chloe 🦇

The stage lights cut through the golden haze of the Grammy Awards while your heart pounded so hard it felt synced to the beat of the music.

Your name echoed through the arena. The performance of the night. The label’s biggest bet. The newcomer nominated in four categories.

And at that moment, you stood center stage wearing an outfit that had nearly given your stylists heart attacks for being “too daring”: a pair of low-rise sparkling pants and a cropped top that left your stomach completely exposed.

Including your belly button piercing. You knew exactly the effect it had on people. And you liked it. The music started.

The audience erupted into applause.

You walked confidently toward the center of the stage with the microphone in hand while the first notes echoed through the theater. Your hips naturally followed the rhythm of the song, your hair moving perfectly with every choreographed turn.

In the front row, Michael Jackson simply could not take his eyes off you.

Not for a second.

Of course he already knew who you were. You had briefly met months earlier at a label event. A short conversation. Only a few minutes.

But now…

Now it was different. Because he was completely hypnotized. By your voice, by the way you danced, by the insane confidence you carried on stage.

And especially by the way that piercing glittered every time the lights hit your skin.

Michael discreetly ran his tongue across his lips while watching you spin across the stage.

Jesus Christ.

He was 40 years old.

40.

And somehow he still felt like a teenager staring at his first crush. Ridiculous. But impossible to stop.

Then you looked directly at him during one part of the song. Just for a second. But it was enough. Michael literally forgot how to breathe.

Someone beside him was saying something about the performance, but he didn’t hear a word. Because the only thing he could think was:

I need to know this woman properly.

And that obsession only got worse when you won the Grammy later that night.

Your speech was short, emotional, and beautiful. Michael smiled to himself while watching you hold the award with discreet tears in your eyes. And that was exactly why, for the first time in years, he decided not to leave after the ceremony.

The after party was packed. Loud music, neon lights, celebrities scattered throughout the ballroom. Michael normally hated places like this.

But tonight? He had a reason to stay.

Sitting alone at one of the tables farther away from the crowd, an untouched drink in his hands, he discreetly watched the dance floor.

Watched you.

You danced with Britney Spears in the middle of the crowd, laughing about something while spinning to the music. And somehow you looked even more beautiful now. Brighter, more radiant. Michael couldn’t stop staring.

Then the song ended.

You and Britney walked off the dance floor still laughing, both breathless. Until Britney suddenly spotted Michael sitting alone.

“Oh my God, Michael’s here.”

You froze instantly.

“The Michael Jackson?”

Britney laughed.

“Is there another one?”

Your stomach flipped immediately.

“Britney—”

But it was already too late. She grabbed your hand and started pulling you across the ballroom.

“Let’s go say hi.”

“I’m not surviving this,” you muttered nervously, making Britney laugh even harder.

Michael noticed the two of you approaching immediately. And stood up at once.

Britney hugged him first.

“Hi, baby.”

“Hi, Brit.”

Then she turned excitedly toward you.

“Have you two met properly yet?”

“Only a little,” you answered, trying to sound casual.

Michael smiled instantly the second he heard your voice this close to him.

“She wins a Grammy and still stays humble,” Britney teased.

You rolled your eyes.

Michael opened his arms toward you.

“Congratulations.”

You stepped closer and instantly caught his cologne as he wrapped you in a careful hug, warm, elegant.

Dangerously good.

“Thank you,” you answered, trying to ignore how fast your heart was beating.

Then someone called Britney from across the ballroom. She glanced over her shoulder quickly.

“I gotta go.”

Britney looked between you and Michael with a very obvious smirk.

“Behave.”

“Britney!” you complained, mortified.

She only laughed before disappearing back into the crowd. And then…

It was just the two of you.

Michael slipped his hands into his pockets while tilting his head slightly.

“Looks like it’s just us now.”

The ridiculously attractive way he said it sent a shiver straight down your spine.

So you decided to play along.

“That’s great.”

Michael’s smile slowly grew. His eyes traveled shamelessly down your body, stopping directly at your stomach. At the piercing.

“Did that hurt?” he asked calmly, subtly gesturing toward it.

You smiled slightly.

“Not at all.”

Michael raised an eyebrow.

“Really?”

You took a small step closer to him.

“I have other ones hidden too.”

That nearly destroyed what little self-control he still had. A very inappropriate response instantly appeared in Michael’s head. But for once in his life, he decided to behave.

So instead, he just smiled. Slowly. Purely sinful.

“Dangerous girl…”

Your heartbeat instantly sped up at the sound of his rough voice. Michael leaned slightly closer toward you.

“Want to go somewhere less loud?”

You held his gaze for a few long seconds. And smiled.

“I do.”

Michael placed a gentle hand against your back while guiding you away from the loud music of the party.

The touch was light. But enough to make your entire body hyperaware.

The two of you walked through quieter hallways of the hotel until reaching a nearly empty balcony lit only by the city lights reflecting against the glass.

Finally, silence.

Well… almost.

Because your heart was still beating ridiculously fast.

Michael closed the balcony door behind you and let out a small breath.

“Much better.”

You smiled softly.

The night breeze lightly moved your hair while you leaned against the balcony railing.

Michael watched every movement you made. Every detail. And now, without the harsh party lights around you, somehow you looked even prettier. More dangerous.

“So…” you started playfully. “You stayed for the after party. That’s rare.”

Michael let out a low laugh.

“You noticed?”

“Everybody noticed.”

He stepped closer slowly.

“Maybe I had a reason.”

Your stomach instantly flipped again. Michael stopped beside you, close enough for you to feel his body heat.

“You were staring at me during the performance,” you commented casually, even though you already knew the answer.

Michael didn’t even try to deny it.

“Yeah.” He smirked slightly. “Was I obvious?”

“Completely.”

His eyes briefly dropped toward your stomach again.

Damn.

That piercing was genuinely ruining him. Michael slowly ran his tongue across his lips before asking:

“Do you have any idea what you did to me tonight?”

The low, rough way he said it sent chills across your entire body. You decided to tease him.

“Maybe.”

Michael let out a quiet laugh through his nose.

“Dangerous answer.”

You turned slightly toward him.

“And what exactly was the effect?”

Now the tension between you was impossible to ignore.

Michael tilted his head slightly while watching you carefully, like he was trying to decide how far he was allowed to go.

Then his eyes lifted back to yours.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you all night.”

Your heart skipped instantly.

And the worst part? He sounded completely sincere.

“Michael…”

“No.” He stepped closer. “Seriously.”

The closeness made you stop breathing for a second. He was even more beautiful up close.

More charming.

More intense.

Michael placed one hand against the railing behind you, practically trapping you between him and the balcony.

And somehow he still looked careful, waiting for some sign that he should stop.

You didn’t want him to stop. Not even a little.

“You know this is kind of surreal for me, right?” you admitted softly.

Michael raised an eyebrow.

“What?”

“You.”

That made him laugh quietly.

“Baby, I’m the one losing my mind over you.”

You bit the corner of your lip trying to hide your smile.

Fatal mistake.

Because Michael’s eyes immediately followed the movement. And darkened instantly.

“Oh, you can’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“That.”

His voice came out rougher this time. Your heartbeat sped up even more. Then Michael slowly lifted his hand.

His fingers slid gently along the side of your exposed waist. Just one touch. But enough to make you hold your breath.

“Your outfit tonight…” he murmured. “That was cruel.”

You let out a nervous laugh.

“Cruel?”

“Very.”

He was too close now. Close enough for you to smell his cologne. Feel his breath.

Michael’s self-control looked dangerously close to disappearing. And honestly?

So did yours.

“You’ve been flirting with me since I got here?” you asked playfully.

Michael smiled slowly.

“Since the Grammy performance, actually.”

You widened your eyes dramatically.

“Oh my God.”

“I’m serious.”

“So that look from the audience…”

“Baby.” He laughed softly. “I almost lost my mind when I saw your piercing.”

You burst out laughing immediately. Michael laughed too, shaking his head.

“Don’t laugh, I’m trying to be smooth.”

“You’re doing very well.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhmm.”

His smile slowly faded while his eyes drifted back down to your lips.

And suddenly the atmosphere shifted again.

Hotter.

Slower.

More dangerous.

Michael slowly leaned in toward you. Carefully, giving you enough time to pull away. You didn’t pull away. Didn’t even think about it.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured softly.

But both of you already knew you wouldn’t.

Michael leaned closer slowly. Like he was giving you enough time to change your mind. But his gaze had already been fixed on your lips for far too long.

And you wanted this.

Badly.

Your heartbeat skyrocketed as he stopped only inches away, one hand still resting against the railing behind you while the other hovered dangerously close to your waist. Then, at the very last second, you placed your hand against his chest.

Michael stopped immediately.

His dark eyes lifted to yours.

“Not here,” you whispered softly.

Your voice came out weaker than you intended. Michael slowly exhaled through his nose, clearly trying to regain some level of self-control.

“Why not?”

You let out a nervous laugh and glanced toward the balcony door.

“There are too many people around.”

Michael briefly followed your gaze. Then looked back at you. Still too close.

“Then come home with me.”

Your stomach flipped completely.

The calm way he said it. Natural. Confident. Like he could already picture you in his space.

“We can have a drink,” he continued quietly. “Talk somewhere private.”

You almost said yes immediately.

Almost.

But then the rational part of your brain finally returned. You smiled slightly.

“I think it’s better if we’re not seen leaving together.”

And that immediately changed his expression. Only for a second, but you noticed.

Michael pulled back slightly, almost like he was trying to hide his disappointment. He thought you weren’t interested.

The thought nearly made you laugh. Because that man clearly had no idea what he was doing to you.

So you stepped slightly closer again.

“Michael.”

He lifted his eyes back to yours.

“I’m staying here tonight.”

Now he looked confused.

“At the hotel.”

The silence lasted exactly two seconds before his smile slowly returned.

You saw the exact moment he understood.bAnd honestly? It was ridiculously attractive.

Before Michael could respond, a familiar voice echoed from the other side of the balcony.

“There you are!”

Britney Spears appeared in the doorway, instantly smiling when she saw the two of you together.

“There’s an after-after party downstairs.”

You laughed softly.

“I’ll be there in a minute!”

Britney looked between you and Michael quickly. Her expression clearly said she understood exactly what was happening between you two.

“Sure you will,” she teased before disappearing again.

You shook your head, laughing. Then looked back at Michael.

“Looks like I’m being summoned.”

Michael smiled slowly. But this time, his hand finally settled against your waist. Firm, warm, making your entire body shiver instantly.

You leaned in just enough to leave a lingering kiss against his cheek. And immediately felt his fingers tighten against your waist.

When you pulled away, the two of you kept staring at each other for far too long. Silence. Tension.

That dangerous kind of chemistry impossible to ignore. Then you smiled slightly.

“Room 505.”

Michael slowly raised an eyebrow.

“Twelfth floor.”

His smile turned devastatingly beautiful.

“I’ll be there.”

Your heartbeat immediately sped up.

You started walking back toward the balcony doors, but before stepping into the brightly lit ballroom again, you looked back over your shoulder one last time.

Michael was still watching you, with that intense look.

Warm.

Hungry.

And honestly?

That only made your anticipation worse.

You walked back onto the dance floor trying to act normal while Britney excitedly rambled beside you. But it was impossible to focus.

The night has a thousand eyes, And the day but one; Yet the light of the bright world dies With the dying sun. The mind has a thousand eyes, And the heart but one; Yet the light of a whole life dies When love is done. -Francis William Bourdillion

𝒯𝒽𝑒𝓃

𝓙oel wondered if he was always meant to be lonely.

Of all the things he could remember, there had always been a thread of loneliness running through him, no matter who he shared a bed with, a meal with, a child with. Even when his daughter was born—and she had been the most precious, most wondrous thing ever given to him—there had always been a churning certainty in his stomach that one day he would end up like this again. Alone.

Those among him told him he was paranoid, that he should pray and God would answer him, that He would keep her from harm. But Joel…he knew. He just knew. But he tried anyway. He prayed and prayed until his knees would ache on the stone floors of the chapel. He went to church more days than he missed back then. And yet, God had received him with nothing but pain and suffering. For his child died on his birthday, a cruel sort of curse to lay upon a man. What sin he had committed to deserve it, he could never quite say, as there had been many. He had been born a bastard, worked as a bastard, and fathered a child out of wedlock besides. What sympathy could any God bear for a man like him?

And so, he joined The Guild.

His brother had joined long before him, even though he was far younger and much more loved than Joel had ever been. Tommy had a mother and father that were wed before the Lord, had been raised by his mother's own breast and not by some wet nurse in a barn as Joel had. And yet, the brothers loved one another as if nothing of the sort ever mattered.

Tommy had always known what he wanted. It was as if he had come into the world already in pursuit of duty, reaching for his destiny of becoming a knight. From the moment he could walk and speak the boy had been possessed by talk of steel armor and winning battles. He believed, with a certainty Joel had never possessed about anything in his life, that the truest honor a man could claim in their world was to serve The Crown, to stand as a soldier of the king and fight in his name. And so the moment Tommy turned seven he began the long road toward it: first as a page, then years later as a squire, until at last, when he was one and twenty, he was made a knight of the kingdom.

Joel, on the other hand, came to it another way entirely.

Their king had always hungered for things that were not glamour or gold, but blood and power. War was his vice, and it made him cruel and demanding, a man who chased battle even when peace would have served the kingdom just as well. Campaign after campaign men were pulled from farms and workshops alike to fight his wars, to take lands that once belonged to others and plant his banner there instead, spreading the name of their kingdom across rivers and mountains and oceans.

Joel had joined when he was at his worst, his lowest, not long after Sarah had died.

Because he had became hungry too. Not for dreams of honor, nor because of anything noble— but because there was a cold, ugly pit growing inside him that was bitter and starved for a place to feed it.

At first he was nothing but another man with a sword in a line of many others. He slept on wet earth beside his comrades, ate hard bread that cracked through his molar once, shared rations of cheese with them, marched when he was told to march and killed when he was told to kill. He felt himself becoming cold and uncaring, but he did not linger on these thoughts. Some days when he caught his reflection in a stream or upon his comrades armor, warped in the curve of it, he would only see a man in silver plated steel. He never had to look himself in the eye under his visor or make sense of it before his eyes would close from exhaustion.

It was not long before he was noticed for it. Not for skill—though he had that, too—but for his willingness. He did not hesitate when orders were given, did not balk when others slowed. He stood where he was placed and saw things through to their end. That was enough.

One day, before another march upon a northern land, the king’s legion summoned him, and Joel found himself stationed not only among the king’s protection but beside the king himself. He remembered the command tent was thick with the smell of cooked meat and spilled wine, maps pinned beneath daggers along the table. Nothing like the dried meat and old bread his comrades were given in rations. But he carried out his duties there nonetheless, sharing meats and sweet fruits and mead at the king’s table, listening to the fat man speak of his battles, his victories, and the lands he had claimed. Joel would watch the grease shining along the man's beard as he tore into roasted fowl, never once imagining the day would come when he would see the king dead before his very eyes.

Because not long after, on the morning after the Battle of Black Lake, when light was just beginning to break over the ridge behind him, catching along the edge of his armor where it had been scraped and dulled, turning the metal faintly gold where it struck. And when the fog still laid low to the fields and half his comrades had fallen, Joel Miller found the man with a sword through his stomach. That was all he was, after all. A man. Laid in the mud with the same red blood as his soldiers. It pooled into the earth beneath him, giving his life source back to whence it came.

The king stirred when he saw Joel approach. His breath was shallow, his jewel-crested armor dark with blood, yet his hand still found its strength enough to reach forward, gripping at the top of Joel’s breastplate.

The battle had been won, yet Joel felt neither victory nor grief as his eyes settled upon the pale king before him. What surprised him the most, were the man's last words to him. For they were not of a battle well won in honor, nor to conquer more lands and spill the blood of new enemies.

They were simply this:

Protect my daughter, Ser Joel of the Dawn — she is the only light left for men like us.

𝒩𝑜𝓌

𝓙oel had been standing outside the council chamber doors for the better part of the morning, hands folded over each other, the metal of his gauntlet gloves creaking when he'd clench and unclench his fingers upon the pommel of his sword, the leather beneath them pulling tight across his knuckles. Every inch of him was covered in steel—from the tip of his helm to the ends of his boots, the plates fixed close through his chest and shoulders, the weight of it held in place by the straps drawn tight beneath. He preferred it this way, this life. No one could see the weariness of his gaze nor study the change in his expression, not through the narrow slit of the helm, not with his face kept where no one could reach it.

He'd been watching the light crawl slowly across the stone floor while the voices inside rose and settled in an endless, grinding clamor. The noise felt like it was gathering beneath his helm as though his skull were swelling, every word and scrape and thud ringing not within the walls of the castle but against the steel of his helmet, driving a dull pulse between his eyes. Men talked over one another, a chair dragged across the floor, the blunt thud of someone’s bejeweled knuckles striking the council table was all felt between his eyes, echoing inside the metal until it throbbed through his head like a bruise.

It had been hurting since dawn, starting as a dull ache somewhere in his temple and had growing steadily worse the longer he stood there listening to the council of old men argue through the door. He did not know what they were arguing about, nor did he care. Those things belonged to The Crown and its advisors, and Joel had long ago learned that men like him were better served staying clear of such matters.

Still, the noise had a way of burrowing into a man’s skull.

He pressed his tongue against the back of his molar where the old break still ached when the weather turned, trying to distract himself from the pounding behind his temples. They said the creation of different pains sometimes helped with fresher ones, so he probed the throbbing tooth with his tongue, the wet muscle soothing the ache only for a moment.

Then there was a crash, and Joel nearly bit off his own tongue in surprise, though he made sure not to show it. Noises began growing sharply after that, men talking louder over one another now. Soon, the posturing and snapping had turned to shouting.

And then, through the din of it all, came a shrieking, angry raised voice. Younger, feminine, and cutting through the rumble of the council men.

"ENOUGH— GET OUT!"

Several voices answered at once.

“Your Highness—”

“Princess, we must—”

“Now wait a minute—”

“GET OUT OF MY HOUSE, YOU SCHEMING LEECHES!” you shrieked, throat cracking on the final word.

Joel shifted his weight, expecting the impressive wooden doors to burst open and them to come running out, that voice scary enough to send most people running. But the noise only grew worse, voices overlapping again as the councilmen scrambled to answer you.

Your Grace this. Princess that. Calm yourself. Let us be reasonable.

Joel pressed his tongue briefly against his molar again.

His head was splitting.

And then—

“GUARD!”

Joel pushed the doors open and stepped inside.

The storm in the room hit him all at once. Voices, movement, the soft scraping of leather shoes across the stone floor as men stood. The council chamber was wide and high-ceilinged, its tall windows looking down across the city that clung to the mountainside below. Joel had sometimes wondered if those windows were meant to show the people gathered here how high above the rest of the world they stood, or perhaps to remind them that the decisions made within these walls were meant for real people and not merely the handful of old men seated around that table.

Joel walked forward steadily, his presence alone enough to quiet the room a measure as the councilmen turned toward him. They were all pale and aging things up close, their fine robes hanging loose over narrow shoulders, some with long white beards, others with thin hair clinging to spotted scalps. Several of them looked angry to see him.

"Get these men out of my sight—" you seethed.

Through the narrow split of his visor, Joel looked upon your figure. You stood hunched over the council table at its far end, shoulders tight with fury, your hands braced hard on either side of the polished mahogany. The sleeves of your pale green gown fell long past your wrists and into perfectly sewn gloves, the delicate fabric drawn smooth over your fingers as they gripped the edge of the table. He thought your nails might carve straight into the finished wood if not for the modest gloves keeping that violent touch hidden.

The men knew better than to question a direct command given to the palace guard. Grumbling among themselves about insult and mistreatment, they shuffled toward the doors in a cluster, their robes brushing the stone as they passed. One by one they filed out into the hall, Joel following close behind them.

“Knight.”

Your voice cut across the chamber just as he reached the threshold.

He stopped.

“Stay a moment. I wish to speak with you.”

Joel paused, glancing back over his steel shoulder before stepping away from the door and returning to the center of the room. Uncertainty sat heavy in his mind, though he kept his posture rigid and proper.

“You may answer me freely,” you said, watching him carefully from the end of the table as you stood straight, “but only if what you say is the truth. Do you understand?”

Joel hesitated.

Knights were not meant to speak freely in royal chambers. They spoke when commanded and little else. But a direct question from The Crown left no room for refusal.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” he said, his voice muffled slightly beneath the metal of his helm.

You studied him for a moment before continuing.

