Chapter 5: The Kitchen
The banquet hall roared.
It was a wall of sound—clinking silver, booming laughter, the scrape of chairs, and a dozen overlapping conversations about tariffs, hunting, and the latest bardic tragedy from Orlais. Torchlight gleamed off polished plate and jewelled goblets. The air hung thick with the smells of roasted boar, spilled ale, and perfumed nobles.
Kerr stood near the high table, a fixed, polite smile on his face. He’d been standing for hours. His jaw ached from it.
“...and so I told the Bann, if he expects his levy to arrive before Wintersend, he’d best mend the bridge at White Falls,” droned an older arl from the west, his finger jabbing the air for emphasis.
“A sound point,” Kerr said, his voice a neutral courtesy. Inside, he was screaming. The false nature of the noble game tied his stomach in knots. Every smile was a calculation. Every nod, a political gesture. He was a placeholder, a boy playing at being a Teryn’s son while his father and brother were south at the King’s side. The responsibility was a cloak three sizes too big, and it smothered him.
His gaze, glazing over the arl's shoulder, caught a flash of worn linen and sensible shoes disappearing through the servants' arch. It was Nan, a bundle of empty flagons in her arms, slipping into the darker throat of the hallway that led to the storage pantries. The sight was an anchor. A truth.
Excusing himself with a murmured promise to refresh the arl's wine, Kerr shouldered his way through the crowd, a boulder parting a perfumed stream. He moved with a guardsman's economy, his smile never faltering as he nodded at guests, never breaking stride until he cleared the archway. The hallway was blessedly empty, cool and silent but for the distant roar of the feast.
The door to the dry goods pantry was just closing. He reached it in three long strides, his hand catching the old wood before it latched. He slipped inside, darkness and the dense, earthy smell of root vegetables and dried herbs enveloping him. Nan stood in a thin slat of moonlight from a high, small window, already turning, her eyes wide, then soft with understanding.
She said nothing. A slow, knowing smile touched her lips as she turned back to the rough stone wall, placing her palms flat against it, her shoulders dropping in anticipatory surrender. She knew these banquets, these performances, always did a number on his nerves. He was at her in an instant, his large hands pushing her skirts up around her waist, the calluses on his fingers a rasp against the soft skin of her thighs.
There was no preamble, no gentle exploration like in her chamber. This was a needed pressure valve. He freed himself, the cool air of the pantry a brief shock, then guided himself to her. He slid into her slowly, a thick, deliberate invasion that made her breath hitch. She was already wet for him, her body welcoming the familiar, stretching fullness with a soft, internal clasp.
“Quiet now,” he breathed against her ear, his voice rough, not with command, but with shared conspiracy. She bit down on her own knuckle, nodding, her forehead pressing against the cool stone. His rhythm was relentless from the first stroke, a deep, measured pistoning that sought not just pleasure but obliteration—of the din, the duty, the fake smiles. Each push drove the tension from his shoulders into the cradle of her hips.
She came suddenly, a silent, shuddering convulsion around him that squeezed a guttural groan from his throat. The feeling of her clenching, milking him, shattered his control. He drove in once, twice more, burying himself to the hilt as he poured into her, a hot, pulsing release that left him dizzy, his broad forehead damp against her back.
For a moment, they simply stayed there, joined, breathing in the smell of onions and their own spent heat. Then, with a tenderness that contrasted the frantic coupling, he withdrew and turned her gently to face him. He kissed her deeply, his tongue sweeping her mouth, a wordless communication of gratitude and ragged need.
Before he could step back, she was already sinking to her knees in the dark. Her hands steadied him, and she took him into her mouth, cleaning him with a few soft, thorough passes of her tongue. The sensation, so soon after, was almost painfully intense. She looked up, meeting his eyes in the gloom, before giving him a final, lingering kiss and releasing him.
“Go,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. She nodded toward the door, already tugging her skirts straight. “Before you’re missed.”
