#queen!reader

You took a moment to greet a few of the most prominent members of your royal court - distinguished, accomplished women who took wealthy husbands with outrageous dowries - and raised their sons to perhaps catch a queen's eye.

One such young gentleman was presented to you now. Lord Cado nearly thrust her son toward you, causing Elshal's grip to find the hilt of her famed sword. A young man, just come of age, bowed deeply, shyly uttering, "Your Grace."

A few dances with the nobles would be expected of you, you supposed. Perhaps one or two wouldn't hurt. After all, you still needed an heir - a strong, vibrant daughter to inherit your queendom and rule over your people.

You had a husband once. A beautiful, adoring man who bred in you a tender son. But your boy died in infancy, followed by your husband, who was believed to be poisoned. His mysterious death kept Elshal as close as a shadow. Your heart had knit itself closed since that time. You poured your heart and soul into your people, your queendom, with only the occasional concubine brought to satisfy your urges.

Today, a new crop of potential concubines would be presented to you for inspection. Young orphans or lads from poor, common families would send their sons to train to serve and pleasure their queen. They were inspected for disease, bathed and perfumed and waxed. And only the most handsome and capable of young men would ever earn the pleasure of actually traveling to the palace, let alone be in the presence of the queen.

As lowborn sons of the realm, to have this chance, and to be chosen to be bedded by their queen would be the highest honor of their lives. They could never hope to marry a queen, nor any noble, or even provide you with an heir, but for a time, the beauty and majesty of their queen would shine on them, and their family would be rewarded and protected during their time with you.

After one dance with the young gentleman whatever-his-name, you felt eager to move this event along. You hadn't bedded a man for weeks. You could almost feel a pulsing ache between your legs, longing for a sculpted body sprawled underneath you, and a thick cock spearing you open.

"Bring me the tributes,” you ordered.

Everyone stopped, and the sea of aristocrats parted as ornate doors opened wide and a line of men marched into the ballroom in perfect time, as if trained by Elshal herself. Each wore a robe of deep ruby, plain except for its striking color. A hood covered each young man’s head. Their master guided them to where you had taken your seat, in an ornate throne-like chair, often used in the royal ballroom.

The leader wore a similar robe, but in royal blue with gold trim. He approached you, bowing deeply. “My Queen,” he said, “your tributes are ready for inspection.”

“Thank you,” you politely responded, noticing his salt and pepper beard. Now in his middle age, he must have risen about as high as a lowborn commoner or orphaned boy could possibly rise - preparing young tributes for his queen.

“Kneel,” he commanded the tributes. In perfect unison, they sank to their knees, heads bowed.

“Present,” he ordered. Again, in synchrony, they each removed their hoods, revealing their handsome faces.

“Reveal,” he finally told them. At that command, they opened their robes, allowing the heavy material to fall from their shoulders to pool around them on the floor.

The body of each tribute was a masterpiece: young, firm, oiled and perfumed, every hair in place. Skin smooth and hairy in the exact places you preferred, covered only by a simple loincloth. Several of the men stood on their knees clearly taller than others, as it was rumored that you preferred tall, square-jawed, broad-shouldered concubines.

“Your queen thanks you for presenting yourselves here today,” you told them, pacing back and forth in front of them. They didn’t dare look up until invited.

“Please allow me to know the pleasure of your names.” You approached the first man, fair skinned, with golden hair. He forgot to look up at you until his master cleared his throat, warning him not to waste the queen’s time.

“Your Grace,” he almost choked out. “I am Del.”

You tipped his chin up with your fingers, smiling at him graciously. “Hello, Del,” you said softly.

A smile, and especially a touch from their queen would sustain these men for the rest of their days, not to mention the monetary reward they would receive.

The next man had dark brown skin and piercing black eyes. He gazed up at you confidently, flashing a winning smile. “Your Grace, I am Uku.”

He beamed after earning a deeper smile from you than Del had, amusing you with his confidence.

Down the line you went, meeting young men of several different ethnicities, races and builds.

Near the end of the line, your eyes landed on of beautiful crown of chocolate curls. The smallest man in line, not necessarily in build, but in height, peered up with you with dark, unreadable eyes. His chiseled jaw clenched before he remembered himself. His tongue darted out to wet his lips before he finally spoke.

“Your Grace, I am Marc.” He could barely hold your gaze, throat bobbing in what could have been assumed was nervousness or shyness. But you read him right away. He felt ashamed. You wondered how this man ever made it past the master and into your royal ballroom. There was a distant coolness in his gaze, a defiant tension in his jaw and shoulders, and secrets behind the plush curve of his lips, you felt certain of it.

He was a beautiful man, with skin of sun-kissed bronze, but he did not hold himself quite like the others. He did not seem to be here simply to please you. And this intrigued you.

“It’s my pleasure to meet you, Marc.” You granted them the most gracious greeting of them all. He stared at you wide-eyed, forgetting to bow or thank you, even when his master cleared his throat. Your gaze lingered on his, curious as to if the was ill-trained or simply interesting.