“You see, ser knight, I am beginning to realize,” you said slowly, “that many of the men around me never wished to see me sit this throne. I believe they had hoped I might be sent north and married off to some distant Duke instead of taking my rightful place upon the throne someday.”

Joel said nothing. He remembered the day the princess had been born well enough. The whole city had celebrated it. Bells rang from the towers, wine poured generously through the streets, and bonfires burned long into the night while men shouted blessings for the king’s new daughter.

He had been there in the crowd like anyone else then, younger and half drunk already, with young Sarah perched on his shoulders so she could see above the press of bodies. She had been all smiles and excitement as her hands held onto him, fingers threaded under his chin. They'd watched the court funded celebrations and parades that day as if they'd been meant for her alone.

The memory passed through him, but he pushed it aside as quickly as it came.

"And so," you continued, "I must weed out those who lie and wish my downfall, and I ask you, tasked with whatever purpose you have over me, do you serve me, knight? Or do you serve my father?"

“Your father is dead, Your Majesty.”

He thought maybe he should have bitten his tongue. It had been out of turn, and perhaps too terse to say aloud to a princess, but God be damned his head hurt so badly he could barely keep a hold on his rising annoyance. All he wanted was to flee back into the hallway, or better yet to his bed, though he knew it would be hours yet before he found that feather-filled mattress, and hours more before sleep would ever take him. The thought alone only stoked his ire.

But you were smiling up at him from across the room. A sarcastic sort of grin, maybe, but a smile nonetheless. He thought you looked quite nice with it plastered across your face.

"Ah,” you said softly. “Finally. Someone who speaks truth instead of riddles.”

You stepped forward, away from the table and approached him.

Joel remained perfectly still. Even though you could not see his eyes behind the visor, he lowered his gaze out of respect.

“Yes,” you sighed, stopping before him. “My father is dead.”

Your voice softened slightly as you looked at him from under your lashes.

“And I will tell you something most daughters would not admit aloud, ser. I do not mourn him.”

You glanced briefly toward the council doors, and he looked up at you, surprised by your confession.

“He loved war more than people. Power more than peace. And now I must sit the throne he bled half the world to build.”

You looked back at Joel. If you could see him, you would know he was looking directly into your eyes. The thought made his skin rise in gooseflesh.

“So I will ask you again.”

You stood far closer than propriety allowed.

“Do you serve a dead man… or do you serve me?”

He swallowed dryly, another step and the pretty soft green of your gown would brush the steel of his armor.

He cleared his throat, and did not move an inch. "I serve you, Your Majesty."

Your eyes studied him as if you could see straight through the shining armor, as if you could see how the blood pounding in his head was beginning to surge at your closeness. He had not stood this close to a woman in ages.

"Very well." you said finally. "You are dismissed."

𝓑y the time he finally lowered himself onto his mattress hours later, the silence of the chamber should have been a mercy.

Instead, his headache remained.

His armor lay in pieces beside the narrow bed, neatly arranged upon the dresser by the single window in his chambers. He stared up at the beams overhead, trying to will his mind to shut off. He had always been like this, exhausted and begging for sleep, only to scrape together no more than a few miserable hours once his eyes fell closed. The bed rustled beneath him as he pulled the wool blanket higher over his shoulder, turning for what felt like the thousandth time. The chambers given to the castle knights were modest but comfortable enough, a small room with thick stone walls and a single window that looked down onto the gravel path leading to the back garden. Better than many places he had slept over the years, truth be told.

And still, sleep would not come easily.

He rolled again, pressing his face briefly into the pillow, his skull still throbbing faintly, though it was better now without the helm clanking around his head.

Joel exhaled through his nose and turned onto his back once more.

He wished you had not gotten so close to him today. He thought maybe that was what was wrong with him, that you were imprudent, rude in your closeness, much too bold for your own good. He wondered if you had always been like that with those who served you, crowding them, pressing into their space as if rank and armor meant nothing at all.

Finally, he let out a long, low breath and pushed himself upright.

He pressed his fists into his eyes as he leaned his elbows on his knees, grinding hard enough to burst sparks of color behind his lids. Galaxies. That's what Sarah had once called them when she was little. That she could see Heaven if she rubbed her eyes hard enough.

Joel dragged his hands down his face slowly, rubbing the exhaustion deeper into this thrumming head before letting his arms fall again.

And then he looked up, out into the moonlit garden, and saw the most peculiar thing.

You were there. In your night dress. Pale silk reflecting the full moon above, bathing you in a beautiful spotlight. Your hair flowed behind you, and with one look over your shoulder, Joel knew you were up to no good. Where was your night watch? Had you climbed out your window like a child, sneaking out on your own protection?

Joel rose himself from the bed and grabbed for his armor.

𝓘t was only a few minutes or so later that he was down the narrow steps and out into the back garden, your silhouette already slipping toward the edge of the woods before he could call for you. He worried he'd wake the whole castle if he did.

So, instead, he merely followed.

He could have sworn you were barefoot. Your steps across the grass were so soft they were almost lost in the whisper of the night air, the sort of careful grace that might have been impressive if it had not been undone by everything else you were doing. Every few strides there came the faint sound of a branch catching against your sleeve, or the quick intake of breath when something in the dark surprised you. Once your hand reached out toward a low limb only for the brittle thing to snap in your grip. Joel followed the sounds easily enough, even when the pale color of your dress hid from his view.

He found himself faintly amazed that you had not yet heard him, though the armor was never as quiet as a man hoped it would be. There was always some small complaint of metal when he moved, the faint shift of plates settling against one another as he stepped over the uneven ground. Yet you pressed on ahead of him without so much as glancing back, as though the woods belonged entirely to you and the castle behind you had already been forgotten.

When he reached a fallen log in the path he caught the trunk of a tree to steady himself, swinging one leg over it before realizing the bark was rough against his palm.

He had forgotten his gloves.

His hand stayed there for a moment against the damp wood before he moved on again, watching the pale drift of your gown further ahead as it slipped deeper into the trees.

And just when you'd reached the darkest part of the wood, where no moon could shine through the top canopy, he called out: "Your Majesty—".

Your gasp rented the air as you swiveled on the spot.

“Oh!” you startled, your hand flying to your chest. “It is… one of you.”

“My Lady,” he answered.

“Ah. My knight of truth.” You sighed, recognizing his voice. A small, embarrassed laugh escaped you. “And what would you have of me at this hour?”

Joel turned his head this way and that, faintly bemused by the question.

“Where are you going?” he asked instead of answering, and though knew well enough it was not his place to question a princess, nor any soul above his station, the words left him all the same. Perhaps the woods would keep the trespass between them.

You glanced up at him beneath your lashes, catching his misstep at once.

“I told you, good knight,” you said lightly, raising your chin, “I grow weary of those who lie to me within the walls of my own castle. Tell me the truth—did you overhear of what they wished of me today?”

Joel studied you for a moment. You were the strangest woman he had ever encountered. Noble ladies did not question knights, much less tease them as though they were companions in some private jest, yet you seemed to expect him to answer you all the same.

“I—Your Majesty—”

“You must not call me that, ser knight,” you interrupted. “I am no queen yet.”

“Yes, Your—” He cleared his throat, suddenly unsure how to finish.

You gave him your name.

“Your Grace,” he settled on instead. While your name rose easily enough to his mind, it did not feel like something meant to pass his lips. “I don't think—”

“You may call me that when we stand before others,” you said simply. “When it is only the two of us, you will use my name.”

Joel hesitated a moment, then inclined his head, and brought his hand up to hold the neck of his breastplate in amused wait.

The two of you stood there a moment while the crickets resumed their thin singing in the dark. Joel found himself grateful for the armor then, grateful for the way it hid the direction of his gaze as it wandered briefly down the line of your figure.

“I am going to town,” you said at last, as though it were the most ordinary thing in the world.

Joel spluttered, dropping his hand from its casual placement, "You jest!"

"I most certainly do not."

"Your Grace, you must at least wait until morning."

“Is that an order, ser?”

He paused.

“At least wait until first light,” he said carefully. “It will be safer then. And…” He stopped himself, knowing he ought not press further in case he deeply offended you.

“And?” you prompted.

“And perhaps… not in palace silks,” he finished. “If you mean to go unnoticed.”

You looked down upon your form, "What is wrong with my clothes?"

"Nothing, they're very fine, Your Grace," he hurried to say, and he could hear his voice echoing in the din of his helmet as he tried to correct himself. "Only—if you wish to not be spotted as I had so easily, silk draws the eye. If you wore something more common, we might pass through the town without notice. So you may see it in its true form.”

"So it is a we, now?" you teased.

"I would insist you must not go alone." he said very seriously.

You considered that for a moment.

“Very well.”

Joel gave a quiet grunt, his shoulders falling in relief.

“You shall take me at first light,” you declared. “We will walk to town together.”

“As you wish, Your Grace.”

You sighed, and the silence stretched too long between you, and finally you gestured faintly toward the castle rising dark above the trees.

“You may escort me back.”

Joel turned and opened his palm, motioning toward the narrow path that wound back up through to the garden.

You passed him as you stepped forward, so close he had to hold his breath.He could not bear to know the scent of you—whatever oils or soaps you might have used, whatever warmth lingered on skin after a bath taken late in the evening. He did not know why the thought troubled him so much, only that it did, and that it would be wiser not to learn it.

Joel followed a pace behind you the rest of the way, saying little more as the path carried the two of you back toward the looming shape of the castle. He was not sure what else to say to you, nor if he should say anything at all. You had asked him questions before as though he were meant to answer them, as though he were something other than a man set to guard your door, and the memory of it sat uneasy in him now. He thought, briefly, of asking what had set you off so, what had driven you from the castle and into the woods alone in the middle of the night, but the thought soured on his tongue before it could escape his lips. It was not his place. It would never be his place. In the end, he kept his silence, holding to it as a rule long learned and rarely broken.

When you reached the base of the stairs, you paused there, gathering the skirts of your night dress in one hand while the other lifted slightly for balance, though there was nothing for you to take hold of to steady you.

Without thinking, Joel reached out and took your hand.

It was such a simple thing, accompanying a woman such as yourself up a set of stairs, and yet… there was something immediately jarring to him. Your hand was so soft, so delicate and supple in his calloused and scarred palm. Your skin was unmarked by blade or labor, as though it had never known anything harsher than silk gowns and water warmed for you. His hold swallowed your fingers as he guided you up the stairs, standing beside the stone pathway up to your chambers.

And he watched as you looked down at your hand in his, surprise written across your face, for neither of you wore gloves.

“Sleep well, princess,” he said quietly , and you looked back up toward the steel of his helm, and he could have sworn, just for a moment, that you had found his gaze somewhere behind the narrow slit of the visor.

He let go and made his leave, scarcely aware of the passing sconces lighting his way, nor the turns he took to find his bed. His skin prickled as though brushed by nettles, and he flexed his hand to rid himself of the feeling, but failed.

𝓙oel had a terrible suspicion he might be in over his head.

His head, which, by God’s mercy, had finally ceased its throbbing.

By the time he stood in the courtyard, the sun had only just begun to crest over the distant hills, its light still pale and cold where it touched the stone. The castle was quieter at that hour, the usual movement of servants not yet in full swing. Only the stable boys were at work, a few housekeepers beginning their morning cooking that would go uneaten by the lady of the house. But the air still held that brief, suspended stillness before the day truly began.

He had thought, perhaps, that you would not come. That you might have changed your mind come morning. It would have made sense, and he would have understood if it had only been some passing craving of the night, your senses returned to you after a few hours’ rest.

But then, without warning, his attention was drawn to the edge of the courtyard.

You were making your way down the side steps into the garden, your gown no longer pale and clinging as it had been the night before, but changed now for something simpler. Still, it was finer than anything worn beyond those walls. It sat upon you too well, drawn in at your waist and looser at the hips, carefully made in a way that would draw the eye regardless of your intent. Though, he wondered if it was really the dress at all that was the problem.

And your hands were covered by gloves now, hiding whatever softness hid beneath. A more casual glove, leather and made for riding, he supposed, something a princess like you would be doing on a casual day out of her room.

You must've sensed him there, for when you looked up it was more out of instinct or habit than regard, but when your gaze fell onto him, he was surprised to see a smile spread across your face. You came toward him with measured steps, quieter now, tempered where you had been bold the night before, and yet there remained something in your expression—a glint?—as though the two of you shared some small, unspoken joke.

"My Lady," he greeted, and he was smiling, though glad you couldn't tell as his helmet covered everything from view.

“And how do you think I look today, ser?” you asked, dipping into a small curtsy.

He nodded once, clearing his throat. “You look… well.”

You gave a soft scoff, something amused in it. “You are not a man of many words, are you?”

He tilted his helmed head down at you, uncertain what answer you expected of him. You would have no shortage of men eager to praise you, he thought, men of better birth and smoother tongues, and whatever he might say would hardly measure beside them.

“How far is it into town?” you asked, turning as you began to walk.

"Not far, Your Grace," he said, gesturing to the path before them. "Only a half an hour's walk."

Your shoes, now leather laced and practical to protect your soles, found the gravel easily as you fell into step beside him.

He was aware of the space between you in a way he had not been before, aware of how easily you seemed to ignore it, how little regard you held for the careful boundaries others kept. He maintained it all the same as the two of you made your way toward the gates.

The guards straightened when you approached, though not quickly enough to hide the surprise that flickered across their faces. Joel gave the word before either of them could speak, and the gates were drawn open without question, the heavy wood groaning as it gave way.

Beyond it, the path sloped downward toward the town.

The morning had begun in earnest there. He could see the smoke curling from chimneys, the smell of bread and ash carried faintly on the air, and the slow stir of people already at their work spread through the narrow streets. It was not crowded yet, not the way it would be by midday, but there were enough bodies moving through it that a stranger might pass without much notice.

You stepped ahead of him without hesitation, and he let you lead the way. After all, he was very curious about what made you want to come to such a place. He was glad you had not expected him to speak to you as you meandered through the town thirty minutes later. Even dressed as you were, there was no mistaking you. It was not the gown, as he'd thought earlier, but the way you held yourself, how you clasped your hands gently at your navel and held your head high, as if balancing a pile of books atop it. You were not hunched over like the women selling her fish monger husband's catch as she picked the bones out of the filets, nor letting your hands drift over soft cloth as the younger women did. Many people glanced your way, a double take from one man, a woman letting her jaw fall open. Did they recognize you? Did they know who was in their midst? Joel thought he probably was no help, a knight in your wake, a hand on his sword as you walked in front of him. Though you did not seem to mind.

If anything, you seemed to lean into the surroundings, the town you would soon rule, slowing here and there to look at things that would be commonplace for others. You leaned down to inspect a cart of apples, still dusted with the fresh earth of morning harvest. You said good morning to a woman hanging linens from a line strung between two narrow buildings, watching them all as though each were something worth seeing. He wondered for a moment what his world looked like through your eyes. Or rather, the world he knew before the war.

He knew you'd been to town before, but never this part. Because he'd seen you at the tourneys seated beside your father, composed into something polite, but distant. You had been beautiful then, yes, any man with eyes could've seen you as such, but there had been nothing in your appearances that asked for more than a glance at your beauty. He thought you must be dull, fed on a spoon made of silver all your life.

He knew now that he'd been wrong. He knew it from that moment in the council room.

You came upon a small baker’s stall which was modest, though he had arranged it with care, rows of small pastries set out diligently, their tops glossed with cream or honey, fruit peeking through split seams of dough. The morning rays of sunlight glistening on the sticky glaze, making them shine indulgently next to the more fairly priced breads he sold.

“Good morning, sir,” you said, your voice bright as you gestured toward a cluster of the cream-topped pastries. “Might I ask what these are?”

The baker, a round man with flour still dusted along his sleeves, straightened a touch at the attention. “Sweet cakes, miss. Fruit within, icing on top. A rare treat, if I may say.”

Joel stood just behind your shoulder, saying nothing, though his gaze lingered over the display with a narrowing he could not quite help. Too much sugar for his tastes.

You nodded, already reaching for your coin.

“I will take one, please," you said as sweet as the sugary bakes.

Without meaning to, Joel clicked his teeth softly at the sight of it all, the sound slipping out under his breath before he could stop himself, and you turned toward him at once, catching it despite the busy noise of the street.

“Oh?” you said, and there was a note there now, curious, a little amused. “Have you a better thought, good knight? Or do you find fault with my choosing?”

He held still a moment, then shifted his weight, aware all at once of how close you stood, of how easily you had marked him. “You would break your fast on sugar alone, My Lady?”

You smiled at that, not offended in the least, if anything a touch more entertained. “And what would you have me take instead?”

He sighed, shaking his head.

“Go on,” you pressed lightly, tilting your head. “You have already judged me for it. You may as well finish the thought.”

He exhaled through his nose, faintly annoyed with himself for being pulled into it at all. “Gingerbread —if I wanted something sweet,” he said at last.

You turned back at once, as though that settled it entirely. “Then we shall have one of those as well.”

“No,” he started, sharper than he meant, “that is not—”

“Tis but thanks,” you said, easy as anything, waving him off as you pressed coin into the baker’s waiting hand. “For your guidance.”

He quieted the protest that sat on his lips as the baker passed the goods across the table, wrapping them in a scrap of paper binding.

You accepted both, then turned, holding the gingerbread out toward him without hesitation.

He did not take it.

You waited a beat, then another, your brows drawing just slightly. “What is it?”

“I cannot eat with this on,” he said, lifting a hand vaguely toward the helm.

“Then remove it.”

He nearly choked on the air he drew in. “My Lady—”

"Do not call me that," you said, flickering your eyes around, "you are terrible at following orders, like a stubborn old dog, you are."

He felt something like heat climb the back of his neck at that, irritation or something near it. “It's not so simple—”

“You are to call me by my name,” you went on, as though he had not spoken at all, as though the matter were already decided. "Say it now, so I know your memory is intact."

He whispered it. There was something that felt heavy on the tongue even as quiet as he said it. It sounded as if it echoed in the steel of his helmet. And yet you brightened at once, as though it was worthy of praise.

“Better,” you said, pleased. “Now take the gingerbread I have so kindly purchased for you, and eat.”

He looked at you a long moment through the narrow slit of his helm, measuring, perhaps, or simply trying to understand what manner of woman spoke so freely to a man she scarcely knew, or rather, what sort of princess wandered a market and bartered sweets like a common girl.

Bossy little thing, he thought, not without a trace of reluctant amusement.

Still, he took the cookie from you, and noticed how you did not look away as his opposite hand came to the front of his helmet.

“Come, then,” you said, lifting your own pastry. “We ought to share in it, should we not?”

Before he could answer, you tapped your sweet cream tart lightly against the edge of his gingerbread, the soft icing smearing against the darker surface, and took a bite with quiet satisfaction.

He hesitated only a moment longer before shifting the helm just enough to free his mouth, the movement careful and practiced over many hours within in the metal shell, revealing no more than necessary. He brought the gingerbread up and bit into it, the hearty spice hitting first, and then the sweetness of the cream from your tart that stuck to the side following after in a way he was surprised to enjoy.

He became aware, then, of your gaze fixed upon him, your eyes glued to the line of his jaw where it had been briefly revealed, catching what little they could before he settled the helm back into place as he chewed. He wondered what you thought about it as your eyes found his bearded face instead of the smooth, shaved skin that most men bore. It was not something he should be weighing—what you thought of him at all, that is— and he set his mind straight again as the moment passed.

You watched him for a heartbeat longer, something seemingly pleased in your expression, before you turned away as though nothing at all had passed between you, already stepping back into the current of the market.

Joel stayed close behind you for the next hour or so as you slowly ate away at the pastry in your hand, as if you meant to stretch it for as long as it would last, each bite taken with the same quiet attention, your steps wandering without aim through the streets while he remained fixed at your back, his gaze moving far less freely than yours ever did.

As you watched the people in their daily lives—a woman leaning from an upper window to shake out a rug so that dust lifted and drifted down in a fine, chalky cloud, a dog nosing at a heap of refuse in the gutter with ribs showing through its hide— Joel kept his eyes moving from face to face, from doorway to doorway, to the narrow breaks between buildings where a man might slip through unseen, his gloved fingers shifting rested steady at the pommel of his sword. Every now and then, he would reach his hand out to stop a passerby from brushing up against you too strongly, to course correct you before you stepped into a pile of horse manure in the road. Always gentle, brushing touches of his gloved hand against your soft silks at your arm.

And then you stopped so quickly he almost collided with you at the edge of the street where the cobbles beneath your feet gave way to a worn strip of packed dirt, your shoulders turning toward something low along the ground with a kind of quiet certainty that drew his attention just as quickly.

