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You stayed holed up in the house for more than a week, only leaving your room to eat or, when you’d feel especially antsy, to bake, making John eat most of it. He never complained, no matter how many muffins or pieces of cake you’d give him, but you wished he’d at least tell you if he liked it, unprompted, that is.

“Why are you lingering around the house all the time?”

Your uncle was on his third piece of cake, and his last for this week, given his cholesterol levels. 

“Some creep groped me in the club, and I can’t fucking wash it off,” you muttered, more to yourself, but loud enough for both of them to hear it. 

“What?” your uncle immediately stared John down, or tried to anyway.

“Don’t fucking look at him like that!” you snapped at him, throwing the fork into the sink. “Where do you think those bruised knuckles came from?”

Already feeling guilty by the way you reacted, you scurried to your room, feeling a fresh batch of tears threatening to burst out of you.

“I don’t need you to defend me,” John spoke, completely unprompted, for what felt like the first time ever.

“You know what, John? Fuck off, fuck off all the ways to hell.” You were fighting tears, the heat, and your embarrassment. Your lower lip was trembling, and your throat was tightening again. 

Ever a stoic, John didn’t move a muscle, not even to raise his eyebrow. Usually, you would appreciate his uncanny ability to stay unprovoked, but this time it truly bothered you.

“I can’t wait for your contract to be over,” you spat out through gritted teeth before slamming the door in his face. And then you immediately went to the double door between your rooms and locked it on your side, already crying, quiet sobs filling the space. You didn’t even care that John could hear you.

He, on the other hand, unknowingly to you, was in the bathroom across the hall, the one you shared, going through all of your things, emptying the contents of your cosmetic bags into the sink, before erroneously throwing it all back in. He went through your cabinets, even emptied the dirty laundry hamper, going through every piece of clothing, listening to your sobs. 

John was furious, mainly with himself, but he was paid to protect you, so he continued, going through every nook and cranny, checking and rechecking every hiding space where you could slide in a razor. He found a few, pocketing them, realising you would probably have another stash in your bedroom. He already got rid of one, but if John knew anything about you, it was your pathological need to self-harm. He noticed your scars on the very first day, when you were exiting the pool; he didn’t think anything of it, except to keep an eye out for more that would appear - the fresh, ill-healed, often glowing red marks that would sometimes peek under your dress when you were dancing, or the thin, superficial lines on the inside of your elbows.

And it stung, what you said, the way you said it. John couldn’t wrap his head around why, why would it sting so fucking bad that a rich, spoiled princess couldn’t wait for him to be out of her life? This job was easy, he kept repeating in his head. Easy, well-paid, and didn’t require much preparation, or mental resources, or premeditated murder. And you were nice to him too, always all-smiles towards him, full of thank-yous and pleases: thank you for driving me, John; do you mind, John; thank you for being here, John; you’re the best, John. He was clenching his jaw so hard he thought he might chip a tooth, resting his head on a partially wet towel that still smelled like you, a mix of flowery and fruity, and under it, the scent of your skin.

John snapped out of it with a terrifying realisation that you went quiet; no sobs, no whimpers. He tried the door, first the one from the hallway, and then the one that you never locked before, the one connecting your room to his. Cold sweat dripped down his neck, disappearing under the collar of his shirt.

He knocked, then promptly slammed the door with his hand, three times in a row. Nothing. He continued, calling your name, pausing periodically to listen for movement in the room. Still nothing.

His fists were shaking, more drops of clammy sweat forming on his forehead. Grabbing his gun, John broke the door with one hard kick.

You screamed, almost falling off your bed, pulling off the headphones. Still grasping onto your plush pink bunny, you were trying to make sense of the situation.

John was, for whatever reason, breathing harder than you, wiping sweat from his brows with his forearm, his other hand gripping his gun, clicking the safety back on.

