Although I am the absolute most anti-Thayet-with-anyone-else-besides-Jon gal, this idea kept plaguing me. Finally I wrote it. Oneshot, no action, no later shmex or relationship implied. I think it's an interesting pairing, though. Reviews appreciated; reviewers glomped. Enjoy.

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The Knight and the Queen

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She calls out their names, her own panic overriding her mind, which tells her to be silent. She can hear her children's terrified cries from the nursery. There is a crash and an animal snarl too loud to be real, a perversion of a horse's neigh. A man shouts, and there comes the sound of metal on bone, and then a sickening, slow groan. Another crash, and the children scream again. The man's voice calls out something unintelligible, and she wants to run. Those are her children in that room, the babies she birthed, and --

Abruptly it is over. Her two youngest are being herded out by the nanny and the healer, and she runs into the nursery in search of her other son. He sees her across the room and stumbles to her on his toddler legs. Thank the Goddess, he is uninjured, only more frightened than he's ever been in his short life. But all of her attention is suddenly focused on the only other person in the room: the man by the window.

His arm is bleeding heavily, and he has a long scratch -- the hurrok's claws, she thinks -- running from just above his eye, into his hair. He is leaning against his sword, head bent, refusing to tremble.

Liam presses his face into her skirts, weeping. "Mama, he --"

"Shh." She strokes his hair lightly, not looking at him, gaze focused on the knight who stands in the sunlight from the window. His blade is stained with black immortal blood and traces of his own, bright red against the steel. The colors make her stomach churn.

He had saved her children's lives. Liam, Jasson and Lianne -- all three had been in the nursery alone when the hurroks struck, and this man had gone in -- alone, with nothing but chain mail and a sword -- and fought for them. He had fought for her children.

She knows quite a bit about him. He is the training master, a conservative with high standards and higher morals, a well-trained knight with little tolerance for, as he once put it, the frivolity of progressives. She had not disliked him before; he refused to stoop to such petty politics as did many other conservatives, but rather made his opinions clear and left it at that. He trained the pages well, a fact made clear when they fought in battle alongside him. And he had saved her children.

A wide-eyed healer tugs on Liam's arm. "Your majesty -- the duke would like to --"

"Yes, yes," she interrupts. "Liam, be a good boy and let the healers see you."

Liam, sniffling, releases his grasp on her skirts with a nod, and obediently follows the healer. The woman, dressed in a blue shift, glances nervously at the knight, but Thayet shoos her off.

The knight sighs after a moment. In his mind he has done his duty, nothing more. They were but children, and would have died if he had not come. It was his duty to the crown: Fight for those who cannot fight for themselves. They were barely more than toddlers -- it makes no difference in his mind that they are royalty. Slowly he readjusts his grip on the hilt of his sword, and straightens.

It is Thayet, now, who is motionless. He stares at her for a moment, as though seeing her for the first time, then gives her a brief nod and begins to leave, his gait that of one in pain. His arm, he knows, will never be the same. As he passes her, Thayet moves towards the broken window.

The shards of glass, some edged with blood, glimmer against the pattern of the carpet. She shudders inwardly as she sees their sparkle, and suddenly realizes what has taken place.

"My lord of Cavall."

Her voice is clear and commanding, undoubtedly the voice of a queen. It makes him hesitate, and then turn.

"Your majesty."

She turns in the sunlight to look at him, and for the first time he realizes why she is so idolized. The lovely looks sung of in ballads are here in front of him, dark hair tumbling over creamy shoulders, hazel eyes bright. Her hands are clasped behind her back, and although she looks as though she might weep, her composure is held.

Thayet has intrigued him before. Upon her arrival in Tortall, he had seen her as all men did – a beauty of the court, a foreign princess, nothing more. Upon her marriage to Jonathan, his perception of her had changed to reflect the perceptions of his comrades: She was politically a progressive, and powerful in her post, designed to unseat everything they had worked towards.

But he has seen Thayet in battle, seen her with a sword in her hands, on the back of a horse, and understands that she is a warrior in her own right. He has seen her with her children, with her husband, and recognizes that she is a wife and a mother -- roles he has always expected a woman to fufill dutifully, but has never seen given such importance. He has seen her in the courtrooms and in meetings with advisors, and has realized that she is a ruler of the highest class. He has heard the stories of her past, and knows now that the first glimpse he had had of her – a demure maiden in ruby silk – is only one of her many, glorious facets.

Knight and queen are silent. Finally Thayet unfolds her hands and walks toward him, feet noiseless on the floor. She stops in front of him, and looks the few inches up into his brown-gray eyes.

Gently she cups his face in her hands. "Do not ever forget, my lord," she whispers, "that you saved the lives of my children."

An unsaid understanding realized in his mind is mirrored in her eyes. Wordlessly he slides a callused hand along her throat, tangling his fingers in her silken hair, and leans forward to press his mouth to hers.

Thayet's lips part under his, and he takes the invitation, thumb brushing across her jaw and along her cheekbone. The barest traces of tears have slipped from her eyes. He strokes them away gently as she deepens the kiss.

After several long, sweet moments, it is Thayet who pulls away and rests her forehead against his. Their lips are barely inches apart. It is a strange bond they linger in, the mother who loves her children and the fighter who saved them, conservative and progressive, the knight and the queen, and -- for that moment -- man and woman. The honeyed afternoon sunlight falls through the broken window, reflecting off the shattered glass and the gold trim on the green of Thayet's gown, shining on the bloodstains along Wyldon's sword. There is no noise except for the sounds of their heartbeats and breath, and the wind through the trees outside.

Wyldon strokes her hair one last time before releasing her. She meets his gaze steadily, calmly. There are no confused emotions in her clear eyes. He moves closer and tips her head up gently, eyes searching her face. He nods before bending and brushing his lips unhurriedly across her cheek. His voice is husky: "My lady," he murmurs in her ear, then turns and leaves.

Thayet stands, eyes closed and fingertips pressed to her mouth. He is the kind of man she would have fallen in love with, once upon a time. But they are too much alike, she and Wyldon -- each too clearheaded, too organized, too calm and assured in their beliefs. Nothing between them would ever work.

Not, she thinks with a slight smile, that she could ever want anything else beyond that one perfect, sunlit moment. She is content with the knowledge that her children are safe, that the danger is over, and -- most importantly -- that she bears his taste on her lips.