You graciously and dutifully finished greeting the line of tributes, thanking them all once again. You made your way back down the line of men, pausing briefly at the few who would be chosen to follow you to a private room for further inspection.

Your guests would continue their party and dancing, and the remaining tributes would be allowed to join the party - a night of noble spectacle for one special night of their lives.

Uku, Marc and two others stood before you in privacy, loosening their loincloths and presenting their naked bodies to you.

You wet your lips, tempted to take the four of them to your room, but knowing, aside from a dalliance from time to time, that you enjoyed the adoration of one man at a time until you were done with him. Men were too messy and complicated for all that drama.

Perhaps you would send for Uku for a night of fun, but one look at Marc's cock and you nodded to his master. Typically, you would turn and leave the room, whispering to their master who to send to your bedchambers. You would bed your tribute, usually for weeks on end, before sending them back to their lives.

But this time, you did not speak to their master. You turned to leave the private chamber but stopped just before you exited. You extended your hand and called his name.

“Marc. Come with me.”

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Marc stared at you, swallowing thickly until his master hissed for him to obey.

Nodding quickly, he scurried to your side, bowing once again, eyes clouding with distrust at your outstretched hand. "My Queen?"

"You will refer to the queen as Your Grace," his master corrected.

"Thank you all for appearing here today. You are dismissed," you said conclusively.

The other three tributes attempted to hide their slight disappointment, dressing in their loincloths and robes and exiting silently behind their master.

Marc remained with you and with Elshal, stark naked, chest rising and falling in anticipation.

"Come," you smiled at him, taking his hand. Elshal flinched, uncomfortable with you so near a stranger, despite the vetting done in advance to even allow Marc into the palace.

Throat bobbing once more, he nodded, taking your hand and following you. As you led his naked body toward your chambers, you called back over your shoulder for Elshal to bring his robe.

She caught up to you quickly, allowing Marc to cover himself as you walked through the palace's private corridors.

"My Queen, I will have the tribute prepared for your bedchambers at once," Elshal offered, but you waved her off.

"I will speak with him first."

"But my queen -" the towering woman insisted, trailing off as you gave her a silencing glare.

"You will walk seven paces behind your Queen," Elshal instructed Marc, who was now fully robed.

"No, talk with me," you insisted, eliciting a familiar groan from the captain of your royal guard.

"Yes, my Queen," Marc dutifully responded, "I mean, Your Grace."

You smiled knowingly at him. "I am your queen. You are permitted to say as much."

"Forgive me," he said softer, eyes downcast as he matched your pace. "I am not accustomed to royalty."

"Most are not," you reasoned. "Were you not trained by your master for this exact moment?"

Marc's perfectly cut jaw clenched again. He took his time responding.

"Answer your Queen," Elshal directed.

"Captain, stand down," you told her, rolling your eyes. She was thorough, your captain, and, in some ways, possibly your truest friend and advisor. But a damn nuisance sometimes.

The exchange granted Marc the time to come up with an reply. "I was trained to serve my Queen in any way that she requires, for as long as she requires it."

"Ahhh, a rehearsed answer, if ever I did hear one," you teased, a playful glimmer in your eye. "You are surprised I chose you. Or perhaps you did not wish for me to choose you? You may speak freely. I am truly curious."

"I am deeply grateful, my Queen," Marc instantly responded. "That is the truth." His eyes met yours steadily. You saw no lie in them.

"Very well," you relented, pausing for a moment. "I'll have you shown to your rooms. Supper will be brought. You may rest before you're brought to me tonight."

"Thank you, my Queen." He bowed deeply.

As Marc was led away, Elshal gave you a look you'd come to know well - a disbelieving look. A challenging one, honestly.

"I know you think I should have chosen Uku," you told her, making your way back to your chambers, "but concubines like Uku are available to me at a moment's notice. Beautiful, confident, charming, with a magnificent body."

"Exactly," Elshal said dryly. "And well-trained by his master. Where as this one is...too familiar. I don't trust him. And his accent is foreign."

"Many of my subjects were not born on our shores," you reasoned. "Besides, I like him." You smiled to yourself. "He's very pretty."

"He's not as polished at the others. Could have been a latecomer," Elshal reasoned. "He could be an assassin or a spy -"

"For the love of the gods, Elshal," you groaned. "It is the master's duty to present appropriate tributes to his Queen. And it is your job to protect me. Do so."

"Yes, Your Grace," she dutifully responded, realizing the conversation was over.

With a sigh, you glanced back over your shoulder, while heading into your rooms. "I don't have to trust him. I just want to fuck him."

Elshal closed the doors and your ladies scurried to undress you and help you change into something more comfortable than your typical gown and armored attire.

"I want to take his virginity and make him a man," you went on. "I want to draw his secrets out of him through his pretty cock."

"Sounds complicated," Elshal boredly commented. Your dear friend found most matters between men and women rather dull.

"You're no fun at all, Captain," you said. "Please see that Marc is brought to me as soon as he is fed and rested."