Joel followed the line of your sight and found a boy curled in against the base of a wall where the rough stone was marred with time and neglect. The child's were clothes little more than rags stitched together in patches, the hem of his shirt dress hanging past his knees and darkened with old dirt, his bare feet blackened from the road. He had his hands cupped loosely in his lap, not even holding a proper bowl, his eyes lowered as though he had learned already what it meant to be passed by without notice.

Joel had seen a hundred like him—children turned out into the streets while their families worked elsewhere in the city, sent to gather what coin they could from strangers. Most of their parents worked long hours in the fields, the riverbeds.

You stepped toward the boy then.

“My La—” Joel started, the warning there on his tongue, but you were already gathering your skirt in your hands so you might lower yourself, the fabric brushing the dirt as you knelt before the boy.

“Hello,” you said gently, and the boy’s head lifted, wide blue eyes flickering up at the first voice that had chosen to stop for him.

He said nothing, though his hands closed tighter in his lap, drawing closer to his chest as though unsure what to do with them now that he had been seen.

“Are you hungry?” you asked, your head tilting just slightly as you held out the partially-eaten pastry toward him.

The boy eyed it warily, but eventually, he nodded just the once.

"Where are your parents?" you asked.

His eyes flicked then, quickly moving between you and Joel, then widening at the sight of his steel-clad figure standing just behind you, and still he did not answer. When his gaze returned to you, it did not settle on your face, but on the pastry in your hand.

The boy reached out at last, small fingers darting forward to take what you offered, and then, quicker than Joel could blink, the boy was on his feet and running.

He nearly made a comment of typical beggar children, to not expect much of them, but you were back on your feet within a second and following the child.

"Wait—!" you called.

Joel felt a cold rush of panic strike through him at once as he lurched after you, his gaze catching the swing of your hair and the pull of your dress as you vanished around the stone corner. He made after you immediately, but you were quick footed and the boy even more so. He lost sight of you almost as soon as you whipped around the building.

The sound of his boots hitting the dirt path, the heavy breath within his helm, the sudden panic making his skin break out in a cold sweat— it all forced memories to flood him as fierce as the fear. Strong, cruel memories. It was as if he turned the corner and stepped into another world, into his own worst nightmares that came to him at night. Back to when the city had turned on itself with fear of sickness, people pouring into streets with carts and bundles of whatever they could carry to just get out and away.

His little girl's hand in his, running through the city as the residents feared for their lives and their loved ones, the sickness forcing people to decide to flee or stay, angry people and sicker ones, forming forceful packs around doctor's homes and bakeries and kitchens. Starvation, thirst, fear— it made people insane. He'd let go, or maybe she had. All he knew was her tiny, sweating fingers slid from his and she was lost in the crowd, and he was throwing himself between people, following the top of her little blonde head, until he couldn't see it anymore. She'd gotten caught in the crowd, pulled this way and that, and people shoved past without looking or stopping.

And he hadn't reached her in time when she went down. He didn't see her for what felt like hours but was only a few minutes… until he came upon her—blood blonde now, red, trampled—oh, god, the memories, the memories. Of screams and fear and—

It all pressed in on him as he ran after you, filling his chest until it hurt, dragging in shaky breath, his body moving harder through the alley as he took the next corner without slowing, his shoulder catching stone as he forced himself through. His eyes searched ahead for you and finding nothing but another stretch of passage where you had already disappeared.

But those weren’t the screams he was hearing now, though the fear of losing you in a crowd still stifled the breath in his lungs as he took yet another corner, his body braced for the same sight he had come upon once before.

Because the next corner he turned, his eyes didn’t descend onto a bloody blonde head in the dirt at his feet, but upon you in the center of a courtyard.

And the sound of the voices was not screaming or terrified or hungry, but of joy—laughter.

Children, all huddled around you, blushing and touching your pretty dress as you laughed with them.

As Joel caught his breath at the corner of the courtyard, you looked up at him with a beaming smile, though there was something else there, something he had not quite noticed before, a faint pull beneath it that did not match the brightness of the moment. He couldn't say exactly what it was, only that he saw a sadness behind your eyes, even as you turned back to the children, as though the fleeting glee of it all did not come without cost.

His mind struggled to settle, still caught between what had been and what was in front of him now, the memories clinging where they didn't belong, until the present forced itself back in with the sound of a door opening along the courtyard wall. A woman stepped out to greet you, older, thinning, with a worn apron tied around her narrow frame. The children gathered to her at once and clinging to her skirts with familiarity. She smiled as she took you in, her voice warm.

He caught pieces of the conversation as he approached.

“The coin does come every month, M’Lady, and we are grateful,” the woman assured, though her eyes stayed lowered, her hands wringing together at her waist.

So you’d told her who you were. Or maybe it was not something easily hidden, as he'd known from the start of the morning. Not when your silks were fine, your hair brushed, your skin untouched by labor.

Joel couldn't hear what you said, only that you murmured something gentle to her, your hand resting atop her knuckles. Coaxing, reassuring.

“It's just…" she hesitated, her eyes glancing between her hands and your face before she went on with a sigh, "Sometimes it is stretched thin before it even reaches the children. On rent for the house, for the water, ere we may even fetch loaves from the baker,” she said, her voice dipping with it, “There are many days we can scarcely get enough to feed them all. Often we are turning children away, for we cannot house nor feed them with what we are given.”

There was still a gratefulness in it as she went on, careful in her telling, as though she feared you might take even that from them. But you listened as though each word settled within you, your attention fixed on her in such a way Joel had not seen you give a single one of the men in the council chamber.

By the time he reached your side, his breathing had settled completely, only to catch again when your hand wrapped itself around his steel arm, and for a moment he wished he did not wear the armor at all.

He would tell you later how selfish it was to run off like that on him, how irresponsible. Though… he would not tell you how much it had frightened him, nor why, but he hoped you might come to understand that a woman such as you should not be so rash.

But for now, he would walk you back to your tower, your hand still wrapped around his arm, and know he would not stop you from doing it again.

𝓘t was the anniversary of Sarah's death the following day.

Joel had known he would not be able to forget it, not ever. And not when Tommy had come by his narrow barracks that morning to give him a slice of pie from the kitchens. Joel did not ask how he had gotten it, nor did he offer any thanks. He could not bear to blow out the little candle set atop it either. Tommy knew too, knew better after all, so he only set the dish down on Joel’s side table and let the man be.

"Happy birthday, brother," he said gently before shutting the door behind him.

𝓗is post that day was uneventful, and Joel was grateful for it. You had been kept in meetings with your closest secretary, a man with a beard that fell well past his chest, and the council chamber doors had remained shut for hours on end, your voice only ever reaching him in low murmurs through the wood. By the time his shift was over and the next guard came to take his place, he had not seen you once.

Joel could not bear to stand sober one moment longer.

He made for the town a few hours later.

No armor now, as it drew too much notice in the streets, though he felt the lack of it more keenly than he had in some time, his shoulders set without its weight, his hands left empty where steel might have steadied them. Most of The Guild knew his story, or enough of it, and he had no mind to spend the night among them either.

By dusk the stone lanes had quieted their usual clammer of life. Lantern light pooled on iron hooks, yeast and hearth smoke thickening the air while families huddled in their homes. Joel kept his head down as he moved through it all, not just for fear of being recognized or known, but for lack of wanting to be seen at all.

By the time he reached the tavern, night had settled in full and the place was crowded, the door swinging open and shut in turns as folk pushed through it, the inside warm with closeness of bodies, voices raised over one another, the scrape of stools and benches against the floor, the smell of ale and roasted meat and sweat worked deep into the room itself. A boy moved between the tables with a platter of trenchers stacked with coarse bread and slices of salt pork. Another man tore into a heel of cheese with his hands while coin clinked against the bar.

Joel pressed his tongue into his back molar again, making his jaw throb.

He didn't linger at the door, but made his way through the crowd and for the counter. As he sat on a free stool at the end, he set his coin down and took the ale as it was given in return without word, the tankard still damp where it had been rinsed, foam spilling over the rim as he lifted it to his lips. He drank it down in long swigs, hardly stopping for breath.

All he had done all day was be left to his thoughts, and they had not left him in kind. He planned to drink until they were gone from him.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, dragging the foam from his lip, and as his hand fell away, his gaze lifted without thought, catching on a shape to his right that had not been there a moment before, or had been and he had not seen it. A hooded figure sat at the bar beside him.

This was not so unheard of, most of all after sundown, when families turned in and the street changed hands to those with coin to spend and reason to hide.

Joel lifted a hand to the barmaid for another ale, holding it there a moment, two, waiting for her to look his way, but she did not, slipping past him again and again with her tray tilted against her hip. She was laughing raucously at something one of the men shouted while she set down the emptied pints. Finally, with her cheeks pink and smile wide, she made her way back at last, her pace slowing as she reached him.

“Hungry for somethin’, dear?” she asked.

“Ale,” he said, pushing more coin across the wood.

“You sure? Ought to put somethin’ on your stomach.”

“Make it two ales, then,” he grumbled.

He did not miss the way the cloaked figure beside him nearly leapt out of their seat, nor the pair of eyes that peered out from beneath the hood’s hem.

He clenched his jaw hard as he turned to stare into that gaze.

The barmaid only looked between him and the figure, her hand still wrapped round the handles of the pints before took them to be refilled. She soon was back, setting them down with a dull knock against the counter. They sloshed as they hit the wood, and Joel watched her from the corner of his eye as she asked the figure a question.

"Anythin' for ya?"

They shook their head quickly before the barmaid turned away.

Only when he reached for the first ale did his eyes flit away, his hand closing around the tankard. He drank deep, set the empty pint back down, and took hold of his third pint at once, his head beginning to feel lighter now, his shoulders easing by an inch beneath his tunic.

Finally.

He tipped the ale back and swallowed hard, and when he set it down again with the heart of his palm, the seat beside him had emptied.

His feet almost slipping underneath him and his head full of that fuzzy cotton lightness, he rose from his stool and headed for the door.

As he breached the threshold and saw the tip of the cloak whipping around the corner, he moved quickly and caught it in his fist, hauling the figure back into his chest. He could smell lavender, and something else—clean and fresh like spring's first breath after a harsh winter.

"Who do I have to fucking throttle for the fact you're all alone here, My Lady?"

You twisted in his arms and pushed him back, throwing yourself away. The hood atop your head fell as your spine hit the stone wall, only the light of a sliver of moon reflecting in your eyes—your pretty eyes. He was crowding you in an instant. Your gaze flashed up at him with more temper than fear, and you twisted under him with sharp little huffs of breath until he drove into you harder, his pelvis knocking your left hipbone against the wall, your thigh caught between his legs and held there.

“Unhand me, you brute,” you hissed, voice low and conspiratorial.

But Joel could already see, if only his mind's eye, whichever bastard had let you slip by—with a face all black and blue beneath his fists, because this had happened once before and that had already been once too many. Whoever had let you slip out of the keep again wanted their teeth scattered in the dirt by his hand.

“Who have you been sneaking past, Your Majesty?”

“I told you to stop calling me that.”

“And I told you not to go into town alone.”

Your chin tipped up another inch. “You knew me at once, did you?”

He looked down at you, his hand still bunched in your cloak, the other braced beside your head against the wall. “You nearly jumped out of your skin when I spoke.”

“You startled me.”

“Did I?”

“Yes.”

“That must be why you were staring holes through the side of my face.”

Your mouth pressed tight, though he could see the answer in it before you gave it. A note of amusement made your lips curl, and it made his head even fuzzier.

“You are not so difficult to know, Ser." you said, false confidence making your voice clear, "You are my knight of Truth. I know your voice by now. I know your bearded face as well.”

His grip shifted at that, for he knew for a fact you had not seen more than a prickle of his beard the day prior. His knuckles brushed your shoulder beneath the cloak. “Now who tells lies?”

You gave him a look then, one that ought to have been cutting and yet lingered too long to do the work of it. “Would you have me say I mistook you for some other ill-tempered ox in the dark?”

Joel let out a breath through his nose. “Ill-tempered.”

“You have me cornered in an alley.”

“If I had not stopped you, I could not be sure you'd—.” he stopped himself. His tongue was made loose by ale. "You cannot be out in the dark alone, Your Grace."

“I am not alone, I am in an alley with you.”

His mouth twitched before he could stop it. There was scarcely any room between you now. The stone held you at the back and he held you at the front, and all at once the anger had begun to fray at the edges, turning into something less fit for shouting. It sat low in his belly, and had his blood boiling for entirely other reasons. He could feel your breath touch his mouth when you spoke again when he remained silent.

“You forget yourself.”

The words should have struck him. In his right mind, he'd pull away now. He'd never get this close to begin with. Instead the words landed between the two of you with that same false temper, because your eyes had changed as you said it, and your body gave a small shift against his that did nothing at all to get free. Rather, your back slid down the wall a few inches so you could sit yourself perfectly on his knee.

Joel leaned in close enough that the tip of his nose nearly brushed yours. “That would be easier if you looked half so offended as you sound.”

That silenced you for a beat as your fingers, which had been caught between your bodies, found the front of his tunic and closed.

“I am telling you,” you whispered, though your chin lifted, "that your manner is vile.”

“Aye,” he said, looking at your mouth now.

He heard the catch of your breath and hated that he knew he'd harvest that sweet sound in his mind for safe keeping. Hated more that the ale in his blood had made him bold enough to keep you there and stupid enough to enjoy it. Distantly, he felt your warm hand where it stayed twisted in his tunic pull him infinitesimally closer. His thumb had slipped beneath the edge of your cloak and found the warmer cloth beneath, the finer weave fit for a woman like you, and that alone felt like too much. It reminded him: a knight did not lay hands on his princess in some narrow alley behind a tavern. A knight did not crowd her with his mouth half parted and his head gone warm with drink. If anyone had seen, he would have been dragged to the square by dawn and hanged for it.

Then a tavern door slammed somewhere beyond the mouth of the alley, followed by the spill of drunken voices and rough laughter, and his thoughts snapped like a castle bolt locked back into place.

He uncurled his hand from your cloak, let your weight slip from his knee as he straightened his leg, and stood back from you, shoulders drawing square again beneath his garb.

"I must see you back to your chambers now, My Lady."

He ignored the way your body slumped at the loss of him, the way the heat in your eyes guttered when the night air moved between you.

“All I came for was one night of freedom,” you said softly, your gaze dropping. It was near worse, that softer voice of yours. Worse than the wit, worse than the quick little barbs you liked to set between the two of you.

“So did I,” he said, “and yet.”

Your eyes lifted back to him then, taking in his face with a look so openly it made him shiver. As though you knew there would not be another time for this. To see him plain, uncovered—no helm, no steel, no dark visor to hide behind. Only the man himself, rough and graying and a little drunk. He set his face back into something blank and gave you nothing he did not mean to.

"And yet," you echoed.

Your gaze continued to wander over him as you said it, from his eyes to the old scar that cut across the bridge of his nose, down to his beard gone silver in places now, then up again to the thick disarray of his hair where his hands had been pushed through one too many times that night. He wanted you to stop looking. Wanted it because he did not know what sat on his face when you looked at him so. Wanted it because some part of him feared he did not want it to end.

“Why do we not make the most of this night, then?” you asked, and when his eyes found yours again, that spark of amusement had returned.

"I think not." he said plainly.

“Why?" You stepped nearer as you said it, the edge of your leather shoe toeing the front of his boot. "Would you have me wither away in my room like the rest of them? Am I not allowed one night’s freedom in my own kingdom? Am I not allowed to steal a kiss from a handsome man in some dark alley?”

Joel ground down on his jaw until his teeth creaked. Yes, it was a compliment. Yes, it made his blood flame again, his cheeks redden, his groin tighten with even the fleeting thought of your lips on his. But—

“A princess does not kiss knights,” he said plainly, his voice flat, hiding his thoughts. His eyes squeezed shut a moment before he looked back at you from under his brow. “A princess kisses lords. Marries princes—such will be the way of things for you.”

Your expression darkened in an instant.

“And here I thought, all this while,” you said, drawing yourself up straight, stock still now, your voice cold, “that you were a knight of truth. Yet I see you lie like the rest of them.”

Joel's eyes narrowed, not understanding.

“I asked you the other night whether you heard what those men asked of me in council. You did not answer. I took that silence for ignorance.” Your mouth sharpened with every word. “Yet here you stand, proving you knew well enough. They mean to sell me off. They say I cannot rule because I am a woman. That I must have a man at my side to take The Crown.”

Your words were venom now, the poison filling your mouth, spitting like a snake.

“I trusted you to—”

“You should not trust anyone, My Lady,” he cut in seriously. “Not in that keep. Not among men. Especially not where your future is concerned.”

Your eyes flashed.

“And it is not my fault,” he went on, “that I will not take you up on this mad offer of yours. It is not on me to steal your first kiss in a reeking alley with ale on my breath. I am only a knight, and you, you are—”

“I am a woman,” you snapped. “A woman asking a man to kiss her, to make this night bearable, for God’s sake!”

“The only thing happening tonight is that you are going back to your chambers,” he replied through gritted teeth. “Which is a kinder end than what might have befallen you had you sat beside any other man in that tavern.”

You glared at him.

He glared back.

And yet.

Still the heat in him did not ease. It ran under his skin, restless, mean, his blood beating hard with it. Want sat in him like a fever. As did anger. And something worse, something dangerously like grief.

“I am to take The Crown,” you said, voice plain and authoritative suddenly. Your shoulders squared beneath the cloak. The alley seemed to narrow around you, stone and shadow and the thin wash of moonlight caught along the trim at your throat.

“I shall rule this kingdom,” you went on, “and I am giving you an order. For you to disobey would be a stain upon your honor, your code, the very first law your Guild ever taught you. Do you understand, ser?”

Joel felt then like some damned hound brought to heel. Standing there before you with his hands empty, waiting for your word. He hated that you were right, that obedience had been hammered into him so long ago it lived in his bones now, deeper than drink, deeper than want.

"Tell me your name."

"Joel."

"Tell me your title, your entire name."

"Joel Miller." he swallowed against the knot in his throat, straightening to his full height, "Ser Joel of the Dawn, My Lady."

"Joel Miller." you said.

The air around the two of you held very still suddenly. The sound of his name in your mouth, not his title, the name bestowed upon him with the king's dying breath, but the name his mother gave him. The name of his father. His mind felt thick with the unknown, the ale making it fuzzier, but a sudden clarity to him as he watched your tongue swipe out to wet your bottom lip.

He suddenly had the wild thought that whatever words left your lips would set the course for everything after. That there was still, even now, a ledge beneath his feet. One he was not ready to step off from.

Then you looked at him and said, quiet as a prayer and twice as perilous—

“I order you to kiss me, Joel Miller.”

He heard your breath stop when he wet his own lips without thought. What in God’s name was he meant to do with that? Refuse a direct order from the very person he had sworn his obedience to, his life to, when he had bent the knee and sworn his life to The Crown itself? And here you were, standing before him, with all the force of it.

So, he did as he was bid—though his mind screamed for him to cease all movement—and leaned forward.

He did not touch you. One hand braced against the wall beside your head, sore already from the stone biting into the meat of his palm, the other held in a tight fist at his side. He bent his face down to yours, but did not close his eyes. If this was to be done, and done only once, then he would keep all of it. Every flicker in your gaze. Every small movement. Every catch in your breath.

The touch of his lips to yours was light enough to scarce be called a kiss at all, more ghost than man, feather-light. And the second his mouth met yours, he was drawing back again.

"If there is nothing else, Your Grace." he murmured, his voice low and rough as if the screaming in his head had been real, "We must be getting back."

You sighed then, and for a moment you looked terribly young in your disappointment, almost childish with your eyes lowered so plainly and your heart worn there for him to see. It made him curse himself all the more bitterly, because there was nothing childish in what he felt at the sight of it.

"No," you said, "there is nothing else."

𝓙oel’s head was hurting again.

He truly needed to lay off the ale, even on nights like the last, when all he wanted was to blur the world away. He was not sure whether his misery came from drink or lack of sleep, of which he had barely gotten any once he had seen you back to your chambers. He had held your hand up the same way as the night before, the only words exchanged between the two of you was a promise to not kill the night watch for his carelessness. He had dismissed the man all the same and taken his place for a few hours, standing there until he heard your snoring through the door and saw the first wash of morning creep across the hallway window.

And now he stood outside the council chamber doors once again, stifling yawns inside his helm.

You were late today, though the chamber was hardly quiet for it, voices rising over one another beyond the doors while the sound of trenchers, cups, and serving platters carried through the wood. Whatever had been laid out for breaking fast, it was enough for a crowd, and the room had the full swell of it, men talking over one another in easy spirits while chairs scraped and laughter broke out now and again between the louder voices.

