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robbinghisdick · 2 days

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“No.”

“Bruce—”

“Absolutely not. Do you have any idea what you’re proposing?”

“It’s not a proposal,” Dick said with a calm he didn’t feel. He’d already numbed himself to the idea. “I am not asking you, Bruce. I’m telling you.”

“I am not letting my son walk straight into the hands of someone who wants him dead,” Bruce snapped, eyes flashing, as he shoved upright from the council table.

“And I,” Dick replied levelly, meeting Bruce’s gaze, “am not letting someone else suffer for a war I caused.”

Bruce shook his head, deflating slightly as his expression pinched. “You didn’t cause it, Dick,” he said quietly. “It was a set-up. You know this. King Slade knows this.”

Dick’s mouth firmed to a thin line. It didn’t matter if Slade knew now that his son had been captured by extremists and tortured until he was a weapon aimed at Gotham. It was still Dick’s sword that had ended his life. “I killed him,” Dick said softly. “I killed Prince Grant and Slade will never forget that.” Never forgive that, never mind the grudging treaty created when Hive’s treachery had come to light. “I will not let someone else take my place as a target of his rage.”

No one trusted the treaty. Not in Gotham, not in Defiance. The hostage exchange was the only thing grounding the flimsy sheet of paper—one noble from Defiance, one noble from Gotham, each with a permanent stay in the other kingdom’s court.

“Dick,” Bruce said slowly, “you’re the Crown Prince.”

“I’ve been removed from the succession,” Dick said, half-shrugging. “Your advisors won’t let you reinstate me.” Hot-headed, impetuous, reckless—whatever Bruce believed, Dick had started a war by killing a prince, and several nobles in Gotham had never wanted the son of aerialists to ascend to the throne.

“Dick—”

“You can’t stop me,” Dick crossed his arms. This was his mess, and he was going to clean it up, whether Bruce liked it or not.

Bruce slumped back into his chair, and buried his head in his hands. “Dick,” he said quietly, “please.”

“I’m sorry, Bruce,” Dick said, equally quiet. “But I can’t watch someone else take my place.”

Bruce let out a slow, shuddering breath. Finally, he spoke, “You won’t go as a prince.”

“What?”

“You won’t go as a prince. Under your real name. King Slade has never seen you—” That was true, once Bruce had realized why an army was at their border, Dick had been carefully guarded. “He won’t know who you are. We can make up a minor noble family for you. A lordship on the other side of Gotham.”

“But—”

“Dick,” Bruce looked him in the eyes, his face grave and pale. “He despises you. And I will not send my son to his death, do you understand?”

Dick nodded mutely, the words ringing in his head.

He despises you.

And Slade had every right to.

~#~

It was safe to say that Slade wasn’t in a good mood. Hadn’t been in a good mood since he’d received word that his firstborn was dead, and his initial fury had receded to an ever-simmering flame of rage, a perpetual bad temper that sent everyone fleeing.

If he’d had his way, he would’ve razed Gotham to the ground and stuck every member of its royal family on a pike before he stopped. Unfortunately, King Bruce had managed to find evidence that the terrorist group Hive had been involved, muddying the facts to claim that Prince Richard had merely been acting in self-defense, and it had been enough to sour Slade’s kingdom on a costly war.

So now he was supposed to play nice with the kingdom his son had died in, signing a treaty that wasn’t worth the paper and ink, biding his time until he could have his revenge. Gotham was sticking to its best behavior for the time being and Prince Richard had vanished after he’d been removed from the line of succession, leaving Slade uselessly seething.

He glared at Wintergreen as he approached the throne. “Is that it?” he asked, gesturing to the near-empty throne room. “No petitioners to hear today?” Very few dared to show up, all of them showing a healthy fear of his temper.

“The Lord of Owlcourt has arrived,” Wintergreen said. Right. Their noble hostage. Slade had sent Drakon to Gotham days ago with careful instructions to watch and listen but do nothing unprovoked. He doubted that Gotham would give him an easy excuse to go to war, the kingdom wasn’t as cutthroat as its neighbors.

With the exception of its reckless prince.