She bowed. "Your Grace."

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You lay on your balcony under the stars in a silken robe and nothing more, reading one of your favorite stories in between moments of watching the stars glimmer in a veil of darkness.

Elshal stood guard, as always, but soon alerted you to the news that your concubine was ready for you.

"Leave us," you ordered everyone, including Elshal, who would wait right outside the door during your tryst.

As you stepped inside the bedchamber, you saw your concubine, seated on his knees on your bed, head bowed, dark curls falling across his face. His body had been oiled until it shone. Golden chains and precious stones draped around his shoulders like a cloak, but he was otherwise naked.

You licked your lips at the sight of him, so pretty and willing to please you for weeks on end.

Speaking his name softly, you commanded him to look at you, expecting uncertainty in his eyes. But he met your gaze unflinchingly, watching you carefully as you allowed your robe to drop to the floor.

"Have you truly never lay with another before?" You asked him, stopping just shy of the bed's end.

"No, my Queen, I am unspoiled," he softly answered. His cock twitched and stirred to life at the sight of your naked body. His bronzed chest rose and fell in anticipation. You chose well. His cock would stuff you full.

"We will spill your seed early then," you told him, climbing onto the bed to join him. He inhaled sharply as you neared him, shuddering as your fingers made first contact with his shoulder. You wordlessly removed his bejeweled cloak, allowing it to drop to the floor before surging forward to kiss him lustfully.

Read chapter 2

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The morning started like any other — warm, golden, and safe.

The smell of pancakes drifted through the Queen penthouse, syrupy and sweet. Dinah hummed under her breath as she fixed up your hair, sectioning it neatly before pinning it back with one of her gold clips. The sunlight caught on the edge of her ring, scattering little flares of light across the mirror.

“Hold still, princess,” she teased, soft smile tugging at her lips.

You scrunched your nose. “That’s Dad’s line.”

From the kitchen, Oliver’s voice boomed, “I heard that, sweetie!” followed by the sound of bacon sizzling and the distinct clatter of a pan being mishandled.

Roy leaned against the counter, chewing on a piece of toast. “You’re gonna burn it again, old man.”

“Watch your tone, junior archer,” Ollie fired back, pointing a spatula at him.

You giggled, catching Dinah’s amused reflection in the mirror. She leaned down, kissed the top of your head, and whispered, “Don’t ever let them tell you heroes can’t be idiots.”

By the time you were heading out for school, Ollie had wrapped you up in a bear hug, kissing your forehead twice — once for luck, once for love. “Knock ’em dead, princess,” he said.

“Language,” Dinah reminded, swatting him lightly.

Roy smirked. “Love ya, sis. Don’t get into detention again.”

“I won’t!” you called, grinning as you ran out the door, bag swinging behind you.

Everything felt normal. Perfect, even.

Until it wasn’t.

It starts small.

A vibration that never comes.

Your phone sits on your desk in first period, screen dark. No little banner with “Jase 💙”, no sarcastic meme, no “did you sleep or did you pretend” voice memo, not even the usual “text me when u get to school so I know u didn’t trip down a stairwell.”

Nothing.

He always texted in the mornings — always. Even if he’d only gone home an hour before dawn. Even if he was dead tired. Even if the world was burning.

You brush it off.

You tell yourself he’s probably sleeping in. Or Alfred is forcing him to eat something. Or Bruce finally let him drive the Batmobile and he’s too busy bragging about it in the Cave.

But then second period passes.

Then recess.

Then lunch.

Still nothing.

You stare at your phone in the cafeteria, thumb hovering over his name. You see the little pictures he took of you — smiling, mid-eye roll because he said something stupid — frozen in the contact photo.

He never goes this long without texting.

Not since that night on the rooftop, rain dripping from his hair, his forehead pressed to yours as if trying to memorise the shape of you.

He held you like goodbye was already creeping up behind him.

He kissed you like he was preparing to miss you.

He whispered, “Promise I’ll come back.”

So why wasn’t he answering?

Your friends chatter around you, laughing about something — you don’t hear it. A coldness spreads slowly across your ribs. Not panic. Not yet.

Just… wrongness.

A wrongness that crawls down your spine and settles in the pit of your stomach.

But Bruce didn’t call. Dick didn’t call. Alfred didn’t call.

And Dick isn’t even on Earth — he left last night for Tamaran. Jason hugged him goodbye. You hugged him goodbye. Everything felt normal.

So you shove the fear down. Deep. Deeper.

Because if you acknowledge it, even for a second, the dam might break.

When you got home that afternoon, the penthouse felt wrong. Too quiet. Too still.

You toed off your shoes, balancing your schoolbag on one arm. “Daddy? Mommy! I’m home!”

No answer.

You frowned, walking further into the living room — and froze.

Bruce Wayne was standing there.

He looked out of place — all dark suit and haunted eyes — with Oliver sitting across from him, elbows on his knees, face buried in his hands. Dinah was beside him, her eyes red, a tissue clenched in one shaking hand. Roy stood off to the side, pale and silent, his jaw tight.

