#royal court dynamics

[joncronshawauthor]

Secrets and Schemes: Why Royal Courts Captivate Fantasy Readers

In fantasy literature, few settings captivate readers quite like the royal court. These hubs of power, intrigue, and danger serve as perfect crucibles for character development and plot twists. But what makes royal courts so appealing in fantasy storytelling? Let’s explore this fascinating aspect of worldbuilding, with a particular focus on the courts depicted in my novel, “The Fall of…

[luckyricochet]

"Gloire au grand défenseur de la liberté." "Charles. De quelle taverne avez-vous été jeté aujourd'hui?" "Aucune. Mais il est encore tôt. Quand partez-vous sauver l'Amerique?" "D'un jour à l'autre, le cour m'honore d'une commission."

THÉODORE PELLERIN as GILBERT DU MOTIER, THE MARQUIS DE LAFAYETTE

EVERY LAFAYETTE SCENE, 7/? ✧ 1x02, FRANKLIN (2024)

[bumblingbabooshka]

St Voyager Memes: Command Trio Edition [Voted 'Most Toxic VOY Polycule' by the people]

[raayllum]

don't get me wrong callum is undeniably a prince and it plays into his family dynamics and his initial sense of unworthiness when the story starts a lot, but i'll never fully understand the hang up that it's a Big part of his ongoing story when his own brother, the king, says "remember who you are" and just refers and reiterates his mage identity (4x06), and that's the only one that callum seems to significantly care about either (5x07)

[possamble]

realizing im kind of a weirdo about laios and marcille

[chaotic-orphan]

A Benignant Mischief (5)

Part one here

Continued from here

Back to my favourite Kingdom~

*~*~*~*~*

Cosimo managed to walk at a respectable pace with Henrik’s arm around him, supporting him as they followed the King’s trail through the palace. It felt nice to have freedom of movement in his arms, the iron cuffs were a welcome weight off his wrists.

This part of the palace looked less… formal. Less imposingly grand as the trial court had been. There were also less people, less humans, so maybe that had something to do with Cosimo’s sudden easement.

They turned a corner which opened up into a large room. Not as tall or grand as the court, but clean. Clinical. The walls were the same bone white, but three beds made up the back wall with cabinets full of bottles scattered around everywhere else, filling the space.

Nikolas was there, smiling and charming off the other grumpy human that could only be Artzet. He was taller than Nikolas, and where Nikolas was fair Artzet was dark. He had long dark, raven hair pushed back off his face, that stopped just above his shoulders. He had a wide face and a strong jaw, lined with dark stubble. His eyes were blue, when he turned his head to Cosimo and Henrik, like ice.

“Ah, there he is now,” said Nikolas with a smile, walking over to Cosimo and Henrik to stand beside them. “The man of the hour. He had a rather unfortunate arrival and I was hoping you could bandage his wrists from the cuffs.”

Artzet cocked an eyebrow at Cosimo, silent as the grave. He had a strange aura about him, unapproachable and stormy. His eyes flicked to Cosimo’s ears and Cosimo felt the shame rise in his face as he looked down.

“The boy’s an elf,” Artzet said, his voice like gravel, with a strange accent. Not unlike Henrik and Nikolas but certainly different. Foreign, like Cosimo.

“Yes,” said Nikolas brightly. “He’s a boy. His name is Cosimo, and he was mistreated in my name, Artzet.”

Artzet’s eyes were hard when they cut to Nikolas. “Don’t you usually execute elves?”

There wasn’t a malice in his words, nor anything else really. It was more… matter of fact, as if trying to glean understanding. Cosimo was dizzy with the range that humans came in. Evil, kind, happy, grumpy— and then Artzet who just… confused Cosimo.

Maybe he was going mad.

“Yes,” Nikolas replied in the same matter-of-fact tone. “Adult elves with intentions to kill me first. This boy is a child, Artzet. He doesn’t even know of our tumultuous history with elves.”

Artzet looked at Cosimo again with those icy eyes, calculating, searching Cosimo’s face for what Cosimo didn’t know. Then his face broke into a smile and it made him look a couple years younger.

“An innocent elf,” Artzet said with a bark of laughter and a shrug. “Well. It’s not everyday I get to treat an elf, please put him on the bed.”

Nikolas grinned in return, flashing his smile down at Cosimo and then patting Henrik on the back. “Marvellous!”

Henrik helped Cosimo over to the bed while Artzet milled around the room, humming a tune to himself. “You okay, kid?” Henrik whispered as he lifted Cosimo onto the bed.

“Yeah,” Cosimo replied, the room swirling slightly. “Yeah I’m fine.” Henrik smiled and grabbed Cosimo’s legs, helping him to stretch out on the comfortable bed and it felt so good. So nice and soft and warm. So unlike the cell’s cot.

Nikolas smiled at Cosimo from the entrance of the room. “I have to go and see to some arrangements about fixing you a room, Cosimo.”

Cosimo frowned. “A room?”

“Yes,” Nikolas said, smiling kindly.

“You’re not letting me go?”

The humans stilled in the room. Cosimo looked between Nikolas and Henrik, Artzet’s humming stopped. His heart was beating hard in his chest.

They weren’t going to let him go? What about? He had to save the boy and the fox he had to return to them, he had to—

Darkness encroached on the edges of his vision, Cosimo’s breath getting away from him and thrumming his chest in a staccato rhythm.

“I have to— I have to— my brother, I have to—” Cosimo wheezed, clutching his chest but it was no use. His thoughts were against him, his mind turning in on him and shattering. He couldn’t breathe. He had to—

Henrik was beside him, hand on his and squeezing. “Hey. Cosimo! Hey! Look at me, it’s okay! We’re not keeping you here. Cosimo!”

Cosimo’s eyes darted around the room searching for escape, everyone, everything was too close to him, the mattress too soft so he would struggle to run and could he even run?! In his state?

Icy eyes appeared in front of him and then smaller golden eyes. Cosimo stared, stunned at the furry creature that Artzet held in front of his face. Tears flowed in steady streams down his face but even then he couldn’t understand what was happening.

A cat?

It was a cat… Artzet… was holding a cat up to Cosimo? To take it?

“There we go. See? Everyone loves Myshka. Eh? Pet her if you like,” said Artzet with an encouraging nod. Cosimo lifted his hand and stroked the cat’s head. The cat purred under him, grey fur so soft and fluffy. “She is my nurse, helps me with all my patients. Isn’t that right Myshka?”

Myshka purred in reply. Cosimo let out a small happy laugh at her, as the grey cat curled up on his lap, content. Cosimo raised his head to see Henrik and Nikolas sharing a look of bewilderment. Cosimo swallowed, embarrassed at all the fuss he had caused.

“Mmm,” Artzet hummed in response to Myshka. “I agree. He is a lovely boy. Too tall for his age, but that means he will grow strong.”

“Cosimo.”

Cosimo looked up to Nikolas, who was frowning his brows forming a furrow at the top of his nose. His green eyes met Cosimo’s, with something heavy in them.

“You said…” Nikolas began then stopped, worrying his lip between his teeth. “You said you had a brother?”

Cosimo’s chest swelled again. He looked to Henrik who stared at him with the same tentative look that was on Nikolas’s face. So he must have said it. Cosimo didn’t remember saying it…

“You didn’t run away on your own,” said Henrik softly. Cosimo glanced down at the cat, fearing if he looked at anyone else he would start crying again. “Did you?”

Cosimo swallowed the lump in his throat.

Artzet spoke first. “Cosimo, if you wouldn’t mind stretching your arm here so I can clean it.”

Cosimo was happy for the distraction. His tongue had turned to sand in his mouth, too dry and thick and much. What would they do to the boy? To the fox? Would they kill them? Sure, Henrik liked Cosimo but that didn’t mean they liked elves. Would they put him in irons too? Force him to be in a cell? To stand trial, and then bandage him up again with an apology and an offer to stay and live with them.

“Cosimo,” it was Henrik this time. His eyes soft and trusting. “You can tell us, okay? We just want what’s best for you. And for your brother.”

Cosimo felt tears building behind his eyes. He couldn’t tell them, could he? He remembered during the trial, how Henrik had just stood back as he was tied down to an iron pole and it flared something angry in his chest. He couldn’t just tell them.

“If I tell you,” Cosimo said, tone guarded, shielding himself from the answer. He raised his head and stared straight at Nikolas. He had to hear it from the King. “Will you subject him to the same thing you did to me?”

The question seemed to suck all air out of the room. Henrik straightened, turning his body a little away from Cosimo, to look at Nikolas. Nikolas’s green eyes didn’t leave Cosimo’s. He walked closer to Cosimo’s bed and stopped at the end of it. Nikolas lifted his right hand, tucking his left behind his back and formed a fist over his chest.

His eyes solemn as he stared at Cosimo.

“I promise you, Cosimo. That your brother will not come to any harm in my care. I will treat you both as if you were my subjects. If you wish you can pass through my territory if you would prefer to keep running from where you’re from. I will provide the King’s escort so you can pass safely through.” Nikolas’s gaze softened then. A small flush fell over his cheeks, and Cosimo realised with a start that the King was… embarrassed.

“Or, if you prefer, you can have a room here in the palace. In my court. You would be treated with the utmost respect and kindness, as well as I would treat any other human. More so, because I know what pain you have been caused under my care. This, I give you, my vow as King. No harm will come to you.”

Cosimo stared without words. It felt as if his breath was taken from his chest. The only thought running through his head was that: Nikolas really did look like a King. The kind of Kings from stories Cosimo grew up with; good Kings, kind Kings, brave as knights and chosen by Gods. His golden brown hair like a crown, standing like a soldier in front of Cosimo, offering him a salute.

A King saluting Cosimo.

A human saluting an elf.

His enemy.

Maybe he was like everything Henrik had said. Maybe he was too good to be a King.

Cosimo broke down into another round of sobs. Nikolas blanked, like he had done something wrong immediately looking to Henrik who shared his look of confusion.

Artzet was bandaging Cosimo’s wrist, movement unbroken as if there was no life changing exchanges happening behind him. Myshka purred on Cosimo’s lap happily.

“Cosimo, I—” Nikolas began but Cosimo cut him off.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for causing all this trouble, I’m sorry for forcing you to be kind. I’m sorry—” Cosimo blubbered, looking up at Nikolas with watery eyes, as wide as saucers. “I’m sorry… that I’m not strong enough to say no. I— I ran with my brother, we— I didn’t have a plan, we have nowhere else to—”

Henrik engulfed Cosimo in a hug, stopping him mid sentence. He was so strong he could take the weight of them both as sobs wracked through Cosimo like a storm. Blubbering up and broiling over in waves.

“We’ll find your brother,” Nikolas said, and he was so certain. “As soon as you’re rested and—”

Cosimo’s eyes flew open, panicked. “No. Please, we have to find him now.”

Nikolas softened. “Of course. As soon as Artzet has looked you over we will set out to find him, Cosimo.”

“How wonderful,” Artzet said happily, returning Cosimo’s bandaged wrist to his lap. “I am already halfway through! Henrik, please. Let us swap sides.”

Cosimo flushed at Artzet’s manner of speaking. He spoke from the back of his throat, pausing as if for effect after every couple of words. His voice happy and upbeat, his face still the same imposing sternness that had initially scared Cosimo.

Henrik pulled back from Cosimo, and Cosimo offered him a smile. It was all he could do. Henrik returned one and walked around the bed to where Artzet was before, sitting on the edge of the blanket.

“How far away was your brother from where we were camped?” Henrik asked.

“Not too far,” Cosimo replied. “I’ll know when we get there. I left him in an elfbow. It should protect him from humans.”

“And from elves?”

Cosimo looked at Nikolas who had an unreadable expression on his face. Cosimo frowned, he didn’t even think of that.

“No,” said Cosimo softly. “No it wouldn’t.”

“No trouble,” said Artzet with a smile. “I will just work faster.”

Nikolas nodded at Artzet. “Thank you, Doctor. Henrik will stay with you Cosimo, while I send word to the stables to prepare the horses so we can leave as soon as you’re finished here.”

“Okay,” said Cosimo. “Thank you.”

Nikolas nodded and then he was gone.

“Oh no,” said Artzet not a second later. Turning Cosimo’s and Henrik’s head to him.

“What?” Henrik asked, his eyes flickering to Cosimo’s wrist.

Artzet grinned. “I think the King likes you, Cosimo.”

Henrik rolled his eyes and let out a soft laugh. Cosimo didn’t know how to react to that statement, but it did make something warm around his heart. It was good if the King liked him, that meant he would survive. The boy would survive. They would be okay, that Cosimo didn’t actually doom them. That he saved them both.

That all this had meant something.

Artzet smiled when he was finished and straightened. “Now, Cosimo. You are good as new! Well, not new, but better.”

Artzet spoke at Henrik next: “make sure he doesn’t ride his own horse in case the pulling of the reins aggravates his wrists.”

“It’s okay,” said Henrik, getting to his feet. “Cosimo will be riding with me anyway.”

“Marvellous. Now, Myshka,” said Artzet with a sigh. He leaned down and hooked his hands under the cats belly to her mewl of protest. “I know, I know. Terrible. Cosimo has a brother to rescue, Myshka, don’t be selfish.”

Cosimo got to his feet, his head only slightly dizzying now. The stress seeming to have left his body with Artzet and Myshka.

“Thank you,” Cosimo said to Artzet who was cuddling Myshka to his chest.

“Anytime, Cosimo. Now go, save your brother. I will see you again.”

Cosimo walked beside Henrik out of Artzet’s room and turned a different corner than the one that led back to the court room with the throne and the iron pole.

“Cosimo, are you sure you’re okay to ride?” Henrik asked, the skepticism evident in his voice. Cosimo for his part was doing his best to stay focused and upright.

“Yes,” said Cosimo. He did feel better, much better than before. He was a little woozy but he just attributed that to the blood loss. His hands looked a little funny with the white bandages wrapped firmly around them. Soft, yet strong. “We need to find him.”

He could feel Henrik’s eyes on him as they walked down the steps they had come up from the stables. They were so close to being safe, Cosimo could rest when he saw the boy, didn’t Henrik understand that? He could relax and let Henrik fuss over him then, but not until he saw the boy.

If the elves had got to him…

No, Cosimo couldn’t think like that. He wouldn’t. They would find the boy and everything would be fine.

They emerged from the side door of the palace to find Nikolas and some soldiers preparing horses outside the stables. Ebony was already geared up, tied off beside a white horse that Cosimo could only presume belonged to Nikolas.

He seemed like the type of man to have a white horse. It made him look more like a Hero. Henrik walked them around to where the gathering of the soldiers were to see Nikolas in the middle, sitting on a bale of hay and laughing at something with the stable boys.

He perked up when he saw Cosimo and Henrik, smiling and standing. He clapped one of the stable boys on the shoulder and then he was in front of Cosimo and Henrik.

“You’re all patched up,” said Nikolas.

“Yes, Artzet worked quickly.”

“Good. Then let’s not waste anymore time, hmm?”

They didn’t. Henrik helped Cosimo onto Ebony again and then climbed up behind him, while Nikolas mounted the white horse beside them. Henrik offered something to Cosimo and he took it, realising it was the hood and cloak Henrik had given him before to hide his ears from the other humans.

Cosimo frowned at the green material. Did he still have to hide? Was he not free by the king’s decree?

“People won’t know that you’re pardoned yet, Cosimo,” said Henrik behind him as he walked Ebony towards the palace gates. “They will still have reason to fear you if they see your ears. People have the tendency to think the worst. It will just cause panic.”

Cosimo swallowed his pride. He didn’t really have any grounds to fight Henrik who had only been kind with him. Henrik was doing this for Cosimo too, so he wouldn’t have to see the fear and hatred in the people’s eyes.

With a few orders from Nikolas they were out the palace gates and walking through the city to the border. Cosimo was awed with the reception Nikolas got from his people.

“Your majesty!”

“Your highness!”

“Three cheers for King Nikolas!”

A street band from the upper city followed the precession with lively music as they walked through the streets. Nikolas, Cosimo observed, smiled and waved and nodded when he needed to. He had no crown and yet everyone knew he was the King. He was adored by his city.

When they got into the outer parts, the poorer parts Cosimo expected some of the love to dwindle but if anything it just got louder.

“Nikolas!”

“King Niko! Where’re’ya off ta?”

“Your highness! We named our son after you,” a woman cried, holding a baby up to him. Nikolas laughed and stopped his horse beside the woman to gaze down at the sleeping child in her arms.

“Mmm, he’s going to be a handsome one, Sierra. Look at that, he’s got his father’s strong nose.” Nikolas looked up at her and smiled, what Cosimo could only assume was his charming kingly smile. “I wish you three all the happiness in the world.”

Then they continued on.

More music.

Flowers thrown at his horses feet. It’s like a festival.

Cosimo can’t help but feel a stab on envy. He can only watch as the humans fawn and fuss over their King, and with good reason, because he’s wearing a cloak right now to cover his features. His ears, his skin, his eyes. All too strange to humans, all hateful. That’s why they were greeted with flowers instead of curses and words of praise rather than hatred.

He shrunk a little into himself, pulling the cloak tighter around himself. It didn’t matter. None of it mattered. Not until they rescued the boy, that’s why they were leaving Oskana at all. If the humans knew why… well, they wouldn’t be cheering as much.

Or maybe, some tiny voice said at the back of Cosimo’s mind, maybe they would cheer even louder.

It was just a thought, fleeting, and yet somehow heavier than anything Cosimo had thought in the past day. He ignored it. The voice could be right, but Cosimo couldn’t be sure until he saw the boy again.

Until he saved him.

Cosimo raised his head as they reached the city gates, staring out into the Kingswood, as one of the soldiers in his trial had called it.

I’m coming back with help, Cosimo promised. Please, be safe.

*~*~*~*~*

Orphanage roll-call (lmk if you wanna be tagged or removed): @annablogsposts

[mongo-the-liensis]

The party (on the fourth floor). Tell me I'm wrong!

[fideidefenswhore]

Had circumstances been just a little different, Anne Boleyn might still have lived. Had she produced a son, Jane would have been a passing distraction, Anne's enemies would have been silenced, and her fiery character might again have seemed, at least at times, beguiling to Henry. During the course of their brief marriage, which lasted just over three years, there had been many fluctuations. After the final miscarriage, Anne fought back, saying she had been frightened by Henry's accident, but also broken-hearted at his paying attention to another woman. This kind of criticism was not something Henry was prepared to tolerate in a wife; one of Katherine's strengths, as she herself acknowledged, was that she had never shown any sign of animosity or distress in response to the king's infidelities. Henry and Anne's relationship had been a genuine love-match, however, and the volatility which helped bring about the extraordinary events of the break with Rome remained a part of their relationship ever after.

Henry VIII, Lucy Wooding

[beeapocalypse]

[thewriteadviceforwriters]

The Mini Guide to Crafting Compelling Royal Characters for Fiction Writers

Creating royal characters can be both exciting and challenging. These regal figures often play pivotal roles in stories, capturing readers' imaginations with their power, privilege, and the weight of responsibility they carry. Whether you're writing historical fiction, fantasy, or contemporary novels featuring monarchs, this comprehensive (mini) guide will help you develop authentic, multi-dimensional royal characters that will resonate with your readers.

Understanding the Basics of Royalty

Before diving into character creation, it's essential to have a solid grasp of what royalty entails. Royalty typically refers to members of a ruling family, including kings, queens, princes, princesses, and other nobles within a monarchical system. These individuals are often born into their roles, though some may ascend to power through marriage or other means.

Key aspects to consider:

Hierarchy and succession

Royal duties and responsibilities

Protocol and etiquette

The concept of divine right (in some cultures)

The relationship between royalty and their subjects

Remember, while these elements are common in many royal systems, you have the creative freedom to adapt or reimagine them for your fictional world.

Developing Your Royal Character's Background

Every character, royal or not, needs a rich backstory. For royal characters, this background is particularly crucial as it shapes their worldview, values, and decision-making processes.

