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𝒎𝒆𝒏 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒔𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒔 𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒍 — ⋆

༓ 𝒓𝒆𝒐 𝒎𝒊𝒌𝒂𝒈𝒆

↬ f!reader, heavily inspired by game of thrones, graphic depictions of violence, reader experiences sexual harassment by a family member, mentions of familicide, blood, reader has some kind of personality disorder (undisclosed - extreme detachment stemming from trauma), extreme sibling on sibling violence, reader plots for an underage side character to experience sexual assault, alcohol, mentions of dubious consent in past underage activities, reader is older than reo, reo goes from endearingly intense to unhinged obsession, unreliable narrator, minor blood kink, msub, oral - reader receiving, dick squeezing, (12.5k wc)

your father is plotting a war, your brother is rotten, and someone from your past appears after eight years. the last time you saw reo, he was an audacious teenager ready to put his life on the line get you out of an engagement. after the death of his parents, he is now the head of house mikage, lord of umbrahaven across the sea in the greater ego empire. his arrival at your family's castle clearly comes with a scheme, but you have your own to take care of.

18+ MDNI

The only stupid thing about you is the belief that one day, your father will recognize your capability and name you as the family's heir over your younger brother. Still, you attend these councils at his side, even with the men complaining there should be no seat at the table for a woman—All whilst your brother is off drinking with the whores at the brothel and succumbing to the delusions of the incense they burn in their silken chambers.

“Word is: the great houses of the West have all been afflicted with a horrible illness along with their armies. The symptoms sound like the withering, though faster to completely consume,” says the marshal, a hairy man with a weathered face and a crooked nose.

“I should send my condolences,” your father says and sips his wine.

News could be delivered that an entire village had been raided and murdered, and still, your father would remain unmoved. It is only information.

“The crops in the South have all been eaten to the root by a swarm. Famine is looming. The trade routes will run dry in a matter of months. We should send out more hunters and gatherers,” the elderly steward says as he stares down his notes through thick, ice-like lenses. “It is not just the fields—the stables and pastures in the North are suffering from a flesh-rotting disease. This means no meat, no wool for the winter, and no cavalry.”

“Any word from the Crown on these matters?” Your father asks.

“It would be safe to assume that they are aware, but no aid has been sent as far as I have gathered. Anyone?” The steward says and squints around the table.

Some of the lords and heirs to the other houses in the Windlands are in attendance—all shake their heads or stay silent. They stare at your father. Only a fool would not have an inkling of the subject turning in his head right now.

“How are our finances?” He asks.

“Well enough for now, although we did just commit to repairing the church. Depending on how fast and how high food prices rise, we could be in for a dire winter as well,” the ledgerkeeper responds with his pointed nose far too close to his papers.

Your father simply nods.

The meeting continues with news of births in the other noble families (boys only, of course) and deaths, debate if the Crown still plans on hosting a tourney, when the next great hunt will take place, gossip from overseas, and updates on land disputes. It is all folly compared to the bigger idea your father is scheming. Still, you commit all of it to memory. Nothing is too small in what is about to come.

Your father dismisses the council and remains seated at the head of the table. The heavy wooden doors close behind the men with an echoing thud, and you leave your seat to search amongst the shelves.

“What are you doing, girl?”

You ignore his question, as you are hardly a girl, and come back to the table with a box and a large scroll. In the box are metal figures and stones that you use to keep the paper flat once you unfurl it. It is a map of the Collective Kingdom—a little dated since the overseas coasts are charted without any stronghold names, but accurate nonetheless. You know of a few, just enough to orient where some potential allies are located.

“Food is the most important part in war,” you say as you place pieces on the map at every major stronghold.

“Who said anything about war?” Your father says.

The matter is, you know he is too smart to think that you are stupid. He is, however, arrogant enough to believe he is too smart for you to read.

“The South will always prioritize supplying the Crown, even if we offer higher prices—not to mention they would see it as a threat. The Crown will likely prioritize aiding the South, seeing that the King hails from Navalport,” you muse as you stare at the pieces on the map.

“I allow you to sit on the council in your brother’s stead, but you do not get to speak in place of him,” your father grumbles and observes the map along with you.

You speak for yourself, but it is useless to say so.

“We should send aid to the North. We are closer and would get there faster even if the Crown decides to send some. We could send more and establish the grounds for allyship. They will have no riders, so the risk is low. Not to mention, the Noas are itching to declare Northern independence again,” you say and tap your finger on the castle figure near the top of the map.

“As for the Westernlands, we should let the disease ride out and bar any comings and goings from that direction. New lords will inherit and be appointed, young boys or bastards not groomed for leadership. Easy enough for us to gain favor.”

“I should send you off to marry one of them,” your father says. As much as the idea displeases you, it would not be a bad one if it were the right family with a large enough army—House Isagi is rising in numbers due to a large unification of smaller houses under their banner.

“We do not want to raise suspicions before the Harvest Tourney,” you say, though you believe it would be in bad taste for the Crown to hold a Harvest Tourney if there is not going to be a harvest. However, to keep the people nonethewiser, the Crown will do what they can for the sake of appearances.

“Whatever grain gets sent to our mills, we should refrain from distributing until we can use it as leverage,” you say and tap the blade of the windmill miniature on the map. The Windlands are the Kingdom’s source of grain processing. Sizeable farms are found throughout the region, but most grain comes in from the South.

“Which means we need to build more storehouses,” your father says with just a hint of a sigh. “We cannot divert the church funds—I will not have the people revolting.”

You stay quiet as your father assumes his thinking posture. Your aunts and uncles are dead after the family's previous stronghold of Insward was raided during an invasion. Your father was just a boy, his life spared by being the one sent to the Crown to beg for aid as the surrounding towns got pillaged, only to receive none in favor of protecting Crownskeep. Although your father was awarded lordship of Stonehall Hill here in the Windlands as consolation, he has long been bitter.

“Damn,” he curses. “We need more money.”

♔

It is nearly time for supper when you leave the council room. While it would be amenable for the region to have its own source of wealth and to build on it, the quickest way to wealth is marriage. You are useless in that department. As a woman, a man married off to you would not be guaranteed much power for his family. Your brother, on the other hand, would be heir to the throne and his children would be heirs as well—that is to say, if the war is successful, if there is to be a war at all.

You spent hours compiling lists and profiles of all of the great houses and their eligible daughters and sisters. Your brother will not like it (you, even less), but the best prospect is 13-year-old Ilysa Euldon of Goldwell. As the name of their castle suggests, the Euldons own one of the Kingdom's largest gold mines. It would take much convincing, or a situation in which they could not refuse.

“And where have you been all day that you forget to greet your dear brother?”

He is waiting in the hallway, leaning against the stone and lurking where torchlight merely brushes the outline of his coat.

“It has been 3 days since you last graced these halls with your presence. Send a raven next time, and perhaps we can arrange for your grand return,” you say and walk past him.

