#love triangle

Duchess Frances and Duke William Monroe had always fought over toys and trinkets since they were young. These small squabbles never ended, even when they reached adulthood. Especially when they both had their sights set on you, the pretty little maid. Both siblings were incredibly competitive over you, their sweet, oblivious maid.

You had been with them since they were children since you were the daughter of a maid. And once you were a teen, you worked for the family too… and those two siblings made your life a living hell. You had no idea that they did such awful acts upon you for your utmost attention rather than sadistic pleasure, but how were you to know the truth? They merely learned love through what they observed between their cold parents.

Frances used to cut your hair without your permission and stuff the remnants into a tin under he bed, while William had a much stranger habit. He enjoyed keeping your dirty socks. They were both so strange to you as the years went on. What started at childish bullying turned into a strange dynamic they had with no other house servant.

When adulthood finally came, Frances Monroe became a diva. Unlike her war commander brother, who threw elaborate parties and had gaggles of women dancing on his arms, she’d flaunt her furs and jewelry amongst the party guests. And she made you, her maid, do her hair and makeup multiple times a day just so she could have your hands on her. Frances adored the attention she recieved from other women, but didn’t like the attention of men… the socialite didn’t quite understand why, but she gravitated towards you. You were the only one who indulged her every command and it made her feel special. Even though Frances failed to realize you didn’t quite have a choice.

Your hands were constantly making finger waves in her French bob. You swore your hands were in the permanent shape of the comb and your hands smelled constantly of sugar water. Yet Frances was never satisfied.

“Redo it. You can’t possibly think this hairstyle is acceptable for my party guests.” She’d tell you each time despite how good the hair looked. This was all to have your constant attention… and to keep you away from her older brother, William.

When you finally had free time, you’d be hounded by William who wanted you to fetch him all kinds of assortments. Whether it was drinks or snacks, he’d ask for them in bountiful amounts. Yet that wasn’t the worst part, the worst part was when William had you feed him and it was always a show.

William would beckon you over like a dog in front of so many people before he’d have you nearly straddling his lap to hand-feed him an appetizer or an olive from his martini. His blue eyes would be half lidded and dazed… like you were yet another woman he wanted as a conquest. It made you sick.

You hated those two spoiled brats. The hours you worked as a servant were so long and demanding and the pay? It was so low, you almost felt like a pet rather than a worker. You worked multiple jobs since the Monroes' cutback on servants in the manor. There were hardly any male servants due to the ongoing war… and you knew it was only a matter of time before one of the few men left in this house might try to put their hands on you. You had heard stories from other maids… and you had no interest in being a bed warmer and ultimately, known as a trollop it’s why you’ve been saving most of your checks. You needed enough for a ticket to sail across the Atlantic to America… maybe you’d find a better life in New York than working for this awful Duchy.

You sat up as you went to the hidden hole you had hidden under your mattress where you kept a metal tin full of shillings. You had about £14 that you’ve collected over three years. It’d be enough for a boat ticket… You only made about that much a year as a parlor maid. Which was more than what you made years ago. You were grateful for the meager pay rise because you were that much closer to freedom. You packed your tin back where it was before you made sure it was secure once more. The last thing you needed was for someone to discover this… you had been talking to a sailor for a few months now on getting on the hair and he promised you a spot if you ever truly needed it. You took great advantage of your looks to get what you wanted. And you were hopeful that he’d keep his word.

The days went on and you noticed William began to seek you out more and more. Whether it be to ask you to fetch him a beverage or to stand as close as possible beside you while you dusted. It unnerved you how he looked at you, yet the older maids could do nothing to help you.

“I’ll be going to war soon,” William told you softly. His blue eyes filled with longing. “…meet me in my room tonight.”

Frances angrily stormed into the room when one of the maids let it slip that William asked you that request. Her blue eyes were narrowed as her pin curls were still pinned to her head since she had waited all morning for you, specifically, to come to her room to take them out despite her having a personal maid.

“How dare you indulge my brother! You are to be at my beck and call, not his!” She huffed in annoyance, her pale cheeks flushed red. “I’m far better company than that sheik! Look at my hair! I need you to fix it.”

You obediently followed her to her room as she practically dragged you. Frances complained the entire time as you fixed her blonde bob for her. The socialite was leaning into your hands the whole time which made your job even more difficult. If only you looked up to see the dazed expression on her face, then you’d know how Frances really felt. Frances felt the feelings for you that a man would feel for a woman and that really upset her. Because Frances knew she could never truly have you. She’d have to marry a nobleman one day. Unless… She took you back with her.

It rained that night, but you quietly went to William’s room as he asked. You didn’t want to upset him since William had a worse temper than Frances, herself.

He was quick to wave you over to him as he sat in his chair. His blue eyes studied your form in an emotion you could only describe as reverence. Which was odd since he was a known ladies' man. Yet you never truly looked into whether or not he genuinely joined those ladies in his room. He was just a privileged elite in your eyes anyways.

“You’ve grown so beautiful.” William quietly told you, and his hand went to grab yours. His grip was as tight as the coils of a snake around its prey. “It’s not fair that my sister keeps you all to herself.”

The moment he went to try to pull you into his lap, you quickly tried to push away from him. His blue eyes widened before they became half-lidded. Did you enjoy teasing him? How naughty…

“I’m sorry, my lord. I hadn’t meant to offend you-“ William chuckled as he continued to let his hands roam your body. He had been holding back for so long but no other woman could get him quite as worked up as you did.

“Nonsense. I’m finally able to appreciate you and your beautiful body now that my father isn’t here. Do you know how hard it was to keep all the men away from you all these years? I didn’t want another man to ever touch you, sweetheart.” William smiled. “I’ve been carrying a torch for you for years and now I finally get to touch you.”

The moment he went to pull you in for a kiss, you shoved him before you fled. The Duke hardly had time to register what had just happened before he gave chase. If you glanced back, you would have see the expression of pure panic on his face. William had thought you liked him too… You had never lashed out like this before!

“Wait! Please-“

But you rushed into your room and took out that little tin full of money from under your mattress before you fled down the staircase. A few servants merely gave you a glance at first until they saw the young master chasing you. The room soon descended into pandemonium, which of course attracted Frances to exit her room in shock. Her blue eyes widened when she saw you rushing out the door in only your maid uniform and your little, metal tin.

“Wait! Where are you going?!” Frances soon descended the stairs as well, yet she wasn’t quick enough. You were out that door. Both siblings screamed for you over and over again, but you drowned them out.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

A falling star streaked across the sky and vanished beyond the dark, and you found yourself praying that whatever fortune it carried might drag the jeering men behind you away with it.

“Come on love, we don’t bite!…Well unless you’re keen on it.”

Two men had been trailing you for the better part of twenty minutes along the rutted dirt track, their voices carrying easily in the open air as they called for you incessantly to turn about and give them a “proper look.”

You did not oblige. Instead you kept your eyes forward and your stride even, praying with every footfall that the Ashford tourney encampment would appear beyond the next stand of trees. You had been travelling for a week or so, eager to witness the thrilling jousts with knights from across the seven kingdoms, even if you resented not being able to participate yourself.

If you could just reach the press of tents and banners, you could lose yourself in the crowd, and trust that even men such as these would think better of making a spectacle in plain view.

Even so you kept your eye on your sword in your saddle sheath from where your horse rode next to you, and your dagger warm against your palm. A handful of backward glances however told you what you needed to know: they were armed as well, and from their surcoats and sigils they were likely knights.

Little good they were for it, you thought bitterly.

You would not draw steel. Not yet. Though you had spent half your life with a sword in hand and a bowstring biting your fingers raw, you would not risk blood here, not when there were two of them, broad-shouldered and braced for it, and only one of you.

Not unless you had no other choice.

But then you felt their footsteps closer and fingers close around your arm, with hot wine–stained breath brushing the shell of your ear. “Don’t be shy now sweetheart.”

You drew your dagger out from your hip, and sliced it cleanly against the drunk’s forearm. He staggered back in surprise, and you felt your own heart leap with the realisation of what you’ve done. You were really in for it now.

You reached for your horses’ reins, heart hammering in your chest, and watched as the man’s once so-called friendliness twisted into something dark, his flushed face hardening with hatred. His companion’s hand hovered near the hilt of his sword, and the cold weight of your solitude pressed down like iron.

“You little whore. Oh I’m going to fuck-”

A sudden rustle cut him off. From between the trees, a shadow moved, then filled the path. A man, nay a giant emerged. His gaze locked on you, taking in the dagger still raised in your hand, then slid toward the two men before you, their own weapons being reached for. A silence fell, thick as the forest shadows, broken only by his low, even voice.

“Are you alright, m’lady?”

The two would-be attackers faltered backwards, uncertainty creeping into their eyes. It seemed their bravado faltered under the weight of his presence alone, and for a moment, you realized just how alone you had been and now how entirely the odds had just shifted.

You swallowed a shudder and forced your voice to a casual familiar pitch. “Cousin!” you called, stepping slightly forward, letting your hand rest lightly on his massive forearm. “There you are! I was beginning to think I’d lost you in the trees.”

The stranger’s brow furrowed in surprise, but he said nothing, letting your false story settle in the space between you. The two men blinked, confusion replacing aggression.

“Oh, these fellows were just teasing me,” you continued, waving a hand toward them. “I told them my cousin would have them running home crying if they tried anything foolish.”

The man’s massive frame shifted, his gauntleted hand brushing against the hilt of his sword, not threatening, but heavy with potential.

The men staggered backward in defeat, drunkenly tripping over roots and each other, muttering curses that carried none of their earlier bravado. You let the dagger fall slowly to your side, though your fingers still itched with the pulse of adrenaline.

You studied the stranger for a moment, taking in the contrast between size and gentleness. For all his towering frame, shoulders broad enough to block the moonlight and hands large enough to lift you without effort, there was no hardness in his face. His jaw was firm but not cruel, and the faint lines at the corners of his eyes softened the seriousness of his gaze. There was a youthfulness there, too, something you hadn’t expected when you first noticed him; perhaps he was not much older than yourself.

“Did they hurt you?” He asked, concern knitting his eyebrows.

“No,” you said, letting your voice soften. “They didn’t get the chance. I should thank you for that.” You offered a small smile, careful but genuine, and you thought you saw a flicker of something in him. Perhaps surprise, perhaps amusement as if the world had just reminded him that not all battles were won with strength alone.

He shook his head lightly, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “No. You had it quite managed on your own. I… all I did was stand here.”

You tilted your head, considering him as you let your smile broaden just a little. “And you did that very well.”

“Well… um,” he began, scratching the back of his neck, “You’re welcome to join us. I don’t have a pavilion, but there’s a fire, and… well, perhaps we’d both be a bit safer together.” He gestured behind him, and your eyes followed to a small boy standing half-hidden among the trees, watching quietly, while the warm glow of a flickering fire marked their camp just beyond. “My… name is Ser Duncan.”

You weighed his words carefully. The tourney grounds were close, yes, but you too had no pavilion of your own. The thought of falling asleep on the cold ground to the jeers of strangers surrounded by tents was hardly appealing. You were not accustomed to relying on the kindness of others, and yet there was something different about him.

With a small nod, you accepted. “Thank you,” you said, fully meaning your words. “I appreciate it.”

A faint, almost shy smile tugged at his lips, and for a moment the forest seemed a little warmer, the danger of the road behind you fading as you followed him toward the fire.

The three of you settled quickly into a quiet, easy familiarity. The boy, whose name you learned was Egg, peppered you with endless questions, his curiosity relentless. How did you come to be in Ashford? Where were you from? Was that your own sword you had sheathed on your horse? Each inquiry was rapid-fire, but earnest, and you found yourself smiling despite your exhaustion as the hour grew late.

Duncan scolded him gently more than once, his deep voice rumbling through the quiet night. “Egg, give her a moment to rest,” he would say, leaning back against the trunk of a tree, the firelight catching the planes of his kind face. And yet, despite his scolding, Duncan listened to every answer you gave. His eyes followed yours, attentive and patient, as if committing each word to memory.

You told them of your father. How he had left your mother and you to fight in the Blackfyre Rebellion years past, how the promise of Targaryen favor and hollow honors had pulled him from your home. You could still feel it in your chest, the hollow ache of abandonment, as if the very crown he had served had reached into your life and plucked him away. When he returned, broken and bleeding, it was too late; his injuries soon claimed him, leaving only his sword and the weight of what he had left behind.

You also spoke of your mother, worn to nothing by endless toil, the lines of care and worry etched deep into her face, the work she had done to keep you alive while your father chased a war that was not his. You could almost see her again, bending over the hearth, hands raw, hair streaked with gray, and you felt the sting of both pride and fury.

It was impossible to hide the edge in your voice when you spoke of the Targaryens. How their promises of glory had cost your family everything. You clenched your fists unconsciously, the anger simmering just beneath the surface, a quiet heat you carried with you. You did not curse them aloud; you didn’t have to. The sharpness in your eyes, the tight line of your jaw, the sudden flare of your temper when you recalled your father’s departure all spoke louder than words.

And now, here you were, on your own, no mother to shield you, no father to guide you. You had learned long ago that honor and courage in men were often fleeting, unreliable shields in a dangerous world. You would rather trust in the steel in your own hands than the promises of a husband, or the protection of a knight who might vanish at the first call to glory. You had inherited your sword, and with it, the certainty that you would rather die protecting yourself than die hoping for the aid of an honourable man.

Despite the recollection of your memories, the fire before you and the presence of two unlikely companions, offered a strange but welcome comfort you hadn't known in a long while. The sword at your hip now felt heavier in a way that steadied you, a tangible proof of your key to a life that you could make your own with no one to follow but yourself.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The next morning dawned bright and restless, the tourney encampment’s air already alive with anticipation before the first trumpets ever sounded. Duncan, Egg and you moved with the throng of the crowd, animatedly discussing the events of the day.

Then came the banners, red and black, snapping sharply in the wind and above the mounted procession beneath them. The crowd of smallfolk surged forward, craning for a glimpse of the blood of the dragon as the riders passed, their armor gleaming and their horses stepping proud beneath their embroidered sigils.

You felt your jaw tighten. You hated that your eyes followed them as everyone else’s did. Hated that, for all your anger, you looked just the same, another face turned toward House Targaryen. Another figure caught in the spectacle of their arrival.

The resentment coiled low and familiar in your chest, hot as a brand. All this pageantry and worship, for the dynasty that had only brought war and suffering to the realm.

So consumed were you by the sight of them that you barely turned to give Egg your farewell as he returned back to camp. Nor did you question why you followed Duncan, when he began moving toward the castle courtyard, your boots carrying you forward almost of their own accord.

It seemed as if you had almost a morbid fascination with wanting to catch a glimpse of the princes who your father had given his life so readily for.

And then you had it. You weren’t sure what you had expected. Monsters, perhaps. Men with dragonfire in their eyes and cruelty etched plainly across their faces. Something visible, something you could point to and say there, those are the tyrants who took everything from you.

Instead, you just saw men. The elder rode first. Baelor Targaryen. The man you recognised as being heir to the iron throne.

He looked…commanding but not unkind That was your first, unwelcome thought.

He was tall in the saddle and, and his hair, darker than you had imagined, was cut short and streaked with grey at the temples where you had expected bright Targaryen silver. It lent him more of a softness that did not match the songs. His face was striking, almost unfairly so, all strong lines and steady eyes, the sort of handsomeness that seemed effortless rather than cultivated.

Then your gaze shifted to the other man, the one who left no room for doubt. He was every inch the Targaryen of your father’s dying stories.

Prince Maekar sat his horse like a blade drawn halfway from its sheath, controlled, but dangerous. His silver hair caught the morning light like polished steel, bright and unmistakable. There was nothing gentle in him. His posture was rigid, his jaw set, his expression carved from something hard and unbending.

If Baelor unsettled you with an unexpected look of warmth, Maekar looked exactly as you had imagined: a prince forged for war, stern and impenetrable, the living embodiment of the dragons your father had once followed into battle.

“Boy, stop gaping. See to my horse.”

The command rang out sharp and careless.

A rider had pulled up directly before Duncan, this man also unmistakably of the dragon’s blood. His hair was cropped short and silver, bright against the dark of his riding leathers. The confidence with which he had issued his order carried the easy arrogance of someone who had never expected to be disobeyed.

You watched Duncan falter. “I—I’m not a stable boy, m’lord,” he said, the words careful, almost apologetic.

“Well if you can’t manage horses, then fetch me some wine and a pretty wench.” The prince replied, dismounting from his horse.

That was when his gaze slid past Duncan and landed on you. His eyes swept indulgently over you from where you stood a pace behind, in a way that made your stomach tighten.

“Or have you already found me one?” he added, the smirk on his lips enough to make your skin crawl.

You simply pretended not to hear him. Turning your back as if the words had never been spoken, you forced your hands to remain at your sides, though your fingers had already begun to curl into tight fists. Better to walk away, you told yourself, because if you stayed a moment longer, you weren’t entirely certain what you might say.

That small exchange had been enough. The feeling returned at once, sharp and familiar, reminding you exactly why the sight of dragon banners made your stomach turn.

Hatred crept back into your thoughts as you watched the prince stride off across the yard. Duncan lingered behind, soon drawn into conversation with a pair of the king’s white-cloaked guards. You might have joined him but you had already had your fill of the king’s men for one morning.

But soon they were gone as well, and the courtyard settled back into its restless rhythm.

You drifted back to Duncan’s side.“Shall we head back to Egg then?” you asked.

He didn’t answer. His gaze had gone distant, fixed on something you couldn’t see, and for a moment you wondered if he had heard you at all.

“Uh… just wait here for me, will you?” he said suddenly.

Before you could ask what he meant, he was already moving, long strides carrying him across the yard toward a narrow servant’s entrance. In another moment he had slipped inside, disappearing into the shadows beyond the door.

You blinked after him, dumbstruck. “Where are you going? Duncan!”

But he was already gone.

How long you waited there, scuffing the dirt with your shoe you weren’t quite sure, arms folded tight as you muttered a few choice curses under your breath. You knew how desperate Duncan was to find someone to vouch for him so he could enter the lists. But barging into a lord’s castle uninvited? What in the seven hells did he think he could possibly accomplish?

