Of Kings, Queens, Lords, and Ladies (Part 1)
Title: Of Kings, Queens, Lords, and Ladies (Part 1)
Author: shegrewhearts
Fandom/Characters: Doctor Who, Eleven/River
Rating: PG, Eventual R
Word count: ~1700
Disclaimer: Doctor Who belongs to the BBC, no profit or infringement is intended with this piece of fiction.
Summary: There are murmurs of her stature all throughout the city; it is said she is schooled in almost everything, with a voice that sings like pure satin, nimble fingers that pick a tune on any instrument promptly received, a mind well-read in all matters of men, and a wit sharper than the sword of a knight in the King's Watch. Some believe her to be a witch; others, a prophetess. Either way, the Doctor wants to meet her for himself.
A/N: I've been really into A Game of Thrones recently and gidget_zb's superb AU's have been crowding all the space in my head so I decided I'd give AU-ing a shot and write some medieval...something. It's my first AU, so be warned. Here's the beginning and if you're so inclined for another part, please say so in the comments and I'll continue this where it stands.
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A woman arrives in court the same week the Doctor returns from his travels abroad. He has spent the last six or seven months roaming foreign land and water, sent to explore the outer rim of the kingdom. In his travels, he has met people born both high and low, people who'd sooner run him through with a knife than so much as look at him, and people bound by age-old honor and duty who'd lay down their life sooner than asked. He has learned of the most remarkable technology, has spent long night hours sitting by fireplaces, debating and laughing, with the genius creators. Colors unimaginable now adorn the clothing in his bags and his chin is rough with a growing beard, a first for the clean-cut Lord, yet nothing has intrigued him more than the news of this woman.
A highborn Lady of fabled wealth, the woman is an old friend of the King and Queen and has come to court in the hopes of resting for a few months, eager to wine and dine with familiar company. Some say she has been living in mountainous solitude for the past ten years, yet others swear she has run from an estranged lover and seeks protection in the looming walls of the castle. Even more know not what to think of her.
Whispers have lit up the whole castle, so that every Lord, Lady, and servant keep a watchful eye out for the new, mythical face. Each person has their own story of her looks, despite the truth that she has not stepped foot outside of her chambers since arriving. Only the King, Queen, and her charged ladies-in-waiting have seen her face since her appearance.
And yet, the rumors of her beauty have reached even the peasants who live outside the walls. There are those who say her golden curls shine like the stream in summer sun and her face could send a thousand men to war, with lips shaped like a cupid's bow and eyes of a piercing amber or emerald green, depending on the light. It's whispered she has a facial structure rivaling that of the people's love goddess.
There are murmurs of her stature all throughout the city; it is said she is schooled in almost everything, with a voice that sings like pure satin, nimble fingers that pick a tune on any instrument received, a mind well-read in all matters of men, and a wit sharper than the sword of a knight in the King's Keep. Some believe her to be a witch; others, a prophetess. Either way, the Doctor wants to meet her for himself.
Consequently, the first thing he does upon returning to court is walking straight to the Grand Hall, where he hopes to find Queen Amy and King Rory. He is not disappointed. The Lord-traveler kneels quickly in front of the two monarch thrones, not accustomed to such courtesies. He has known the Queen since she was a child and he and the King have stories that go further back than either would like to admit. The Doctor has little taste for courtly life.
"Amy, Rory." he nods. This man is the only being in the kingdom who can get away with such familiarities and also avoid punishment.
The Queen laughs, hopping from her throne to embrace the travel-weary Lord. They hug firmly, long enough for the King to clear his throat. "That's my wife you're admiring," the King says.
The scraggly man laughs and moves to clasp the King in a manly hug, patting swiftly and roughly on his back. "Permission, then, Your Highness?"
"Granted," he affirms.
The three friends grin like fools as they send servants away to prepare for supper. After a quick exchange of courtesies, the Doctor conspiringly turns to face Queen Amy. "What's this I hear of a woman received at court? A new one."
"Lady Song!" Amy exclaims, eyes bright and hands up. "She's just like you, Doctor, but clever."
"I beg to differ," he chides, shaking his head. "Though I'd love to meet her."
"Unfortunately she's tied up at the moment," the Queen replies.
"What?"
The King clears his throat. "She's busy, you'll have to meet her another time. Besides, she has little taste for the court," he supplies.
"So she has the honor and privilege of missing supper with Your Highnesses while I am left to rot in the Grand Hall, with all the maestros and people born of a state more artificial than their kindness?"
The Queen shakes her head in disapproval. "You're bold to say such things."
"Only where others are polite," he responds.