However, he pushes and holds you against the wall. He is eight years younger than you, but he still has all the strength of a man. The flame of the torch reveals the redness of his eyes and the heavy bags underneath them.

“You reek,” you sneer and turn your face away from him. His breath is foul, like dead flesh left out in the sun.

“What? This is exactly what you can expect if you ever marry,” he chuckles. “A pitiful man married to a bitch like you will spend his days with his cock buried in whores. He will have to drink himself into oblivion just to bed you.”

“You should write a story about it,” you say.

His face contorts, and he raises his hand, slapping your breast with force.

“So clever-”

But he does not get his laugh in as you bring your knee up into his groin. Despite the layers of clothing, you can feel whatever soft flesh smashing between your kneecap and his pelvic bone. He collapses onto the stone floor with a gasp, then vomits multiple times until all he can do is heave and convulse with his cheek to the ground.

“Mother…” He whimpers.

He has no right to speak of your mother. He would have no memories of her or of the sister, even older than you, who passed in a riding incident.

You lift your skirts and step around him to get on your way to the dining hall. The servants will find him and assume he passed out from imbibing too much again. He will not remember what happened, but you wish he would.

♔

Weeks go by. Your brother brags to his friends about how he indulged so much at the brothel that his cock turned black and blue. Stonehall Hill is entertaining several families, most notably the Euldons of Goldwell and the young Lady Ilysa Euldon. It seems as though your father is listening to you at least.

“My lord, another guest has arrived,” one of the pages announces at breakfast.

You look at your father. You are the lady of the house and should know of all guests invited to make arrangements, but you had not been informed of whoever this may be. Your father glares at you—this was clearly an oversight on your part.

“He is here!” Your brother shouts and limps towards the gates, still sore from his ‘indulgence at the whorehouse.’

Of course.

You quickly get up and follow your brother. It is important to give all guests a proper greeting, even if it is more than likely some low-ranked son of a merchant with whom your brother drinks. You grab a maidservant along the way and tell her to notify the head servant to prepare a room.

Once you make it to the outer court, your heart stops when you see the carriage and the crest held by the bannermen—one you have not seen in years: The Mikage family of Umbrahaven across the Artus Sea.

Lord Reo Mikage is only a couple of years older than your brother, but already the head of his house. The last time he was in the Kingdom was right before his parents were murdered by bandits. Inheriting his father's title has no doubt made him a busy man—it is said the Mikage family sits on a hoard of jewels like a dragon.

While you have not seen Reo since you were a teenager, your brother had spent over a year at Umbrahaven in the Greater Ego Empire four summers ago. He had left as an arrogant youth on the cusp of manhood and returned as the insufferable drunken rake he is today. Thus, you have held a distaste for Reo and whatever he did to expose your brother to such a lifestyle, despite initially pitying him for losing both his parents.

A handsome young knight with hair so fair it shines white dismounts his horse and slowly walks over to the carriage. He yawns before opening the door and announces Lord Reo Mikage without much enthusiasm.

You are stunned when purple hair emerges from the carriage. Your brother had mentioned the wealthy men overseas pigment their hair and beards colorfully as a status symbol, though you could never quite imagine it. As jarring as it is, Reo makes it look natural with his friendly face and noble features. His eyes are as round as you remember, though his cheeks and jaw are much sharper. Still, you mostly see the little boy who used to accompany his mother when she would visit your mother’s grave here at Stonehall Hill.

“Mikage! You rotten bastard!”

Your brother runs over to greet Reo, but is stopped by the white-haired knight, drawing his sword. You freeze. As much as you believe your brother is a curse, you are not keen on seeing his throat slit in the daylight.

“Relax, Ser Seishiro. It is simply how friends speak here in the Kingdom,” Reo says with an easeful smile.

“He called you a bastard,” Ser Seishiro says without any expression, yet there is something intense about his eyes.

“And it would not matter if I were,” Reo chuckles, and Ser Seishiro sheathes his sword.

He walks over to your brother and pulls him in for a hug, who laughs as though he was not just threatened.

“Good to see you. Quite the dog you have there,” your brother says and nods towards Ser Seishiro.

“Would you believe he never even held a sword until last spring? I have quite an eye for such talent. Your sister was rather adept with our wooden toy swords back in the day. I can still feel all the spots where she gave me a proper whack,” Reo says and rubs his upper arm, then glances at you with a playful smile.

“Only because she was much taller than we were at the time. I could demonstrate how easy it would be to knock her down now,” your brother says as he moves closer to you and bumps your shoulder hard enough for you to stumble to the side.

“Whoa there,” Reo says and jumps to reach out a hand to steady you from the other side. There is something wild in his eyes, similar to that of his knight.

“Apologies for the sibling antics,” you say as you adjust your footing. “It has been a long time, Lord Mikage. Welcome back to Stonehall Hill.”

The intense look in his eyes fades into something soft and childlike. He sighs, and a small smile pulls at his lips. He truly has grown into quite a handsome man. You wonder if the princes of the Crown are even half as charming.

“Is something wrong, my lord?” You ask after his prolonged silence of looking you in the eye.

“Forgive me,” he chuckles. “It is simply refreshing to hear the words ‘welcome back.’ I have missed my mother's homeland.”

You smile at his sincerity. Perhaps Reo has grown since the days of playing host to your brother and sowing the seeds of his degenerate ways.

“Well, our family has missed yours as well. Father will certainly be pleased with your arrival, but do forgive our poor hospitality. I was only just aware of your visit. The servants are preparing a room for you as we speak, though it is hardly our finest,” you say, quickly reminding yourself of your role.

Reo leans in close to your ear.

“Will you not offer me your own, my lady?” He suggests.

Never the mind. He is rotten.

♔

The chambers' situation is hardly a matter, seeing that Lord Mikage, your brother, and his entourage of lowly heirs and wannabe knights have been out at the tavern inns every night for the past week.

You are tasked with entertaining the visiting ladies, leading sewing circles, and conducting prayer readings. It is dull work, especially in the presence of hen talk. True gossip would be worth putting on an act of interest for, but it seems the only topic worth their discussion is Lord Mikage and Ser Seishiro. And so you are forced to listen to maidens’ delusions of true love and honorable men, whilst the maids make resentful comments about their husbands’ appearances and hygiene.

They ask you everything you know about Reo, though he was only thirteen when you last saw him nearly a decade ago. Your first memory of him is when he was still being toted around by his mother while visiting your mother and your older sister’s graves in the family crypt. You hated babies at the time, seeing that your mother died bringing your brother into the world, and your sister died only weeks later from falling off a horse, likely exhausted and delirious from being kept up by your brother's inexhaustible, purple-faced wailing. You are still not so fond of little ones, but at least you no longer have fantasies of throwing them from tower windows.

The Mikages did not visit for another four years after that. Reo was seven, and you were thirteen. Your brother, barely five, was enamoured with him, though young Reo believed himself to be above hanging around toddlers and opted to follow you around wherever you went. You would not have minded too much; however, he was never satisfied just listening to you read and would crawl into your lap and press his cheek against yours to look at the words in the book. Later on, you would smack him with the flat side of a toy sword on that very cheek, and your father would scold you.