“And I have to be here for that?” He didn’t want to greet whatever sacrificial lamb Gotham had sent, he didn’t even want to acknowledge that they existed. As minor a lord as they could find, most likely, or maybe even a merchant willing to play at being a lord for a generous payout to his family. According to Wintergreen, Owlcourt had been a royal territory until very recently, which meant that Gotham had magicked this lordship out of thin air.

Wintergreen gave him a sharp look, but didn’t start the long lecture Slade was half-expecting. Everyone was treating him like he was a piece of fucking glass, and Slade dearly wanted a fight. Wanted to draw his sword and hack away until everyone that would hurt him, hurt his children, were dead.

In his imaginings, the bodies all had dark hair and golden crowns.

“The Lord of Owlcourt,” the guards announced as they opened the doors, and Slade got his first look at the noble.

Young, younger than Slade had been expecting, dark-haired and light-eyed, expression steady as he flicked his gaze around the room, not shivering or scared. Slade flicked a glance at Wintergreen to make sure he wasn’t overthinking things. His steward had his mouth pressed into a thin line, eyes narrowed.

Slade wasn’t sure if it was supposed to be a taunt or a deliberate provocation, but if they wanted him to lose his composure, they’d have to try harder than sending a lookalike of their prince.

“Your Majesty,” the lordling dipped into a low bow. Lower than a lord to a foreign king usually bowed. The idea that they’d foisted a lordship on some random commoner was looking more and more likely. “My name is Dick Grayson, and I’m—”

“The Lord of Owlcourt, yes, we did receive the message,” Slade said, cutting him off. He made no attempt to hide his glower as Grayson straightened. “Neither of us need to pretend this is anything but what it is.” His noble hostage could rot in a tower for all Slade cared. “You will obey our rules. You will not leave the castle without permission. You want anything, you will ask Wintergreen and he’ll see if it’s necessary.” His steward inclined his head as Grayson darted a glance at him. “If you’re on anything less than your best behavior,” Slade paused, scanning the young lordling’s face. Wariness aplenty, but no outright fear. “There will be consequences.”

“Understood, Your Majesty,” Grayson dropped into another bow. Someone should teach him some etiquette before the whole court figured out he wasn’t a noble. “Thank you for your hospit—”

Slade got up from the throne and walked out before he could finish. The pleasantries had been met, and he had no intention of getting closer to a Gotham lord. Especially not one who looked so similar to the man that killed his son.

This time, when Slade dreamed of destroying his enemies and venting his grief, the corpses looked like the young Lord of Owlcourt.

~#~

Dick had half been expecting them to throw him in the dungeons and was pleasantly surprised when he was led to a room. Nowhere near as large as his quarters in Gotham, and the simplicity was clearly intended as a slight, but the room had a writing desk and a window, and didn’t seem overly cold.

“Your trunk will be brought up after it’s searched,” the steward said—Wintergreen, Dick remembered, cold eyes watching him with eerie intensity. “Anything we deem too dangerous to let you have will be destroyed.”

Dick took a breath and nodded. He hadn’t brought anything valuable with him, had correctly assumed that Defiance wouldn’t treat his possessions with any sort of courtesy.

“It should go without saying, but your best option is to keep your head down,” Wintergreen said sharply. “Do not test the King’s temper. War has been narrowly avoided, I suggest you try not to court it again.”

Don’t flinch, Dick chanted mentally in his head. Wintergreen didn’t know who he was talking to. Didn’t know how accurate his words really were.

“If there is something you require, you come to me. You will not be assigned a chaperone or a guard, and you will be stopped if trying to enter a restricted area. Meals will be served in the Great Hall, the library is open if you wish to read, and the training areas are usually empty in early morning. You will not be allowed sharpened weapons.”

That was more freedom than Dick had expected. There weren’t bars on the windows and the door appeared to lock from the inside.

“Do you have any questions?” Wintergreen asked, tone perfunctory. Dick shook his head, throat still dry from his interaction with the King.

“Very well,” Wintergreen inclined his head. “Lord Grayson.” He swept from the room before Dick could breathe through the sting of the title. No longer a prince. Never a prince again.

