Informal Alliance

With a quizzical expression, Argon raised an eyebrow. "Is there something I'm unaware of?" he questioned, his tone laced with scepticism.

"There are a lot of things you're apparently unaware of," Isolde responded, her gaze piercing. "Don't you find it strange that a common sell-sword was promoted to a knight in under two months?"

"My strength got me that," Argon retorted immediately, a defensive edge to his words.

"Indeed, you are strong," Isolde conceded with a nod, "but that promotion also required great politics. Garrick may have suggested you, but who do you think swayed the Baron's mind the most?" Her voice lowered to a secretive whisper, her gaze unwavering. "His precious daughter."

With a casual shrug, Argon responded, "Well, thanks for the good word. I'll be sure to repay your kindness."

Isolde's gentle smile returned, her eyes alight with anticipation. "Yes, I was hoping so," she said, her voice soft yet commanding. "You will serve me in secret, be at my beck and call. Report all you hear to me and carry out my tasks in secrecy." Her tone was matter-of-fact, as though she was stating an undeniable truth rather than presenting a proposition.

Argon lets out a hearty laugh, making no effort to hide his amusement. "Look, lady," he says, his voice laced with contempt, "since you're the daughter of my Lord, I'll remain respectful. But why the fuck would I serve a woman? If you want a pet, go get a dog or something. What grand plans do you have, anyway? To reorganize the furniture?" His words are harsh, designed to undermine her authority and question her capability.

Isolde's face falls, her surprised expression quickly turning into a scowl. "You dare speak to me in such a manner?" She hisses, her genteel demeanour faltering for a moment. "Your position is more precarious than you think, Argon. It would be unwise to make an enemy out of me." Her voice is stern and menacing, the veiled threat clear in her tone.

Isolde's face hardens into a cold mask as she raises an eyebrow and replies with an icy threat. "I wonder, Ser Argon, how the Baron would react if he learned about your escapade at The Velvet Vixen last night. An honorable knight, indulging in a den of ill-repute, squandering his wealth on...indulgences, could tarnish the image of knighthood that my father holds dear. A story like that... it could find its way to the wrong ears very easily."

Argon's laughter echoes through the garden, the forceful, unabashed sound ricocheting off the stone walls. He wipes a tear from his eye before fixing Isolde with a smug, unapologetic grin. "Your grand plan is to blackmail me with my fondness for whores? Good fucking luck, lady," he jeers, his words laced with mirth. "Half the knights in this godforsaken kingdom visit brothels. If the Baron cared about such matters, half his force would be out on their arses." His laughter resurfaces again, mocking and derisive. "Is that all you've got? Try harder, princess."

Isolde squares her shoulders, her blue eyes narrowing into icy slits. In a voice as cold as her gaze, she warns, "You underestimate the gravity of this situation, Ser Argon. As a newly appointed knight, you're expected to uphold a certain level of decorum. Publicly consorting with women of ill-repute could tarnish the honor of your position. And the Baron...he might not find your blatant disregard for these standards amusing."

The corner of Argon's mouth tugs up in a sardonic grin as he retorts, "If you're so desperate for a juicy piece of scandal to hold over my head, lady, perhaps I can give you a genuine cause for alarm. Picture this: Brolan and me could take turns raping and then killing you. Now, that's a tale that would certainly set your dear father's teeth on edge."

Isolde's eyes widen in shock, her face turning pale at Argon's audacious threat. "You insolent fool!" she stammers out, her usually composed voice faltering. "Have you no fear of the consequences? Do you not fear death?" Her eyes dart around nervously, the threat echoing ominously in the garden.

The laughter that escapes Argon's lips is deep and mirthful, completely devoid of any concern. Brolan joins in, his laughter an echoing counterpart to Argons. Isolde's face tightens, her brows furrow as concern etches into her features. Her usually confident stance diminishes as Argon's laughter continues, reverberating through the silent garden. It is clear to her that she has gravely misjudged the men she is dealing with.

Argon's tone softens a bit, diffusing the tension that had risen just a few moments ago. "Don't worry, lady, I'm only joking for now," he says, a wicked glint playing in his eyes. "Anyway, you are right; I am better with violence than politics. After careful consideration, we could definitely help one another."

Isolde's face brightens at his words, a glimmer of hope in her eyes. She straightens her posture, her previous anxiety replaced with a renewed sense of purpose. "That being said, working for you isn't going to happen," Argon continues. His words are firm, leaving no room for argument.

"What do you propose then?" Isolde asks, her curiosity piqued. There's a small furrow in her brows, revealing a measure of uncertainty, but her determination is unwavering.

Argon's proposition is audacious, as blunt as a hammer's strike. "You could work for me," he says, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Deal with all the sneaky politics shit of the baron's council, and warm my bed at night." His words hang heavy in the air, filled with insinuation and boldness that seem to defy his current position.

