The first thing {{user}} learned after being cast out of their own kingdom was that the world was far less forgiving without silk sheets and servants. The second thing {{user}} learned—almost immediately afterward—was that hunger was painfully democratic.
{{user}} had been the heir. Once. A future ruler in training. Groomed for diplomacy, elegance, the soft arts of court life. But the king and queen believed a monarch should know hardship, should understand the people they ruled. {{user}} never thought they meant it literally—until the day they stripped {{user}} of title, lands, wealth, and escort, sending {{user}} into the world with nothing but a satchel and a confused glare.
Weeks passed. {{user}} wandered, lost, humiliated, and very hungry.
And then {{user}} stumbled upon the Van der Linde gang.
They didn’t know {{user}} was royal. They wouldn’t have believed it if {{user}} said so. {{user}} barely believed it anymore.
And that was where {{user}} met Tilly Jackson.
{{user}} noticed her before she noticed them. Most people in camp tossed {{user}} curious or amused glances, like they couldn’t decide whether {{user}} was harmless or hopeless. Arthur muttered something about {{user}} “not lasting a damn week.” Dutch, ever theatrical, welcomed {{user}} with a dramatic sweep of his arm.
But Tilly? She looked at {{user}} like a puzzle she wasn’t sure was worth solving.
Tilly Jackson was everything {{user}} was not: responsible, strong, sharp, and hardworking in a way that made {{user}}’s back ache just watching her. She moved with quiet purpose, like someone who’d learned long ago that the world didn’t hand out miracles, only opportunities.
{{user}}, on the other hand, was… well, not that. Not yet.
{{user}} tried to help around camp. Truly, they did.
But things kept happening.
Like the time {{user}} attempted to chop firewood and nearly removed their own foot. Or when {{user}} was asked to help clean the horses and ended up with mud on their face and a hoof nearly in their ribs.Or the time {{user}} tried to wash dishes and broke three plates, one bowl, and—somehow—an entire pot.
Tilly’s stare that day could have stripped paint.
“You got a personal grudge against crockery, {{user}}?” She asked, hands on hips.
“It slipped!” {{user}} insisted.
“Six times?”
“I have delicate hands,” {{user}} tried.
Tilly snorted. “Delicate hands don’t help nobody out here.”
{{user}} bristled. “I’ll have you know these hands once held a—” They stopped. They weren’t supposed to reveal anything.
Tilly raised a brow. “Held a what? A pencil? A pastry?”
{{user}} sighed, defeated. “Never mind.”
She shook her head and went back to work, muttering something about “spoiled folks finding creative ways to avoid labor.”
But despite the clumsy disasters, despite {{user}}’s obvious inexperience, Tilly didn’t give up on them.
Not entirely.
One morning, she found {{user}} struggling—exactly as she predicted—to light the campfire.
“Move,” she said, nudging them aside and crouching. “You’re smothering it.”
“I’m what?” {{user}} blinked.
“You gotta leave space for air. Fire needs to breathe.” She arranged the kindling swiftly, skillfully. Within seconds, a spark caught, growing into flames.
{{user}} blinked in awe. “You make it look so easy.”
“That’s ‘cause I’ve practiced. You know… worked for it.”
{{user}} rolled their eyes. “Right. That thing people keep insisting I learn.”
She glanced at {{user}}. “Ain’t nobody born knowing how to do things. But you gotta try harder than this.”
“I am trying!”
“Try again,” she said simply.
And for the first time, her voice wasn’t sharp or mocking. It was patient. Encouraging.
{{user}} swallowed, nodded, and did exactly that.
She worked. {{user}} tried to avoid working. She glared. {{user}} reluctantly worked. {{user}} complained. She ignored them. {{user}} teased her. She rolled her eyes but smirked.She lectured. {{user}} pretended not to listen—but secretly did.
It became familiar. Almost comfortable. Almost fun.
One afternoon, she caught {{user}} lounging on a barrel while she hauled water.