He’d half been prepared for his disguise to fall apart the moment he’d reached the castle’s gates. The steward’s eyes had narrowed dangerously when he’d seen him, and Dick had seen the way King Slade’s expression had flickered with surprise before cooling. They might not have seen him before, but clearly they’d heard of his appearance.

He’d thought about dying his hair, but he couldn’t bank on getting the materials to keep it up in Defiance. His only shield was a name lost to time and the prayer that they wouldn’t put it together.

Dick sank down into the chair and exhaled slowly.

It had worked.

~#~

Unfortunately, the Lord of Owlcourt was a model guest. He’d made no demur over his sword and dagger being seized, no protest at being forced to file a formal request for every additional piece of furniture for his rooms, no complaint at being ordered to attend every meal in the Great Hall.

The last had been Wintergreen’s idea. If it was up to Slade, he would’ve locked Grayson in a cell and thrown away the key, but Wintergreen had pointed out that Slade had sworn to treat the hostage with courtesy.

So Grayson had a decent set of rooms in the guest wing, had meals with everyone else, was allowed to roam the castle without fear of retaliation. It helped that he was an unrecognizable face—Slade didn’t doubt that Grayson had fought in the war, his hands bore sword calluses, but no one in Slade’s court had any personal animosity with the young lordling.

It also helped that the Lord of Owlcourt was charming.

~#~ ~#~

Slade turned back when he reached the door, and had to fight his twitching lips. Dick had spread out on the bed, curling up in the warmth Slade had left behind, and had pulled the blankets over his head to block out the sun.

Not a morning bird, then, but a cat. Slade shook his head as he left his room, and refused to call the emotion fondness. He wasn’t getting fond of the Lord of Owlcourt.

And what if you are? a tiny voice asked in his head.

…And what if he was. Dick was from Gotham, true, but he would be staying permanently in Slade’s court. No one had heard of Owlcourt in Defiance, so it wouldn’t ruffle any feathers amongst his court. And—and Slade couldn’t spend the rest of his life wrapped up in misery.

Dick was amusing, and a challenge. Smart and fierce and bold. Good at politics too. He was everything Slade looked for in a partner, and Slade had to admit that what was supposed to be a temporary relief had turned into a more permanent arrangement.

He recalled the way blue eyes sparkled as Slade pinned Dick to the bed, dark hair ruffled by the pillows—as much as Slade detested the underhandedness of the Waynes, Slade wouldn’t have gotten this if they hadn’t tried to provoke him.

For a moment, Slade tried to imagine what it would’ve been like if they’d actually sent over Prince Richard. If Slade, or someone else, didn’t kill him, Richard would’ve probably spent the entire time locked up in his rooms, perhaps plotting how to murder the rest of them in their sleep. There was certainly no way they would’ve ended up sleeping together.

The very thought was ridiculous. As if Prince Richard would’ve ever—

“I volunteered.”

“My cousin. She’s a tutor for the youngest prince.”

“I learned swordsmanship from the very best, Your Majesty.”

Slade came to a stop in the middle of the corridor.

No.

That was—impossible.

No one would ever—

Dick, on his knees, almost trembling, and the snarl of what did they teach in Gotham, that he thought Slade would ever do such a thing forestalled by his fury for the young lordling, what kind of royal family sent someone to sacrifice everything for their mistakes?

“The King is a good man,” Dick sighed, “And his family are good people.”

“It’s my duty,” Dick said quietly, “For my kingdom.”

My.

But no king would ever send his heir as hostage if there was another choice. No father would ever send his son to someone who wanted him dead.

Slade was being ridiculous. Dick was just a noble’s bastard son with a passing resemblance to the Crown Prince of Gotham.

…Dick was a short form of Richard.

~#~

“It’s a pity,” Slade said softly, “That we don’t have Prince Richard to explain away this one too.”

The courtiers laughed. Dick didn’t.

Slade was staring directly at him.

~#~ ~#~

Dick laced his fingers around the cup, and took another sip. It was refreshing. It was water. It was something to do that wasn’t looking up at Slade, because he didn’t think he could handle looking up at Slade right now.

