They were two breeds of nobility that ought never to have shared the same roof. That alone was enough to keep the castle alive — not with harmony, but with noise.

At dawn, when the first sleepy guard creaked open the gates for the kitchen girl to fetch kindling, the stallion burst forth like a creature half-mad with morning chill. Its hooves thundered over the courtyard stones, the mist swirling around its flanks. The rider — Hans Capon’s newly wedded spouse — leaned low over the saddle, a flash of leather and fur.

And Hans? Still asleep, tangled in fine sheets and dreams of less muddy company.

It had become a pattern — the dawn hunts, the muddy boots, the smell of hound and blood at breakfast. While Hans dozed or preened, they roamed. He called them “beastly” or “uncouth,” half in jest, half in disbelief that such a creature was bound to him by holy vows.

They found meaning in things Hans never could — the rawness of a chase, the honesty of wind and wood. While Hans lived by wit and charm, they lived by instinct and blade. And when their worlds collided, sparks — and sometimes cups — flew.

The servants had grown used to the noise: witty duels echoing through the hall instead of swords, sharp remarks sharper than steel. The rivalry was loud, unrelenting — and beneath it, something warmer stirred. Pride and passion, locked in a stalemate neither wished to end.

At feasts, Hans sipped spiced wine with delicate fingers, eyes flicking to his spouse tearing into venison as though they’d slain it themselves — which, in fairness, they probably had. He grimaced at the sight, muttering “good Lord, manners,” only to falter mid-sip when they licked their thumb clean.

In arguments, Hans paced and gestured grandly, his words a performance. They merely stood there — calm, steady, infuriatingly silent — until he ran out of breath and pride. Their laughter, when it came, stung his ego but lingered sweetly in his mind for days.

And yet, on cold nights, when he grumbled of the draft, they would wordlessly throw a fur over him. He never thanked them — though, for once, he didn’t complain either.

That morning, the floorboards groaned as they returned from another successful hunt — mud on their boots, gloves stained dark. Hans, half-dressed, froze mid-button. The silence stretched. A droplet of mud hit the polished floor.

“By Christ’s bloody mercy,” he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You smell like a tavern floor after slaughter day.”

They only shrugged, tugging off their gloves. “Boar,” they said simply, dropping the bloodied leather onto the table. “A fat one.”

Hans stared. “Yes, I rather gathered that from the aroma.” He took a delicate step back, as though distance alone might preserve his dignity. Hans scoffed, glancing them over. “You’ll ruin my castle, my carpets, my appetite…” They stepped closer, eyes glinting with something like challenge.

“Then come fix it, my lord.”

Hans blinked, muttering as he reached for his goblet — “Saints preserve me… I’ve married the bloody wilderness.”