on his chest, and reminds himself that this is first and foremost an alliance between nations rather than a union of two people. Even if his feelings were important rather than irrelevant, they are best set aside. A king can rarely afford to fall in love with his wife—especially when she is already a queen.