You blinked, a smile starting instinctively. “Mr. Wayne?” you said softly. “What are you doing here? Where’s—”

You stopped when you saw Ollie’s face.

He looked up slowly, eyes glistening. You’d seen him furious, determined, protective. Never broken.

Your stomach twisted. “Where’s Jason?” you asked again, voice smaller this time. “Is he— is he with you?”

No one spoke.

Bruce’s throat worked, but no words came. Dinah made a choked sound, pressing her hand to her mouth as her tears spilled over.

“Daddy?” you whispered, taking a step forward. “Where’s Jase?”

Oliver stood. The sound of his chair scraping against the hardwood felt too loud. He opened his mouth once, twice — but the words wouldn’t come.

“Sweetheart,” he said finally, voice hoarse, his hands moved to cup your cheek, his heart flinching at the sight of fear blossoming in your eyes. “There was… there was an explosion. A warehouse in Ethiopia.”

The world tilted.

You blinked at him, your heartbeat crashing in your ears. “No.” You shook your head, taking another step back. “No, Daddy, that’s not funny. That’s not— he’s— Jason’s fine, he’s always fine.”

Ollie’s eyes closed. “Jason he-he didn’t make it, baby.”

You felt your knees buckle. Dinah moved first, catching you before you hit the floor, holding you tight against her chest.

“No, no, no—” You could barely breathe, sobs tearing through your throat as you clung to her. “That’s not fair! Mommy, that’s not fair! He promised— he promised he’d come back!”

Roy’s hand came down on your shoulder, his voice breaking. “Y/N…”

You shook him off, curling tighter against Dinah’s arms. “He promised!” you screamed, choking on the words, your vision blurring through the tears.

Ollie knelt beside you, his hand trembling as it brushed the hair from your face. He looked older than you’d ever seen him — like the grief had carved him hollow. “I know, princess,” he whispered, voice splintering. “I know. I’m so sorry.”

But sorry didn’t mean anything. Sorry didn’t bring Jason back. Sorry didn’t fix the hole in your chest.

Bruce stood frozen, his face unreadable, but his eyes — god, his eyes — looked like someone who’d lost his son all over again.

You could barely see him through your tears. “Why didn’t you stop him?” you cried. “Why didn’t you save him?”

He didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

And the silence that followed was the loudest thing you’d ever heard.

You buried your face against Dinah’s shoulder, her perfume mixing with the salt of your tears. Ollie’s arms wrapped around both of you, his hand rubbing slow circles on your back as he whispered, “I’ve got you, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

But all you could think about was the last time you saw Jason. The rooftop. The rain. His blue eyes.

“I’ll come back.” “Promise?” “Promise.”

You broke on a sob so deep it felt like it split you in half.

He didn’t keep it. He couldn’t keep it.

And the world would never feel right again.

It rained.

Because of course it did.

Bruce stood under a black umbrella, still and silent, looking more like a carved statue than a man. Dick leaned against Alfred for support, face blotchy from crying for hours. Barbara hovered close, wiping her tears with the heel of her hand between breaths that kept breaking.

The Queens stood together.

Dinah’s hand never left your back. Ollie hovered beside you, barely holding himself together. Roy stood on your opposite side, jaw clenched so tight it trembled.

You stepped up to the casket.

It wasn’t open. Bruce said it shouldn’t be.

Your fingers grazed the smooth wood, cold and wet from the rain.

Everyone else dissolved into the background—mourners, murmurs, umbrellas, the distant rumble of thunder.

Your world shrank to the coffin.

Your voice came out in a whisper, cracking like porcelain:

“You promised.”

Roy’s breath hitched beside you. Dinah pressed her forehead into your shoulder to hide her tears. Ollie wiped his face with the back of his hand, pretending it was rain.

Bruce didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t speak.

But his grief carved through the air like a ghost.

When the coffin lowered, a sound tore its way from your chest—raw, broken, feral. Roy pulled you into him, holding you so tight your ribs hurt.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, voice shattered. “I’ve got you, I swear.”

But he didn’t. Not really. Because the only person who ever made the world feel steady had just been swallowed by the earth.

It took weeks.

Whenever you were forced to visit the manor, you avoided his room like it burned you, walked past it with your breath held, stared at the doorknob like it was a bomb that might go off.

But one night, you cracked.

The door creaked open, dust dancing in the thin beam of hallway light.

His room remained untouched by Alfred.

His jacket was on the bed. His boots were still by the window. A half-read book lay facedown on the pillow. His pillow still smelled like him—leather, laundry detergent, something warm and indefinably Jason.

Your knees hit the floor.

You pressed your face into his jacket, breathing in everything that was left of him. Your hands shook as they slid over the worn fabric, the creases he’d made with his body still imprinted in the sleeves.

On his desk lay the sketches he never showed you.

Most were messily shaded. One was of you.

Not heroic. Not dramatic. Just you sitting on a fire escape, chin on your knees, smiling at him like he put stars in the sky.

