Chapter Text
“Cassandra Charon! No longer will I tolerate your willful behavior. You are twenty-seven years of age – long past when a respectable person should seek to be wed! Instead of being content with turning down the men who’ve sought your hand you’ve actively driven them away and soured your reputation across the kingdom!”
Cassandra grimaces as Count Charon’s voice booms through the great hall. The servants in the adjacent kitchen won’t have any trouble hearing his scolding. The solid stone under her feet is probably older than the county of Charon itself – a testament to the weight tradition carries within these halls.
“Come on,” she hisses through gritted teeth. “It’s not my fault that all my suitors have been wet rags.” Her nails dig into her palms. If this keeps going for much longer, she’ll draw blood. Wait. Maybe that’s a good way to deter-
“You have a month. If you don’t choose yourself a suitor by then, I will.”
“Only one month!?” Cassandra is unable to stifle a gasp. “Come on! At least give me two!”
“No. You’ve had years.” Count Charon’s jaw clenches in the way it always does when he refuses to bend. Unfortunately, once her father’s puts his mind to something his will is as strong as Cassandra’s.
One leg moves forward and her balled fists raise of their own accord. It’s only after the fact that she realizes she’s assumed a pose that approximates a combat stance.
Just one of her many unladylike traits. Not that they’re frowned upon in the military nation of Faerghus, but it makes her a harder sell to Adrestian or Leicester nobles. She used to see it as a perk. Now she’s not so sure. Faerghus men won’t be as easy to bully into submission.
Whatever. She can probably scrounge up one without a spine. Goddess knows her homeland has plenty of them. The tricky part is that she’s alienated all the ones she can think of.
***
Cassandra is still muttering curses under her breath by the time she stomps up the stone stairs to her quarters. She could try the solar, but there’s a fair chance the room is in use by those of her siblings who are still too young for marriage. Or her mother. She shudders. Goddess, no. Facing her is the last thing she wants! The look of gentle disappointment in her eyes is hard to handle even on a good day. Today she’ll surely end up smashing something.
She grimaces as her mind flits back to a lengthy lecture about the intricacies of Charon craftsmanship and the time it takes to make quality products. So what if she broke a painstakingly crafted chair? They’ve got nine more that look just the same!
Ugh. The walk up the stairs takes off the worst of the edge, but she’s still seething by the time she reaches her quarters. She shuts the door behind her, turning the key in the lock, and falls onto her bed face first. She buries her head in the furs that cover her blankets. A necessity in cold Faerghus, no less in a damp and drafty stone castle.
Why was she born a noble? If there’s anyone less suited for the role, she hasn’t met them. If you trained the kitchen boy, he’d surely do a better job at it!
***
It’s been a week and Cassandra is still coming up empty. Her requests for meetings with local nobles have been politely declined. The times she’s showed up in person – limited in number, there’s only so much traveling that can be done in a day – she’s been made to wait and served tea until someone arrives to inform her that the young master she seeks to see is terribly busy, and can’t she return another day?
In other words, she’s starting to worry.
Two weeks pass. She receives polite but uninterested responses to letters she sent out the week before. Only now does she realize just how thorough she’s been in the handling of her suitors. To be honest, she doesn’t even remember half of it.
If only past Cassandra didn’t do such a goddess-damned good job! Then her current self wouldn’t be in such a pickle.
It gets bad enough that she tries to grab a stranger off the street and teach him basic etiquette. The ploy proceeds well at first – until he opens his mouth. Count Charon has him banished and Cassandra loses another precious hour to a lengthy scolding. She’s back right where she started.
Week three sees her growing increasingly lethargic, foregoing attempts at contact for late nights at the local taverns where she drinks and gambles away enough money that Count Charon refuses to pay the bill and she’s left without any method of distracting herself.
Week four is when she discovers the underground fighting tournament. She has a good run of it, although she’s too proud to make use of her crest. In the end, she’s beaten by a hulk of a man who hits her knee hard enough that she’s cursing all the way to the healer.
After her injury has been tended to, she slumps down in an alley. She tilts her head back to watch the clouds pass by in the narrow gap between buildings. This is it. Cassandra Charon marries some controlling fop who’ll deny her half the things that give her joy in life, while she’s expected to smoothly navigate the complex social rules of nobility without stepping on any toes. If there’s anything Cassandra has learned over the course of her life it’s that she doesn’t just step on toes – she utterly crushes them.
“You looking to lose your life?”
An emotionless female voice draws her attention. Cassandra startles when she sees a figure standing right across from her. When did she get there!? She didn’t notice a thing!
“Who are you?”
“A passing traveler.”
She’s pretty. At first glance, her relatively short hair makes her resemble a man. If it wasn’t for her ample chest- She finds her mouth moving on its own.
“Are you good at acting?”
“Huh?”
Okay, it’s a reach, but at this point Cassandra has got nothing to lose.
“Hear me out. My father wants me to marry. I’d rather not. I need someone who can take on the role of my suitor. Once my father’s been convinced, you can quietly fade out of the picture. Maybe we’ll stage an accident. Nothing that’ll bring real harm to you, of course.”
The stranger’s only response is a quiet hum. Then, silence. The hairs on Cassandra’s neck stand on end as she waits for an answer.
“What’s in it for me?”
“Gold. You’ll be thoroughly compensated for your efforts.”
“How well?”
Cassandra surveys her surroundings. When she doesn’t see anyone nearby, she lowers her voice. “I’m Count Charon’s daughter.”
The stranger’s brows shoot up. “I’m in.”
***
Two days pass before Cassandra learns that the stranger’s name is Shamir. She’s not a woman of many words. Probably an advantage, considering how Cassandra’s last attempt at deception went.
“No one’s gonna realize that’s a woman’s name. Is that a woman’s name?”
Shamir snorts. “In Dagda, yes. I doubt you’ll find many in Fódlan who care enough to know. Even so, it would be a simple matter to look me up. Better to use an alias. I know just the one.”
“Are you sure you can do it? Mannerisms and all?”
“Positive. I’ve dealt with enough of your ilk to recognize that air of superiority you love to project.”
“Hey!”
“No need to get worked up. I’ll resolve your… situation. That’s all you need, correct?”
It’s enough to appease Cassandra. She circles Shamir, taking her in. If she didn’t know about her regular appearance she wouldn’t suspect a thing. She’s wearing an elaborately embroidered vest and pants in a style that doesn’t quite fit anywhere in Fódlan. Under her clothes, bandages have been wrapped around her chest to make it appear flat, and around her upper arms to create the illusion of more muscle. Shamir has cut her hair even shorter for the job and applied makeup to create the illusion of a stronger jaw and thicker eyebrows.
Already, she’s performing gestures of the noble class better than Cassandra herself.
“If I may, Lady Cassandra?” Shamir bows and reaches for Cassandra’s hand. She’s managed to drop her voice enough that it passes for a male on the high end of the range. The flatness remains, but in Cassandra’s opinion it suggests a certain arrogance her father might like.
“Okay, let’s take it from the top. We don’t have much time and if this is going to work it needs be perfect.”