This warrants a hearty laugh from the threesome and the Lord allows the subject to be dropped, promising to meet the monarchs for supper in an hour. Without being granted the ability to leave, the Doctor swivels on his heels and stride purposefully to his chambers. Whomever this woman is, the enigma surrounding her has intrigued him.
Shooing away the young serving-boy come to help with a wave and a copper, he rearranges his things and wipes dust off of wooden surfaces. In the castle, dust collects to surfaces like moths to a flame, and it covers the room in a musty reminder of the truly dank state. He sighs, turning to walk over to his study.
He greets the bright blue paint of his study door with a smile, dropping his hand to the doorknob with the gentleness of a lover. His study is his only solace at court, and he allows no one in save the King and Queen. Not even his servants interrupt him here. The iron hinges give way under pressure and creak open, flooding light into the dark, cherry-wood colored theme of his study. He turns to the wall and lights one torch, which, in turn, lights them all and sends a flood of flames to illuminate the shelves and sitting area of the space.
A circular-shaped room, his study is a tower that goes higher and higher with each level of bookcase, high enough to reach a small interior balcony that holds a small telescope. The ground floor of the room has a dark blue rug and a wine-red arm chair with a small end-table, which currently is home to a few leather-bound annals and an impressively-sized dictionary.
The walls rise up in a swirling pattern of never-ending books with slanting floors, enough to lead the hiker to the top of the tower but also enough to make one feel as though the bookshelves continue on into eternity. There is nothing but space in the middle of the room, save the ground floor, and it gives one the impression of feeling tiny in the span of the universe. A glass dome ceiling permits sunlight during the day and star-gazing in the cool of the night.
When he plops down in the chair, it feels like home.
More than an hour later he arrives in the Grand Hall, clean-shaven, a dark blue costume bought in a coastal town visited on his travels. The pads give him broad shoulders and the pants fit snugly as he strolls in, casual. He has tied a midnight blue tie in the shape of a bow around his neck. Among the crowd of armor and fluffy dresses, he looks very much out of place. As always, he pays that fact no attention.
"Pardon my tardiness, Your Graces," he mockingly drawls out, caught somewhere between genuine and teasing. "I got a bit tied up."
The Queen flashes him a sly grin and the King rolls his eyes. Queen Amy moves closer to her husband and pats the seat beside her, motioning for the Doctor to join her. He complies.
Amused, confused, and curious expressions scatter the people of the court into groups, and the Doctor quickly decides which are interesting enough to talk to. Before he can say anything, though, the Queen pinches his side and turns him to face her.
"I hear a many fearful thing, my Lord. I hear there is a secret order that speaks of revolution, and that they intend to steal the throne and claim our good kingdom for their own. Has this no truth, good sir?"
He sighs, threading his hands through his hair. "I'm a carrier of much the same knowledge, I'm afraid."
The King leans in closer to join the conversation. "It's true, then? An alien invasion is imminent?"
"I wouldn't call it an invasion, exactly."
Queen Amy blinks quickly, not missing a beat. "And who are we to defend ourselves against? Who thinks what's ours is theirs, and plans to plunder the cities of which we have built off the sweat from our brows and the minds of our greatest men? Tell me who dares such a conquest, I pray you."
The Doctor purses his lips, pauses. Hesitates. "Ask me another question."
King Rory furrows his brow. "You would not tell us who we are soon to be at war against?"
The Lord frowns, shakes his head. "Some things are better left unsaid, and others forgotten. Ask me another question."
Upon realizing she would receive no soon answer from the young Lord, Queen Amy sighs and decides to attack at another angle. "The question I'd rather ask first than wait, for the sake of politeness, to inquire last, is this: bed any women on your travels?"
The Lord nearly spits out his drink, so flustered by Amy's frankness and lack of private boundaries. "What do you mean by that?"
"Oh you know," she winks, nudging him with her lace-covered elbow. "Lie with any blushing virgins or sultry whores? I bet you're one for experience, my Lord."
He achieves, this time, in completely spitting out his wine and fervently apologizes to the serving-man who receives a face full of good liquor. After easily embarrassing himself, he turns back to Amy. "Not only is this not appropriate chatter for a married woman," he drops his tone, scouting the room. "This is certainly not talk for such public places."
She laughs, dismissing his anxiety with a wave of her hand. "I'm the bloody Queen, I may do as I please."
The King nods. "It's true, mate. There's no reasoning with her."
The Doctor is about to retort when the entire hall goes silent. The oddly-dressed Lord shifts his attention from the front table to the entrance of the Grand Hall, where, in embellished gold and stunning smiles, stands the famed Lady Song.