If it was folly for him to sneak inside, but it was probably even greater folly for you to follow. You had known the man less than a day. And yet you had already seen enough to know he was good and honest in a way that was almost painfully rare. The thought of him stumbling into trouble alone sat wrong in your gut.

With a sigh of resignation, you pushed yourself away from the wall. Fine. You would find him, drag him back out before he made a complete disaster of things… and, if luck favored you, slip out again before anyone noticed the intrusion at all.

Once inside however you quickly realized you had no idea where Duncan might have gone.

The passage beyond the servant’s door was dim and narrow, lit only by thin slivers of daylight from high windows. You hesitated for a moment, listening, then pushed forward anyway, boots quiet against the worn floor.

You followed down the dark corridor, turning once, then climbing a short flight of stairs that opened onto another hall. That was when you heard the voices. Several of them, low and measured, and among them one you recognized immediately.

“As you say, Your Grace. I–It was four. I do apologize. The old man, Ser Arlan, he used to say I was thick as a castle wall and slow as an aurochs.”

Duncan.

You crept closer, heart quickening, until you reached the entrance to the hall. Pressing yourself flat against the wall beside the doorway, you leaned just enough to hear but careful enough not to let your shadow betray you. Fuck, you thought grimly. He’s really done it now.

From the sound of it, he was grovelling, stumbling over his words before someone important. You braced yourself for the inevitable: sharp reprimands, offended nobles, perhaps even guards being summoned.

But the harsh words never came.

“No harm was done, ser. Rise.”

The voice that answered was calm. Gentle, even. It surprised you.

There was no bite in it, no arrogance or impatience, nothing like the young prince in the courtyard earlier. For a moment you simply stared at the window in front of you, trying to reconcile the sound with the men you had seen ride in beneath the dragon banners.

You didn’t quite believe it but you knew it had to be one of the princes speaking. You forced your attention back to the voices within the hall.

“You wish to enter the lists, is that it?”

“Yes.” Dunk’s answer came quick and eager.

“The decision rests with the master of the games,” the prince replied evenly, “but I see no reason to deny you.”

That lucky bastard, you thought, a grin tugging at your mouth. Only Duncan could blunder his way into the presence of princes and walk away with exactly what he wanted. Though, if you were begrudgingly honest, it seemed far more the result of the Targaryen’s kindness than Duncan’s nerve.

“Your Grace…” Dunk began, sounding overwhelmed.

“Very well, ser. You are grateful. Now piss off.”

The sharp interruption carried enough irritation that you didn’t need to see the speaker to guess who it was. If you had to wager, it was the silver-haired brother, the one who had sported a scowl from the moment he’d ridden into the courtyard.

There was a brief pause before the calmer voice spoke again.

“You must forgive my brother, ser. His sons went astray on the road here, and he fears for them.”

“Of course,” Dunk said quickly. Then, after a beat of thought, he added, “I trust they will not be found dead.”

Your eyes widened. A strangled gasp escaped before you could stop it as you slapped a hand over your mouth, pressing your back harder against the stone as laughter threatened to spill out despite yourself.

Seven hells, Duncan truly had no sense of when to stop talking.

Slowly, you let your hand fall from your mouth. Your thoughts, however, refused to settle. You had braced yourself for mockery, for cruelty, for the sort of cold dismissal men like Duncan usually received from those born to castles and crowns. Instead you had heard patience. Kindness, even.

The older prince Baelor, had spoken to him like a man, not like some nuisance who had wandered too close to the wrong door. Yet even as the thought crept in, you pushed back against it almost immediately.

A few gentle words meant nothing. A courteous tone did not erase the wars fought beneath dragon banners, nor the countless men who had marched to their deaths in service to a crown they would never wear. Your father among them.

No, princes could afford kindness since it cost them very little. You straightened from the wall, jaw tightening. Whatever pleasant impressions the moment might have tried to plant in your mind, you would not let them take root. Royalty was royalty, whether they spoke softly or barked orders. And you despised them all the same.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The next day unfolded with a kind of easy joy you had not felt in longer than you cared to admit.

Ashford had come fully alive with the tourney now in full swing. The fields beyond the castle walls buzzed with noise and color, tents and banners fluttering in every direction while merchants and performers filled every spare patch of ground.

You drank more than was strictly wise, though you blamed the warmth of the afternoon and the cheerful press of the crowds.

The lists drew you back again and again throughout the day. Whenever the horns sounded you joined the surge of spectators, shouting and cheering with everyone else as armored riders thundered down the field. You found yourself yelling encouragement and insults in equal measure with depending your voice hoarse long before the afternoon faded.

You too helped Egg practice the small but important tasks of a squire, buckling straps properly, handing off weapons quickly, learning where to stand and when to stay out of the way. He approached it all with serious determination, brow furrowed as if the fate of the realm depended on whether he could fasten a strap correctly.

You even challenged Duncan once or twice to a friendly duel to each of your victories, though he was clearly holding himself back much to your annoyance.

For a little while, the bitterness that usually shadowed your thoughts loosened its grip. The dragon banners still flew, the princes still walked the grounds somewhere beyond the crowds, but for that single day, you managed to forget them.

But then, the destruction that so often followed the Targaryens materialised, shattering your short lived contentment. Duncan and you had been enjoying the hospitality and cider of a friendly Raymun Fossoway, spitting out words to describe the Targaryens that would have been considered treason, when Egg dashed in with calls of peril.

“Ser! Ser Duncan! You have to come! Aerion’s hurting her.”

All three of you had followed the boy without hesitation to the puppeteer’s tent where chaos awaited you.

People crowded the edges of the tent, some shouting, some only watching, their faces caught between fascination and fear. In the center of it all stood Aerion Targaryen, and before him the puppeteer girl you had come to know that past day as Tanselle.

He was hurting her and the memory of it would sit sour in your stomach long after.

Then Duncan moved. Before anyone else could react, he surged forward, wrenching Aerion away from the girl and throwing the prince hard to the ground with a punch in the process. The sound of it, a prince striking packed earth, seemed to shock the entire tent into silence.

The guards however soon roughly seized Duncan, and for a few monstrous moments you were convinced he would not make it out of that tent alive, as Aérions forced his mouth against the stage. But then Egg had stepped forward, and much to yours and the rest of the tent’s astonishment revealed himself as one of the missing princes, Aegon Targaryen.

You knew the whole thing would have ended far worse if he hadn’t done so.

Shame however rolled over you in waves, heavier than any armor could be. You had done nothing, nothing to stop Aerion from his rampage. Neither did you make to move when Duncan lunged, relying entirely on his strength and courage to intervene where you had stood frozen.

You wanted to tell yourself there was no way you could have helped, that Aerion’s power and the presence of the guards made interference impossible. And yet the thought did little to quiet the sting in your chest. You had trained for years with sword and dagger, honed every skill to survive the world as it was and here, but with everything you knew and all the strength you could muster, you had been useless.

Anger joined the shame, sharp and bitter at the Targaryens themselves. At the entitlement that allowed Aerion to administer punishment on a feeling. By the way the men born to crowns could bend law, loyalty, and fear to their whim, while others, like your father, died or suffered in service to the same dynasty.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Hours had passed since the chaos in the tent, and now you stood in the pouring rain with Raymun, doing the only useful thing to do: watching the horses.

Water streamed down your cloak and plastered your hair to your face, yet you barely noticed, half consumed by the cold and half by the gnawing dread that churned in your stomach at the thought of Duncan’s fate.

The silence between you and Raymun was heavy as you had since given up on offering hollow words of comfort to each other. Each minute stretched like an eternity as your fingers ached from the cold, not knowing if your friend would return.

Then by some god’s great mercy Duncan appeared, soaked but unmistakably alive. Relief flooded over you. You and Raymun didn’t hesitate: both of you pulled him into a tight shivering hug, hearts racing at the realization that he was even alive still.

The rain was suddenly inconsequential, as laughter and exclamations of exhilaration broke through the tension that had bound your shoulders for hours.

Practicality however returned quickly. Together, the three of you made for the Fossoway tent.

Once inside, wrapped in the relative warmth of the tent, the three of you, joined by Raymun’s cousin, poured over the situation, turning it over from every angle. You discussed every possible way Duncan might somehow escape what awaited him. The trial of seven.

The odds were cruel, stacked against him before he even drew a sword. And you knew it. There seemed to be little hope in him even securing six other champions to fight alongside him, let alone winning.

An idea however ignited in your mind the instant the words “trial of seven” were even uttered, sharper than any arrow you had ever drawn. A fire flared along your spine, sudden and undeniable: you would fight alongside Duncan, no matter what it took.

It wasn’t just for loyalty, though that alone was enough to drive you forward. You owed him that much. He had stepped into danger without hesitation the first night you met, risked his own safety to keep you from harm on that dirt track. He had offered you kindness and his protection in a world that had too often denied both, and for that alone you would stand beside him now.

But it wasn’t only for him.

You owed it to yourself. To prove that you could stand your ground, that you could fight with the same courage and skill as any man who claimed the title of knight. The thought coiled around you like a living thing, thrilling and terrifying all at once. I can do this. I will do this.

You had watched a Targaryen prince torment a girl on a whim, watched a tent full of knights and spectators stand frozen because dragon’s blood made him untouchable. But now you wouldn’t let the only man brave enough to stand against him die.

Besides, steel did not know the difference between a man’s hand and a woman’s. A blade cut the same either way, you thought wryly.

All your life you had been relying on the flighty honour of men. On the idea that men who carried swords and titles would stand between the weak and the cruel, that their vows meant something solid, something you could trust your life to.

But you had learned, slowly and painfully, how feeble that promise truly was.

Your father had ridden off chasing honor beneath a king’s banners and returned only long enough to die. And your mother had worked herself into the grave while the men who spoke so proudly of duty never once looked back to see what had been left behind.

The honour of men to you seemed just to be a thing spoken loudly in songs and tourney fields, yet strangely absent when the moment demanded real courage.

You were tired of it.

The rain had begun to ease by the time you stepped back outside the Fossoway tent, though the ground was still churned to thick mud beneath every passing boot. You stood for a while beneath the grey sky, arms folded against the damp chill, your thoughts beginning to scheme on how you might have hope of assuming to be one of the champions tomorrow.

Then movement down the path pulled your attention away. Two figures were making their way through the muddy lanes between the tents, one small and familiar, the other taller and moving with a kind of languid reluctance.

“Ah—there you are.” Egg’s voice carried a note of relief as he hurried toward you across the camp. “Is Ser Duncan inside?”

It was the first time you had seen him since he had revealed the truth, that he was no hedge knight’s squire but a Targaryen prince. Now he looked as though he had stepped straight out of the songs: dressed in black and red, the colors of his house, a small dragon worked in thread across his chest.

Well, almost like the songs. He was still missing the signature silver hair but it was hard to have silver hair when you had no hair at all.

“In the tent,” you answered, nodding toward the canvas behind you. “Trying to decide how he’s meant to find six men foolish enough to fight princes.”

Hurt and guilt flashed across his face all at once.

You immediately wished you could’ve taken back the edge that laced your words. In truth, you weren’t angry at him for lying, not really. He was just a boy, who was probably just outrunning the very thing you’d also hated the Targaryens for.

What unsettled you more was remembering that first night on the road, before you knew who he was. How freely you had spoken then, your anger spilling out in careless words as you cursed his family and all the ruin they’d left behind.

He had listened quietly the whole time. You still didn’t know what to make of that. Or what he made of it now. You watched him disappear under the tent flaps.

But the prince who had walked beside him did not follow. He seemed a far cry from the polished image of a prince. His long, sandy hair hung loose and tangled around his face, sweat-darkened in places, and his skin had the pale, slightly blotchy look of someone who had spent too much time with wine rather than sleep.

Prince Daeron’s pale eyes rested on you with a strange sort of focus, like he was trying to put your face to a name.

You shifted uncomfortably under the attention. “Do you need something, your grace?” you asked, not intending for the sarcastic tone but it coming out all the same.

The prince blinked slowly like a man surfacing from deep water. “I dreamed of you,” he said.

The words were so unexpected you almost laughed, assuming some strange jest. But his expression held none of Aerion’s cruelty or mockery, only that same distant seriousness.

“In the dream,” he continued quietly, “there was a dragon.”

Your stomach tightened instinctively at the word.

“It was large,” he went on, his voice thoughtful, almost puzzled. He studied your face a moment longer before finishing. “and it bowed to you”

You stared at him, unsure whether to scoff or be unsettled by the certainty and seriousness with which he had said it. “You must have very strange dreams, Your Grace.”

Daeron continued to watch you for a moment longer, as though weighing something unspoken. But whatever thought had been forming seemed to slip away.

“...Excuse me,” he said at last, almost absently.

Then he turned and ducked beneath the tent flaps after Egg, leaving you alone with the quiet camp and the strange weight of his words.

A dragon bowing to you.

The thought should have sounded ridiculous. And yet something about the way he said it left a faint, uneasy echo in your chest. Maybe all Targaryens truly are just mad.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The sky was still dark when you woke, and you had slept little, if at all. Each time your eyes had closed the same vision had come for you again and again, relentless as a drumbeat. Seven riders thundering together, steel flashing, Duncan bleeding on the ground, a pale haired fighter standing over him with you powerless to help.

So you rose before the sun.

You dressed quickly in the dim grey light, pulling on the plain tunic and dark trousers you had slept in before reaching for the bundle you had hidden beneath your saddle blanket.

Your armor was simple, nothing like the shining plates worn by knights and princes. No gilding, no heraldry. Just pieces you had gathered over the years.

Your padded gambeson was thick and worn from secondary use. You shrugged it over your shoulders and tugged the laces tight across your chest, binding it down firmly. The weight and pressure flattened your shape enough that, beneath the armor, few could tell what you had underneath it.

The mail shirt hung a little loose over the padding, the extra slack helping to hide the shape of your body rather than reveal it. Next you fastened your simple leather vambraces, tightening the worn straps around your forearms before buckling on a plain belt to carry your sword.

Last came your hair. You gathered it quickly and tied it back tight at the nape of your neck, pulling it close so it would sit neatly beneath your helm, leaving nothing loose that might betray you.

By the time you were finished, the figure staring back at you from the dull reflection of your blade looked far less like a woman and far more like some thin young hedge knight who had not yet filled out his armor.

It would have to be enough.

Your horse greeted you with a soft nicker as you approached them, breath puffing white in the cold air. You ran a hand comfortingly along its neck, murmuring under your breath while fastening the last straps of your saddle and securing the shield and helm beside it.

The sky had only just begun to pale.

Mist clung low across the tourney grounds as you stepped quietly through the waking camp. Tents loomed like silent shapes in the gloom, their banners hanging limp in the still morning air. A few early risers moved about, stable boys, guards, a cook stirring embers back to life, but none paid you more than a passing glance.

You kept your head down, guiding your horse toward the far edge of the field, away from the heart of the camp. From there you could see the tourney grounds stretching wide and silent before you. You waited knowing Duncan would have to pass this way to meet the other champions.

At last a familiar tall shape appeared through the mist. Relief and dread twisted together in your stomach. You stepped out to meet him.

“Duncan.”

He stopped immediately.

For a moment he only stared at you, confusion creasing his brow.

“What are you—”

“Let me fight with you.” The words came out faster than you intended, tumbling over each other before you could lose the nerve. “There’s still no word from Ser Steffon,” you rushed on, “and even if he comes you’re still one man short. Knight me and I’ll ride beside you.”

Duncan blinked at you as though you had spoken in another language.

For several long seconds he said nothing at all.

Then he found his voice.

“No.”

The answer was immediate.

“I won’t.”

You clenched your jaw.

“I won’t make a lady fight for me.”

You breathed slowly through your nose, fighting the urge to groan. Of all the moments for Duncan’s stubborn chivalry to surface, this was perhaps the worst.

“I am no lady,” you said sharply. “And you know perfectly well I’m as skilled with a sword as you are. Perhaps more so.” You added, a smile twitching at the corner of your mouth despite yourself.

Still he shook his head determinedly. “Men will die out there.”

“Yes,” you said, stepping closer. “They will. Which is why I won’t stand aside while you ride to face seven of them without every blade you can muster.”

His expression hardened. “Even if I agreed, you truly think the lords would allow it?”

“They won’t know.” You held his gaze steadily. “They never need to know what’s between my legs or what’s beneath my helm.”

Duncan stared at you.

“Introduce me as Gillhem,” you continued calmly. “I’ll be the son my father never had. No one will question it once the fighting begins and I’ll be gone after it ends…if I’m still alive.”

Before he could answer, you dropped to one knee in the damp earth. “Now knight me,” you said.

The words hung between you in the grey morning light. For a moment he simply stood there, tall and silent, the mist curling faintly around his boots. Then his hand moved slowly to the hilt of his sword.

Hope flared in your chest but just as slowly, his hand stopped. You watched his face carefully. The uncertainty there was plain enough, his brow furrowed, his jaw working as though wrestling with something larger than either of you. But if anything you thought he looked more lost than apprehensive.

A bitter laugh escaped you before you could stop it, as you pushed yourself back to your feet. “Oh, what does it matter if I’m actually knighted or not,” you muttered. “We only have the gods to witness us out here anyway.”

You met his eyes again, letting a small, crooked smile pull at your mouth despite the tight knot in your stomach. “Just remember, Duncan,” you said. “I’m Ser Gillem now.”

Before he could object further you swiftly mounted your horse and pulled on your helm and visor, riding out to meet where the other champions would be.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The waiting was excruciating.

No steel yet. No thunder of hooves. Only the slow gathering of men and the restless shifting of horses beneath their riders.

You kept your head lowered beneath your helm, careful not to meet anyone’s gaze for too long. The slit of your visor narrowed the world to fragments, glints of armour, the dark backs of horses, and glimpses of the watching crowd. Your palms were slick inside the gauntlets.

A horse moved closer beside you, heavy hooves pressing into the churned earth. You heard the creak of thick armour and the slow snort of a powerful destrier. Then a voice rumbled from somewhere beside you.

“You.”

Your stomach dropped as you lifted your head slightly to find the speaker. It was Lyonel Baratheon. Over the past two days you had spent a small time with the man, you weren’t even sure if he could remember your name since he had had a drink in his hand almost the entire time. You felt your heart in your throat.