Lady Mikage and her son would visit Stonehall Hill every two years after. Reo was fairly well-mannered and well-spoken around the adults, but he never stopped being a child around you and your brother. By the time he was eleven and your brother was nine, he finally started favoring roughhousing in the training yard with your brother over sticking his nose in whatever business you were up to. You were fully immersed in your duties as lady of the house, though occasionally you could be goaded into taking a break to explore the woods with them. Despite being so young and occasionally petulant, Reo would always insist you take his arm while you walked.

The last time the Mikages visited was just before the former lord and lady were murdered. Reo was thirteen, and you were nineteen when he learned that you were engaged to Lord Waymare of Rhaeadrfort in the North—a political arrangement, though not unpleasant. The two times you had met Lord Waymare, he was stony-faced as Northmen tend to be, but not unkind or dull. You had looked forward to the marriage solely to get away from raising your cursed brother.

You are not sure where it came from or what caused it, but young Reo had become enraged, eyes flickering with violet flames at the news. He declared he was to ride North and challenge Lord Waymare to a duel, not listening to any reasonings of your intended being twice his age and a seasoned warrior against invading Boreans from beyond the ice. Lady Mikage tearfully ordered her accompanying knights to restrain her son from humiliating himself, or worse, getting himself killed. The situation was bewildering, and for weeks, you were teased and accused of seducing a boy.

Fortune favored Reo’s pride in the following month. Not only did Lord Waymare succumb to his wounds in another Borean invasion, but nobody dared to make any mocking remarks regarding the newly appointed Lord Mikage and his display of childish hauteur once the news of the death of his parents reached this side of the sea.

You wrote to him expressing your condolences. Your mothers grew up together, and the stories Lady Mikage would share with you were the only remnants you could collect of your mother, seeing that your father was not one to reminisce. You also knew what it was like to lose family at a young age, just like Reo, though even with such experience, you found it difficult to find the right words to write.

You are not sure of what exactly you put in the letter, but you do remember saying at the end that you hoped he would come back to the Kingdom and Stonehall Hill. He never wrote back, and you assumed that would be the last contact between your families, until four years later when he sent a letter inviting your brother to culture himself in the ways of the Empire.

It is strange remembering all of this regarding Reo. You spent much of your adolescence wishing he were your younger brother instead of your real one. Now he is just a person with the same name as a kid you once considered to be more family-like than your distant cousins.

“I do hope he stays a while,” one of the young maidens says with distasteful dreaminess in her voice.

But you hope he will be gone in a couple weeks' time. Your family has a war to plan, and as close as the Mikages might have been to Stonehall Hill in the past, Reo is not part of the family.

♔

It takes one of your father's men riding into town and announcing a banquet to lure your brother and the rest of the young men back to the castle. The dining hall is full of drunken, boisterous voices of all of the lords and ladies of the Windland houses layered over tabor beats and melodies from the cittern. Roasted meats and vegetables seasoned with spices from the Empire waft through the air, overpowering the usual stench of sweaty bodies and dust.

You wander down the rows of tables of guests, exchanging pleasantries as a decent lady should. Your maids have dressed you in one of your finer dresses, though it is ridiculous to wear such a thing. You are of spinster age after all and have no business trying to catch anyone’s eye. Some of the older lords grab your arm and insist on your company, though you graciously remind them of your position and move along.

Eventually, you seek out Ilysa Euldon and have her join you as you walk about the room. Once away from her parents, you sneak her a cup of mead and encourage her to drink it quickly if she does not want to get caught. It is easy to convince her, as you were once thirteen and eager to do adult things. If your older sister had lived, you could imagine her doing the same for you. It does not take long for Ilysa to become giggly and cling to your arm as you mingle with more guests.

After giving her another cup of mead, you seek out the corner where your brother and his motley crew are sitting.

“I am going to introduce you as Sasilya Fields,” you whisper to her as she eyes the table full of young men.

“A bastard's name?” She gasps.

“If any of them know who you really are, they will treat you like a child,” you say. Since the group of men have been out of the castle, none of them should recognize her. “Think of it as a disguise so you can have a little bit of fun for the night. Tell them you are sixteen and that you're Lord Briararm's ward when they ask.”

She giggles and squeezes your arm appreciatively as you approach your brother's table. The group is rowdy with laughter, but Lord Mikage notices your approach with a smile. His attention gets the others to turn and focus, allowing you to say your greetings and introduce your new friend.

“Ah, Lady Eu-” Reo says. Of course, the damn jewel lord would know the gold lords.

“Lord Mikage,” you say quickly and reach out to brush a violet strand of hair from his face. He stiffens at your touch and draws in a quick breath.

“Sorry, old habit. Your mother always used to get on you for letting your hair come undone,” you say with a smile and seat yourself between him and your brother on the bench, facing away from the rest. They make room, and you pat the space next to you for Ilysa—er, Sasilya—to join you next to your brother.

“Perhaps because I learned that you would fuss over me. I always liked the way you tied my hair back up,” Reo says and leans closer to you.

“You enjoyed me yanking the knots out of your hair?”

“Yes. I believe you awoke something in me in those days. I quite enjoy a proper tug on my hair from a beautiful woman,” he says shamelessly, though it is only heard by you through all of the other background conversations.

“Has all that purple dye gone to your head? Honestly, you should not say such things, especially to an old woman like me,” you say.

“You are barely six years older than me. Or am I still a child in your eyes?” He pries.

You pretend to think about it, but you tune your ears to the conversation behind you. It seems your brother is making cordial conversation with Sasilya and is restraining his vulgar tongue. That will change so long as they keep conversing.

“Man? Child? Why does it matter? You are just Reo,” you say as though you fabricated it. In reality, it is just the truth.

Reo lets out a small laugh and sips his mead.

“So you are saying I have not changed in all these years?” He asks, leaning closer once again—as if your point would not have been proven otherwise. It is just like the days when he would sit on your lap while you read.

“Not one bit, though maybe you could actually pose a challenge for a Northman in a duel now,” you tease.

He feigns a gasp.

“I was very serious about that, I will have you know! I would do it again if some man were vying for your hand,” he says and goes to grab your hands resting in your lap. However, you retreat.

“You are not a boy anymore! I do not have to entertain your heroic fantasies,” you huff and hide your hands by crossing your arms. Here you are, feeling like a teenager again.

“So you admit that I am not a child, and yet somehow I am no different?” He says as his violet eyes flash with a challenge—unsettling yet amusing.

“Are you trying to prove something? If I acknowledge you, will you finally grow bored and leave me be?” You ask, reflecting the challenge at him.

“Bored?” He laughs. “My lady, it would only be the start of my greatest thrill.”

