#c0ffe3c4t

The light of sunset filtered through the high tower window in shades of gold and red. The air was still, heavy, as if the castle itself were holding its breath.

The cane struck the stone once.

Then again.

A dry, rhythmic sound announcing his approach down the corridor.

Each step was steady, though he dragged his injured leg slightly. The pain never fully left; sometimes it was only a murmur in his bones, other times a sharp memory of the day Aerion Targaryen had thrown him from his horse during the tourney, the animal crashing down on top of him and breaking his leg like a snapped branch.

He did not need to remember.

His body did it for him.

He pushed the door open without announcing himself.

The chamber was dim, lit only by the dying light of evening. And there, seated by the window, was him.

Maekar.

His twin.

Not identical—never that—but born on the same day, beneath the same sky, with the same fire in their blood. Maekar sat rigid, hands clenched over his knees, staring at some distant point that did not truly exist.

He did not turn at the sound of the cane.

He knew who it was.

—You shouldn’t be standing so long, —Maekar said at last, his voice low and rough.— Your leg…

The Reader set the cane against the wall and stepped closer until he stood before him.

—And you shouldn’t be alone.

The wind stirred the curtains faintly.

He remained upright despite the strain on his balance. From above, he could see the hard line of Maekar’s profile, the tension in his jaw, the nearly imperceptible tremor in his hands.

—Look at me, —he whispered.

Maekar hesitated.

But he obeyed.

His violet eyes were clouded with something that was not quite tears, yet hurt as if they were.

—It was an accident, —he said softly.— You know that.

The name did not need to be spoken.

The Trial of Seven.

The blow.

Baelor falling.

Maekar swallowed.

—I struck him, —he murmured.— I raised the weapon.

—In combat. Not with hatred. Not with intent to kill.

—If I had aimed differently—

—If the world were different, we would not be who we are.

He lifted a hand to Maekar’s cheek, stroking it patiently, feeling the roughness of his beard beneath his fingers.

—It was not your fault.

Maekar’s breath faltered. Then, as though the rigidity holding him upright collapsed, he wrapped his arms around his waist and pressed his forehead against his abdomen.

An intimate gesture. Vulnerable.

The Reader slid his fingers into his silver hair, stroking gently, soothing him.

—I miss him, —Maekar murmured against the fabric.— He was my brother.

—I know.

His hands continued combing through his hair, then down to massage his neck slowly.

—But he knew who you were. He knew you were not a murderer.

Maekar tightened his hold.

—I don’t want you to look at me and see the same.

Carefully, mindful of his leg, the Reader bent enough to press a kiss to his crown.

—When I look at you… I see the man I love.

The words lingered warmly between them.

Maekar lifted his head. His eyes were still fragile.

—You’ve always been stronger than me.

A faint smile.

—No. Just more stubborn.

That earned something close to a breath of laughter.

Maekar studied him a moment longer. Then his hands slid from his waist to his hips.

—Come here.

—Maekar…

But he was already guiding him.

With a blend of firmness and care, he pulled him down and settled him onto his lap. The movement was slow so as not to strain his injured leg. One hand supported his back; the other helped position his good thigh carefully.

Once seated, the Reader let out a small breath.

—You always do what you want.

—I always know what you need, —Maekar replied quietly.

He adjusted him closer against his chest, wrapping both arms around him. One hand rested firmly at his waist; the other slid up his back and into his hair.

The air shifted.

Closer. Warmer.

—This way you don’t strain your leg, —Maekar murmured, almost defensively.

—Of course. All this for my leg.

A shadow of a smile crossed the prince’s face.

He rested his forehead against his.

—I hear the blow when I try to sleep, —Maekar confessed softly.— I see him fall.

The Reader cupped his face in both hands.

—It was combat. It was duty. Not hatred.

—But it was my arm.

—And your burden. That does not make you a monster.

Maekar’s hand drifted to his injured leg, holding it carefully, as though he still feared breaking him.

—I should have been there when Aerion threw you from your horse.

—You couldn’t have foreseen it.

—He broke your leg.

—And you lifted me from the mud.

Maekar closed his eyes.

—It wasn’t enough.

A gentle stroke along his cheek.

—It has always been enough.

Maekar kissed him then.

Slow. Deep, but unhurried. A kiss that demanded nothing except to remain. His hands held him as though anchoring something fragile.

When they parted, Maekar rested his face in the hollow of his neck.

—Don’t let me go.

—I never do.

The Reader stroked his hair, his neck, his back, feeling the heartbeat beneath his chest gradually steady.

— We are two halves of the same day, — he whispered.— If one falls, the other lifts him.

Maekar’s arms tightened, but no longer in desperation.

In refuge.

And so they remained, swaying slightly in the quiet of the tower as night fell over the castle.

There, in that shared embrace, the guilt weighed less.

There, they were only themselves.

Only you and I.

He didn’t remember the exact moment his mace had struck. He only knew that his son lay on the ground—and that it had been his hand that put him there.

Maekar had been sitting before the fire for hours, wrapped in the dense silence of the early morning. The funeral pyre had burned at dawn, and now nothing remained but ashes. He had not slept. He had not eaten. He had done nothing but stare into the flames and relive, over and over again, the instant when everything ended.

Reader was his first son. The first to be born, the first he had held in his arms, the first he had watched grow. And also the first to fall by his own hand.

Oh, Reader.

He had been a good boy. He always had. Not like Daeron, with his dreams and his constant need to drink himself into oblivion. Not like Aerion, whose cruelty seemed to deepen with the years. Reader was different. He never caused trouble, never challenged his authority, never forced him to raise his voice. He was obedient without being submissive, strong without being arrogant. When Maekar trained with him in the yard, he felt pride. A quiet pride, without boasting. Reader learned quickly, listened closely, and when he wielded a sword, he did so with the same determination Maekar had possessed at his age.

But he was warm, too. Perhaps he had inherited that from his mother. He knew how to smile at the right moments, how to ease tensions when the air grew tight at the family table. He was the son who never caused worry, the one who was always there, the one who never asked for anything in return.

And yet, he was the one who fell.

Maekar clenched his jaw, his knuckles white against his knees. He had defended his sons all his life.

He shielded them from enemies, from rumors, from the consequences of their own actions. He endured the court’s stares, the whispers about Aerion, the comparisons between Daeron and Reader. He was always there—steady, willing to bear the weight of their mistakes.

But that day, in the heat of battle, he protected no one. He did not measure his strength. He did not see his son’s face until it was too late.

He could not remember the precise moment of the blow. Perhaps it was his mind protecting him from what he could not endure. Perhaps it was simply shock—the void that follows an instant too brutal to be processed. But he remembered the aftermath. He remembered the silence that followed, heavier than any scream. He remembered the weight of his mace, suddenly unbearable in his hands. He remembered kneeling, touching his son’s face, and feeling nothing. No warmth. No life. Only the certainty of what he had done.

And now he sat there alone, before embers that no longer gave heat. His son—his first son, his good boy—had burned hours earlier. And he remained seated, unable to move, unable to weep, unable to do anything but repeat a truth he could not undo.

It had been his hand.

His alone.

[. . .]

—You’re quite chubby for only a few moons old, —Maekar said, holding little Reader in his arms.