“I don’t know that sigil,” he said.

Slowly, carefully, you straightened in the saddle as you fought against your racing mind. Think.

“Not surprising, my lord,” you said at least, forcing your voice lower than usual, rougher, and speaking through your teeth so the helm muffled it further. “I’ve little fame to my name.”

Lyonel’s brow lifted slightly. “A hedge knight, then?”

“Yes, my lord.” You dipped your head just enough to appear respectful without inviting further inspection. “Ser… Gillem.”

For a moment Lyonel said nothing. His eyes moved again over your armour, your horse, your shield. You forced yourself not to shift beneath the scrutiny.

Then suddenly the great lord gave a short bark of laughter. “Well, Ser Gilllem,” he said, sounding almost pleased, “you’ve chosen a bold morning to earn your reputation.”

Your shoulders loosened a fraction.

Lyonel gave you one last measuring look. “Just make certain you can swing that sword of yours,” he said. “those princes won’t be gentle.”

Your grip tightened on the reins. “I wouldn’t expect them to be.”

The Laughing Storm grinned at that and turned his horse away, his attention already shifting toward the field where the opposing champions now rode into place.

You exhaled slowly the moment his attention left you. Your heart was still racing. But at least one thing was clear now. For the moment, your lie lived.

However, even with Ser Gillem stepping forward, Ser Duncan’s side lacked a seventh champion. Steffon Fossoway had arrived only to reveal he had chosen to stand with the accusers, selling his sword in exchange for the promise of a lordship.

Perhaps you should have been angrier than you were. Betrayal like that should have stirred outrage, yet what you felt was something quieter, duller. You were not surprised. Not truly. Ambition has always held more sway over most men in your life than honour ever could.

What proved far harder to witness, was what came next.

Duncan stepped forward, turning toward the gathered crowd. There was no pride left in his posture now, only a desperate honesty as he spoke, appealing not to rank or power, but to the simple truth of what had happened in that puppeteer tent. His voice carried across the field as he laid his heart bare, asking for one man, just one, to stand beside him. He was only met with silence then mockery.

The last embers of hope had begun to fade, sinking beneath the weight of inevitability. Around you the field felt heavier, thick with the quiet tension that comes when men know blood will soon be spilled, with a trial or not.

Without a seventh champion, Duncan’s innocence was lost.

Then the sound of the tourney gates groaned open.

Heads turned. From the far edge of the field a rider burst into view, his horse driving forward in a spray of mud and turf. He wore armour black as midnight, polished so darkly it swallowed the weak daylight. Upon his chest, unmistakable even from afar, gleamed the three-headed dragon.

A ripple of confusion spread through the onlookers. Men leaned forward, craning for a better view as the rider thundered across the field, slowing only when he neared the assembled champions. The horse reared slightly before settling, breath steaming in the cold air.

You watched, scarcely daring to breathe. Prince Maekar stepped forward to meet the rider. For a moment nothing made sense. Why would another Targaryen arrive now?

As the rider removed his helm, the crowd stirred again. Dark hair, cut short and a neatly kept beard framed his handsome face. There was a quiet strength in his features. Your gaze fixed on the dark-armoured figure as realization crept slowly into place.

Baelor Targaryen. His voice carried clearly across the field. “I will fight for Ser Duncan’s side.”

The words struck the crowd like a hammer on an anvil.

For a heartbeat the world seemed to stop, before a chorus of cheers and applause erupted from the stands. A prince of House Targaryen, standing with Ser Duncan?

It was unthinkable.

Of all men, it was Baelor who had come riding onto the field to throw his weight behind the hedge knight. A prince of the blood, heir to honour, prestige, and the expectations of an entire dynasty and yet here he stood, openly choosing a side that placed him against his own.

You felt a chill of disbelief run through you.

Every man present knew the weight of what he had just done. Which made it all the more confusing. Why risk the dignity of his house? Why step into a trial that could stain the honour of the dragons themselves? What could he possibly hope to gain from this?

However, those thoughts were soon swallowed by a wave of paralyzing fear, wifh a firm realisation that the trial would go ahead. The noise of the gathering riders blurred into something distant and indistinct, voices rising and falling around you without meaning.

You stood among them as they gathered near Baelor, dimly aware that he was speaking, offering counsel, perhaps strategy, the sort of steady words meant to bind men together before a charge.

You heard none of it. Your mind had narrowed to a single, suffocating awareness: the field before you, the coming clash, and the terrible certainty of how these could be your last moments alive.

It took almost everything in you not to turn your horse and ride away from it. Everything else you had left went into forcing your hands to steady, guiding your horse into place, and lowering your visor as you took your position for the first charge.

A horn bellowed across the field.

The low note rolled through the crowd like distant thunder, and at once every horse beneath the seven champions grew restless.

Your heart began to hammer again. This was it.

Across the churned earth the opposing riders lowered their lances and began to spread slightly, positioning themselves for the charge.

Seven against seven.

Beside you the great warhorse of Lyonel Baratheon stamped impatiently. Somewhere along the line Duncan shifted in his saddle.

Then the horn sounded again.

“CHARGE!”

The world exploded into motion.

You dug your heels into your horse’s sides as the line surged forward, the ground thundering beneath fourteen pounding hooves. Wind tore past your helm, rushing over your armor as the two sides closed in on each other in a heartbeat.

The impact came like a crashing wall.

Wood exploded as lances shattered on shields and armour. Horses collided shoulder to shoulder, screaming as riders crashed into one another in a storm of steel and splintering shafts.

Your own lance struck a shield and snapped cleanly in half, the jolt rattling up your arms. Before you could recover, another rider came thundering toward you from the side.

His white cloak streamed behind him like a banner.

A knight of the Kingsguard.

You barely had time to raise your shield before his lance struck. The force of it ripped you straight out of the saddle and the world flipped violently. You hit the ground hard enough that the breath exploded from your lungs. For a moment you could see nothing but sky as hooves thundered past your head.

Mud splashed across your visor as you rolled desperately aside to avoid being trampled. Your gaze swept desperately across the field only to discover your horse was already gone, bolting riderless across the field.

Wood shattered around you as riders collided again, the crack of breaking lances echoing across the field. Horses screamed and reared, men tumbled from saddles and shields splintered beneath the force of the charge.

Your own lance had glanced off a shield hard enough to send the weapon spinning from your grip.

You didn’t even give yourself time to register it as you were already drawing your sword.

The battle dissolved instantly into chaos. Somewhere nearby you faintly heard Lyonel roar with savage delight as he battered an opponent from his saddle.

But then your attention was drawn instead to the center of the melee. There Duncan was fighting intensely, surrounded on nearly every side.

And near him was Baelor Targaryen. Even in the chaos he stood out.

He fought with a calm precision that seemed almost unreal amid the frenzy of the field. His sword moved with controlled efficiency, each strike deliberate, each movement measured.

You watched him drive one knight back with a brutal series of blows before wheeling his horse sharply to intercept another rider who had been charging straight for Duncan.

It took you only moments to realise what he was doing. He was guarding him. Again and again Baelor positioned himself between Duncan and danger, forcing attackers away from the hedge knight all the while maintaining relentless skill.

You had heard stories of the prince’s prowess from your own father but seeing him fight was something else entirely.

For a moment you almost forgot the battle around you as you watched him work, the fluid movement of his sword, the quiet authority with which he responded to the chaos around him.

Then everything happened at once.

Baelor had just forced one opponent back when another rider broke from a neighbouring melee and came charging toward him from the side.

His armour also bore the three-headed dragon.

Prince Maekar.

You realised catastrophically that Baelor did not see him. He was still turning from his previous opponent, his flank fatally open.

His brother’s sword rose high for a brutal downward blow aimed straight at his unguarded side. A strange, almost bitter thought flashed through your mind.

A Targaryen killing a Targaryen. A small part of you thought you should let it happen. After all, you had spent most of your life hating that name.

Hating the dragons.

And yet—

Your eyes drifted back to Baelor.

Suddenly you were moving without a thought, sprinting towards the two of them. You raised your shield just in time.

Maekar’s blade slammed into your shield hard enough that the impact nearly tore your arm from its socket.

Baelor’s head snapped toward you in surprise.

“Go!” you barked through your helm. “Help Duncan!”

For a heartbeat Baelor hesitated. Then he nodded once and charged back away toward the center of the melee, where the hedge knight seemed to be fighting a losing battle.

And suddenly you were alone with the anvil.

There was no hesitation in him. His sword came down again immediately. You barely caught the blow on your blade, steel ringing loudly as the force of it drove you backwards.

Gods.

You were not fighting some tourney knight now, you were fighting a prince raised in war. He pressed forward again, relentless. Another strike came, sweeping toward your shoulder before you’d even got the chance to register the last.

You twisted out of his aim and let the blade scrape harmlessly across your shield instead of meeting it head-on.

You didn’t try to answer with a counterblow. You already knew better. Maekar was stronger, heavier, with more combat experience than you could ever imagine. Trying to overpower him would be suicide.

So you did the only thing you could. You made him miss.

The next strike came low and fast. You hauled yourself sideways, dodging as his blade cut empty air where your leg had been a heartbeat before.

Maekar adjusted instantly, straightening himself for another blow. His sword flashed again. You leaned away just enough for the edge to glance across your armour instead of biting into it.

Steel screeched. The force of it still jolted your entire side.

You circled him warily, with your heartbeat in your ears. One wrong or delayed move and it would be the end of you.

Your sword stayed ready, but you struck rarely, only quick probing slashes meant to keep him cautious rather than do real damage.

Maekar noticed your strategy. You could see it in the way his shoulders stiffened. You weren’t fighting him like a knight. You were avoiding him. But so what if you weren’t fighting with honour, the odds had been stacked against your side from the start.

His next attack came faster, anger and frustration beginning to sharpen the motion. You ducked the worst of it, the blade slicing past your helm close enough that you felt the rush of displaced air.

Another blow. You turned it aside with your shield.

Another.

You turned sharply as it whistled past your head.

Under the armour, your lungs had started to burn.

But Maekar’s breathing was growing heavier too. For a brief moment hope flickered. If you could keep him swinging long enough—

His next strike came suddenly faster than the rest.

You raised your shield to block it—

Too slow.

The blade slipped beneath the edge of your shield and drove forward. Cold steel punched through your side. It took you a few seconds to even comprehend what had happened, and then your world erupted into pain as your breath tore from your lungs in a broken gasp.

Your sword fell from numb fingers as you slid into the mud. For a moment you couldn’t even breathe. Above you the sky spun wildly.

Through the haze you saw Maekar stepping toward you with his sword still firmly in hand.

You tried to move but your body refused.

So this is it, you thought faintly.

He drew to a halt beside you, the thundering of combat around you fading into a distant clang. The pain was growing steadily now, from where it had at first you had felt vaguely numb but all you could focus on was him.

Through the narrow slit of his visor, you caught a glimpse of his violet eye, intense, and unyielding, burning with a fire that seemed to pierce right through the steel that separated you.

Then a simple thought struck in your mind. Would this really be the last thing you saw?

His blade lifted slightly, as you shut your eyes, waiting for the end. But it never came.

Your eyes fluttered open to find Maekar turned, looking across the battlefield. Something had changed.

Across the field a cry rose from the crowd. “Aerion yields!”

Your head turned weakly toward the sound.

It was over.

Maekar turned away from you without another glance, already moving to reach his son.

Relief washed through you in a strange, distant wave, with the realisation you had actually survived.

But the warmth spreading beneath your armour was growing colder. The chaos of the battlefield, which had roared in your ears only moments ago, receded further. The world now suddenly felt dreamlike, distant and muffled, as though you were underwater.

You tried to push yourself up but your arm refused. Perhaps just a moment of rest, just a few seconds with your eyes closed would help you gather enough strength to rise.

The sky above you was painfully bright. Then suddenly a shadow fell across your vision.

It was Prince Baelor.

Strong hands pulled you carefully from the mud. Pain flared sharply in your side, tearing a gasp from your throat as he gathered you against his side.

“You’re losing a lot of blood.” He said calmly, but urgently.

Another figure appeared beside him, mud-spattered and breathless. You felt them both carry your weight across the field, away from the crowd and the fallen riders. Every step sent another wave of sickening pain through your body, blood soaking through the gap in your armour.

You tried to keep your eyes open but the world kept slipping from your vision.

They laid you gently upon somewhere near the edge of the lists.

His hands moved quickly to the clasps of your helm.

“No—” you managed weakly, lifting a trembling hand at the realisation of what he was doing. “Don’t…”

“You need air,” Baelor said firmly.

The metal clasps came loose and you faintly felt your helm being lifted away. Cool morning air skimmed over your face.

You perhaps would never forget the look that crossed his face then.

His brow furrowed sharply, eyes widening as he took you in properly for the first time, no longer hidden by helm or visor. Baelor took everything in drifted from your clear feminine, now bruised, features to your hair that had been tugged loose to frame your face. The calm certainty he had just carried throughout the battle now vanished, replaced by something far more human.

Beside him Raymun froze. “Seven hells…”

Baelor’s gaze remained fixed on you, studying your face with stunned disbelief, as though trying to reconcile the bloodied knight he had fought beside with the woman lying before him now.

You found yourself staring back.

The world was fading fast at the edges now, but your eyes locked onto his face with a strange clarity.

You noticed things in fragments: the dark hair streaked with silver, the streak of blood across his brow, the tight line of concern tugging at his mouth. His eyes, you noticed were different colours. One a sharp, piercing blue like cold winter ice, the other a warm brown that somehow felt like the earth you lay on itself. They didn’t match, yet together they held you, twisting your thoughts into a dizzying tangle.

Suddenly you became aware of a metallic tang in your mouth.

Baelor leaned closer, one hand pressing firmly and painfully against the wound in your side to slow the bleeding. “Get the maesters now,” he said, his voice dropping lower, urgent but tempered by the weight of command.

But you barely heard him.

You were still staring at him, strangely fixated, as though his face were the only solid thing left in a world that had begun to drift apart.

But then all at once your eyes slipped shut before you could stop them and your body sagged in surrender against him.

"Mhm, I will tell him you're studying… whatever," he said, a smirk playing on his lips. "He'll probably believe it. You're the smart one."

Then, the heavy oak doors of the library swung open, and a very specific brand of chaos walked in. Or more accurately, two brands.

Jeon Jungkook and Park Jimin. Slytherins. Pure-bloods.

"I'm telling you that it's a terrible idea," Jimin's voice was a strained whisper.

"All of my ideas are terrible, that's why they're fun," Jungkook said, his voice loud enough to carry.

You didn't need to look up. You knew that voice. Jeon Jungkook's eyes scanned the room until they landed on your little corner. He quickly looked away, a disinterest that was more telling than a stare.

"Besides, what else are we supposed to do? Study?" He snorted, leaning against a bookshelf, his arms crossed over his chest. He paused, a cruel smirk twisting his lips. "I heard Whitmore's new strategy involves trying not to fall off his broom this time. It's revolutionary, really."

Jimin let out an exasperated sigh. "Keep your voice down JK, for Merlin's sake."

Taehyung mumbled just loud enough for you to hear, "He has the emotional range of a teaspoon, I swear."

Jungkook's head snapped toward your table, his smirk widening. "What was that, Taehyung? Working on your NEWTs in stating the obvious?"

Jimin grabbed Jungkook's elbow. "Oh, we're leaving now, before you make a scene and Madam Pince bans us for life."

You finally looked up as Jimin was steering Jungkook toward the door, but not before Jungkook shot a sharp look in your direction and called over his shoulder, "Don't strain yourself, Y/n. It would be such a shame if a Ravenclaw Head Girl failed her exams."

The library door finally shut.

Taehyung closed his book with a soft thump. "That was so subtle."

You muttered, "What's his problem anyway?"

Taehyung laughed a bit. "His problem is about 5'10", wears red and gold, totally reminds him of a golden retriever, and he can't help but bring up Quidditch at the worst moments."

He gave the book cover a little tap. "But honestly, I'm more worried about into these books you’re getting. They read from bottom to top, you know."

You shut the book, a bit embarrassed. "Come on, quit it."

While you were packing up, Minjae burst into the library, his usual lively energy brightening the mood.

"There you are! I've been searching everywhere for you!" He waved from across the tables, completely unaware of the drama that just unfolded. "You won't believe the new formation I've come up with for the Hufflepuff game, it's genius, and I need your help to map it out."

"Oh, sure," you said, the words feeling hollow.

Minjae plopped down in the chair next to you, pulling out a crumpled piece of parchment from his robe pocket without even noticing the upside-down book or how flustered you were.

"Alright, picture this: instead of doing a regular starter formation, we flip it. Chasers fly in reverse! It’s a bit risky, but if we pull it off…"

Taehyung cleared his throat as he packed up his stuff. "I’m outta here. Try not to burn the library down with all this revolutionary brainstorming."

You nodded. "Catch you later." Then you looked back at Minjae. "It's a bold move..."

Minjae was grinning, totally wrapped up in his 'genius' idea, scribbling messy lines on the parchment with a quill that was leaking ink everywhere.

He was so focused on his plan that he didn’t see Jungkook come back into the library this time without his usual buddy, Jimin. Jungkook leaned against a bookshelf, not looking at you at first. He was too busy fixing the cuff of his green robes, his silver Slytherin tie just loose enough to seem a bit rebellious.

"A starter formation...? How ambitious of you. Did you come up with that all by yourself, Whitmore, or did you have help from a first-year's Quidditch practice picture book?"

Minjae was startled and turned to face him. "Jeon, we're in the library."

Jungkook pushed off the bookshelf and took a few steps closer. "I know, I can smell the desperation from here." His eyes flickered to you for a split second.

"Can you two take this somewhere else?" Your voice cut through the tension like a knife. Both boys turned to look at you, Minjae with surprise, and Jungkook with a mask of indifference that didn't quite reach his eyes.

Minjae held up his hands. "Sorry, you're right." He turned back to Jungkook. "This isn't the place."

"Don't sweat it, Y/n. We definitely wouldn’t want to interrupt your… studying," he said, giving you a pointed look at the upside-down book on the table.

Minjae let out a sigh. "What’s his deal? Seriously, he’s been acting like this for ages." He glanced at you, his expression softening. "Anyway, sorry about that. Let’s hit the Great Hall, I'm starving."