Joel wondered if you'd been sleeping off the same humiliation he had spent the night trying to fight off. He felt stupid, ashamed—most of all, cowardly. Yet even with all of that souring his gut, he knew he had done right by the end, even if he was far too brazen to begin with. He was a lowly knight, and no man such as him had any business kissing a woman of your station in some back alley, no matter that you had stolen out of your tower and asked it of him.

As his thoughts meandered, he finally heard echoing footsteps down the corridor.

You were leading a small knot of council men, a foul look set upon your face. The gown you wore was a deep blue, rich even in the dim corridor, with a trim of pearls resting low around your neck. It suited you, and Joel could not force his gaze away. It made the anger in your face look sharper somehow, your eyes near red with it, your mouth set hard as you swept toward the doors.

You didn't even look at him.

He thought, perhaps wildly, that he still preferred your anger to your disappointment. But when you reached the council chamber doors and laid your hand to the iron ring, you paused. Then, at last, you looked up at him.

The smile you gave him was sweet enough to curdle milk.

“Come, I wish for you to join me inside today.”

And then you turned at once and fixed the two pallid men behind you with that same look.

“You are dismissed.”

“But—”

“My Lady—”

“Dis. Missed,” you seethed, and opened the doors, and Joel didn’t even allow a look back at the men before he followed inside.

Inside, the room felt as though it had burst wide open before his very eyes. What he had taken for the din of dishes and the breaking of fast turned out to be visitors, and many of them, near all gentleman callers by the look of it. Lords and princes alike with shining gold plates at their cuffs, deep rich cloth laid over doublets and surcoats, velvet sleeves, jeweled belts, chains of office resting against clean and unmarked skin. Every head in the room turned at your entrance. Smiles lifted their faces at once, a few men bowing, one or two bold enough to wink. Joel’s hand tightened round the pommel of his sword as he took his place along the side of the chamber, where he had, unfortunately, the clearest view of every man there setting himself to fawn over you.

He was in for an hour of hell.

A light touch at your shoulder. A hand at your back. A lingering kiss to your knuckles. Joel felt his blood heat by the minute, his helm growing hot and claustrophobic around him. Steel turning cage instead of shelter. He stood inside it trapped now, clad in iron to hide from the room, meant to watch and say nothing.

And he knew that you knew.

You kept flitting your eyes over your shoulder if a man laughed at your joke. You'd smile when one kissed your knuckles only to wipe it against your gown as they stood, another flick of your eyes to him in the corner. Every look told him plainly that this was no accident. You had forced him in here to stand witness to it all. To watch you smile at other men. To watch other men touch you. Perhaps to see what sort of creature it made of him. To perhaps teach him a lesson to never refuse you. His lips would sometimes tingle with the memory of the night before. But he did not give in.

He let the hour drag over him and bore the brunt of his vexation without moving as the sun climbed higher through the windows until it settled on his left shoulder and baked the steel there hot enough to sizzle. He kept his mind on that pain of the heat inside his helm instead. A new pain for an old one. Better that than dwell over the other one inside him, the one with no wound to show for it and no name besides.

It was not until the very end of the hour, when the lords and dukes and whoever else had begun bowing their heads in farewell and offering up their final words, that Joel had finally had enough.

“This has been a wondrous way to break my fast," a man was saying at your side. "I fear every breakfast hereafter shall pale beside it."

Tall and lean, he was handsome if Joel didn't want to snap his neck, and younger than him by enough to make him feel mean. The man was polished from head to heel, his doublet a deep burgundy stitched through with gold thread, a short mantle pinned at one shoulder with a jeweled brooch, rings glinting when he lifted his hand to touch the small of your back.

“Oh, but you lie, good sir,” you said back politely. “I know for a fact the gardens at Darbeshire are far fairer company than I. If I were made to break my fast whilst looking over those roses, I do not think I should wish to be anywhere else. But I do thank you for visiting.”

"Ah, but you are far lovelier to look upon than those flowers."

You gave him a tightly lipped grin, but there was no color in your cheeks and your smile hardly reached your eyes. Joel could not help the quick and ugly swell of satisfaction that filled him.

“Tell me,” the man said, stepping into you as you turned to see him toward the doors, “when I may look upon you again.”

“Oh,” you said, and Joel could have sworn your eyes flicked to him one final time, “I fear my days are not my own just now. I will need to speak to my council for any other visits—"

“Then I shall petition for one hour only,” the man said. “One walk. One turn through the gallery. One look, if you are cruel enough to deny me more.”

You gave a breath of a laugh for courtesy’s sake and kept moving towards the grand doors, though the smile on your face had begun to wear thin.

“You are too generous in your praise, My Lord.”

“I am sparing in it, truth be told. Were I honest, I should shame myself with the excess.”

That had you glancing aside at last, less charmed now and more like cornered, and still the fool pressed on, following close with all his bright confidence and gleaming teeth.

“At least grant me some token to carry away,” he said, stopping you from reaching the exit. “A ribbon from your sleeve. A pearl from your ear. Some small mercy for a man already half beset with the thought of leaving you here alone.”

“My Lord, I think you greatly overstate the matter.”

“I do not.” He smiled, and there was something in it Joel disliked at once, too pleased with itself, too certain. “You have made a ruin of me in a single morning.”

Whether it was your politeness or there was little left in you to suffer the prattling fool, Joel could not yet tell. But your patience had plainly frayed, and not in the way it had with him the night before. Your body had already turned away from the prince, or lord, or whatever shining title he wore— Joel cared for none of it. What he cared for was the way the man reached out with two spindly fingers to drift the back of them against the snug fabric of blue silk at your waist, just under your bust, admiringly so.

Joel was at your side before the next words could even leave your mouth.

"Sir—I think—"

Joel's hand closed round the man’s wrist and removed it from you in one hard motion. The prince stumbled back a half step, more from outrage than force, his face changing at once.

“You dare lay hands on me, knave?!”

“Your hour is done here,” Joel said, his voice rough with disuse, made rougher still by the helm that echoed.

The man looked him up and down. Where he might've been handsome from far away, he was more pallid and mousey up close. Joel wondered if he could feel his fiery gaze through the visor, as he made no move to come any closer to you.

"Do—" he scoffed again, mouth agape like some sort of guppy—"do you know who stands before you? I am the Duke of York, I am—"

"A man who has outstayed his welcome. I will see you out."

The duke stared up at Joel, "You forget your place, knight."

Joel did not move. You were strangely silent beside him.

"You are here to watch a door," the duke went on anyway, "not snatch at your betters like some kennel dog!”

Joel’s jaw tightened, “Then your betters ought to know when a lady has bid them enough.”

The duke’s eyes flashed. “I was speaking to Her Grace.”

“And now you are not,” your voice came suddenly.

That gave the duke pause. He turned to you, perhaps expecting a soft apology and simpering, but you had none for him.

“My Lord,” you said, your voice cool now, all sweetness spent, stepping forward, “I have thanked you for coming, I have bid you farewell. But I begin to think your ears are for ornament only. Must I say it a third time before you hear me?”

The prince barked a laugh, though there was no mirth in it. Where his face was befallen with surprise before, it soured now entirely. He looked between you and Joel for a moment with a curdled smile.

"Indeed?”“ His gaze felt oily as he looked upon you with something ugly. “You are not some merchant’s daughter to play the coy maid with me. You are a princess, and I had thought to indulge you and your blandness, seeing as you have so little to offer a man besides a crown and beauty.”

“Excuse me?” you said, sharp as a lash.

He turned toward you fully now, still flushed with his own offense. “What? Will you set your hound upon me because I admired you too well?”

“I will do as I please in my own court,” you said, your voice low now, which was always worse. “And you forget yourself far more than my knight ever has.”

Joel's stomach did a funny little swoop at that.

The prince’s mouth went thin. For a moment he said nothing, only stared at you with that same affronted disbelief men so often seemed to wear when told no by a woman. Then whatever sense had kept his tongue bridled failed him.

“Had your father still breath in him, this silliness would be done by nightfall,” he said pompously, seething and turning blotchy red as he loomed closer. “He’d have had you handed over to me without fuss, wedded in the chapel and beneath me in bed by dark, sparing the realm of your tiresome —"

He did not finish the sentence, because Joel's metal fist made contact with his perfectly straight nose.

The duke fell to the floor at once, knocked out cold upon the council room stone. Joel heard your gasp of surprise, and looked to you at once.

Your eyes were wide upon the duke, and then up at him.

"Apologies, Your Grace," Joel said as he shook the force of the blow from his gloved hand, "His tongue ran faster than my patience would allow."

For a moment you only stared at him wide eyed.

The room had suddenly become so still Joel could hear the faint crack and hiss of one of the hearth fires at the far wall over only his pounding heart. He wasn't sure if you would rage at him, throw him from the room for knocking out your suitor. But as he watched, something changed in your face. He saw it first in your eyes, the way the shock in them gave way to a brighter, near disbelieving glimmer. Then your brows pulled together, not in anger but in the strain of holding something back. Your hands stayed clasped over your mouth, though no gasp escaped now.

He saw the crinkling of your eyes, a light sparking in them, and you began to laugh. It slipped pasted your clasped hands, your shoulders shaking with undeniable mirth.

And suddenly, Joel found that he was laughing too. It broke from him in a sort of hiccuping cough at first, something his body had nearly forgotten how to do. He bowed his head once, though his helm hid his expression anyway. But lifted it once again to watch the warmth in your face, alive and gleeful as you looked upon him.

You drew a breath, trying to master yourself, though a last giggle still betrayed you as you dropped your hand.

“What an absolute pompous ass,” you said.

Joel’s mouth twitched.

You looked down at the sprawled duke with open disdain now, all sweetness gone as the moment passed. Joel bent down to lift the man and take him to the infirmary.

“Leave him there.”

He paused. “My Lady?”

“I shall take my noon rest,” you said, smoothing one hand down the front of your gown, though your eyes were still bright with laughter. “Will you stand guard at my door, ser Joel?"

He stood slowly.

"If you wish it, M'Lady."

“Very good. Let us take our leave,” you said simply, "and we will leave him to wake to his humiliation where he lies. I'm sure he will take his leave with as little grandeur as he deserves.”

Joel nodded, and escorted you out.

𝓞utside your door for the rest of the day, Joel let the hours pass him by without much notice of the comings and goings. Yes, he watched dutifully as always when one of your ladies came by, a new book in hand for you, it seemed, keeping you well entertained through the day. As the sun began to lower, a few servant boys came up with hot water in buckets, one of them red in the face with the strain of carrying it careful up the steep stair. But the traffic thinned as evening wore on, the hallway settling into long stretches of quiet broken only by footsteps far below.

His mind wandered more than he cared to admit. Back to that morning, to the princes and their soft clean hands, the jewels that flashed in the golden sunlight that came through the room as they drank and ate the morning away. He had stood firm and watched while they fawned over you, kissed your knuckles, laid hands to your shoulder or the small of your back when they'd lean in to speak to you.

He would not dare try to name the feeling that rose in him at the thought. Particularly not when it came to that duke of where-the-fuck who laid hands and filthy words upon you. His knuckles were still sore, and he glanced down at them as if he could see through the steel plated gauntlet, flexing and fisting his fingers. It was dangerous to strike a man of such stature, he knew that, though he had only thought of it after. His blood and his body were meant to serve his princess. He did not care what other title stood in the way of your safety.

He realized, after a moment, that he had hardly thought of his daughter the past half day. He had meant to drink himself stupid the night before, to rid himself of the memories and the guilt and another turn of the sun for him but not for his own girl. He had wanted to be wake up to a splitting head and a rolling stomach because he deserved no less. Wanted to dwell in the pain of it all like he did every year since. But instead... he suddenly was glad he hadn't drank more, and found he liked the memories of the alley now. Of you there in the dark, with your false confidence ordering him about like a dog meant to heel. He did not like what the memories did to him, however. The way his blood seemed to leave his head and settle low in his gut and loins. It would not do. He told himself that over and over, like knocking his own skull with a mallet. He must rid himself of such visions, of the memory of your featherlight touch where he had barely kissed you.

He felt stupid. That was the word for it. Stupid and past his years. He was old enough to know better. To know what came of letting himself be pulled around by a woman’s eyes, no matter that woman wore a crown’s future on her head. Old enough to know the distance between a knight and a princess was not something crossed in taverns or alleys or hallways outside her bedchamber. Yet there he stood, same as he had stood all day, held in place as much by his own thoughts as by duty.

A servant came to set the torches burning, one by one, and the stone walls took on that evening color they always did, gold near the flames, brown in the corners, black where the ceiling beams cut across overhead. Somewhere below, voices had started again. Supper, likely. Men off duty and cups being set down. He heard a dog barking once in the yard. Joel listened without really hearing any of it.

When the steps came on the stair at last, steady and heavy with armor, he looked up.

Joel did not move when the other knight reached the top of the landing. He only watched them come broad in the torchlight, helm on, hand resting easy at the pommel of his sword as though this were any other turn of the watch.

“It is late,” the man said, voice muffled beneath the steel. “You may go.”

Joel stayed where he was.

“She has slipped her chambers twice now,” he said, voice becoming more rough hewn, more frustrated. “Twice in two nights. Did you know?”

The other knight slowed.

Joel stepped forward then, not enough to crowd him, yet enough to make plain the matter would not be waved off. “And unless you are witless, that means she did not do it without negligence. Was a door left unguarded, a passage left unwatched? Or a man on duty with his head up his own ass? Which was it?”

The knight stiffened at once. “You should mind your tongue, brother.”

“You should mind your post.”

But as Joel spat the words, realization crept upon him, or, rather, recognition.

"…Tommy?"

The knight lifted his visor, and Joel saw at once the blue-green of his brother’s eyes.

“Tommy,” he said again, this time with a long breath.

“Joel?”

Joel pushed up his own visor then, enough for his brother to see him plain enough. Not only a brother of the guard before him, but his own brother in blood.

"It's been too long, hasn't it?" Tommy said, and Joel could see the crinkling around his brother's eyes, a smile widening beneath the steel covering.

“Aye. Overlong indeed,” Joel said, and let his visor fall shut again with a clang. “Had I known this was the sort of watchman you’d make, I would have taught you better long ago.”

"You forget it is I who have been a knight longer than you, brother." Tommy only chuckled genially. “But I shall do better this night. There is no need to worry. I shall see to it my rounds are passed with each hour from here to the stair and back again—”

Joel shook his head, a creaking of steel with the motion, “No. Go down to the garden stair and begin your watch there. I shall remain here and guard this door.”

Tommy paused. “Have you not stood here all day?”

“Aye.”

“Then you have need of sleep, brother. I shall send another in my stead to—”

“No need.”

Tommy’s helm tilted with disbelief. Joel could picture the look beneath it easily enough. He had known that look since Tommy and him were only boys, seeing straight through his stubbornness.

“You need rest, Joel,” Tommy said with a sigh. “Most of all after yesterday—”

“Have a good night, Tommy,” Joel cut in. “I shall see you in the morn when we break fast.”

Tommy was quiet for a moment, then said, “Very well. I shall go below and send someone up with your supper. I doubt you have eaten a bite, knowing how you mark the day.”

Joel rolled his eyes, though Tommy could not see it.

“Fine,” he said.

Tommy nodded once. “Good night, brother.”

“Good night.”

𝓐fter his meat pie and potato stew, Joel had begun to feel the full weight of the day.

The castle had gone quiet in only the way it did deep into the night, the fires burning low in the torches, the doors long shut of the nurses and cooks and servants fast asleep in their chambers. There were no footsteps in the corridor now, only the crickets outside the window kept him company through the long hours.

His eyes threatened to droop now and then, the steady set of his guard beginning to slacken as his body swayed before he caught himself. His legs were sore. His back ached. At least the pain in his head had eased with food and water, leaving him only with the deep drag of tiredness settling into his bones.

You had been so quiet the rest of the evening, the entire day if he thought of it. He wondered if you had your nose between the pages of that book your lady-in-waiting had brought. Or maybe you were so tired from the previous night and finally were getting your rest. Perhaps you just did not want to see anyone. Joel would understand that best.

That was why, when he heard the sound the first time, he thought he had imagined it.

It was so faint—he couldn't have said for certain whether it had come from within your chambers or some dreamlike place between wakefulness and sleep. He lifted his head from where it had just begun to dip again, his entire body stilling as he listened.

But then, nothing. Only the crickets keeping him company beyond the window, and the soft crackle of torchfire along the wall.

Joel frowned, looking out into the dark stretch of stone corridor, but there was nothing there.

And just as he began to dismiss it as some trick of his tired mind, he heard it again.

No, that had most certainly come from your chambers. And it was soft but unmistakable, forcing the drowsiness from him at once.

And then, you were calling his name. As if pained, as if you needed something and you were so weak you couldn't bare to yell it or even call to him.

"Joel, please."

His head filled at once with terrible possibilities. Had you been hurt? Had someone come in the night and set upon you in your sleep? But how would they have got past your guard? Had Tommy been struck down and left crumpled at the garden door while some intruder made his way inside?

Joel felt the last of his tiredness leave him in a rush. He pushed through the door and took the winding staircase two steps at a time, his hand skidding once against the stone wall as he climbed, already expecting to find some dark figure at your window or slipping through the garden door below—

But he did not.

Instead he found the candles by your bed still burning low, their light pooled soft and gold across the room.

Your chamber was richer than anything below. It smelled of lavender, fresh clean linen and pressed oils. A great bed stood at the center of it, raised on a carved frame dark as old walnut, the curtains tied back in pale drapes that spilled from the canopy like silk. Fine linen hung in layers round the posts, gathered and draped with a care no soldier’s room had ever known. The coverlets were cream colored and worked over with little stitched flowers and trimmed edges, the pillows heaped high enough to swallow a body whole. A lamp burned on the table beside it, throwing light over a rug patterned dark at the foot of the bed, over the washstand in the corner, over fabric that had been thrown to the floor in a heap. It was as messy and as elegant only a woman’s room could be.

And you were laid in the middle of it upon the heaps of down pillows and duvet.

You weren't wounded like the nightmare his mind casted upon him. You were only sunken into the bed coverings, settled heavy with your face turned towards him as he entered. There was nothing of alarm in your expression—no fear, no pain he could see. Only a soft, faraway look of someone not wholly in the room with him.

“Oh,” you said gently, a small smile tugging like a string tied at the corner your mouth. “I must have fallen asleep. This is a dream, is it not?”

Your hands were hidden in your lap beneath layers of your gown, still in that deep blue from earlier. It lay dark against the pale linen, rumpled now from rest and restlessness, sleeves pushed up, pearl necklace and gloves gone and strewn over your bedside table. Your face looked loose with rest, lashes lowering, the hard edge of politeness he had watched you wear all morning nowhere to be found.

“My knight of truth,” you sighed, then caught your lip lightly between your teeth. “Come closer.”

Joel didn't know what to do. So he stayed frozen in the doorway.

You didn't look hurt, you looked…serene. Soft and pleased, even, with that hooded gaze fixed upon him.

He should not be here.

The thought rang through his head loud as church bells in the square. He should not be in your bedchamber. Not at this hour, not at any hour.

You let out a soft, simpering sigh when he did not move. Your eyes opened a little wider then, blinking awake, your teeth still worrying your lower lip.

“Mmm,” you hummed, and only then did Joel see the shift of your arm where it lay hidden beneath the folds of blue in your lap. “Then perhaps I am not dreaming,” you said, your voice thick with sleep. “You listen much better in my dreams.”

Joel almost had half a mind to laugh.

He climbed the last step and came fully into the room.

"Take off the helmet, ser," you said a little breathless, "and come closer."

Joel only listened to one of those orders, the less dangerous of the two, and stepped closer to you.

One step.

Then another.

He had come halfway to the bed when he saw you properly and turned his back at once with a sharp breath.

“Your Grace—”

You let out an petulant scoff of breath, and he heard the duvet move as if you'd kicked your legs like a child.

"You are such a terrible listener!" you whined.

"Please, My Lady, I should leave you to your—"

"Turn around, Joel Miller. And come stand at my bed." you said. Fully awake. An order not to be disobeyed.

He stood rigid, staring instead at the portrait hung beside the doorway. Yourself, painted fine and bright in an ornate frame, hair dressed perfect, those same pretty eyes fixed on him from canvas and bed alike. His blood was hot and thrumming in his veins, shooting up his neck in a deep flush. His fingers fisted, the steel of his gauntlet creaking with the strain.

Fuck.

“Turn around,” you said again, stronger now, your voice carrying all the weight of The Crown.

He turned.

And he saw you. You, with your dress turned up and hiked over your hips and stomach so that your legs were spread out, your hands not only just laying in your lap but between them, one spreading your folds open, the other with a delicate finger playing with your most sensitive flesh.

