The Warrior and her Prince

Chapter 1

The Grand City of Boharstvi.

Aragorn Cadwell never thought he would return to this place again. Not alive, at least.

Aragorn dismounted from his horse awkwardly, tumbling gracelessly off the saddle but recovering quickly enough to stay on his feet instead of toppling over. Around him, the crowd jostled and pushed. No one was sparring more than half a glance for whom appeared to be just another wounded soldier from the war. In fact, his companion, Lyla, was attracting more stares than he was. It felt odd to be so inconspicuous. Being a member of the Royal Family, he could remember the crowds parting for him wherever he went. He remembered walking through the city as though he owned it. Now, he was being knocked from side to side by the indifferent crowd.

Lyla jumped down gracelessly from her horse and came to stand at his right side. She very much looked like a child in a baggy dress that didn't fit her at all. She seemed struggling to keep the sleeve of her dress from falling off her shoulders. And the way she was struggling to walk in that made it obvious that she had never been in a dress before.

Even in a dress, it was obvious that she was not a typical Lady. It was not just because of the weapons that were present at her hips or the gown that was bloody enough to give a man nightmares for days. In fact, she looked more like a warrior than him. She had a perfect fighting stance, her feet were planted firmly apart and shoulders squared firmly. He caught her eye and smiled but she did not return it. Well, she didn't turn away or roll her eyes which, for Lyla, was practically the same thing.

Soon, he found a few soldiers walking past him. After a few low-spoken words, the guards shoved, pushed and elbowed their way through the crowds in the direction of the Castle to make way for their Prince.

As he suspected, no sooner had he set foot near the Castle, he was greeted by his father and Miranda. Miranda, the girl he would probably have to marry in the future. His father didn't bother to give him anything more than a nod as an acknowledgment for seeing his son after he was kept as a prisoner for over a year. Miranda was greeting him with soft platitudes he had little time for.

"Who is.. that?" Miranda asked, at last noticing his companion.

He again became aware of Lyla, steadfast at his flank.

“This is Lyla Braxton.” he said.

“Take her to a cell then, we shall deal with her late-” his father told the guards.

“No.” The word flew out of his mouth before he could even think about it. All eyes turned to him. Especially his father's cold gray ones.

"Did I hear you right? She is a Braxton. She should be executed right here, right now," he father said, with an undertone of anger in his voice.

"She was charged by the Baldricks to bring me home, which as you can see she succeeded in."

"But, why would the Baldricks allow-" Miranda started to ask.

“She is to be seen as an honored guest,” he ordered the dubious guards, ignoring Miranda and his father's glare, as he made his way to his chambers.

----------------------------------

Lyla bowed as she thanked the guards for showing her to the guest chambers. She ran her fingers through her hair, untangling a few snarls. She briefly wondered how terrifying she must have looked. She was covered in blood and dirt that had accumulated over the past few days. Absently scratching at her neck, she looked around, taking in the room she had been given. Her eyes were immediately drawn to the bed, a huge thing covered in red and gold all over-stuffed cushions, heaps of soft looking blankets and silken sheets.

She collapsed on it without even bothering to remove her boots. It was outrageously soft and welcoming. She immediately decided she was never going to leave this spot again. She had gotten through this journey in one piece. But, Lyla did not have the strength to feel the optimism which should have come with successfully finishing her quest. For now, all she could feel was exhaustion. She threw an arm across her face to shield them from the daylight spilling in as she drifted off to a dreamless sleep.

When Aragorn knocked lightly on her open door a few hours later, he got absolutely no response. He pushed it wider, enough to just stick his head inside.

“Lady Lyla, are you…”

Lyla was sprawled out on the bed in a truly ungainly manner, fast asleep, still in her bloody and hideously pink gown. The pink probably disgusted her more than the blood it was covered in. He watched her for a moment, a fond smile finding its way onto his face. He moved swiftly to the window and tugged the drapes shut.

After all, they'd been through recently she needed the rest, he decided. He did not wish to disturb her merely to drag her through the ordeal of dinner with his family. Especially one with his father. The meeting could wait a few hours, he decided.

-----------------------------------

Aragorn finally had a chance to bath in almost a year. He cleaned himself up nicely. His blonde hair was combed perfectly. His dual swords were mounted neatly at his sides. He had his armor on, along with a red cloak that carried his house symbol. Almost a whole day had passed but there was no sign of Lyla. Exactly how late was she going to sleep? Aragorn was now impatiently waiting for Lyla to wake up. He needed her so that he can finally meet his father, and discuss the real reason behind his release. Finally, his patience wore thin and he found himself standing outside her chambers.