You nodded, grabbing your bag while Minjae quickly picked up his crumpled parchment.

"Lead the way, beautiful. I swear no more Quidditch talk for at least ten minutes," he said with a grin.

As you both headed out of the library, you noticed a quick shimmer of a disillusionment charm hastily casted . Next to where Jungkook had been standing was a small, crumpled piece of parchment. You bent down and snatched it up fast, folding it clumsily and shoving it into your robe pocket before Minjae noticed it.

The walk to the Great Hall was filled with Minjae chatting about random stuff, the upcoming Hufflepuff match, the treacle tart he was hoping would be dessert, and a funny story about a Gryffindor first-year. He didn’t mention Jungkook again, and he totally missed how often your fingers brushed against that folded parchment in your pocket.

Once you got to the Great Hall, it was loud and warm, buzzing with the usual dinner noise. Minjae walked you to your table and hung out with you for a moment. Across the hall, Jungkook sat at the middle of the Slytherin table, surrounded by a bunch of younger Slytherins who were clearly hanging on his every word. His eyes were locked on you.

Jimin elbowed him sharply. "You're staring, again."

Jungkook's gaze snapped back to his friend, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "I'm observing; it's called strategy."

Jimin sighed. "Right. The only thing you're strategizing is how to not get another detention for hexing Minjae."

Jungkook's jaw tightened, his fingers drumming a restless rhythm on the table as he tried his best to look casual.

You sat down at the Ravenclaw table, Minjae next to you as he wanted to stay a little longer.

"Here, tart," Minjae said, pushing a small plate toward you.

You thanked him and took the food, trying to pay attention to his story about the team’s latest practice, but your mind kept wandering. A table over, Jungkook had his arm casually draped over the back of the bench, cracking up at something a seventh-year girl said, but his laugh didn’t reach his eyes.

He raised his voice just enough. "-think the best parties are the ones Filch doesn't find out about until the next morning, right, Jimin?"

Jimin stabbed a roasted potato. "I think the best parties are the ones where you don't set anything on fire."

Jungkook chuckled, his cocky grin showing. His eyes caught yours again, and he raised his goblet in a mock toast in your direction before returning to his friends.

Minjae finally noticed your distraction. "Oh, don't let him get to you. He's just trying to get a rise out of you. Out of everyone."

At the Slytherin table, Jimin whispered to Jungkook, "What do you think you're doing?"

Jungkook shoved him lightly away. "I'm having dinner."

Jungkook stood up suddenly, his chair scraping across the stone floor. The Slytherin side of the table went silent. He didn’t look at you again. Instead, he stuck his hands in his pockets and left the Great Hall. Jimin let out a sigh, rubbing his face in frustration, before getting up to go after him.

Minjae shook his head. "See? Drama. Everything is a performance with that guy." He cleared his throat. "More tart, pretty?"

You shook your head, your heart pounding. "No, thank you. Excuse me, I have to use the bathroom."

You quickly ducked into the girls' bathroom, hoping there wasn’t a ghost hanging around tonight. You leaned against the sink and pulled out the parchment you had in your pocket.

As you unfolded it, the writing was all over the place. It wasn’t a letter; it was a list.

• Charms essay (ask her for notes? Stupid) • Check broomstick polish • Tell Jimin to mind his own business • Don't look at her in the Great Hall • Don't look at her in Potions • Don't look at her. Period. • Yule Ball (who is she going with? Don't care.) • I care • Stop caring • Her hair is beautiful in the sun. • Merlin, I'm pathetic.

The last line was crossed out so violently that the quill had torn through the parchment in one spot. At the very bottom, written smaller, was:

• Tell her

Everything except one thing was crossed out, and that one thing was circled over and over, with the ink soaking through the paper. Suddenly, the door creaked open. You jumped, clenched the paper in your fist, and quickly shoved it back into your pocket.

And then Moaning Myrtle decided to make her entrance with a dramatic sob. "Oh, what's that in your pocket? Is it a secret? I love secrets!"

Myrtle swooped down, her translucent form passing close to your pocket. You clutched the paper instinctively.

"Nothing and nobody wants to hear you wail for the next hour," you said, your voice sharper than you intended. "Go bother someone in the prefects' bathroom. I hear they have better bubbles."

Myrtle let out a piercing wail and flew into a nearby toilet. You took a shaky breath, your mind racing. The list, the messy and crossed-out thoughts of the boy who tormented you at every turn. The boy who, it seemed, was just as tormented by you.

You stepped out of the bathroom, the crumpled paper crammed in your pocket feeling like a heavy rock. The Great Hall was still loud, but it all felt far away, like it was muffled. Minjae was still at the Ravenclaw table, chatting excitedly with one of your classmates. He noticed you and his face brightened up with a smile.

"Hey! Everything okay? You were gone a while," he asked, his brow furrowed with concern.

You forced a smile, the muscles in your face feeling foreign and stiff.  "Everything's fine. Just a headache." The lie tasted like ash in your mouth.

Minjae, bless his oblivious heart, accepted it immediately, his brow smoothing out as he wrapped an arm around your shoulders.

"Ah, the perks of being the smartest and the most beautiful witch in the room. Come on, let's get you back to the common room, you need rest."

You let him guide you, you couldn't bring yourself to glance at the Slytherin table to see if Jungkook had returned. You weren't sure you could handle it. The walk to the Ravenclaw tower was a blur of Minjae's comforting chatter. You murmured noncommittal and monosyllabic responses, your mind a thousand miles away, replaying the crossed-out words on the parchment.

Finally, you reached the bronze eagle knocker. Minjae waited patiently for you to answer

"I have cities, but no houses live there. I have mountains, but no trees. I have water, but no fish. What am I?"

"A map," you answered automatically.

The door swung open, revealing the circular common room. Minjae followed you in.

"Well," he said, dropping onto one of the blue sofas. "That was… eventful. Jeon really needs a hobby." He leaned back, lacing his hands behind his head. "You know, I sometimes wonder what his deal is. We could probably be friends if he wasn't so… Slytherin about everything."

You froze by the window, your hand tightening on the sill. The crumpled parchment in your pocket seemed to burn.

"He's not just 'Slytherin', Minjae," you said, your voice quiet but sharp. "He's cruel."

Minjae sat up, his easy-going expression replaced by one of confusion. "Cruel? He's just an arrogant boy who takes the house rivalry too seriously. It's not personal."

"It's always personal with him," you whispered, turning to face him. "Don't you see that? The hexes, the comments… It's all aimed at you."

"Because I'm the Gryffindor Captain and he is the Slytherin Captain! It's part of the game!" Minjae insisted, his voice rising slightly in frustration. "Why are you defending him all of a sudden?"

"I'm not defending him!" you shot back, "I'm just… I'm saying it's not just a game to him. Nothing with him is just a game."

The silence that fell between you was heavy and unfamiliar. Minjae was looking at you like he'd never seen you before, a flicker of hurt and confusion in his hazel eyes.

"What's going on with you, Y/n? You've been distant for weeks. And now you're defending Jungkook? Is this about that note he passed you in Potions? Because that was just him being a jerk as usual."

You stared at him, and he remembered the note Jungkook had "accidentally" dropped on your desk that simply said, "Your tie is crooked, Head Girl." You had seen the way Jungkook's fingers had brushed against yours, the panicked look in his eyes before he'd masked it. You had thought it was a strange moment, now you knew it was a desperate move.

"I'm tired," you said finally, turning away from him and heading towards the girls' dormitory. "I'm going to bed."

"Y/n, wait," Minjae called out, standing up.

 But you didn't stop and walked up the spiral staircase, leaving him standing alone in the middle of the common room.

You flopped onto your bed in your dorm, leaning back against the headboard. The room was quiet; your roommates were already out cold. You pulled the crumpled paper from your pocket, feeling your fingers shake as you laid it out on your lap. You read it over and over again.

Your eyes wandered to the bedside table, where a photo of you and Minjae was sitting. He had his arm around you, and that grin on his face was just full of happiness. It was a perfect snapshot of a couple in love.

You picked up the frame, tracing Minjae's smile with your thumb. You glanced back down at that frantic, ink-stained paper in your lap, and a scary thought crept in: maybe being safe just wasn’t enough anymore. Maybe it never was.

The prince in the dungeon

The decision was born of a desperate, reckless curiosity. For two days after you had found the list, the piece of parchment in your pocket felt like it was burning a hole through your robes.

 "You've been a million miles away,” Minjae said on Friday afternoon, wrapping his arms around you from behind as you stared out a window. "Is it NEWT stress? Because if it is, we can have a fun study session with snacks."

You forced a laugh, leaning back into his warmth. "Something like that, just tired."

It was always the same damn excuse, and he bought it every time.

That evening, as you sat in the Great Hall, the announcement came. Jungkook was throwing a party tonight in the Slytherin common rooms.

"He's going to get himself expelled," Minjae muttered “and probably take half his house with him."

Taehyung, sitting across from you, caught your eye. He gave you a small, almost imperceptible nod. He knew, he knew you knew, and he knew this was your chance.

"I think I'm going to skip the study session tonight" you said.

Minjae looked at you, surprised. "Oh? Okay, we can just relax then, maybe sneak up to the Astronomy Tower?"

"No," you said, a little too quickly, "I mean… I heard about that party in the dungeons."

Minjae's fork clattered onto his plate. "You want to go to Jungkook's party? Y/n, why? It's just going to be a bunch of Slytherins getting drunk and being… well, Slytherins."

"I'm curious," you lied, your heart starting to pound. "I'm Head Girl, maybe I should… make an appearance, show them I'm not afraid."

It was a flimsy excuse, and you both knew it, but Minjae wanted to believe it.

"Okay," he said slowly, "If you think that's a good idea, but I'm coming with you. I'm not letting you go down there alone."

Panic flared in your chest. This wasn't part of the plan. You needed to see him, to talk to him, alone.

"No, Minjae, it's fine, really. You hate that stuff anyway. I'll just pop in, make a scene, and leave. It'll be good for my reputation."

He looked unconvinced, but you gave him your most convincing smile, the one that usually made him agree to anything.

"Alright but be careful.”

You nodded, your throat tight. "I got it."

An hour later, you find yourself wandering down a dark, unfamiliar hallway, your footsteps echoing off the stone walls. . You're making your way to the dungeons, drawn in by the muffled music. As you reach the bottom of the last staircase, the noise hits you first, and the air is thick with the smell of Firewhiskey.

The password, told to you by a cheeky Slytherin, is "Pureblood."

When you step into the common room, it's like a whole different world. The place is packed with students, a sea of Slytherin green mixed with a few from other houses, all dancing, laughing, and drinking. You can’t help but feel like you stand out in your blue and silver colors.

And then you notice him.

Jungkook is up on a raised platform, drink in hand, looking like he owns the place. His gaze sweeps over the crowd. He definitely gives off the cocky pureblood prince vibe, and you think about bailing.

But then he spots you.

His eyes lock with yours, and the smirk he had disappears for a moment. He looks genuinely surprised, but then a slow, confident grin spreads across his face. He says something to Jimin, who’s next to him, and starts pushing through the crowd, still keeping his eyes on you.

"Well, well," he said, his voice low and raspy, just for you. "Look at you, come to bust the party, Head Girl?"

"I came to see what all the fuss was about."

"The fuss is about not caring. You should try it sometime." His eyes flickered down to your pocket. "Or maybe you already are."

Your breath hitched. He knew you'd taken the list, he had to. This was a game of cat and mouse. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Don't you?" He was so close now you could smell the Firewhiskey on his breath. "You're in my world, Y/n. You should learn the rules."

"And what are the rules?" you challenged him, your chin held high, your arms crossed.

His gaze dropped to your lips, and for a heart-stopping moment, you thought he was going to kiss you right there, in the middle of his own party, but then he smirked.

"The first rule is that you don't belong here."

He looked entirely too proud of himself. He was playing with her, treating the conversation like a Quidditch match where he already had the lead. He liked the way she crossed her arms, it was a defensive gesture, but it didn't hide the way she was still flushed.

"Besides, if you leave now, you're just proving me right. You're just a little bird who's too scared to stay in the dark for more than five minutes."

"Fine," Y/n said, the word defiant.

"Now that's more like it."

Your gaze shifted without meaning to a couple making out in the corner of the room. His eyes followed your line of sight to the couples, and Jungkook let out a low, mocking hum.

"Careful, Y/n. If you stare too long, you might actually learn something. What's the matter? Is the Gryffindor too gentle? Does he only hold your hand and kiss your forehead?"

Y/n felt the heat creep up her neck. "None of your business."

Jungkook chuckled sarcastically. He turned away from you and rejoined his friends. You didn't leave, and you grabbed a bottle of something that smelled like cinnamon from a nearby table and took a sip. It burned all the way down.

You spent the next hour watching him from across the room. You saw him charm a pretty sixth-year girl, saw him win a round of wizard's chess, saw him laugh with Jimin, and through it all, you felt his eyes on you, quick glances that he thought you didn't notice.

Finally, you'd had enough, you set your bottle down and pushed your way through the crowd towards the exit. You'd seen enough for tonight and you knew what you had to do.

You were almost at the door when a hand shot out and grabbed your wrist, pulling you into a small, dark alcove behind a tapestry. He slammed his other hand against the wall beside your head, caging you in. The noise of the party was suddenly muffled, replaced by the sound of your own breathing.

“What the-”

"Where do you think you're going?”

"Home," you said, your voice trembling.

He leaned in closer, his face inches from yours. "You shouldn't have come here," he whispered, his breath warm against your skin. "You shouldn't have seen that."

"Seen what? The perfect party?"

"This," he said, gesturing vaguely at the party beyond the tapestry. "This is all I have. This is all I am, a joke, a performance. Is that what you wanted to see?"

"No," you whispered, your anger melting away. "That's not what I see at all."

His eyes searched yours, desperately "Then what do you see?"

You saw the boy who wrote the list, the boy who was desperately lonely, the boy who thought he was unlovable.

"I see you-," you whispered, the words hanging in the charged air between you.

"You don't, you see him." He jerked his head in the direction of the party, in the direction of where Minjae would be. "You see the charming Gryffindor hero. You don't see this."

"This?" you asked, your voice barely a whisper. "What is this, Jungkook? This party? This… mask? Is this all you think you are?"

"It's all I'm allowed to be!" he said angrily, his eyes blazing.  "Do you have any idea what it's like? To be told, every single day, that your worth is tied to your name, your blood, your ability to be ruthless?”

He was so close, his body trembling with the force of his confession

"I look at you and I see everything I'm supposed to hate, everything I can't have. You're good, you're brilliant, you’re beautiful and kind, and you're with him, the perfect Gryffindor. It's a fucking fairytale, and I'm the monster in the dungeon."

"You're not a monster," you breathed, your hand coming up to rest on his chest, over the frantic beating of his heart.

He didn't pull away. "Aren't I?" he challenged, his voice a bitter whisper. "I hex your boyfriend in the corridors, I spread rumors about him, I do everything I can to make his life miserable because I'm jealous of him. I'm jealous of the way he gets to hold your hand, I'm jealous of the way you look at him, I'm jealous of the air he breathes because it's the same air you're breathing. If that's not a monster, what is?"

"Why?" you asked, your own voice shaking. "Why do you do it? Why not just… tell me?"

"And say what?" he laughed, a harsh, broken sound. " 'Hey, Y/n, I know I've been a bastard for the past seven years, but I'm secretly in love with you, please leave the wonderful, decent guy you're dating for the messed-up son of a Death Eater sympathizer who doesn't know how to feel anything without hating himself for it?' How well do you think that would go?"

"I would have listened" you said, your heart aching for him.

"No. You wouldn't have. You would have seen me as a joke. A pathetic Slytherin pining after something he can't have. It's better this way, the enemy part, at least that's real."

"It's not real," you insisted, your fingers curling into the fabric of his robe. "None of it is real. This…" you said, gesturing to the space between you, "…is real. This is the realest thing I've felt in years."

For a moment, you thought you had reached him. The wall of arrogance and cruelty crumbled, leaving just the boy who was lost and scared and so incredibly in love with you, it was destroying him. He leaned in, his eyes fluttering shut, his lips parting slightly. He was going to kiss you. And you were going to let him.

You licked your lips

You swallowed

Your stomach did the flip thing

But then, a loud cheer erupted from the party, followed by the sound of a shattering bottle, and Jungkook's eyes snapped open, everything you’ve tried to build tonight crashed down.

"No," he whispered, pulling back from you, running a hand through his hair, his eyes wild. "No, we can't, I can't."

"Jungkook, wait-” you reached for him, but he flinched away.

"Don't," he said, his voice flat "This was a mistake, a big stupid mistake.” He straightened his robes, the mask was back on. "You should go."

"Jungkook, please…," you begged, your heart breaking.

"Go back to your tower, Y/n." He didn't look at you, he looked at the stone wall behind you, as if you were no longer there. "Go back to your boyfriend.”

He turned his back on you and walked away, disappearing into the crowd of laughing, Slytherins. He had pushed you away, but not before he had given you everything.

You stumbled out from behind the tapestry. You didn't look back, you couldn't. The walk back to the Ravenclaw tower was a nightmare.

The rest of the weekend drifted by in a quiet silence. You stayed away from the Great Hall, saying you had a terrible headache at the NEWT level, and Taehyung kindly brought your meals to your room. Minjae kept sending owl messages, each one cheerier than the last, checking in on how you were feeling and letting you know he was thinking of you. But, somehow, you just couldn't find the words to reply to any of them.

By Monday, the bubble of your isolation had to burst. You had Charms with the Gryffindors, and you knew you couldn't avoid Minjae forever. Walking into the classroom felt like marching to your own execution.

"Hey! You're back!" he whispered as you sat down, his hand immediately finding yours on the desk. "I was so worried. Are you feeling better?"

"I'm fine," you lied, pulling your hand away to retrieve your wand. "Just needed some quiet."

"Right," he said, his smile faltering slightly. "Well, I'm glad you're here, maybe you can help me with the wrist flick, I always mess it up."

You tried to focus, you really did. You tried to listen to Flitwick and to perform the practiced flicks of your wand, but all you could think about was the way Jungkook's body caged you in, and the sound of his voice as he confessed everything.