Joel looked only at your face.

"Good." you smiled. "Now the helmet."

Joel murmured your name, and you only moaned.

He swallowed hard.

“Please,” he said, and his voice came rough, “I cannot be here. What are you doing awake at this hour? You ought to be asleep.”

“I cannot,” you whined. “I could not stop thinking of you striking that idiot this morning. It made me so... you make me so...” You shut your eyes, drawing in a heavy breath, and the sound you made then had Joel fixing his gaze on the bedpost behind you, on the carved wood, on anything but the sight of your hand between your thighs.

“And what of you, knight?” you asked when your eyes reopened. “Do you think of me as I think of you? With your hand on your—”

“Jesus—” he cut in. “No. No, I do not—”

“Joel,” you groaned, throwing your head back so the column of your neck shone in the firelight, a bead of sweat making it glisten, “you are the only man here who does not lie to me. I would rather you did not begin now.”

He was silenced.

“Everyone lies to me,” you went on, breathless now, your fingers still moving as you looked back at him. “They tell me what they think I wish to hear. They flatter me with pretty words. They speak to The Crown and not to me. You are the only one who does not sound tired of me before I have even finished speaking. The only one who does not look at me and see what may be gained. You are the only one who sees me at all. And you make me half mad.”

Joel was breathing hard himself, his thoughts clawing in every direction, trying to fix on anything but the bed before him, the sound of your voice, the shape of your mouth when you said his name.

And he knew at once, a single truth.

He had never taken his place in The Guild for honor or nobility. He had not trained for twenty and one years from boyhood nor for the sake of The Crown, nor for any shining notion of duty. He had joined because there was a deep, empty chasm within him that demanded to be fed, and when his daughter died it had only widened, and widened, and widened, until it seemed it would take the whole of him if he did not give it something. Order. Coldness. Blood. A wall to put his back against. A blade in his hand.

But just now, in this moment, he understood that none of it had filled him the way you had in the last few days of being in your stead. You had stepped up to him so close that day in the chambers, close enough to make him forget himself. You had terrified him with how slippery you were, how easily you slid past every wall set between you and what you wanted. You had silenced him with your wit and your strength. And you had made him an absolute fool in his wanting just last night. He felt lighter than ever before.

That was what made him answer:

“Yes, Your Grace,” he said at last, barely above a whisper. “I do think of you.”

Candlelight flickered over the pale curtains of the bed, over the dark blue of your gown pulled high to the crease of your thighs and over the sheets wrinkled beneath your legs, over your face as you watched him with that dazed, wanting look that would have been easier to bear if there had been any shame in it.

You sighed again, and Joel wondered how you had so much breath in you, giving it up in long, dragging pulls while his own seemed held tight in his throat.

“I will tell you this, Joel Miller,” you said at last, when neither of you gave way. “And it is my final order. Do you understand?”

He nodded.

“An answer, please.”

“Aye, My Lady. I understand.”

“You are to choose your next step of your own accord. I will not force you, nor command anything further of you, Ser Joel of the Dawn.”

Your voice caught a little then, though your eyes never left his.

“But know this, and know it well: I want you, and I want you badly. I am not much accustomed to being denied what I desire, as I think you know by now. Yet I would not force you to me. So the choosing is yours.”

You drew in one last shaky breath, nervousness now clear as day in your eyes as you looked at him from the nest of your bed:

"But I would have you choose now. My hand prunes with how wet you make me. And if you will not have me, I would much rather suffer alone."

Joel’s feet moved of their own accord then, not from any order, nor fear of disobedience. He walked toward the foot of the bed and what he saw there nearly stopped his heart in his chest.

You looked up at him with a smile dimpling your cheek, your hooded eyes soft as they found him. Your breasts spilled high above the tight blue bodice, and below that, you had bared yourself to him with your skirts shoved up over your hips. Your hand laid gently over your core, and he saw how you glistened. It pearled in the hair around it, a beautiful basin of nectar waiting for his taking.

"Is this your decision, Ser Knight?"

His hands rose to his head, to that steel shell that had kept him safe from being seen, from being known too well, and slowly he lifted it off. He held it at his side and looked at you, and God, you were a sight fit to kill a man where he stood.

"Joel."

That made him look up. Your fingers between your sweet lips and his name on the other.

"Your answer," you whispered.

He held out his hand to you, and you replied in silence, lifting your own from between your legs and reaching for him. Before you could touch him, he tore off his gauntlets and cast them aside with a dull clank to the thick blanket upon the floor, then took your hand in his. Hot skin met hot skin. He felt the slickness of you on the pads of your fingers, and it sent a hard shiver through him. He brought your hand to his mouth and closed his lips around your first two fingers, and groaned deeply at the taste.

Soft, supple, tasting of musk and honey and delight. It was like that pastry cream upon his spiced gingerbread so many days ago. And he loved the taste much the same. He suckled them deep, tongue slipping between and licking up every line and dip of your delicate fingers.

“What would you have of me, princess,” he murmured against your fingertips, kissing them once before drawing back, “if I said yes?”

Your eyes were on his mouth as they pressed against your fingers, your breath labored and panting.

"I—" you hiccuped, licking your lips, "I would have you undress. Take off all this—y-your armor—and—and—"

Had he made you so nervous suddenly?

It made his blood surge.

“And?” he asked with low tones.

"I want to watch—" you suddenly went bashful as your eyes found his, then dropped again as your gaze trailed down and down and down until—

"I wish to watch your arousal grow for me."

So he gently let go of your hand, and began to undress in silence.

"So it is…a yes?" you said again.

He had never seen you so unsure before, so nervous in his presence.

"Yes, Your Grace." he finally said. "I will take you as you want, I will kiss you as you had asked. I will do anything you ask."

“Take off this irritating steel first,” you said at once, as if you'd held the words in waiting, long enough that they came out with impatience. “It pains me that you hide such beauty beneath it. You are the most handsome man I have ever seen, and I have only ever seen a third of you.”

Joel felt his lips twitch.

"I've never seen that before either." you said.

"What?" he asked, unlatching his breast and arm plates.

"Your smile."

Suddenly you were sitting up, hand lifted between the space between you, hovering over his cheek. When he did not stop you, you let the pads of your fingers drift lightly along his cheekbone. It felt foreign, strange, but not unwelcome. Warm. Soft, gentle. Your eyes watched him, bright and eager, and it set a small stir in his chest. His mind dulled as you traced the line of his nose, down over the curve of his top lip, the bottom one, then down to his wiry chin. He caught your wrist when your hand began to wander down his throat, cradled it in his palm, and pressed a kiss to the center.

"If I do this, if we do this…." he said very seriously. You had to know. "There is no coming back from it. Do you understand?"

You nodded.

"Make it clear in your head—you will no longer be a virgin for your husband one day, and you will always be mine."

You bit your lip, "I understand, Joel."

He leaned down, and finally, finally, kissed you.

Heat.

It was as if his body was made of it, blinding, kindled only by your touch.

You made a small sound at the force of it, his mouth finding yours with such certainty that it shocked a noise from him too— a deep, hungry groan. His tongue pressed at the seam of your lips, and you opened for him so easily, so sweetly, that he had to pull back almost immediately and press his forehead to yours just to keep hold of himself.

"Fuck," he muttered against your mouth before planting a sweeter, chaste kiss to it.

He watched as you licked your lips, breathing in every exhale of his.

You carded your hands through his hair, and God, it felt so fucking good. Touch, want, your fingers working through his hair, those little sounds leaving you for him and no one else. It had been so long that the hunger he felt it made him nauseous.

He pulled away then and began stripping off the rest of his armor with more haste than care, setting each piece down as quietly as he could for fear the night watch below might hear the fall of it. You had pushed yourself up onto your knees in the bed to watch him, your eyes bright with an eagerness that made his pulse kick harder the more of himself he uncovered.

By the time he was down to his tunic and linen trousers, you gave him a look that said plainly it was not enough.

"These too."

"Bossy little minx," he said, shaking his head, "Patience is a virtue, didn't your council ever tell you?"

"They tried." you smiled.

He chuckled, and pulled his shirt over his head, and your hands were immediately upon him with avidity. Nimble, light touches that made him flush in goosebumps. They traced down over the wiry hair that trailed beneath his linen pants, your fingers setting his skin in a line of fire as you hooked in the waistband and began pushing them down.

His member was only half hard, as he had tried so hard to cast his mind from you at all that he had to control himself.

You sank back against the pillows then, unable, it seemed, to stop looking at him. He stood at the end of the bed, broad against all the pale linen and carved wood and soft drapery, and for a moment he felt almost ashamed of the roughness of himself in a room so clean and fine.

“You are...” you said, then shook your head a little. “The most beautiful thing I have ever seen, Joel Miller.”

He didn't realize he still had it in him to blush like some teenage boy. His cock swelled and twitched when you squirmed before him. Your smile widened, as did your eyes as you watched it twitch for you.

"I am not the one who is worthy of such praise, Your Grace," he said, following you down into bed, "I have never in all my years—and years I have, more than anything—seen something as stunning as you."

Your finger caught between your teeth, nervousness again, it made his cock jump in excitement again, surging with need, and his lips pulled up in a smile. You grinned up at him as your other hand reached around his shoulders when he finally reached you.

"You are ridiculous," you giggled.

He looked at you with disbelief, "Ah, but it's not just that, is it?" he said roughly, kissing your lips softly, before planting another on your chin, and then down your jaw, and then on your clavicle. He kissed where your breasts nearly spilled above your neckline.

"It is not your beauty that has me in your bed right now, Your Grace," he said.

"Please say my name when you are kissing my flesh, Joel. That or something sweet, something you'd bestow upon a lover."

A lover.

Joel paused his kissing, stealing his breath.

"I'm—I'm sorry—" you began, your hand reaching for his hair, as if trying to soothe. You pushed the dark hair that tickled his forehead back, scratching your nails through his scalp, "I know we are not…that you don't want…"

"Make no mistake, baby, I do want." he said hoarsely. "It's all I've ever felt around you."

Your hand stayed in his hair as if you knew there was something else. A hesitation on his tongue.

"But?" you urged.

"But…the last time I loved anything…it…I… I can't…"

"It's alright, Joel, just for tonight, let's pretend." you said softly, your smile still pulling your lips like thread, though it was sadder now, he could see it. "I'm a big girl. I can handle what comes tomorrow."

He lifted his head and looked at you for a long moment.

Then he gave the smallest nod. “Aye,” he said softly. “I think you can.”

His lips went back to your soft skin at once, to the warm slope of your breasts, and his hands slid between you and the bedspread to draw you fully into him while he worked at the ties of your bodice.

You hummed pleasantly, still watching him, always watching him. Finally, when your bodice came undone, you were quick to pull the rest of it away, and soon you were bare to him. Joel suddenly realized the only person who had seen you in such a way your entire life was probably your mother as a babe.

You were stunning. Curves made for his hands and supple skin for the taking. You squirmed a little in the bed beneath him as he looked upon your figure, breasts heavy enough to make his mouth water when he finally bent to take one into his mouth.

You gasped when his lips closed around the nipple, and his hips pressed into you with need. His cock was aching now, and he realized you had not truly been able to watch him harden for you, but he was in another frame of mind now, so taken by his wanting that he moaned when your back arched into him, kissing between the valley of your breasts before taking the other into his mouth. He suckled it hard, then gentler, then let the edge of his teeth drag lightly over the pebbled flesh.

“Oh,” was all you could say as his hand palmed the other breast in time with his mouth. Your legs wrapped gently around him, and he could feel your wet center begging for his cock to enter you, but he would wait, be good and patient if only for you, to get you ready. For now, he let his member slide between the soft, hot folds, both of you moaning at the feeling.

His lips left you with a soft pop as he kissed down your ribs, to your navel, his tongue tracing around it until it dipped into the skin, just tasting every inch he could find. Your hand stayed in his hair until you could no longer reach, and then he was lifting your legs over his shoulders.

"What do you know about bedding, baby?"

You hummed, hips squirming.

“A little.”

“Oh?” he asked, looking up at you through his lashes. And God, if it was not the finest sight. Your breasts rising and falling with every breath, your soft belly moving with the undulation of your hips.

“Mmm,” you hummed again, dreamlike. “My lady-in-waiting told me of her first time once. My mother only said it may hurt.”

Joel nodded, kissing the top of your mound, a thicket of pretty hair meeting his lips, a pearl of your arousal sticking to his mustache, and he licked it off.

"Some find the…initial entrance a bit uncomfortable, I will not lie to you. But it passes, as long as I am gentle."

"Will you be gentle with me, Joel?" you asked. And when his eyes met yours, he was surprised to see a spark of challenge in them.

“If you wish—” he said, kissing the line where your thigh met your center. Your skin rose in gooseflesh beneath his mouth.

"And if I don't want you to be gentle?"

He didn't answer that.

“—But this,” he said between kisses, his mouth close enough now that the scent of you had his head light and cotton-made, “this should feel good. You will tell me if it does not. Do you understand?”

You nodded. “I do.”

"You are so beautiful, baby," he said softly, and kissed the pearl that was your clit at the top of your center. Sweet, honey musk filled his mouth at the touch, his tongue laving at the bud. He heard how your breath caught in your lungs, and you laid flat on your back, giving yourself over to the sensation.

"Tastes like those god damn pastries you like so much," he growled between long, fat licks, "so fucking sweet."

He heard a thick dispelling of breath from you that might've been a laugh had he not had you under his tongue, and your legs fell open even wider for him as he suckled your clit into his mouth.

"Oh—" you breathed, "that feel so—so—"

Joel groaned at the way your body answered him. He grew more intent, more certain with his tongue, listening to every sound you made, every catch in your breath, every shift of your hips beneath his mouth. And he replied in earnest with his wet muscle of his tongue, tasting and eating and taking. Your moans only climbed higher, and with them something possessive and ugly stirred in him again. He wondered, a little maddened, whether you had ever felt anything like this before. Whether your own hand had ever brought you here the way he was doing now. The thought made him near sick with jealousy, that you might ever lie in this bed again without him and try to find your way back to this feeling alone. That someone else, a husband perhaps…would…

And when his tongue prodded into your entrance that now flooded with slick and wetness made from sweet nectar, his nose nudging your clit, your back bowed in a flash, your hands in fists as you clenched the bedsheets, and he felt your cunt pulse against his mouth as you claimed your orgasm.

A loud, mewling noise left your open mouth as he let your hips shift up and down his mouth, tongue flat as you rode out the wave of ecstasy.

When you had settled and your hips began to soften and ease, he kissed your bud a few more times before you were twitching from sensitivity, and he began to climb over you.

"And how are you feeling, Your Grace?"

"What did I say about my name?"

Joel smiled down at you, a little dazed, before he moved to your side and pulled you back against his chest. You smelled so lovely, your hair a bouquet of scent, as if you'd been in the garden—lavender and lilacs, sprigs of rosemary all filled his nose as he buried it into your hair for a moment. Like spring and warmth and newness.

He pressed a kiss to your ear, and you let out a soft, pleased sigh as he whispered your name into the shell of your ear.

"I feel wonderful," you said dreamily, your arm hooking over your shoulder so your fingers could go back to his hair, playing with the nape of his neck as you looked over at him.

You kissed him softly, plump lips swollen, and his hands began to roam of their own accord and own mind, over your chest to fondle you, down to your belly and below to dip his fingers in your weeping core, pulling you against him.

"You feel…" you said, a little nervous again, yet pushing your bum back into him anyway, "big."

Joel nodded, kissing your lips again, "Yes, but you will take it."

He felt you shiver beneath him.

“And I know you will take it well,” he added, his mouth brushing yours with every word, “only if you are certain you want it.”

"Yes," your hands tightened in his hair, "I want you, more than anything I've ever…"

He didn't let you finish, the sentence, the words of want, of need. He was too afraid of what they would do to him. So he kissed you hard, tongues rolling and sliding against one another, and he adjusted his hips so that he could angle himself against you. The tip of his cock circled your clit, making you whimper beneath him, until he was breaching your tight entrance. It turned his brain to mush so fast he had to take a moment to return to himself, panting hot breath on your mouth.

"Joel—!" you squeaked, and he only kissed you harder, distracting. But he saw how your brow knitted together, how your jaw went slack as his lips found purchase.

"It's alright, baby," he cooed, "that's all, just a little, look at me now, look."

And you opened your eyes, black pupils overtaking that pretty color of your irises, arousal glossing over your features, but there was an uncertainty clouding them, pulling your brows close.

"Just you and me." he said softly, "Gonna go real slow, okay?"

You nodded. "Hold me."

He did as he was bid—wrapping his arms tightly around you, letting his hips push another inch or so inside—and your jaw unhinged, eyes bulging a little.

His arms wound around you so tight he thought he might steal the air from your lungs.

"Deep breath in, baby, real deep. Yeah, that's it," he whispered against your skin and he could hear the scrape of his own beard against the smooth skin of your cheek, could feel your ribcage expanding with air as you inhaled deeply.

"And out," he sighed, as if demonstrating.

And as your breath left you, he pushed in the remaining eight inches of himself, stretching your tight cunt until it wrapped around him in slick, pulsing heat. He watched every change in your face, heard every sound that hitched in your throat.

Your neck bent back into the pillow, your jaw wide enough to unhinge from your skull, and he kissed your skin sweetly, quickly, breathing hard.

He had to remind himself to stay still. Your velvet walls, the wet heat you made for him, only for him, always for him, it made him insane. His brain was overcome with it, with the need to fill you with himself.

He hadn't had…he hadn't been with anyone in so long. And for it to be you. You, stunning beauty and quick wit and heavy crown looming over your head. You, who wanted him just as much despite the circumstance.

He had to remind himself to be good, polite. Because that broken chasm in him was slowly starting to knit itself together inside of him, though it begged for more now. It hungered for something more from you, to take—no, not take, but to give. And he'd give you everything.

"Fuck, baby," he groaned, cock swelling and twitching inside of you. "I—"

"Move," you whispered, hand tightening in his hair again, "Please,"

"Are you certain?" he breathed heavily, chest pricking with sweat against your soft back, "We should take it slow—"

"Please, please move, Joel," you whined, eyes fluttering closed, tongue poking out to lick your dried lips as you began to babble. "I feel so full, so… oh, this is everything. I feel you in my stomach, so so full— I feel you everywhere."

Joel kissed the crest of your shoulder before pulling out only an inch or so, and watched as your eyes rolled to the back of your head.

"Oh my fucking god—"

He nearly laughed at your filthy mouth. He'd never heard you say more than a quick insult, let alone a curse.

"I want more—harder—more more moremoremoremore—"

The feeling was too great. Your cunt was holding onto him in a vice like grip, sucking his cock in greedily, and his mind was lost to it.

"I'm going to take you now," he growled into your neck, and before he could even finish the sentence, you were nodding.

He flipped you onto your stomach with rough hands, and mounted you, though he stayed lain across your back so his hips moved freely. He began pulling almost all the way out slowly, until you were whining and kicking your feet for more—

And then he began to move.

Hips swinging forward and back, fucking you in earnest, the bed creaked and slammed against the wall, your moans filling the chamber and his ears. His mind was gone now, completely gone to this feeling—your weeping cunt made for taking him, and taking him so god damn well. Joel thought everything made sense now. Why you'd challenged him, why you'd driven him insane when you'd snuck out, why he'd cornered you in the alley like a brute—it was all leading to this. Him, fucking you, and you, taking it so beautifully. He'd never had anything like it.

"You take it so well for a girl who's never seen cock before, Your Grace," he groaned into your ear, wrapping his arms around your torso so there would be no inch of skin not discovered by him.

Your mouth hung open, breath spilling out, your hands holding onto where his arms held you. He watched as a bit of spit caught at the pillow as you looked over your shoulder at him with a smile. "Only yours, Joel Miller. And yours is the only one I wish to take for—"

He kissed you hard, cutting you off, deepening the angle of his thrusts to swallow the rest of it, his tongue forcing past your lips, both of you breaking into the kiss with sounds of pleasure.

"This little cunt feels so perfect, baby." he panted against your mouth, words slipping between kisses. “It is mine now. No matter who you marry. No matter who you bear children for.”

There it was. The manic beast that laid dormant yet hungry all the same. Possessive and desperate. The black pit of him, the darkest side of him now coming out. Selfish and mean and needier than anything he'd ever known. He was sure it would terrify you, the way his lips snarled with the demand.

"Yours." you whispered in response against his mouth.

“No—” he tried, the word catching as he pulled back a fraction, fighting it.