The baby was plump, yes. He had been born with a good weight—more than expected—and the maester had assured them it was a sign he would grow healthy and strong. Maekar remembered nodding without a word, but now, with the child resting along his forearm, he couldn’t help noticing how small he truly was despite it all. He fit perfectly in the space between his elbow and his hand, as though he had been made to rest there.

Reader babbled something—a string of shapeless sounds—accompanied by an enthusiastic swipe at the air. His eyes were open, large and violet, staring at him without blinking. Maekar frowned.

—I don’t know what you’re trying to say, —he muttered.— But you can try again when you learn how to speak.

The baby responded by shoving his fist into his mouth and sucking on it with great determination. A thin line of drool slipped down his cheek and fell onto Maekar’s tunic. He glanced at the damp stain, then back at the child, who continued gnawing on his fist as if nothing had happened.

—That’s new as well, —he said, making no move to wipe the fabric.— You put everything in your mouth, don’t you?

Reader pulled his fist free for a moment, looked at him with grave seriousness—and then promptly shoved it back in. This time with even more enthusiasm.

Maekar rocked him slightly, just barely—a movement so subtle he had learned it without realizing. The child blinked, eyelids heavy, though he stubbornly resisted letting them close completely.

—Go to sleep, —Maekar told him, not expecting obedience.

Reader did not fall asleep. Instead, he stretched out a small, plump hand toward his father’s face, fingers spread, searching for something to grasp. He found Maekar’s nose. And squeezed.

Maekar went still, feeling those tiny fingers pressing against his skin. He did not pull away. He simply waited for the child to tire, which did not happen for several long seconds—until Reader lost interest and returned his attention to his own fist.

—You’re stubborn, —Maekar observed quietly.

The baby did not reply. He was far too busy drooling on his hand.

Outside, the wind could be heard, and the fireplace crackled a few feet away. There was no one else in the room. Only the two of them. Maekar watched the child for a long while, saying nothing, doing nothing but holding him.

Then, without quite knowing why, he lifted a finger and brushed the baby’s cheek. The skin was soft, warm. Reader instinctively turned toward the touch, seeking more—but Maekar withdrew his hand.

—There will be time for that, —he said, more to himself than to the child.

Reader babbled again, and this time Maekar could have sworn it was an answer.

[. . .]

Maekar woke to a tug at his sleeve.

He blinked into the darkness, the sound of rain striking the fortress walls filling his ears. Lowering his gaze, he made out a small figure beside the bed.

Reader.

Four years old, eyes swollen and shining, cheeks damp even in the dim light.

—Father, —the boy whispered, his voice trembling.

Maekar glanced to the other side of the bed. Dyanna had not stirred. She breathed deeply, exhausted from the day, and neither the thunder nor her son’s footsteps had woken her. They would not now.

—What is it? —Maekar asked quietly, sitting up with care so as not to shift the mattress.

Reader did not answer at once. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand, a clumsy, damp gesture, and looked up again with those wide eyes that had not yet learned to hide anything.

—Bad dream, —he said at last, barely more than a thread of sound.— And the rain… it’s very loud.

Maekar nodded slowly. He was not good at this. He never had been. Dyanna was the one who tucked them in, who found the right words, who soothed them simply by being near. Not him. He was the father—the one who taught them to hold a sword, who corrected, who watched from a measured distance.

But Dyanna was asleep.

And Reader stood there, trembling a little, tear-streaked and frightened of the thunder.

—Come here, —Maekar said, opening his arms.

Reader climbed onto the bed with all the awkwardness of his four years, tangling himself briefly in the blankets. Maekar lifted him onto his lap. The boy was light, small, and pressed himself against his father’s chest as though he wished to disappear inside him.

Maekar hesitated only a moment. Then he raised a hand and began to stroke the child’s hair—slow, gentle movements. He did not know if he was doing it properly. He only knew that sometimes, when he himself had been a boy, that was what he had needed.

—What did you dream? —he asked, still running his hand through Reader’s hair.

—I don’t remember, —the boy murmured against his tunic.— But it was scary.

—Dreams cannot hurt you.

Reader lifted his head to look at him, his face still wet.

—But the rain can, —he said, just as thunder rumbled outside.

Maekar felt the child tense against him. Small fingers clutched at his clothes, eyes wide, breath held tight.

—The rain does not come in here, —Maekar said.— You are inside. The walls are thick. Nothing will happen to you.

—Are you sure?

—Yes. I am sure.

Reader studied him for a moment longer, as if weighing whether he could believe him. Then he rested his head back against Maekar’s chest and went still.

Maekar continued stroking his hair. The boy smelled clean, faintly of soap, and his hair was fine beneath his fingers. The rain kept falling; thunder sounded now and then. But Reader no longer trembled so much.

—Father, —the boy said after a while, his voice thick with sleep.

—Yes?

—Will you stay awake?

Maekar glanced toward the window, toward the storm still raging beyond the stone. Then he looked down at the small head resting against him.

—Yes, —he answered.— I will stay awake.

Reader said nothing more. Soon his breathing slowed, deepened. He had fallen asleep.

Maekar did not move. He did not lay him back down or attempt to sleep himself. He remained there, his son in his arms, feeling the small, warm weight against him, listening to the rain against the walls, stroking that hair again and again.

When Dyanna woke in the morning, she found them like that.

Maekar awake, propped against the headboard. Reader asleep on his chest, cheek squashed, a thin line of drool slipping down his chin.

She smiled.

Maekar merely raised a brow.

—Do not look at me like that, —he said quietly.— I could not move.

Dyanna said nothing.

But her smile widened.

[. . .]

Maekar held the cloak in his hands. It still carried his scent. Soft, warm—that scent that had belonged only to his son. He pressed it against his chest and, for a moment—just a moment—he could pretend it was him he was holding. That Reader was there, alive, breathing.

Gods.

Why? Why, of all those who could have stood in that trial, of all those who could have taken up a weapon that day, did it have to be Reader? Why him? A thousand times over he would have chosen himself instead. Let it have been his body in Baelor’s arms. Let it have been his blood mixing with the rain.

But it was not.

It was Reader. His son. His first son. His good boy.

He remembered the moment with a clarity that burned through him. The mist slowly thinning, the heavy silence that followed the clash of battle, and the instinctive search of his gaze. He always looked for his sons after something like that—to make certain they were whole, that none had been struck down.

But that time, when the fog lifted, he did not find Reader standing.

He found him in Baelor’s arms.

His elder brother knelt in the mud, holding his son’s body close. Reader’s head hung back, lifeless, and from his right temple a dark line trailed downward, already beginning to dry. The wound. The cursed wound he himself had opened.

Maekar could not run. His legs refused him. He stood rooted in place, watching as Baelor lifted his eyes and found him among the crowd. No words were spoken. No gestures made. Only his brother’s gaze, heavy with something he could not name, while he held the one thing Maekar should never have lost.

He walked. He did not know how, but he walked. Each step was an effort beyond strength, as though the mud sought to drag him down as well. When at last he stood close enough—close enough to see his son’s face clearly—the world seemed to stop.

Reader’s eyes were not fully closed.

A small space remained. A narrow slit where the white still showed. As if, in his final instant, he had tried to look at something. As if he had been searching. For something. Or someone.