Consider the following:

a) Lineage: What is your character's family history? Are they from a long-standing dynasty or a newly established royal house?

b) Upbringing: How were they raised? Were they groomed for leadership from birth, or did they have a more sheltered upbringing?

c) Education: What kind of education did they receive? Was it formal, focusing on statecraft and diplomacy, or more well-rounded?

d) Relationships: How do they relate to their family members, courtiers, and subjects?

e) Personal experiences: What significant events have shaped their character and outlook on life?

Crafting a Unique Personality

Avoid the trap of creating one-dimensional royal stereotypes. Your character should be as complex and nuanced as any other well-developed protagonist or antagonist.

Consider these aspects:

a) Strengths and weaknesses: What are your character's admirable qualities? What flaws do they struggle with?

b) Motivations: What drives them? Is it a sense of duty, personal ambition, or something else entirely?

c) Internal conflicts: What personal struggles do they face? How do these conflicts affect their rule and relationships?

d) Hobbies and interests: What passions do they pursue outside of their royal duties?

e) Sense of humor: How do they express humor, if at all? Is it dry wit, sarcasm, or something else?

Balancing Power and Vulnerability

One of the most intriguing aspects of royal characters is the juxtaposition between their immense power and their human vulnerabilities. This balance can create compelling internal and external conflicts for your character.

Consider:

The weight of responsibility and its impact on their personal life

The isolation that often comes with a royal position

The constant scrutiny they face from the public and court

The struggle between personal desires and duty to the crown

Creating a Believable Royal World

Your royal character doesn't exist in a vacuum (I hope not). They're part of a larger royal ecosystem that includes family members, advisors, courtiers, and subjects. Developing this world adds depth and authenticity to your story.

Key elements to consider:

Court dynamics and politics

Relationships with other noble houses or kingdoms

The role of advisors and how they influence decisions

Traditions and customs specific to your royal setting

The economic and social structure of the kingdom

Addressing the Challenges of Royal Life

Royal characters face unique challenges that can drive your plot and character development. Some common themes include:

a) Succession disputes b) Balancing personal happiness with duty c) Navigating political alliances and conflicts d) Managing public opinion and maintaining legitimacy e) Dealing with threats to their rule or life

Use these challenges to create tension and drive your story forward while revealing more about your character's personality and values.

The Impact of Historical Context

If you're writing historical fiction or a fantasy inspired by real-world monarchies, it's crucial to consider the historical context. Research the time period and culture you're drawing from to ensure authenticity in your character's behavior, beliefs, and challenges.

Key areas to research:

Social norms and expectations of the time

Political systems and power structures

Technology and its impact on governance

Religious beliefs and their influence on royalty

Gender roles and how they affect royal duties and succession

Avoiding Common Pitfalls

When creating royal characters, be mindful of these common mistakes:

a) Making them too perfect or too villainous b) Ignoring the realities of royal life (e.g., lack of privacy, constant duties) c) Overlooking the impact of their decisions on their subjects d) Failing to show growth or change over the course of the story e) Relying too heavily on stereotypes or clichés

Incorporating Royal Etiquette and Protocol

Royal characters often adhere to strict codes of conduct and protocol. While you don't need to become an expert in royal etiquette, incorporating some of these elements can add authenticity to your story:

Forms of address (Your Majesty, Your Highness, etc.)

Court ceremonies and rituals

Dress codes and regalia

Rules of precedence in social situations

Diplomatic protocols when interacting with other royals or dignitaries

Exploring Different Types of Royal Characters

Remember that not all royal characters need to be ruling monarchs. Consider exploring other royal roles, such as:

The rebel prince or princess who rejects their royal duties

The reluctant heir thrust into power unexpectedly

The exiled royal fighting to reclaim their throne

The royal spouse adapting to life in the palace

The illegitimate child discovering their royal heritage

Each of these archetypes offers unique storytelling opportunities and challenges for character development.

Balancing Historical Accuracy and Creative License

If you're writing historical fiction featuring real royalty, you'll need to strike a balance between historical accuracy and creative interpretation. While it's important to respect known facts and timelines, you also have the freedom to explore the inner lives and motivations of these historical figures.

Tips for balancing accuracy and creativity:

Thoroughly research the historical figure and their time period

Clearly differentiate between historical fact and fictional interpretation

Use author's notes to explain any significant departures from known history

Focus on filling in the gaps in the historical record rather than contradicting established facts

Developing Royal Character Arcs

Like any well-rounded character, your royal protagonist should undergo growth and change throughout your story. Consider how their experiences might challenge their beliefs, alter their perspective, or force them to confront their flaws.

Possible character arcs for royal characters:

From naive idealist to pragmatic ruler

From reluctant heir to confident leader

From isolated monarch to connected leader who understands their subjects

From power-hungry tyrant to benevolent ruler (or vice versa)

Remember, character growth doesn't always have to be positive. Sometimes, the most compelling stories involve characters who face moral decline or tragic falls from grace.

Remember, while the trappings of royalty may be grand, at their core, your royal characters are still human. They love, fear, hope, and struggle like anyone else. It's this humanity, set against the backdrop of power and responsibility, that makes royal characters so fascinating to read and write about.

Happy writing, - Rin T

Hey fellow writers! I'm super excited to share that I've just launched a Tumblr community. I'm inviting all of you to join my community. All you have to do is fill out this Google form, and I'll personally send you an invitation to join the Write Right Society on Tumblr! Can't wait to see your posts!

[raincitygirl76]

And great tags from @crownedwille including the fact that Kristina was probably rebellious once herself. She and Wilhelm seem to be very similar in their temperaments.

What we saw of Erik was that he was a “don’t rock the boat”, “let’s compromise so there’s no awkwardness” type like their dad Ludvig. Whereas Kristina and her younger son are both headstrong and determined.

I suspect the family dynamic prior to Erik’s death was Kristina and Wilhelm frequently butting heads, because they both have strong opinions, and Ludvig and Erik smoothing over their arguments. Pouring diplomatic oil on troubled waters because Erik and Ludvig are conflict-avoidant and want a quiet life.

Kristina is essentially who Wilhelm will be in thirty years or so if he lets the crushing weight of the royal court and the general public’s demands take over his life. Kristina has drunk the koolaid that preserving traditions and preserving the image of the monarchy are the sacred purpose of her entire life.

Wille hasn’t yet drunk that koolaid, although he tried hard to be the perfect Crown Prince in S1 by doing the lying media statement in 1.06, which led to him getting dumped by his boyfriend. But he had a lot of character growth in S2. After the jubilee speech in 2.06, I suspect Wille’s parents, the royal court, and the upper classes will have trouble trying to shove him back in the closet. Or drink the koolaid and truly believe, as his mom does, that tradition and secrecy are objectively good things.

YOUNG ROYALS S01E06 - “Episode 6″

[peachysunrize]

Insolent wench ⥃ Prince Regent!Aemond

Summary: when he finds the master of whispers’ daughter in the council room in the dead of the night playing with the marble ball he gave to Aegon earlier, the dragon in him is ready to burn or succumb to her.

Pairing: prince regent!Aemond Targaryen x Larys Strong’s daughter reader

Warnings: 18+ mdni! Dark content -> manipulation & blackmail! Dark!reader even a bit of dubcon, virginity loss, virgin!reader, degrading, rough sex, spanking, pussy slapping, breeding, fingering, porn with little plot, ehem using the ball as a toy, Larys’ daughter has zero description, English isn’t my first language<3

Word count: 3.07k+

A/n: thank you @namelesslosers for giving me this dynamic idea & thank you @sylasthegrim for beta reading this for me🥹 Happy rough fucking with Aemond everyone🤭 Reblogs & comments are most appreciated!💕 also I was too lazy to make an aesthetic moodboard for my fic lol

He lurks in the corridors of the Keep that lead to the Small Council room. It has become his little secret, a routine he has always longed to have, and now, after months of yearning, he finally has it.

The halls are silent, and the sound of every step he takes echoes within the walls. Aemond walks with Blackfyre attached to his hip, the heavy weight of the Valyrian steel makes him smirk. Truly, he has never felt an emotion so deeply rooted inside him that makes the hair on his nape rouse, but now being the regent and the protector of the realm does it for him.

He stops for a moment when he finds the door to the council’s room ajar, the flickering of the candlelight visible from outside. He has never encountered anyone at such an hour, everyone has to be abed, except for the guards who are the ones that aren’t found anywhere near this room.

He takes a cautious step towards the door, hearing the sound of a low humming coming from inside. He reaches for Aegon’s dagger, fingers wrapping around the hilt as he pushes the door open slowly, his good eye skimming the room only to find someone’s back to him, leaning over the table and playing with his marble ball.

“A fine night, is it not, my Prince Regent?” you ask him, your back still to him as you fidget with the ball on the table, walking towards the King’s chair with a sway in your hips.

“What is your business here, Lady Strong?” he asks, letting go of the dagger before he locks his hands behind his back, walking towards his previous seat at the end of the marble desk.

He watches you closely, his good eye following your every move as you sit down on his chair at the head of the table, rolling the ball between your fingers as you look up from the ball to him slowly.

“I am disheartened by your words to my father,” you say, leaning back on the chair while your thumb rubs over the smooth surface of the marble ball in your hand, “he has served the King and your grace faithfully.”

Aemond doesn’t move from his spot, staring solely at your fingers as they rub and caress what belongs to him. He listens carefully, though he is not sure what good it might come out of conversing with a lady like you at such an hour.

“Your father sought power when he already had more than he deserved,” he replies, taking prolonged steps towards you, stopping at Tyland Lannister’s empty chair, “my council is no place for cunning rats like him.”

You chuckle, leaning your head on the back of the chair with a smirk tugging on the corner of your mouth, and it irritates Aemond to no end to see you finding such immense joy in tormenting him—even though you have not really started yet.

You were always such a strange lady to him; so much like your father in the sense that you stopped at nothing to obtain what you wanted".He has heard tales of your rebellious nature in the court, always listening and bothering the royals with your remarks, but they have failed to tell him about your blinding beauty.

“I thought you were ruling in your brother’s stead while he recovers, my prince,” you say, pushing the ball until it starts rolling towards where Aemond stands, “allegedly, this is his council, not yours.”

“Yet your father assumed he’d be my Hand, not my brother’s,” he moves the ball on the table as he walks towards Orwyle’s seat, his gaze never leaving yours, “it does make me wonder how hungry both he and you are for the attention of the royals, my lady.”

“Oh, you have mistaken my motives, your grace,” you stand up, stepping on the opposite side of him, matching his pace as he rounds the table with confidence until he’s standing behind the King’s chair, “I am not here to seek power or the attention of the royals, no. I am here to tell you that sometimes you need to think before you utter some words; ugly rats like my father as you said, tend to thrive on them, best is to learn how to say those words without causing a problem.”

“Mind your tongue, little girl,” Aemond spits out the words, closing his fingers around the ball tightly before he strides towards you purposefully with a tinge of fury in his steps.

“Not little, my prince,” you match his tone, standing where you are until he is right in front of you, the purple of his eye now fully gone as darkness seeps through his iris, “certainly older than you. I reckon you like older women, given your rendezvous to the brothel and all.”

His hand comes up to grip your jaw, squishing your cheeks harshly as he looms over you, his face inches away from yours as his nostrils flare in anger.

“Watch yourself, insolent wench. You are in no position to drag my name in the dirt. Your father tried, and look where he is now—called a Toad by me, dismissed as my Hand and ready to fetch Otto Hightower like a dog,” he says through gritted teeth, his nails digging into your face as he leans closer, his hot breath hitting your lips.

“Your name is already filthy by your own hands. You and Larys Strong have more in common than you think; both kinslayers—“ he cuts you off by spinning you away from him, pushing you down on the table roughly by his large palm on your back.

“Filthy whores like you should be executed in the muddy streets of Flea Bottom and their heads parading around the city on a spike,” he presses himself against your back, his crotch rubbing against your skirt, “Lucky for you, I know how to treat girls like you.”

“I assumed His Grace took no pleasure in taking whores,” you laugh with a jab in your tone at him, “I would love to see how you treat them though. Your brother is the one with tales of his masterful bedding, not you.”

“Tormenting me at the hour of the wolf has severe consequences which I will deliver to you accordingly, Strong,” he groans against your ear, reaching for his dagger to tear through the fabric of your dress, the remaining layers falling on the floor with ease. “Punishment or not, you will learn you shall never wake the dragon for you will burn and the only thing that will remain is your ashes.”

Your small clothes join your ruined dress on the floor, leaving you bare and dripping to the Prince Regent’s eye, devouring the sight of your flesh like a man starved.

The moan that slips from your lips when you feel something cold against your heated cunt is shameless, just like the sound a whore in the Street of Silk would make. 

Aemond starts rubbing your buzzing pearl with the marble ball between his fingers, his breathless laugh against the shell of your ear only makes the feeling of the coldness against your most vulnerable part much stronger.

“You were playing with my property, now I shall use it to make you a property of mine as well,” he whispers, his teeth sinking in the flesh of your neck as he moves the ball faster, your juices flowing down on the cold stone in his hand.

You realize you have awakened the beast within him as he quickens his movements, one hand pinning you to the table and the other rubbing the bundle of nerves furiously, tightening the knot in your core. You fist your hands, nails digging into your palm as your breathing turns into panting.

“It is in your blood it seems, to enjoy having the attention of someone who can easily snap your neck in half,” he mumbles more to himself than you, pleased with how shaky you have become, “you see, insolent wenches like you should be put in their place. How fortunate you are to be under my care.”

As soon as you feel your breaking point, he takes away the ball from your cunt, making you whine and arch your back in protest. He chuckles darkly, bringing the ball to your lips before he orders you to suck and clean the ball off your juices.

“My Prince—“

“Go on, you tart, show your prince how much of a power-hungry slut you are, maybe I will reconsider naming your father as my Hand.”

You comply, licking your nectar off the cold marble, humming at the taste. Aemond knows these games, at least he knew them with the little education he had in the brothels, but you? You are a different kind of lady, a master in disguise. It irritates and arouses him to no end.

Aemond lets go of the stone, bringing his palm down on your arsecheek roughly, making you yelp in surprise. He repeats his action, slapping your backside one more on the same spot he did a few seconds ago. 

You whine in pain and unbelievable pleasure as the sting of his hand spreads through your flesh, a deep primal desire rushing to your aching pussy. He looks down to find you wetter than before, and the sight makes him almost lose his self-restraint, almost.

You wrap your hand around the ball tightly, crying out when you feel the impact of another spank not on your bottom but on your cunt. The pain mixes with an undeniably overwhelming pleasure that has you biting your lip, not wishing to give him the satisfaction. He senses it anyway and hears the muffled scream as he lands another slap on your swollen folds with a sinister smile. 

“I wonder if your father knows of your whereabouts, his daughter ready to be turned into his future king’s whore,” he brings two of his fingers to his mouth, covering them with his spit before he reaches down to play with your pussy, no patience left in him as he thrusts his fingers inside you, groaning at the feel of your warmth.

You do not have the chance to tell him about your maidenhead, and with how fast he is moving his fingers, you can no longer think of it as an issue — your plans are falling into the right path.

Your mind has turned into a mush with how luscious his fingers feel inside you, not a foreign feeling but his fingers are much longer and thicker than you and reach deeper inside you, having you moaning and clawing the table.

“It only takes a few fingers to have your mouth shut, Lady Strong. I wonder what you’d do when I have my cock deep in your cunt,” he leans down to lick at your cheek, his fingers moving faster as he presses his bulge to your thigh. This time, he doesn’t pull away and keeps his pace up, curving his digits to hit your sweet spot rapidly, bringing you closer to your high. 

“My prince, please—“

“That’s it, Strong, give it to me,” he groans out the words, resting his forehead on the side of your face. He hums as soon as you start shaking and tightening around his fingers, gushing your wetness on him.

He doesn’t kiss you, no, he just licks over your lips as you moan and part them in pure delight, seeing stars as your peak rocks your body forward. 

“Fuck it, I need to be buried inside you, seeing for myself how the real blood of Strongs feels like,” he says, biting your cheek as he pulls his fingers out, wiping them on the red handprint on your bottom before reaching for his doublet, unbuttoning it and pulling his linen undershirt out of his leather pants. His fingers unlace his trousers quickly, pushing them and his breeches down enough for his cock to spring free.

He aligns his leaking tip with your soaked entrance, filling you to the hilt with one swift snap of his slim hips. Aemond groans, your wet pulsating walls enveloping his length in a delicious way that not even Sylvie has made him feel.

His hands make a home on your hips as soon as he starts thrusting his cock at a fast bruising pace, not letting you adjust to how his girth stretches your walls more than you thought you’d expect. Your maidenhead is now gone, you can feel his tip licking at the head of your womb, nudging it with each snap of his hips to yours.

Aemond cannot take his eye off of the way his cock disappears inside you, coated with your essence and wetness as he fucks you with abandon, his brain foggy with a desire he has only felt while burning his brother and killing his nephew—you are special in his eye, you awaken the dragon within him, insolent wench as he so likes to call you.

Your hands grow clammy, and the ball falls from your grasp with Aemond’s rough hammering, rolling on the table until it falls on the floor, making a loud uncomfortable noise that matches your unladylike moans and gasps in pleasure.

“You can’t even hold a fucking ball in your hands, Strong. Is your father as weak as you? Will he succumb to me the way you have with just a cock inside your tight pretty cunt?”

It is you who has succumbed to me, you think to yourself as coherent as your thoughts can get without the feeling of him overwhelming your senses. You nod mindlessly, thinking of how he has fallen into your trap so easily.

He comes hard, his hip bones pushing your plush thighs to the rough edges of the council’s table, filling you to the brim with his royal seed. Aemond’s head is thrown back, groaning at your name as his cock twitches inside you, the final ropes of his warm cum painting your walls.

“What have you done?” you ask shakily, faking terror as you try to push him away from you, 

“what— how could you, my prince?”

“What?” he asks dumbfounded, pulling his now softened cock out of you, looking at you with his mind now sharper than before, “what are you saying, my lady?”

“Which lord will now take me as his bride? I am—may the Seven help me— I am tainted! I-I cannot find a husband, m-my maidenhead!”

“You…” Aemond’s voice falters, “you were… you were still a maiden?”

“I was! How crude you have to be to sully my name like a- like the whores you visit? I cannot believe you—“

“Wait!” he tries to reach for you, his lips parted in sheer surprise and terror as you push away from him, nearly dropping on his knees, “My Lady, we should have a word—“

“No!” You fix your dress as best as you could, shaking your head as you run away from him, opening the doors without even looking at him, leaving him shocked and confused with his soft dick out, looking like a deer caught by the hunters.

With so little sleep, Aemond walks through the same hallways he took last night, waltzing inside the small council with a pulsating heart. His eye finds Larys alone in the room, humming as he plays with the marble ball you — his daughter — were playing with last night.

“My Prince Regent,” Lord Larys stands up and bows, “what a lovely day, do you not think so?”

“Lovely morrow indeed,” Aemond says, sitting at the head of the table, glaring at Larys who rolls his marble ball from side to side, “state your mind or leave me.”

“My daughter, Your Grace,” Larys sighs, a ghost of a smirk finding its way onto his face, “she was… in a not-so-pleasant state for her status when she sought me out.”

“What of her?” Aemond tries to remain unbothered, but he knows there is a scheme going on that his intelligence could not pick up on last night.

“She said you forced yourself upon her,” Larys drops the ball on the floor as he locks his hand on the table, his eyes meeting Aemond’s, glaring at him with newfound confidence, “that no Lord will take her now, that you have tainted and impured my daughter!”

“I assure you, my good Lord, that is a lie. Your daughter was the one who made me do it—“ he tries to reason with him, but Larys has none of it.

“So you admit that you yielded to your desires and took my daughter’s innocence! How wild, how disgusting! To know I wished to be in your council—“

“‘Mind your tongue, Lord Larys. I do not care if you are to leave the Keep, but you will not talk to me as if I’m lesser than I was before!” Aemond’s voice booms through the room, slamming his fist on the table as he stands up.

