-

Author’s Note: Thanks for clicking on my first ever Troy fic, and my first stab at romance. It’ll be reasonably short, as far as I know, though my stories do generally drag themselves out into epics. I’ll try to keep this one under control . It’ll focus pretty much solely on Hector and Andromache, because there are nowhere near enough stories about them. Hope you enjoy it!

Reviews always appreciated.

-

CHAPTER ONE:

Hector, eldest son of King Priam of Troy, slid lithely from the leather saddle of his horse. She was a stately mare, with a coat of burnished silver and a regal tilt to her arching neck. A beauty, Hector thought wryly, but looks can be deceiving. Her fiery temper and brutal hooves had solicitously bestowed him with several aching ribs, a wrenched shoulder and a hefty bruise to his pride. Widely recognised as one of the finest horsemen in all of Troy, Hector had not taken kindly to being thrown repeatedly from his saddle.

For the best part of the morning he had ridden her up and down the banks of the River Skamander out on the grassy plateau to one side of the great walled city, fighting to rein in her wild spirit. Both of them were left spattered with mud and dripping with sweat, but it had worked, to some extent; the mare was much more subdued, and no longer reared at the touch of a human hand. There was mutual respect between horse and rider.

Hector called for one of the stableboys, who hurried over and bowed low before the prince.

“Fetch some water and clean her up,” Hector said, tossing the lad the reins.

“Looks like you’re the one who needs cleaning up, big brother,” came a familiar laughing voice. Hector turned to see Paris standing in the stable doorway.

“You’re right,” Hector replied, joining Paris at the door and glancing down at his mud-smeared tunic. “I seem to be wearing half of the riverbank.”

“Throw you, did she?”

“Once or twice,” he said dryly, gingerly rotating his aching shoulder. “She was supposedly a gift to father from the Hittites, but I wouldn’t call her a gift so much as an instrument of assassination. I’m sure that they sent her to do away with us all, one by one.”

Paris laughed and shook his head as they left the stables. “That’s right,” he said, “blame the Hittites for your bruised pride. Let’s head back to the palace; my stomach tells me that it’s lunch time.”

They weaved their way along the busy streets and came quickly to the sweeping marble palace steps, where they were surprised to see two well- dressed foreigners approaching them on horseback; a man and a woman.

“I suppose they are from Kilikia,” Hector said, remembering that his father had previously mentioned something about a small party arriving from the mountainous nation south of Troy. “From King Eetion’s court in Thebe.”

“I wonder what they’re doing here,” Paris speculated indifferently. The young prince was far less politically-minded than his brother.

“They want to discuss trade with father, I think. Something about the Hellespont embargoes.”

“Fascinating,” Paris replied, somewhat unconvincingly. “We had better go inside and fetch father, I suppose.”

But Hector was not listening. There, sliding lithely from the saddle of one of the horses, was a woman. She was tall, clothed in a simple blue dress with a travelling cloak swathing her shoulders. A graceful gold band encircled her forehead and her dark hair was pulled back in a slightly unfurling braid. But it was her face that caught Hector’s eye, and held it; finely boned, but with a surprisingly strong chin and a firm set to the mouth. Her hazel eyes, too, betrayed a spark of hidden power. She was utterly beautiful, with a sort of unadorned strength and elegance that enhanced her splendour all the more.

“Hector? Are you listening, brother?” Paris prodded Hector’s arm, but to no avail. With an exasperated sigh he turned to follow his older brother’s gaze. He saw the lady and was surprised. What was this? Hector, the indomitable warrior and heir to the throne of Troy, falling for a woman at first glance? Surely not.

“Sorry, Paris,” Hector said distractedly, his eyes still fixed on the woman. “What were you saying?” At that moment, she turned and met his gaze. She looked at him for only an instant, her sparkling eyes questioning him and a small, arch smile coming to her lips. Then Hector’s attention was caught by a tall blonde man who had dismounted from the other horse and was striding towards them.

“You there,” he snapped imperiously, eyes flicking over Hector’s muddy riding clothes and Paris’s casual tunic. He obviously thought them idle slaves or peasants come to gawk at the visitors. “Fetch a guard and send him to tell Priam of our arrival. Be quick about it!”

Hector stiffened and raised himself to his full, considerable height. “You will address the Princes Hector and Paris of Troy with more courtesy, sir,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. The man started, floundered, and then hastily gathered his composure.

“Apologies, Prince Hector, Prince Paris, for I did not...recognise you,” he said with a smooth bow to each of them, his sardonic eyes lingering pointedly for a moment on the princes’ clothes. “I am Lord Teelios, royal counsellor to King Eetion of Kilikia. I speak for His Royal Highness in requesting an audience with King Priam, ruler of mighty Troy.”

“My father will see you when he is ready,” Hector said shortly, eyeing Teelios with some distaste. The man was broad-shouldered and handsome, but with a sharp set to his face that suggested a proud and cunning mind. His affectedly obsequious tone of voice, too, betrayed his rather high opinion of himself.

“My thanks, Prince Hector,” Teelios replied, voice oily. “May I present my wife, Princess Andromache?” The woman in the blue dress turned from tending to her horse and stepped forward to greet the princes with a gracious curtsey. “It is a pleasure,” said Paris, shooting a half-amused, half-concerned glance at his brother’s expression before amiably kissing the woman’s hand. Hector, meanwhile, was gathering his thoughts. Wife? She was married? And to this insolent swine of a man, no less. But don’t be a fool, he told himself sharply, gaining a hold on his emotions and putting them in check. If she is married, then so be it. Ridiculous to feel disappointed. You don’t know the woman, haven’t spoken a word to her. But why, then, did regret and frustration churn his stomach? He could manage only a slight, rigid bow to greet Andromache, and his voice, when he spoke, was a little too brusque. “I shall inform the King of your arrival, and show you to some rooms where you can rest in the meanwhile. No doubt you are tired after such a long journey.” Hector turned to his brother. “Paris, take them to an apartment in the South Wing. See to it that they have servants and are well looked after. I shall find father.”

With that, he turned abruptly on his heel and strode up the palace steps, a rigid expression hiding a mind in turmoil.

-

Author’s Note: Chapter Two should be up soon, and it’ll probably take the form of an extract from Andromache’s diary. That way we can see her side of the story. Please review!