Maekar stared at that half-open eye, unable to look away. He did not want to think that it had been him his son sought in those last moments. He did not want to imagine Reader falling, confused, wondering why his father had done this to him.

Baelor said nothing. He did not accuse. He did not console. He simply watched him, his nephew’s body in his arms, and waited.

Maekar tried to speak. Tried to say anything at all. But no words came. He could only reach out with a trembling hand and touch his son’s cold face—the same face he had once stroked when he was a child frightened of a storm, the same face he had watched grow and harden, the same face that now lay empty and still.

—Forgive me, Dyanna, —he whispered that night, alone in his chambers, Reader’s cloak clutched against his chest.— I failed you. I failed you both.

He had promised his wife he would protect their children. He had promised the day they were born. He had promised every time he rode away without her. He had promised with a look whenever she entrusted him with the most precious things they had. And now one of those lives had ended by his own hand.

If he could go back. If he had never taken part in that cursed trial. If he had not swung his mace with that blind, unmeasured force, thinking only of reaching Aerion—of stopping him, restraining him. If he had measured his blow. If he had seen before he struck. If he had been the father he believed himself to be.

But there was no going back.

There was only him, with his son’s cloak in his hands, the scent of him fading slowly, and the image of those half-open eyes seared forever into his memory.

The sound of persistent knocking at the door dragged him out of sleep abruptly. Fushiguro Megumi frowned in the darkness of his room. With an annoyed sigh, he reached out toward his nightstand. The phone screen lit up his face, and he squinted at the brightness. His eyes burned.

02:15 AM...

—...Who? —he muttered to himself as he got up.

He opened the door—and there was Reader, still in his uniform, hair slightly messy from the wind and wearing that tired expression Megumi knew so well. He didn’t even get the chance to say anything. Reader slipped inside like a gust of air, wrapping an arm around his waist and pushing the door shut with the other hand until it clicked softly.

—What were you thinking, coming here at this hour? —Megumi asked, though he made no move to pull away. On the contrary, his hand found its way to the fabric of Reader’s jacket, fingers hooking into it like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Reader rested his cheek on top of his head, taking full advantage of every inch of height difference between them.

—You’re giving me such a cold welcome, Megumi-chan. I just got back from killing curses and this is the face I get?

—It’s two in the morning, —Megumi pointed out, his voice still rough with sleep.

—And I came straight here. I could’ve gone to my own room, you know?

—Then you should have.

But neither of them moved. Megumi huffed softly against his chest, and Reader smiled into his hair. They stayed like that for a few seconds, in silence—Megumi’s body slowly readjusting to the other’s warmth, while Reader let go of all the tension from the day.

—Give me a proper greeting, —Reader demanded, his tone bordering on childish complaint.

—I already greeted you.

—That wasn’t a greeting. That was a ‘you’re here, how annoying.’

Megumi looked up at him with a neutral expression, though something in his eyes gave away that he was holding something back. Reader tilted his head slightly, lips pursed in an intentionally exaggerated pout.

—Seriously. I’m exhausted, Megumi. The bare minimum.

—You’re so dramatic…

Still, Megumi leaned up just a little—barely enough—and pressed a quick kiss to his lips. One of those kisses that felt more embarrassing than anything else. When he pulled away, Reader was still pouting, though now his eyes were smiling.

—That’s it? That’s all I get?

—What else do you want?

I don’t know… —Reader wrapped his arms around his neck, pulling him closer.— Something better. Something that shows you missed me.

—I didn’t miss you, —Megumi lied effortlessly, though his fingers tightened around his boyfriend’s jacket.

—Liar.

—Cut it out, Reader…

But Reader didn’t stop. He rested his forehead against Megumi’s, then tilted his head slightly to press a kiss to the corner of his lips. Then another, more centered. Then another, slower.

—I missed you, —he whispered against his mouth.— A lot.

Megumi didn’t answer with words. Instead, he tangled a hand in his hair and pulled him down into a real kiss. A slow one—the kind that isn’t in a hurry, that tastes like messy sheets and familiarity. When they finally pulled apart, Reader was smiling with that silly grin Megumi pretended to hate.

Okay, —Reader said.— That’s better.

—Bed, —Megumi ordered, tugging on his hand. —And let go, I can’t walk.

—I don’t want to.

—You’re so clingy.

—And you love it, Gumi-chan.

Megumi didn’t deny it. He didn’t need to.

—

Once in bed, the darkness wrapped around them like a blanket. Reader had settled on his side, one arm draped over Megumi’s chest and a leg tangled with his, as if making sure he wouldn’t go anywhere. Megumi stared up at the ceiling, still processing the abrupt shift from being asleep to having his boyfriend clinging to him like a koala.

—Megumi, —Reader whispered in the dimness.

—What.

—Aren’t you going to say anything to me?

—Like what?

—I don’t know. How was your day? Did you miss me even a little?

Megumi turned his head to look at him. He could barely make out his features, but he could see the faint shine in his eyes—expectant.

—It was a normal day, —he replied.— And I’m not feeding your ego.

Reader let out a soft, warm laugh and moved closer, burying his face in his neck. Megumi felt his breath against his skin and, for a moment, thought he had fallen asleep. But then Reader lifted his head and pressed a kiss right where his pulse throbbed. Slow. Deliberate.

Megumi held his breath.

What are you doing? —he asked, though his voice had lost all firmness.

—Nothing, —Reader replied with feigned innocence—and kissed the same spot again. This time, his tongue barely brushed against his skin, just enough to dampen it and leave behind a trace of coolness that quickly turned warm.

—Reader…

—Mm?

—Stop.

—I don’t want to.

—Yes, you do, —Megumi insisted, though his fingers tightened around Reader’s wrist.— You know I get nervous.

Reader pulled back just enough to look at him. Even if he couldn’t clearly see his expression, he could picture it perfectly—the faint blush coloring his cheeks, the fake annoyance hiding something softer.

—You get nervous because you like it, —Reader said, a smile in his voice.

—I’m going to hit you.

—No, you won’t. You love me too much, Megumi-chan.

Megumi didn’t respond. Instead, he used his free hand to cover his mouth.

—Go to sleep already.

—Gumiii-chaaaan! —Reader protested, his voice muffled against his palm.— That’s so mean.

—You complain a lot for someone who showed up in my room at two in the morning.

Reader gently pulled his hand away and settled back against his chest.

—I needed you.

He said it so quietly, so simply, that something in Megumi’s chest tightened. He ran his fingers through the back of his hair, brushing through the messy strands, and pressed a kiss to the top of his head.

—You’re so spoiled, —he murmured.

—By you.

—Liar.

—I’m just telling the truth.

Megumi smiled in the dark, even if Reader couldn’t see it.

—Go to sleep, —he repeated, but this time his voice was soft, almost like a caress.

—Okay. But kiss me again.

—I already kissed you.

—Again.

—You’re so needy.

—Kiss me and I’ll sleep.

Megumi rolled his eyes, though he couldn’t help the small smile as he leaned in, searching for his lips in the dark. The kiss was short, sweet, and soft. When they pulled apart, Reader was already smiling with his eyes closed.

—That’s better, —he murmured, his voice thick with sleep.