"Yes," you hissed, and as he began to pull away you held him there again, arm swiping out between you and the bed to fist into his hair once more. His thrusts were becoming sloppier by the minute. He was losing control. Of this, of himself, of whatever this suddenly was becoming.

Your mouth hung open, but through your moans, through the breaking of your breath, you said, "I am yours, Joel Miller. And you are mine."

The light of morning had begun to slip in through your chamber window, catching along his shoulder, laying pale yellow and blue over the bed.

“And I wish for you to finish inside me,” you went on, softer now, but no less certain. “So I may bear what is yours. So we shall marry. I will have it no other way.” Your eyes stayed fixed on his. “I am to be Queen of this realm. And you are my man. You are everything. There is no part of you left to solitude. Nor I."

He tried to silence you again, pressing his mouth to yours, but you would not let him. You pulled away—lips only just brushing, holding him fast and made him hear you.

His cock was swelling insurmountably at your words.

He thought his words of possession would scare you. But it was your words...

They terrified him.

And they also made him feel fucking insane.

"Give me everything, Joel."

His face fell onto your shoulder as his hips drove faster into you, your keep tightening and fluttering against him, as if your words had been spoken from where the two of you were joined. He felt anchored to you in an entirely new way, losing complete control over what little he thought he had.

"Ohhhh!" you mewled, fist loosening in his hair as you began to tighten and constrict his cock now.

“Come with me,” he groaned against your shoulder, voice rough and near pleading now. “Come on—let me feel you—I'll give you everything—everything you wish for.”

Your head tipped back, your body arching beneath him, and he felt it the moment you went, the way you clenched around him that pulled a harsh, broken moan from his chest as it dragged him right after you. His back went taut, his mouth opening against your skin as everything in him gave at once, his arms tightening hard around you as he lost himself in the way your bodies met, his spend emptying into you while you both shook through the ecstasy together.

For a while, there was nothing.

Slick skin against slick skin, hot breath and heavy inhales, the two of you intertwined entirely anew.

You were the first to move, to turn your head enough to kiss his nose where it laid against the top of your shoulder.

He shifted then, beginning to lift himself from you, but your hands tightened, holding him.

"Stay." you murmured.

He obeyed, because in truth, there was nothing else he wanted more.

“’Tis morning,” he said after a moment, voice low, still rough. “I should not linger long. Your lady-in—”

“My lady-in-waiting knows how much I have wanted this,” you said, cutting him off gently. “And she will not come until I call for her.”

Joel let out a quiet breath and settled back over you, his weight returning without resistance this time.

“I like feeling you like this,” you sighed, your eyes slipping closed. “Over me. The weight of you is… comforting.”

Joel smiled a bit at that, and brought you closer.

The morning had begun to stir outside your window. First with the low calls of birdsong, distant at first until the sun grew stronger. Its rays filled your bed chamber, stretching across his back, through the curtains of your bed posts, laying gold across your skin and his alike.

Your breathing was so slow and even beneath him he thought you might have fallen asleep.

He stayed there, laid over you, his face turned into the gentle curve of your neck, his arms still wrapped around you. He did not move an inch in fear he might break whatever spell was upon the two of you. And for the first time in a very long time, the deep abyss that lived inside of him held no ache, no need, no nothing.

He was content.

“I meant what I said, Joel,” you said quietly after a while, your eyes still closed, breathing still even. It didn't scare him this time, it didn't make him want to pull away or kiss you silent.

"I know."

𝒜𝒻𝓉𝑒𝓇

𝓗e knew he was late, and not by a little bit either. His chest fluttered with the anticipation of it, something he couldn't quite put a name to as he made his way through the castle corridors. His steps felt light against the stone. He had no metal helm to hide behind nor the armor plates to keep his expression hidden as he faced every passing glance and morning greeting.

"Morning, ser."

"Good morrow, Ser Joel."

A bow of a head, a smile, a wave. It all was something he was getting used to, or…at least trying to.

Finally ascending the stairs to the second floor, he took them two at a time, breath heavier now, whether from strain or the nerves making his heart thunder in his chest, he wasn't sure. He came upon the great chamber doors, their iron handles staring up at him. Voices carried through the wood— lighter, bubbling, and excited.

He pushed them open without announcement.

"Ah, there he is."

Your voice found him at once. Gentle and amused, it carried easily above the low hum of conversation.

“Good morning,” he said, just as soft, moving around your chair, letting his hand trail along your shoulder, down the line of your arm before taking his place beside you. "Apologies for the delay."

He looked around the table with a light, polite smile of greeting (he had been practicing it for some time), the room feeling vastly different than it ever had before.

To his left sat Miriam from the orphanage, her thin hands folded neat atop a ledger, kind eyes sharp as she took in the conversation at the table. Beside her, Lucia the barmaid, hair tied back, sleeves rolled, already mid run-down of town gossip with someone across from her—Rose, the fishmonger’s wife, still smelling faintly of salt even here. Beside her was Harriet, who raised cattle at the bottom of the hill, broad shouldered and kind, her voice was low but carried when she spoke. Next to her, Elin, the baker's widow. Marjorie from the weaver's row, and Old Nan at the far end who knew every birth and burial in the valley better than any record ever kept.

All women.

Every single one of them. Not a Lord or Duke or Prince in sight. Nor were there balding, pallid men who waggled their all-knowing boney fingers at you either.

Joel leaned back slightly in his chair, glancing once more around the table, taking it in. This was his place now, beside you. No longer standing stiffly in the corner with his eyes on every exit—though, he could admit he still caught his eyes glancing around, making sure, an old habit he wasn't eager to break. Some days it felt otherworldly to sit at your council.

Without thinking, his hand found yours beneath the table, rough fingers curling loosely around your softer ones, grounding himself in the only part of it that felt entirely familiar. He turned the ring on your finger absently.

Beside him, you sat at the head of the table with your chin propped lightly against your free hand, listening, asking where needed, dismissing where you saw fit. Not a physical crown upon your head, not a single piece of ceremony about you—and still, there was no mistaking what you were.

What you had become.

Your eyes drifted to him when he squeezed your fingers, a coy little smile playing your lips. Painted in ruby, for the celebration of harvest.

"And the stores—" Harriet said, rolling her eyes, but not in annoyance, but of something else. Bemusement, perhaps.

"What of them?" you interjected, concern drawing a line between your brows.

“Full, Your Grace," she answered, smiling wider at you. “More than full. We shall carry well into winter, if rot does not take to it."

“See that it does not,” you said with a small nod, and pointed to Miriam gently to write your thoughts. “We can store the excess here in the castle. There is room enough, and the lower chambers will keep it dry.”

Joel’s thumb moved once over the back of your hand, though he could not say why he had done it at all.

“Your Grace,” Lucia called, leaning forward a touch, “do you not think we ought to mark such a season as this? The townsfolk…they are eager to celebrate you and your husband. What you have brought them, in place of your father before you.” She glanced around the table. “We have not known times like these in…a long while, would you not say, ladies?”

There was a murmur of agreement around the table.

Joel was still getting used to that too—husband—a title he could hardly believe you had chosen to give him. And yet there was something in him that knew, just as he had warned you that first night in your bed, that there was no going back from whatever this had become. He had spoken then of some future husband, some man meant for you, while all the while that part of him, the one that had been sewn whole again, had already begun to hunger to be that man himself.

It had felt near a miracle when you asked him. He had thought you were teasing him at first. But you had not been.

You had married him in the garden, before only your most trusted councilwomen, Tommy at his side. It had been a fine fall day, the leaves crisp beneath your feet, the sun low and golden against his back as he stood in the finest cloak he had ever worn. And afterward, when the feast had begun in the great hall—full of townsfolk and distant kin and all the noise that came with such things—you had both slipped away from it, laughing through the corridors, back to your chambers, to be as you had always meant to be—together.

“And what would you have of it?” you asked, eyes on his, shaking him from his memories.

The room followed your look.

Joel felt the weight of your stare, though it did not strike him the way it once would have. He could have passed it off, given them something simple and let the attention fall away from him as he often did, but he had never been much good at soft answers, not where you were concerned.

“Give them something they’ve not seen,” he said, his voice carrying plain across the table. “A feast, aye, but more than that. Let them feel it’s changed.”

“Changed how?” Miriam asked, ink-dipped quill lifted.

He did not look away from you when he answered. “Like they’re not merely surviving anymore, but living.”

You watched him through the quiet moment as they took in his words, your smile tightening into something knowing. He suddenly wished he could kiss you now.

"I think we ought to have something truly special to celebrate." you added, leaning towards him, temping him further.

He answered it with one of his own smiles. “Oh?”

You nodded, "I think we shall name your coronation day. A feast, a celebration of harvest in your name, Joel."

He felt the heat rise in his face, sudden, unwelcome. “That is not—” he began, shaking his head. “We do not need—no one wants—”

“Oh, the town would love it!” Lucia burst out.

“The children,” Miriam added, near breathless, “they would speak of nothing else. A man of The Guild, raised from nothing—” she shook her head, smiling, “it would mean everything to them.”

There was a tumult of excitement across the mahogany table at that, and Joel's face was aflame with it, your eyes dancing in the sunlight as they stayed on him.

“What do you think?” you murmured.

He made a sound low in his throat, perhaps sounding like something between a protest and a surrender, but did not argue.

"Joel." you tilted your head, wanting something more than just his practiced silence.

“Ser Joel of the Dawn…” You let your hand fall from your chin and took his so it laid properly over the table now, both of yours closing around his, soft against the rough of him. “To be crowned King of this kingdom, beside me.”

He was silent.

“Let us celebrate you,” you whispered, your hands giving his a small, insistent squeeze.

Joel let his gaze move once around the table, over the wide eyes and eager faces of the women you had handpicked for your council, the people you had chosen to help you shape this kingdom, and there he was among them, beside them. Beside you.

At last his gaze came back to you, to your eager eyes and soft skin, to your braided hair and ruby mouth, and he felt it plain as breath in his chest that there would never be another woman he would wish to stand beside. He would do whatever you asked of him. There was no true reason left to hesitate, save perhaps that he liked the way you looked at him when you were waiting, the way you still made him nervous, the way you asked him—again and again—to be braver than he had ever been. Braver than he had been in his armor, braver than he had been at your father’s side, braver than he had been on the day he first stepped into this very chamber and found his life turning toward you. You had asked him to be the man you needed, and there had never been a world in which he would deny you.

So, with all the courage he had left to give, he nodded, and said:

"Okay."

in case you missed it:

𝐀𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐡𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐲.

Direwolf sigils were replaced with that of flayed men, befitting for the screams that often emerged from the bowels of the Keep or the kennels, where enemies were fed to Ramsay Bolton’s pack of slavering hounds. Old faces that you had grown up with as a girl were gone — removed or slaughtered.

Your father, once loyal to House Stark and to Eddard himself, was strung-up and butchered for all to see, flayed alive by the Bolton men who now controlled Winterfell. You grew numb to the pain, numb to the shifting environment around you. It wasn’t the home that you had grown up in.

When you had caught sight of Sansa Stark in the courtyard, auburn tresses like searing embers against the backdrop of endless gray and snow, tears on her face, you knew that you needed to act.

You hadn’t known Sansa very well, but you did know her brother, Jon Snow. A beloved friend in your youth and teenage years, you had watched him go to the Night’s Watch. Any letters you’d written were likely thrown to the wayside, given the oaths that Men of the Watch swore, but you had longed to see him again.

Sansa recognized your face, no longer that of a young maiden with her head in the clouds. The both of you were women grown, trapped within Winterfell, and you wholly intended on escaping.

Fleeing Winterfell was perilous — dangerous, especially with the winter so biting and icy that it threatened to freeze away your extremities. Aided by Theon Greyjoy, once a captive of Ramsay, the three of you escaped into the harshness of the Northern woodlands.

Much of your time spent was in constant peril, with the looming threat of Bolton hounds nipping at your heels, search parties sent sprawling across the Wolfswood and beyond. Every rustle in the trees, every snap of a twig, distant scream of the wind made your steps quicken.

It was only when your lives were spared by Brienne of Tarth and her squire that you knew you were truly safe.

Castle Black had stood the testament of time, the last line of defense against whatever monsters lurked outside of The Wall. When its massive gates had opened, making way for your caravan, you felt shrewd in the presence of strangers. You hadn’t left Winterfell for much of your life, and only now, the world seemed so much larger.

When you saw Jon Snow again, more a man now than a boy you’d left behind in Winterfell, your heart nearly shriveled up within your chest. Youthfulness had left him, replaced with a permanent twinge of melancholy. A scar circled around his right eye, seemingly newer, and his mound of curled tresses remained tugged into a half-bun.

You stood in Brienne’s shadow, shuddering from the gnawing bite of the cold, feeling it slowly eat away at your bones. Sansa sobbed into her brother’s shoulder — and you couldn’t fault her for it. The viciousness she suffered at the hands of the Boltons was some of the worst cruelties one could imagine.

It was only when you caught Jon’s eye that he felt his breath hitch within his throat, and he felt like a young man again — freshly eight-and-ten, watching as he introduced you to Ghost for the first time. The sound of your curious laughter had filled the courtyard of Winterfell, and he remembered it as if it were yesterday.

You were from a distant dream, somewhere close yet far away, slipping in and out of his thoughts.

The last thing that you wanted was to detract from Sansa’s reunion with her brother, and so you kept quiet, bringing yourself into the shoddy shelter of your cloak. Your visage was icy, stung by the bitter wind of the far North, and your hands ached.

“You are safe here,” Jon murmured, brown hues glistening with appreciation as he looked upon Brienne of Tarth. “I owe you my gratitude for saving my sister. Whatever you need from Castle Black, you’ll have it.” He nodded, finding his gaze drifting towards you, begging for you to look his way.

Perhaps you didn’t recognize him, but that seemed far-fetched. Edd beckoned for Sansa to follow him at Jon’s command, hoping to find warmth in the guest chambers in the Lord Commander’s suite. The burden and duty no longer belonged to him.

Brienne bowed, hand atop the pommel of Oathkeeper, the Valyrian steel sheathed within its scabbard. “I swore an oath to Catelyn Stark that I would keep her daughters safe — and I shall keep it.” She replied, cerulean hues flickering towards you. “Lady Sansa’s escape wouldn’t have been possible without her.”

Jon gazed at you as if you had brought down the sun and stars themselves, moved mountains with will alone. Gods, he missed you terribly. His departure for the Night’s Watch had left a gaping hole in your heart, never to be filled, but seeing him again only seemed to make it ache with something painful.

Wordlessly, your feet carried you before logic could stop you in your tracks, and you flung yourself into Jon’s embrace, feeling his arms wrap around you. Brienne’s countenance glistened with the realization that you knew Jon, and she seemed to steer Podrick away, allowing the both of you some privacy.

“You’re alive,” You whispered into his shoulder, feeling hot tears trickle down your cheeks. Part of you worried that he might’ve perished, but here he stood, Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, a man. “It has been so long, Jon Snow.”

He hadn’t been alive days ago — death had claimed him once before.

The scars that littered his body seemed to ache and throb with the mere thought of his own demise, and the anguish of betrayal that came with it. His dark brows furrowed together, visage one of gentle joy as he released you from his grasp. “You look older.” Older in the eyes — not in the face.

You were still just as beautiful, the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen — your appearance hadn’t changed, and he hoped that your heart hadn’t, either. Your friendship kept him afloat for many years during his time in Winterfell, living as a Stark. You never cast your judgment upon him for being a bastard — and you never would.

“So do you,” Concern crept into your voice as you looked over his rugged beard and the scar upon his brow. “What happened to you, Jon?” There was so much he wished to tell you — from the Wildlings to the White Walkers, and his death. You could see it in his face — the maturity, the weight of duty, an abundance of stoicism.

“It’s a long story.” Jon huffed, Northern timbre crackled with a bout of faint amusement, lips twitching into the ghost of a smile. He gestured for you to follow him, striding across the courtyard of Castle Black in-search of his own quarters. He no longer held the Lord Commander’s chambers, and for good reason.

The men of Castle Black weren’t accustomed to seeing a woman — it evoked his streak of protectiveness when it came to you. He ensured that he kept close to your side during the lengthy trek to his chambers. Brienne was sworn to Sansa, and Jon knew that she would be well looked-after in the Lady’s stead.

Ascending a flight of rickety wooden steps, Jon led you to his quarters. Smaller, but he preferred his solitude. His brothers had stabbed him, tore away his mantle of Lord-Commander, killed him — as soon as he could, he intended on leaving.

Pushing the door open, you were met with the gust of a raging hearth, warming your brittle bones as you rubbed your hands together, “Gods,” You whispered, immediately moving toward the crackling fire, extending your hands to the flames, eyes closing in satisfaction. “I nearly thought we wouldn’t make it.”

Jon’s brows furrowed together, and he pulled up a wooden stool for you to sit, and so did he, firmly planted at your side like a dutiful guardian. “You’re safe here. I’ll have a bath drawn for you.” Dirt stained your visage, clothes tattered and worn from travel, hem shredded and covered in snow and mud.

Something forlorn reached his eyes, a distant glimmer of melancholy that you immediately recognized. He was still Jon, but something else seemed amiss. You lowered your hands into your lap, basking in the lick of the firelight. “All my life, I longed to see beyond Winterfell. Here I am — and here you are.” Your smile was threadbare.

The both of you had endured unimaginable hardships during your time apart, yet the warmth and fondness of your friendship remained, strong as ever. If Jon told you what all had happened, what he saw, what he went through — he wondered how much of it you would believe.

“Do you remember the night of the feast, when King Robert came to Winterfell?” Jon remembered — he remembered you, most of all. Gods, you looked so beautiful that night, bringing him a heaping plate of foodstuffs from the banquet, keeping him company throughout the night’s festivities.

“Of course,” It was one of the last days you had spent with Jon before he departed for the Night’s Watch. You had a plethora of regrets, and not kissing him that evening was one of them. The opportunity had dangled itself before you, and you never acted on it. “They sheared your face clean. A disservice to you, truly.”

A brief huff of laughter escaped him, lips twitching into a faint smile. “That’s what you chose to remember?” He remarked, planting his forearms against his knees. Admittedly, he chose to remember you — the way your dress clung to you, the vibrancy of your smile, tenderness in your eyes.

Your nose wrinkled in amusement before you waved him aside, a smile stretched across your features — happier this time, full of warmth. “I remember more than just that, but yes. You weren’t so dour, then.”

Jon chuckled, effectively shattering his stoic mask as he looked at you, head canting to one side. “I still was, always sulking about in some corner,” He mused, peering toward the hearth. “The things I’ve seen — the things I’ve been through …” His jaw tightened, and the wound to his heart seemed to ache.

Empathy tugged at your countenance, one that dissipated from something lighthearted to seriousness. You reached out, resting a palm against his bicep. “What happened to you, Jon? You don’t seem the same.” You asked, glancing toward the scar on his face.

He didn’t have the heart to tell you about his death and resurrection — not yet, anyway. It was still too fresh a wound to speak of, left gaping and open, one that would take time to fully heal. “I went beyond The Wall.” Jon stated, as if that would answer all of your questions.

Silence drifted between you both, and you exhaled, brows creasing in contemplation as you looked toward the fire. You let your hands drift closer again, hoping to absorb any lick of heat that you could find. Jon stared at you, unbeknownst to you, studying the intricacies of your visage, the way your tresses framed your face.

Abandoning the rank of Lord-Commander had been a liberating thing. He was done fighting for men who had countered him at every turn, men who slaughtered him. He was unsure of his next course of action, but he wanted you there with him, regardless.

Hunger and famine gnawed at your stomach, chewing you up and spitting you out. Even Jon could hear the violent lurch of your stomach, see the exhaustion etched into your features. He didn’t want to keep you, but he didn’t want to leave you, either.

“You should clean up, join us for supper,” Jon prompted, melting away the tenuous silence. “I’ll see about finding you something proper to wear.” He wanted to continue to reminisce with you, but you deserved a moment of solace, a chance to bathe and warm yourself without his intrusion.

You nodded, offering Jon an amiable smile. “I want us to continue our conversation,” You insisted, your voice soft and tender, a silky resonance. Instead, you reached for his hand, finding the calloused, roughened plane of his palm. “I’ve missed you, Jon.” If he hadn’t realized it by now, then he might’ve been blind.

Jon’s breath hitched within his throat, reduced to a mere boy in your presence. Whatever he thought of at that moment, it was inappropriate — it transcended all bonds of propriety and proper friendship, yet he couldn’t help it. How long had he thought of you? Yearned for you, dreamed of you whenever he was laying on the cold earth somewhere beyond the Wall?

If it weren’t for his uncertainty, he would’ve kissed you then and there.