He is crafty with his words, you must admit. Reo has always been clever, not just in his studies, but in how he navigates people. You noticed it when he was a child, though he was rather transparent to your more mature eyes. At present, you cannot see so clearly. Yes, he was fond of you as a child, but that should hardly count for anything a decade later. Perhaps he had learned to resent you during your brother's exchange.

Fortunately, you do not have to mull it over. Your brother stands up and helps Sasilya up by the hand.

“Where are you two going?” You ask.

“I would like to have a dance,” your brother says and smiles at Sasilya. You would pity her, but she is playing right into your hand with the way she devours his attention. He is not particularly handsome, but all that matters is that he is older than her, and therefore someone to seek approval from.

“Father has yet to make his speech. Do not be improper,” you say with a frown. Your brother exists to spite you, so you make sure to drizzle your words with extra disapproval.

“And impede on yet another dull speech about working towards the prosperity of the Windlands? We all know it is nothing important,” he says, garnering the chuckles of his friends. “But if you insist on indulging father’s sense of importance, dear sister, then by all means I will simply take the true merriment of the feast out into the courtyard. We should still be able to hear the music, or perhaps make our own.”

Poor, young, and stupid Sasilya. She giggles, likely believing your brother to be poetic. Before you can make another show of disapproval, he whisks her away. The other guys cheer him on, save for Reo, who looks at you with concern.

“You know who she is, right? Should I send Ser Nagi after them?” He asks.

“Ser Nagi?” You say, ignoring Sasilya’s identity.

“Forgive me,” Reo blushes. “I mean, Ser Seishiro. Nagi is his family name.”

“You refer to him by his family name despite him swearing his sword to you?” You ask. While there are a few exceptions, every knight abandons their family name once they pledge themselves.

“Such formalities are not so strict overseas. It is a lot to ask a man to abandon his family name.”

“And yet all women are expected to abandon theirs,” you say.

Reo opens his mouth, but falls short of a response. He chuckles at himself and shakes his head.

“You are right. I never thought of that,” he says thoughtfully. “Is that why you remain unwed? Hesitancy to abandon your family?”

You nearly laugh. Freedom from your vermin of a brother has been a dream since he was born and took your mother from you. As for your father, as much as you desire his acknowledgement, it is hard to say that you love him. It is hard to say you love anything at all.

“I am unwed because there have been no beneficial opportunities—that and I am long past the desirable marrying age,” you say with an empty laugh. You still get offers (mostly through your father), though you have been able to reason your way out of them.

“I can barely pick you apart from the younger maidens,” Reo says.

“I do not understand why you try to flatter me, Lord Mikage.”

“If you get to tell me that I'm still just Reo to you, then I get to say that you are just you as you have always been to me,” he huffs. “And stop calling me Lord Mikage if I really am just Reo.”

He looks like the 13-year-old boy you remember. You smile, feeling the urge to flick his cheek like you used to.

“Fine then, Reo,” you oblige. “Another reason why I have not wed is that I foolishly believe I can separate myself from my family without doing so. I would have loved to have been a knight and gladly cast aside my family name for a worthy cause.”

“My lady,” Reo gasps at your admission.

“Never the mind. Forget such foolery,” you say, turning your head from him.

However, he grabs for your hand. This time, you are unable to retreat.

“Is there something else you desire? Not just an escape?” He asks with your hand in both of his.

His violet eyes bore into you, determined to pull something from your depths. There is something else you desire—something terrifying to admit out loud, yet it has been simmering inside of you, begging for your acknowledgement. The thing all women crave…

“Tell me,” Reo says and squeezes your hand. “I can give it to you.”

You look around the dining hall. Everyone is more interested in the drinks and their own conversations. Still, you lean in a little closer despite your incipient reveal being kept secret by the noise in the background. You would dare not speak of such a mortifying want otherwise. Reo draws in closer as well, scanning down your face and settling on your lips.

“Are you so sure about that?” You tease. “What I desire is violence.”

He pulls his head back but keeps hold of your hand. His eyes flash with violet flames, then he tosses his head back with a wild laugh. The other men at the table look at him and laugh along with him warily, unsure of what you said to amuse him in such a way, but wishing to show their support. Reo calms and tilts his chin back down to face you. His smile and the burning look of determination in his eyes surprise you.

“If that is your wish, then alright,” he says.

“Alright?” You question.

“Yes. Alright.”

You would press him to explain, but everyone's attention is turned when your father stands at the head table and announces the beginning of his obligatory speech of the feast. The chatter in the dining hall quiets, and the music fades to a halt.

“People and friends of the Windlands. Enjoy this feast, for it may be the last. We have received news of the struggles throughout the Collective Kingdom: looming famine, disease, and the North struggling to fight off Borean invaders as their armies suffer.

“During these times, we are advised to look to the gods. The Crown is said to be closest to the gods, so one must wonder: do we suffer in their shadows?

“It has long been proven time and time again that the Itoshi family of Crownskeep cares little for the smallfolk. The king has grown frail over the seasons. It is only a matter of time before there is a change in power—Who is to say it should go by succession? It is no secret that the young Prince Rin vies for the throne ahead of the elder Prince Sae. A royal war is brewing. The lands of this realm are on the verge of great suffering. It would be remiss not to forge ahead of the chaos and establish stability for the Kingdom on our own terms!”

Your father had not mentioned he would be making such a declaration at this feast. A private council would have been more fitting. However, it is not as though he would ever divulge you in his larger schemes. Your heart pounds as the hall is filled with skeptical murmurs.

“Did you know about this?” Reo leans in and asks in a low voice.

You keep quiet and look back to where your father stands. He does not waver despite the chatter. Someone will speak up soon.

“My lord, you propose usurping the throne?” Says Lord Deybreeze as he stands. House Deybreeze is one of the oldest families in the Windlands aside from your own.

“Yes,” your father answers frankly.

“And you suggest yourself for the throne in the event of victory?”

“Yes, though I aim to establish a more collaborative system between the great lands of the Collective. As lord of the headhouse of the Windlands and spearheader of this movement, I will bear the burden of wearing a crown,” your father says. He is not acting, but he is using tactics from vagrant merchants.

“Might I add, Lord Deybreeze, you lost your eldest son in a dishonorable duel with The Mad Knight, Ser Ryusei, who is sworn to Prince Sae,” your father says bluntly. It works in his favor as anger flashes across Lord Deybreeze’s face. “And you are not the only one to lose sons and brothers in such a manner. This is the kind of chivalry the Crown endorses. They get their thrills from violence, but not the kind that protects the people or expands the Kingdom's power.

“I challenge any of the houses to say I have not carried out my duty as Overseer of the Windlands, and to any challenge I say, there is only so much one can do under the Crown’s rule. For far too long, the Crown has favored the lush lands of the South, letting the lands beyond the realm of Crownskeep struggle without aid.

“So I ask all of the houses of the Windlands, great and small, to pledge yourselves to the greater good of the Kingdom. It will not be an easy path, but it is the righteous one. When we all stand together, we will prosper,” your father implores.