He knocked softly on her door, paused, and then knocked a little louder.

“Lyla?”

No response.

He pushed the door open, peering around it cautiously.

The room was completely dark and all he could make out was an unmoving lump on the bed.

“Lyla?” he hissed her name. How could she sleep so long and so soundly dressed like that?

A ridiculous sliver of fear worked its way into his skin. Every rational thought told him that she couldn’t be dead and that her injuries weren’t anywhere near that severe. He needed to stop behaving like an idiot and let the woman get her rest.

It took him a moment before he realized he’d already moved inside the room.

Moving silently across the floor, he decided there was no harm in just checking. To be completely sure that she wasn't dead in there. Reaching the bed, he stared hard at her shoulders for a moment, trying his best to discern movement. Bloody hell, it was dark in here. He still couldn't be sure.

He leaned in closer, putting a knee on the bed for more support.

The sleeper shot bolt upright, nearly head-butting him in the face as she rose, groping blindly for her dagger.

“It’s me!”

He moved hurriedly backward holding up his hands in a placating gesture and watched the shock dance across her features. After staring at him, totally lost, for longer than he deemed necessary or good-mannered, she seemed to remember where she was.

“What the hell are you doing?”

That was a perfectly valid question, and one he had no idea how to answer. Instead, he removed himself from her bed and strode over to the window, flinging back the curtains.

The golden light of evening flooded the room.

“Waking you, you’ve been asleep for the entire day. I thought I’d make sure you weren’t intending to starve to death up here.”

Lyla frowned, rubbing at her eyes in what he found to be a curiously childish gesture.

“I did not realize I had slept so long.”

“And I did not realize you were so fond of that dress as to keep it for sleeping attire.”

She glanced down, wincing as she obviously realized she was still wearing the hideous thing.

“I could have it laundered for you if you are so set on keeping-”

“No.”

He almost laughed at the disgust in her voice.

“But why not? It looks positively charming on you.”

She looked like she was seriously considering beating him to death with a throw pillow. He sat back down on the side of her bed, snagging her hand before she could finish reaching for one. The dress really was hideous and way too large for her. It's only charming lay in revealing hers. It showed off quite a bit of shoulder and cleavage which wasn't usually seen when wore her shirts and breeches.

“Well, why don't we take it to one of the gardens and ceremonially burn it. An offering to the gods, perhaps.”

Something that was almost a smile flickered around the corner of her mouth. She tugged her hand away reservedly, reaching up to pluck at the neckline of the awful gown.

“I don’t know what they’d make of it. It is probably not wise to offend the gods.”

“Well, I will find you some breeches and a shirt.”

“You don’t have to-“

“I do actually, you’re my guest, therefore-”

“But I’m not going to be here for long, I have a mission.” Lyla interrupted.

“It will take time,” he explained gently “I have arranged dinner with my father while you were resting. Let me warn you. He will not be easy to agree to your terms.” he warned her.

Her lips tightened, her fingers spasming into a death grip on the sheets.

"I will make every effort to convince my father. Please trust me. During dinner, no matter what he says or does, do not say anything that offends him. Better yet, do not speak at all. Promise me you will be patient.” he urged.

She didn't answer.

"Please," he said when he realized she wasn't going to say anything.

He was looking at her with eyes honest, open and pleading. Lyla regarded him for a long time and then dropped her chin in a sharp nod. Relief washed through him.

"I shall arrange clothes for you. Make yourself presentable for dinner. I shall be waiting outside." he said, as he bowed and left.

He was standing outside her chambers thinking about how long he might have to wait. He didn't have to think long. She didn't take as much time. Her hair wasn't so matted anymore. It was brushed and her wavy brown hair flowed freely past her shoulders. She was out of that hideous gown and into her usual sandal shirt and leather breeches. Her sword seemed to be missing while her dagger was perched smoothly into her belt. She looked positively radiant but he wasn't sure how his father would react to a guest with a weapon at dinner.

She looked up at him and noticed him staring at her dagger. She raised her eyebrows as if daring him to tell her to leave the dagger behind. She also looked ready to stab him in the eye in the event he actually dared to voice that thought. He gulped. Dear god, Lyla speaking with his father. Aragorn felt a lump of dread and worry settle firmly in his chest. There was no way that this dinner was going to end without one trying to kill the other.