He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a concerned whisper. "Y/n, seriously. What's going on? Is this about Jungkook's party? Did he say something to you? Did he hurt you?"

"I think we should talk, Minjae," you said, your voice barely audible over the chatter of the class. "Meet me by the Black Lake, after class."

He didn't know what, but he knew something was fundamentally wrong. "Okay, the Black Lake, after class."

The next twenty minutes were the longest of your life. When the bell finally rang, you packed your bag with shaking hands and walked out of the castle. He found you a few minutes later, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, his shoulders hunched against the cold. He looked at you with those honest, hazel eyes.

"So, this sounds serious."

"Don't," you whispered, turning away from him to look at the water. "Please don't be kind right now."

"What? Why? Y/n, whatever it is, we can fix it. Just talk to me."  

"I am trying to talk to you! I'm breaking up with you."

"You're… what? No, you're not. You're just stressed."

"It's not that," you said, finally turning to face him. His face was pale. "This isn't working, Minjae."

"Not working?" he repeated, a humorless laugh escaping his lips. "What does that even mean? We've been working for years! We work!"

"We were," you corrected gently. "But we're not anymore."

"Is this because of him?" he demanded, his voice rising with anger. "Is this because of Jungkook? That party? What did he do to you?"

"He didn't do anything!" you insisted, the words feeling more and more like a lie. "This is about me. This is about… us. We're a fairytale, Minjae. We’re a lovely story, but it's not real."

"It is real!" he shouted, stepping closer. "What I feel for you is real! Is this a joke? Are you breaking up with me because you're bored? Because you've decided you want some drama in your life? Is that what this is?"

"No!" you cried, tears finally welling in your eyes. "It's because I don't love you! Not the way you deserve, not the way I should."

"You don't… but you said…"

"I know what I said," you whispered, the tears now streaming down your face. "And I meant it when I said it. But things change, and people change."

"So you've changed," he said, his voice flat. " You've changed so much that you just throw away two years? Don't I deserve a real reason? Don't I deserve the truth?"

"The truth is that I'm not the person you think I am. And you deserve someone who is, someone who can give you all of this, without hesitation." You gestured between you, to the life you had built together. "I can't. I’m sorry."

"So that's it," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "Just like that."

"I'm so sorry, Minjae," you choked out. "I am so, so sorry."

He shook his head, a sad, broken little smile touching his lips. "Don't be. Just… go. Please. Just go."

You didn't want to. You wanted to stay and explain, to take the pain away, but you knew you couldn't. You turned and walked away, leaving him standing alone; the perfect hero had just lost its heroine.

You skipped dinner that night and found yourself hiding in the back of the library, acting like you were researching some potion you already knew by heart. You felt like such a coward for breaking a good guy's heart, and now you were just avoiding the fallout. Every time the library doors opened, you freaked out, hoping it wouldn’t be Minjae or, even worse, Taehyung, showing up and wanting to know what the hell happened.

It was nearly curfew when a shadow fell over your book.

"Rough day, Head Girl?" He slid into the seat opposite you, his movements fluid and predatory. He looked rested, composed, a stark contrast to the emotional wreckage you had become.

"What do you want, Jeon?" you asked, not looking up from your book. Your voice was hoarse from crying.

He reached across the table and deliberately closed your book.

"I want to know why," he said. “I want to know why you did it."

"I don't know what you're talking about," you lied, your voice a pathetic whisper.

"Don't even think about lying to me. You dumped him, the so-called hero of your fairytale. So I'm gonna ask you again. Why?"

You had no answer. How could you explain that his confession changed everything?

"I… I had to," you stammered, looking away.

"Had to?" He laughed harshly. "No one has to do anything, Y/n. You wanted to end it. Why? Was it because of me?"

Your head snapped back to his. "What?"

"Was it because of me?" he repeated. "Did you see me on Friday night and decide your perfect little life wasn't so perfect anymore? Did my 'performance' finally get to you?"

"It wasn't a performance!" you shot back, your own anger rising to meet his. "I saw you, Jungkook. The real you."

"The real me?" he laughed again, that same broken, bitter sound. "You saw a pathetic, drunken mess in a dungeon who spilled his guts because he couldn't keep his fucking mouth shut. That's not the real me. The real me is the one who hexes your boyfriend and makes your life hell. That's the one you should be afraid of."

"I'm not afraid of you."

"You should be," he hissed, leaning even closer. "You took it, the list. The one thing, the one stupid, pathetic piece of parchment in the entire world that was just for me, and you took it. You read it, and then what? You decided to do what? Pity me? You felt so sorry for the monster in the dungeon that you threw away your prince?"

"No," you breathed, shaking your head.

"Then what?" he demanded, his voice rising in frustration. "Give me one good reason why you would throw away everything for… for this."

You couldn’t tell him the whole story. You couldn't admit that all those mean things he’d said now felt like love notes. You couldn’t say that his broken confession stuck with you more than two years of Minjae being all sweet and easygoing. So, you did the only thing you could think of: you dug into your pocket.

His eyes followed your movement, his breath catching in his throat. You pulled out the crumpled, worn piece of parchment, his list. You didn't unfold it.

"This," you said, your voice shaking. "This is why."

"I don't understand," he whispered.

"You told me to tell you what I see. You said I see the hero, and honestly, you’re right, I did. I saw that boy who was kind, good, and safe. But he wasn't really mine, not really." You glanced down at the parchment in your hand. "This… this is mine. This chaotic, messy, broken thing. This is real, and I'm over pretending it's not.

He looked at the paper, then back at you, his eyes wide with realization. He hadn’t pushed you away; he’d actually pulled you in.

“No,” he whispered, like it was both a prayer and a curse. “You can’t. You shouldn’t.”

“I already did,” you replied softly.

The days after the breakup blurred into a week. You were… on your own. The castle felt off. Minjae kept his distance, which was both good and bad. You’d catch sight of him in the Great Hall or outside on the lawns. Taehyung was always around, his sharp eyes catching everything, but he gave you your space.

And then there was Jungkook.

Nothing much happened, at least on the surface. He went back to being Jeon Jungkook, the cocky Slytherin prince, but it felt different now. You noticed the cracks, you saw how his eyes searched for you across a crowded room, not with his usual teasing. He was giving you space, which had to be tough for him. He was waiting, you realized. Waiting for you to make the next move. The ball was in your court.

However, things hit a boiling point on Friday morning.

The Great Hall was buzzing with the pre-weekend energy. You were picking at a piece of toast when Taehyung slid onto the bench beside you.

"You look like a dead pufferskin," he stated, not unkindly. "Have you even slept?"

"Shut it, Taehyung," you mumbled, pushing your plate away.

He sighed, pulling a bowl of porridge towards him. "Look, I know you're going through… whatever this is. But you can't just exist on air and angst forever.”

"I'll be fine."

"No, you won't," he said flatly. "And neither will he."

You didn’t need to ask who ‘he’ was. Your eyes automatically shifted to the Slytherin table. Jungkook was staring blankly at his plate, pushing food around like he was annoyed but didn’t have the energy to care. Jimin was chatting with him, looking worried, but Jungkook wasn’t really paying attention. He looked just as miserable as you felt.

Just then, the main doors of the Great Hall creaked open, Minjae. He wasn’t his usual bubbly self. He scanned the Ravenclaw table and finally locked eyes with you. For a moment, you could see a flash of something cross his face before it turned cold, and he focused on someone else.

Jungkook.

Before you could even wrap your head around what was going on, Minjae was confidently walking across the Great Hall.

Taehyung grabbed your arm under the table. "Oh no. Y/n, don’t just sit there."

But you were totally frozen. You could only watch as Minjae stopped right in front of the Slytherin table, staring straight at Jungkook.

"We need to talk, Jeon," Minjae said.

Jungkook slowly lifted his head. The tired look was gone. He leaned back in his chair, throwing an arm over the back in a way that showed he didn’t care.

"What’s up, Whitmore?" Jungkook said with sarcasm. "Your amazing new plan to lose tomorrow’s match?"

A few of the younger Slytherins laughed. Jimin looked like he was about to be sick.

"This isn't about Quidditch," Minjae said, his voice tight with restraint. "This is about Y/n."

At the sound of your name, Jungkook's entire posture changed. He sat up straight.

"Ah," Jungkook said, his voice now dangerously soft. "The Head Girl. What about her? Did she come crying to you, telling you the big, bad monster scared her in the dungeon?"

Minjae's fists clenched at his sides. "You have no idea what you're talking about."

"Don't I?" Jungkook stood up, towering over Minjae. "I saw you sulking around for a week. I know she finally got fed up with pretending to be happy with the perfect Gryffindor. She woke up and realized she wanted something real."

That last part hit hard. A gasp went through the students nearby. You felt your face go pale.

"You're lying," Minjae shot back, stepping closer. "You manipulated her. This is all your fault."

"My fault?" Jungkook chuckled, but it sounded nasty. "How's it my fault she finally realized you're just a boring, safe placeholder? I didn't even have to lift a finger. You messed up all on your own."

That was all Minjae needed to hear.

He charged at Jungkook, hands stretched out, ready to grab the collar of Jungkook's fancy robes. But Taehyung was quicker. "Immobulus!" A blast light hit Minjae mid-lunge, freezing him in a goofy pose.

Jungkook didn’t even blink. He ignored Taehyung, the professors rushing in. He locked eyes with Minjae. Slowly, he raised his wand.

“Finite Incantatem,”

The spell hit. Minjae stumbled forward, nearly losing his balance before he caught himself, breathing hard, embarrassment flaring in his eyes. Jungkook just saved him from making things worse.

“Don’t you dare touch me,” Minjae growled, his voice strained. “Don’t even look at me after what you’ve done.”

“What I’ve done?” Jungkook took a step closer, stepping into Minjae’s space, holding his wand loosely at his side like a casual threat. “I haven’t done anything. That’s the issue, right? I stayed out of it. I kept quiet. And she still left you.”

"You messed with her head!" Minjae shot back, his voice shaking. "You've been filling it with your garbage for years!"

Jungkook laughed, “Garbage? I told her the truth. I told her I was a wreck. I told her I was a monster. The only thing I’m guilty of is wanting her. What about you? You had her! You had everything anyone could want, but you were so boring that you let her slip away."

"I loved her!" Minjae yelled, fists clenched and unclenched at his sides, "I would have done anything for her!"

"Anything except what she actually needed," Jungkook shot back, his words hitting hard. "You loved the idea of her, the smart, pretty girlfriend to make you look good. Did you ever really see her? Did you notice how she bit her lip when she was deep in thought? Did you know she hates treacle tart but ate it every time you offered it because she didn't want to hurt your feelings?"

Each question was a fresh blow, and you watched Minjae's face crumble. He didn't know. He didn't know any of it. And Jungkook, the boy who supposedly hated you, knew everything.

"She was happy with me," Minjae whispered, a last, desperate defense.

"Was she? Or was she just comfortable? There’s a difference. She was settling for a life that was easy, safe, and a bit empty. I just… I gave her a reason to stop."

Minjae looked completely shattered. He locked eyes with Jungkook, pleading for him to deny it, to tell him it was all a lie. But Jungkook said nothing. Eventually, Minjae’s gaze slipped past Jungkook to you across the silent hall. The anger had faded from his eyes, replaced by deep sorrow. He understood now, he saw everything. With that final, heartbreaking look, he walked out of the Great Hall.

Jungkook's shoulders drooped for a moment, the weight of his victory pressing down on him. Every eye in the room was on you, judging silently. You were the reason for this chaos, the girl at the center of a storm you hadn't known how to stop.

In that crowd, his eyes found yours. His eyes locked onto yours, and in them, you saw not a question but a command. Come.

You pushed your chair back, the sound slicing through the quiet like a shout. Keeping your head up and your expression blank, you made your way over to him. You didn’t glance at Taehyung’s worried expression or Jimin’s cautious look. All that mattered was reaching him.

He met you halfway, right before the huge doors of the hall. He didn't say a word; just turned and brushed past you, and you fell in step beside him. Instead of dragging you down to the dungeons or some creepy hidden spot, he took you up on the moving staircases. As you climbed higher, the noise of the castle faded away, replaced by the sound of your own racing heartbeat. He was guiding you to a place filled with ghosts and memories, somewhere you hadn’t been in ages.

The Room of Requirement

"Are you happy now?" you finally asked, your voice barely a whisper.

He turned slowly. "Happy?" he repeated, the word a bitter taste on his tongue. "No. I'm not happy."

He closed the distance between you in two long strides.

"I'm furious. I'm furious at him for being so blind. I'm furious at you for being so stupid. And most of all, I'm furious at myself for thinking for one second that this could ever end well."

"You didn't have to do that," you shot back, he grabbed your wrist.

"Didn't I?" he chuckled. "What was I supposed to do? Let him keep living in his little fantasy? Let him keep looking at you like you were his trophy? I had to show everyone. You’re not his. You never were."

"And I'm yours?" you whispered.

His eyes grew dark as he lifted his other hand, fingers gently tracing your jaw, his touch surprisingly soft compared to the tight grip he had on your wrist.

"You've always been mine, little raven," he said quietly, his thumb brushing your bottom lip.

And then he kissed you.

It wasn't soft or sweet at all. His mouth was demanding, pushing against yours with an urgency that took your breath away. He pressed you back until your shoulders hit the cool stone of the wall, trapping you in.

He let go of your wrist and tangled his fingers in your hair, tilting your head to make the kiss deeper. His other hand moved down your back, pulling you against him so you could feel his arousal through your robes. A gasp slipped out, and he seized the chance, slipping his tongue inside to explore and claim you.

 Your hands flew around his neck, pulling him closer. You wanted to crawl inside his skin, to consume him, to be consumed by him.

He broke the kiss, both of you panting, your foreheads pressed together. The night air was cold on your swollen lips.

He leaned in again, but this time his kiss was softer. It felt different, almost like he was cherishing the moment after that intense passion from before. His lips moved against yours slowly, setting a rhythm that made your legs feel a little wobbly. One of his hands slid from your back to your hip, his thumb drawing little circles, sending shivers all over you.

"Y/n," he murmured against your lips, making your name sound almost sacred. "You’ve gotta tell me this is real."

"It's real," you promised.

That was all the permission he needed.

His mouth reclaimed yours with a renewed hunger, his hands growing bolder. He found the clasp of your school robes, his fingers fumbling with it for a moment before it came undone with a soft click. The heavy wool pooled at your feet, leaving you in the thin white blouse and skirt.

He reached out and slowly, deliberately, began to unbutton your blouse. His fingers were calloused from Quidditch, rough against your skin. One button. Two. Three. He took his time, his eyes never leaving yours, watching your every reaction.

When your blouse was open, he pushed it off your shoulders, letting it fall to the stone floor. You stood before him in your simple white bra and skirt.

"You're so beautiful, little raven." He reached out and traced the lacy edge of your bra with his fingertips. "Merlin, I've thought about this. About what you'd look like. In bed, under me."

His words sent a fresh wave of heat through you. He leaned down and kissed the hollow of your throat. His kiss felt warm and open, and he traced a line down your neck to your collarbone. You tilted your head back, letting him have better access, a soft sigh slipping from your lips. His hands were on your waist, holding you steady.He found the sensitive spot behind your ear, and you couldn't stop the moan that rose in your throat. He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound against your skin.

"I knew you'd be sensitive here," he murmured. "I spent an entire Transfiguration lesson once just watching the way you'd twist your hair when you were concentrating, wondering if you'd make that same little sound if I put my mouth right… here." He punctuated his words with a sharp nip of his teeth, and you jolted, a gasp torn from your lips.

"Jungkook," you breathed.

"Tell me what you want, pretty," he commanded, his mouth moving back up to claim yours in a searing kiss. "Tell me, Y/n."

You couldn't form the words.  All you could do was hold on tighter, arching against him, a silent, desperate plea for more.

He seemed to understand. He broke the kiss, breathing heavily, "Can't talk? That's okay. I can do all the talking."

His hands moved from your waist to the small of your back, tracing the curve of your spine before sliding down to grab your ass through the fabric of your skirt. He squeezed, pulling you tight against him, and you gasped as you felt his hard cock pressing into your stomach.

"You feel that?" he said, his lips close to your ear. "That's what you do to me. You've been doing it for years. Every time you walked into a room, every time you answered a question in class, even when you just breathed in my direction."

His hands were restless now, roaming over your body, learning the shape of you. He slid one hand up your side, his thumb brushing against the side of your breast. You whimpered, pushing into his touch, needing more.

"Patience, I've waited too long for this to rush it."

But his own patience was running out. He let out a frustrated groan, reached behind you, and struggled a bit with your bra's clasp. It clicked open, and he tossed it aside with the rest of your clothes. The night air hit your bare skin, and your nipples instantly got hard.

Jungkook stilled, his gaze fixed on your chest. "Fuck, you're perfect."

He reached out, his hand lingering for a second before he grabbed one of your breasts, his palm warm and heavy. He ran his thumb over your already hard nipple, and you let out a gasp.

"Shh," he murmured, leaning down to take the other into his mouth. "We don't want to bring the whole castle up here, do we?"

His mouth was hot and wet, a shocking contrast to the cold air. He swirled his tongue around the sensitive peak, then sucked, hard. Your hands flew to his hair, your fingers tangling in the soft strands, holding him to you.  He gave attention to your breasts, alternating between them, his mouth and hands working in rhythm.

Just when you thought you couldn't take anymore, he pulled back, his breathing ragged.

"I need to see all of you," he said, his voice a raw, rough command.

He dropped to his knees before you, He looked up at you from his position. He reached out and placed his hands on your hips, his thumbs hooking into the waistband of your skirt. You nodded.

Slowly, he peeled your skirt down your legs, his fingers tracing the path of the fabric as it went. He followed it with his mouth, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses to your hips, your stomach, the tops of your thighs. You were trembling.

When your skirt was around your ankles, you where in nothing but your simple cotton underwear.

"You're shaking," he observed, his voice soft.

"You're doing this to me," you managed to say, your voice barely audible.

"I haven't even started yet."

He hooked his fingers into the sides of your panties and slowly pulled them down. You stepped out of them. He leaned forward and pressed a kiss under your navel, his lips soft and gentle. You gasped, your hands flying to his shoulders to steady yourself.

"Jungkook," you pleaded, not even sure what you were begging for.