He tucked himself away, his hands trembling slightly now with the aftermath. He smoothed his tunic, ran a hand through his hair, and cracked the door. The hallway was still empty. With one last look at her—a shadow now, feeling along a shelf for the sack of oats she’d originally come for—he slipped back into the light and noise.
The wall of sound hit him anew, the laughter now grating, the perfumes cloying. But the knot in his gut was gone, replaced by a weary, liquid calm. The arl was now holding court with a pair of merchants, and Kerr retrieved a flagon of wine from a passing servant. He poured for the man, his own hand steady.
“The bridge at White Falls, you were saying?” Kerr prompted, his smile easier now, a genuine curiosity in his eyes. The memory of her warmth, her silence, was a shield. It sat inside him, a secret equilibrium, as the banquet swirled on.
It sat inside him, a secret equilibrium, as the banquet swirled on.
The equilibrium lasted perhaps twenty minutes. The pressure began rebuilding, a slow tectonic shift behind his ribs. His eyes, scanning the hall with practiced politeness, now held a different focus. He tracked the swirl of servants, the dun-and-grey uniforms against the nobles’ finery. He found her refilling a Bann’s wine cup, her movements efficient and invisible to the man holding forth. Their eyes met for a fractured second. He gave a minute nod towards the hall leading to the kitchens. She looked away, her expression unchanged, but he saw the faintest flush bloom at the base of her throat.
He made his excuses, citing a need to check the watch rotation. The kitchens were a realm of controlled chaos, all steam and shouting and the smell of reduced sauces. He moved through it like a ghost, the staff too busy to notice their Teryn’s son. He found her in the scullery, alone, up to her elbows in soapy water, scrubbing a pot.
He didn’t speak. He came up behind her, his body shielding hers from the doorway. His hands went to her hips, turning her. He lifted her, effortless, seating her on the edge of the great oak worktable where the day’s bread had been kneaded. Flour dusted the air.
“Kerr,” she breathed, a warning and a welcome. Her legs wrapped around his waist as he pushed her skirts up, his fingers finding her wet and ready through her smalls. He ripped the linen aside. He was already hard, freed from his breeches, and he entered her in one smooth, drowning thrust that made her head fall back.
This was different from the pantry’s desperate release. This was claiming. Her back was against the table, her body open to him, and he watched her face as he moved, his pace deep and steady. Each stroke was a punctuation in the noisy silence of the scullery. Her breath came in sharp pants. She reached up, her damp hand curling around the back of his neck, pulling him down to kiss her, to swallow her sounds. He came inside her with a low, shuddering groan, his forehead pressed to hers.
He helped her down, his hands lingering on her waist. She fixed her clothes with quick, practiced motions, her cheeks flushed. “They’ll be calling for the pudding soon,” she said, her voice unsteady.
“I know.”
He melted back into the hall, the taste of her still on his lips.
The night became a hunt. Every time the crowd’s noise became a physical pressure in his skull, he’d disengage and find her. He found her carrying fresh linens through a deserted upper corridor. He pinned her against the cold stone wall, facing him, her feet off the ground, her legs locked around him. It was swift and fierce, her climax a sharp cry he caught with his mouth. He spilled into her again, her weight a sweet anchor.
Later, near the stableyard entry where the cool night air seeped in, he found her taking a breath by a casement window. He turned her, bent her slightly over a barrel used for collecting rainwater. From behind, he pushed into her, his hands gripping her hips, his rhythm a steady, driving metronome against the distant feast’s din. She bit her own arm to stay quiet, her pleasure a series of tight, internal flutters that pulled a third release from him, leaving him breathless against her back.
Each time, he left more of himself inside her. It was a deliberate, silent accumulation. A counterweight to the empty words and posturing of the hall. She took it, took him, each encounter a quiet rebellion that straightened her spine a little more, that smoothed the weary lines from his eyes for a few minutes after.