“You are a lesser man, Prince Aemond. A man who gave into his desires and used his power over a helpless noble woman…”

“What is it you wish for me to do? I have not forced myself upon your daughter, she partook in the act willingly if not more enthusiastically than me.” Aemond’s breathing changes and his knuckles turn white as he tries to stop himself from doing something he would surely regret.

“She was crying in my arms last night—“

“Name it and it is yours!” Aemond yells at him, walking to grab Larys by his collar, “You want me to name you my Hand? I will. But in return, you shall keep your mouth shut.”

“You are in no position to tell me what to do, my prince,” Larys calms down a bit, knowing the plan he and you have made has been done perfectly, “you will make me your Hand, and you will marry my daughter in a fortnight.”

“Not acceptable! We will lose Baratheons’ support!” Aemond shoves Larys back on his seat before he starts pacing, “You are my Hand from now on, and I will arrange a good match for your daughter.”

“No, she will be the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, or I will taint your reputation the way you have done to my daughter.” 

Rest assured, Larys Strong’s only child married the former Prince Regent and now the King in a fortnight with a lavish feast thrown for her.

[homunculus-argument]

Random character dynamic: A ruler of a massive, mighty empire, and his pet wizard who foretells the future for him. The emperor has absolute, unwavering trust in the wizard's abilities, and never makes a desicion before consulting the wizard first. The emperor's wizard is of no noble birth nor formally educated, and the way they'll casually break courtly etiquette and speak like a peasant instead of a scholar is used to highlight their power - this is a true wizard, with powers natural born, not someone raised and trained to act like one.

Everyone knows the story of how the emperor encountered his wizard. The emperor's party was on a hunting trip in a distant region, and while going out to pursue some unusual game, they encountered a shepherd who warned them to not go this way, a storm will rise and kill the whole party. The emperor and his party ignored this warning and went after the beast they were hunting. A horrible storm came down on them and killed the whole party, save for the emperor.

As the sole survivor of this calamity that appeared out of nowhere, that nobody could have seen coming, the emperor suddenly remembered the shepherd, and realised that hold on, that strange hermit had foreseen this. Had we heeded their warning and not pursued the game, there would have been no storm. So he goes back to the village, finds the shepherd and goes holy shit are you a fucking wizard. And since only a true wizard would deny being a wizard, the emperor takes them with him.

Most of the things the emperor consults the wizard for are matters of common sense, that the wizard learns to weave into flattery - saying that the emperor's utterly idiotic idea would be a masterful move in any other time and place, but there is wisdom in knowing when to bide his time. Other members of the court and clergy start slipping the wizard requests of things that they should herd the emperor into doing, or not doing.

When the wizard admits to the other advisors that they don't actually have any kind of power of divination, they're told that the court already knows. This is how it has always been. The line of the emperors knows that the rulers who heed the warnings of their royal wizards tend to prosper, and the ones who ignore their sages or neglect to have one at all will fail.

This has been the case ever since the one emperor whose wizard had warned him to not let his wife drink so much while pregnant, or his heir's reign would be fated to be disastrous. The emperor ignored the warning and 30 years later, the aforementioned heir struggled to rule before being assasinated by his cousin, who took over the throne and whose line has ruled ever since, adamantly drilling it into every new generation to not ignore their wizards.

One might not be able to convince an emperor about things like "local peasants know how to predict the weather patterns of where they live" or "fetal alcohol syndrome is bad for your child", but they sure can believe in fate, and those with the power of divination.

[skzdarlings]

the kingsguard ; jisung x reader ; part v

part one| part two | part three | part four | part five | tba | ao3 link

pairing: han jisung/reader summary: You are a queen. He is a kingsguard - a member of a holy order that vows to defend the king in the name of the gods. They forsake all earthly goods and swear a vow of chastity to avoid all worldly temptation. When he stands in as proxy for the royal wedding, all those vows are tested.

content info: reader described with curly hair.

content warnings: the previously established story dynamics are prevalent in this chapter, please proceed at own discretion. the king threatens sexual violence again. there is explicit consensual sexual content in this chapter with reader and jisung. first times, breaking of vows, lots of mental work packed in there lol.

chapter word count: 11500 words.

enjoy <3

-

Despite the delay, you reach the intended campsite before nightfall.  The king finds his own entertainment while everyone else works, erecting tents and constructing fire pits. 

Chan assigns Seungmin to watch the king while he occupies himself elsewhere.  The tension between the king and the leader ripples through the camp, though no one – not even the king – is audacious enough to remark on it. 

The kingsguard has a sanctified power, burdened with the responsibility of protecting the crown above all else.  This manifests as protecting the king, so long as oaths are kept and holy accords obeyed.   The king is abundantly aware he is not in the leader’s good graces right now.   Even that petulant fool of a man is smart enough to recognize that antagonism from an ancient religious order is a perilous position for a holy king. 

Because he cannot harass Chan, the king directs his ire towards Hyunjin, so Chan sends Hyunjin across the camp to help there.  Jisung accompanies him.  As the lowest ranked kingsguard, his absence will not be minded. 

You are irate, watching Hyunjin limp away with Jisung following behind him.  You think of their skill and bravery in protecting you from the assassins.  You think of their loyalty and good hearts.  They both deserve better. 

Stewing in irritation, you opt to stay out of the way.  It is better to remain unobtrusive rather than instigate more dramatics after the events of today.   

You kneel down in the grass, out of the way of the tents.  You are organizing a bag of personal effects when an unfamiliar pair of painted boots appear in your line of your vision.  You slowly look up, startled to find one of the king’s courtiers looming over you.  He is one of the few who has been riding in the carriage and you are surprised he is so far from the inner circle now. 

“Your Holy Majesty,” he says, surprising you with the appropriately respectful title.  He surprises you further by offering his hand and helping you to your feet.  The final surprise is a bow so deep he bends his knees.  “I ask for your grace and forgiveness,” he says.  “And I ask for you to pray on my behalf that the gods may also forgive me for my petty transgressions.  I would never speak ill of the gods-chosen king but—”  He looks over his shoulder briefly, spots the king far across the camp with the remainder of his inner circle.  Satisfied with the distance, he looks at you, expression solemn.  “But I believe human error may have conquered the holy senses,” he says.  In a lower voice, tinged with resentment, he says, “To raise hands to the queen in public, especially after the events of the other day…” 

You are still too surprised to respond.  You stand there, hands folded in front of you, blinking at the man. 

He says with some finality, “I know I am not alone in feeling this way.  Your Holiness, please ensure that you have support in some noble factions here – particularly after today.  And please do recall, this is not all the court, merely the king’s personal selection, and there are those at home in the capital who will also support you.” 

The sincerity of his oath leaves you stunned.  You stare at his footprints long after he has departed. 

The courtier does not return to the inner circle but joins a different cluster of palace residents.  Their attention turns to you,  followed by dips and bows. 

Your bewildered mind finally catches up to your racing heart.  You sweep into a quick return bow.  When you turn away, you let out a breath.  Your eyes trace the treeline around the clearing.  The smoky orange mist of sunset winds through the branches.  You look but do not see, mentally replaying the whole exchange.

It seems even the most devout courtiers have a restricted capacity for tolerance.  Their motivations may be selfish, in seeing a flagrant disrespect of the gods’ will and worrying what ramifications will manifest for them, but it is still a significant loyalty shift.

You allow yourself a little smile.  Knowing the camp is no longer brimming with hostiles lightens your heavy heart.

You are barely at ease when you turn around, startled again by yet another visitor.  This time is the kingsguard Minho.  He stands as still and patient as marble, poised like a handsome statue, hand on the hilt of his sword.  He lists slightly to that side, his other hand dangling in a fist. 

“Your Majesty,” he says.  His bow is more of a nod as he seems lost in contemplation – or maybe that is scrutiny, studying you like your face holds the answer to some profound question. 

You are open as ever, as patiently marble, waiting for him.  

He exhales.  It sounds like a surrendering.   It makes you nervous, especially with the way he darts a glances over his shoulder.  The king and other kingsguards are busy, the courtiers turned to their own affairs, and servants busy with meal preparation.

You cannot imagine what Minho has to say or do that cannot be witnessed.

Your answer comes without a word, but a gesture, his closed first opening between you.  You jump at what he reveals.

The phial of sleeping draft.  You assumed it was lost in the ocean tide.  Last you touched it, it went into your dress pocket, and that dress is now underwater.  You thought the draft was lost too.  You lamented the only protection you had in prolonging the king’s advances. 

It must have fallen out of your pocket earlier than that, when you threw yourself to the forest floor in sickness.  Minho helped you through it.  Somewhere in your distraction, he must have grabbed the bottle. 

A hot flash of terror spreads through you, looking at the dark liquid sloshing around in that little phial.  When you look up, his brow is furrowed, face pinched with intense scrutiny. 

You are not sure what to expect.   Minho is decent and he seems close with Jisung, which naturally lends your trust to him, but your interactions have been minimal and cordial.   He could grab you by the wrist and drag you to Chan, accusing you of harbouring poison.  It would no doubt instigate the king’s wrath and everything would spiral before you could catch your breath. 

Minho sighs. 

“Will it kill him?” he asks. 

“Oh.”  It is not the question you are expecting.  Nonetheless, with sincerity and pleading eyes, you reply, “No.  I swear.  It’s just a sleeping draft.  For – for myself.  To help me – at night.” 

He has clever eyes, full of thought.  You suspect he can deduce what that really means.    

“Mm,” is all he says.  He takes your hand and puts the phial in your palm, then he closes your fingers around it.  He gives you a look, something stern, something that demands secrecy without a word. 

You nod, clutching the bottle tightly. 

“Be careful,” he says. 

“Of course,” you reply. 

He walks away while you gather yourself, the adrenaline of two unpredictable encounters simmering.  It has not yet settled when the king barks an order, his voice making you jump, particularly when your name is included in his angry tone. 

It draws Hyunjin from the outskirts.  He is still teeming, looking as though he wants any excuse to swing at the king again, punishments be damned.  Jisung is a step behind him, looking with worried eyes while the king seeks you out. 

The king stops a distance from you, shouting across a fire pit, like he cannot be bothered to cross that space – or maybe because he sees a fuming Hyunjin in his periphery.  He does not look at the kingsguards, not even Chan who approaches on his other side. 

He glares at you, enunciating every word with a snarling upturn of his lip as he says, “Go to the river.  Bathe yourself.  You will see me tonight.” 

This gives you another flash of terror, wide-eyed as you stare at his retreating form.  The implications are not subtle.  They are also not surprising.  He has spent the day being belittled and tested and he blames the brunt of it on you.  Of course a cruel and violent man would wrestle back his supposed dignity in the only hateful way he can, putting you in whatever perceived place he believes you belong. 

You know he will make it awful.   He would have been unkind on your initial wedding night, but now you are certain he will be brutal.   He does not just want to use you, he wants to hurt you. 

You wish you could be stronger in the face of this reality, uncaring and brash and mouthy, snarking at him behind his back.  Your heart is not built that way.  You are frightened and very sad, fist curled so tightly at your side that it shakes. 

You almost forget what that fist is holding until you glance at Minho.  He is leaning against a tree, out of sight of the king.  He quirks an eyebrow then mimes taking a drink. 

Unfortunately, this makes you laugh, your nerves melting into the outburst of sound. 

The king looks at you over his shoulder, his eyes furious.  You feel the sparkle in your own as you stare back at him. 

Before the king speaks again, Chan steps forward.  His displeasure is obvious, his concern more so.   He looks at you with that despondency, helpless to do anything insofar as the marriage bed.  That is not the realm of the kingsguard, to say the least, though Chan looks like he wishes he could command otherwise. 

“The queen should not be left unaccompanied,” Chan says.  Looking at the king, he says bitingly, “Especially considering recent attempts on her life, Your Holiness.” 

Holiness sounds like an accusation in that tone. 

The king straightens, glaring back at Chan. 

Hyunjin, seemingly determined to escalate the mounting tension, walks towards you with an easy gait.  He smiles a very charming smile. 

“I can escort the queen,” he says, in a very different voice than usual, almost sultry in its depth.  It makes you blink in confusion.   

The king forgets Chan entirely as he reels around, pointing a finger at Hyunjin. 

“You will burn for eternity first, kingsguard,” the king snaps. 

Hyunjin just smiles prettily, hands folded neatly behind his back.  The lack of response agitates the already exasperated king, who huffs and shakes his head.  His eyes dart around and inevitably land on Han Jisung.  It startles Jisung who swings into an instinctive bow.  He stares wide-eyed at the ground. 

“Bard boy,” the king says.  “Take the queen.” 

You look at Jisung as he straightens.  His blinking gaze moves from the king to you. 

That laughter is still caught in your throat, its bubbling delight only intensifying as you look at each other.  You think of that kiss on the riverbank, the softness of his every glance since then.  You do not even think it is especially subtle, or maybe you are just supremely aware of it, holding his gaze as he approaches you.  You feel like it gives everything away. 

But the king is arrogant and he thinks Jisung is nobody important.  He does not even glance at Jisung, his eyes following Hyunjin as he waltzes away. 

“Are you going to take me then, bard boy?” you whisper. 

Jisung chokes on a laugh, a blush darkening the tips of his ears.  He looks over his shoulder but everyone else is ambling back to their posts.  

He looks at your innocently fluttering eyelashes. 

“Don’t tease,” he says with a nervous giggle.  “I think it might kill me.” 

He means it in a playfully hyperbolic way, but you grant there is a sobering truth to that statement.  It succeeds in quieting you, your fingers now clammy where they grip the phial.  You let your mind wander to that, preoccupied with the thought of tonight while you fetch some necessities.  Jisung is dutifully quiet the entire trek, following at an appropriate length all the way down to the riverside. 

You think he has similarly sobered, so quiet behind you as you step through the trees to the water.  The grass turns to sand and pebbles beneath your feet, crunching with every step. 

Your mind is far away, thinking of your very precarious position, how you can slip the king sleeping draft tonight, if it is even worth it to prolong the inevitable.  You doubt he will ever change his feelings for you.  You cannot be so demure and loving that a man with no respect for humanity will somehow see the special humanity in you. 

Your gaze rests on the flowing river, the setting sun as it casts streak of orange and lavender over the water.   The breeze is laced with an evening chill, brushing a curl off your shoulder.

You realize that is not the breeze.  The gentle touch is Jisung.  You shiver as his fingertips follow the tumbling curl down your back, until he is not even touching you but you still feel the proximity.  It moves through you with an intensity far more powerful than the king’s threatening glower. 

This warmth is not terror, a different heat that rushes and burns with startling efficiency. 

“What can I do?” he asks in that careful, low voice. 

You remember him behind you just like this, supporting your body, the look on his face and the feel of him as you discovered more pleasure than you ever knew existed.  You are amazed that it is not the most preached phenomenon of them all, that the gods would bestow such a gift on humanity.  You cannot imagine what you would have done without the revelation.  The immensity of it all has you shivering. 

“You’ve already done so much,” you say. 

“I’ll come to you after,” he says, words flowing in a nervous rush.  “I’ll help you.  Whatever you need – if you’re – if something happens – I can come.  The king won’t care if it’s just me.  I’m just bard boy, ha-ha, I don’t – it won’t matter, at least—”

You turn around.  His breath catches as your eyes meet.  His hand is still hovering, trembling, but he drops it to his side.  His eyes dart to the empty treeline and back. 

“Bard boy,” you whisper with a smile, teasing.  “The king may believe otherwise, but you are most assuredly admired by your queen.”  

“You—”  He looks at the still-empty treeline then you again.  He is so clearly flustered. On a startled, nervous laugh, he says, “You can’t say things like that to me.”

“Why not?” 

He kisses you, a reply made with no hesitation.  He cups a hand around your jaw, fingers firm on your neck with a guiding pull.  He kisses you and it is more than a touch.  If some kisses are whispers, this is a song, rhythmic and grand. 

Your knees nearly buckle beneath you.  This is your third kiss but it feels like first and the thousandth, the natural way you move together, gasps of breath and pressing lips.  His hand moves under your hair, cupping the back of your neck.  Your own hand raises, fingertips stroking his jaw then resting between his neck and shoulder. 

He makes a noise into the kiss, tilting his head, kissing you with so much intensity that you both stumble.  His eyes widen at his own actions, a hand covering his mouth as he looks at the treeline.  His startled expression makes you burst into giggles, still riding the high of the kiss itself. 

“That was – that was my fault,” he says, throwing his hands into a surrender, then raking them through his hair until it is a dishevelled mess.  “My fault, my fault, it’s fine, it’s fine.”  He makes a series of faces while muttering to himself, giggling nervously at you, then walking away to stand guard. 

You turn your back to him, hiding your smile as you touch your lips.  Somehow a kiss provided all the courage you needed to decide, yes, it will be worth prolonging the king’s advances.  You and Jisung are already outsmarting him, his arrogant eye turned to the wrong kingsguard, and you will continue to find ways to do so.   The sleeping draft was made by a friend and you know you will develop more.  Perhaps alone you cannot combat a king, but you are not alone. 

For now, you play his game.  A quick wash will feel good after the long day in the summer sun regardless of intention. 

You do not fully strip down, simply to your shift, as is appropriate for a queen bathing out-of-doors.  It is about the only appropriate protocol, as you should have more company than solitary male guard, even a kingsguard.  It is not surprising the king has you left you bereft of any ladies, forgoing introductions, actively discouraging his nobles.  That is something you will remedy yourself, in the capital. 

For now, you are not mad it is just you and Jisung.  You glance at him while disrobing, catching his eye, smiling at his flustered blush as he looks away again.

You pile your curls as high as you can, then step to the water.  Even though there is a chill in the air, the water is warm because the hot sun has been pouring down all day.  You suspect it will be colder to emerge than to enter.  For now, it is comfortable as it laps at the foot of your shift, darkening the hem as you walk. 

You find a smooth boulder to perch yourself, grateful to use one of your own soaps from home as you scrub your skin.  The breeze is sharp against your wet skin so you sink into the water up to your shoulders, paddling around for a little bit as you let the day wash off you. 

The sunset has lost its golden traces, from orange to pink, and you let yourself admire the colours as they swirl overhead. 

When you look at Jisung, he is already staring at you.  He is sitting on a rock, fiddling with the hilt of his sword in an absent-minded distraction.  He exhales heavily when you look at him. 

“What is it?” you ask. 

“I—”  He laughs, seemingly at himself.  He thuds the heel of his palm against his forehead in a punishing little smack.  “Nothing,” he says.  He looks at the ground then slowly at you, his gaze moving across the shimmering water before tracing up your shoulders, neck, and face.   “I just hope no one tries to attack us right now,” he says.  “Because honestly?”  He lets go of the hilt to show his hand, revealing the slight tremble.  He immediately crosses his arms, tucking his hands under them.  “I don’t think I’d be much help,” he finishes with a laugh. 

“Don’t worry,” you say, matching his smile.  “I’ll keep you safe.” 

“Oh,” he says.  “Good.” 

You smile at each other for another moment.  It is disturbed when you hear the king shouting about food, far into the distance.  A couple of birds, no doubt settled for the night, fly out of the trees and away.  You spread your arms in the water and watch them go, wishing it was so easy to escape. 

“We should go back,” Jisung says, though he sounds as uneasy as he looks, biting his bottom lip, his big eyes as shiny and concerned as ever. 

The water is not very deep.  When you stand, it comes below your hips.  You squeak, a mousey and unqueenly sound, as the evening chill swarms you.

“Oh goodness,” you say, too distracted with the cold to think of much else.  “Robe, please.” 

Jisung is a very capable soldier.  You have witnessed it firsthand.  Where most of the kingsguards appear to specialize in certain skills, he has so far proven to be a master of everything.

But he trips over his own feet now.  He slides clumsily across the gravel, drawing a sharp line in the sand.   He manages to remain upright, only just, muttering to himself as he picks up the robe you requested. 