“You were told to keep this door unlocked,” he spat out between ragged breaths, his accent slipping again into something you couldn’t place. He pushed the gun into his jeans behind his back, his eyes scanning your room, the lights temporarily causing you to press your eyelids harshly together.

You watched in horror the way he moved, from corner to corner, even checking under your bed, before he started methodically going through your things, first the bookcase, picture frames, and then through your drawers. 

“What, the dirty lingerie is not doing it for you anymore?” 

You had no idea why you even said it. John certainly never did anything to make you even slightly suspicious, and you never caught him with your panties or other items of clothing. You just wanted it to hurt, not in any sort of retaliation, but because you yourself were hurt, and sick of it, sick of being ridiculed and told to toughen up. You wanted John to feel what you were feeling, even if it turned you into a mean, spiteful person you didn’t recognise.

John’s hand was wrapped around your neck in an instant, pressing you against the wall. You gasped, but otherwise didn’t make a sound, your eyes glassy, air already struggling to reach your straining lungs. His eyes looked so pretty, you thought, even though he looked like he wanted to kill you.

“Fucking brat,” he muttered under his breath.

He was fuming with rage, letting you finally get to him with such a stupid provocation. John himself didn’t know exactly why it hurt so badly; he’d replay it endlessly in his head in the upcoming days, trying to make some sense out of his reaction. He felt it from the back of his throat, through his tightening chest, all the way to that hollow drop in the stomach. His fingers tightened around your throat in response. 

John wanted you to beg and to apologise, or to at least scream and fight back. He hated the idea that you thought he was the same as that creep from the club, accusing him of violating your privacy, of violating you in such a despicable way.

Or perhaps it hurt because it was true - wasn’t he just burying his head into your used towel, desperate to feel close to you? Was that why it hurt so much when you told him you wanted him out of your life, because John wanted the opposite?

His sight fell to the plushie you were still holding onto, rather holding it close than trying to pry John’s fingers off your throat.

When he let go, his hand immediately snatched the bunny out of your hands.

“Please,” you squealed, almost hysterical that John would rip it apart. “I’m sorry I said all those things, please.” 

You were grabbing at his hands and forearms, nails scratching his skin, but John wouldn’t let go, already knowing exactly into which seam to dig to find yet another one of your razors. He gave you the bunny back and then wordlessly moved on to your nightstand, having a gnawing feeling you moved everything into the first drawer, which he forcefully pulled out and emptied onto the bed.

He knew why; it was your toys drawer, and unsure if he or your uncle was constantly emptying your macabre stash, it was probably the only place you could think of that would make them uneasy. Grabbing the rest off the bed, he slammed the door on the way out, making you shriek. 

He lay wide awake, listening to you trying to swallow the sobs until dawn.

Chapter One, Chapter Two

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It is his truth. To him, you are more than what people have drummed into you, let alone drummed into him. To be King, to have heirs. But whatever has come of your marriage has only ever been about love, about choice and togetherness. And he chooses that, you, over anything else.

With him, it is on your terms as much as the realm will allow. Loving is gentle, it is tender, it is the moments you have far away from the Keep and stand tall within it. And that is how he lets you know, above all, before he’ll be anything else, he is yours.

Your man, your husband. And in turn, you are his first choice.

Maekar

“If you want a partner, take my hand / Or if you want to strike me down in anger / Here I stand.”

He has endured much in life. More than born a fourth son, surpassed by many, deemed coarse and stern by many who don’t even care to know him. But for you he gives softness in the smallest of ways. Because he is those things, he is coarse and stand offish, brash and rude, but he doesn’t have to decide that with you. He doesn’t expect because he has that of him already, with him it is about being.

Because he is going to be there no matter what. The things that weather you, you will do it together, him stone faced and grumbling along with it. Because it is want more than just need. Maekar would take, endure anything if it meant having you, and protecting you, to keep you at his side and to feel loved. Many cannot imagine it, it seems like a farce for a man so hardened to love so deeply, but he does, even in the times he gets it wrong.