There is more murmuring and deliberation amongst the guests. Thoughts come and go so quickly that your mind feels empty. How can your chest feel so heavy and light at the same time? Your father is no fool, but you worry he will be made one. Word of rebellion will spread fast.

“My lord,” Lord Clairdey, another one of the greater houses, stands and poises himself despite being young. “While times are steady, we are hardly as prosperous as the Southernlands. Wars are won when the soldiers are fed and well-armed. They are also unpredictable regarding how long they will last. Can you assure that everyone will be clothed and fed as the months, possibly years, rage on?”

Your father looks about the hall, likely searching for your brother, but his eyes land on you sitting next to Reo instead—a subtle look of irritation, which you know well, crinkles through his greying brows. Before you can convey anything back, he looks away. It is both relieving and frustrating.

“It will take effort and sacrifice from all, as well as forging and calling upon new alliances. The stronger a united effort we present, the more others will be willing to support us,” he says.

Doubt is thick in the air. However, you glance towards the door where your brother exited with Sasilya. If only your father had waited to make this call. Impatient old man. Part of you wants to see him made a fool, even at the cost of your own reputation.

“My lord, if I may—”

You stop breathing when Reo rises, garnering the attention of the hall. It is unsettling to see him from this angle in your seat. He is far too tall like this, too poised, and too radiant. You were wrong; he is not ‘just Reo’ as he has always been.

“—I pledge House Mikage to you and your cause.”

Sticky silence befalls the hall. An unknown variable has been placed in the mix. You have to stop yourself from yanking him down by the sleeve and telling him to be quiet. This is not his affair. Why would he make such an outlandish pledge? Your father cannot refuse in front of every house in the Windlands, but the offer is too good. Perhaps they are both fools.

“Lord Mikage, despite your mother's lineage, you are not from the Kingdom. Forgive me for having my suspicions, but what do you seek to gain by your pledge?” Your father asks.

Reo looks to you and then back to the head table.

“Your daughter's hand.”

You rise to your feet on instinct to run. The whispers amongst the hall freeze you in place. You look at Reo. You look at your father with eyes you can only hope convey that you had no idea this was coming. The hall fills with muddy apprehension, trapping you next to Reo’s side.

“I have loved her since I was a boy.”

It's a lie, of course. Reo is a showman. The mirth and affection in his eyes would be convincing to any fairytale-minded girl when he looks at you. Why is he even here in the Kingdom? Why speak up in this moment?

He wants Stonehall Hill. He wants a point of power in the Kingdom. But why? As far as you're aware, the Empire is stable. Umbrahaven is drowning in jewels and gold. Re-establishing himself here would just be a waste. Could he actually be after the Crown? For what purpose? He is no fool. He already lives better than the King.

“There is no denying that, Lord Mikage,” your father says with a rare chuckle. “Is that all? Your aid is worth more than my daughter.”

The truth does not hurt. Everyone in the room is thinking the same. Reo takes a step forward, blocking you from your father's view.

“You are of the belief that a kingdom is worth more than love. I suppose that is why it will be you wearing a crown, and not I,” he says.

Your father weighs the decision behind hard eyes, no doubt that the offer is too good not to come at a heftier cost later down the line.

“Aye! Let the boy marry your girl! I will pledge House Clairdey if House Mikage's coffers are at our backs,” Lord Clairdey stands and nods to Reo.

“I, too, am confident with the support of House Mikage. My knights come to me with drawings for weapons I have not had the gold to fund. Soldiers do not win wars, nor do weapons. Gold wins wars,” Lord Deybreeze speaks up.

Your father looks between the standing lords.

“Very well.” It's the only answer he can give now. “Only a fool would turn down such an agreement. If it is my daughter you desire, then she is yours.”

This is the life of a high-born daughter. A mere bargaining chip, though Reo seems to think you are worth a war—not you, but whatever position he will be in by marrying you. One foot on the ladder. He can jump off without getting hurt, or shake it and let those at the top fall down.

Reo turns around, eyes round and shining. He sure is happy with himself. Future-husband. This person who only showed up a week ago and barely spoke to you before tonight. This person who has always been a boy in your mind. Is he cunning, or just another fool who thinks he is?

He places his hands on your shoulders and pulls you into him. When was the last time you were embraced? It was Reo’s mother all those years ago during their last visit. Your arms remain at your sides, and you look over his shoulder towards your father, expecting some sort of hard look from him. However, the lords of the Windlands rise one by one and then kneel to pledge their houses to your family.

Reo moves his head to observe the spectacle. When it is his turn to bend the knee, he does so graciously—not towards your father, but facing you.

It is a blatant message, but one that gets lost when the heavy wooden doors to the hall burst open. A knight of Goldwell storms in, dragging a stumbling man pathetically trying to resist the knight's hold: your brother.

“My lords. Forgive the interruption, but I found this man in the midst of ruining the young Lady Ilysa!”

Behind him comes another Goldwell knight with his cloak wrapped protectively around the young girl. She cries and shudders, hiding her face from the stares of the crowd. Lord and Lady Euldon jump to their feet, enraged. They rush over to their daughter’s side.

Back when you were Ilysa’s age, you were caught observing up close one of the stablehands with his pants undone. You had simply ordered for the young man to show you, which he did, reluctantly. It was not like you wanted to do anything with it—something that looked akin to the filthy mole pests in the gardens. Still, you and the stablehand were dragged before your father in the same manner as Ilysa and your brother. You did not whimper and sob, but there was a sickening churn of shame in your stomach that made it impossible to meet your father's gaze. He did not comfort you, and instead had the stablehand’s neck slit right then and there.

Your brother will not meet such a fate, though it was a gamble you were more than happy to take. Reo still kneels at your feet, which you pretend is more interesting than watching your own plot unfold. You reach your hand out to stroke his hair, which distracts him from the commotion. He smiles gently towards you. Might as well appreciate the act while it lasts.

♔

The feast had been resolved with an agreement for your brother and Ilysa to marry, though there were many whispers of your brother's character as heir to the movement your father began. However, none could argue with the two pots of wealth your father had just acquired by means of his children. For once, you were ever-so favorable amongst the people as they congratulated you on what they were sure was a childhood love match.

The Euldons are far from happy with the arrangement, but they care for their daughter. An easily exploited weakness. It is no wonder your father has always been indifferent towards you.

You journey back to your chambers alone. You only have a week to yourself before the wedding. Your brother and Ilysa are being ushered into marriage first, only 3 days from now, as propriety demands. The thought of sharing a bed with someone, let alone Reo—No. No need to worry about it until it is actually time, though you think of the stablehand's off-putting rodent-looking member and scowl to yourself.

As if conjured by you merely thinking of foul things, your brother appears from the shadowy hall. He rushes you, grabbing the base of your neck with both hands until your back hits the wall.

“Conniving bitch! She told us everything—the drinks, the name you made up. Just who do you think you are making an enemy of?” He snarls as droplets of spit hit your face, making you wince.