Your vision blurred.

You whispered into the room:

“You promised.”

The Watchtower felt colder than it ever had.

Not physically — the climate control was always perfect — but in that creeping, marrow-deep way that made the air feel thinner, heavier, wrong. Like the silence had weight now.

The funeral had been yesterday. Dirt still under your nails. Jason’s name still raw on your tongue. The ache still sitting in your chest like a bruise the size of a planet.

And now you were here.

Because Oliver thought it was “important you didn’t isolate.” Because Dinah squeezed your shoulder and whispered, “You shouldn’t be alone, baby.” Because Bruce couldn’t say anything at all.

So you ended up in the Watchtower, standing in the long hallway outside the big meeting room where the League had locked themselves inside to discuss Jason’s death. The consequences. The mistakes. The fallout.

You hated it here.

Hated the white lights. Hated the reflection of your own swollen eyes in the polished metal. Hated the way everyone kept looking at you.

You were Arrowette — should’ve been proud to wear that name. Right now it felt like another stone dragging you underwater.

Wally, Roy, Donna, Raven, Garth, and a dozen others stood scattered in the hallway with you, all the sidekicks the League had benched pending “review.” Someone had called it a “temporary suspension.” Someone else had called it a “precautionary measure.”

Everyone knew what it really was.

Jason died, and now the grown-ups were panicking.

You and Roy were sat on the floor, his arm around you. He watched you like you were a candle flickering in the wind and he wasn’t sure if you’d go out or burn down the room.

“You doing okay?” he asked softly.

Your voice scraped coming out. “No.”

Roy nodded. “Yeah. Thought so.”

Wally approached next, hands shoved deep in his pockets, face pale in a way you’d never seen. “If you need anything — like literally anything — just… I’m here, okay? You don’t have to talk. You don’t have to smile. Just… stand there. And I’ll stand here. With you.”

His words cracked near the end, and he swallowed.

Everyone was quieter than usual.

Donna stood with her arms crossed tight, jaw clenched. Garth kept glancing at the meeting room doors like he wanted to burst in and yell at someone. Raven had her hood low, her eyes shadowed.

You didn’t realize you were trembling until a gloved hand brushed yours.

Dick.

His whole face was carved out of grief, older than he’d ever looked, older than he should ever have to be. He didn’t speak. He just wrapped his arms around you, tight, grounding, and held you like he was holding himself together too.

You didn’t cry — you had nothing left — but the moment your face pressed against his suit, a tiny broken sound escaped your throat.

Raven sucked in a breath.

You felt her before you heard her — grief echoing from her like a tidal wave she couldn’t block in time. Because she didn’t just sense it.

She tasted it.

“God,” she whispered, barely audible. “It’s drowning her.”

You knew she was talking about you, and you didn’t argue.

Because she was right.

Losing someone you love feels like losing a tooth, then running your tongue over where your tooth used to be and feeling this emptiness and pain.

And Jason… Jason wasn’t a tooth. He was half your heart.

The meeting room doors were thick, sealed, silent — but you could imagine the voices inside.

Bruce, low but breaking. Diana, steady but mourning. Clark, trying to make sense of something senseless. Hal swearing under his breath. Barry wiping his eyes when he thought no one was looking.

And every single one of them trying to answer the same impossible question:

How did a kid — their kid — die on their watch?

The silence in the hallway stretched and stretched until it felt like it was going to snap.

Wally shifted his weight. “They’ve been in there for an hour.”

Roy scowled. “Talking about us like we’re liabilities.”

“They’re scared,” Donna said, voice tight. “Scared of losing another one.”

Your nails dug into your palms. “Just say it.”

Donna hesitated.

So Raven did.

“They think Jason died because he was Robin.”

Your throat closed.

“And they’re afraid,” Raven continued quietly, “that if they don’t change something… you’ll be next.”

A shaky breath escaped you — half-sob, half-laugh, the kind that had no humor in it at all.

Roy stepped closer instinctively. Dick tightened his arm around your shoulders.

No one knew what to say after that.

The doors finally slid open with a soft mechanical hiss.

Every head in the hallway snapped toward them.

The Justice League filed out slowly, faces drawn, eyes tired. You could tell who had cried, who had argued, who had broken first. Bruce walked out last, his cape trailing behind him like a shadow that had gotten heavier.

His eyes found yours immediately.

Something in your chest twisted so sharply you almost doubled over.

He approached you with the slow, careful steps of a man walking toward wreckage — and knowing he caused some of it.

“Y/N,” he said quietly.

You swallowed. “Are you… are you pulling us off duty?”

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. “Yes.”

The word hit you like cold water.

The air felt too thin again. The Watchtower too bright. The pitying stares too sharp.

Wally let out a soft, resigned sigh. Donna bowed her head. Roy muttered a curse under his breath.

Dick’s arm pressed firmer around you, as if he expected you to crumble.

You didn’t.

But you felt the crack run through you anyway.

You didn’t move.

You didn’t breathe.