He steps to the water’s edge, the robe under his arm.  He holds out a hand to help guide you forward, but he is very distracted with looking at the rest of you, so he keeps accidentally moving it out of reach. 

You finally clasp his wandering hand.  Only then does he lift his frantic gaze to your eyes. 

This is your second time emerging from water in nothing but a shift, the light material leaving nothing to the imagination.  Last time, you were shy and embarrassed, but it seems a bit silly to be modest now considering what he has seen.  Furthermore, you do not feel embarrassed, not with the way he looks at you.  The shift clings to every curve, nearly translucent, more so with the chill as the sensitive peaks of your breasts pebble against the wet white fabric.   

His eyes dart there again, his mouth open.  He doesn’t say anything.  With a bit of struggle, he manages to say, “Ahhhh…?”

“Robe, please,” you say again, amused.  Truthfully, you are not as cold under his gaze, flushed with a tingling warmth that conquers the other senses. 

“Fuck,” Jisung says, shaking his head as he wraps the robe around your shoulders.  “Sorry for cursing, pretend you didn’t hear it.”

Now that he is speaking, the words come in a breathless stream.  It comes from an honest, human subconscious that a kingsguard should have under control, but which he has evidently relinquished from mental bondage. 

“I can hit him on the head,” Jisung says.  “I mean – fuck.  I can’t do that, obviously.  He’s the king.  I wouldn’t do that – but also I would, if you asked.  If you ask, it’s fine, I’d do anything for the queen.  I should obey the queen.  I must protect her.  Then again, if I hit him on the head, it could go wrong, and he could die, then I didn’t just hit the king but killed him, and kingsguards aren’t supposed to do that.  Well, sometimes they do, but that’s very rare and definitely not the bard’s call.  I shouldn’t kill the king, even if you ask, right?  Right.  Fuck.  Sorry for cursing.  You wouldn’t ask that anyway, even if he deserves it – ah!  I didn’t say that.  Maybe, instead, if I get him drunk, then he won’t be able to – you know–”

He lifts his finger, a rather impolite mime of a rising erection, which he realizes is a very rude gesture to make in front of the queen.   He throws his hands together in a prayer position instead. 

“By which I mean,” he says, “Nothing.  I meant none of that at all.  Of course.  Unless you say otherwise, your Majesty.  Then I meant it all.” 

It is silent save the sound of the river lapping at the shore.  His hands are still clasped for prayer and you are holding the robe closed.  He blinks at you.  You are already smiling. 

“Right,” he says.  “Umm… Fuck.”

You pat him on the arm, stepping around him.  You go to your bag of possessions, kneeling down to find the phial. 

“I wasn’t going to ask for help,” you say.  “I fear I have already put you in a precarious enough position as is—”

“You haven’t done anything,” he says, quick and sharp.  His black robes swish with the swiftness of his spin.  He marches to where you are knelt down. 

You look up at him, your hand closed around the phial, but he does not see it.  His eyes are on your face.

“Your Majesty,” Jisung says.  He crouches down so you can look at each other.  “I’m a lot better at speaking when I’m not – when I’m singing, especially a story about someone else.  That’s easier.  But I—”  He stares into your eyes.  His shoulders fall with an exhale, his expression softening just as surely.  “I wouldn’t go back to the easy I knew days ago.  I know I’m a mess now.  I don’t know what’s happening anymore, or what’s going to happen soon, but—”

He looks at the treeline.  It is still empty, of course.  The king does not see the pretty bard boy as a threat to his dignity and masculinity.  He is probably stomping and brooding and yelling some more, glaring at Hyunjin and Chan, while it is Jisung who lays a hand on your cheek.  Jisung captures you more completely than the king could do with iron. 

“It’s probably wrong to say,” Jisung speaks in a low, rasping voice, his face close to yours.  A tuft of dark hair falls near his brown eyes.  “It’s too selfish for a kingsguard or any mortal to say, but…   You said it first, that you feel the gods when we’re together.”  His thumb strokes your cheek and it might as well be a lightning bolt launched from the heavens, wracking your whole body with a shiver.  “I feel it too,” he says.  “I think I’m supposed to be here.  My life, the war, becoming a kingsguard, a – a – a queensguard – it was supposed to happen.  The gods led us here and we made it happen, and the gods allowed us, so we must – it must – it can’t be completely wrong, right?  When the king is like that, and you are like this.”

You are everything I ever dreamed of worshipping, he told you two nights ago, before you ever kissed, before you even really touched.  It seems those feelings have grown with yours. 

“You’re worth a thousand kings, Han Jisung,” you say. 

It is confident amidst his stammering, and it makes his eyes go wide.  You brush the hair away from those eyes. 

“I don’t know what will happen either,” you say.  “I know the king will try something untoward sooner than later, whether I am faithful and obedient or not.  I believe it is thus appropriate to reserve my faith and loyalty to that which I pray directly.”

You turn your face and kiss his palm.  You look at him from the corner of your eye, watching his breath catch as his eyes are bound to where your lips touch his skin. 

You wonder if he is so flushed because he is remembering how you said physical love was like prayer.  Hearing your words now, seeing and feeling your kiss, he seems to stop breathing entirely. 

“And in such a case as that,” you say, “I believe I would like at least once more night to pray for answers.” 

You open your hand and reveal the phial.  His gaze drops.  His eyebrows leap comically high as he looks between you and the bottle. 

He snatches it, looking at the treeline, then whispering so frantically that his voice breaks again, “Is that poison? Where in the name of all the gods did you get poison?”

You cup his face with both hands, laughing helplessly at his expression.  You stroke your thumbs across his cheeks and it lessens his panic. 

“It’s not poison,” you whisper.  “It’s just a sleeping draft.”

“A sleeping draft,” he says, words a little slurred as his cheeks are squished in your hands.  He looks down at the phial again, then at you.  “Well,” he says and gets to his feet.  He adjusts his sword belt, swishes the length of his robe and clears his throat.  “You could have opened with that,” he says. 

You are laughing as he helps you to your feet. 

-

Thanks to your friend’s sleeping draft and Jisung’s help, you escape the king unscathed for another night. 

Jisung completes his task in the only way Han Jisung would and could: with a great deal of theatricality. 

The sun is nearly set and everyone is gathered around the fire pits.  The king is with his inner circle, guarded by Changbin.  After changing into a clean dress, you sit with the remaining kingsguards.  The meal is simple, meat cooked in a spicy broth.  Apparently, esteemed kingsguard leader Bang Chan is tragically intolerant towards heavy spice, a fact you learn because the others relentlessly tease him. 

It makes him crack a smile, the first one all day.  He has charmingly deep dimples when he lets himself go.   You are sitting beside him and the sight delights you. 

In the midst of comforting food and friendly laughter, Chan looks at you.  While the others are rowdy and distracted, he takes a moment to say, “I’ll guard the king’s tent tonight,” he says.  “Find me, yeah?  If you need… anything.” 

“Thank you,” you say, genuinely touched.

His chivalry will not be required, however.  Moments after he says that, the king starts screaming. 

“You incompetent mongrel!” he shouts, clear across the campsite, scaring another pair of birds. 

The kingsguards are quickly on their feet, food and jibes forgotten. 

You stay sitting, slurping your soup.

“Your Holy Majesty, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, a thousand times sorry,” Jisung says to the king. 

You glance over there, watching as Jisung alternates between bowing and scooping up the bits of meat that splattered on the ground when he knocked over the king’s bowl of soup. 

When Jisung told you he would take care of administering the sleeping draft, he did not tell you his plan, maybe assuming you would not like it.  You cannot honestly say you are happy to see him intentionally drawing the king’s anger, but it is certainly a fair strategy.  The king is too surrounded to truly sneak up on him.  He is, however, very easy to antagonize.    

Jisung tries to hold out a dirty piece of meat as offering.  The king slaps it out of his hand.  Jisung looks at it with dramatically wide eyes.

“I swear to the gods, kingsguard—” the king says, raising his hand as if to strike Jisung.

Jisung bows again, holding up his hands in supplication. 

“I apologize, your Holiness,” he says, bowing some more as he grabs the king’s empty bowl.  He remains bent over while scampering around.  “It was an accident.  I’ll get you more food.  Forgive me, sire, I’m a worthless dog, I’m a flea on a dog, I’m a flea on a flea—”

The king kicks at him as Jisung scampers off to get more soup.   The other kingsguards sit back down, either laughing at the nonsense of shaking their heads, chalking it up to Jisung being a little clumsy and silly. 

You slurp some more soup. 

The king only makes it halfway through his meal before he falls asleep.  The remainder of his soup splashes onto the ground when the bowl falls out of his lap, so fortunately no one else ingests it.  

No one seems bothered by the peculiarity of his sudden slumber.   This seems to a combination of acknowledging the day was very exhausting, but also sighing with some relief that there is no more yelling. 

Chan, Changbin, and Minho carry the king back to his tent where he shall sleep alone, and where you shall not be visiting any time soon.  

Seungmin is assigned the first shift to guard your tent, but Jisung escorts you while Seungmin is still finishing his meal.  You and Jisung walk side by side, saying nothing suspicious or untoward.  Nothing beyond his wink and your smile, at least. 

“Was the king this bad on the journey over?” you ask while Jisung unties the clasps of your tent. 

“Almost worse,” Jisung admits.  “He doesn’t like travelling.  And you already know he wasn’t, um, happy with the wedding, heh.  Now everything with Felix—”

“Right,” you say, watching as the last clasp comes undone.  “I suppose an affair can change a man.”

Jisung laughs, though it is more of an exhale. 

“So I’ve heard,” he says.  

The tent opens.  There is a lit lantern inside, brightening the night with golden warmth.  The interior is simple, though marginally more comfortable than the average tent. It is tall enough you can walk around without ducking. The ground is neatly covered, a thick bedroll unfurled in the middle of the space.  It looks as inviting as it can be, blankets draped across the long cushion, a pillow at the head.  One of your smaller trunks is in the room.  There is a low table and a cushion beneath it, a tea pot and cup in wait.  The lantern sits on the ground, near the bed. 

You look at each other. 

It would require only a step, out of the darkness and into the light, and he could kiss you again.  Only a step, yet a serious one with real ramifications. 

Despite all that, you want him as you have never wanted anything before.  You want him so much that you learned how to want.   Before him, you were numb but content.  Now you feel every prickling tingle of a hair standing on edge, the anticipation twisting inside you, and the flush of heat that moves through you when his eyes move to your lips. 

“I—” he starts and never finishes.

You can see the complicated gears and cogs spinning in his head.  You think of him on his knees before you, kissing your hands, shaking with desperation.  Every kiss is both a gift and a surrendering, the forging of a serious vow in the breaking of another.  You want him, but not in the way a king wants his kingdom, not with a selfish and possessive cruelty, not with a command. 

“I enjoy your company,” you say.  “When Seungmin takes his post, would you play some music for me?  It would make me happy.” 

He releases a breath, laughter spilling out of him. 

“Yes,” he says, smiling at you.  “Yes, that would make me happy too.” 

Jisung stands guard until Seungmin arrives, then he leaves to fetch his guitar.  You dress down for the evening, removing your layers and letting your curls loose.  You sit on the bedroll in nothing but your shift.  It goes without saying that it does a better job of modesty when it is dry.  The recollection of Jisung’s staring makes your cheeks feel hot. 

You are smiling down at your embroidery when he returns.  There is only a brief conversation between him and Seungmin, the latter somewhat perplexed by his presence. It is not inappropriate for a kingsguard to guard the royal personage from inside the tent, but it has not been deemed necessary, nor has Jisung been posted. 

Jisung lets the guitar does most of the talking.  It is very persuasive.

Moments later, Jisung is inside the tent, lacing it closed again, the guitar on his back.  Somehow, the lacing of the tent ties feel even sturdier than a lock.  It would take a long time for someone to undo it, making it nearly impossible to sneak up on you. 

Though, you suspect it would also take you a long time to become conscious of the real world.  Jisung is not kissing you, not even touching you, just moving inside the same small space as you, and you are already distractingly rivetted. 

So distracted, you poke your finger on a needle.  You put your finger in your mouth to catch and wipe the tiny pinprick of blood, looking at Jisung as he sits down.  He does not sit on the bedroll, just beside it on the ground. 

His eyes flick to your mouth, his face a little flushed. 

“Ha-ha,” he speaks it more than laughs it.  “Right.  Music.  Um.” 

The first strum of the guitar feels very loud in this small space, making your heart jump.  The alarm slows to a gradual stop as you let the music surround you, the gentle plucking of each string.  He hums softly until you are visibly comfortable with the sound, then he starts to sing too. 

He starts with a familiar ballad, famous enough it reached your land at the borders.  The next song you do not know, but he has hummed snippets here and there over the past couple days.  The third song is about you, though it takes a second to realize it.  Your eyes are on your embroidery, knotting little loops of cherry blossom petals, when you realize the ‘mermaid in white with curly hair’ who has ‘wanting eyes for the soldier on the shore’ is maybe not so distant or fantastical as the lyrics might imply. 

You look at him, flicking your gaze to the sealed tent flap as if to remind him that others can hear.  He grins innocently and keeps singing, your story hidden in the details of some fictional recreation.  

Hearing his interpretation of your supposed thoughts makes you laugh, as he is often doing everything to make you laugh.  Hearing the thoughts of the soldier on the shore stirs rather differently, heart palpitating as he sings about longing and terror.  Both those feelings seem to torment the soldier, a man equal parts integrity, desire, and fear. 

The lyrics trail off though he keeps strumming the guitar.  You suppose the story is not yet finished. 

The melody changes a little.  He hums to chase it, perhaps crafting another song in his mind. 

You look at your cherry blossoms, listening to him, remembering the first time he sang to you.  He had never even spoken to you.  You did not know him at all.  You were alone and miserable, sulking in the dark, and he jumped into the light and touched you with his music. 

It feels like so much has changed, even while technically nothing has.  You are still married to the king.  You have both sworn oaths. 

His music still touches you.

Your vision blurs, then the first teardrop plunks onto a cherry blossom.  He notices immediately, just like he was the only one to see your tears at the ceremony.  The music comes to an abrupt stop, a suspended note awkwardly fractured.  He puts the guitar aside and gets on his knees, leaning over your embroidery to lift your face. 

You sniffle, smiling at him through your tears. 

“I’m sorry,” you say.  “I’m not even crying because of the sad things.” 

“That’s okay,” he says, his face as morose.  He tries to smile softly, though his brow is still pinched with concern.  “You can cry,” he says.  “If it will make you feel better.” 

Yes, you think it will.  You have too long repressed feeling.  You are allowed to be angry and passionate and sad.  Crying and raging will not necessarily solve all your problems, but it will empty the clutter of your mind and soul. 

You let it wash away, then you let him wipe your eyes. 

“Thank you,” you say, wiping the last teardrop as he sits back. 

He picks up his guitar, though he just looks at it, running his hand along the neck while you tidy up your embroidery tools.  He looks from his art to yours, blinking at the cherry blossoms. 

“What are you making?” he asks. 

“Just bits and pieces, really,” you say.  “Spring is my favourite season.  It’s beautiful back home, with the blossoms and warm rain showers.  Everything sparkles all the time.”  

If you had not already cried, thinking of home might have done it.   Now, you just sniffle and lay the fabric down.  You smile at him. 

“What’s your favourite season?” you ask.

“Mine?”  His eyebrows lift.  His mouth is open as he looks for an answer, then he glances at your embroidery and laughs.  “Spring,” he says.

You swat his arm and he playfully howls, clutching it. 

“You can’t just say that because it’s mine,” you say. 

“Why not?” he asks, laughing. 

“Because!” 

“All right, all right,” he says.  He taps his chin with great contemplation.  “Autumn?  No, no, it’s gross in the capital then.  The rain doesn’t sparkle there, not in the fall.  It sort of just – pings.”  He makes a high-pitched sound on the word, miming each droplet as it tumbles and rings out.  “Let’s see then – it’s not autumn and spring is forbidden to me.  Ah, winter?  No.  No.  Guard duty in the winter is the worst.  Oops, I’m not supposed to say that – of course being a kingsguard is a blessing, and I can’t wait to experience the next winter, Amen.”  He opens his palms and pretends to pray, then bows his head before continuing.  “So it’s not those.  Then, ah, let me think.  What’s left? Hmmm…” 

You are already giggling when he leans towards you, grinning.

“Remind me,” he says.  “What’s left?”

“Summer, of course,” you say. 

“Ah, of course.  Let’s think.  It’s hot, muggy, and the rain doesn’t help either of those things.  Everything feels a bit like soup.  But…” 

“But…?”  You lean towards him as well, playfully eager, like this is the most important secret he could reveal.

“But,” he says, eyes dropping momentarily to your smile, then lifting again.  They crinkle with his own gentle grin, drawing your eyes there as well.  “That’s when we met,” he says. 

You look from his mouth to his eyes.  The joining of your gazes makes everything feel very quiet, slow, and warm.  Nothing exists past the golden light beside you. 

“It is,” you say. 

“Yes,” he says.  “Summer.  I think I used to hate it.  I think – I’ll never hate it again.” 

“That’s funny,” you say. “I feel the same way.”

“Well, you can’t,” he says, abruptly teasing again, “Because that’s my favourite, and you can’t just pick it because I did.” 

You laugh, but it catches you off guard so it is a rather ugly laugh, more of a snort.  Your hand flies up to cover your mouth.  He laughs at that sound more than anyting, though he tries to stifle it. 

You swat each other, trying and failing to keep the laughter down.  A kingsguard keeping watch, a bard playing music, that is one thing.  Giggling with the queen is a little different.   

He accidentally pokes himself on your needle.  It is laying between you, forgotten, and he puts his hand down.  He hisses as he lifts it, grimacing like he was run through with a sword rather than pinpricked with a sewing needle. 

“Oh my goodness,” you say, shaking your head with playful irritation.  You gather your embroidery things and place them out of reach so there are no more accidents.  “Silly,” you say.  “Big strong guard, you are.  It couldn’t have hurt that much.”

“It’s the worst pain I’ve ever felt,” he says with dramatically sad eyes and a spectacular pout. 

“Oh, I’m sure,” you say, taking his hand.  It is not even bleeding.  Still, you bring it to your mouth. 

You do not intend to be seductive.  You are truly just playing, intending to wet his finger against your lips and tease him some more.  The moment your lips touch his skin, however, the whole energy inside the tent seems to shift.  If you did not know better, you would say the earth itself tilted.  You stomach drops with a swoop, as if you took off flying. 

You look at him while taking the tip of his finger in your mouth.  His smile vanishes too, those dark eyes suddenly smouldering in the lamplight.  Your heart is pounding so hard that it wakes up the rest of your body.  When you kiss that fingertip again, moving your mouth, making no mistake of its deliberateness, your heart seems to plummet as well.  It drops right between your legs when it continues to pound, sending heat in every direction, so stark and sure that it makes you want to double over. 

“Jisung,” you say, your lips a little wet. 

He does not have far to go, cupping your face and pulling you in for a kiss.  You clasp his shoulders, closing your eyes and kissing him back.  You definitely would not notice an intruder, nor even a fire, not even a god walking the earth.  You lose yourself completely, even more than those precious kisses from before.  Maybe it is knowing you are truly alone, that the king is out cold, that it is nighttime and you are in your shift and he is right here, and it would be so easy to lay down and—

“I—”  He abruptly breaks the kiss.  He still looks lost in it, eyes half-open, face tinged with a blush.  He pushes his fingers through his hair, shaking his head like that will pull him out of it. 

He looks at you, then your mouth, and falls right back in.  His eyes close like it is a little painful, and he groans when he kisses you, like it is rearranging him.   He cups your face with both hands and guides the kiss, opening his mouth, inexpertly but hungrily.  You follow, just as inexpertly but just as passionately.  You make a sound of your own, higher and lighter, sweet in the kiss as he licks into your open mouth. 