“My enemies do not matter. Father has a new ally, and you have a new wife,” you say as his hands tighten, not quite a choke but a reminder that he could.

“She is a child!”

“She was appealing enough to you.”

“The whispers must be true about you, that you have been seducing Reo since he was a boy,” he says with a twisted smirk.

“Careful. I'm your precious friend’s incipient wife,” you say as you put your hands up as a show of innocence.

“As if he actually cares about you. You are just a whore he can fuck his heirs into while he plays out his own plots. Traitorous, rotten bastard he is!” He removes one hand from your throat to strike you. “You two ought to w—”

A flash. You see the blood, but you do not feel it splatter over your face and chest. Your brother's hand is gone, and there is red. Just red.

It does not register for him either. Both of you just stare at the spot where his hand once was. A sword sheathes. An arm tugs at you.

“Are you alright, my lady?” It is Ser Seishiro. His features are calm, but there is a blaze in his eyes.

Your brother shrieks and drops to his knees, frantically feeling around the ground for his severed hand.

“We must go to my father,” you say, though it might as well be someone else saying it. You are hovering next to your body, watching your brother scream and scramble.

You hurriedly walk with Ser Seishiro. Your heart must be beating fast, but it is quiet and peaceful and clear inside of you, like a gentle breeze rolling over an ocean of tall grass. Your steps have never been so in line, so perfect. There is blood drying on your skin, already smelling of rust. This is what you have always been meant to wear.

Set Seishiro opens the council chamber door for you. Your father, Lord Euldon, and Reo, along with the other high lords, sit around the table. They startle at the intrusion and your appearance. You know better than to smile at their reactions.

“My love! Ser Nagi! What happened?” Reo frets as he leaves his seat to evaluate you.

He touches your bloodied face, examines your arms and hands, and smiles when he realizes there are no wounds. You mirror the smile. Strange. His pupils widen in a way that nearly makes you gasp. Instead, you take a quiet, deep breath.

However, shrieks and wails echo through the stone halls. The incoherent yells of your brother grip the stomachs of everyone in the room.

“What. Happened.”

Your father is the only one still seated. He demands the explanation.

“I was instructed to protect the soon-to-be Lady Mikage the same as I would for Lord Mikage. I held back out of respect for our host. Your son merely lost a hand, not his life,” Ser Seishiro says with chilling calmness.

Your father appears on his feet faster than you have ever seen him move. Fury and aggravation ravage across his face, though all can see in real time the way he remembers Reo’s pledge. Your body tingles. You are safe.

“What do you mean he lost a hand?”

“He had his hand around my Lady’s throat. I cut it off,” Ser Seishiro answers.

“This is clearly sabotage by House Mikage to delay the joining of our houses!” Lord Euldon gruffs as he also makes a stand.

“A man does not need two hands to speak his vows,” Reo says without a hint of insult. “My Lady Mikage was merely being protected on my order. You are fortunate it was not your Ilysa in her position.”

“I am not fortunate at all in any of this!” Cries the Lord of Goldwell.

“Settle,” your father says sternly and then looks to Reo. “My daughter is not yet your Lady Mikage. We will discuss the reigning in of your dog tomorrow. If you all would excuse me, I must go check on my heir.”

Your father swiftly leaves the council room. The guards have likely found your brother already and are taking him to the infirmary.

“Do not think you go unnoticed,” Lord Euldon spews. He is looking at you.

Reo steps between Lord Euldon’s poisonous gaze and offers his arm to you.

“Let me escort you to get cleaned up, my love,” he says as his eyes roam over you in an oddly proud manner.

You take his arm, though you would not have minded another moment for everyone to take in your blood-soaked appearance. Ser Seishiro follows behind as you walk the halls with Reo, your fingers feeling light on the smooth fabric of his coat.

“You are too quick to call me terms of endearment,” you tell him once far enough away from the council room.

“But you are my love,” he says.

“You cannot just show up after eight years and start touting about love. I do not know anything about”—you turn your head and look him up and down—“you.”

“Well, we have many years of marriage ahead of ourselves for that,” he says with an irritatingly optimistic smile.

“There is going to be a war.”

“You said you wanted violence. Think of that blood on your face as a wedding gift. I promise to give you much more.”

You let out the most polite sigh you can muster from your nose. It does not make sense why he would indulge you to such an extreme. Ser Seishiro’s armor clinks behind you, and you turn to look at him, digging his finger into his ear as if there was no blood on his sword—similar to how Reo is not put off by the blood on you. Then again, you are not put off by the blood either. If anything, you wish you could have watched your brother crawl around on the ground longer.

When you reach your chamber, Reo orders Ser Seishiro to stand guard, and then follows you in. You make no objection, as there are many matters you wish to press him on in private.

“Heavens!” Your chambermaid, Essa, shrieks when she catches your appearance. Dropping the mostly empty pot she was using to fill your bathtub by the fire, she plasters herself against the wall. She is an older woman, rather distant and rarely pleased, but the only person you would say you have a semblance of closeness with. Only a few years older than your mother would have been, she has a daughter around your brother's age who now works in the kitchen. She had also been your mother's maid before her death.

“It is not my blood,” you assure her. “Is my bath ready?”

“Is that-?” Essa notices Reo behind you and squints, taking a tentative step away from the wall. “Why, I heard Lord Mikage was staying at Stonehall Hill, but I had yet to see him about the castle. You were just a wee lad last time I saw you, but that hair of yours…”

She makes no show of hiding her opinion on the bright purple color as she darts her vision away and scowls.

“It is a pleasure to see you again, Essa. I take it you have been tending to my soon-to-be wife well?” He greets her with a respectful dip of his head.

“So the rumors of the feast are true,” she says and glances at you with neither pleasure nor displeasure. No gossip travels faster than in the mouths of servants. “And to think you would bring him to your chamber before the wedding.”

“It is hardly a matter compared to the mess my brother is in. Hence, my need for a bath.”

“Is he dead?”

“He will live. He lost a hand, is all,” you tell her.

Essa sighs and looks off to the side with clear disappointment in her drooping eyes. She was your brother's wet nurse and had to deal with his insufferable year of wailing more than anyone.

“I see. Well, my lady, your bath should be warm enough,” she says and darts her eyes to Reo. “Do you need my hand undressing?”

“It is no matter. I have things to discuss with my future husband first. Take a rag to Ser Seishiro outside the door so he may clean the blood off his sword, and you are dismissed for the night,” you tell her.

Essa nods and shuffles past you and Reo, giving him another critical side glance on her way out, which he chuckles at. You walk over to the bathing tub in front of the fire, and dip your fingers in the water to test the temperature. It is warmer than you are used to.

“What did you want to discuss, my love?” Reo asks as he observes the decorations of your chamber. He never made any disdainful comments about Stonehall Hill that you knew of when he was a child. Your brother had boasted about the opulence of Umbrahaven when he came back from his culturing abroad. If you are to take his word for it, your chamber likely looks like a servant’s.

“There is no reason to call me that when it is just the two of us,” you tell him.