You just stood there in the center of the Watchtower hallway, surrounded by heroes and legends, with grief clawing at your ribs and the ghost of Jason Todd pressing like a bruise against your soul.

And every single person in that hallway — League, sidekick, friend — knew the same terrible truth:

Nothing about this was ever going to be the same again.

a/n: guys i actuals cant write angst im so cheeks at it.

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She could, and most likely would, get pregnant.  It was imperative that she did, at some point, to carry on the royal blood line.  But with her husband’s penchant for men, getting him to do anything like that with her was impossible.  At first it hurt her feelings, but over time she came to accept it and realize that it wasn’t necessarily his fault.  He simply could not love her or see her in a lustful way.  He seemed to care about her as a friend and as his Queen, and they enjoyed each other’s company on nights like tonight where they were hosting and they would gab and gossip while holding onto each other’s hands or arms as a display of affection.  But other than that there was just no way that it was going to work with him.

And that’s when her eye wandered to the jester, James Barnes, who went by Bucky.  It was his job to entertain the court, but he was also trusted just as much as the royal advisors for advice and commentary, as well as for diffusing tense situations when visiting royals or nobles ever were brave enough to try and argue with Y/N or the Prince.  Pietro loved him, and had tried to get with him before, but Bucky wasn’t interested in men.  Thankfully the Prince was understanding enough.  

Tonight as Bucky sang, danced and made jokes at the expense of the nobles they were hosting, Y/N couldn’t stop staring at the way the fire and candlelight flickered in his bright blue eyes accentuated by the black painted diamond shapes around them.  He never made jokes at her expense, only praised her beauty and her character through song and poems.  He would do very cloaked jokes about the Prince, but never her.  He would flirt, wink, even make kissing faces at her, but only ever touched her hand to bring it up to his lips to kiss her fingers or rub her knuckles with his thumb before prancing off.  On the nights where they weren’t hosting she would talk to him about what was going on in the kingdom, and always enjoyed his viewpoint on issues they faced.  As much as she lusted after him, she also cared for him deeply as a friend and confidante.  And she hoped that he felt the same, but he never gave any indication of anything more than what his job required, other than the occasional flirting and praise.

The night finally wore down and she decided it was time to retire.  She announced her departure and was escorted out by her guards and ladies in waiting.  Once they had gotten her ready for bed she dismissed them all and sat on her bed, reading a book by the candlelight.  She and the Prince no longer shared a room, but she was sure she would hear the telltale sound of moans and claps in the next hour or two coming from down the hall.  She kept reading for a while until she must have drifted off to sleep, because she was awoken by knocking on the door.

Y/N quickly righted herself and yawned as she stood and wrapped her robe around her tightly while walking to the door.  Three more knocks came as she approached and she sighed.  “I’m coming,” she called out, her voice sounding hoarse as she unlocked the door and pulled it open.  She gasped lightly when she saw it was Bucky, then she frowned when she registered that his black makeup was smudged and his jester outfit looked ripped on one shoulder.  “Bucky?  What–”

“Your Majesty,” he greeted her, giving her a quick head bow before glancing down the hall with a tense expression.  His voice was breathy and shaky, and she worried about his anxious appearance.  “I’m sorry it took me so long, I was…interrupted,” he said as he looked back at her.

The meaningful look he gave her silently screamed, ‘Help me!’, so she quickly nodded and held the door open wider as she stepped aside.  “It’s alright, come in,” she said.

He gave her a grateful expression and walked in.  She shut the door behind him fast and locked it again, unsure of what he was afraid of but unwilling to find out.  It was strange, having him in her room, and her heart fluttered in anticipation and trepidation for what it meant.  There would definitely be rumors in the morning amongst the staff, no doubt, but she couldn’t worry about that right now as Bucky stood in the middle of her room, looking around like a caged bird.  He turned back to face her and his lips trembled, a few tears falling down his cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, his arms holding himself.  “I didn’t mean to be improper or…to involve you or worry you—”

“What’s wrong, Buck?” she asked, walking closer to him until she was almost toe-to-toe with him.  She reached a hand up and wiped away the errant tears.  “What happened?”

He bit his lower lip and shut his eyes, taking a deep breath through his nose.  “His Majesty retired for the night and I was entertaining the rest of the guests when…Lord P-Pierce approached me and started asking me questions.  He was making a-a-advances and his m-men tried to…to hold me—”

Y/N’s frown deepened so much her forehead hurt.  Her other hand touched the ripped sleeve of his outfit, exposing his shoulder to her sight.  She wasn’t sure what took over her but she wrapped her hand around the back of his neck and pulled him down into a hug.  Bucky froze for a split second, then melted into her embrace and shuddered as he cried into her shoulder.  She carefully had him move backwards until they reached her bed and had him sit on it, making it easier for her to hug him and hold his head against her chest as he sobbed quietly.

“I’m so sorry, Bucky,” she said quietly, pulling his hood off and running her fingers through his hair.  “I’ll dismiss him from court first thing tomorrow.  That wasn’t acceptable, and I will not tolerate anyone trying to hurt or make unwanted advances at my staff.”