He is affected, either by the sound or your taste or your tongue against his.  He pulls back again, with a shuddering gasp, like he forgot to breathe the whole time.  You think you forgot too, breathing much harder than before. 

“I—I’m so—”  he says, forcing himself to look away.  He stares down at the lantern.  His eyes look a little wet, verging on tears as well.  He rubs his face, pushes his hand into his hair and keeps it there, the dark locks messy around his fingers. 

“Jisung,” you whisper his name, touching his shoulder, then his face.  “Jisung, I know.  This is – this is all crazy.”  He looks at you, eyes still sad, hand still shoved in his hair.  “I know,” you say.  “You’re not alone.  I know this is complicated.”  You stammer, tripping over your racing heart.  You cup his face and stroke his cheek.  “I’m not asking for anything but what you want to give me.”

“I know,” he whispers.  “I’m not scared of you.  I’m scared of me.  Of what I want to give.  It would be—”  He finally lets go of his hair.  It takes a second to fall back into place after being pushed for so long, falling messily across his forehead.  “It would be easier,” he says again, “if I didn’t want to, at all.  But I—” 

It is certainly easier for him to speak in song.  He conveyed so much as a soldier on the shore, longing and terror in equal parts.  Yes, that is all over his face as he looks at you, even if he cannot articulate it like this.  He just breathes, in and out.  He tilts his head and looks at you.  He is right, that this would all be easier if that expression was not so tender and loving. 

“What about you?” he asks.  “What do – what do you want to – give?” 

“Jisung,” you say, almost laughing, because isn’t it obvious?  “I want to give you everything.”

You thought that was so obvious, but his look says otherwise, that he is surprised and taken back and overcome. 

“I believe,” you say, “that even though we are surrounded by danger, my heart and my body would be truly safe with you.”

“Oh,” he says.  He gazes back at you for a time, then he looks down.  He takes your hand.  His eyes closed, he brings it to his mouth and kisses your palm.  He holds it to his face after, eyes still closed, clearly thinking very hard.  When he straightens, he says, “It is.  But when it comes to me, I—”  He laughs without much humour, looking at you, his expression rather withering and his tone self-deprecating.  “I think I’m broken beyond help.  I think I always have been.  I don’t even have a good reason why.  I just know I feel worthless if I don’t cling to the other vow that has ever meant anything and you – and I – and—”

“You’re safe with me too,” you say gently.  “Whatever that looks like, Jisung.  Whether you think it’s broken or not, I’ll take care of it all.” 

He nods, sharp and quick.  He rests his forehead against yours.  You close your eyes and stay there for a time, just breathing until your racing hearts are under control again.  He kisses your forehead before standing.  You stand as well, mostly to see that your legs still work, everything fuzzy after all that. 

He picks up his guitar and goes to the tent entrance.  He unlaces it carefully, then looks at you before parting it.  His expression is fond, his mouth open with some parting words, but his eyes widen and he swallows whatever gentle words were on his lips.  You look over your shoulder, wondering what surprised him, but there is nothing there.

“What is it?” you ask, smiling when he does. 

“Ah, uh, you—”  He points behind you with the guitar.  There is still nothing there.  When you lift an eyebrow at him, he giggles.  “Um, the light,” he says.  “Behind you – it, um.” 

Oh.  The lantern is shining right through your thin white shift.  Perhaps it is not reliable for modesty, even when dry, turning almost invisible as it reveals the shape of everything beneath the fabric. 

“Well,” you say, brushing the material out.  “I suppose it’s nothing you haven’t seen.” 

“Yes,” he says, breathlessly.  His eyes move down your body and up again.  It is such a thorough, thinking regard, that you think he might be changing his mind.  Then he swallows, closes his eyes, bows his head.  He departs without another word. 

You do not listen to hear if he and Seungmin speak some more.  You douse the lantern and climb under your blankets.  You thought you had tempered yourself, but that last look was hungrier and more powerful than a kiss.  With the image of him so fresh and clear in your mind, and with the tent securely laced shut again, you slide a hand beneath the covers and whisper his name again and again. 

-

You wake in the middle of the night.  You do not know what time, but it is nowhere near daylight, the world in darkness all around the tent.  You went to sleep to some bustling noise in the camp, but now it is silent, so you believe it is many hours later.

Your eyes adjust to the midnight blue, making out the shape of your table and trunk, the unlit lantern.   The only light is outside the tent, the guard posted with a lantern of his own.   He is holding it in the air so you can see his silhouette. 

Two silhouettes. 

It takes a moment for your groggy mind to catch up, but it does, and you realize there is a hushed argument happening on the other side of the tent.  You realize you are also right about the hour, because it is late enough that there was a guard change.  That is not Seungmin’s voice or silhouette outside the tent, but Minho.

“It’s the middle of the night,” Minho whispers, in obvious agitation.  “She’s sleeping.  Why would I let you into the queen’s tent?”

“I just want to see her.”  That voice is unmistakably Jisung.  You would recognize his voice anywhere.  Your heart wakes up faster than your mind, skipping beats. 

“In the middle of the night?”  Minho asks.  “Are you crazy?”

“Yes!” Jisung whispers back, with a high-pitched strain.  “I am!  Now let me see her!” 

“What kind of argument is that?” Minho asks. 

“I just—”  Jisung sighs.  You watch his silhouette, his hands moving through the air as he gestures at nothing.  “I’ve been thinking—”

“I get that’s new for you,” Minho says dryly, “But the queen can be alerted to this miracle tomorrow.”

“And I just need to see her,” Jisung finishes.  “Because – because I only have half my thoughts when I’m not with her.  Like the world is only half full and I’m only—”  He jabs his chest, exhales heavily.  “Only half whole.” 

The lantern lowers slightly, Minho seemingly losing power as his arm lowers. 

“Please,” Jisung says.  “I’m just going to talk to her.  I’ll be fast.  She won’t mind.  The king will be passed out until noon at least.  This is just – I need to see her.”

“I hate you,” Minho says.  “If I hear even one disgruntled squeak from her, I’m considering it permission to kill you for being a nuisance.”

“I can’t wait to haunt you forever,” Jisung says, clapping him on the shoulder with a friendly pat.

Minho shrugs him off.  The lantern swings away as Minho stalks back to his post.  He plunks the light on the ground. 

You can no longer see his silhouette, but you can hear as the tent unlaces.  Each slip of a tie has your heartbeat skipping.  You prop yourself up your elbows, watching slivers of moonlight slip into the tent.  Eventually the tent is undone enough that Jisung can step inside, then he grumbles and swears to himself as he tries to lace it back up again.

You sit all the way upright but he evidently does not see you.  At first, he is preoccupied with the laces.  Then, once the tent is secure, he turns around.  Your eyes are adjusted to the darkness so you see him perfectly, but his are not adjusted, and he evidently has no idea you are awake and upright and staring at him.

He seems to go through a myriad of emotions, his face an entire theatrical spectacle in the span of thirty seconds.  Then he curses and turns around and reaches for the laces, having seemingly lost all his nerves, intent on departing again. 

“Jisung?” you say.

It makes him jump, shoulders leaping.  He slowly turns around to face you.  He still does not see you properly, squinting through the dark, but you think your general shape is taking form.  He faces the correct angle, at least. 

“Um, yes?” he asks. 

“What are you doing here?” you ask. 

“Oh, that,” he says.  “Right. Um.  You see.  I was thinking about everything you said.  And everything I said.  And did.  And we did.  And he said and he did, the king I mean.  And I was just – I was thinking – what I mean is.”  He clasps his hands together and punctuates his words with a pointed gesture.  “The. reason. I. am. here.” 

He lets his arms fall to his side.  You think he can see you much better now, because his eyes finally find yours. 

He should be a terrifying figure in the dark, all long dark robes with a shiny sword at his hip.  But you are not scared.  His hands are the ones shaking, his eyes wide.  

“Yes?” you say softly, encouraging. 

He takes a step forward.  His hand rests on the hilt of his sword out of habit, no doubt a consolation to his nerves.  He looks down at it, seems to contemplate it like it has answers, or maybe just more questions.  Eventually, he reaches into his robes and undoes the sword belt.  You watch with baited breath as the sword falls into his hand. 

He crouches down, laying the sword on the ground.  On one knee, looking at the sword, then looking at you, he unclasps the top layer of his robes. 

“I think,” he says, “I’m here to pray.”

You are quickly out of the covers, crawling down the bedroll towards him.  He drops his other knee so he is kneeling upright at the foot of your bed, his robes open to the dark layer underneath, his chest rising and falling as quickly as his heart must be racing. 

You get up on your knees too, hands floating between you as you take a second to just look at each other.  His mouth is open like he has more to say, but he never finds the words.  You think there might be words, but they have all been said, and they are better encapsulated in a kiss. 

You wrap your arms around his neck and pull him in.  His hands find your waist, at first with the chivalrous touch of a guard, as he has been holding your waist and hips when he helps you from here to there.  Then the kiss deepens, your eyes close.  His tongue pushes against yours and his hands are searching, squeezing, feeling the shape of every curve under his palm. 

He says your name, not your title, your shift messily gathered in his fists.  He kisses you softly, just a peck, then another, then those kisses move across your face and down your neck.  You sink your fingers into his hair, holding him there as he kisses a long, hot kiss against your throat.  You feel it all the way down between your thighs, liquid heat and a pounding need.  You scratch  at his scalp as his open mouth moves across your skin and he moans.

“Shh,” you say gently, his voice softening against your neck, just a light sound as he licks the place he kissed. 

You want to tear the robe off his body, but you don’t want to startle him, his hands already shaking where they move over your clothed body.  You decide to go first, already more comfortable with it. 

You always thought disrobing for a lover would be petrifying, aghast at the thought of ever baring yourself to a husband.  Well, perhaps that last part is still true.  But it is not difficult to share yourself with Jisung.  You like the way he looks at you, like he is writing songs of worship in his head. 

You lean back, breathing hard, smiling at his face.  He looks flushed and messy, his lips wet.  He blinks at you, though his gaze lowers when you gather the hem of your shift and lift.  His mouth is hanging open when you toss it to the side. 

“It’s not like you haven’t seen me before,” you whisper, laughing lightly. 

“That was different,” he says.  “I couldn’t really look.  I tried not to look.  I knew if I did, I’d want to touch you.  I tried to pray instead.  But I can’t hear the gods when you’re not near me.  Now—”  His hand moves up your naked side, skimming your curves, his eyes following the trail.  He swipes his thumb across your breast and your back arches into him.  “Now,” he says again, dipping his head, “I know where I was made to be.”

His mouth closes around the tip of your breast, already pert from stimulation, hardening further between his lips.  He sweeps his tongue across your skin, moves to the other side.  His hands move everywhere, up and down. 

Before long, you are moving, laying on your back.  He tears off his outer robe and leaves it on the ground, following you down.  You will not push him for more, knowing already how much he is giving you, though one day you want to feel every inch of him, skin to skin.  It will happen, you decide.  One day, you will be in a bed, and there will be time, and you will never be done exploring. 

He lets your put your hand under his shirt, scratching down his spine.  His arms are bare so you squeeze those too.  Your legs part to make room for his hips.  You are kissing and you make a sound in each other’s mouths when he lowers his hips against you.  You can feel him through the material of his trousers, like you could that other night.  But where he ran away that night, ignoring his own feelings, this time he lets your hand wander down.  When you cup the hard shape of him in your palm, it makes your breath catch in an uneven stutter. 

“Jisung,” you whisper, arching against him when he says your name back. 

“Yes,” he says, pushing himself upright with shaking arms.  He kneels between your open legs, pushing his hair back, swallowing as he looks down.  His mouth moves but he doesn’t speak, though he does make a garbled noise when running his hands along the soft skin of your inner thigh. 

That skin is very sensitive.  You are already jumping by the time his hand is on you.  You have to cover your mouth.  No amount of touching yourself could prepare you for his touch, his fingers rougher and calloused both from his sword and his guitar. 

You are very wet, from earlier, from seconds ago.  He makes a face like he can feel the pleasure too, even though it his fingers, rubbing through all that wetness.   He finds that place he showed you, that he talked about, as adept with the instrument of your body as he is with any other tool he puts in his hands.  Just as he is always determined to make you laugh, he is now determined to give you that burst of pleasure.   He grips your thigh in one strong hand and deftly moves his other thumb around and around that small centre of pleasure. 

You twitch in his grip, still gasping with those short, stunted breaths.  You can keep your voice down on your own, but it requires more concentration now, swallowing those sounds as that pleasure breaks apart inside you.  Your hips lift, chasing his touch, then drop in shy retreat, oversensitive. 

He grips both thighs, squeezing the soft flesh, then runs his fingertips back to their centre, then up, up the curve of your chest, touching your open mouth.  You take his fingers in your mouth, nothing like before, which was playful then uncertain and demure.  You take them like you want to take everything, deep and wet and needy, moving your head, sucking them hard between your lips until he has to cover his own mouth to stop himself from being loud. 

He takes his hand back.  The other drops from his mouth.  You look at each other, hearts racing.   His hands are shaking again as he reaches for the ties of his trousers, fumbling more than a little. 

You sit up to help.  With him kneeling upright, it puts your face at a rather advantageous position.  His fingers get even more clumsy until he is no help at all, leaving it to you to unlace. 

You look up at him, holding his gaze.  This is certainly not the wedding night you were ever prepared to participate in.  You were instructed to lay back and wait, then it would happen and be over.   That could not be more different than your searching hands, eager to feel him, your eyes on any sliver of skin he shows you. 

Once the trousers are unlaced, there is little hiding, the fabric falling open and everything inside lifting up.  Truthfully, you are nervous again too, but also emboldened with passionate wanting.  You are aware you are about to do something that cannot be reversed in the eyes of the law. 

I’m the queen, you think.  I make my own law.

You touch him as he lays you back down.  When you are on your back, you lay your hands at your sides, your legs open around him, hair spread out underneath you. 

He pushes his trousers down his hips.  He looks into your face for as long as he can, but he eventually needs to look down.  He curses to himself as he is a little clumsy again, trying to guide himself to your entrance.  He finds it, but your body is a little resistant even though you are so wet.  You wince a little, but shake your head when he stops, telling him to keep going, please, please, please. 

You can only imagine how painful this would have been with the king.  Well, that man will never be your first, no matter what he tries in future.  It will always be Han Jisung, slowly pushing inside you, his sweaty face buried in your neck, murmuring your name as he fills you to utter completion. 

You almost cry when he is all the way inside you, not even from the tenderness, but just the rightness.  You cling to him, sliding a hand down the back of his shirt.  He rocks his hips a little, kissing your neck when you whimper. 

“It’s okay,” he says, lifting his face to look at you.  He kisses your lips, a few short pecks that leave you wanting more.  He stares down into your face like he can hardly believe you are real.  “I have you,” he says.  “I have you.” 

He knows how to listen beyond words, hearing every cry and request of your body, even if you cannot articulate it.  He is careful until that tender burn lessens, careful for his own sake too, muttering the occasional oath when you squeeze around him.  it soon really does sound like praying with how often he calls the gods and you. 

You kiss him, moaning into his mouth, probably clawing up his shoulders as he starts to understand how to roll his hips.  Those scratches won’t matter because he’s a kingsguard and he will be completely covered tomorrow.  Only you will know his back is a canvas of your pleasure, fingers bruising and nails raking desperately as he takes you, deeply, thoroughly. 

“I’m – I can’t – inside,” he says between breaths, face scrunched up as he nears his pleasure. 

“I know,” you say, but whimper helplessly.  “One day.” 

That makes him moan deeply, a sharp thrust into you, then he is quickly pulling out.  It just takes a single stroke from his hand before he finishes too.   It is more than you knew it would be, a white streak that falls across the soft skin of your belly.  It takes a second for the sight to register for him, then he squeaks and grabs his robe again. 

Cleaning that off the queen is almost certainly not the intended use of the kingsguard robes, but it makes the most sense, as he is more likely to be able to clean it without any questions.  Still, he seems to realize just how sacrilegious it is, looking at the black fabric, then at you. 

Then, he smiles.  It turns to a short laugh, a sound of disbelief. 

“We—” he says. 

“Yes,” you say, giggling too. 

You are not sure if he is more amazed with you or himself.  It certainly takes him a moment to stop looking so shocked, even though he was the one who walked in here.  Eventually, he comes to his senses, at least enough to lay down in your arms for a time. 

He can’t sleep here, but you hold him for a while and he is happy to let you, his head pillowed on the softness of your breasts, his arms around your middle.   He turns his face and kisses your skin, just a chaste kiss, but there is a fire simmering beneath your skin now, and you fear it will never be doused. 

You sit up together.  You kiss his bare arm, right up to where the shoulder of his shirt gets in the way.  He looks at you, appreciative, fond, and a little less scared. 

“We need to be careful,” he says. 

“Of course,” you say.

“I can’t let anything happen to you,” he says, cupping your face.  He brings it close to his, your noses touching. 

“I know you won’t,” you say.  “I’m safe in your hands, bard boy.” 

He laughs, then steals one final kiss.  He doesn’t put the outer robe back on, giving you a chagrined smile while you giggle.  You shuffle back into your shift while he stands up and re-ties his trousers.  He smooths his hair as best he can.  He hooks his swordbelt into place.

He looks somewhat more composed, but not entirely untouched.  You wonder if you look like that, if it’s all over your face, in the lines of your body.  You can certainly feel it inside, both literally with the ache between your thighs, and also emotionally. 

He unlaces the tent and looks at you again, gives you one last departing smile before he steps out. 

He has barely laced the tent shut before the lantern re-appears.  You catch Minho’s silhouette, his hand swinging down to swat Jisung hard on the backside.

“Ouch!” Jisung jumps.

“That was not talking, you asshole,” Minho hisses. 

Jisung, in much better spirits than his friend, simply plants a kiss on the other guard’s cheek and ruffles his hair.  Even in silhouette form, Minho is clearly shocked by this.  It takes him too long to retaliate, left standing there as Jisung skips away.

Minho shakes his head.

Smiling, you lay down to sleep, safe for tonight.  With your growing allies, you are confident will you find a way to remain so.   

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Fire on the Mountain - Chapter One

Pairing: Otto Hightower (House of the Dragon) x OFC (Lia Costayne) Warnings: Canon typical death and mild angst. Word count: ~8.4k

Chapter summary: Lia suffers bitter disappointment at the king's tourney, and finds herself uncertain of her future in the wake of an unexpected shift in dynamic.

Series masterlist

Author's note: Header by @vampire-exgirlfriend who also beta read this for me - this story would be nothing without you. Thank you for the care and attention you have put in both myself and my writing. I love you.

The wheels of the carriage squeaked and rattled over the bumpy roads of King’s Landing, accompanied by the thumping of the horses’ hooves that pulled them towards their destination. Lia shifted uncomfortably, repositioning against the plush cushions that she sat upon. It was not the instability of their short journey towards the Dragonpit that irked her, however.

Click. Click. Click.

She cast her gaze down towards Alicent’s fingers, the sound of her nails moving against her skin was audible even over the din of the wheelhouse. The flesh was red, raw and bloodied, and Lia had to force herself to suppress the way her lips attempted to curl in disgust, instead leaning forward to place her own hand over top of Alicent’s, squeezing gently, a comforting gesture that halted her friend’s nervous habit.

Alicent smiled softly at her, but Lia could tell from the way she lowered her eyes that she was embarrassed at having been caught outwardly expressing her anxiety. Lia could not help but pity her, she had plenty to feel worried about herself, but had never allowed it to manifest itself in such an unseemly manner.  House Costayne was sworn to the Hightowers, and so it was no question that Lia, youngest daughter of Lord Owen Costyane, would serve as a companion to Lady Alicent, the young daughter of the Hand of the King. Whisked away from the Whispering Sound at the age of six, the two years in Oldtown had been extraordinary—the largest port in the Reach, full of bustling excitement and things to see, all temptations to a precocious and formerly sheltered little girl. When King Viserys took the throne, Lord Otto called his daughter to the capital to be a companion to the young princess and of course, Lia joined as part of Alicent's household.