—You’re annoying.

—Your annoying.

Megumi didn’t reply. He just held him tighter and closed his eyes, listening to his breathing slow and deepen.

—

The first light of dawn slipped timidly through the curtains when Megumi opened his eyes. He blinked once, twice, adjusting to the dim brightness. The room was quiet, broken only by the steady breathing beside him.

That’s when he felt it.

A hand. Under his shirt.

Warm fingers, relaxed with sleep, resting still against his skin, right at the edge of his chest. There was nothing intentional about it—it was simply the result of a night spent sleeping together. And yet, Megumi felt his skin prickle faintly beneath Reader’s palm.

He glanced at him. His boyfriend was still deeply asleep, face turned toward him, lips slightly parted, his expression completely relaxed. He slept like a rock—he always had. And yet, even in that state of complete unconsciousness, his hand had found its way under his clothes, seeking contact.

Megumi swallowed, not daring to move. It felt like his heart was about to leap out of his chest.

He could feel the weight of his fingers, the distinct warmth of his palm against his torso. They’d been together for a while now, sure—but there were still moments like this, where the reality of having a boyfriend hit him all at once.

He didn’t know how much time passed like that, lying still, staring at the ceiling while his boyfriend’s hand stayed there—harmless, but painfully present.

Until Reader moved.

Without waking, without any awareness, his fingers shifted a couple of centimeters. A lazy, absent motion. The pad of his thumb brushed lightly over his skin, right where his chest began.

Megumi held his breath.

—…Mmh, —Reader murmured something unintelligible, pulling Megumi a little closer out of pure instinct.

And then, with that movement, his hand slid a bit higher.

Not much. Just a little. But enough for heat to rush to Megumi’s face. Because now his hand wasn’t just near his chest.

It was on it.

—…Hey, —he whispered, his voice still rough from sleep.

No response. Of course—you were still asleep.

—Reader, —he insisted, a bit louder, though not enough to fully wake you.

Nothing. Still peacefully breathing, your hand resting on his chest like it belonged there.

Megumi sighed, a mix of exasperation and something he’d rather not examine too closely. He raised his free hand—the one that wasn’t trapped between them—and gave you a gentle nudge on the shoulder.

—Wake up.

A lazy groan slipped from your throat. You wrinkled your nose, frowning in your sleep—and instead of letting go, you pressed your hand slightly more against his chest.

—…What, —you mumbled, not opening your eyes.

Your hand, —Megumi said, trying to keep his voice flat.— It’s…

He trailed off. He didn’t know how to finish that sentence without it sounding weird.

You blinked, fighting off sleep. It took a few seconds to process his words—and a few more to realize where exactly your hand was. When it finally clicked, a slow smile spread across your face without you even fully opening your eyes.

—Ah, —you mumbled, voice still thick with sleep.— Well, look at that.

—Stop doing that, —he said, though he didn’t move your hand away. He could have. Easily. But he didn’t. He didn’t really know how to react.

—Stop doing what? —you asked innocently, your fingers shifting slightly in a lazy touch.— I was asleep.

—Then wake up already.

—I don’t want to.

You finally opened one eye—just one—to look at him. Megumi was lying on his side, staring at you with that expression of his that tried to be serious but didn’t quite manage it, especially with the faint blush dusting his cheeks. You found it adorable. You always did.

—You’re blushing, —you pointed out, without even trying to hide it.

—I’m not.

—You are. Your ears too.

—Shut up.

You smiled wider now, stretching slightly without letting go. The movement made your hand slide again over his chest, brushing—accidentally, or maybe not so accidentally—over one of his nipples through the thin fabric of his shirt.

Megumi’s reaction was small, almost imperceptible.

But you felt it.

Your smile widened.

—Was it here? —you asked with fake innocence, dragging your thumb over the same spot again.

—Reader —his name came out like a warning, though it carried no real authority.

Megumi pushed you away abruptly and got out of bed, leaving you laughing behind him.

He was completely red.

Like a tomato.

They say that first love is never forgotten, and the one between Reader and Cersei was one that overflowed with the inevitability of destiny. Wolf and Lion, Lannister and Stark, two forces so antagonistic that, when united, they seemed to defy all logic. Their story was more than a forbidden love; it was a bond so deep that neither the whispers of the court, nor betrayals, nor the weight of the years could undo it. Over the years, their relationship shifted from a secret, fiery romance to a silent, almost imperceptible alliance, where they no longer recognized each other as lovers, but as something more: as those who were made to be together, despite the fate that opposed them.

Though their love began in darkness, in the shadows of broken promises and unlikely alliances, what grew between them was more than passion: it was an unbreakable complicity. Cersei loved Reader like no one else. He was not only her first lover, her first betrothed, her first everything, but also the only person who ever understood the desire and fear that nestled in her heart. When her engagement was torn apart to marry Robert Baratheon, a close friend of Reader’s, her world collapsed. But that was not enough to separate them. It couldn’t, and she didn’t want it to. The passion they shared didn’t die; it grew in secret, fueled by the certainty that, despite everything, their love would endure.

Joffrey, Tommen, and Myrcella were the tangible proof of their hidden relationship. Bastards born from a love that no one saw, but that had always been there. As for Reader, he also came to know fatherhood with the birth of Sansa, a daughter born under painful circumstances, after the death of his wife, Cassandra Tully. He had never loved Cassandra, but he didn’t hate her either. Her death was a silent shadow that never disappeared, but Sansa filled that space with her presence. And despite the discomfort in his chest from losing the mother of his daughter, his love for her was a comfort in his heart.

Cersei, for her part, had loved Reader with the purity of a first love that neither time nor ambition could corrupt. In fact, over the years, she came to forget her desire to be queen. She didn’t care about the throne or the crown; all she wanted was him. Only him. No one else could take his place, no one else could understand her the way he did. The ambition for power faded when she realized that Reader’s love was all she needed, more than any golden crown.

Fate, however, had other plans. When Jon Arryn discovered their secret, he planned to reveal the truth to Robert, but death came to him from a sudden “illness,” and Reader was named Hand of the King. Upon arriving in the capital, his relationship with Cersei not only continued but intensified. They found each other once more, between the shadows and hallways of a palace full of lies. The walls could hear their whispers, and the servants saw the looks charged with desire, but the world would never know the truth they shared.

Yet, it didn’t matter what the world thought. Cersei and Reader, despite their flaws, were two beings destined to unite, two souls born to intertwine despite the challenges life presented them. Both were selfish, ambitious, bad people by the court’s judgment, but together, in their secret union, they were invincible. Wolves disguised as lambs, ruling with cunning and passion, while the world beyond their doors continued to ignore who they truly were.

Fate could try to separate them, but they would always, always find their way back to each other. Because somewhere in the universe, where the stars couldn’t see, the wolf and the lion had chosen each other, and there was no force in this world or the next that could break that bond.

Made to be together, they always had been. Though the world was a stage of lies and betrayals, they remained the only truths amidst the chaos. And perhaps that was the most beautiful thing of all: that their love, though veiled in shadows, was stronger than anything that could separate them.

Cersei Lannister was not a particularly affectionate woman. Her love, when she gave it, was often harsh, wrapped in thorns, camouflaged in biting words and sharp looks. But she knew Reader well enough to notice when something tormented him, when the demons of his mind swirled around him with an intensity that not even the strongest wine could dissipate.

