Dinner Scene – The King's Toast
The great hall of Fort Stormarrow glows with golden candlelight and the hum of well-fed nobility. Roast game, strong wine, and stronger laughter fill the air. The bards have settled into softer songs now, letting conversation rule — and at the center of it all, Baron Orin Kharne sits tall and calm, more at ease in this company than many expected.
He wears no armor tonight — just a formal tunic stretched slightly too tight across his massive shoulders, his long hair combed back as best it can be. Even out of battle, he’s unmistakable: the Champion of the Sword, the slayer of Hextor’s black-handed brute, the people’s victor at Bard’s Gate.
King Priam himself has been watching him all evening with the smile of a man who knows a good gamble when he sees it pay off.
“Orin!” the king calls, pushing to his feet with the swagger of wine and royal privilege. The room hushes, instinctively curious.
“There are warriors who make names for themselves. Then there are champions. And then there are fools brave enough to marry a woman like Braga.”
Laughter ripples through the room — the good kind.
The king raises his goblet high.
“You’ve never slept with a baroness before, have you?” he teases, eyes twinkling. “Well, now you’re married to one! Tonight’s a good night — don’t ruin it. Or I’ll have to promote you again, and that’s getting expensive.”
A loud cheer breaks out, joined by claps and stomps. A few nobles chuckle behind their napkins. Dame Venom, at the far end of the table lets out a delighted snort and thumps her goblet twice against the table.
Braga, seated between a scowling cousin and her stone-faced mother, goes stiff as a lance. Her cheeks flush scarlet, and her eyes dart murderously to where Venom’s trying to hide her smile behind a wine cup.
“Venom, I will drown you,” Braga mutters through gritted teeth.
But the toast ends on a high note, with the king declaring, “To Baron Orin Kharne and his fierce, brilliant Baroness — long may they fight for each other!”
Later – A Quiet Moment
Night falls thick and cool outside the hall, and the sounds of revelry fade behind stone walls. On a quiet balcony overlooking the torches of the keep, Orin stands alone, starlight catching the edge of his profile.
Soft footsteps approach. Braga joins him, her gown finally loosened, hair free, face still warm from a dozen cousinly smirks and her mentor’s relentless grinning.
She doesn’t speak right away — just leans her arms on the railing beside him, gazing out.
“Do you think if I ask nicely, Heironeous will smite the king for me?” she says, deadpan.
Orin chuckles.
“He might. But only after promoting you.”
She groans softly, then laughs in spite of herself. Her voice drops.
“I hated that. The attention. The... knowing.” She exhales. “It wasn’t just a joke. That song Venom had the bards play? ‘No Fear for the Morning’? She meant it. WE gave her courage to love? We don't even know what the hell we're doing."
She finally looks up at him, eyes searching.
“I thought I’d die in the middle of nowhere on some tiny inconsequental battlefield. Alone. I thought if anyone ever touched me, it would be because they won, not because they *loved* me.”
A beat.
“You didn’t win me. You *chose* me. And I chose you.”
She rests her head against his chest.
“You’re the only man who didn’t flinch when I showed the mean parts. You stayed. You saw me and stayed.”
Her fingers curl into his shirt.
“But if the king makes one more joke about our bedroom, I swear by the gods, I’m going to teach him what fear *really* feels like.”
Then, with a wicked glint:
“And if Venom writes one more song that even MENTIONS us, I’m going to beat her with a lute.”
She kisses him — slow, deliberate, full of fire — then pulls back, breathing in the night.
“Come on, Baron. I’m not wearing this dress another minute. Let’s go make tomorrow’s bards write something worth singing about.”
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