He never stopped to consider what your life was like now — perhaps you had a husband and a family, a life that had moved on from him, no longer frozen in the time of your youth. Jon always feared that being a bastard would’ve stopped you from courtship, but he knew now that you didn’t care. You never did.

Years of letting yourself toil over Jon Snow had amounted to this — to this unspoken affection that permeated the fringes of your friendship. In his absence, you hadn’t taken a husband, you hadn’t wed. Part of you thought you would become a spinster and live out your days caring for your ailing father.

Tension simmered, sparking to life in the wake of your intertwined hands. “I missed you, too.” His accent seemed deliciously thick, noticeably huskier with the rougher pitch of his tone. Those earthly-brown hues of his bored right into you.

Your stare became doe-like, able to feel his calloused digits, how strong his hands had become, careworn from holding a sword. Swallowing the growing lump within your throat, you let your hand recoil, placing it back into your lap. Your fingers curled tightly into your dress.

With a brief clearing of his throat, Jon decided to give you privacy. “I must speak with Sansa,” He murmured, standing up from his stool with an abruptness. His heart thumped madly within his chest, throat becoming thick as he gathered his bearings. “Come to supper when you’re finished.”

“Of course. Thank you, Jon.” You smiled, and he stepped out to give you your solace. His quarters were noticeably smaller yet homely, and you immediately decided to go to the washroom to clean yourself. Endless dirt and grime stained your flesh, making you feel worse than you already did.

As soon as you disrobed, sinking into the steaming-hot waters of the metal tub, you submerged your head beneath, coming up for a gasp of air. You glanced toward the hearth, scrubbing yourself down with a bristle brush and sponge, using the scarce amount of herbs and soap given to you.

You thought of Jon — thought of his hand, the firmness of it, the rough-hewn texture of his skin, the hardened muscle of his bicep beneath your grasp. You thought of the dismal, tempestuous storm of emotions raging war within his gaze when he spoke of being beyond The Wall.

It gave you much to dwell on as you scrubbed away the dirt from your skin, smoothing handfuls of hot water across your face. A simple Northerner’s dress and a furred cloak lay on the chair beside you, something suitable to wear that weren’t your tattered rags.

Sloshing around within the steaming water for a moment longer, you finished cleaning up, feeling the continuous gnaw of hunger strike at your stomach. The air was brusque and still bitter with a noticeable chill, the hearth continuing to roar in spite of being left with little attendance.

Tugging on the coarse, linen dress, you retrieved your boots, having thoroughly cleaned them off of hardened dirt. You let your hair dry by the fireside, swaddled in the cloak given to you by Jon. It swallowed you whole, yet it smelled like him — woodlands and scented smoke, the musk of a battle-hardened man.

By the time you joined the others for dinner, you felt cleaner than you had in some time, liberated from the weight of grime and hard travel. Exhaustion still clung to you like a shroud, but you assumed that a proper meal would make it easier to deal with.

Sansa greeted you with a thin smile, moving aside for you to sit next to her. There was never a fondness you shared between one another in your youth — you were always Jon’s friend, a girl who preferred mucking about in the outdoors and watching him fight with steel instead of any ladylike endeavors.

You had become quite proficient with an embroidery needle, and a dagger. They were one and the same for you at-times.

Jon’s silent admiration of you continued, hues fluttering over your form, now rid of soot and dirt. A warm plate of heaping food sat before you, helpings of potatoes, stewed vegetables, and roasted venison. You ate as if you hadn’t consumed a bite in years, the richness of it filling your belly.

“We are to take Winterfell back from the Boltons,” Sansa stated, her tone resolute and assured. “Do you think that there are still allies in Winterfell who might help our cause?” She inquired, her question directed towards you. You knew Winterfell — you’d been there this whole time.

“If Ramsay hasn’t flayed them all alive, then yes,” You murmured, thinking of your father’s corpse, strung-up on some wooden cross, muscle and flesh peeled away to reveal his bones. You shivered, masking your discomfort through a bite of vegetables. “There are still denizens inside who remember the Starks.”

Tormund Giantsbane, Jon’s ally and the leader of the Wildling forces, noisily bit into a haunch of meat, juices spraying across his ginger beard. Brienne’s discomfort and bewilderment was palpable as she turned away, blonde brows furrowing together.

“Could you find your way back in?” Tormund grunted, and you understood the insinuation of his proposal. If you were to rally those who still supported House Stark to Jon’s cause, staging a coup from the inside, it might assist his chances of taking the Keep.

“I suppose I could, but the Boltons rarely let anyone in or out, save for those bearing the Flayed Man sigil,” Jon seemed visibly apprehensive at Tormund’s suggestion, jaw tightening as he stuck his fork into a piece of meat. “It is dangerous now — one wrong move, and they string you up on the banisters, flay you for all to see.”

Tears glistened within your eyes at the harrowing memory of your father — you watched him be pinned to that post, screaming for mercy, men with knives cutting him apart as if he were a pig for slaughter. You hastily wiped them aside, chewing at the inside of your cheek.

Jon’s gaze never wavered from you whenever you spoke — Sansa could see it, Edd could see it.

“That is the fate that befell my father.” With a sharp exhale, you continued to eat, momentarily meeting Jon’s sullen-eyed stare, full of sympathy for your loss. His condolences were unspoken, but he didn’t have to say the words to convey meaning.

“We will find another way,” Jon murmured, brows knitting together. “You’ve risked enough to save Sansa’s life. I won’t let you risk it again. Out of the question.” There was a finality to his words, wrought with a glaring overprotective nature.

Sansa remembered the day they left your father out to bleed in the courtyard — Ramsay’s sickening smile remained emblazoned in the back of her mind. She reached to squeeze your hand, and you nodded, the both of you returning to the food.

She plucked at hers, turning a piece of meat over along her fork. Edd stifled a brief chuckle through a mouthful of hard rations. “Sorry about the food, m’ladies. It’s not what we’re known for.” He stated.

“That’s alright. There are more important things.” Sansa smiled, but you were in the throes of consuming everything that you could. Foodstuffs had become scarce in Winterfell, especially to those who weren’t Boltons — just residents. You had to scrounge and work for every scrap — this meal was the best you had in ages.

A brother of the Watch entered the Great Hall, carrying a scroll of parchment for Jon, one that was marked by the wax seal of Ramsay Bolton. “For you, Lord Commander.”

“I’m not the Lord Commander anymore.” Jon uttered, yet he took the scroll, anger seething within his eyes when he realized whose sigil held the parchment together. He unraveled it, jaw tightening as he began to read it aloud.

“To the traitorous bastard, Jon Snow, you allowed thousands of Wildlings past the Wall. You have betrayed your own kind and you have betrayed the North. Winterfell is mine, bastard — come and see. Your brother Rickon is in my dungeon …” Jon trailed off, breath quickening as he looked at Sansa.

Her countenance was one of shock and horror, tears welling within her eyes as she nodded for him to continue reading. The Hall was eerily silent, and you listened, brows furrowing together.

“His direwolf’s skin is on my floor — come and see. I want my bride back. Send her to me bastard, and I will not trouble you and your Wildling lovers. Keep her from me and I will ride North and slaughter every Wildling man, woman, and babe living under your protection. You will watch as I skin them living, you will …” He stopped.

“Go on.” Sansa murmured, but Jon refused, rolling up the parchment with a despondent, rageful expression. He felt it blossom throughout his chest, the very same anger that consumed him when he sentenced his brothers to die.

“It’s just more of the same.” Jon quipped, preparing to tear it asunder, but Sansa reached over to take it from his hands, unraveling the parchment.

“You will watch as my soldiers take turns raping your sister and your Northern bitch. You will watch as my dogs devour your wild little brother — then I will spoon your eyes from your sockets and let my dogs do the rest. Come and see. Ramsay Bolton, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North.” She read, a shudder within her voice.

You shivered, feeling a pang of disgust and fear rattle through you, goosebumps cascading along your spine. Ramsay knew of you — knew that you helped Sansa to escape, and knew of your affiliation with Jon Snow.

“Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North.” Jon grit out through clenched teeth, fists tightening around Ramsay’s missive. He would kill him for what he did — to Sansa, to you, to his brother. He swore it by whatever Gods were willing to listen.

“Roose Bolton is dead — Ramsay killed him. Now, he has our brother — he has Rickon.” Sansa’s voice trembled, but she remained stalwart, even if she knew what a monster Ramsay was. She used to think that Joffrey was the root of all evil — she was wrong.

“We don’t know that.” Jon protested, but Sansa stopped him.

“We do. He has five-thousand men, at least — I overheard him talking about it when he prepared for Stannis’s attack.” She replied, folding her arms together. You felt nothing but admiration for her — sorrow, perhaps, but you admired her strength in the midst of this.

“How many men do we have?” Jon looked to Tormund, desperate for answers, for a shred of something positive. They were lesser in numbers than the Boltons — they would need allies, and they would need them swiftly.

“Ones that can march and fight? Two-thousand.” Tormund replied. They had a Giant — that had to count for at least fifty men, if they were lucky.

“Jon,” You spoke up at long last, finding your voice as you sat soundly at Sansa’s side. “You are the last true son of the Warden of the North. Northern families are loyal, and they will fight for you if you ask it of them.” The gentle encouragement you offered gave him much to think about.

Sansa reached across the table, seizing Jon’s arm. “A monster has taken our home and our brother. We have to go back to Winterfell, to save them both.” She pleaded, auburn brows furrowing together. It was the right course of action — it had been years since a Stark had truly sat in Winterfell.

Jon nodded, determination tempering his anger, and the desire for justice. He remembered wanting to ride North to help Robb’s cause, and he didn’t. Sometimes he wondered what would’ve happened if he did — if his brother might’ve survived. There was no time for inaction, not anymore.

“We will reconvene at first light, to discuss our next move.” He briefly squeezed Sansa’s hand before glancing at you. “You need to rest — both of you.” It wasn’t a request — more of a command, really. You and Sansa had been running from Winterfell for days before Brienne happened across you.

You took your leave, hoping to pray about your father alone before dusk settled in.

𝐀𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐰 𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐞𝐝, 𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐢𝐭 𝐚 𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐬𝐡 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬.

Brienne had taken Sansa back to her chambers for the evening, and you had gone to the ramparts after finishing your supper.

The death of your father was still an unsightly wound, something that had cut you right to the bone. He was your only family left — the last tether that you had, the last one to truly care for you. It left you with a gaping void of loneliness, one that had only felt healed in Jon’s presence.

Flickering torchlight danced along the wooden bridge that connected two sides of Castle Black, and despite the chill of the air, you remained outside. Rest eluded you, and you knew that you would be up all evening, tarrying around to try and occupy your mind.

Darkening skies twinkled with stars, partially obscured by large wisps of gray clouds, and with it, a light snowfall. The fur-lined cloak you wore kept you warm, shrouded from the gnawing chill as you listened to footsteps resonate from your left side.

The pale shadow of Ghost trotted alongside him, those crimson eyes glowering through the encroaching dusk. The last time you had seen Jon’s direwolf, he was the size of a small dog — now, he was massive, nearly coming up to your shoulder with the tips of his ears.

“What did you feed him?” You mused, kneeling down to greet Ghost as if he were an old friend. You recalled the day that Jon had brought the albino pup home, nothing more than a scraggly runt hidden in his cloak. Ghost nudged your hand, silently asking for a scratch along his ears.

Jon smiled, coming to stand near your side as he peered down into the silent courtyard of Castle Black. It was quiet, save for the occasional soldier scurrying across the dirt or the distant howl of the wind. “He’s much larger than I expected him to be,” He confessed. “Seems he remembers you.”

Ghost whined, ruby eyes studying you intensely, as if he recalled your last meeting. The pale direwolf allowed you to dote on him for a moment longer, padding off to lay outside of Jon’s chambers. You watched him go, a smile spreading across your face.

Your countenance softened at the sight of Jon, tousled curls still tugged into a loose half-bun, a smile toying at either corner of his mouth. “Aren’t you cold?” He questioned, noticing the way your form quivered beneath the cloak he’d given you.

“Quite,” A brief chuckle left you as you wring your hands together, letting them sink into the thick fur that you tugged tighter around you. “I don’t believe that I will be able to sleep tonight, given the circumstances.” You confessed, and he seemed empathetic.

“I don’t sleep much — not anymore.” The night that he had found himself resurrected from the black shroud of death, he did not sleep. Instead, he lay waiting for his brothers to burst through the door, knives drawn, waiting to send him to the cold, hard earth.

Jon slept with Longclaw at his side — he imagined that he’d never feel safe again without it by his hip.

A comfortable silence of understanding drifted between the both of you, and you felt him lean closer, brows furrowing together. “I am sorry about your father,” Jon murmured, knowing what it was like to lose his own. “I am sorry for what they did to him.”

Tears pricked your eyes again, yet you refused to let them fall, jaw tensing before you shook your head. “He is with the Gods now,” You whispered, mustering a threadbare smile despite the melancholy of your talks. “I hope that Ramsay Bolton is not shown any mercy.”

Jon hadn’t heard you speak like that before — so full of pain, an agony in your soft tone that he wished he could rip away from you, place the burden on his shoulders. “We will take back Winterfell — for my family, for yours, for the North. I promise.”

“You’re a good man, Jon.” The two of you remained huddled close together, and you very nearly reached for his hands again, but decided against it. “You always have been, despite what insults you’ve been hurled. They are half the man that you are.”

He was a good man, despite what he thought of himself — an honorable man, the very best of them. His shining qualities were often diminished in the face of being a bastard, and you wished it weren’t so. Jon had long been ostracized for it, even if it was no fault of his own.

Jon hadn’t believed it, that he was truly good. He had done plenty of wrong — broke his vows to the Night’s Watch, killed many men, killed a boy, and for what? What good had come out of it all, other than being sent to an early grave for his actions?

You had always believed in him steadfastly, and he often felt undeserving of your praise. Nonetheless, Jon offered you a forlorn look, smile not reaching his eyes as he bowed his head. “I wish I could believe you.” Through a softly-spoken confession, he turned to face the cutting bite of the Northern winds.

As darkness hovered, the cold beginning to bite at his flesh, Jon gestured toward the doors to his chambers. “It’s getting cold,” Even he had his limits, hardiness tested by the harshness of winter. “Come on.” His hand hovered near the small of your back, sending a shiver down your spine.

The warm sanctuary of his chambers offered you a much-needed relief, hearth roaring beside his bed, lined in countless furs. The furnishings were scarce, and he placed Longclaw at his bedside, never very far from his grasp. An orange glow permeated all it touched, encompassing you in its gentle heat.

Ghost stayed outside, furs able to outlast the encroaching winter. He was the watcher tonight, ensuring that no strangers or brothers disturbed his friend.

You moved to sit against the large, rustic footlocker that sat at the end of his bed, closest to the hearth. The cloak you wore swallowed you whole, allowing you to descend right into the pile of furs, warming your icy flesh. Jon sat beside you, keeping a comfortable distance, one that many might’ve labeled as prudish.

Jon’s lack of subtlety became brazenly clear, dark hues shamelessly fluttering across your face, absorbing the finer details of your form. You had grown into your beauty, and even then, he was at your mercy — you were incomparable in his eyes.

The sting of embarrassment rippled through him, his behavior akin to a young man with an unrequited affection. His one experience with a Wildling woman had been in an effort to feel something, anything — a retaliation against the Night’s Watch.

You were different — you were his friend, a girl he’d known since childhood, now grown into the prettiest woman he’d ever seen. It was as if you reduced him to a mere pup without even trying, unbeknownst to you.

Jon carried a flagon of honeyed mead, the warm liquid churning about within its leather confines. It tasted stale, but it was better than he expected it to be, taking a brief swig. He hoped that it would quell his nerves, but perhaps it was wishful thinking.

“I’ve never been so far away from home before,” You sighed, breaking the comfortable silence with an amiable smile. “I used to always dream of going elsewhere, an adventure away from Winterfell. Now that I’ve gone, I want nothing more than to go back.”

“Has it changed much?” Jon inquired, voice dropping into a husky lull that made you shiver. His tone had become rugged, gruff — that familiar Northern timbre always filled you with a sense of comfort and ease. He hadn’t been to Winterfell in years.

“No,” Your visage grew forlorn, tinged with a peculiar sadness as your lips wavered into a half-frown. “Just those who command it.” The homely stone and Stark banners were all you knew for the longest time — and you hoped that it would be so again.

You wanted to cease dwelling on all things bleak and dreary, and instead, you smiled at Jon, countenance melding into one of genuineness. He caught your eye, features growing unbearably hot beneath the ardor of your gaze. Something passed between the both of you, something that caused you to look away; smitten.

Jon exhaled, taking a swig of the mead before offering it up to you. Liquor wasn’t something he necessarily enjoyed, but it did take some little edge off — for now, anyway. He watched with a faint smile as you took it, giving the cork a brief sniff, nose wrinkling.

Nevertheless, you took a drink, stinging liquid burning your throat on the way down. You sputtered, your expression one of clear distaste as you handed it back to him. “Gods, what is that supposed to be? The Night’s Watch isn’t known for their ale, either.” You huffed.

A huff of laughter tore past his lips, and at last, you could see the glint of his pearlescent teeth, a smile that could melt The Wall itself. “Still can’t handle your drink after all this time?” Jon remarked, corking the flagon of mead as he placed it aside. He didn’t want to drink himself into a stupor with you present.

“There were never any occasions that called for it,” You retorted, a warm playfulness permeating your tone. You leaned forward atop the footlocker, gazing into the flickering flames, its heat basking your visage. “Winterfell wasn’t the same after your family left. Everything seemed so dour, so hopeless.”

Jon hung his head, hands folded together as he contemplated your statement. “Sometimes, I wish I’d never left.” He confessed, tone slipping into something silent, as if he were sharing his greatest sin with the septa. There were times where he missed home — missed what might’ve been.

Chewing at the inside of your cheek, you didn’t hesitate to look at him, hues swimming with a wet sheen. Reminiscing often brought about plenty of sentiments for you, sentiments that you thought you’d buried. “Sometimes I wish that you hadn’t left, either.” You whispered.

None of this felt real.

There was a noticeable shift in the atmosphere, a tension that had risen from the lingering flames of a longstanding friendship. Jon felt an unusual swell within his stomach, the onslaught of boyish nerves, yet he pushed them aside for the sake of the moment. It all seemed to feel so right, as if this had been long in the making.

Jon stared at you, absentmindedly tilting closer, enough to where you could feel the heat of his honey-tinged breath fan across your face. “What would’ve happened if I hadn’t?” He murmured, hoping that you would confirm whatever it was that he felt, too.

“I am not sure,” Butterflies erupted within the pit of your stomach, hands beginning to reach for one another, even if you hadn’t fully realized it yourself. “I would like to think that I would’ve gained the courage to tell you how I truly felt about you.” There wasn’t an ounce of subtlety present — you knew what you meant, he knew what you meant.

I love you — it was on the tip of his tongue, begging to be released, to let his confession take wing into the open air. He should’ve told you that night of the feast, when you took his hand and told him that you would always defend his honor and his name.

“Jon.” Your voice was nothing more than a saccharine whisper, eyes wide and doe-like, a wordless plea to act on whatever it was he felt. Before you could say another word, Jon’s mouth was on yours, hot and rugged, everything that you imagined it would be.

His calloused hand rose to cup your face, rough pads of his digits tracing across your cheek, your jaw — you felt like velvet, an unblemished plane that had eagerly awaited his touch. Jon had always fantasized about kissing you, and the reality of it far exceeded any expectations he might’ve had.

The sudden intensity of the kiss had grown, as if throwing kindling onto an open flame. You weren’t prepared for it, but you needed more. A moan stirred within your throat as you pressed forward, hands reaching for the front of his leather-studded tunic.

Jon kissed you as if you were the air itself, every breath he drew consuming you, dragging you in until you were intertwined. He seized your waist, rough palm sinking into the coarse material of your dress, nearly shuddering at the feeling of your body beneath his palm.

“I love you,” He uttered against your mouth, forehead briefly bumping into yours as he held you close, the weight of his confession beginning to sink in. “I never wish to be parted from you — from this day, until my last day.” Jon promised, voice rumbling and solemn, knowing that he would keep his vow.

Incredulously, you gazed at him with wide eyes, unable to escape the feeling of complete and utter joy you experienced at his confession. Breathless, you took a moment to compose yourself, gather your bearings before you smiled. “Don’t leave me again, Jon Snow.”

“I wouldn’t dare.” Jon murmured, eagerly seeking your mouth again, tugging you in for a heated kiss. Gods, your mouth was so disarmingly soft, pliant and plush against his lips, giving him everything that he ever imagined and so much more.