"I know," he murmured against your skin. "I know."

He shifted, settling between your thighs. He looked up at you one last time, and then he lowered his head.

The first touch of his tongue against your clit was a lick and it sent a shockwave of pleasure through you so intense your knees buckled. He held you steady, his hands gripping your hips, while his mouth working its magic.

He didn’t hold back. He explored you with his. He circled your clit, then flicked it, then sucked it into his mouth. Your world was just the sensation of his mouth on you, the rough slide of his tongue, the desperate sounds of your own breathing.

You were babbling now, a stream of incoherent pleas and praises. "Please, Jungkook, yes, don't stop, please, please, please…"

He didn't stop. He increased his pace, his movements becoming more urgent, more demanding. He slid one hand from your hip, his fingers finding your entrance. He teased you for a moment, circling the opening, before sliding one long finger inside you.

You cried out, your inner walls clenching around him. He began to move his finger in time with the movements of his tongue while you were closer to the edge. He added a second finger, stretching you.

"Come for me, Y/n, let me feel it, let me taste you."

With a final, desperate cry, you orgasmed. It left you breathless and shaking, and he held you through it, his mouth and fingers milking every last drop of your slick.

Once the shaking finally stopped, he stood up and wrapped his arms around you. You sank against him, your head on his chest, listening to his heart. He just held you for a while, gently running his fingers through your hair.

"You're gorgeous," he murmured.

You looked up and kissed him. You could taste yourself on his lip, his tongue sliding into your mouth. He was still fully dressed, and the rough texture of his robes felt amazing against your bare skin. All you could think about was wanting to feel him fully, wanting to see him.

You pulled back, your hands going to the front of his robes. "Your turn."

He watched you as you fumbled with the clasp of his robes. Your fingers were clumsy with urgency, but you finally managed to get it open. You pushed the heavy fabric off his shoulders, and it joined yours on the stone floor.

He was wearing a simple black shirt underneath. You made quick work of the buttons, your hands brushing against the warm, hard plane of his chest. He was lean and muscular, his body a testament to years of Quidditch training.

Your fingers trembled as they traced the lines of his chest, feeling the steady, rapid beat of his heart beneath your palm. You pushed the black shirt off his shoulders, and it joined the growing pile of discarded clothing on the cold stone floor. You reached out, your fingers tracing the lines of his abs, feeling them tighten under your touch. He sucked in a sharp breath, his hands coming to rest on your waist.

"Your hands are cold," he murmured, a low rumble in his chest.

"Sorry," you whispered, but you didn't stop touching him.

"Don't be," he said, his voice thick.

His skin was warm, and you could feel the fine tremor running through him, a mirror to your own. He was magnificent, and he was all yours.

Your gaze drifted downward, to the very obvious bulge straining against the fabric of his trousers. You swallowed hard.

"Like what you see, little raven?" he asked, his voice a low, husky rumble.

Instead of answering, you leaned forward and pressed your lips to his chest, right over his heart. You could feel it thumping against your mouth. You kissed your way across his chest, your tongue darting out to taste the salty skin, to trace his collarbones. His hands came up to rest on your back, his fingers digging into your flesh as if he needed to anchor himself.

With a surge of confidence, you let your hand drift lower, palming him through his trousers. He groaned. His hips jerked forward instinctively, seeking more friction.

You knelt before him, just as he had done for you, your gaze fixed on the button of his trousers. Your hands shook as you undid it, the sound of the zipper loud. You looked up at him, your eyes wide, and saw the raw, naked hunger on his face.

You hooked your fingers into the waistband of his boxers and slowly pulled them down. His cock sprang free, hard and thick. It was bigger than you'd imagined, the head flushed, a bead of moisture glistening at the tip.

Your breath hitched in your throat. You'd seen boys before; you’d seen Minjae, but this was different.

You reached out a trembling hand and wrapped your fingers around him. He was hot and hard in your grasp, the skin velvety soft over the rigid core. He let out a harsh groan, his hips bucking forward instinctively.

"Fuck, Y/n," his head falling back. "Don't… don't tease."

You weren't teasing. You were exploring. You ran your thumb over the head, smearing the bead of pre-cum over the sensitive skin. He shuddered, a full-body tremor that ran through him like a wave.

"You don't have to."

“Shut up, Jeon, I want to.”

You leaned in and flicked your tongue against the tip, tasting the salty, slightly bitter flavor of him.

He hissed, his hands flying to your hair, his fingers tangling in the strands. "Y/n," he warned, his voice strained. "I'm serious. If you… if you do that…"

You looked up at him, your lips hovering just a breath away from his cock. "If I do what?" you whispered boldly.

"Gods," he groaned, his eyes squeezing shut. "If you put your mouth on me, I won't be able to control myself. I'll… I'll fuck your mouth. And I don't want to do that. Not yet."

His words sent a fresh wave of heat to your core. He wanted you so much he was afraid of his own reaction.

You took a deep breath and made your choice. You wanted to taste him, to feel him, to give him the same mind-blowing pleasure he had just given you. You wanted to see him lose control.

You wrapped your lips around the head of his cock, swirling your tongue around the sensitive tip. He cried out, his fingers tightening in your hair, his hips jerking forward. You took more of him into your mouth.

 You couldn't take all of him, not at first, but you tried. You relaxed your jaw and took him deeper, your hand working the base of his shaft in time with the movements of your mouth. He was breathing heavily now, his head thrown back, his eyes closed. The sounds he was making were driving you crazy.

He was right. He couldn't control himself. His hips began to move, a slow, shallow rocking at first, then faster, deeper, his cock hitting the back of your throat.

"Y/n, fuck, your mouth… so good… gods.”

"Fuck, yes, just like that. Your mouth is so fucking good."

You hollowed your cheeks, sucking harder, and he cried out, his whole body tensing. You could feel him getting closer, his thrusts becoming more erratic.

“Y/n, I'm gonna…"

He tried to pull back, to warn you, but you held on. With a final groan, he came, his hot, salty release flooding your mouth. You swallowed, your throat working, milking him for every last drop.

“You crazy little witch,” he murmured against your lips, his voice hoarse.

You chuckled softly.

He shifted, his body covering yours. He was already hard again, his cock pressing against your thigh.

"I need to be inside you. Are you ready for me, little raven?" he murmured against your lips.

You nodded frantically. He reached between your legs, his fingers finding your clit. You were still wet from your earlier orgasm, and his fingers slid easily through your folds. He circled your clit, then slid two fingers inside you, testing your readiness.

"Mhm, You're so wet for me," he said.

"All for you," you echoed.

His fingers stroked and teased you until you were squirming beneath him, begging. He reached between you, guiding his cock to your entrance.

"Look at me, clever girl," he commanded, his voice low and intense.

You forced your eyes open, and he held your gaze as he slowly, deliberately, pushed into you.

There was a brief, sharp sting as he stretched you, and you cried out, your nails digging into his shoulders. He stilled.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

You took a deep breath, the pain already starting to fade. "I'm okay," you said. "Don't stop."

He began to thrust slowly and deeply at first, then faster, harder. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the silent room.

"Harder," you gasped, your voice a raw, desperate plea. "Jungkook, harder."

His movements becoming almost brutal, his cock pounding into you, driving you closer and closer to the edge.

"You're so tight, sweetheart," he gritted out, his fingers digging into your thighs. "So fucking perfect."

He reached between you again, his fingers finding your clit. He rubbed it in time with his thrusts, and you felt your orgasm building again. Your entire body tensed, your muscles locking up as the pleasure increased.

"Come for me, Y/n," he commanded, his voice strained. "Come with me."

With a final, brutal thrust and a hard pinch of your clit, you orgasmed. You screamed his name, your body shaking underneath him, your inner walls clamping down on his cock in a series of powerful, rhythmic spasms.  He fucked you through it, his thrusts becoming erratic, his control finally breaking as your body milked him. With a loud, guttural groan, he buried himself to the hilt inside you, his own orgasm crashing over him, and you felt the hot, powerful pulse of his release as he spilled into you.

He collapsed on top of you, his face buried in the crook of your neck. You were both panting, your bodies sweaty and trembling. He didn't move for a long time, and you didn't want him to. You wrapped your arms around his back, holding him close.

“Hi," he whispered, a small, crooked smile playing on his lips.

You laughed, a breathy, soundless puff of air. "Hi," you whispered back.

He leaned down and kissed you gently. "Are you okay?" he asked again, his thumb gently stroking your cheek.

"I'm more than okay," you whispered.

He smiled, a genuine, brilliant smile that lit up his entire face. He kissed your forehead, your nose, your lips.

“Me too," he murmured against your skin.

With a soft sigh, he carefully withdrew, the loss of his warmth making you shiver. He grabbed the heavy wool of the discarded school robes and draped them over you both.

"You’re going to have bruises," you murmured. "I'm sorry," you said, your voice thick with regret. "I got... carried away. I didn't hurt you, did I? Truly?" You shifted, propping yourself up on your elbow to look down at him.

He reached up and cupped your cheek, his thumb stroking his skin. "No, little raven. You didn't hurt me. Plus, I like them, they're a reminder."

"A reminder that you’re mine?" you asked.

"Mhm, always," he confirmed. "So. What do we do now, Y/n?"

"We walk out of here, and tomorrow, we sit together at breakfast. And I’ll sit at your table, and you’ll hold my hand, and we won't care who sees."

"Just like that? You know…Y/n, my father-"

"Just like that," you confirmed.

He buried his face in your hair, his arms tightening around you like he was afraid you might disappear.

"I love you," he whispered, the words muffled against your skin. "I think I've loved you since the 4th year.”

You laughed, "I thought you were an arrogant, Quidditch-obsessed boy. and I love you too."

"I am," he said, pulling back to grin at you. "But I'm your arrogant, Quidditch-obsessed boy."

Eventually, you knew you had to move, because the night couldn't last forever, but this time you risked it for the biscuit and walked down with him in the dungeons. Jimin had luckily gone somewhere, maybe also dealing with his little secret.

When morning came, Jimin's jaw practically hit the floor, his eyes darting from Jungkook's smug face to the copper hair peeking out from the duvet.

Jungkook pulled the duvet higher over the still asleep Y/n, shielding her, and looked at Jimin with a look of absolute, smug triumph. His voice was a low, morning rasp.

"Morning, Jimin. Close the door."

"Close the door? JK, you have a Ravenclaw, a Head Girl, in your bed!" He gestured wildly with one hand. "Do you have any idea what happens if a Prefect walks in? Or a professor? Or the entire school?"

Jungkook yawned lazily, not moving an inch, his arm remaining locked around you. His voice was thick and rough, devoid of any guilt.

"Then they'll know." He looked down at you, his gaze softening into something sweet, before he looked back at Jimin. "Now, I said, close the door, Jimin. Unless you want to be the one to tell the Gryffindor Golden Boy that his ex-girlfriend spent the night in the snake pit."

Jimin scoffed and left the room.

Jungkook didn't move to get up. Instead, he shifted, his chest vibrating as he chuckled. He leaned down, his lips brushing against your ear, his voice a teasing, low vibration. "Wake up, little monster. We have an audience."

Y/n groaned and buried her face deeper in his chest. "Five more minutes. Are we doomed?"

"We're not doomed," he said, his eyes soft. "We're just beginning." He leaned in and kissed you. When he pulled back, he was smiling. "Now, get dressed, Head Girl. You have a castle to run. And I have a rumor to start."

You looked at him, "What rumor?"

He grinned, "The one that says Jeon Jungkook finally got his girl."

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a/n: I hope you guys enjoyed this. i have been obsessed with H.P. and Hogwarts Legacy lately, and I couldn't bring myself to not write something, even if I'm graduating next month and my mind is everywhere ;-;

The Small Council chamber was empty now, Valarr long gone, the candles guttering in their sconces. Baelor remained where he was, slumped in the chair at the head of the table. He had agreed, surrendering the only woman he had ever truly loved to his own son.

The next morning arrived with a cruelty that only the gods could devise. The sky above King's Landing was a bruised, overcast grey, weeping a cold, persistent rain that drummed against the slate roofs of the Red Keep. Inside the Sept of Baelor, the air was thick with the scent of beeswax and heavy incense, trying valiantly to mask the smell of wet wool and damp stone. The seven-sided crystal fractured the meagre light into weak, intermittent rainbows that danced across the stone floor, but there was no warmth in them.

Baelor stood at the front, shrouded in the shadows. From his vantage point he could see everything, yet he felt entirely removed from it, as if he were watching a play performed on a distant stage.

You stood before the altar looking like a vision woven from starlight and silk. Your gown was crimson, heavy with intricate embroidery that glittered subtly with every breath you took. Valarr stood beside you, resplendent in black and crimson, the silver streak in his hair catching the candlelight. He looked at you with open, adoring intensity that made Baelor's stomach turn.

"I am yours," Valarr said, his voice ringing out clear and strong, trembling only slightly with the sheer force of his emotion. "And you are mine, from this day, until the end of my days. I promise to shield you from harm, to cherish you, and to love you with all that I am."

Baelor watched Valarr's face. There was no hesitation there, just the pure, unadulterated love of a boy who believed he had won the greatest prize in the world. It shattered something inside Baelor to watch it.

You turned to face the septon. You were smiling, but Baelor saw the tension in your shoulders, the slight nervous flutter of your hands at your sides. You repeated the vows, your voice softer, melodic. You meant it, in your way. You were committing to this life, to this man, to the duty Baelor had forced upon you.

When the septon pronounced them husband and wife, Valarr did not wait. He stepped forward, cupping your face in his hands gently, and kissed you; a deep, passionate claim of your mouth, right there in front of the High Septon, the court, and the gods.

It felt like hell to Baelor. He turned away before the kiss broke, unable to stomach the sight of you belonging to another, unable to watch the life he should have had unfold before his eyes like a nightmare he could not wake from.

The festivities in the Great Hall were an overwhelming mix of noise and colour that neither of you truly wanted. Forgoing the bedding ceremony had been an easy decision; neither Valarr nor you had any desire to turn your intimacy into a drunken spectacle. You retired to your chambers early, the heavy door closing out the rest of the world.

The room was warm, lit by a roaring fire in the hearth and a dozen candles scattered across the tables. A vast bed draped in heavy curtains of crimson velvet, the linens crisp and white at the centre. Valarr stood by the fire looking at you with a mix of adoration and nervousness.

"You are the most beautiful creature I have ever seen," Valarr whispered, crossing the room to you. He reached out, his fingers trembling slightly as they brushed a stray lock of hair from your cheek. "I want to make you happy."

You looked at him, seeing the man who was now your husband. "I know you will, Valarr," you said softly, covering his hand with yours.

He undressed you with agonising slowness, treating every layer of silk and lace like sacred wrapping paper. When you stood before him in nothing but your shift, he did not rush. Instead he led you to the bed, laying you down against the pillows as if you were made of porcelain.

Valarr was a fast learner, his enthusiasm tempered by a desperate need to please. He kissed your neck, your collarbone, the swell of your breasts, listening to the sharp intakes of your breath and guiding his movements by your soft gasps. When he settled between your thighs he looked up at you, his eyes searching for any sign of discomfort.

"Tell me," he urged, his voice rough. "Tell me what feels good."

He pushed inside, groaning against your lips. It was pleasant, warm and vigorous and full of a youthful stamina that lasted longer than you expected. You met his thrusts, your body responding to the friction and the heat, finding a release that left you panting and trembling beneath him.

Valarr followed shortly after, spending inside you, his body shuddering with the force of it. He collapsed against you, holding you tightly as if he feared you might vanish if he let go.

He murmured into your hair, his voice already thick with sleep. "My wife."

Within minutes his breathing slowed, becoming deep and even. His arm was a heavy band across your waist, his leg tangled possessively between yours. He was out, exhausted by the emotional and physical exertion of the day.

You lay in the dark, staring up at the velvet canopy above. A single tear escaped from the corner of your eye, sliding hot and wet down your temple and into your hair. Then another. You did not make a sound, just let them fall, tracking silently through the dampness on your face.

As you lay there in the circle of Valarr's arms, the reality of it settled over you all at once. Baelor would never hold you like this again.

You thought about the secret passages, the stolen moments, and the way Baelor's hands felt on your skin. You thought about what it would have meant to simply leave, to refuse the marriage, to take your son and go somewhere no one knew your name. You imagined a life where you chose yourself, where you chose love over duty. You cried because you hated this life, because you had done everything right and still felt as though you were dying inside.

On the other side of the Red Keep, in a chamber that felt too large and too quiet, Baelor knelt on the cold stone floor. He was still wearing his doublet, the fabric chafing against his throat, but he could not move to take it off. He felt paralysed, trapped in a moment of grief so profound it threatened to tear him apart.

The thought of you in Valarr's bed, Valarr's hands on your skin, Valarr's lips on your mouth, it was all too much. For the first time in his adult life, Baelor Targaryen wept. He wept for the woman he loved, for the son he had lost to his own selfishness, and for the crushing, unbearable reality in which he existed in a world where you were not his.

The weeks that followed were a slow, agonising march through grey. Baelor kept his word. He did not speak to you or seek you out, effectively erasing himself from your life with the same discipline he applied to his governance, but it cost him dearly.

He saw you, of course. One afternoon, as he exited the Small Council chamber, there you were standing in the corridor ahead, waiting for your father or perhaps for Valarr. You were dressed in deep red velvet, the colour bringing out the brightness of your eyes, which softened at the sight of him.

"Baelor."

He opened his mouth and took a half-step forward, his hand reaching out before he could stop himself.

"Father?"

The voice was sharp, clipped from behind him. Valarr strode past, moving with a purposeful aggression that made the air around them vibrate. He did not look at Baelor as he walked to you.

"How fortunate am I," Valarr said, his voice echoing off the stone walls, "to have such a beautiful wife who comes to visit me!"

He pulled you into an embrace, his arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you flush against him. He kissed your cheek, a lingering press of lips that was as much a performance for Baelor as it was an affection for you. "Come, my love. I have something to show you."

You allowed yourself to be led, but you turned your head back over your shoulder, eyes locking onto Baelor's in a silent communication; a mixture of regret, longing, and sadness.

Valarr noticed the look. He said nothing, only tightening his arm around you and steering you away as he glared at his father.