Bucky cried harder, shaking his head against her chest.  “I-I don’t want to make problems—”

“You’re not,” she reassured him, one hand still in his hair and the other rubbing his upper back as he held her tight.  “Pierce is a bully and a scoundrel, and I will not accept such conduct from the nobles in my home.”

She let him cry for a while until she could feel his breathing even out and the tears wetting her skin and her nightgown lessened.  He sniffled sadly and she pulled away, cupping his face in her hands as she looked at him.  He looked almost dastardly with how messed up the paint around his eyes was, smudged and running down his face, and her nightgown and robe was a blackened mess around her chest, but she didn’t care.  He looked up at her, his eyes red and swollen but he looked much calmer than before.  

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” he whispered, clearing his throat with how raspy he sounded.  “I can return to my room, I just…I needed an escape.”

“I understand,” Y/N said, wiping away his tears with her thumbs.  “You can stay here tonight if you’d like.”

“Oh no,” Bucky said, quickly shaking his head.  “I don’t want to intrude or cause scandal.”

“You aren’t.  I’m inviting you.  And this castle is already full of scandal,” Y/N said firmly.  “Now, how about you go wash up, and I’ll call on the staff to bring you some night clothes, alright?”

He stared at her in surprise for a moment, then hugged her again and nodded.  “Thank you,” he breathed.  A minute later he got up and walked to her wash room as she went to the door, opened it, called on a guard to fetch the maids and then got to work making the room ready for him.  She quickly changed out of her dirtied nightgown and robe into new ones, and the maids ran to grab him some clothes for the night and the next day.  When they returned she had them give him the clothes and then take the jester costume away for cleaning and repair as well as her dirtied ones.  The maids looked suspicious of why he was in the room with her, but didn’t say anything as they gathered everything and promptly left.

As she locked the door again Bucky walked out of the adjoining wash room, his face clean of paint and tears and changed into a long sleeping tunic and short sleep trousers.  She smiled at him and walked to the bed, climbing in and getting herself comfortable before meeting his gaze again.  He looked wary.  “Come now,” she said, gesturing to the spot next to her.  “Get some rest.” 

Bucky still looked unsure, so she gave him another warm smile then turned away, snuggling into the blankets.  She waited on baited breath to see if he would actually join her, and after a silent moment she heard him sigh and his footsteps against the stone floor come towards her.  The blankets lifted and he climbed in next to her, getting comfortable on the other side.  Y/N didn’t move or say anything, letting him take his time.  He let out another small puff of air and cleared his throat.

“Your Majesty,” he whispered.  Y/N slowly turned back over to look at him.  It gave her a naughty thrill to see him lying in her bed, but she shoved it down.  He stared at her then swallowed harshly.  “I know that you and the Prince aren’t…well, that he prefers men.  Do you… are you wanting me to…”

Y/N quickly shook her head as he blushed.  “No,” she said quietly, reaching a hand out to hold his hand closest to her.  “I’m not expecting that of you.  I cannot say I wouldn’t mind it, but that’s not why I asked you to stay.”

His blush deepened and he bit back a wide smile, making her huff a laugh.  “I can’t say I wouldn’t mind it either,” he said, barely able to keep eye contact with her.

That made her blush and her heart race.  She wanted him, and he wanted her.  But now was not the time.  She squeezed his hand.  “Could I ask you to be close to me?  It gets quite…lonely.”  She didn’t want to confess all her complicated feelings about her predicament in her marriage, but Bucky seemed to understand and nodded.

“Of course,” he said, then scooted closer to her.  He released his hand from her grip and pressed his front against her back, winding his left arm around her waist and his right arm above her pillow like he was cocooning her.  Y/N smiled and blew out the candle on the bedside table before snuggling back against him, her arms holding his arm across her middle.  Just having the warm body next to her was like a relief, and she let out a shaky breath at having someone hold her close like she had been craving for so long, especially that someone being the man she had been pining after.  Bucky let out a hum as he cuddled with her, his nose in her hair as he breathed deeply.  “Goodnight, my Queen,” he whispered.

Despite you being nine moons gone with a child, your husband, the king, had very little issue leaving with an entourage of his most favored cronies on a hunting trip in the Kingswood. You didn't even protest when he announced the trip to you. You simply went back to your reading. A few months earlier, you would have raged at his callousness, but you are too tired now. You didn't know if it was from the pregnancy or maybe you were finally numb to Robert's poor treatment.

You simply told him to behave sensibly and turned back to your reading. When he set out a day later, you watched him leave from the balcony of your chambers. Many ladies gathered in the courtyard to send off their husbands in the king's hunting entourage. You made the excuse of being much too heavy with the child to make it in a timely manner.

You watched the group of men atop their horses ride away, your husband at the head.

"Your Grace, I'm sure everything will be alright," one of your ladies' maids said.

She means to be comforting, but her words fill you with bitter contempt.