That morning, she found him sitting by the window, a cup in his hand, his gaze lost in the horizon. The golden sunlight of King’s Landing illuminated his face, highlighting the tension in his jaw, the shadow of a thought he didn’t share with anyone.

Without a word, Cersei approached and slid a hand across his cheek, an unexpectedly gentle gesture. Reader blinked, surprised, and their eyes met. In silence, she brought her palm to her lips and placed a soft kiss on his skin.

—Since when are you so melancholic? —Cersei murmured with a hint of mockery, though she didn’t move her hand.

Reader didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he drew Cersei closer and rested his head against her hip, like a wolf seeking refuge in its lioness. Her scent enveloped him, that intoxicating mix of wine and floral perfume that felt so familiar.

—I’m not melancholic —he finally replied, his usual nonchalant tone, though his posture betrayed something else.

Cersei clicked her tongue, running her fingers through his hair absentmindedly.

—Of course not —she said with a sly smile—. You’re just clinging to me like a puppy needing affection.

Reader let out a low laugh, not moving.

—I’m surprised you didn’t call me a “dog” instead of a “puppy.”

—I respect you too much for that —Cersei replied, pretending to be serious. Then, leaning in just slightly, she whispered against his ear—. Besides, wolves are much more entertaining.

Reader shook his head, smiling faintly.

—If this is your way of consoling me, I must say it’s terribly ineffective.

Cersei laughed softly, tangling her fingers in his hair with a gesture that seemed more instinctive than deliberate.

—I don’t console —she said with her usual arrogance—. But if you want a distraction… I can offer that.

Reader raised an eyebrow, looking up at her.

—you have a very particular idea of what compassion is, dear.

—And you of what distraction is? —Cersei retorted with a mischievous smile, leaning in to steal a quick kiss.

Reader sighed and, without thinking much, rubbed his face against Cersei’s fine dress, enjoying the texture of the fabric against his skin.

—Sometimes you’re so tame, did you know that? —she said with amusement and a hint of curiosity.

—You’re comfortable, beautiful —he replied, his voice muffled against the fabric.

Cersei let out a brief laugh, part amused, part incredulous.

—you could have said something more poetic.

—I could have —he conceded—, but I prefer the truth.

Cersei sighed, but didn’t pull away. Her fingers continued to slide through his hair absentmindedly, as if the gesture had become a silent habit between them. It wasn’t something she would do with anyone, not even with her own children, but Reader had always been the exception.

—Whatever it is that’s bothering you, you’d better fix it quickly —she said in her usual carefree tone, though there was a hidden truth in her words—. I don’t like seeing you like this.

Reader smiled faintly.

—Do you care about my well-being?

Cersei clicked her tongue.

—Don’t be ridiculous. I’m just saying I don’t like seeing you with that beaten-dog look. It ruins my mood.

Reader let out a soft chuckle.

—Oh, how considerate of you.

—I know —she said with a teasing smile.

Definitely, the lion and the wolf were a strange combination, two beasts who shouldn’t coexist, but somehow, they worked. In their twisted way, their love was a balance between arrogance and devotion, between mockery and loyalty. And, against all odds, they kept choosing each other. Again and again.

୨୧

The Red Keep was a labyrinth of intrigue and silence, but that night, the solitude of the walls and the flickering shadows of the candles created the perfect atmosphere for a forbidden meeting.

Cersei had entered without warning, as always, with her elegant bearing and presence that seemed to fill every corner of the room. Reader was at his desk, going through some papers, but their eyes met with the same intensity they had crossed paths with so many times before. There were no words at first, just a look, one that carried more history and desire than words could describe.

Cersei approached, not in a hurry, with a smile on her lips that reflected a mix of amusement and challenge.

—Don't you get tired of working so much, Reader? —Her voice was soft, but there was something sharp about it, as always.

—And don't you get tired of entering without being invited? —he replied, not lifting his eyes from the papers, though his tone suggested he enjoyed the situation.

Cersei walked towards him, with the confidence that defined her, and when she reached his side, her fingers lightly touched his shoulders, moving up toward his neck. Her proximity always had an effect on him, though he tried not to show it.

—Sometimes I wonder how someone as... serious as you can be so much fun. —Cersei let out a low laugh, one that was both a mockery and an invitation.

Reader finally lifted his gaze, his eyes meeting hers, and the tension between them became palpable. It wasn't the first time Cersei was in his space, and it wasn't the first time they shared such closeness. Both knew that what existed between them was something impossible, something that should never exist, but like a sweet poison, it always resurfaced.

—Maybe it's because I'm so serious that I make things more interesting for you. —His tone grew a little more challenging, but there was a hint of amusement in his voice.

Cersei couldn't help but smile again, this time more seductively. Without saying more, she sat in Reader's lap, without asking permission. Her body adjusted easily to his, and her hands began playing with the buttons of his shirt, unbuttoning them with an almost exasperating slowness, while her lips brushed against his neck with that familiarity only Cersei could achieve.

—You're very confident for someone who doesn't have control, —she said, as her hands slid over his skin.

Reader, with a smile that escaped between his lips, held her hips, not with force, but with a gentleness that conveyed everything they both knew, even though they didn't speak it aloud.

—And you, very impatient for someone who has everything under control. —His voice was filled with sarcasm, but also a calm amusement.

Cersei laughed, moving a little more, enjoying the game between them. He was her challenge, her temptation, and although both knew it wasn't something meant to last longer than the night could offer, there was something about those stolen moments that was irresistible.

—We'll see who has control in the end, Reader —she said, raising an eyebrow as her lips sought his, trapping him in a kiss that left them both breathless for a moment.

And so, the distance between them faded once again, in a secluded corner of the Red Keep, where shadows danced and time seemed to stop. Without words, without promises, only the heat of their bodies and the need to give in to a dangerous, yet inevitable desire.

In the heart of the darkness, unseen by anyone, the wolf and the lion surrendered to their own game. A forbidden love, but one that always found a way to be reborn, time and time again.

The candles flickered with the night breeze, casting trembling shadows on the walls of the Hand of the King's chambers. Cersei's wine glass had been forgotten on the table, and the only thing left between them was the shared warmth of their bodies and the tension that always enveloped them when they were alone.

Cersei was still on him, with her lap as an improvised throne, Reader's hands firm on her waist, as if he were holding her there purely by instinct. She played with the buttons of his shirt, unbuttoning them with an almost irritating slowness, while a mocking smile adorned her lips.

—You're always so patient, —she whispered, brushing her lips against his without kissing him completely—. I wonder how much more you can bear.

Reader let out a sigh, part amused and part exasperated.

—Patience is a virtue, dear.

—A virtue you don't have, —she replied, sliding a nail down his exposed collarbone.

He raised an eyebrow.

—You offend me.

Cersei smiled maliciously, leaning in slightly to bite his lower lip softly before trapping it in a deep kiss, one that he responded to with equal intensity. Her hands slowly descended down his sides until they met the ribbon of her dress, but before releasing it, she paused.

—Doubt? —she teased, her voice barely a whisper.