A gentle, uttered string of breathy ‘I love you’s’ left you over and over again, each kiss ripping the air from your lungs, leaving your heart hammering beneath your breast. You shrugged the cloak aside, letting it pool around you, partially strewn across the footlocker.

Desperation laced your kisses, as if something might threaten to rip you away from the excitement of the moment, or that you might wake up from a distant dream. Jon was lost in your mouth, a grunt blossoming from his chest when he hauled you closer, until no sliver of space remained.

He stood up, bringing you with him, standing atop the sprawling furs of slain stags, closer to the lick of the hearth. It allowed him to better hold you, hands respectfully roaming your body, never allowing himself to slip below your hips. “Wait.” He rasped, removing his mouth from yours.

“What’s wrong?” You whispered, fearing that you had vastly overstepped. This was all somewhat unfamiliar, the territory new and unexpected. You had been with a man before, but it never crossed a certain threshold — you wouldn’t allow it.

“Is this what you want?” Jon questioned, dark brows knitting together as he regarded you with caution, a devotion reserved only for you. He couldn’t continue without hearing the certainty escape your mouth — he hadn’t done this in some time, himself.

Gods, you loved him. There was a lack of hesitation in his movements, but instead, a desire for clarity. He didn’t want you to feel obligated or trapped in some corner — he wanted you to want him. A twinkle of ardor glistened within your warm gaze as you brought your hands together at the nape of his neck.

It’s what you’ve wanted for such a long time — a terribly long time, at that. Everything felt as if you were wading through a dream, one that would shatter at any moment. “Yes,” You whispered, longing to unfasten the leather buckles and straps that held his tunic together. “More than anything.”

Jon’s breath hitched, a subtle noise, desire beginning to blossom throughout his chest. His grasp on you became innately protective and needy, hands gingerly kneading into your curves. He bent down for another kiss, arms caging themselves around you, bringing you into the warm expanse of his chest.

Soft fingertips raked through his dark curls, bringing him to heel as he kissed you, unashamed of his clear desperation. It no longer felt like the ghost of a distant thought — this was a blissful reality. He helped you to remove the bulky leather of his jerkin, but part of him feared fully removing his clothes.

His scars would reveal the abhorrent truth — that he died, brought back to life from the twisted magic of a Fire Priestess. Jon’s hesitation was palpable, especially when your digits sank into the coarse material of his tunic. The leather fell to the wayside, and you were closer to seeing him disrobed.

Jon sluggishly reached for the linen ties that held your dress together, and you gave him a nod, subtly encouraging him to unravel you. As he gently tugged upon the tie, the fabric sagged upon your shoulders, allowing you to push it aside, stepping out of it altogether.

A strangled gasp caught within the depths of his throat, manifesting as a sharp exhale that consumed his ribcage. You were every bit as wonderful as he’d imagined you to be — such fantasies had clung to the fringes of his mind out in the frozen wastelands beyond The Wall.

The plane of your flesh was velvetlike, bathed in the flickering firelight of the hearth, dancing across your body with its incandescent glow. Jon’s jaw visibly tightened, restraining himself from touching you as he pleased. The longer he stood, gawking at your body like some clueless boy, the more emboldened you became.

Careworn digits gingerly wrapped around his vambrace, unfastening the buckles there before you guided his hand to your chest. “There isn’t a need to be bashful,” You whispered, noticing the way his pupils dilated when his calloused palm embraced your pliant breast. “I want you to touch me.” You gently encouraged him.

Jon appeared a touch forlorn, attempting to mask his gnawing fear at the idea of you seeing him. “It’s not you,” His smile was humorless — pensive, even. “Gods, you’re beautiful.” He huffed, hand drifting toward your hip, shuddering at the satiny texture of your skin.

Warmth crept across your spine in the wake of his breathless compliment, prompting you to unfasten his other vambrace. He aimed to distract you, mouth moving toward the spot where your jaw met your neck, beard scratching ragged against your flesh.

He palmed your breast, reveling in the softness of you beneath his rough-hewn hand, tracing along your hip until he squeezed your derrière. Everything about you was plush and inviting, as if you were a goddess incarnate.

Jon’s kiss became hungry, wanton and passionate as his mouth peppered itself along your throat, from your jaw to jugular. He treated you kindly; gracious hands that melded themselves to your form, like a sculptor to his masterpiece.

Saccharine soaps and hints of underlying flora clung to your flesh like a springtime haze, powerful enough to melt this ice he felt. You brought with you such warmth that it threatened to swallow him whole; he delighted in it, letting you shake the frost from his bones.

Lips danced together with a long-repressed passion, now exploding like crackles of fire within a hearth, spontaneous yet heated. You kissed Jon as if he might slip away from you, turning into dust between your fingertips.

A low moan stirred within the depths of your throat when his fingers toyed with your pebbling nipple, prompting you to grip his tresses with an unexpected harshness. You mumbled a sheepish apology, yet he paid little mind to it, dusky hues swirling with an ardent adoration that made your stomach churn.

As your hand drifted to the hem of his worn, linen tunic, he very nearly stopped you — yet, part of him wished for you to see him without a spoken word. Jon’s chest tightened with quickened breaths as you kindly maneuvered the clothing away, and he watched, hues fixated upon your bewildered countenance.

A battlefield — innumerable scars, so fresh that you nearly held your hand over them to stop the bleeding, gouged across his pallid flesh. One that seemed to sting the most rest over his heart, curved and garish, the stroke of a vengeful knife that ended his life.

Wordlessly, you lifted your hand, fingertips tracing across his chest, feather-light and disarmingly gentle; the opposite of the knives that had left their mark. Your brows furrowed together, and you wondered how he could’ve survived something like this — if he survived something like this.

Jon shivered at your embrace, as sweet as the maiden’s grace, caressing him with your resplendent touch. He held you close, arm caging you in, his other hand stroking beneath your breast, above your ribcage. “I didn’t make it,” He rasped, noticing the glimmer of understanding in your eyes. “I’d like to think that the Gods wanted me to see you again.”

His smile warmed you, more than any blazing hearth could, more than that of summertime. A fluttering sensation spread throughout your chest, followed by a hitch in your throat that you stumbled over. “Jon,” You whispered, stroking across his chest with a peculiar tenderness. “I am so sorry.”

It wasn’t the time for condolences — such sentiments could wait. Jon didn’t want your coupling to be soured by what had happened, and instead, he shook his head. His yearning for you trumped that of any sorrow and mulling over death, prompting him to press his mouth against yours once more.

The kiss seemed to convey the unspoken message, his desire to tend to you before discussing the intricacies of his scars. Jon dutifully dipped down to kiss your throat again, and then your collarbone, guiding you towards the fur-laden expanse of his bed.

As you lowered yourself onto your back, Jon kicked his boots aside, crawling across the thick mound of pelts to cover your body with his. You sluggishly spread your legs, allowing him to reside in the space between, palms planted on either side of your head.

Each heated kiss blossomed across your flesh, as he peppered his lips along your shoulder and collarbone, descending toward the valley between your breasts. It was flesh he’d longed to grace, savoring every second spent; his mouth smoothed across the silken flesh beneath your breast.

“Jon,” A sigh of passion tore past your lips, gooseflesh coalescing along your spine as he continued his descent, knowing exactly what he sought. The heat between your thighs sang to him like a siren’s song, and you weren’t about to intercede. “Please, please.”

Who was he to deny you?

The ragged scruff of his beard scratched pleasantly against your skin, the sort of burn that left you aching for more. He kissed across your stomach, inch by agonizing inch, hand reaching back to caress along your calf. It was slow, exploratory — he wanted to learn every curve, every dip and expanse of flesh.

A hazy heat gripped your surroundings, as if everything had become feverish, touched by a fog of warmth that permeated you, sank into him. Doe-eyed hues flickered toward the taut muscle of his back, the blackness of his curly tresses, the scar around his eye.

Planting a kiss against your hip bone, Jon sighed into your thigh, hot breath fanning over your sensitive flesh. His belly churned with an excitable heat, having waited for such a terribly long time to finally have you. He smoothed his calloused palm along your leg, ascending until he held your haunch.

Gods, you were in ruins — Jon hadn’t even placed his mouth upon you, and you writhed in anticipation. No man had been courageous enough to treat you this way, yet Jon lacked hesitation, settling onto his stomach as he bullied his way between your thighs.

Raking hot embers across your cunt, Jon lapped along your slit, eyelashes fluttering at the sound of your euphoric whimpering. He hadn’t heard a sound quite like that before, and from your lips, it was abhorrently sinful.

He sighed your name; reverent, a prayer only spoken between Gods and men — and you are no man. It made you shiver, belly filling with a fire that demanded to be extinguished, soothed only by the sweet laps of your lover’s tongue.

Jon’s mind reeled with the sight of you — flushed with pleasure, visage contorted into a look of complete and utter bliss. He continued without pause, nose brushing across your mound as he buried his tongue into you, greedily lapping at your cunt as if he were a man starved.

Your heart hammered beneath your breast, that of sheer excitement, consuming you like a tidal wave as you brazenly reached for his tresses. Sinking your digits into the crown of his tousled curls, you tugged, showing your appreciation in an unorthodox manner.

“J—Jon!” A strangled moan tore past your mouth, wisps of air being ripped from your lungs. Jon was inherently greedy, consuming you in the way that you deserved, finding his solace between your thighs. His dutiful lapping continued, from the pearl of your cunt to your aching entrance.

Akin to ice against your skin, Jon’s palms glided along your thighs, moving to trace your hips. His mouth was like a wave of fire, beard searing the silky flesh of your legs as you involuntarily squeezed his head. You hadn’t intended to suffocate him, but it was a worthwhile demise, in his perspective.

One hand fisted the furs, digging in until you threatened to rip it apart, hips occasionally jerking and jolting forward into his mouth. He hadn’t tasted something as sweet as you, like a fine stout coating his tongue, leaving him intoxicating; craving more.

His eyes had nearly fluttered shut, half-lidded slits that occasionally flickered to catch a glimpse of your blissful countenance. Your back arched from the furs, seeking his mouth with reckless abandon as he lapped along your cunt, tongue briefly flicking over your clit.

It was as if you’d been struck by lightning, body bristling with a long-repressed pleasure, something that only he could cure. The sensation of his calloused skin against your plane of silk was a satisfying juxtaposition — he never wanted another’s touch again.

Jon burned for you in every way imaginable, a sonorous groan ripping through the depths of his throat as he moved to lap at your cunt again. His ministrations were slow, made to explore and to savor you instead of letting it all become rushed.

Your fingertips brushed across his scalp, untangling his curls from the half-bun he’d placed them into. They fell across his head, dark and somewhat cropped. He groaned at the sensation, feeling you pull and grip his tresses, guiding your hips closer.

Rough-hewn hands gingerly kneaded into the pliant flesh of your thighs, caressing their way up and down in a soothing manner. Jon savored your taste, letting your nectar find its purchase against his chin, glistening along his lips. He kissed your clit, evoking a breathy sigh from you.

It had been such a long time for the both of you, intensified by feelings of a long-seated desire and carnality, friendship transcending all bonds of propriety. Jon felt his cock twitch within his trousers, incessantly throbbing and straining against the thicker material, longing to be inside of you.

A cry of delight tore past your mouth as you involuntarily jolted forward, grinding yourself into his mouth. Jon treated you to a barrage of eager laps of his tongue, from your entrance to the sensitive pearl of your cunt.

Dragging his tongue in languid circles around your clit, he watched as you quivered and moaned, mouth agape, back arched off of the furs. Knowing what path to follow, he showed attention to your neglected pearl, nose buried into the softness of your mound.

“Jon,” You sputtered, thighs molding themselves to either side of his face, feeling the scratch of his beard rake itself against your silky skin. He listened, dutiful and with a burning desire to please you, continuing to lap at your clit. “Gods, don’t stop.” A trembling exhale left you.

It was then that he melded his lips around the aching bud, beginning to suck on your pearl with a pang of vigor. You shuddered, rattling like a leaf as you haplessly tugged on his mane of curls, hips tilting upwards into his mouth. You whined, fisting the furs at your side.

Jon did not relent, feeling the ironclad grip you assumed, knowing that he was bringing you close to your release. White-hot sparks fluttered across your vision, body singing his praises, collarbone glittering with the first inklings of perspiration.

A strangled gasp tore through your throat, followed by a myriad of moans and pleading whimpers, seeking friction against his mouth. Your release was fast approaching, like a tidal wave of heat, flooding across your body with its intensity. Jon’s name emerged from your lips as if it were the only word you knew.

The pinnacle of your release made you feel as if you were floating, legs shaking in the blissful aftermath, feeling Jon lap at your core a few times over. You exhaled, chest heaving from exertion as you loosened your hold upon his tresses.

“You’ll have to let me do that again.” Jon murmured, and that seemed to ensnare your attention. Seven Hells — you would let him do that for as long as he pleased, whenever he liked. He pressed a few soft kisses against the inside of your thigh, crawling up to be near you.

“Whenever you would like, I will never protest.” You mused, gaze sparkling with mirth and adoration, inviting him back to being on top of you. Though, your impulses had other plans, as your palm pressed against his shoulder. “There is something I wanted to try.”

The softness of your suggestion seemed to placate Jon, who felt you push his shoulder until you guided him onto his back, hooking a leg over his lap. Gods, he would’ve stayed like that for an eternity if you asked it of him. As you situated yourself on top of him, Jon sat up enough to reach you, kiss you if he wanted to.

He felt your fingers move towards the laces of his breeches, and he didn’t stop you, observing you in rapturous hunger instead. His breath hitched, mouth moving inward to press a string of hot kisses against the column of your throat.

“Do you know how long I’ve dreamed about this?” Jon’s confession emerged as a husky sigh, murmured against your neck, sending shivers down your spine. It came as a surprise, a wonderful one, and it only made your hands move in a borderline frenzy.

Freeing his cock from its confines, you moved yourself up upon your knees, aided by his strong, firm hands, coming to rest just below your derrière. The flushed tip of his length nudged against your cunt, prompting you to sigh with passion.

“Jon,” A pleading moan tore past your mouth, mind becoming fuzzy as you attempted to absorb the genuineness of his words. The Northern timbre of his hoarse baritone made you tremble, hands steadying themselves upon his shoulders. “Please.”

In a sluggish descent, he gently lowered you onto his cock, the both of you shivering in-tandem. The low, throaty groan that escaped him made your stomach churn with molten heat, letting you find your own pace. He was bigger than you imagined, filling you perfectly.

Mouths danced together and then clashed again, kiss after kiss of pure ardor, tongues becoming exploratory as you brazenly lapped at his lower lip. It was messy and hot, feverishly so, bringing the both of you to heel as you happily drowned within desire.

Your cunt was tight around him, slick with arousal as you continued to lower yourself, inch by blissful inch until he was fully sheathed inside of you. Jon’s heavy pants fluttered across your throat, mouth pressing near the curve of your jaw.

Jon was captivated by you, inhaling a gust of your soap-laden scent, beard ragged against your soft skin as he continued to kiss along your neck. His hands were resolute in guiding you, rocking you up and down along his cock, chest to chest with you.

Tangled sighs and low, heavy breaths wove together, forming a heated cacophony that filled his chambers with your lewd activities. The feeling of his calloused hands sinking into your plush flesh was mesmerizing, leaving behind a wave of goosebumps that crawled across your skin.

The sensation of his cock filling you completely, nearly kissing your womb, almost made you sob from delight. The friction of your bodies was a delicious thing, with your chest brushing against his, knees squeezing near his waist, hands gripping his shoulders.

A burning sting began to dance along your thighs, the exertion of muscle as you rode him, moving up and down in somewhat rhythmic motions. His cock speared you over and over again, filling you completely before you nearly drew yourself out, and back down again.

“Gods,” You sighed, nails sinking into the muscle of his shoulders, your countenance one of complete and utter pleasure. Leaving behind angry-red crescents against his pale skin, you didn’t want the feeling to end. “Jon, please — don’t stop!” With a simpering moan, your head began to roll back slightly.

Spurred by your softly-spoken praise and breathy sighs, Jon did not relent, hands sinking into your thighs as he guided you against his cock. The angle allowed for friction to blossom, chests bumping together, bodies tangled up within one another.

He kissed his way along your collarbone, bringing you up enough to trap one of your nipples within his mouth. The head of his cock remained pleasantly buried within your cunt, the warming of it making you writhe. He held you steady, greedily kissing at your pert breasts.

One of your hands fisted into his dark curls, tugging on them as if you were attempting to wrangle him into submission. His mouth peppered warm, needy kisses around the valley between your breasts before he let you sink yourself back down, cunt clenching around his cock.

Shameless strings of sinful noises left you in droves, eyes closed in a state of ecstasy. Jon groaned with you, vocalizing his own pleasure as he coaxed you down towards the furs, not wanting to place you there unless you consented.

With a brief bob of your head, you found yourself beneath Jon, his musculature covering you, content between your legs as he hitched one around his hips. The calloused plane of his palm wrapped around your calf, causing you to shiver at the foreign contact.

He could look upon your face, see the way your visage contorted into pure pleasure when he rocked forward, cock burying itself deep into your cunt. His skin was flushed, expression somewhat doe-eyed and awestruck, even if you were too lost to notice.

Your hands moved, one finding its purchase against his bicep, the other on his shoulder as his pace began to intensify. It was a chase, galloping after his release as he bent to kiss you, releasing a grunt into your mouth when you rolled your hips forward.

The wooden frame of his bed began to creak, groaning in protest from the vigor of his ministrations. You didn’t care if he was a touch rougher with you — Gods, you needed him. Heat swirled within your stomach, gnawing at your bones, making your toes curl in delight.

“Jon!” You cried, and that nearly sent him soaring over the edge, cock throbbing inside of you. The friction of your pelvis grinding against him almost made his resolve shatter into two. He lost count of how many times his cock sank into you — it was all blurring together.

The inevitable rush of euphoria reached him when his release came, hot and blistering, making him see stars as he groaned your name. Your nails were digging into his bicep, a gasp emerging from your throat when he thrust into you again.

Ropes of warm spend painted your insides, and he very nearly collapsed on top of you. He had the decency to hold himself afloat, hand tracing along your calf and to the crook of your knee, letting you unhook your leg.

Jon removed himself from you, attempting to gather his breath as he laid at your side, gazing at the dark ceiling above. Your breathing was just as unsteady and erratic as you drifted down from your buzzing high, wiping beads of perspiration from your brow.

Once he recuperated, Jon looked at you, noticing the smile on your face, the unrestrained delight you were experiencing as you rolled over. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?” He murmured, watching as you began to shamelessly crawl into his arms.

“Quite the opposite,” You hummed, feeling him adjust the furs, drawing them both around you. Despite the feverish pitch of the room, the frost would settle in again soon, especially at the hour of the bat. “Were you jesting when you said you dreamed about this?”

Bewildered, Jon cast his eyes toward you, canting his head to one side. “Of course I was serious,” He huffed, surprised that you would think otherwise. “You were all I could think about, north of The Wall.” His confession was genuine, sweetly-spoken.

“You don’t have to dream about it anymore,” Your voice soothed him, a sound that he had yearned for with a blistering ache. He felt as if you would slip away from him if he let you go. “I won’t leave you.” Your smile was warm enough to melt even the hardiest of frost.

Jon’s lips tugged into a smile, one that you rarely saw beneath the brooding curtain of his visage. He pressed a kiss against your forehead, allowing you to get comfortable against him. The silence that followed allowed for some contemplation, absorbing all of what had transpired.

His scars seemed so fresh when they caught your eye. With a forlornly look, you dragged your fingers over the scar above his heart, feeling him shiver beneath your touch. Your body still felt as if it were caught in some haze, coming down from the blissful aftermath of your coupling.

“If you hadn’t come back …” You trailed off, attempting to refuse to think of some painful reality where Jon perished, but the thought briefly crossed your mind. If he had, none of this would be happening — he wouldn’t be holding you in his arms.

“But I am here,” Jon’s husky timbre shook you to your core as he planted his palm against your cheek, guiding you to look at him. “I’m not going anywhere, and I’m not leaving you.” It was a promise — insistent, spoken from a man who now fully understood the weight of love, the weight of sacrifice.

You nodded, wordlessly reaching to hold his hand, feeling the arm he had caged around you plant itself against the small of your back. He drew circles there, brows knitting together as he leaned in to kiss you. It was hard and warm, so real — he made sure that you understood exactly what he meant.

Within the warm embrace of his arms, you let your head recline against his chest, feeling him draw you closer, until there was no space left between the both of you. He listened to the steady, shallow sound of your breathing afterwards.

At the edge of the world, he had you — and that was all he would ever need.