“When it is just the two of us, it is all the more reason to call you my love,” he says.

“What are you plotting?” You ask squarely.

“Just plotting to make you my wife and give you whatever you want,” he says with a light laugh. “I was not being-”

You begin untying the laces of your dress and pulling the skirts up to get the garment over your head. You still have layers of undergarments, but even if you did not, it is nothing to feel shy about.

“You were not being what?” You ask as you bundle up the gown and set it to the side for Essa to collect in the morning.

“What?” He repeats, staring everywhere but your face.

“I mean”—he swallows—“Do you need help with…”

Even if it is just Reo, he is still a young man, you suppose. The undressed body has little appeal to you, though you are aware of the morbid fascination men seem to have with it. It is rather pathetic how even the most dignified of men turn simple at even the smallest hints of nudity.

“No. Sit on the bed and stay there,” you tell him as you fiddle with the knot keeping your underskirt tied up.

Reo obliges, his body facing you even as he moves across the room and takes a seat on your bed. His stare is heavy, burning, piercing, but it does not stop you from removing your underskirt, leaving you in just your stockings and a sheer slip. Only when you start to roll down the stockings does he turn his face away.

“Does a woman’s body make you shy?”

He steals another glance at and then looks away.

“I have seen my share, but you are to be my wife. I always imagined seeing you on our wedding night after a bedding ceremony, undressing you myself,” he says and shifts his seating on the bed.

“You always imagined?”

“Yes, I-” He stops and clears his throat when you peel the slip over your head.

“Hm,” you remark and test the bath water once more. There is still blood to be cleaned from your face, which is hardly alluring.

You step into the basin and submerge yourself, letting the heat seep into your skin and scalp. If only you could stay under the water—not die, but simply exist in the weightless warmth. Perhaps there will be enough bloodshed in the coming war to bathe you in the same feeling. You surface and wipe your face with your hands.

Reo looks away as soon as your head emerges, but you shift to lean on the edge of the basin, resting your chin on your arms.

“So you are not going to tell me what you are plotting?” You ask.

“I am out of plots. There has only ever been one,” he answers as he focuses on his fingers splayed out on your blankets.

“To marry me,” you say almost as a sigh of boredom and pick up the oiled cloth waiting for use over the edge. “And so you signed on to fund a war.”

“Did you really believe your plot with the Euldons would not have repercussions?”

“Do not act like your decision had anything to do with concerns of them. Tell me: You want the throne,” you say.

“Do you truly believe your father will make it there? Do you believe him to be fit?” Reo presses, finally looking at you.

“We are better to hope it is my father and not my brother.”

“You did not answer.”

You take a deep breath and wipe your face with the rag, letting it stain with the remains of your brother’s blood.

“I believe him to be fit. He is not irrational. I think he can be naive, but are we all not sometimes? He just”—you think for a moment—“lacks a certain perspective.”

“Yours.”

You exhale loudly through your nose and submerge yourself in the water again. How humiliating to be so seen by him. When you surface, you stand, allowing the water to drip down your body. The heat of the fireplace greets your bare skin. It is too hot.

“So this is about you wanting to use me?” You question, squeezing the excess water from your hair before stepping out of the basin. Essa has left you a drying sheet as always, but you choose to leave it in favor of walking past Reo on the bed and over to the window. It faces south and gives a view over the walls and into the town of windmills in daytime, though the night view is all stone and stars. A guard patrolling the parapet could see in, but the prospect has always entertained you. You open it up and welcome the cool touch of the breeze.

“Me? Use you?” Reo repeats, and the bed rustles with his movement. His footsteps approach from behind, no longer feeling coy about the premarital nudity.

“I would have thought you, of all people, would understand,” he says, so close that the fine fabric of his coat grazes your shoulder blades. “I have spent my entire life trying to catch up to you, trying to get one step ahead just so that I may turn around and force you to face me.”

“You have always been ahead, Reo. You were born ahead—with your wealth and that thing between your legs,” you say, turning your head slightly, not even enough for your chin to reach the line of your shoulder.

“If I were actually ahead, I would not have done what I have done.”

“And just what have you done besides rise to lordship because of the tragedy of your parents, and turn my brother into a heathen?”

“Your brother was always destined to be a mindless heathen,” Reo scoffs. “His invitation to Umbrahaven was an evaluation. I thought perhaps you might have bestowed some of your sense to him as he matured, but it turns out you are much more greedy than I remember.”

“Is being protective of the one gift I have considered greedy?” You question, still refusing to face him.

“Well, you are no woman of the church. I love a greedy woman, though. What else would my wealth be good for?” He muses.

“Your father and mother’s wealth.”

“It is very much my own wealth. I killed for it, after all.”

You turn your head enough to see his tailored coat and tunic over your shoulder. The Mikage fortune is the sort of wealth that has been passed down for generations solely based on the location of Umbrahaven being located where precious gems sprout like grass.

“Killed who?”

“Mother and father, of course.”

You fully face him now, scanning his small smile and the relaxed posture of his shoulders. His pupils flare wide when he sees your face and naked features so close.

“Be serious.”

“Why would I lie? I killed them because they were in the way,” he tells you all too simply.

“I heard they died in a bandit raid. You were still so young,” you press, trying to find a hole in his words.

“Pirates, actually. It was on our way home from our last visit here. Mother and father were quite furious with me and my wanting to ride north to duel your intended at the time. They said they would find a girl with a prestigious family name for me to marry. I would not hear of it, and that night was when our ship just so happened to be attacked. In the midst of the chaos, not a soul suspected me of putting knives in their backs.

“It was rash—yes, but such is the mind of one caught somewhere between boyhood and manhood. I was rattled with guilt, which made the lie I told all the more believable. To everyone, I was just a young man choked up about the death of his parents. Once I realized I had gotten away with it, I no longer lost any rest over it.”

Reo is still smiling as though he had just recounted a bard’s tale. Perhaps it is just that—a story he made up knowing it would intrigue you. But how? How does he know anything when it comes to you? He was just a silly child for all the time you knew him.

“Why tell me this?” You ask.

“The first thing I wanted to do after I realized what I had done was tell the ship to turn around so I could run to you, and tell you that nothing stood in my way. But you would have figured me out, and I knew—I have always known that you regard me no differently than your brother. When I received your letter of condolence, I knew I had to wait, and if you married that Northman, I would just kill him too,” he says, still nonchalant, but that violet flame flickers in his eyes.

“But I got lucky. I am not foolish enough to believe you were thinking of me, but you have been waiting for something,” he says and takes a half step closer to you, enough to where he comfortably places his hands on your bare shoulders. “And tonight, when you said your desire is for violence, I knew that I am the only person who can give you what you want.”

His hands slowly move up your neck to cup your jaw, stroking your skin with his thumbs.

“So then, are you pleased with me, my love?”

Water from your hair trickles down your back and is caught by the breeze coming through the window. A chill runs through you, making your body alert, but mostly the tips of your breasts that nearly brush against his clothing most tantalizingly.