At the age of fourteen, she had spent more of her life away from her family than with them. They were leagues away, and the memory of the castle in which she was born was but a distant memory. The silver chalice and black rose that adorned the Costayne House sigil felt more tangible to her than the faces of either her mother or father.

She could not pretend that she had suffered in their absence though; she had had every luxury she could ever desire at her disposal, and though her family were far away, at least they still lived. Alicent had suffered through the loss of her mother, and had to keep her composure through all of it. The royal court was no place for the weeping and wailing of a young girl. Lia supposed that if she had been forced to endure that, then she would likely have taken to picking her nails bloody too.

The death of Alyrie Florent had brought Lia and Alicent closer together, and with it their shared bond with Princess Rhaenyra had blossomed too. Lia helped to bring Alicent out of her shell, allowing her an outlet for behaviours that were otherwise considered unseemly for a young lady at court; they gossiped, laughed loudly, and did so with the unspoken bond of secrecy that runs like an invisible thread through the fabric of friendship. Alicent had a calming influence on both Lia and Rhaenyra, serving as the voice of reason that helped to keep them out of trouble–most of the time. Oftentimes, it would take but a look from Alicent for both girls to know they had gone too far, a trait she had doubtless inherited from her father. It had taken just a simple widening of those big brown eyes to halt Lia and Rhaenyra’s ascent up through the branches of the Heart Tree in the Godswood; a foolish attempt to gain a vantage point in order to spy through the higher windows of the Red Keep, that would likely have resulted in broken limbs. Rhaenyra shared Alicent’s knowledge of propriety, though not her love of it, and the wild, adventurous side of her played well with Lia’s, her status as The Realm’s Delight allowing them a margin more leniency than most would be afforded. 

The three girls were inseparable, yet in the unwavering foundations of their bond, Lia had never felt more uncertain about her own future. Otto clearly had plans for Alicent, and Rhaenyra’s comfort was secured in her position as the King’s daughter, however, no such fate awaited Lia. She was every bit the spare part, aware of the fact that her destiny is one she will have to build on her own. As such, she delights in being Otto’s confidant, sharing news of the movements of Rhaenyra and Alicent in exchange for his favour. It had begun innocently enough, a fatherly figure taking an interest where the patriarch of her own family was unable to. She had taken pride in recounting her lessons to him, beaming up at him with girlish exuberance as he had listened carefully, amusement glittering in his eyes. It had never occurred to her that he had any ulterior motive, and so the unspoken vow of secrecy she afforded Alicent slipped in front of her father, allowing him to be privy to the gossip they indulged in and the adventures that they embarked upon with Rhaenyra within the walls of the Red Keep. As Lia had grown older, she had started to suspect that Otto’s questions served a deeper purpose than simple interest, however, it did not deter her; acting as a confidant to the King’s Hand would not be without its advantages. She hoped that when the time was right, the loyalty of both her and her family would not be forgotten.

The wheelhouse pulled to a shuddering stop just outside of the Dragonpit, and Lia moved to push the door open, stopping as they were plunged into sudden darkness. A forceful gust of air shook the carriage. They had arrived just in time for Rhaenyra’s return on Syrax. Lia and Alicent hovered apprehensively by the door, waiting until they heard their friend’s dragon thump heavily against the earth, before tentatively peeking out. Lia was brave enough to descend the small set of wooden steps to the ground below, while Alicent opted to remain in the safety of the wheelhouse, standing in its doorway.

She could not help but feel envious of Rhaenyra, watching as she slid gracefully from the back of her golden dragon, pulling her riding gloves off with her teeth, staring up at the great beast in admiration as it was coaxed back to the pit by the dragon keepers. Lia longed for the sense of adventure and freedom that the princess experienced high above the clouds of King’s Landing, the walls of the Red Keep felt as much a cage as they were an extravagance at times.

Though as Rhaenyra drew closer, the sulfurous stench of dragon radiating from her leathers, Lia wrinkled her nose in repulsion, deciding that if she were to experience freedom then she certainly had no desire for it to be atop the back of a dragon.

“Syrax is growing quickly,” Alicent commented, nodding towards the dragon’s retreating form. “She will soon be as large as Caraxes.”

“That’s almost large enough to saddle two,” Rhaenyra replied with a grin.

“I believe I am quite content as a spectator, thank you,” Alicent quipped, the gentle smile reserved only for Rhaenyra spreading across her mouth.

“And you?” Rhaenyra regarded Lia with a raise of her eyebrow.

“I prefer to keep both my feet firmly on the ground, I am afraid.”

Rhaenyra tutted. “Cowards, both of you,” she jested, stomping up the carriage steps.

The three of them huddled together on the same seat on the way back to the castle, talking excitedly about which knights they expected to be in attendance for the tourney being hosted by King Viserys in honour of the impending birth of Queen Aemma’s second child.

Their laughter carried through the Keep’s corridors as the three of them walked back towards Rhaenyra’s chambers, linked arm in arm, Rhaenyra sandwiched between Alicent and Lia.

While Alicent and Lia reclined comfortably on couches, nibbling on candied lemon slices, Rhaenyra went to change out of her riding gear. The two exchanged a surprised glance as she reappeared in a yellow gown, much too quickly to have bathed. Lia could not imagine being allowed to conduct herself at court smelling quite so pungent; it was a privilege only afforded to royalty. Her and Alicent had to always present themselves as clean and well groomed, a necessity that Lia did not mind at all. She was well aware of her own beauty, and took a level of care with her appearance that bordered upon outright vanity. She would never dream of being seen outside of her chambers without her long, dark curls having been meticulously brushed and styled. Whereas Rhaenyra, Lia often thought, could have been mistaken for one of the scullery maids were it not for the finery she dressed it. She was lucky she was pretty.

Rhaenyra swept into the Queen’s apartments, leaving her friends to stand awkwardly in the doorway, looking in on the queen and her ladies. They both greeted Aemma courteously, and she responded with a polite hello and a strained smile. 

A sense of unease crept over Lia’s flesh at the sight of Aemma, fanning herself as she lay on the settee by the open balcony windows. She looked more uncomfortable every time she saw her. It was not a state she wished for herself, though it was an inevitability. Such was the role of a woman, though Lia hoped her fate would be one more fortunate; she was all too aware of the fruitless pregnancies that Aemma had endured prior to this one.

“Take a bath, you stink of dragon,” Aemma gently scolded her daughter.

Lia bowed her head, concealing the way her lips curved upwards in amusement, suddenly pretending that the golden stitching of her ivory coloured gown was the most interesting thing in the world. She kept her blue eyes fixed upon the cuff of her sleeve, her fingers absentmindedly fiddling with the delicate golden rings upon the fingers of her left hand. At last, someone was saying it aloud. A statement only a queen could get away with saying to a princess.

Rhaenyra ignored her mother, settling beside her. “Did you sleep?”

“I slept.”

The princess huffed. “How long?”

“I don’t need mothering, Rhaenyra.”

“Well, here you are, surrounded by attendants all focused on the babe. Someone has to attend to you.”

“You will lie in this bed soon enough, Rhaenyra. This discomfort is how we serve the realm.” The queen’s voice was tired, though of the pregnancy or of this oft repeated conversation, Lia could not tell.

“I’d rather serve as a knight and ride to battle and glory.”

“We have royal wombs, you and I. The child bed is our battlefield. We must learn to face it with a stiff lip.”

Lia lost herself in her thoughts as Rhaenyra conversed with her mother, continuing to twist the rings upon her fingers and shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot, as her mind conjured scenarios she would prefer not to dwell upon. She wished for a secure position in life, but did not want to be confined to the birthing bed. She longed for power, to have authority, over herself, surely, and perhaps over others, yet did not share the princess’ desire to fight in battle. Her days of climbing trees and skinned knees were well behind her.

She was roused from her thoughts as Rhaenyra hurried past her.

“Where are you going?” Alicent called after her.

“I am late!” She replied over her shoulder, running in the direction of the Small Council chamber.

Lia propped herself up on her elbow, lying on her side as she watched Alicent carefully stitch delicate powder blue flowers into the fabric suspended within her embroidery hoop. Her own lay discarded beside her, she had given up when the thread had become knotted, in no mood to attempt to fix it.

“Alicent…” she began slowly, “do you ever think about why your father wanted to bring you to King’s Landing?”

Alicent kept her eyes upon her needlepoint, her tone matter of fact as she continued her work. “To instruct me in what is expected of a highborn lady.”

Lia huffed, leaning across and tugging Alicent’s sleeve to get her full attention. “Yes, but why?”

The other girl sighed, lowering her embroidery hoop into her lap and fixing Lia with an exasperated stare. “To give me the best possible opportunities in life, so that an appropriate match may be made for me.”

“And that is enough for you, is it? To simply be married off to a man who is not of your choosing?”

She lowered her gaze, her voice soft. “My mother did not choose my father, and yet they were very happy.”

“But is that what you want?”

“What is it that you are trying to get at?”

Lia hummed, flopping down onto her back against the plush rug that they sat upon in the solar, clasping her hands across her front as she stared up at the vaulted ceiling. “I am unsure of my own purpose, what it is that I want.”

Alicent nodded in understanding. “Well, there will be plenty of eligible knights at the upcoming tourney. Gwayne is going to be there,; he is competing in the jousting.”

She scoffed, recalling the gangly boy of ten, a mop of hair the colour of rust, that they had left behind in Oldtown all those years ago. “Ah, yes, how fares your older brother?” she asked, turning her head to the side to look at her friend.

“He is a knight now,” Alicent said proudly, “and quite handsome too.”

“Handsome?! How would you know?”

“He tells me so in his letters.”

The pair burst into peals of laughter, stopping abruptly as Otto stalked into the room, casting a disapproving glance at both of them. “Do the pair of you not have lessons to attend this afternoon?”

“We were waiting for Rhaenyra, so that we might all go together,” Alicent said apologetically, scrambling to her feet and smoothing the skirts of her dress down.

Lia rolled her eyes, knowing their fun was over, and rose to her feet too, running her fingers through her dark curls, rumpled from having laid upon the floor.

“Well, the Small Council has concluded its business for the day, and with it Rhaenyra’s duties as cupbearer, so run along. Do not keep your septa waiting.”

“Yes, Father,” Alicent said quietly, making her way out of the solar. The skirts of her pale blue gown swished behind her, the cascade of her auburn hair down back appearing as Autumnal leaves against a cloudless sky.

Lia readied to follow suit when Otto reached out, gently grasping her forearm and halting her movements. “I trust you are behaving yourselves?”

“Always,” she said with a saccharine smile, moving to pull away from him.

He tightened his grasp, and Lia lifted her eyes to meet The Hand’s, his gaze steely and unblinking, apparently unaffected by the mischief that glittered within her own. “The Princess is…spirited. Do not allow her to lead you or Alicent astray.”

She slipped away from him, pausing once in the corridor to look back over her shoulder at him. “You have raised a well mannered young woman, Ser Otto. She will heed your wishes, though I cannot say the same for myself.”

Lia did not know why, but she had always enjoyed testing how far she could push Otto Hightower. He seemed to have more patience for her misdeeds than that of Alicent’s, and there was a certain thrill to watching his features pinch into annoyance. Perhaps it was because she allowed him to be privy to the secrets of her and her two friends, and he did not wish to sever that connection with too harsh a scolding for misbehaviour. She still remembered when he had taken it upon himself to instruct her in the art of handwriting, claiming that hers looked as though “a spider had fallen into the inkwell and then scurried across the page.” She had taken her quill and flicked the end at him, watching as spots of black had splattered across his doublet. He had scowled, snatching up her wrist, but then she giggled. His grip on her had loosened and his expression had softened. If she did not know him better, she would have sworn she saw the ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Rhaenyra did not turn up for lessons, leaving Lia and Alicent to endure the presence of the stern Septa Marlow without her. Lia would not have minded, except for the fact that that day’s lesson was history, her least favourite subject. She endured a scolding for not remembering that Princess Nymeria departed Rhoyne for Dorne, and by the time the hour was over she felt tired and irritable.

Alicent had always been more studious than she was, her ability to focus surpassing Lia’s, who was far too easily distracted by the world around her. The comings and goings of the Red Keep’s staff was far more interesting to her than what was contained within any book. She preferred to focus on the whisperings found within darkened alcoves of the castle, than the monotonous drone of Septa Marlow.

“Come,” Alicent said, pulling a thick historical tome from the library shelf. “We shall study in the Godswood, the fresh air will help you to remember.” There was no heat in the subtly pointed look she directed at Lia, so she followed without complaint, merely returning a glare of her own.

They had been seated beneath the heart tree in the Godswood not five minutes when Rhaenyra arrived, quickly settling herself between them, as was her customary place within the confines of their group. She placed her head in Alicent’s lap, and her legs across Lia’s, letting out a sigh as she gazed up at the clear blue sky through the branches of the tree.

“You did not attend lessons today,” Alicent said to her, hefting the book onto the grass beside her.

“I did not,” Rhaenyra replied simply.

Lia spied the Valyrian steel and ruby necklace that now rested around Rhaenyra’s neck. It had not been there earlier. She leant over, lifting the pendant delicately between two fingers.

“A gift from your father?”

Rhaenyra furrowed her brow, as though she found the idea ridiculous. “A gift from Daemon.”

“He’s back then?” Lia’s interest is piqued. Daemon had never paid her much attention. As a ward of House Hightower, she was of no consequence to him. However, he was endlessly fascinating to her; his volatility and reckless behaviour served an endless supply of gossip.

“Mmmm,” she hummed, “to take up his position as Lord Commander of the City Watch, and compete in the tourney.”

“And give you gifts,” Lia teased with a smirk, letting the pendant drop softly back against Rhaenyra’s clavicle before settling back against her palms upon the grass.

A look of worry flickered across Rhaenyra’s face, her mouth turning downwards as her gaze grew distant. She studied her fingers for a moment, then asked “So what did I miss today?”

“History,” Lia said bitterly, “Princess Nymeria’s escape from Rhoyne.”

“Have you read it?” Alicent asked her.

“Of course I have read it,” Rhaenyra said, “there was no need for me to be there.”

“Then when Princess Nymeria arrived in Dorne, who did she take to husband?” Alicent silenced Lia as she opened her mouth to answer. “Not you, you actually turned up today,” 

Rhaenyra groused, shrugging her shoulders as she continued to lay across their laps. “A man.”

Alicent scowled, her tone clipped with annoyance. “And what was his name?”

“Lord something,” Rhaenyra replied petulantly.

“Gods, if only you had been there today,” Lia giggled, “you would have made me look good. Septa Marlow was furious.”

Rhaenyra smirked, playing with the rings upon her fingers. “She is funny when she is furious.”

“You are always like this when you are worried,” Alicent commented softly.

“Like what?” snapped Rhaenyra.

Alicent did not hedge her words, the only one to speak to their princess in this way. “Disagreeable. You are worried your father is about to overshadow you with a son.”

“I only worry for my mother. I hope for my father that he gets a son. As long as I can recall, it is all he has wanted.”

“You want him to have a son?” Lia asked.

“I want to fly with you both on dragonback, see the great wonders across the Narrow Sea, and eat only cake.”

Lia snorted as Alicent clicked her tongue. Lia did not mind the idea of seeing the great wonders, or existing solely on cake, however, the notion of taking flight on Syrax made the prospect seem far less exciting.

“We are trying to be serious,” Alicent protested, glancing warily at Lia, “well, at least I am.”

“I never jest about cake,” Rhaenyra said with a smirk.

“You are not worried about your position?” Lia asked, her curiosity piqued, masking the envy she felt that Rhaenyra possessed a position that could be threatened in the first place.

“I like this position,” she told Lia, wiggling her feet in her lap, making her laugh aloud, “it is quite comfortable.”

“Rhaenyra! Lia! It is impossible to have a serious conversation with either of you!”

The princess groaned, moving out of their laps and sitting cross legged in front of them. “Princess Nymeria led her Rhoynar across the Narrow Sea on ten thousand ships to flee their Valyrian pursuers. She took Lord Mors Martell of Dorne to husband and burned her own fleet off Sunspear to show her people that they were finished running.”

Lia raised her eyebrows, impressed by her knowledge, glancing over at Alicent to gauge her reaction. Before Alicent could respond, Rhaenyra leaned across and tore the page free from the book, letting it flutter into Alicent’s lap.

“So you remember.”

Alicent chewed her lip nervously. “If Septa Marlow sees this book–”

“Fuck the septa!” Rhaenyra interrupted.

Not for the first time, Lia felt envy burn acrid in her chest. Only a princess could get away with defacing a book from the Crown library and not have to suffer the consequences. She wondered if Rhaenyra had any awareness of the power she yielded over both her and Alicent. And if she was aware, would she even care?

Lia meandered through the halls, slippered feet quiet on the stone floor as she made her way to the library the next da She looked up, her attention stolen by Otto walking in the direction of the Small Council chambers. Changing course, she fell into step beside him, taking in the way his features were furrowed into annoyance. There could be only one explanation for it.

“So, you have heard that Prince Daemon has returned to the Capital?” she asked with a wry smile.

Otto paused, eyeing her carefully before ushering her into a nearby alcove. “What do you know?”

Lia shrugged. “Little and less. He gifted Rhaenyra a necklace, Valyrian steel.”

“An empty gesture,” he remarked bitterly, an exasperated sigh escaping him as he adjusted the collar of his forest green doublet. He cast a cursory glance over his shoulder to ensure they were not being watched, before fixing her with a heated stare.

“Oh, I am not so sure, you would be surprised at what people are willing to share if one is generous.” She reached up, tapping the bronzed hand that was pinned to his breast, as if to punctuate her point.

Otto’s much larger hand clutched hers, enveloping it, though it did not pull hers away. Her eyes shifted to where their hands now rested upon his chest, the gesture stirring something within her that she could not quite identify, filling her with both warmth and unease.

“I know a girl as clever as you cannot be swayed by trinkets,” he said softly, the low timbre of his voice vibrating through their connected hands.

Lia swallowed thickly, slowly pulling her hand back and letting it drop to her side, though still able to feel the place where his palm had rested. She felt an overwhelming need to push back against whatever had transpired, and so doubled her efforts to be cheeky. “If you are not feeling generous, perhaps Prince Daemon may have additional trinkets to spare.”

Otto straightened, his expression turning stony.

There it was, the annoyance that she felt much more at home with.

“You should not covet the actions of that brute of a man. Keep away from him.” He glared down at her, a silent warning before leaving her alone in the alcove, as he continued on his way.

Lia smiled to herself. Provoking Otto suddenly seemed much more appealing to her. If she could capture the interest of Daemon, then perhaps the Hand of the King would be more forthcoming in furthering her position at court, and making clear his plans for her.

“My dearest Lia, 

It is with deep regret that I must inform you that your mother and I will be unable to attend the King’s tourney. Your mother is suffering a fever and we did not wish to risk the journey to King’s Landing when our efforts must be spent upon ensuring her recovery. Your mother has requested that your brothers stay here at the Whispering Sound, as she fears her worry over them both competing will worsen her condition.

We have passed along our apologies to the Lord Hand, however, please send him my regards. I hope that life in the capital is treating you well and that you are behaving as befits the royal company that you keep.

Warmest wishes,

Your loving father, Lord Owen Costayne”

Lia gripped the parchment tightly between her fingers, having lost count of the number of times she had read it since it was brought to her by the maester two days prior. She lost herself in the words, the din of hoofbeats and roar of spectators fading to nothing as her eyes flitted between the letter and the lists, as though if she concentrated hard enough she could will her brothers into attendance.

Rhaenyra sat beside her, equally morose, her brow pinched in worry. Shortly after the tourney began, King Viserys had announced to all in attendance that Queen Aemma had begun her labours. It was obvious that Rhaenyra would rather be at her mother’s side than watching this display. However, it had not been allowed.

Sitting on the other side of Rhaenyra, Alicent had picked her nails bloody once more. A combination of worry for both the Queen and her older brother, Gwayne, who would be competing in the tourney.