—No —he answered without hesitation—. I just enjoy watching how impatient you become when you don't have control.

Cersei let out a soft, dangerous laugh.

—I let you believe you have control because it amuses me, not because it's true.

Reader smiled to the side, not taking his eyes off hers.

—Then amuse me.

The air between them grew even thicker, and this time, there were no more provocations, just the brush of skin against skin, the broken sound of their breaths, and the echo of a love that was never meant to exist... but always found a way to be reborn in the dark.

Cersei adjusted herself better on his lap, moving just enough to provoke a reaction in him. Reader didn't give her the satisfaction of reacting immediately, although his grip on her waist tightened slightly. The queen noticed and smiled, with that sly expression that had always fascinated and exasperated him equally.

—You still haven't done anything, —she murmured against his ear, her warm breath sending a shiver down his spine.

Reader let out a low laugh, tired but amused.

—Since when do you enjoy torturing me so much?

Cersei ran her fingers along the opening of his shirt, her nails barely grazing his skin.

—Since I discovered how easy it is to make you lose your head.

He looked at her with feigned indifference, though his eyes betrayed him. It was always like this between them. A dangerous game, a constant struggle for control that, in the end, they were both willing to lose.

—What if someone enters? —he asked, his tone clearly mocking.

Cersei let out a soft laugh.

—You're the Hand of the King, no one would dare interrupt you.

—Oh, what an honor —he said sarcastically, finally sliding a hand to remove her low-cut dress.

She closed her eyes for a moment, enjoying the sensation, before looking at him with intensity.

—Is that all you've got, Stark? —she challenged, with a dangerous smile.

Reader smiled to the side.

—You tell me.

There were no more words. They didn't need any.

Reader, without letting go of her, lifted her with surprising ease, his hands firm on her hips. He carried her to the large mahogany desk, gently letting her fall onto the cold, polished surface. The impact made her moan, a low, guttural sound that echoed in the silence of the room. Her dress, already partially torn from their passionate struggle, slid down her legs, exposing her naked body, her breasts pressing against Reader's chest.

—Shit, Stark... —Cersei gasped, her fingers digging into his shoulders. Her full, firm breasts moved with each thrust, brushing against his skin, creating friction that sparked the fire of her desire even more.

Reader looked at her, the intensity in his eyes reflecting the passion that consumed them. With slow, deliberate movements, he began to penetrate her, his body moving against hers with a force that made her arch over the desk. Each thrust was a strike, a claim, an act of possession.

—You're a delicious whore, Cersei... —murmured Reader, his voice rough with pleasure. His hands gripped her hips, squeezing tightly, as his body moved in an unrelenting rhythm.

—Fuck... yes... more... —Cersei moaned, her words broken by pleasure. Her nails scratched his back, leaving red marks that would soon become memories of their encounter. Her breasts, pressed against his chest, moved with each thrust, the friction intensifying the sensation.

The sound of their bodies colliding, the rubbing of skin against cold mahogany, the gasping of their breaths intertwined, filled the room with a symphony of unrestrained passion. Reader kissed her fiercely, his lips seeking hers, his tongue exploring her mouth with a hungry urgency. His hands roamed her body, caressing her skin, exploring every curve, every inch.

—I want you... —Cersei whispered, her voice barely audible among her moans. The words, spoken in the middle of ecstasy, carried greater weight, an intensity that transcended mere physical pleasure. It was a total surrender, a confession of love and desire amid the whirlwind of their bodies.

Reader, overcome by passion, thrust into her with more force, his body moving with brutal intensity. Cersei moaned, her body arching, her fingers gripping his hair. The pleasure intensified, a wave that dragged them both to a point of no return. Their bodies became one, a whirlwind of sensations that took them to the limit.

—Bastard... —Cersei gasped, just before reaching climax. Her body tensed, a powerful release that left her trembling, exhausted but satisfied.

Reader collapsed on top of her, his body heavy on hers. Silence returned, broken only by the sound of their labored breaths and the rapid beating of their hearts. The heat of their intertwined bodies, the scent of their sweat, and the memory of their passion remained as an indelible mark on the cold mahogany of the desk. The wolf and the lion, united in a wild and dangerous act of love, had surrendered completely to the storm of their desire.

୨୧

Reader was not known for being a good person. His reputation was dark, tainted by the shadows of his past. During Robert's Rebellion, he had played a feared and bloody role, a man willing to capture and torture those on the opposite side of the Lannisters. Those who did not yield under the weight of his interrogations knew that the reward for their resistance was even more cruel: the torture with which he extracted secrets, breaking men down to their bones, to their souls. The stories that circulated about him said that he had even forced a direwolf, with black fur and a mark around its eye, to tear apart alive the men who dared to be loyal to the Targaryens. There was no mercy in his methods, no remorse, only the need to get what he wanted, at any cost.

Cersei, of course, was not much different. Though her name was wrapped in the gold of House Lannister and the intrigues of the court, her heart was as hardened as Reader's. She, the woman who had witnessed betrayals, murders, who had maneuvered through shadows with cunning and without hesitation, dirtying her hands with blood if necessary. She was not the protective mother she pretended to be, nor the just queen the stories claimed her to be; her ambition and desire for power were above all else, even the family bonds she so loudly proclaimed. The idea of morality was never something Cersei embraced; the end always justified the means, and her enemies were always enemies to the death.

In the context of their relationship, both Reader and Cersei understood each other in their harsh view of the world. It was not about finding comfort in each other, but about finding a unique complicity, one that only men and women willing to dirty their hands could understand. They were two pieces of the same board, willing to do whatever it took to win, regardless of what the rest of the world thought of them.

Of course, they knew they were not good, nor did they pretend to be. On the contrary, they embraced their darkness, knowing that the world they lived in left no room for the weak. In that sense, there was a palpable attraction between them: both moved through the same shadows, willing to do whatever necessary to seize power, even if it meant descending into vileness.

Reader did not expect Cersei to understand him in the same way that he understood her. Their minds were as sharp as their swords, but they shared a mutual respect for their indifference toward good and evil. There was only what they wanted, what they needed, what they were willing to sacrifice to achieve their goals. And in that moral abyss, they found each other again, seeking solace in the company of another monster, knowing that the world would not stop to judge them.

It was a dirty game, one of power, of survival, and both knew that in this game, only the most ruthless would come out victorious.

୨୧

Reader wrapped his arms around Cersei’s waist from behind, his hands gliding over her abdomen with deceptive softness. He leaned in just enough to leave a kiss on her bare shoulder, a gesture almost absent, more habit than tenderness. Cersei, with her gaze lost in the dimly lit room, didn’t react immediately. Her thoughts were elsewhere, and he noticed.

—I don’t like it when you get like this —murmured Reader against her skin, his warm breath sliding over her collarbone.

Cersei let out a soft sigh before responding.

—The boy woke up.

Reader paused his caresses for a moment. He didn’t need to ask which boy she was referring to. Bran Stark. Her nephew. The little one who, without thinking too much, had seen them kiss and halfway undress, and hadn’t hesitated to throw him from the tower. Not with hate, not even with rage, but with the cold determination of a man who knew secrets were nothing more than daggers waiting to pierce the backs of the careless.

—And he still doesn’t remember anything —Reader replied, his tone indifferent, though it didn’t quite match the tension in his jaw.