"I am not the only woman with a thoughtless boar for a husband, and I won't be the last," you say, watching the riding party disappear outside the Red Keep's walls.

The maid said nothing and began gathering the soiled sheets from your bed; they were tainted by sweat and Robert's seed. Your coupling the prior night had been angry, tinged with a foreign tenderness that Robert had only developed when your pregnancy had started to show.

You figured Robert's surrogate father and Hand, Jon Arryn, would keep you company. This was both a good and a bad thing, in your opinion. You were fond of the man himself, but not of his wife, Lysa Tully. It was a struggle to get along with the woman despite trying to be kind to her.

You tried to tell yourself that this was just like any other time. Robert was away and left you by yourself for days on end. But you knew deep down that you would give birth alone. The King had barely been gone a day when your labors began.

You spent nearly a full day in the birthing bed, writhing with agony, without a word from the hunting party or Robert. You cried nearly the entire time. You cried for home, for your mother, for your father, and mostly for your first love, Alyn, who had died fighting during Robert's Rebellion. Then, at dusk on the third day of his absence, your child was born.

"It's a boy, Your Grace," Grand Maester Pycelle said, holding the newborn child aloft after he had slipped free from the birth canal.

The squalling infant is quickly cleaned by some septas before being swaddled and brought back to you.

The boy is small and red-faced, and he entered the world howling furiously. He only stops wailing when he is put on your chest. You find yourself smiling when you gently cradle his small head of damp black curls as his Baratheon blue eyes stare up at you. Look at your little boy and feel that spark of happiness in your chest that you hadn't felt since you received news of Alyn's death.

"His name shall be Alaric," you tell the Maester without looking away from your baby.

You knew Robert wanted to name his first son, Stefan, after his father, and he would most likely throw a fit because of it. But he forfeited his vote in the matter when he decided to run around the Kingswood rather than be there for the birth of his heir.

_____________

A day after you gave birth, the hunting party arrived back at the Red Keep. Robert found that you had not come to greet him, just as you could not be bothered by seeing him off either.

He stormed into the castle, rather annoyed at this perceived abandonment. He entered your chambers without bothering to knock and found you sleeping in bed.

Right as Robert is going to start yelling, you turn in your sleep, and it becomes obvious to him that you are no longer with the child. A pang of fear echoes through him until he hears a soft coo and finds a child beside your bed in a cradle. The baby had a head of black curls and blue eyes and was rather large. The child had wiggled out of his swaddle while you slept soundly and was waving his small fists about.

"Hello," Robert says. He's utterly captivated by the little life that he played a part in creating.

He reaches a large hand out to the child and softly pets the head of black curls. The child gurgles contently at the touch of its father.

"His name is Alaric," you said, breaking the king's trance.

"I should have been here," Robert says.

The man had the decency to look ashamed of himself. You nearly tell him it's okay, but you know it's far from okay for a father to miss the birth of his first trueborn child.

"Moving forward, things will need to change," you reply and sit up.

Robert finally looks you in the eye. He seems hesitant about your remark.

"I cannot live a life where my husband and I are constantly at each other's throats. I don't want our son to be raised by parents who can't stand each other," you say.

You look at your son in his cradle and can't help but smile at him.

"What are we to do about it?" Robert asks, still skeptical.

"We shall dine together three times a week, and I would like to share our chambers. In the North, it is custom that a husband and wife share bedchambers, and I believe it will bring us closer," you said.

Robert looks at your face; your eyes are shining with optimism. You truly were willing to learn how to love him. Why couldn't he grant you this one thing?

"Okay," he said.

You're silent for a moment, somewhat shocked that Robert didn't try to put up any sort of fight. Not knowing what else to say, you nod quickly.

You change the subject smoothly: "Would you like to hold your son?"

With that Liam is no longer a part of your life. Your new guard is just fine and your husband isn't horrible but you strictly speak business. You live your separate lives and only are together for the sake of appearance and creating an heir. He's often gone on diplomatic work or to fight in a battle on occasion. When the war breaks out about five years into the marriage a war breaks out. Your husband is on the front lines when he dies, the crown falls to you.

There is undeniable scrutiny from the court to create an heir, a legitimate one at that. You decide to remarry, still only Liam on your mind. As part of the fight for your hand, suitors had to duel your current guard. It was the belief of the court that if the suitor could defeat your guard he was worthy of the seat beside you. If anything it was boring and all you could do was imagine and remember the way Liam once fought.

You remember watching him, all the time. You missed him, deeply. You always went to bed wondering what he was up to. Exploring, or worse dead. On one particular day you couldn't even be bothered to act interested as yet another suitor stepped into the throne room.

He bowed deeply, not even speaking before your guard stepped forward. The only difference this time was he was actually quite even. All the times before your guard won quickly. And then it happened...a movement you recognized. You quickly stood. That was...

"Liam?" You whispered.

"Hello, Princess." The suitor stepped back, lowering his blade and pulling the helmet from his face.

You would know that smile anywhere.

––––

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