He learns, he listens, and stands to be corrected. By no other than you.

Ser Duncan

“If you’ve got to sleep a moment on the road / I will steer for you.”

He is no poet, Dunk doesn’t know ancient texts of love and prophecy, or fairytales, the old man never taught him that and he couldn’t if he tired. But he is a man of his word. And that he swears to you. He makes note to show you, every day in every way that he can. He holds you, warms you, comforts you and takes the reins when needed. Sometimes in a literal sense.

He is your sworn protector even without it needing to be said, because his arm placed at the curve of your back guiding you through a tourney crowd, or a kiss pressed to the crown of your head after a long, hard day, is what says it all.

And it says, that he will never stop doing it, every day, always.

Aerion

“And if you want another kind of love / I’ll wear a mask for you. // And I’d claw your heart and I’d tear at your sheet.”

His concept of love is different to most, it’s not always something shown, but something known. And he expects it to be. It wounds him to feel so deeply, to care the way he does even if he doesn’t always show it. For Aerion, keeping you, standing at your side, adjusting the braids in your hair slyly, snarling at the lords who pass you. Is all of it entirely, and with you under his wing you are just a likely to get drawn into the madness, affected by his selfishness and rage.

But there’s the underneath, the gladness he reserves but doesn’t hide. He doesn’t change, he is still rough handed and callous, but he reminds you that he is as much yours as you are his. His brow pulls tighter, pure violets brightened with widened pupils simply because they are looking at you. And he doesn’t look away, he never does from you, he watches, commits you to memory over and over again.

Because that is the softness, the only pure thing, that he seems to hold onto, something no one else will ever witness from him.

Lyonel

“If you want a boxer / I will step into the ring for you. // And I’d howl at your beauty like a dog in heat.”

He is your champion, determined to be. There is no fool or challenge that will stand him and not fall, because his belief is far stronger than that. Lyonel is anything but ashamed, not of himself, not of his ways, and certainly not of you. At any chance he gets he is proving himself to you, for your hand just like it were the first time.

And he is loud about it. In every sense of the word. His affections do not go without his charm, an arm around you, finished soothing over your knuckles, a smirk on his lips reserved for you across the table. And even the more tender proclamations kissed into your lips.

His wife, his goddess, and the true beauty you are.

Though he may announce that, quite a lot of the time, in a booming, great shout with an affectionate gleam in his eye.

Valarr

“If you want a lover / I’ll do anything you ask me to.”

He knows duty, well enough even for a man of his age. What a prince should give his lady wife, let alone his family. But devotion, is another thing.

And that’s what Valarr feels for you. Wholeheartedly and true. He understands that he cannot always be there, that taken up by councils and court isn’t what he wants his life’s work to be, but it is a must. You are apart from that, you are his life in other ways, in all the ways that truly matter. And there is nothing that he would not do for you, give you, if it meant your happiness. He does so without question, turning a blind eye to others that whisper behind him.

Because it is not just fancies or gold he throws carelessly, it is his time. It is the moments you spend in your chambers, resting into his back as he holds you from behind looking out over the balustrade. It is the times you sneak away from feasts in conversation and hushed kisses, or the small, fleeting touches he cannot help himself to give before ceremonies and tournaments.

Daeron

“I’ve been running through these promises to you / That I made and I could not keep. // Or I’d crawl to you baby and I’d fall at your feet.”

You are his savior, even when he feels wrong and undeserving of you. The drinking, the dreaming, the damnation he believes that he is sworn to, he will not drag you with him. And yet he cannot part from you. And he would not. Your beauty, the love and patience you give him, the time, so much of it he feels almost as if he can stand taller at your side.

Jewellery and titles don’t make him feel much like a Prince, but you, do. Daeron will always scorn himself and harbour guilt for the relapses of his judgment as well as wine. He says he will do better, that even if he cannot fully change, that for you and your future, he will try.