His suggestion leaves Isolde taken aback, her cheeks flushed, her blue eyes wide. It's a scandalous proposition, one that challenges the norms of their society and goes against her status as a highborn lady. Yet in Argon's eyes, there's no hint of jest, only a dangerous sincerity that both intrigues and appals her.

Isolde, still reeling from Argon's audacious proposition, recovers her poise with an icy, dismissive laugh. "Dream on, you brute," she retorts, her voice steady, her eyes sharp and calculating.

She regards Argon carefully, taking a step back to put some distance between them. "Let's just have an informal alliance," she suggests, her tone turning more businesslike. "You, being the second strongest knight, can further my aims militarily, while I, being the baron's only daughter, can further your aims politically."

Her proposal seems to hang in the balance, her delicate features set in a determined expression. With her proposal, she is acknowledging Argon's raw strength and influence in their world, yet at the same time, making it clear she is not to be overlooked. Their potential alliance could be beneficial for both; she hints, a strategic move in a game of power and ambition.

Isolde's countenance shifted slightly as Argon pressed, "How many knights are under your thumb already?" She eyed him, then admitted with a trace of reluctance, "None. They all come from here, and they and their families are too loyal to my father."

"Ah, you got a crush on little old argon, eh?"Argon jibed.

A shade of pink blushes across Isolde's cheeks at Argon's playful, borderline disrespectful jibe. "Shut up," she snaps, but there's an unmistakable glint of amusement in her eyes.

"Now," she continues, shaking off the jest, her voice returning to its cool, businesslike manner. "To answer your question, my father has been uncharacteristically passive these days, letting the neighbouring territories encroach on our lands. He's losing his edge, or perhaps he's just biding his time, I'm not sure. What I do know is that this inaction is weakening our hold and the respect we command."

Her blue eyes are intense, sparking with unspoken ambition. "I need someone to show them that the Eldridge banner still holds power, someone, to remind them of the fear they should feel when they dare cross us. That someone is you, Ser Argon".

Isolde's gaze remained steady, her voice cool and composed. "Precisely," she stated, "They don't take us seriously. As for repercussions..." she shrugged, the gesture seeming almost nonchalant for such a severe topic, "These things are hard to prove. Who provoked whom? It's a delicate dance of claims and counterclaims. The Silverthorne soldiers will probably encroach onto our lands anyway, exploiting our drought situation, providing just cause for a response."

She tilted her head slightly, her blue eyes assessing Argon carefully. "And it can be argued that they further provoked you," she added, subtly underlining the point that the responsibility of aggression would not solely lie on Argon's shoulders. This was not just a calculated risk; it was a strategic manoeuvre designed to give them an edge in the power play.

Argon grins, a dangerous twinkle in his eyes as he drops onto one knee, capturing Isolde's hand and pressing a mocking kiss to it. "It's settled then, my lady," he rumbles, his voice rough like gravel. "But for now, me and my trusty servant here," he flicks a glance towards Brolan, "need to prepare ourselves for tomorrow's bloodbath. We have peasants to slaughter, after all."

He rises, his demeanour playful yet foreboding. "Now if you'll excuse us, we must leave." He starts to turn away, but not before throwing a teasing grin over his shoulder. "Oh, and in case you're wondering... Nah, we're not heading back to the brothel, just yet," he laughs, his tone holding the essence of a lewd jest before he strides off with Brolan in tow.

The duo saunters off, leaving the radiant Lady Isolde in the gardens as they make their way back to their dwelling. Once inside, Brolan breathes a comment, his tone filled with awe and a hint of longing, "Fuck master, she is very pretty."

Argon, taking off his gloves, throws them onto a table and retorts gruffly, "Yeah, but the noose around my neck wouldn't be so pretty." His gaze locks onto Brolan, a seriousness to his demeanour that wasn't there before. "I reckon she'd be a damn good ally, just hope I didn't ruffle her feathers too much. You know how fathers are about their daughters."

Brolan chuckles, "She probably enjoyed it, master."

Argon grunts, shrugging his broad shoulders. "Well, we won't dwell on it. We've got to prepare for tomorrow. Go fetch the horses from the Baron's stables. Pack up supplies for us... and grab a couple of new spears while you're at it. This one's getting worn. And get yourself a longsword too. A little distance makes a damn big difference."

Brolan lifts an eyebrow, his hands already reaching for their gear. "Isn't this a bit overkill for some bloody peasants, master?"

Argon, busy strapping on his breastplate, grunts in response. "Yes, but it's not about the peasants. It's about what comes after them." His gaze is hard, anticipatory. The following day's mission isn't about quelling a peasant revolt but setting a tone for their future in these lands.

As Brolan strides out of the house to carry out his assigned tasks, with one last glance at the empty space where Brolan had been standing, Argon retreats to his chambers. As the door creaks closed behind him, he peels off his armour, letting it clatter heavily onto the floor. His thoughts wander to the events of the day and the impending battle of tomorrow, but exhaustion swiftly overtakes him. Crumpling onto the bed, Argon gives in to the call of sleep, surrendering himself to its sweet oblivion.