Lia crumpled the parchment between her fingers, stowing it up her sleeve as she leaned forward, looking out across their elevated position on the stands, eager for a distraction.

“Who is that?” she asked, nodding towards a young man she did not recognise.

“The Tarly squire?” Rhaenyra responded, clearly as keen to focus on something else as she was.

“Mmhmm,” Lia affirmed, glancing back at her.

“Lord Massey’s son, I think. He is promised to Elinor Stokeworth, they are to be married as soon as he wins his knighthood.”

“Best get on with it,” Alicent chimed in, leaning forward conspiratorially, “I heard that Lady Elinor is hiding a swollen belly beneath her dress.”

Lia and Rhaenyra gasped, the three of them quickly falling into fits of giggles, though she was pulled out of her mirth when she felt a firm hand upon her shoulder. Looking back, she saw Otto seated directly behind her. He leaned in close enough that both his breath and his beard tickled softly at the shell of her ear as he spoke quietly, isolating her from the huddle of her two friends.

“I thought you might offer your favour to Gwayne.”

She pulled back, regarding him impassively, before speaking much louder than he had to her. “Actually, I intend to offer my favour to Prince Daemon,” she said with an amused smirk, “I have not yet had the pleasure to welcome him back to the capital.”

Otto’s nostrils flared in obvious annoyance, his gaze unblinking as he exhaled heavily, sitting back against his seat beside the King, though his focus remained upon her. His eyes raked carefully over the delicate manner in which she had pinned up her ringlets, revealing the slender slope of her neck. Lia suppressed a laugh as she turned back towards Rhaenyra and Alicent, pleased with her efforts, and the three of them continued to share gossip about those participating in the lists.

She eyed the knights carefully, wondering to herself if any of them would be a suitable match for her. There was no denying that Daemon cut every bit the imposing and extravagant figure, the plume of his dragon shaped helmet blood red and striking against the grey of the stone walls. It was a pity he was already wed, albeit unhappily, to Lady Rhea Royce. Daemon’s presence within King’s Landing had always been so sporadic, coupled with Lia’s being too young to appreciate what a handsome man he was, that she supposed he was never destined to be a suitor for her anyway. A pity, but it would not stop her from expressing interest, if only to incite the look of irritation on Otto’s face that she had grown to enjoy so much.

So engrossed in what was going on, she did not notice when King Viserys slipped away from his seat. Daemon rode towards the stands, a cocky grin upon his face as her, Rhaenyra and Alicent rushed to the railing to greet him.

“Lady Lia,” he drawled with a courteous nod, “a fine young woman you are growing into.”

She felt her skin flush at the compliment, glad of the fact she had opted to wear her house colours for the occasion; she knew that the gold and black of the gown complimented her complexion. It was an effort to resist the urge to both giggle and look behind her for Otto’s reaction.

“You flatter me, my prince,” she responded sweetly, “I wish you luck, though I am not sure you will need it.”

“I am confident that I can best my opponent, but I would ask for the favour of the Lady Alicent Hightower to ensure my victory.”

Lia’s face fell, her heart sinking in disappointment. She watched Alicent move sheepishly back towards their seats, meeting her father’s eye as she took the intricately woven band of flowers and ribbon. She knew from Otto’s sour expression that it was merely a ploy from Daemon to further upset the King’s Hand, having already beaten his son spectacularly in the lists. However, the rejection stung all the same. She wanted it to be her favour that Daemon had asked for.

As she took her seat again, she grasped her own hoop of feathers and twine, half turning to toss it haphazardly into Otto’s lap. “Here, you might as well have it,” she muttered sullenly, “I have no one else to give it to.”

Misery clung to Lia like a black shroud as she leaned back in her seat, visibly sulking and crossing her arms, as she watched the tourney, but did not really see it. She had hoped that the day would prosper a potential match for her, though, with Alicent’s favour already given away, Rhaenyra was her only rival. There was no way she could compete with a princess.

Her lips twitched with smug satisfaction when the mystery knight with the red and black spotted shield bested Daemon; a small retribution in Lia’s eyes for having snubbed her favour for Alicent’s. She did not bother to join her friends when they rushed back to the railing, both eager to greet the man who managed to unhorse The Rogue Prince, not even swayed by Alicent’s gasp of “he’s Dornish.” What was the point? She saw the way his dark eyes glittered with interest, but it was not interest directed at her; no, they glittered only for Rhaenyra. 

Lia knew that she could be the most comely of maidens in all of the Seven Kingdoms and it would do little to sway a suitor when presented with a Targaryen Princess. She could not help the jealousy that swirled like a maelstrom inside of her as she watched Rhaenyra throw her favour down towards him.

The smile that graced the princess’ fair features as she returned to her seat only faltered as Otto touched her delicately on the shoulder, the colour draining from her face as he whispered to her. As the news spread throughout the royal box, Lia’s eyes remained fixated upon the floor of the stands where her favour now lay, trampled under foot as people rushed back towards the Red Keep. It was crushed, and with it her hopes for the day.

Queen Aemma was dead.

The wind whipped Lia’s dark curls around her face as she stood upon the clifftop, the bite of the icy sea breeze nipping at her cheeks. The wrapped bodies of both Aemma and her short lived son, Baelon, laid prone upon the pyre that stood before the modest crowd gathered for the funeral. Syrax looked over them from her perch, awaiting Rhaenyra’s command, her neck undulating with discomfort under the feeling of her rider’s grief.

She could not imagine a more brutal death; cut open like livestock in the birthing bed, and for naught. The babe that had been tugged from the Queen’s womb had lived but for a few hours after her passing. Her heart ached for Rhaenyra, who choked on the command of “drakarys!”, the word faltering with unshed tears as she ordered her dragon to engulf her deceased mother and brother in flames.

Lia knew she felt pity for Rhaenyra, but was she truly sad that Aemma was dead? She did not know. She knew it was proper to express condolences, but she did not think she was experiencing grief. Would she feel sadness at her own mother’s passing? She was as much an acquaintance to her as the Queen had been, considering how many years had passed since she had last seen home. It was a disquieting thought, and one she was eager to push from her mind.

She desperately wished she had a hand to hold, to squeeze for comfort, and could not help but notice the way that Alicent gripped her father’s with such intensity that her knuckles were white. Stood to the other side of him, Otto had ensured that Lia’s arm linked through his, a gesture which she found oddly mature in comparison to the childlike manner in which Alicent’s fingers entwined with his. Perhaps it is just because she is not family, she pondered, though memories of the intimacy with which he had held her hand to his chest just a few days prior linger at the back of her mind. She was being treated as though she was a lady, when she had never craved more to be comforted as though she was a little girl.

A cavernous void opened between Lia, Alicent, and Rhaenyra in the weeks that followed, filled only by loss. Lia spent much of her time alone, not knowing how to comfort Rhaenyra in her grief, for it had made her angry. Her tone was curt whenever Lia attempted to engage her in conversation and she had withdrawn so far into herself that she did not know how to coax her back out. Deep down she knew that her friend was justified in her bitterness towards her father, for he had killed her mother in his desperate attempt for an heir, an heir that barely lived long enough to draw his first breath.

Lia wondered what her own expression of such grief would look like, had the circumstances befallen her.

Otto had become more protective of Alicent. He sought Lia’s company less often, instead looming over his only daughter like a shadow, summoning her to his quarters to speak to her of things that Alicent would not allow Lia to be privy to. In all of her years in King’s Landing, despite missing her family, she had never felt lonely. Now it was a feeling that overwhelmed her with such potency that she had picked up a quill more than a dozen times, hurriedly scrawling a plea to her father to allow her to return home. Each time she had thought better of it and tossed the balled up parchment into the fireplace. She had yet to find her purpose within King’s Landing, but she knew in her heart that her fate was not to run away like a mewling child, simply because her friends were preoccupied.

Deciding she could bear her own company no longer, Lia emerged from her quarters, seeking the comfort of a familiar face. She found it in Alicent, but as she was about to call out to her, she faltered, thinking better of it. There was something strange about the way her friend carried herself, her gaze downcast, trepidation in her step. Lia slipped into an alcove, peering out discreetly from behind the wall. Alicent was not dressed as she usually was, the royal blue gown she now wore was much too grown up. She narrowed her eyes as she studied the fabric. It was a dress that had belonged to Alyrie.

Curious to see why Alicent had suddenly taken to wearing her late mother’s clothes, Lia quietly followed behind her, mindful to keep her steps light and maintain her distance, so as not to get caught. She froze as she saw Alicent slip through the door of the king’s apartments, a feeling of dread forming a pit in her stomach. Rhaenyra had not spoken to her father properly since the passing of the queen, so what possible reason could Alicent have for keeping such close company with him?

It was with this question in mind that she stormed into Otto’s quarters the next day, a seething and lingering anger bolstering her. She did not knock, though her intrusion was met with only the slightest raise of an eyebrow by the king’s Hand as he looked up from his writing desk.

“Lia, to what do I owe the interruption?” he asked, his tone friendlier than she had been anticipating, causing her courage to waiver as her outrage quelled slightly.

She opened her mouth to speak, stammering over her words as she struggled to get them out. Why on earth was he not annoyed by her just bursting in? She had been prepared to be met with resistance, and it completely unraveled what she had planned to say. Closing her eyes and exhaling heavily, she shook her head as if to clear her mind and tried again.

“Alicent has been visiting the king.”

Otto pursed his lips, carefully placing his quill back into the ink pot, before he leaned back against his chair. “She has,” he said matter of factly, “the king is alone in his grief. Alicent has been of great comfort to him.”

Lia blinked rapidly, a wave of nausea churning her stomach, as she realised that this was not only information that the king’s Hand was already privy to, and he did not have an issue with it, but he was also the one that has arranged these visits in the first place. She narrowed her eyes as her shock and disgust turned to sudden anger, simmering hot beneath the surface of her skin.

“So it would not be an issue were I to offer him comfort also?” Lia asked, her jaw jutting out defiantly.

Finally, a flicker of annoyance passed across Otto’s face, his brow furrowing as he clasped his hands upon the desk. “You shall do no such thing. And you will speak of Alicent’s visits to no one.”

“Or what?”

“Or,” he began, rising from his seat, suddenly towering over her, “the pleas to return to the Whispering Sound that you crumple into the fireplace may just find their way to your father.”

Her blood ran icy cold as, simultaneously, her cheeks blazed with heat. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came to her. Tears of humiliation pricked her eyes. He knew. Of course he knew; the Hand had spies everywhere, she had acted as one herself on many occasions.

Otto’s expression softened as he took in her look of upset, and he sat heavily back in his seat with a sigh. “There is no need for tears, you—”

“Why am I even here? You may as well return me home,” she interrupted, her voice thick with emotion.

His features remained gentle and impassive as he regarded her silently for a moment. He then reached into a drawer of his writing desk, pulling out her favour and holding it out for her to take. Each feather and intricate loop of twine was undamaged, in seemingly pristine condition. She examined it in wide eyed wonder as she accepted it from him. It was as good as the day she had made it, no longer crushed as it had been when she had last laid her eyes upon it.

“How? Why?” She whispered, disbelief and confusion causing her brow to furrow.

“You may have need of it yet. Your time here is far from over. Now run along, I have important matters to attend to.”

She wanted to protest, to press him for further answers, but instead the authority in his tone had her obediently turning and leaving with more questions than she had initially arrived with.

The late afternoon sunshine beat down upon Lia as she sat on a stone bench in the gardens, the soft rays warming her skin, casting the last of its amber brilliance in the hours before dusk. She held her favour delicately, fearful that too tight a touch might cause it to break apart again, as she studied it for imperfections, wondering how it could have been so expertly mended, and why.

“I would have thought you would have given that away at the tourney.”

Lia startled slightly, lifting her head at the sudden sound of Rhaenyra’s voice. A playful smile graced the princess’ lips as Lia watched as she came to sit beside her. Rhaenyra reached out a delicate finger to stroke across one of the favour’s feathers.

Lia returned her smile, though it did not meet her eyes. “I found no one I liked enough to give it to.” It was a half truth, but admitting that Otto had it repaired and returned to her would have raised questions that she is unable to answer.

Rhaenyra hummed in acknowledgement, before facing forwards, her eyes fixed upon the row of rose bushes planted into the flower beds in front of them. The two girls sat in uncomfortable silence, until Lia could bear it no longer.

“I am sorry I have not been there for you, it is not an easy thing to lose your mother,” she said softly, glancing sideways at Rhaenyra.

Rhaenyra shook her head, turning to face Lia, gripping her hand in one of hers. “It is me that should be sorry. I have not made it easy for you, for anyone, to comfort me. I was just so, so…”

“...angry?” Lia offered, intertwining their fingers. The warmth was soothing, and she had not realised until this moment just how dearly she had missed her.

“Hmmm. Did you know that Father sent Daemon away?”

Lia’s eyes widened, though it was no surprise that Daemon, prone to coming and going as he pleased, was no longer in the capital. Tt was a shock to her, however, that this time his absence was at the command of his own brother. “What for?”

Rhaenyra swallowed thickly, averting her gaze. “My father would not say, but I have heard whispers. He made a jest about my brother to a crowd in a pleasure house, apparently.”

“And your father banished him?”

“I am sure there is more to it than that, especially considering that Daemon has been removed as my father’s heir.”

Lia raised her eyebrows, her lips parting slightly as she struggled to take in the information. It appeared she had missed an awful lot in the weeks that she and Rhaenyra had not spoken. “So, who will be his heir now?”

“He has asked me to be.” Rhaenyra appeared less sure of herself than usual as she said this, her voice quiet and uncertain, as though she felt simultaneously crushed by the weight of the responsibility, but also terrified it would be taken away from her again.

Lia smiled at that, a gesture of both gentle comfort and genuine happiness, though she could not help the pang of envy she felt at both her friends having secured their futures. Alicent’s own advancement under the watchful eye of Otto, and now Rhaenyra’s succession to the Iron Throne.

“You will make a fine queen.”

Rhaenyra gave Lia’s hand an affectionate squeeze. “So, where is Alicent?”

‘With your father, most likely.’

Lia knew she should not say; it would have devastating consequences for their friendship, and Otto would be furious. Yet she could not help the pang of guilt she felt at withholding such information from Rhaenyra.

“I am unsure. Does she not know yet?”

Rhaenyra shook her head. “I had hoped to find the two of you together. I will need you both to help ready me for my proclamation. I feel too nervous to allow my lady’s maids to do it.” She paused, her fingers tightening once more, twisting their hands together further. “Lia, I need you, I need my friends.”

Lia’s heart ached for her, and she leaned in, resting her forehead softly against Rhaenyra’s in silent assent. The two girls remained like that, the void between them bridged by a desperate need to cling to the other for support.

Lia stood on a wooden step stool to the side of Rhaenyra, the tips of her fingers sore from the sheer number of pins she had had to press into the princess’ intricately braided hair, simply to keep her headdress in place. She pulled back to admire her work, a small smile pulling at her mouth. The intricate gold and black halo was positioned perfectly upon Rhaenyra’s head. Satisfied, she stepped down to move towards the bureau to fetch the jewelry.

Alicent stood behind her, helping to drape the heavy black cloak around Rhaenyra’s shoulders, beaded gold and red dragons adorning the lapels. It was not until Lia moved back towards them that she noticed Rhaenyra’s sombre expression in the looking glass.

She stood rooted in place, running her fingers over the smooth gold of the earrings, not quite knowing what to do.

‘We could run away from all of this.’

‘Let us cross the narrow sea on dragonback and eat only cake.’

It appeared that Alicent had also noticed Rhaenyra’s sadness, as her hands had stilled upon her shoulders, her gaze soft and sympathetic as it met the rincess’ in the reflective surface.

Wordlessly, Rhaenyra tugged Lia towards her and the three girls embraced, as much a gesture of comfort for them as it was for her. A silent reassurance of ‘I am okay. I must do this.’

Lia clung tighter, part of her wanting to reassure her friend, another simply wanting to smother the voice in her mind that raged in jealousy over the fact that Rhaenyra would one day rule the Seven Kingdoms, yet somehow had the audacity to feel sad about it.

As Lia entered her own chambers to ready herself for the ceremony, her eye was immediately drawn to the emerald green fabric that lay across her bedspread. As she drew nearer, she saw that it was a gown, long sleeved with a plunging neckline, and intricate golden thread in the seams. She ran her fingers over the material. The brocade felt expensive to the touch, far grander than anything she had worn before. There was a note sealed with wax resting atop it.

“A trinket, and a gesture of generosity - O.H”

Lia did not need to peer into a looking glass to know her cheeks had turned scarlet. A gift from Otto, and with the timing of when it was delivered to her, she knew he would be expecting her to wear it to the proclamation. 

She felt far too grown up, the dress accentuating dips and curves upon her body she was unaware she even had until she had put it on. Yet another step away from girlhood, but towards what she had no idea.

Lia had never felt self conscious before, but she was certain that, as she walked through the corridors of the Red Keep, she shone like a beacon, a lurid invitation for all that she passed to stare at her. She longed to run back to her quarters, to tear off the dress and change into something more unassuming, but knew that a refusal of such an extravagant gift from Otto was a line that even she dared not cross.

As the lords of the Seven Kingdoms gathered in the Great Hall of the Red Keep to swear fealty to Rhaenyra as the heir to the Iron Throne, she looked every bit the future queen in her Targaryen finery, and it was not until Lia saw this that she understood the significance of Otto’s gift.

Her friends were ascending towards womanhood, and she must too.

Lia watched on, with Otto stood between her and Alicent. She wanted to feel pride for her friend.However, it was hopelessness and uncertainty over her own future that held her firmly in their grasp. She stood in the presence of two future monarchs, but what was to become of her? 

“You look lovely,” Otto leaned down to murmur in her ear, his breath ghosting across her neck.

And as she felt the warmth and weight of his hand come to rest upon the small of her back, it seemed as though the walls of the castle closed in around her as tightly as the bodice of her gown.

[chaotic-orphan]

A Benignant Mischief (6)

Read part one here

Continued from here

Hahahhh I finished it finally! I love my boys so much, they fill my heart with so much joy :;) @annablogsposts this obsession is all your fault! I need to make a masterpost for this... anyways, ENJOY!

*~*~*~*~*

They rode in silence back to the Kingswood as one of the soldier’s had called it. Cosimo had scrunched his nose up at that name. How can a woods be owned by a King? Nature was its own master. Besides, there wouldn’t be Elfbows there if the original inhabitants of the forest were humans. No, Cosimo had the sneaking suspicion that this was the forest Henrik had told him about in his story of Niko’s father.

Cosimo remembered his tutor, one of the Elder Elves, telling him about the histories of their people. How they would live in harmony with nature, together as one, both giving and taking in equal measures. How the humans would come like an invasive species and only ever take… upsetting the balance of the earth to build their soulless cities and castles and nature be damned. Animals be damned.

“Nothing is sacred to humans, Cosimo,” Ludwig had told him. “They are selfish creatures. They would sacrifice anything to satiate their own greed.”

Cosimo’s eyes had gone wide at Ludwig’s cautionary words. He spoke them with such hatred that was foreign coming from the teacher’s mouth. Ludwig was patient, kind, compassionate — so hearing him speak with such malice, it struck a chord within Cosimo that echoed now in his mind and his chest. Jarring, eerie and wrong.

Was he making the right choice in leading the humans to the boy that Cosimo was trying to protect? Was there any way he could possibly distract them? Sneak off and find the boy and the fox and run?

Nestor’s laugh made his chest ache, as he floated into the memory without Cosimo’s permission. Nestor and his happy-go-lucky grin. After he heard Ludwig’s take on the humans he joined the conversation, leaning down heavy on Ludwig’s shoulders. Cosimo remembers smiling as the Elder rolled his eyes.

There was only one elf who would do such a thing.

“Ah, Ludwig. You are scaring the boy.”