Cersei then turned to face him, her golden eyes sharp as the edge of a sword.

—For now. But if he ever does…

—If he ever does, we’ll take care of it —Reader declared, placing a hand on her cheek. His thumb caressed her skin with an unexpectedly intimate gesture, briefly dispelling the coldness of the matter they were concerned with.

Cersei tilted her face slightly, enjoying the touch. Despite everything, Reader always had that way of calming her mind, anchoring it to the present.

—We can’t afford mistakes —she whispered, more to herself than to him.

—We’ve never allowed them, and we won’t start now —Reader murmured, drawing close enough for their lips to brush in a silent promise.

She didn’t respond immediately. Instead, she slid her fingers through his hair, gripping it as if she could extract certainty from the contact. Then, with the same calm with which they shared every dangerous secret, their lips met in a slow kiss, more possessive than affectionate.

Reader smiled faintly against her mouth.

—Don’t look at me like that —he murmured, a hint of amusement in his voice.

—Like what? —Cersei asked, arching an eyebrow.

—Like you want to devour me.

Cersei let out a brief laugh and tangled her fingers in his hair more firmly.

—Maybe I will.

Reader tilted his head, his gaze burning.

—Do it.

And as so many times before, amidst intrigue and danger, they abandoned themselves to each other in the only certainty they had left: their own.

Reader loved Cersei, and Cersei loved Reader. It was not a tender or gentle love, but a love that was ravenous, possessive, and dark, fueled by desire and ambition. They belonged to each other, body and soul, but more than that, they consumed each other with a mutual obsession.

They understood each other on a level beyond words. Reader could read in Cersei’s golden eyes every thought, every fear disguised as arrogance. And she, in turn, knew that he would never hesitate to stain his hands with blood for her, just as she would for him. No boundaries or morals mattered, only the two of them.

—You’d do anything for me, wouldn’t you? —Cersei whispered, a cryptic smile on her lips as she ran her fingers along the line of his jaw.

—You know I would —Reader replied without hesitation, leaning in to brush his lips against hers, barely a touch but full of silent promises.

—Even if it meant burning the entire world?

—On the ashes, you’d still be my queen.

Cersei smiled, satisfied with the answer, and pulled him closer, intertwining her fingers in his hair. They kissed with the same passion with which they ruled, with the same intensity with which they destroyed.

They weren’t the kind of love that inspired bards’ songs. They were the kind of love that would be whispered over wine, the kind of love that brought ruin to those who stood in their way. And yet, neither of them cared.

Because in the game of power, the only safe refuge they had was in each other.

A soft gasp broke the absolute silence that reigned in the dark bedroom. Jaime took a brief moment to identify exactly where he was, as his dream had been so vivid and realistic that it left his mind bewildered. King's Landing. He was in his chambers, surrounded by the familiar scents that always filled the room: chamomile and honey, scents that both he and Cersei insisted the maids use. The heat of the season had caused him to remove the blankets, but now, in the stillness of the night, he felt the cool air of the room brushing against his bare skin. He reached out in search of the fabric, covering himself completely, but as he did, a strange feeling overtook him.

The scar. Instead of the hand that had wielded a sword with such skill, there was now only a horrendous reminder of what he had lost. A clean cut, left by the war as an unpleasant souvenir, deep and grotesque, running across his forearm. It had been a war wound, the one that marked the transition in his life from a feared and respected man to one marked by vulnerability. The worst part, however, was not the physical pain, but the emotional scar that loss had left. The dream he had just experienced had dragged him back to those moments, to the brutal fall he suffered at the hands of Roose Bolton’s men, the man who severed his hand with a single move and left him in the darkness of helplessness.

It was then that something distracted him. A slight movement beside him pulled him out of his thoughts. Someone had shifted, and the bed he had once shared now seemed eerily empty. A sigh of protest escaped his lips as he noticed the cold breeze taking over his bare body. He opened his eyes, barely aware of the moonlight filtering through the finely decorated windows. In its faint glow, the figure beside him became visible, a figure who seemed lost in her own thoughts, as detached from the world as he was at that moment.

At first, he said nothing, watching in silence. She seemed so distant, so caught up in her own mind, as if battling something greater than either of them. The stillness was eventually broken when her hand brushed against his cheek. Jaime reacted instinctively, his body tensing at the gentle touch, but the warmth of her skin was like an anchor pulling him back to reality.

—What’s wrong? —he asked, his voice low, almost fearful that any word might shatter the calm.

Jaime didn’t respond at first, but the gleam in his green eyes, clouded by sleep, told her everything she needed to know. The weight of his thoughts was dragging him back into the nightmares that tormented him. The exhaustion was palpable, and the anguish wrapped around him like a dense fog. Still, he said nothing, as if refusing to speak of what tormented him.

—The same dream again, right? —she asked, her voice soft but filled with a concern she couldn’t hide. She knew well what was happening.

Jaime turned his head slightly, his expression grave. He didn’t say anything at first, but the gesture of raising his hand to move the hair from her face told her that, although his words didn’t flow easily, their bond was still strong. Her touch offered him some comfort, a kind of peace amidst the storm of his mind.

—Cersei must be planning something. She always has something up her sleeve, —he murmured with a grim tone, as if the shadows of his sister were rising over them even now.

His lost, distant gaze made it clear what he feared: Cersei’s threat. The thought of her harming the one he loved most disturbed him more than he wanted to admit. The worry enveloped him, as if the constant threat of his sister could tear him apart completely.

—I don’t want her to touch you. I don’t want to lose you. The fact that you’re a Stark is already a death sentence for her, —he added, his voice rough with fatigue and desperation.

She sighed, trying to calm him, but the fear of losing him remained, palpable in her words.

—Your name, your status would be enough to convince anyone who wanted to harm me. You don’t need both hands to protect me as brutally as you do, —she responded, gently caressing his face, trying to erase the anxiety from his mind. Then she kissed him, a soft kiss but filled with all the love she felt.

Jaime let out a soft complaint, the feeling of his back against her being the only thing that kept him grounded in reality. He moved to caress the smooth skin of her back with his healthy hand, his touch acknowledging the need to feel her close, to keep her safe from anything that could threaten her.

—It would definitely help, —he murmured, his voice full of bitter sarcasm, as his fingers traced her skin.

She smiled tenderly, kissing him again. This kiss was different, deeper, more meaningful. The love and commitment she felt for him filled the space between their lips. In those moments, nothing mattered outside of that room; all that mattered was the promise that he, her lion, would always fight for her, as he had always done. No one, not even Cersei, could touch them while they were together.

—My brave husband, fighting for his wife, —she whispered against his lips, feeding his ego with sweetness, watching him tighten his grip on her with a force that showed how fierce his love was. No one could stop a man so powerful. No one.

Jaime didn’t need to speak. The strength of his touch and the fierce determination in his eyes already said everything. He would destroy everything in his path before allowing anyone, not even his sister, to harm her.

Jaime couldn’t help but slide his fingers over the huge scar on [Reader]’s abdomen. He always felt a pang of guilt every time his fingertips traced that mark, a wound that should never have appeared on her skin. It was Locke. His men had taken her when he couldn’t do anything, when he himself had been reduced to a helpless prisoner, a knight without a sword, a lion without claws. Remembering that moment only fueled the rage and helplessness that still burned within him.

