A/N: I noticed a sudden drop in feedback after the last chapter was posted, and I can only assume that you guys weren't a fan of it. Apologies. I do realize that the story has been going slowly, but this chapter will cover the half of the first canon episode of Reign. Hopefully this will redeem your faith in me and my story. Again, sorry for that last chapter.

Sebastian

"In a hurry?" he asked as the ward put a hand to her heart. It was strange seeing her like this, especially after she had so harshly spoken to him at the feast.

"No, you just- you scared me." Her voice had become less breathy by the last word, hardening into that stony texture he was used to.

"Why are you wandering round the castle? I thought it was embroidery time for the ladies."

"What business is it of yours?" she replied, instantly bristling.

"Simple question, my lady," he said, his eyebrows pitched up.

"Don't call me that," she answered, a shade less colder than she had been before. "I'm looking for Nostradamus' chambers. I need a roll of green thread. Now if you'll excuse me, I'll be on my way." Lyanna brushed past him, and Sebastian caught a whiff of lavender as she passed.

She was halfway down the corridor before he called after her, "You don't know where his chambers are, do you?"

She stopped and brought her hands up, fidgeting with something on her dress. "No. I don't."

"Go left down the next corridor that's split, and it's the first door on the right."

She glanced at him over her shoulder, maintaining eye contact for only a split second before she dropped her eyes to the stone floor. "Thank you. What is your name?"

"Sebastian. But call me Bash, everyone does."

"A debt must be repaid. Thank you, Sebastian."

Sebastian. It had been so long since a woman had called him that. "It is nothing... my lady." he said, the corners of his mouth twitching. He heard an audible sigh from the girl before her footsteps started again, slowly fading in the distance.

Francis

Francis gripped the sword tightly as he practiced with a phantom opponent in the armory, twisting and parrying as though he were in the thick of battle. The room was devoid of any noise, save for the occasional grunt and his quick footsteps as he dodged invisible blades. A shaft of sunlight shone in through the upper windows, creating rectangles of light on the stones. It was all graceful and unhurried, as though the blade was simply another appendage. As it should be in battle.

Francis loved to practice his swordfighting, but more so when he was trying to distract himself from something. Or in this case, someone.

Mary.

She was due at the castle in a few days, but he hadn't seen her since they were children. She'd been at a nunnery since she was ten, and he couldn't wait to see if she'd changed. If he'd changed.

If they'd changed.

They'd been betrothed practically since they were born, and the time was nigh for a royal wedding at the castle. He didn't exactly have a say in the matter, but many had told him that the nunnery had trained Mary to be the perfect bride. He wasn't all too worried- after all, his own parents had been wed in an arranged marriage, and they seemed relatively happy.

Slow applause suddenly echoed throughout the room, and Francis swirled to face the door. Bash stood there, grinning.

"Bravo, mon frere. Bravo."

Francis returned the grin. "You're late."

"Ran into someone on the way here," Bash said as he shrugged off his coat.

"Really? Who? I fear I may have an idea."

"Wouldn't you like to know," his brother teased as he picked up a wooden sword.

"It was a girl, wasn't it?" Bash had never been too good at hiding things, at least to Francis.

"Maybe it was and maybe it wasn't."

"Was it Sophie? Gracelyn?" Francis asked, his eyebrows raising higher with every guess. "Katlyn?"

"Heavens above, don't mention Katlyn to me. She just about talked my ear off at Lyanna's feast." Bash assumed the fighting stance, his sword held at the ready. "Come on, let's start. I haven't practiced in ages."

But Francis stood there, smiling at his brother. "It was Lyanna, wasn't it?"

Bash lowered his sword. "How did you-?"

"I know you better than you think, brother." Francis mirrored his brother's stance, and they circled each other. "You've a terrible memory for names, save for pretty girls."

"Well, she certainly is an intriguing woman," Bash said stubbornly.

"Sebastian, I can only warn you to be careful. She's English, she's an enemy. What if she's spying for their king?"

"Enemy or not, I can assure you I feel nothing for her."

"Are you certain?"

"Quite."

Francis then jumped in and started, the room filling with the dull clunks of their wooden swords. Francis needn't have anything to worry about. Bash usually kept his promises, and this one would be no exception. But Francis knew his brother. It would entirely be a matter of self-control for him, because Bash was easily swayed by a pretty face.

And everyone knew Bash had little self-control.