Near midnight, as the guests grew sloppy with drink and the minstrels played a slower tune, they found a minute alone in the shadow of a tapestry depicting some forgotten battle. They were both exhausted, slick with sweat, their bodies speaking a language of worn-out need. He simply held her close, her back to his front, and rocked into her, a slow, almost somber union. There were no grand peaks, just a weary, shared descent into feeling. He came with a sigh, a final, warm offering. She leaned her head back against his shoulder, spent.
“I think,” she whispered, her voice raw, “we might live through this night after all.”
He kissed her temple, his arms tightening around her for a second. Then he was gone, back to his place, to toast the departing guests with a clear, steady eye. The great hall emptied, a tide of grumbling nobility and clattering retainers. Servants began the dismal work of clearing the wreckage.
Kerr stood by the fireplace, watching. Nan moved through the ruins of the feast, collecting goblets. Her step had a slight, unmistakable wince to it, a physical memory of the night. His own body felt hollowed out, purged of its frantic energy, but calm. They had stolen a dozen minutes from the jaws of obligation. They were, against all odds, in one piece. She looked up, caught his eye across the smoky room, and gave him a small, private smile that held the truth of everything they didn’t say.
She looked up, caught his eye across the smoky room, and gave him a small, private smile that held the truth of everything they didn’t say. An hour later, the last drunk Bann was bundled into a carriage. The castle doors thudded shut, and a profound, aching quiet settled over the stones. Kerr walked the final perimeter check himself, the act a soothing ritual. His muscles ached with a pleasant, deep-seated fatigue, a tangible record of the night’s transgressions.
He found her door ajar, a sliver of candlelight bleeding into the dark corridor. Inside, her room was a warm cave. She was already in her shift, sitting on the edge of the bed, wiping flour from her neck with a damp cloth. The scents of lavender and sex from their earlier, frantic unions mingled with the woodsmoke clinging to his clothes.
He stripped silently, letting his formal attire fall to the floor in a heap. The cool air raised goosebumps on his skin. He blew out the candle and lay down beside her, the narrow bed creaking in protest under his weight. For a long time, they just breathed, listening to the distant, rhythmic call of a watchman far below.
Her hand found his in the dark, lacing their fingers together. Her skin was soft, the knuckles slightly swollen from a lifetime of work. He brought her hand to his lips and kissed her palm, a slow, deliberate gesture.
“So,” she finally said, her voice a sleepy rumble in the darkness. A soft laugh escaped her. “Was it absolutely imperative to fuck me eight times during a state banquet?”
He turned his head on the pillow. He could just make out the curve of her smile. “It must have been,” he answered, his own voice breathy and spent. “Though your body seemed to welcome the imperative. Quite enthusiastically, if I recall.”
“That will always be the case,” she said, simple and absolute.
Her hand trailed down the plain of his stomach, her fingers playing through the coarse hair. She found him soft, thick, and utterly spent, still slick and wet from their collective juices. She held him gently, a familiar, comforting weight in her palm.
“You know,” she whispered, her tone shifting from light to something more tender, more piercing. “You were never meant to be caged by these walls.” Her thumb traced a slow circle. “All this… duty. It fits you like a borrowed coat. I see great things from you, Kerr. Beyond this stone.”
He went very still. The words, spoken in the vulnerable dark after the frantic, wordless language of their bodies, slipped past his defenses. He felt them land in his chest with a soft, reverberating thud. He closed his eyes, not from weariness, but to feel the truth of it.
He shifted, rolling onto his side to face her. His fingertips found the dip of her navel, that little outtie button of skin. He traced its contours as the cool night air from the barred window washed over their heated skin. He didn’t answer. There was no answer to give that wouldn’t sound like either hollow ambition or resigned acceptance.
Instead, he leaned in and kissed her forehead, then her mouth, a slow, grateful communication. The silence between them now was different. It wasn’t the quiet of exhaustion, but the resonant quiet of a seed planted, of a truth acknowledged that now sat between them in the dark, taking root.