He’d been ready, when he approached the castle, for his paper-thin disguise to fall apart. For Slade to kill him where he stood, and know that at least in death he kept his kingdom safe. He—he had not been prepared to watch Slade’s face twist into hate after softening, after he knew what Slade looked like grinning sharp and victorious, or solemn, or sleepily content with the early morning sun splayed over his face. It…hurt.

Dick took another small sip of water. The cup was already three-quarters empty. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could drag this out.

The door opened again, and Dick’s fingers tightened on the cup. The boots in front of him jerked, and turned to face the newcomer, but Dick didn’t look up. It wouldn’t make a difference.

“Wintergreen,” Slade said flatly, sounding both confused and displeased at once.

“Slade,” the steward answered in the same flat tone, “And here I was half-expecting he’d already be dead.”

Dick raised his head, bewildered. The way Wintergreen had said that—

“You knew?” Oh, Slade sounded furious now. “Since when?”

Wintergreen didn’t seem the slightest bit bothered by his king’s agitation, instead studying Dick as Slade growled. “A week or so after his arrival. Before you, I wager.” Dick’s stomach twisted—how long had Slade known? Dick hadn’t noticed any sudden difference in him, anything to suggest that he knew Dick was the person that had killed his son.

Before sleeping with him?

After?

“How?” Slade demanded.

“I already told you of my findings regarding Owlcourt,” Wintergreen said mildly, “But if he was some merchant’s son or a farmer, no amount of drilling in manners would’ve been able to replicate being raised a noble. So that must mean he’s a noble. But then why hide his real title, why give him some random royal territory?” Wintergreen shrugged lightly, “If he looks so much like the prince, then perhaps he is the prince.”

“And you didn’t tell me,” Slade bit back. Dick took another quiet sip of water.

“No, Slade, I didn’t tell you, because you would’ve killed him,” Wintergreen snapped back, “And started another war, hostage or not, by murdering Gotham’s Crown Prince.”

“I’m not,” rang out into sudden silence. Dick winced, but—but he couldn’t stay silent forever. “I’m not the Crown Prince,” he said quietly.

Slade and Wintergreen were both staring at him now. Dick fought the urge to hide.

“We just went over this,” Slade began, but Dick cut him off.

“No, not—I was the Crown Prince. I’m not anymore.”

Slade narrowed his eyes, but it was Wintergreen who spoke. “What are you talking about?” he asked.

“The council,” Dick explained, “One of their conditions was that my adoption be revoked.” Bruce had been furious, but his court had agreed that it was an elegant solution—if a prince had not slaughtered a prince, the consequence would never have been war—and by that time, Dick had already made up his mind to go so it had been a moot point. “So I’m not. A prince or a Wayne. I—Owlcourt is a royal territory, yes, but I have a claim to it, through my great-grandfather. My name was Grayson, before Bruce adopted me. It—wasn’t a lie.”

Slade and Wintergreen were staring at him, silent. Dick swallowed, and bowed his head.

“But it’s a deliberate omission,” Dick said quietly, “I understand why you’re angry.” Still two sips of water left in the cup, but Dick put it down, before shifting forward to fold onto his knees. “Killing me won’t start a war,” Dick almost whispered, and squeezed his eyes shut.

Another stretching silence, before boots came closer. “Out of curiosity,” Slade said, his voice level, “How long did you think you’d get away with it?”

Dick—didn’t know. There had always been an end date in sight. All he could do was push it another day away. “Hopefully long enough that tensions would’ve died down,” Dick said quietly, because he was still a hostage, and if Slade killed him without provocation, the treaty would be in turmoil. Too soon after the war, and angry, grieving people might seize the opportunity to attack again.

Slade made an irritated sound. “I’m not going to kill you,” he snapped, one boot nudging his knee, “Get up.”

Dick processed the order before he processed the statement, so he stuttered halfway up, nearly falling back down before he recovered and straightened fully. Slade wasn’t looking at him, but his face was set in a glower. Wintergreen looked…mildly amused. Or satisfied.

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