But that wasn’t the only scar.

Jaime let his gaze wander over her skin, illuminated by the soft moonlight. Some marks were smaller, fine pale lines crossing her arms and hands, memories of knives and chains. Others were deeper, irregular, scars that spoke of a brutality that had no place on someone like her. She had a long scar running down her side, from her ribs to her hip, the result of a malicious slash that nearly killed her. Another on her forearm, the skin deformed where a sword had grazed it. Even her collarbone bore a fine mark, the evidence of an attempt to break her, to shatter her, as if they had wanted to bend her completely.

Jaime knew these weren’t just scars. They were war marks, marks of resilience, of a struggle she should never have faced alone. And above all, they were a silent sentence for him, a constant reminder that he couldn’t protect her when she needed it most.

—You should never have had them, —he whispered, his voice barely audible.

Reader opened her eyes slightly, feeling his fingers trace each of her scars. She knew what he was thinking, what he felt every time he saw her body marked by violence.

—It’s not your fault, —she murmured, covering his hand with hers. She knew Jaime felt guilty, even though it wasn’t clearly his fault. He felt that he could have done something to stop them from violating and torturing her the way they did.

Jaime clenched his jaw. He knew those words were a kind lie. If he had been stronger, faster, deadlier… if he had had his sword, everything would have been different. She wouldn’t be marked, she wouldn’t carry those scars and those horrible memories.

—I should have been there, I should have stopped it, —he insisted, his voice rough with frustration.

Reader held his gaze, her fingers gently squeezing his.

—You were there. You helped me keep going when I thought I couldn’t. Do you remember what you told me?

Jaime frowned, his memories clouded by guilt. But she didn’t need him to answer. She came closer, pressing her forehead against his, forcing him to look into her eyes.

—“Survive. Resist. And when the time comes, make them pay,” —she whispered, repeating the words he had told her that night when everything seemed lost.

Jaime felt his chest tighten. He remembered. He remembered seeing her hurt, bloodied, her eyes glowing with rage and determination. He remembered using his last breath to tell her to fight, to live. And she had.

—You did, —he murmured, a mix of admiration and sadness in his voice. —You resisted.

Reader smiled faintly, her fingers tracing invisible lines across his chest.

—And so did you.

Jaime exhaled slowly, closing his eyes for a moment. It wasn’t enough. Nothing would be. But as long as she was still breathing, as long as he could keep touching her, protecting her, making sure she never went through that again… maybe, just maybe, he could redeem himself.

—I will never let it happen again, —he swore, his tone full of fierce determination. —I won’t let anyone touch you like that again.

Reader looked at him, her expression soft but firm.

—I know.

And with those words, she kissed him, without urgency, without desperation. Just with the certainty that, despite everything, they were together. That their scars, though reminders of the past, wouldn’t define their future.

The stillness of the room wrapped around them, and though the scars, both physical and emotional, still weighed heavily on them, there was something comforting in the proximity of their bodies. Jaime hugged her softly, as if afraid that if he held her too tight, she might disappear into the air,

୨୧

The nights in King's Landing became endless for Reader. Every time silence fell over the city, the darkness of her memories was unleashed, wrapping her in nightmares that left her waking up drenched in cold sweat. Trembling hands and a racing heart were only the beginning, but the worst part was the feeling of vulnerability, of being once again at the mercy of those men, of that pain. Every time the memories overflowed, her mind filled with images of her scars, of what she had suffered, of what she had been unable to prevent.

Jaime knew. He knew that no matter how much she tried to hide it, those scars not only marked her skin but her soul. The internal struggle she faced every time she woke from one of her nightmares tore at his heart. It wasn’t just the terror of what had happened that kept her trapped, but the fear that he might also see her as weak, marked. It was something she tried to hide, and that was why her murmurs in the dark, her nervous movements during sleep, broke his soul.

Every night, Jaime kept her close. He held her in silence, wrapping his arms around her, trying to give her comfort, a refuge that no one else had ever offered her. Physical contact was uncomfortable for her, even unbearable, but Jaime had become her exception. Only he could touch her without the pain of being touched by others overwhelming her. Sansa, of course, also had that permission, but no one else did.

The maidservants, assigned to help her dress, tried cautiously to clothe her, but they always encountered an invisible barrier that kept them from getting too close. It wasn’t just a matter of comfort. It was a deep, almost visceral issue: physical contact brought her a sense of invasion, an invasion of her personal space that made her feel exposed, vulnerable.

Her dresses, carefully designed to cover her scars, became a barrier that everyone, from her acquaintances to strangers, misunderstood. Rumors began to spread through the castle halls. Many whispered that Reader was too proud, that her secrecy about her own body was arrogance, that she didn’t want to show her skin to the world. Others, more cruel, speculated about what she was really hiding: perhaps she was so broken inside that she couldn’t bear to be seen without the perfect facade she showed the world.

But Reader ignored the whispers. That they spoke didn’t matter to her. The rumors, though hurtful, didn’t touch her soul as deeply as her memories did. She had become accustomed to living in the silence that her solitude offered, the stillness of her thoughts, the serenity she found only in the hours when Jaime kept her close.

One of those nights, while she lay restless in bed, trying to fall asleep, Jaime wrapped his arm around her, pulling her closer, seeking to give her the warmth of his body for some peace. The contact was comforting, despite everything. He knew that his mere presence could be the most powerful cure for the invisible scars within her.

—Does it hurt? —he asked softly, as if afraid the slightest sound might break the peace of the moment.

Reader didn’t respond immediately, as if the weight of the question had paralyzed her for a moment. It was an uncomfortable truth, one she couldn’t always share. However, she knew that at least with him, she could be honest.

—Sometimes, —she murmured softly, almost a whisper.

He tightened his embrace a little more, wordlessly, because he understood. Jaime knew that the scars one carries on the skin are only a reflection of those unseen, the ones buried deep in the heart. And though Reader struggled to maintain a facade of strength, he could see the vulnerability in her eyes that she never showed to the world.

—I promise you, you’ll never be alone in this again, —he whispered, pressing his face into her hair, breathing in her scent as if it were the only anchor keeping him grounded in reality.

She didn’t respond, but the fact that their bodies were so close, intertwined, offered more comfort than any words. The scars, the rumors, the fears—all of that faded away when their hearts beat in unison, when their physical contact became a mutual refuge. In that moment, the shadows of the past didn’t seem so terrifying, because both knew that, together, they could face them.

Almost at dawn, when Reader's nightmares began to fade and Jaime's warmth gave her the deepest sleep she’d had in days, the tensions of the past dissolved, and only the two of them remained. The love they shared, with all its scars and fragility, remained their greatest strength.

FUSHIGURO FAMILY

𖹭 — ❝ A CLINGY BOYFRIENDS ❞

❝ ONLY YOU AND I ❞

After the Trial of Seven and the death of his own brother, Maekar carries the unbearable weight of having spilled his own blood. Consumed by guilt, he finds comfort only in the one person who truly understands him : His twin, his equal, his lover.

❝ MY SON, MY FIRST SON. MY GOOD BOY. ❞