Lyanna

She'd counted two hundred and six leaves before her eyelids began to feel heavy. Cool wind blew over her face as she lay there underneath a large oak tree in the forest on the castle grounds. She'd taken to retreating here when things at the court got too hectic, as they were today. Yet another addition was made to the court with the arrival of Mary, Queen of Scots, and her ladies-in-waiting. Lyanna had watched her walk up the sand path with Francis and had immediately felt uneasy. So this was the Queen that the English so hated. Many a time her father would come home, grumbling about this and that, and she often heard the words 'that damned Mary' on his tongue. Almost from birth Lyanna had been taught that the Scots were a savage lot, rampaging farmlands at whatever chance they could get. That was why, he'd said, the king had been so keen on taking her land, and bringing them under control.

But the woman who had so confidently approached the royal family looked nothing like a savage. She looked well-bred and well-mannered, with a kind face. She looked, well, queen-like. She was nothing like Queen Catherine, who was as cold as the Channel on a winter day. Lyanna had sat in enough embroidery sessions to learn of Mary and Francis' betrothal, and Francis seemed happy with Mary at his side as they walked up to the royal family.

Lyanna felt guilty for thinking Mary's kind as savages when the French thought her own people uncivilized. Mary had even smiled at her as she passed, and Lyanna had stared back, dumbfounded. She just doesn't know who I am, she reasoned. That's all. But she wanted to be friends. Lyanna had seen how Mary laughed and talked with her ladies-in-waiting, and she wished that she could be one of them.

Life at the French court was a strange transition from her previous life. Before, she would wake at five, start the fire, and begin cooking breakfast. Her father would grab a piece of bread on the way out to the King's palace, while her siblings squabbled over everything else. Then, her and her brother Finn would ride out to the fields and tend to them as needed. There was no time and no need for her to learn sewing, as she had done here.

But that was the thing. Time. She'd never been used to having so much of it. These days she would wake at five and start to pull on her shoes before she realized that there was no breakfast to make, no siblings to cook for. After morning sewing she had the rest of the day to herself, and she never knew what to do with herself. The closest thing she had to a friend was Gracelyn, but she wasn't exactly the type that Lyanna would spill all her feelings to. Gracelyn was nice to speak to during embroidery, but otherwise they never saw each other. Lyanna supposed the next closest she could call a friend was Francis, but even he seemed distant with her. Everyone was.

Except for the bastard son.

That first night when he'd grabbed her arm, Lyanna thought for sure he was just a drunk who wanted to bed her. But when she looked at him, she saw light green eyes that were full of concern in the candlelight. And he'd said those words to her, the words that almost sounded like a promise.

But like all promises, she thought as she drifted off, this one is sure to be empty.

A branch cracked.

Lyanna sat up and hit her head on a low hanging branch. She groaned and clutched at the spot, which was now positively throbbing. She looked around and almost screamed; for the second time in a week, Sebastian had appeared seemingly out of nowhere. He stood in a patch of sunlight, the rays bouncing off his dark hair. "Oh, it's just you," she said to him, catching her breath. "Stop scaring me like that, it's enough to give anyone a heart attack."

Her tone was light, but darkness had clouded his eyes. "You shouldn't be here," he whispered hoarsely.

"What-?"

"You shouldn't be here!" he repeated, pulling her to her feet. When he removed his hands from hers, her blood was stained on his palm; Lyanna couldn't be certain, but it looked as though he had paled. "Leave," he told her. "Before it gets dark. Go! Hurry! I'll distract them if I can," he told her, drawing his dagger.

"Bash, who-?" At these words a dark shadow moved in the corner of her eye, and she gasped.

"They're drawn by the blood," he said. "Your blood." She watched as he held the blade to his hand, slicing into his flesh. Drops of blood oozed out and splattered onto the dirt, tainting it a dirty scarlet. "What are you still doing here?! Get out of here, now!"

"I'm not going to just leave you here-!" she argued hotly, but Sebastian cut her off.

"Christ Almighty, you're as stubborn as a mule! It's no wonder the English couldn't stand you! I said, go!" he roared the last word with the lung capacity of a mountain lion, along with a little shove pushing her in the way she'd come.

And she ran.

She felt beyond insulted.

In fact, when she tried to think of a word to describe how disgusted she felt, none came to mind. His words echoed in her ears as she ran through the thick foliage, pushing branches out of her face.

You're as stubborn as a mule! It's no wonder the English couldn't stand you!

She was crying. She wasn't sure if it was from the boy's words or from the branches that kept slapping her face. She'd been stupid to think him a friend. Perhaps everything he'd said to her before had been a trick, an illusion to get him on her good side. Perhaps all he had ever wanted to do was bed her, and move on to the next vulnerable wretch to stumble into the court.