“I am merely teaching,” Ludwig said, the hatred gone from his voice as he straightened his spine and grabbed Nestor’s arm lifting it from around his neck. “You should know better than to interrupt.”

“Always good to be a little nosey,” Nestor said, lifting his eyes to meet Cosimo’s and winking at him. “Eh, Cosimo?”

Cosimo’s smile grew into a cheap copy of Nestor’s mischievous grin. “You should know better than to fill his head with such nonsense, Nestor. Not all elves have the freedom to be as carefree as you.”

“If he’s learning the bad he can learn the good of the humans too, no? About their music? Their art? Their love, Ludwig.”

“The boy is but a child,” Ludwig hissed, glaring at Nestor. Cosimo swallowed as Nestor’s smile fell from his face. Ludwig stood to his full height, turning his body slightly to stare at Nestor down his crooked nose. “It is better he be cautious around humans than seek them out for no good reason.”

Cosimo’s heart pounded in his skull but he couldn’t just sit by and watch Nestor be scolded. “I would never do such a thing, Ludwig.”

The two elves turned their head to look at Cosimo who was standing now too, head high, chin up, determined. “I heed your warning. You’re my teacher. I want to learn from you, and from your experiences. What reason would I have to leave court in search of humans? I have everything I need right here.”

Ludwig cocked an arched brow at Cosimo’s words, a begrudgingly proud tightness wound his jaw. “You are too smart for your age, Cosimo.”

“That’s because he has an ancient elder schooling him,” Nestor said with a cheeky laugh, slapping a hearty palm onto Ludwig’s back. “I’m heading out on a reconnaissance mission today.”

“To the humans?” Cosimo asked, ignoring the scolding glance Ludwig sent his way.

Nestor scrunched his lips up. “Sort of. More like, seeing them at a distance. If they’re close to the court we can disguise it better or hide it well, make sure the humans don’t disturb us and just walk past the court.”

“You should go do it then,” Ludwig told him. “Let me get on with my job.”

Nestor hummed sagely, nodding in agreement. “Yes. I agree. Cosimo remember to frown when he speaks so he knows you take him seriously.”

Cosimo laughed as Ludwig shoved Nestor away playfully in reply. “Get out of here.”

“I’m gone.”

Cosimo stared after Nestor who waved before disappearing from sight. Ludwig settled back down, sitting once more and gazed up at Cosimo. “What is it, boy?”

Cosimo swallowed, snapping himself out of his daze and sat back down across from Ludwig. “I just wonder what reconnaissance missions would be like.”

“If Nestor’s anything to go by, clearly it drives you mad.”

Cosimo smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “I mean being that close to humans.”

Ludwig’s gaze was heavy on Cosimo’s face, studying the young elf’s features. His high cheekbones and shrewd eyes, always busy, always calculating something behind them. It wasn’t the first time Ludwig had been left out of Cosimo’s musings, but even so… he wanted to know what the boy thought. How his mind worked. But that wasn’t Ludwig’s job.

“We resume,” is all Ludwig said. Cosimo blinked and he was staring at Ludwig, focused once more. He nodded and shifted in his seat, clasping his hands together in front of him. “We resume.”

The memory left, leaving a sense of uneasiness in its wake. Maybe Ludwig was being over-cautious, sometimes he was like that.

And the humans only ever treated us with kindness, a sarcastic voice hissed in the back of Cosimo’s mind. Take off the hood and see their true colours.

Cosimo ignored the voice and focused on the task at hand. They were amongst the trees now, coming close to the camp. Maybe another twenty minute ride.

“Everything okay, Cosimo?” Henrik asked. Cosimo took a deep breath. Everything seemed too big right now. Too much for him to grasp between his fingers and wrestle under his control. All he needed to do was find the boy. Once he saw him, he would be fine. Everything will be fine.

“I just want to find my brother,” Cosimo told Henrik, careful to remember that’s what Cosimo had told the King and his right hand. A lie. He had told them a lie, and when they found out… what would they do to Cosimo then?

When they arrived at the camp Cosimo’s heart jumped into his mouth, remembering the events that happened here yesterday? Today? That brought him back here. How Henrik was the one who kicked him to the ground and kept him there. Cuffing him, bringing him to the palace… it turned Cosimo’s stomach.

Henrik climbed off Ebony behind him, and Cosimo lifted his leg over the saddle to slide down himself beside Henrik. He brushed the hood back off his head, the earth under his feet feeling like a sigh of relief. Nikolas came over to the pair as someone led Henrik’s horse away to be tied off.

“Well, Cosimo,” Nikolas said with a sweeping gesture. “Lead the way.”

Cosimo nodded, searching for the stream he had crossed. He prayed that nobody had been through here since he was. No elf, nobody who came looking. Let the boy be there.

He crossed the stream first, then looked over his shoulder to the King and his right hand. He straightened himself, shoulders pulling back, making himself taller before speaking. “Would it be okay if I went and retrieved the— my brother before I introduce him to all of you? He might be frightened.”

Nikolas tilted his head slightly, regarding Cosimo with his discerning green eyes. Nikolas pursed his lips. “No, Cosimo. I think it’s best if we find him together. What if you get lost?”

Cosimo scoffed. “I’m an elf. I can’t get lost in the forest.”

“All the same,” Nikolas said with a kind smile and a little shrug. Cosimo swallowed and faced forward again, gathering his discarded water container and walking up the slippery bank to the trail on top. He was so close… he could run, the likelihood of the humans catching him was slim. He could disappear in the trees, come out when they had given up looking for him. The boy would be safe in the Elfbow.

Unless the elves started looking for him too. The thought unsettled him more, in which case he would be better off with the humans. So Cosimo planted his feet even though he wanted so badly to run. He had to remember who he was, he wasn’t some scared boy. He had to trust his instincts, they got him this far. Everything would be fine.

“I could do with your long legs,” Nikolas said to Cosimo with an airy laugh as he climbed the bank.

“Or maybe it’s the lack of shoes,” Henrik mused, nodding at Cosimo’s bare feet. “It gives you more grip.”

“Perhaps you humans should whine less,” Cosimo said with a smirk, which only grew when the two humans full attention was on the elf. “It seems to weigh you down more, makes you slow.”

Henrik laughed his deep heart chuckle, and slapped Cosimo between his shoulder blades playfully. It was Nikolas who spoke next: “You lead the way from here, Cosimo. Hopefully we can find your brother before dark.”

Cosimo’s smile dimmed a bit at the edges as he bowed his head slightly. “Of course. This way.”

They trekked in silence back the way Cosimo came, the trees and trail familiar, the forest floor almost guiding him to where he needed to be. Cosimo prayed that the boy be okay. That he’s safe. That the elves didn’t find him and take him back to court or worse.

When the elfbow came into Cosimo’s sight he took off into a run. “There!” Henrik and the King’s footsteps thundered behind as Cosimo ran through the thick coat of leaves with ease. He craned his neck around the tree, chest heaving to see the fox in the nook, cuddled up beside the sleeping boy. Sweat soaked hair clung to the boy’s forehead and he looked far more pale than the last time Cosimo had seen him.

“Cosimo?!”

Cosimo pressed his forehead against the elfbow under his palm and closed his eyes in relief. Thank you. I’m here to take him again.

“Cosimo?” Henrik called from faraway. “Where are you?”

Cosimo’s eyes shot open. Humans couldn’t come into the sanctuary of the elder trees. Elfbows served elves and were almost sacred in their protection. After the humans started destroying forests to clear way for cities and villages, the elder trees made a pact with one of the first elves: that if the elves protected the tree then, it would serve as protector for future generations. Or so the story went.

The court elders always made a point of telling Cosimo that if he was ever lost or scared to find an elfbow and he would be safe from humans. It only occurred to him then, that he could just hide with the boy here and Henrik and Nikolas would never find them.

The humans wouldn’t find them, he reminded himself. Elfbows don’t protect elves from elves. A smaller voice, a childlike voice in the back of his mind continued: and who are you more scared of?

“I’m here,” Cosimo called back, unsure if they would be able to hear him. “He’s here, he’s alright. I’ll be just a second.”

The fox tilted her head as Cosimo entered the small nook, and watched silently as Cosimo hooked one arm under the boys neck and the other under the boys knees and lifted him from the soil and blanket of leaves. The boy was cold and covered in a thick sheen of sweat that made Cosimo’s heart race.

Surely the humans could heal him, they could fix him. Do something! They would know more. The fox chirped at Cosimo’s heel, bowed into a deep stretch her tail swishing as she stood. Black beady eyes peered up at Cosimo and he understood that she was asking: what now? Even if he wanted to, Cosimo couldn’t dissuade the fox from following and protecting the boy. Foxes were far too cunning to be tricked by a young elf.

The boy was far more lifeless than ever, his chest rising shallowly. Cosimo didn’t waste anymore time in the Elfbow’s protection. He emerged from under a sheet of leaves to see Henrik and King Nikolas with their backs turned to Cosimo.

“Here,” Cosimo rushed out, voice hitching as his feet carried him quickly across the distance to the two humans he decided to trust. Even though this could all be a farce, Cosimo was desperate. The fox pattered along behind him.

The humans turned at the sound of Cosimo’s voice, eyes drawn to the half alive boy in his arms. Henrik rushed over went to take the boy out of Cosimo’s hands but Cosimo turned at the last moment, wide panicked eyes meeting Henrik’s stunned gaze turning sympathetic.

“I have him,” Cosimo said, tone clipped. Henrik straightened, nodding.

Nikolas was the one to move them along. “We need to get him to Artzet immediately.”

“Will he be able to fix him?” Cosimo asked, following the humans back through the forest to the camp.

Henrik leaned into Nikolas and said quietly: “Niko, did you—”

“Yes,” Nikolas replied quickly, cutting Henrik off. He glanced over his shoulder at Cosimo, but the fae had his eyes and attention fixed solely on the unconscious boy in his arms, expression tight with worry. “Now’s not the time, Henrik. We can talk more once we get the boy back to Artzet.”

“Did you see the fox?”

Nikolas laughed, low and rich. “Yes. I saw.”

“Do you think it’s coming along too?”

“I don’t think we could dissuade it even if we tried.”

Cosimo was oblivious to the conversation ahead of him as he carefully stepped down the bank of the stream and hopped it effortlessly. The fox padded along beside him, not even faltering when they emerged into the humans camp.

“Come, men,” Nikolas called to the camp. “We are to be off as soon as we ready the horses.”

They didn’t need to be told twice. Soldiers milled to action. It was a smaller party than Henrik was with so within minutes they were packed and on horseback again.

Henrik stood beside Ebony and held his arms out to Cosimo. Cosimo’s sharp eyes cut into Henrik, narrow, untrusting. Henrik tried to look as reassuring as possible.

“You can’t get on the horse with him in your arms, Cosimo. Don’t worry, I’ll give him right back.”

Cosimo worried his bottom lip before nodding with a sigh. He passed the boy to Henrik’s strong arms and hesitated before releasing the boy. He quickly climbed up onto Ebony and held his arms out for the boy again.

Henrik’s smile was kind and reassuring as he passed the boy up to Cosimo before mounting the horse behind them. The fox sat in front of Ebony’s snout as she grazed, beady black eyes peering up at the elf.

“Will the fox be joining us?” Henrik asked.

Cosimo nodded. “She will walk behind. I don’t think she’ll mind the distance.”

“Still, it is a long way to go for such little legs,” Nikolas said coming to a stop beside them. “Will she let me carry her?”

Cosimo looked at the fox who tilted her head at him. A silent understanding passed between them, and Cosimo nodded.

“Yeah, she’ll let you pick her up.”

“Come on sweet thing,” Nikolas said, crouching and extending his hands to her. The fox walked towards him, sniffing his hand before plodding up to him and letting herself be lifted. “Oh, she’s so soft. I think I’ll ride with her beside you, so she can still see you both.”

Cosimo nodded. “Of course.”

Nikolas did just that and then they set off out of the king’s wood back to palace, Cosimo holding the boy tight to his chest. Henrik put the hood over Cosimo’s head before they reached the city gates, the cloak partly obscured the sleeping boy’s face, the other pressed into Cosimo’s chest.

Nikolas had one soldier ride ahead and tell Artzet to prepare a bed for the unconscious boy. They didn’t stop for chats with villagers this time, the air of urgency within their ranks must have carried outwards because no one stopped Nikolas for a catchup as they raced through the streets. Hooves clapped like thunder with steady, rhythmic beats as they passed the village to the wealthier residential area and finally the gates of the palace came into view.

“Just hold on,” Cosimo whispered, tightening his hold on the boy as they trotted to the stables. Henrik dismounted quickly, spreading his arms for the boy. Cosimo hesitated, again, but he didn’t have time to waste. This was life or death and Cosimo vowed he would keep the boy safe. They had come too far to risk it all over Cosimo’s feelings.

Cosimo had just passed the boy to Henrik when Nikolas appeared beside them, fox at his heels. Anxiety at not having the boy close crawled thick up Cosimo’s spine along with a sudden warm feeling as he jumped off Ebony. He had only begun to take a step towards Henrik when his vision swam with an impenetrable darkness. The world swayed and his body became like lead and he was falling.

A warm chest caught him before he could make contact with the ground. Cosimo let out a startled gasp, hands reaching up to hold onto the solid person that kept him upright, his body shivering as strong hands wrapped around him, reassuring.

“It’s okay, Cosimo,” Nikolas told him. “You’re okay. You’ve had a very long day.”

“The boy—” Cosimo mumbled, his tongue heavy as he tried to push his legs to work properly so he could stand on his own. An elf leaning on a human… what would the Elders think?

“We’ll get him to Artzet, as promised, dear boy. Henrik will carry him—”

“No.”

“Yes, you can barely stand. Don’t worry, you and I will head up together. Henrik and Artzet will take good care of him.”

Cosimo wanted to protest but there was no time. Instead he fought back tears as he nodded meekly. “Okay.”

Nikolas nodded at Henrik. Henrik turned on his heel and within seconds disappeared into the palace. Cosimo turned in Nikolas’s hold, one hand fisting the fabric of the King’s tunic in a stranglehold to keep standing. He only stopped when he was standing shoulder to shoulder with Nikolas. Nikolas wrapped an arm around Cosimo, the other ready to catch him if he tried to make a move.

“Easy, Cosimo.”

Cosimo risked a step forward. He would have fallen if it wasn’t for Nikolas’s strong arm holding him up. Cosimo let out a breathy curse in elvish, frustrated at his temporary weakness. He needed to get to Henrik and the boy. He needed to make sure they didn’t do anything bad to him. What if they locked him in iron cuffs? What then?

Something scratched the back of his brain but Cosimo didn’t have the energy to focus on it or give it the light of day.

“Just wait a second, Cosimo, it will pass. Your brother’s not going anywhere.”

The air around him was thick and clammy, like there was no actual oxygen getting to his lungs, as if he was inhaling tiny amounts of iron with every breath. He wouldn’t put it past Rochus to do something like that, poison the air while Cosimo was away.

Nikolas reached over to Ebony’s saddle bag and pulled Henrik’s waterskin from it. “Here, drink this. You’ll feel better.”

Cosimo took it from Nikolas, unscrewed the bottle and drank it down. The cool liquid was soothing and refreshing as it went down Cosimo’s throat and he found the more he drank the more he wanted to drink. He finished the container of water and opened his eyes, already feeling a ten times better than before.

Nikolas grinned. “Better?”

“Yes,” Cosimo said, handing him the empty water-skin. “Much better. Can we go to Artzet now?”

Nikolas laughed and shook his head fondly. For a short, heart-stopping moment Cosimo thought the king shaking his head side to side meant no, and Cosimo’s mind conjured up the worst.

“You are a determined boy, Cosimo.”

Cosimo felt his cheeks flush pink as he stepped forward, trying to hide his reaction from the king. Nikolas stepped with him until they got to the railing on the stairs. Cosimo let go of Nikolas’s arm and placed all his weight on the railing. He could do this. He could get to the boy. He was so close to saving them.

Once they were up the stairs Nikolas led Cosimo, arm in arm, to Artzet’s clinic. Cosimo almost cried when he saw the boy, something in his arm that connected him to a bag of water. A damp cloth over his forehead.

Myshka was sitting on one bed over, observing Artzet as he worked. Henrik greeted them. “Ah, you’re here. Good.”

“Is it serious?” Cosimo rushed out.

“No, no. Boy is good, strong, healthy of heart,” Artzet replied, smiling at Cosimo over his shoulder. “He will make full recovery.”

“He’ll be okay?” Cosimo whispered, not willing to believe his ears or eyes or anything as he walked with heavy feet to the end of the boy’s bed. The fox was laying there, curled up at the end of his bed and made a noise of recognition when Cosimo approached.

“He will be fine, boy,” Artzet said again, looking to Henrik and Nikolas with a shrug. “I thought that is what I said?”

“Cosimo’s had a long day,” Henrik said. “The two of them both need some rest.”

Cosimo didn’t dare blink in case the world would trick him and make the boy disappear. He couldn’t sleep, not until the boy woke up. He had to make sure the boy was okay. That he didn’t doom them both.

“You say boy is your brother?” Artzet asked, eyes as wide as an owls. Cosimo swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded. Did he catch him in a lie?

“Good,” Artzet said happily. “Then I know he will be okay. He will be as strong as his big brother, uh? Now, I set up bed beside him for you to sleep.”

Cosimo glanced up at Artzet and nodded fervently. Nikolas made a noise behind him. “Cosimo, I think a proper bed would be better. Hospital beds are uncomfortable—”

“Niko,” Henrik said softly. Nikolas sighed. Cosimo turned to look at the King. His shoulders sagged as he yielded.

“Okay. Fine, I know I won’t convince you otherwise, but Cosimo, the minute you and your brother are better you—”

Nikolas cut himself off as Cosimo crossed the distance between them and wrapped his arms around the King, squeezing tightly.

“Thank you,” Cosimo whispered. Nikolas let out a soft, shocked breath of a laugh, wrapping his arms tentatively around the elf.

“It’s my pleasure,” Nikolas replied as Cosimo stepped out of his embrace. “I will go and prepare your rooms. Artzet, I leave the boys in your capable hands.”

“Your majesty,” Artzet said with a bow.

“I’ll stay too,” Henrik said, patting Cosimo’s shoulder. “Until you’re asleep.”

“Full house!” Artzet cried, drawing the covers back on the bed beside the sleeping boy’s. Cosimo walked over to it and climbed in, thanking Artzet and Henrik as he pressed his head to the pillow. Artzet and Henrik started talking in low, hushed voices while Cosimo watched the boy’s chest rise and fall, rise and fall, rise and fall.

Alive and safe.

Cosimo did it. He rescued them. His eyelids suddenly grew heavy and Cosimo didn’t fight them as they slid over his eyes, darkness welcoming him like an old friend. Sleep took him somewhere far away, somewhere he didn’t have to think and worry and fret. Somewhere he didn’t betray his race and seek refuge in humans.

Henrik stayed even when he was sure the elf was fast asleep, his chest rising and falling softly. He looked so much younger when he was asleep, Henrik thought, without the hard crease between his brows. His jaw wasn't clenched, his face relaxed, no stubborn, steely gaze to contend with. He looked like a boy, a human boy around fourteen years old.

Already Henrik had developed a protective streak for the elf, wanting to comfort and care for him as much as the elf would allow. More than the elf would allow. The fondness in Henrik's chest for Cosimo wasn't the only recent feeling that had taken hold of him since he met the boy. There was something foreboding, unnatural, as if there was a presence watching him from somewhere unseen to the naked eye, and Henrik knew that Cosimo's presence here would only spell trouble. Still, he couldn't find it in himself to let the boy go now that he had met him. He still had so many questions to ask him; why he ran, who he was, will he stay?

All those questions could wait until Cosimo and his brother awoke. For now, Henrik pulled up a chair and rest his head against the backrest, content with watching over the newest residents of the palace.

*~*~*~*~*

Orphanage roll call (zee tag-list, lmk if you wanna be added or removed): @tippytappytyping