Baelor stood alone in the corridor. He could not remember what he had been doing, where he had been headed. He retreated to the solace of his solar, where he spent the rest of the day replaying that moment in the hall, replaying the argument with Valarr. I should have fought harder, he thought, the mantra looping in his mind until his head throbbed. I should have fought for her.

Not that his agreement with Valarr's terms helped bridge the chasm between them. Valarr hated him. The betrayal was still fresh, a festering wound in Valarr's mind. He did not know if he would ever forgive his father, and he made no effort to hide it. But being near you, loving you, and being loved by you in return made the burden easier to carry. You were his balm, his reward.

Yet the insecurity gnawed at him, a rat in the walls of his happiness. He tried to suppress it, tried to accept that you were with him, but he could not shake the feeling. Every time he looked at you he wondered if you were comparing him. When he touched you he wondered if his hands felt as skilled as his father's. When he lay with you, driving into your body with desperate intensity, he wondered if you were closing your eyes and imagining Baelor.

His single-minded focus became the one thing he could give you that his father never could: a child. He wanted to see your belly swell with his seed, to create a life that was undeniably yours together. It would be the only part of you that was just for him, a legacy untainted by the memories of his father's touch.

He came to you every night, sometimes twice, worshipping your body, trying to erase every trace of the past with his own passion. "Let me give you a child," he would whisper against your skin, his voice thick with need. "Let me give you a son."

You, for your part, were an eager and willing participant. You wanted the family, the stability, the distraction. You wanted to give Valarr what he needed so he would stop looking at you like you might disappear at any moment.

Baelor, meanwhile, was desperate for some semblance of peace in his home. He was in pain, a constant, dull ache that radiated from his chest. His heart was broken, his mind a mess of regret and what-ifs.

He finally did the one thing he had avoided for weeks. He sent a request to Jena's chambers.

She arrived, her posture stiff, her eyes guarded. She sat in the chair opposite him, her hands folded in her lap, looking at him not with anger but with a cool, detached curiosity. It was worse than her rage.

"I was wrong," Baelor said, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. He did not know where to start, so he started with the truth. "I was a fool. I was arrogant and cruel, and I used you. I used our son as a pawn in my own selfish game."

He looked down at his hands. "I am sorry, Jena. For the affair. For the callousness. For making you feel less than you are. You were right about everything." He broke down, his composure cracking as he sat there, stripped of his pride, waiting for her judgment.

Jena watched him. She saw the genuine remorse in the slump of his shoulders, the way his voice cracked. She knew he was saying this because he was lonely, because you were gone, because he had lost his son. But it did not change the fact that she still had love for him, buried beneath layers of resentment. She sighed, a long, weary sound.

"Forgiveness will take time, Baelor. But I am willing to try."

It was not a triumph, but it was a start.

A month later, the family gathered for a small, private dinner in the royal apartments. The atmosphere was cautiously civil. Jena sat at Baelor's side, close enough that their elbows brushed on the table. Valarr sat at the foot with you beside him.

Valarr stood, looking full of pride and happiness, taking your hand and squeezing it gently.

"We have news," Valarr announced, his voice trembling with excitement. "My spectacular wife is with child."

A gasp went around the table. Baelor felt the blood drain from his face. He looked at you; glowing, your hand resting gently on your stomach, a soft, serene smile on your lips. You looked completely, utterly happy, as though you had everything you had ever wanted.

"Congratulations," your father boomed, beaming. "That is wonderful news."

He looked down at your son, Theo, a boy of two years, running around the table with a toy dragon in his hand, oblivious to the commotion. "And you, young man! Are you excited to be a brother?"

Theo did not even pause. He lifted the toy high in the air, roaring at the top of his lungs, completely ignoring the question. He continued running until Valarr caught him, lifting him and placing a kiss on top of his head.

Baelor sat frozen, the excitement of the room fading into the background. Under the table, hidden by the linen cloth, Jena's warm, soft hand covered his. She squeezed his fingers tight, offering him silent comfort in the midst of his torment. He just sat there, staring at the wall, feeling the life drain out of him, listening to the sound of his son's happiness and knowing it was built on the ruins of his own.

The seasons turned within the Red Keep, the stone walls absorbing the shifting temperatures and the relentless passage of time. The initial, brittle peace that had settled over the royal apartments after your pregnancy announcement began to wear thin, not through any great catastrophe, but through the friction of daily existence. Marriage, you discovered, was not merely the grand gestures witnessed in the sept or the desperate passions of the wedding night; it was the mundane, grating reality of shared space.

You and Valarr argued, no different from any other newly married couple learning the painful geometry of two lives intersecting, yet the air between you always seemed to hold a charge, a lingering voltage from the secrets you kept. One afternoon a disagreement regarding the education of your son escalated into a shouting match that left the nursemaid hovering nervously in the corridor. Valarr's voice, usually so measured in public, cracked with frustration as he paced the rug, his hands gesturing sharply. You stood your ground by the hearth, your chin lifted, eyes flashing.

But when the shouting faded, there was always the aftermath. Valarr would inevitably cross the room to you, his anger draining away to leave him looking boyish and apologetic. He would pull you into an embrace, burying his face in your neck, and you would soften, your hands finding purchase on his shoulders. You loved each other. It was a complicated, knotted love, tangled with duty and jealousy, but it was real.

As the new year bloomed, the atmosphere in the castle shifted from domestic friction to a heavy dread. Jena fell ill. It began simply enough; a persistent cough that rattled in her chest and a fatigue that kept her abed longer than usual. But the weeks wore on, and her strength did not return.

Baelor became a fixture at her bedside. He sat for hours, reading to her in a low, steady voice or simply providing her company. In those long, quiet weeks, the distance that had yawned between them for years seemed to close. They spoke of things long buried; memories of their children when they were small, the scandals of courts past, the simple, mundane absurdities of royal life. It was not the passionate love of ballads, nor was it the all-consuming fire he felt for you, but it was warm, steady, and comfortable. He found that he liked her, this woman who had borne his children and endured his silences. She was funny, in a dry, sardonic way he had never noticed before, and she was kind, more so than he deserved.

One evening, as the light outside the window bled into a bruised purple, Jena woke from a restless sleep, her breathing a raspy, whistling sound that seemed too loud in the hushed room. Baelor leaned forward, taking her frail hand in his.

"Valarr," she whispered, her voice thin as parchment.

"He is outside," Baelor said softly. "He will not enter while I am here."

She closed her eyes, a faint, tired frown touching her lips. "He is so much like you. So proud. He holds his anger like a shield."

Baelor squeezed her fingers. "He has reason."

Her eyes opened again, fixing him with a look that cut through his defences. "You hold onto your guilt. It is drowning you, Baelor."

He looked away, staring into the depths of the fire. "I have made unforgivable mistakes."

"What is done is done. You must forgive him, and you must forgive yourself."

Baelor looked back at her and nodded, unable to speak past the lump in his throat.

She squeezed his hand weakly. "Good. Now, help me sit up. Then call the boys inside."

Jena died the next morning.

Baelor had not known there was more room for sadness, but his heart expanded to accommodate it. The realisation of what he had lost in the quiet moments of reconciliation came too late.

The funeral was a blur of condolences, black, and smoke. Baelor stood at the front, Valarr and Matarys on either side of him. Valarr was pale and stony as he stared straight ahead, fixed on the pyre, as if willing the world to stop turning.

He remembered his final conversation with Jena. She was beautiful, bright, and entirely focused on his comfort and wellbeing even at the end. He had always assumed his mother would always be there, perhaps taken her presence for granted; now there was only silence. Valarr felt your hand slip into his and squeezed hard. He needed your strength.

Inside your chambers afterwards, the silence was absolute. Valarr stood by the hearth, staring into the flames, his back rigid. You watched him for a moment, seeing the tension in the set of his shoulders, the slight tremor in his hands, and walked over to him slowly, not touching him yet, just standing close enough that he would know you were there.

"She is gone," Valarr said, his voice cracking on the words. He did not turn around. "She is really gone."

"I know."

It was as if those two words broke the dam. Valarr turned, and the mask shattered. He reached for you with a clumsy movement and collapsed in your arms. You caught him, wrapping your arms around him as his knees gave way, sinking with him to the floor.

He sobbed into your shoulder, a sound deep and wrenching that seemed to come from the very marrow of his bones; weeping for the mother who had smoothed his hair and bandaged his knees, for the voice that had soothed his nightmares and sung him lullabies, for the unconditional love that had now passed. You held him tight, one hand cradling the back of his head, fingers tangling in his hair, letting him pour his sorrow out into the fabric of your gown. There were no words for this. You just anchored him, your presence a steady, silent promise that you would not let him drift away.

After a long time the sobbing slowed, turning into ragged, uneven breaths. Valarr pulled back slightly, his face puffy and red, eyes rimmed with exhaustion.

"You are all I have."

You reached up, brushing a lock of hair from his forehead. "You have your father," you said gently. "He grieves with you."

Valarr looked down at his hands, clasped tightly in his lap, and nodded. "I know." He leaned forward, resting his forehead against yours for a moment, drawing strength from your breath against his skin. Then he stood, pulling you up with him. He kissed your forehead, a lingering, grateful press of lips, before straightening his tunic and squaring his shoulders. He looked like a prince again, albeit a battered one.

He found Baelor in the solar the next evening, sitting behind the massive desk that seemed too large for one man. The room was dark, lit only by a few tapers and the dying embers in the grate. Baelor was staring at a book but he was not reading it. He looked up when Valarr entered, his eyes guarded and weary.

"Father." The word was awkward and heavy.

Baelor stood slowly. "Valarr."

Valarr took a deep breath. "I do not wish to be at war with you. It is too much, and, mother hated it." He paused. "I shall not apologise for what I said to you. I was right."

Baelor closed his eyes. "I know."

"But," Valarr continued, his voice softening slightly, "I wish to move forward."

When Baelor opened his eyes, the gratitude in them was clear. It stripped away the years, the titles, the grievances, leaving only a father looking at his son. "I would like that," Baelor said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I would like that very much."

The scars from the past remained, but this was a beginning. They spoke then, haltingly at first, then with more ease.

Weeks melted into months, and the heavy cloak of mourning began to lift, replaced by the anticipation of new life as your time drew near. The labour was long and arduous, a test of endurance that lasted through the night and into the early hours of the morning. You gritted your teeth, sweat beading on your forehead, hands crushing the linens. Valarr paced outside the room like a caged beast, his face a mask of terrified helplessness.

Baelor arrived with Matarys shortly after. He saw his son, wild-eyed and frantic.

"The birth can take hours," Baelor said. "You must prepare yourself for the wait."

The hours dragged on, marked only by the shifting of the guard and the occasional muffled cry from within the room. Baelor watched Valarr, seeing the terror in his posture, and remembered his own fears when Valarr and Matarys were born.

When the child finally came, he let out a squall that shook the rafters; a strong, healthy sound.

The door opened and a midwife stepped out, her apron stained but her face beaming. She curtsied low. "My princes! You have a son!"

Valarr was on his feet before she finished speaking. He did not wait for an invitation; he pushed past the midwife and into the room.

You lay back against the pillows, your chest heaving, exhaustion pulling at every limb, but your eyes were fixed on the bundle being placed in your arms. He was perfect, small, squinting against the light, but as he settled, the features became clear.

A tuft of stark white hair crowned his head. He opened his eyes, and you drew in a breath. One eye was a deep, shining lilac, the other a clear, bright blue. He was all Valarr, and yet entirely his own person.

Valarr approached the bed with hesitant steps, his eyes wide. When you gently transferred the bundle into his arms, the transformation in him was instantaneous. He looked down at the child with complete awe.

"Hello," he whispered, his voice trembling. He touched the infant's cheek with a single finger, like the boy might break. The baby shifted, yawning, and Valarr let out a choked laugh. Tears spilled over his lashes, tracking down his face unchecked. "Welcome to the world, Jenaerys."

You smiled, brushing the white hair back from the baby's forehead.

Baelor stood in the doorway, unwilling to intrude on this moment of triumph for his son. But Valarr looked up and saw him, nodded, stepping aside slightly; an invitation.

Valarr gently passed the infant to his grandfather. Baelor took the child, supporting the tiny head with his large hand. He looked down at the newborn, and all he saw was you.

The delicate curve of your nose, the shape of the mouth, the sweet bow of the lips that were yours. It was as if you had taken your own features and breathed life into them, gifting them to this child.

This was the son he would never have with you.

Baelor lifted his head, his gaze moving from the baby to you. You lay against the pillows, smiling at him. It was a soft, knowing smile, full of understanding and shared sadness.

He swallowed hard, forcing the lump down his throat. He looked back at the baby, then at you again.

"You did well," Baelor said, his voice low and rough, carrying the weight of everything he could not say.

The year that followed the birth of the new prince settled into a rhythm that felt almost like forgiveness.

Valarr moved through the halls with a new centre of gravity. The sharp, frantic edge that had defined him, the desperate need to prove, to possess, to secure, had dulled into a steady, quiet confidence. He spent his available hours in the nursery, looking down at the boy with a look of utter disbelief, as if the child were a miracle he had conjured from the air itself. He leaned down to nuzzle the baby's stomach, eliciting a squeal of delight.

From his spot by the window, Theo watched the interaction. He crossed his small arms, huffing. "He just sleeps," the boy complained, his voice high and petulant. "He does not play anything."

Valarr chuckled, a low, warm sound. He reached out a hand, beckoning him closer. "Give him time, little lord. Soon he will be chasing you, stealing your toys, and generally making a nuisance of himself. You shall miss the quiet."

Your son approached reluctantly, but when Valarr ruffled his hair, he leaned into the touch. Valarr's affection was not divided; it multiplied. He looked at the dark-haired boy with the same fierce adoration he held for the infant, bridging the gap of blood with sheer will and love.

It was harder than Baelor had anticipated to step back, to watch you build this life with his son while he remained on the periphery. But he forced the feelings down, burying them under layers of duty and familial affection. This peace was too fragile to risk. He had his sons, he had these perfect grandsons, and he had you in this new, purified light; as a daughter, a friend, a fixture of his life that he could admire from a careful distance. This, he told himself as the sun dipped below the walls of the Keep, was a good life. It was not the life he had dreamed of in the quiet hours of the night, but it was a life he could endure, and even enjoy, because you were safe within it.

The peace was shattered at Ashford.

The tournament was meant to be a display of chivalry and sport, but soon turned to malice. The Trial of Seven was a chaotic mess of steel and mud, a melee of honour that turned brutal. When the dust finally settled, the crowd's roar died in their throats.

Baelor had fallen.

He did not die, though the Seven seemed to toy with the idea. A blow from a heavy mace, wielded in the heat of the moment by his own brother Maekar, had struck him squarely. The Prince of Dragonstone lay motionless.

Three days passed agonisingly slowly. The castle of Ashford became a tomb of silence. Maekar paced the corridors, his face gaunt, his hands trembling whenever they were still. Valarr sat by the window in your shared chambers, staring out at the tourney grounds now empty of revellers. He spoke little, but the fear radiated off him like heat. He was not ready to be an orphan. The thought of facing Matarys and telling him their father was gone was unbearable.

You moved through the days like a ghost, your body present but your mind trapped in the sickroom, imagining the worst.

On the third night, the castle slept. The torches in the hallways burned low, and you lay in bed beside Valarr, listening to the rhythm of his breathing, but sleep continued to evade you. You did not care about propriety or if a guard saw you or what the court would whisper. You just needed to see him.

Baelor's sickroom was guarded by a single drowsy sentry, who stepped aside at the sight of your determined face. Inside, the air smelled of valerian root, feverfew, and the copper tang of dried blood.

Baelor lay in the centre of the large bed, looking smaller than he had any right to. A bandage wrapped around his head, stark white against his tanned skin. His breathing was shallow, a faint rise and fall of his chest that seemed to require all his strength.

You moved to the chair beside the bed and sank into it. The sight of him, a man usually so vibrant and strong, reduced to this, broke something loose inside you. A sob tore from your throat as you pressed a hand to your mouth to stifle the sound, but tears spilled over uncontrollably.

You remembered the way he looked at you in the Kingswood, the way he held your son, the sound of his voice saying your name like a prayer. You remembered the touch of his hand, the warmth of his embrace, the safety you had felt in his arms. It was clear in that moment that you loved him still.

"Please," you whispered, leaning over him, your tears dripping onto his tunic. "Baelor, do not leave me."

You pressed your lips to his cheek. It was dry and cold, the stubble rough against your soft skin. "I love you." You kissed him again; a firm, lingering press on his lips, pouring every ounce of your love and your regret into that contact. You did not want to be a princess or a wife. You just wanted him to be alive.

Exhaustion eventually claimed you. You leaned forward, resting your head on the edge of the mattress, right beside his shoulder, breathing in the comforting scent of him as you fell asleep.

The first thing Baelor truly saw when he opened his eyes was long hair and soft skin.

The pain in his head was a blinding, splitting agony, a white-hot spike driven through his temple. He groaned, trying to move, but his body felt heavy, disconnected.

He turned his head slightly, and his breath caught.

You were asleep, your head resting on his chest. For a moment, Baelor was certain he had died. This surely was the Stranger's final mercy, a vision of heaven's most beautiful angel keeping vigil beside him before the end.

He stared at you, drinking in the sight of your eyelashes fluttering in sleep and the soft parting of your lips. He missed all of this; the warmth of you near him, the smell of your hair, the quiet intimacy of just breathing the same air as you.

You stirred, your eyes heavy with sleep fluttering open and focusing on him. For a heartbeat, the world held only the two of you. A slow, tired smile touched his lips. He lifted his hand, fingers trembling, and brushed a stray lock of hair from your face.

"My heart," he breathed, his voice a dry rasp.

The sound of his voice shattered the spell. You scrambled backward, the chair scraping harshly against the stone floor. You felt as if you could not breathe. The intimacy of the moment, the love you saw in his eyes, it was too much.

"I must fetch the maesters."

You turned and fled the room, rushing into the corridor. "Maester! Help! The prince is awake!"

"Wait," Baelor tried to say, reaching for you, but his strength failed him. He watched the empty doorway where you had stood, the warmth of your presence already fading into the cold morning air. He closed his eyes, the brief glimpse of heaven snatched away, leaving him with only the pain in his skull and the hollow ache in his chest.