The trees were thinning out now. She could see exactly where the forest ended and where the field began, and she launched herself into the tall grasses that guarded the nearby pond. Over her pants and gasps for breath she could hear a dog barking, and not long after, a woman's voice.

"Sterling! Sterling, get back here!"

The dog, Sterling, was now snarling at her. It was a great ugly brute, its fangs bared in a growl as Lyanna neared the stranger. She was sitting near the pond's shores, holding pebbles in her hand; with a start Lyanna realized it was Mary.

"Sterling!" Mary commanded again. "Sit! There's a good boy." She turned to Lyanna with a smile. "I'm afraid you will have to excuse Sterling. He barks at everything. Why, just earlier, he was barking at the forest." She patted the dirt next to her. "Please, sit with me. It is lonely here."

Lyanna, too out of breath to protest, obeyed.

"What's your name? I know you know who I am; I saw you when I arrived."

"Lyanna. Lyanna Davenshaw."

"Oh, you are the English ward. Correct?" Lyanna nodded. "Are you enjoying French court life?"

"It's alright. Your Grace," she added hastily.

"I suppose it took a long time to adjust," Mary smiled as she held another pebble to the sunlight. "Do you think Francis will like this?"

Lyanna blinked. "What, the pebble?"

"Yes. You know, he makes and decorates swords sometimes. A hobby, of course. I wanted to give him these, just to help. So do you think he will like this one?"

Lyanna looked at the stone. It was light brown, with flecks of darker brown. "It's very nice, Your Grace."

"I thought so," Mary agreed, adding the pebble to the small collection in her palm. "You and I are very much alike, Lyanna. I would like us to be friends."

"A-alike, Your Grace?"

Mary waved a dismissive hand. "You do not have to call me that. Among friends, there are no titles." She smiled again. "We are both strangers in a foreign land, are we not? Friends are hard to come by here."

"I suppose so, yes."

They were quiet for moment.

"Your Gr- Mary?"

"Hmm?" she asked as she held another pebble in the sunlight.

"You... you know Sebastian, the prince's brother?"

"Of course."

"He doesn't... he doesn't happen to have a twin, does he?"

"Two Sebastians! Wouldn't that be a sight," Mary mused as she dropped the pebble into her collection. "I can hardly stand one of him. But no, he was born alone. Why do you ask?"

"He's... strange. One moment he's all charm and talk, and the next he's a different person entirely." Lyanna pulled her knees to her chest and rested her chin on them. "So I just assumed..."

"Bash has always been a mystery, even to his own brother. But please, let's not speak of such things. For now, let us sit here and find beautiful pebbles for Francis, as friends do."

And so they did. All the while Lyanna wondered how Mary could be so outgoing in a foreign place, while Lyanna had shut herself away from anyone else. She was a coward, she realized; Mary had arrived and had tried to make the best of her visit, and Lyanna had practically thrown a fit like a child.

It was sad.

And it made her want to go home, more than ever.

Sebastian

"Ah, Sebastian, Sebastian..." the wizened old man wheezed. "You drove away a potential sacrifice. Such good blood, too, good blood..."

"The blood you sought was mine," Sebastian replied stiffly. "The girl's was just as common as anyone else's."

"Do not be so sure," the man rasped. "You must bring her back, bastard. It has been too long since this forest has seen good blood."

"What, does English blood sound better to you?" Sebastian spat. "I'm not bringing anyone back here. I am no longer under your control. You will never see her again, do you understand me?"

"It does not matter the country. It matters the lineage," the old man babbled. "You are not aware of her lineage?"

Sebastian sighed impatiently. "She is the daughter of England's foreign minister. She has traitor's blood."

"Do not be so sure!" the man repeated. "Search for her lineage. Her blood is not common."

"Are you deaf as well as dumb?" Sebastian asked angrily. "She is innocent. She has no part in this. She wandered in here of her own accord, not because I told her to. I do not want another woman's blood on my hands."

The man's lip curled. "Very well, bastard. But know this- if you will not bring her to us, we will bring her. Do you understand?"

Sebastian stumbled back. "You wouldn't."

"Do not underestimate our power, bastard. We have many in the castle who could easily slit her throat in her sleep. But that wouldn't be fun, would it, now?" The man turned his back on Sebastian. "Remember, you have a debt that must be paid. It can easily be paid with this. And Sebastian..."

"...Yes?"

"Know that true love does not conquer all."