Ale with the princesses.

That afternoon, you endeavour to leave the castle, heading into the town proper. With few of the original residents having survived Siggi's taking and holding of the castle, the houses and shops were currently being occupied by fighters from the various armies, Beathan or foreign alike.

While lodgings in the castle proper were reserved only for people of high importance such as yourself, real estate in the town had pretty much gone to whichever regiment had seized it first. Just about the only group you didn't see staking their claim were Roland's sell-swords. It made a certain amount of sense, you supposed. Your cousin preferred to keep a little distance between himself and the sort who might ask too many questions. A little isolation provided cover for all sorts of shenanigans.

A brief walk down the frost-peppered streets eventually takes you to the alehouse nearest the castle. You limp up the steps and enter, immediately glad of the warmth.

You scan the faces seated at tables and standing by the bar, finding only rank and file Beathan troops. In turn, you feel eyes swivelling to take you in. After a moment or two, you make out Ben Swain, seated with a number of Beathans.

“Right lads,” the bard begins, dealing out a measure of coin to each man at the table. “When Princess Madeleine comes in, you're to speak with her, but I want everyone here on their best behaviour. That means no ribald jokes, no lecherous stares, no laughing at anything she says that may come across as ridiculous.”

One of the warriors, a brawny, bearded man, his neck ringed with tattoos praising the Spirits, raises his hand.

“An' how are we supposed to know when she's bein' daft and when she's actually tryin' to be funny?” he asks, in an irritated tone.

“If you're not sure, look to me.” Swain advises them. “I'll give you the nod. If we make it through this without Madeleine getting offended or upset, there's another five marks in it for each of you. Any more questions?”

With this much money, a tidy sum for a common soldier on the line, you get the sense the warriors seated at the table aren't exactly eager to jeopardise their payday.

“Nothing like a nice, relaxing visit to the local tavern, is there?” you quip to Swain.

“Indeed, Your Majesty.” he says, with an exhausted smile. “In truth, ensuring my lady's impromptu visits to places like these don't blow up into diplomatic incidents is one of my more... taxing unofficial duties.”

“I hear you have Kara to thank for this little excursion.” you remark, joining the table.

“Your bride has the best of intentions I'm sure, Majesty.” Swain responds. “And I agree with her, that some time out of her quarters will do her some good.”

You talk a bit with Swain and the commonfolk, starting on your first ale, then about five minutes later, a new group enter the drinking spot.

Kara's first to come in, striding into the alehouse with all the confidence of a royal in her native land. Then, Madeleine takes up the rear, moving more hesitantly, clutching her lady-in-waiting's hand. Clearly, such a raucous spot was a little out of the more scholarly princess' comfort zone.

Every man stands, their eyes on the two princesses. While it's partly out of respect, you can almost sense the soldiers drinking Kara and Madeleine in, lustful fantasies of what they'd do with either woman playing in many minds' eyes.

You can't help but smirk. You'd had them both, whereas these commoners, these gutterblooded pure humans would never be lucky enough to lay with one. Such things where why the pity and contempt the smallfolk barely veiled for you regarding your condition did not phase you.

“Hello again, love.” Kara leans down to peck you on the cheek, taking a seat at the table to your left, nestled up against you.

Madeleine takes a seat opposite her, Elodie and Swain not so subtly providing a buffer between the Dauphine and any common folk.

As the Red Princess settles in, you note the excessive, even moreso than usual, make-up daubed on her face. She's tried to cover up the nasty black eye Jarl Hjordis gave her with some form of cosmetic. Unfortunately, the tone of the make-up doesn't quite blend in with the princess' pale skin.

“Hello.” Madeleine says awkwardly, her eyes darting from soldier to soldier, unsure whom to address. “I thought I'd take an ale today with you. All of you. The common folk! Of Beatha.”

One of the soldiers coughs.

“We all owe Princess Madeleine a great deal, lads.” Kara adds, so much more at ease around smallfolk. “Without her da's coin or the help of her sell-swords, keepin' our homeland'd be even costlier than it is now.”

“We're right glad of it, Your Grace.” one of the soldiers, an older man, with scars aplenty on his face intones to Madeleine.

“Yes. Well, you're quite welcome.” the princess says, barely looking at him.

The serving girl comes around in short order, setting a tankard down before each of you. While lifting yours with one hand proves somewhat difficult, you can't help but chuckle inwardly at the sight of Madeleine gripping hers, small, pale hands practically dwarfed by the rough-hewn wooden container.

“Cheers!” Kara says, lifting her ale high. You clasp your tankards together, a small measure of golden liquid spilling from each.

Madeleine takes a draught of hers, wrinkling her nose and gasping once she swallows it.

“It'll grow on you, Madeleine. Trust me.” Kara assures her.

Swain, for his part, looks as comfortable with a tankard in hand as he did in the Ducal Palace of Copieux.

“You know.” Madeleine announces to the table at large, after another sip of ale. “My brother Arno used to do this.”

“Drink ale, Your Grace?”

“No. Well, he may have done, I'm not aware of everything he did. But he'd often swap his fine clothes for rags, go among the commonfolk.”

“Sounds like he's a man of real honour, Your Grace.” the elder soldier says respectfully.

The Sinnabarrovian heiress takes a long draught of her ale before responding.

“He was. Snapped his fucking neck though. Foolish waste of life. He would've made the finest king our country had ever seen...” Madeleine says sombrely.

The conversation languishes a bit, each person seated at the table staring down into their tankards, before Kara proposes another toast.

“To fallen kin.”

You clink tankards again, even Madeleine more eagerly participating this time.

“No sign of Rhona?” Kara says quietly, leaning close to you.

“Not since... before.” you respond. “She said she'd try to come along.”

“Ah, most likely her job is keeping her. I know the feeling.” Kara remarks.

You spend the next hour or so drinking, the serving girl coming around two or three more times. As Madeleine talks, Swain and Kara both run interference, clarifying what she meant, or keeping the soldiers away from difficult subjects.

And all the while, you drink. Madeleine most of all, seems to be acquiring her taste for Beathan ale, and quickly. She drinks long and heady draughts, clearly relishing the ****, after even such a brief period of abstinence as she'd been on.

“You seem to be enjoying yourself, Your Excellency!” Swain says, speaking loudly to cut through the growing raucousness.

“Yes, I suppose I am.” Madeleine smiles, draining her third tankard, then setting it down. “All in all. Or... Ale in ale!”

The princess titters drunkenly. The soldiers pivot their gaze to Swain, and after being given the nod, are treating Madeleine's remark as if it's the very height of wit.

Several minutes later, your merriment is interrupted by a young man, who barges into the alehouse.

“They're moving the Giantess!” he calls out. “They're moving the Giantess!”

As a group, you head out into the street. Sure enough, Hjordis is there, her wrists shackled, being moved out of the jail in the castle, and into an abandoned shop, one already thick with Beathan guardsmen.

“I take it they finished assembling your cage?” you stammer, turning back to Madeleine.

“Don't let her see me!” Madeleine says, her words tumbling out in an **** panic.

“Peace, Maddie.” Kara says, taking the woman's hand. “You're perfectly safe.”

The warrior woman's words seem to reassure the scholar, and she stays with you as Hjordis marches, filled with a regal dignity, towards her new cell.