You returned to your own chambers, drained and hollowed out by the night's vigil and the emotional whiplash of seeing him awake. Valarr was waiting, fully dressed, though the sun had barely risen. He turned as you entered, and the look on his face stopped you in your tracks.

He looked devastated.

"I woke to find you absent from our bed," he said. "I went to check on my father, and found you there." He took a step closer. "No matter what I do, no matter how much I give you, you continue to carry a torch for him."

"Valarr."

"Do you wish you were his wife instead of mine?"

Something inside you snapped. The exhaustion, the grief, the years of walking on eggshells; it all rose up. "I am sick of this, Valarr. Why must I continuously prove myself to you?"

He began to speak, but you cut him off, raising a hand. "I am married to you, and I am happy. I carried your child. Let this go." You took a breath, your gaze steady on his. "You have already lost your mother. Do you truly wish to spend your life hating your father and looking for betrayal where there is none? You must forgive him, truly, because you are poisoning our marriage by carrying this resentment."

His composure crumbled. His hands began to shake as he closed the distance between you, taking your hands in his. "I am sorry," he whispered, his voice cracking. "I did not mean it. I cannot bear the thought of losing you to him."

You squeezed his hands, your own anger softening. "You will never lose me, Valarr." You leaned in to kiss his cheek. "I love you."

That was the truth. You loved the man he was, the father he was to your children. But in the quiet, secret chambers of your heart, you knew there was more. His close brush with death had shown you that you were far from over Baelor. You would always, always love him. But you had made your choice, and that choice was Valarr.

Weeks later, the family returned to King's Landing, but the respite was short-lived. King Daeron II passed away peacefully in his sleep, and the weight of the crown descended upon Baelor's head. He moved through the ceremonies with grace, but inside he felt entirely unready. He had not been able to speak a private word with you since the tournament, since the morning he had woken to find you and then lost you to the chaos. For three years, Baelor tried to forget you, to smother the fire of his feelings. He failed. The familial peace he had forced himself to accept felt like a prison now. He wanted to tell you he loved you still, to apologise for what he had done, to apologise for not marrying you himself.

His opportunity came on a warm afternoon, several days after his coronation. Baelor saw you slip out of the main hall, moving toward the gardens. He waited a moment, his heart hammering against his ribs, and followed, keeping his distance as he rehearsed his words in his head. You moved quickly, with purpose, disappearing around a turn. He turned a corner, the anticipation rising in his throat, and stopped dead. You were there, but you were not alone.

Baelor could only watch as you stepped into Valarr's arms, as if it were the most natural place in the world. He watched as Valarr tilted your chin up and kissed you; a kiss full of a tender, possessive love that Baelor had never been able to claim publicly. He saw the way Valarr held you, as if you were the most precious, fragile thing in all the Seven Kingdoms. This was a tableau of love, of a bond that was living and breathing, while his own love was a ghost that haunted the halls. Seeing you like that, a perfect, united whole, made him feel utterly foolish, pining for a woman who was clearly, irrevocably happy in the arms of another.

His heart broke again. He shook his head slowly, the bitterness of regret rising in his throat as he turned around and walked away.

Baelor, hurt and quietly jealous, could not protest later that week when Valarr announced that he would be taking you and the children to Dragonstone, putting an entire sea between you and Baelor.

"Of course," Baelor said, his voice betraying none of the storm within him. "If you think it best."

The year on Dragonstone had worn the sharp edges from your life, smoothing it into contentment. In the nursery, the air was warm and close. Valarr sat on the floor, his long legs folded beneath him, a position he endured without complaint for the sake of his audience.

"And so the brave knight defeated the evil wizard and saved his kingdom."

Theo, at five years old, sat cross-legged directly before his father, his chin resting on his fists. His dark eyes were wide with concentration. "I want to be a knight, Papa!"

Valarr smiled. "You will be a great one."

Jenaerys was not so captivated by the story. He toddled to the heavy wooden chest in the corner, his small hands patting against the iron hinges. "Open," he demanded, his brow furrowed with effort.

"No more toys; it is time for sleeping," you said from the rocking chair near the fire. You shifted your weight, the familiar ache of your back a gentle reminder of the new life growing within you. In your arms, your newest babe, Baelon stirred. He was just learning to sit up on his own, a wobbly, determined effort, but the cadence of his father's voice was lulling him into sleep. His head lolled against your chest, his breaths coming in soft, even puffs against your skin.

You watched Valarr, your heart swelling. He was a patient storyteller and a better father, weaving tales of conquest and dragons, teaching his sons where they came from in the very heart of their ancestral home. He met your gaze over Theo's head, and the look you shared was one of unspoken understanding. This was your life, your fortress, built not of stone but of shared moments and the small, perfect bodies of your children.

Jenaerys, having given up on the chest, ambled back over and plopped down onto Valarr's outstretched leg, babbling a string of tired words that he clearly believed were a vital contribution to the narrative. Valarr did not miss a beat, simply resting a hand on his son's back and continuing the story.

You looked down at Baelon, fast asleep, and ran a thumb over his soft cheek, then let your hand drift down to rest on your own stomach. The subtle, rounded swell was still a secret shared only between you and Valarr. You had always wanted a large family, and the gods were being generous.

Back in your chambers, the fire had been built up, chasing away the evening chill. You sat on the edge of the large bed, watching as Valarr poured two cups of wine and handed one to you, his fingers brushing yours.

"Have you been feeling well?" he asked, his voice quiet.

"Quite well, you need not worry." You tilted your head back to look at him. "Although this house is becoming rather overrun with men. A mother needs an ally."

His eyes crinkled at the corners. "Is that a hint, my lady?"

"One more son and I shall be completely overwhelmed."

Valarr's hand spread wider over your belly as he leaned down and kissed your forehead, his lips lingering against your skin. "This one," he whispered, his voice filled with certainty, "is a daughter. I can feel it."

A thousand miles away, in the oppressive, perfumed air of the Red Keep's council chamber, Baelor sat at the head of the polished table, irritated.

"Must we discuss this once more? Valarr is my heir. The line is secure."

"A king needs a queen, Your Grace," another lord ventured, a plumper man who dabbed at his brow with a silk square. "For companionship. For counsel. You should not be so, solitary."

The word solitary struck a nerve. Solitary was his bedchamber at night, vast and empty. It was the long walk from the throne room back to his apartments, his footsteps echoing in a silence that seemed designed to mock him. He was a king surrounded by thousands, and he had never been more alone.

He thought of you; a constant, living presence in the hollow spaces of his life. The sound of your voice. The way your eyes would light up with a mischievous spark just before you said something daring. The feel of your hand in his, a perfect fit. How could he ever take another woman to his bed? The very idea was a betrayal of a truth that lived in his bones.

"I have no need for a queen."

The council, as expected, did not relent. They sent ladies to him. Each encounter left him more certain, more hollowed out as he compared them all to you, and not a single one could measure; not in grace, not in beauty, not in the fierce, loyal heart he knew so well. He gave up the charade, retreating further into the solitude of his duty.

His only solace was the raven that arrived from Dragonstone every fortnight. Valarr's letters detailed the boys' antics, your health, and matters of governance. Each letter was a taste of the life he had exiled himself from, a life that contained you. He missed your family terribly. He missed the sound of Valarr's voice, the sight of his grandsons, and you.

The city is too quiet, he wrote. Your brother and I would have it filled with your presence again. Come home.

The days in King's Landing unfolded like a dream, a brilliant, sun-drenched respite from the shadows of your past. The Red Keep, once a place of stifling formality and whispered anxieties, now echoed with the unrestrained laughter of children. Jenaerys had discovered the perfect kingdom for his games. The gardens were a sprawling wilderness of hedges and statues, the corridors a labyrinth of hiding places just his size. He took particular glee in darting away from his nursemaids, a flash of a child disappearing behind a stone gargoyle or a curtain of heavy velvet. The servants would flurry, their calls growing increasingly frantic, only for him to emerge with a triumphant grin from behind a curtain or the top of something he had no business climbing. He was a whirlwind of joyful mischief, and his energy was infectious.

Where Jenaerys was action, Theo was inquiry. He followed the maesters around like a duckling, his small finger pointing at everything. His curiosity was boundless, his wide eyes taking in every detail with a sweet, serious concentration that charmed everyone he met.

And then there was your infant son, a cooing, gurgling centre of gravity. He was passed from adoring arms to adoring arms. The septas, the couriers, the guards; all were utterly captivated. But no one was more captivated than his grandfather.

Baelor was transformed. In your time away, he had become stern, but that melted away, replaced by a man who was content to participate in all the silly antics the children required of him. Watching them, you felt a sense of peace settle over you. This was what you had always wanted for them; the joy of being children, knowing they were loved, living in a place filled with laughter. You allowed yourself to hope, a fragile, dangerous thing, that these days could stretch into forever.

Evenings, however, belonged to you and Valarr.

The hustle of the court faded behind the doors of your bedchamber. You brushed out your hair, the rhythmic strokes soothing after a long day of managing the children and court life. You watched Valarr in the looking glass. He had changed in the year you had been away. The bitterness that used to cling to him like a second skin had sloughed off, leaving behind a man who was confident, devoted, and utterly at peace with his world.

He turned, catching your eye in the reflection. A slow, tender smile curved his lips.

"You are staring, my lady," Valarr murmured, coming up behind you. His hands settled on your shoulders, his thumbs brushing the sensitive skin of your neck.

"And if I am?" You leaned back into his touch, tilting your head to rest against his chest. "I have much to look at."

He chuckled and turned you around, lifting you easily to sit atop the vanity table.

"I missed this," Valarr whispered, his voice dropping an octave, roughening with that familiar edge of desire. "I missed the quiet. Just you and I."

"As did I," you breathed, reaching up to thread your fingers into his hair. "The boys are happy here. It is good to see."

"It is," he agreed, though his focus was entirely on your mouth. He leaned in, brushing his lips against yours; a tease, a promise. "I have been neglecting my wife."

"You have been busy being a prince," you countered, your breath hitching as his hand moved from your waist to the laces of your nightgown.

"Tonight I am just your husband."

He kissed you then. You parted your lips, welcoming the sweep of his tongue, the tang of the wine he had drunk at dinner still lingering on him. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, feeling the hardening length of him through the thin fabric of your clothes.

Valarr groaned into your mouth, lifting you from the vanity without breaking the kiss. He carried you to the bed, laying you down against the crisp linens. He followed you down, settling his weight between your thighs, pressing you into the mattress. The heat of him was overwhelming, a furnace that chased away the chill of the night.

"I love you," he rasped, pulling back to look you in the eye. His gaze was intense. "Everything I am, everything I have; it is for you."

Tears pricked your eyes, not from sadness but from the sheer volume of emotion swelling inside you. "I love you, Valarr. More than life."

Valarr shifted, laying you back against the pillows, his body covering yours. The nightgown was a flimsy barrier, and he made quick work of it, his hands sliding the fabric up your thighs, over your hips, until he could pull it over your head. The cool air of the room raised goosebumps on your skin, but the heat of his gaze was a furnace. He looked at you; your heavy breasts, the soft curve of your stomach, the dark patch of hair between your legs, with a worshipful hunger that never failed to undo you.

He shed his own clothes quickly, and then he was skin against skin, all hard muscle and heat. He settled between your legs, not entering you yet, just rocking against your slick folds, teasing you both. "You feel so good," he groaned, his face buried in the crook of your neck. "So perfect."

"Please, Valarr," you gasped, your nails digging into his shoulders. "I need you."

He lifted his head, his eyes locking with yours. He reached down, took his cock in his hand, and guided the head to your entrance. He pushed inside, slowly, inch by agonising inch, stretching you open until he was seated to the hilt. The feeling was exquisite; you could feel him in your very core.

You cried out, your legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him even deeper.

He began to move, a slow, powerful rhythm that stole your sanity. Each thrust was a declaration, a possession. His hands found yours, their fingers lacing together, pinning them to the mattress on either side of your head. He kissed you then; a deep, filthy kiss that was all tongue and teeth and shared breath. The pace increased, his hips snapping against yours, the sound of your bodies filling the room. You clung to him, your nails raking down his back, leaving red furrows in his skin. He did not flinch; he just drove into you harder, with a desperate, frantic energy.

He broke the kiss, his lips trailing down your neck, sucking and biting at the sensitive skin there. His arms banded around you as he continued to drive into you. The pressure was building, a tight coil in your stomach threatening to snap. He must have felt it too. He lifted his head again, capturing your mouth in another searing kiss. "Come for me, love," he commanded, his voice a raw, ragged thing. "Come for me."

His words were your undoing. The coil snapped, and your release crashed over you, a blinding wave of pleasure that made you cry out his name. Your cunt clenched around him, rippling and spasming, and with a hoarse shout he followed you over the edge. He buried himself deep, his cock pulsing as he spent inside you, a hot, flooding release that seemed to go on forever. He collapsed on top of you, his weight a welcome, grounding pressure, his heart hammering against your ribs.

You lay tangled together, slick with sweat and shaking with the aftershocks, the firelight casting long shadows on the wall. It was a perfect night, a perfect moment of connection and love. You drifted off to sleep in his arms, feeling safe, cherished, and utterly complete.

The dream was not long for this world, however, ending with the arrival of the Spring Sickness.

It came on the winds from Flea Bottom, a whisper at first, then a roar. The city was awash with a cruel, efficient plague that showed no deference to rank or coin. The lowborn died in their gutters, the highborn in their silken beds. The Red Keep, an impenetrable fortress for armies, proved no defence for this invisible enemy.

The first blow landed hard. Matarys, a boy of barely seventeen with his father's kind eyes and his mother's fiery spirit, took sick. It was a swift, brutal illness. One day he was complaining of a headache; the next he was burning with a fever that no maester could break, his body wracked with chills so violent his teeth chattered constantly. He died three days later, his young body simply giving out.

Then Valarr fell ill.

It started with a weariness he could not shake. Then the fever came. He lay in the sick bed, far from the place of your perfect night, his body shivering uncontrollably despite the roaring fire. His skin was pale and waxy, pulled taut over the sharp bones of his face. He looked like a stranger, a beautiful, broken effigy of the man you loved.

You never left his side. You sponged his burning skin with cool water, forced water and broth between his cracked lips, and prayed. You prayed to the Seven, to the old gods, to any god who would listen. You bargained, you wept, you promised anything, everything, just for him to overcome this. But the gods had turned their faces away.

On the fourth day, he woke. His eyes were hazy with fever, but they found yours. "My love," he whispered, his voice a dry rasp.

Your heart clenched. "I am here. I am right here."

"Bring the children to me, please."

Your first instinct was to refuse, to protect them from this, from the sight of their father so broken. But the look in his eyes was desperate. You nodded, sending a guard, and moments later a nurse led the three children into the room.

Valarr struggled to sit up, wincing with the effort, as you piled pillows behind his back, propping him up against the headboard. He looked terrible, but a weak smile touched his lips as his sons were lifted onto the bed.

Theo, ever the observant one, stayed at the foot of the bed, his small face etched with a confusion that was close to fear. "Papa? Are you sick?"

"I am a little tired," Valarr managed, his voice thin. He held out a trembling hand. "Come here."

Theo crept forward and took his father's hand. Jenaerys, less understanding, simply plopped down onto the mattress, patting Valarr clumsily. "Papa," he babbled, happy and entirely unaware.

Valarr's smile widened, a genuine, heartbreaking thing. He pulled the children close, pressing soft kisses to their foreheads. He looked at his beautiful boys, their bright, innocent eyes, and then his gaze shifted to you, to the gentle swell of your stomach, and the sleeping baby in your arms. He looked at his entire world, gathered in this room, and it was more than enough. It was everything.

Valarr held them for as long as he could, his strength fading fast. Then, with a sigh, he spoke. "Be good for your mother and cause no trouble, do you hear me?"

"Yes, Papa." Both boys said it together.

"Never forget, you are my sons, and I love you."

The nurse gently took the boys away, their cheerful ignorance a stark contrast to the crushing dread that filled the room. You knew this was a farewell. He placed a trembling hand on your belly, the touch so light you barely felt it.

His eyes fluttered closed, his body sinking back against the pillows. You stayed by his side, holding his hand, watching the shallow rise and fall of his chest, until the candle guttered out and the room was plunged into darkness. You must have fallen asleep, because you woke with a start, the grey light of dawn filtering through the curtains. You reached for his hand. It was cold. You scrambled closer, your fingers fumbling for the pulse in his wrist. There was nothing. The Stranger had come in the night and stolen your husband.

Valarr's pyre was lit the next day. Baelor, his face a mask of cold, regal grief, stood and watched as the body of yet another son was committed to the flames. You stood apart, the heat of the fires blistering against your skin, but you felt only an internal, icy cold. You held the hands of your sons. They were quiet, not understanding the solemnity, only that their mother was holding their hands too tight. They did not understand that the smoke curling into the sky was all that remained of their father.

When the rites were over and the last embers had faded to ash, you fled to your chambers. You barely made it to the safety and privacy of your rooms before you began to truly weep. This was not a graceful weeping. It was an ugly, gut-wrenching storm of sobs that wracked your entire body. You collapsed to the floor, your nails scraping the stone, your cries the sound of a soul being torn apart.

The door opened, and Baelor entered. He said nothing, just crossed the room and knelt on the floor beside you. He was the only other person in the world who knew this specific flavour of hell. You did not hesitate. You crawled into his arms, burying your face in his chest, and let the grief consume you. You sobbed for the endless hours you had held yourself together, for the terrible conversations with a toddler who kept asking when his father would play with him. You sobbed for the future that had been incinerated, for the man you loved who was now just smoke and memory.

When you finally pulled back, hiccuping, your face streaked with tears, you saw that Baelor was crying too. He had lost the love of his life, his wife, his parents, and both his children. How much more could one man be asked to endure?

You decided you could not stay. King's Landing already felt like a tomb. Every stone, every corridor, every shadow held the ghost of Valarr. The sight of the pyre was burned into your mind, haunting you, tormenting you. You needed to go home to Dragonstone, where the memories were not of sickness and death but of passion and hope. You would raise your sons there, surrounded by the ghosts of dragons and the memory of their father.

Baelor did not try to stop you.