“I still do not like you calling me that,” you say, though you would be willing to ignore it.

“Then we will come up with something more suitable for you,” he says gently. “Do you find me repulsive for what I have done?”

The former Lady Mikage was strict and often snappy, but she was never unkind towards you, often doting on your appearance during her visits. She was younger than your mother, by how many years you are unsure, but perhaps a few more than the gap between you and Reo. She told you she had cried when your mother got married, believing it would be the end of their friendship. Her stories were often sweet, sometimes mischievous, but always with a lens of admiration. There were times when she could be cold with her words, some distaste for your father, and even more so for your brother, but she was even critical of your late sister, telling you that it was best that you were the one to be alive since you bear more of your mother's beauty and likeness.

You look at Reo and the handsome angles of his face. It is a wonder that such artfully carved features were derived from people so plain-looking as the former Lord and Lady. You had only met Lord Mikage once, someone more charismatic than any other adult in your life at the time, and still completely forgettable somehow. The thought of both of them being gone at the hands of their son, only 13 at the time, but now standing before you and confessing everything as a man…

“No. You have only done what I have thought about many times before,” you answer.

“Your brother.”

“Yes.”

“And your father?”

It has never occurred to you. Your father has always been this unreachable figure that you had to claw your way into his sight, always on your toes for which way his head would turn. Who are you when you are not clambering for his validation? What would you be if that were to be taken away?

“You avoided answering me when I asked if he would be suitable for the throne,” Reo says, sensing your hesitation. “Tell me: Is he in your way?”

You try to look away, but his hands hold your face firm, forcing you to meet the fire in those wide violet eyes. It spreads through you, hot and crackling in your blood. Your fingers twitch at your sides. The image of blood spraying from your brother's arm, the smell of it, the taste of copper on your lip—you want to be the one with the blade next time.

“We will win this war. I will make sure of it,” he says, leaning in closer and closer. His eyes are all too wide. His smile twists into something crooked. “And I mean just the two of us.”

He might kiss you, but instead he drags his hands down the sides of your body, grazing your breasts, your ribs, your waist, and settling at your hips as he kneels before you, much like when he pledged his house to your father's war.

“I want the throne, but only so I can place you upon it. You do not want me calling you my love? Well then, let me call you my queen.”

And he does kiss you, right below the navel, and another one further down, and another one right at the edge of where your hair thickens. He looks up at you, eyes pleading and burning. Another breeze pushes through the window, tousling his violet locks in a way that beckons you to reach down and thread your fingers through. His breath warms your skin.

Something about the reverence in his eyes is irritating. Is this you? Has this been you your entire life? Some unconsidered being begging for pity? No, not pity. Not mercy.

Love.

You grip into Reo’s hair as disgust sludges through you. His mouth falls open as he lets out a whimpering gasp and grips his fingers into the flesh of your hips. At a push of your hand, you tilt his head back and see the way his eyes glimmer as they still implore you for your regard. With his hair in your fist, he still looks at you like some weak, starving animal welcoming either nourishment or death. Love is something you cannot give him, but pity does prod at your chest while something warm laps at your core.

He gasps again when you bring your leg up and rest a thigh upon his shoulder, nestled against his neck and jaw. It is the perfect position to put your sex directly on his lips—his eyes fluttering at the contact. He does not falter, immediately moving his mouth and tongue to lave at the spot you sometimes stroke in your sheets at night. His tongue is so much slicker and glides deliciously over that sweet spot that has you grinding your hips into him. You sigh out your moans, getting lost in the greedy desire for more as he groans and whimpers against you.

Reo suckles hard for a moment, making you gasp and look down at him. The drunken look in his eyes and the way he moans into you is mesmerizing. All the hen talk you have heard about being alone with a man has sounded unpleasant and brutish, but you have never heard of a man being on his knees and kissing the sensitive valley of one’s legs. Reo’s lapping becomes more fervent, and his tongue finds its way inside where it curls against a spot that has you gasping and tugging his hair even harder. Your legs shake, partially from the carefully balanced position of having one foot on the floor, but also from how tightly everything in your lower half is clenching. He has you wound up and twisted with his tongue and muffled moaning, on the verge of collapsing into him completely.

You hug his face to your cunt, shamelessly bucking your hips against his tongue, for there is no shame when you are a queen. Reo is so devout to licking up your juices that it should be punished. Is it really service if he gets so much pleasure out of it? He has you right where he wants you to be, and he is exactly where he wants to be. Your clit throbs against slick movements of his tongue—it is not a terrible place to be, but only moments ago did you even learn this was something you could want. Is there more? The pleasant pressure spreading from your cunt teases you with the prospect of more.

Oh Reo. Just Reo. Your soon-to-be husband Reo. A stranger but not. One who promises you violence and then kneels at your feet to lap up your womanhood like honey dripping from a ladle. His tongue finds that spot again that dangles something frightening in front of you, and yet you can only run towards it, just like the violence he promised you. Your hips buck wildly, grinding into his moans—chasing, chasing that deliciously frightening thing.

A war is coming. It will all fall apart. You are the war, and your body is about to come apart. Blood spraying across your face plays over again in your mind, filling your mouth with hot saliva and the most salacious cry as you toss your head back and push Reo’s head flush against your cunt, milking the pulse shattering through your body. It comes in gusts, knocking you over from every side as he groans into the wreckage spilling from your legs and down his jaw. Your fingertips have never brought you to such heights.

“My queen, have I served you well?” He asks after lapping up a few final shivers.

Your breath is still wild. Slowly, you unhook your leg from his shoulder, stumbling back like a newborn fawn. How unbecoming. You try to straighten yourself out, but your legs are still trembling. Reo jumps to his feet to help you, but he falters as well with a sizable bulge pressing at the front of his pants. Still, he manages to reach for your hand and pull you towards him. You land into his chest, where he stumbles to the bed and falls on the blankets with you in his arms.

“Is it usual for husbands to kiss their wives there?” You ask, taking a moment to listen to the rapid beating of his heart.

“It is only rightful to kiss where I will one day have the pleasure of being inside you,” he says as his hand rubs at your back.

You sit up and stare down at him with knit brows, then slowly move your eyes down his body until you see the bulge in his pants. It moves even without him shifting his hips. Disgusting, and yet…

Reo gasps when you grab it and test how it feels in your hand—more firm than you expected. You look back to his face and the strained expression pulling at his features as his neck arches upwards. You squeeze tighter, making him flush and moan.

“And what if I want nothing to do with this thing?” Though it is stupid to ask when you have it so firmly in your grasp.

“Th-That would be fine,” he chokes out.

The assurance has you loosening your hold, and he relaxes enough to look at you with hooded violet eyes. You have never thought of a man as beautiful before, but perhaps Reo in this moment is worthy of the word. He was only just a memory before, but right now, he feels the most real to you anyone ever has. As his chest rises and falls, he might be the first person to make you aware of the fact that other people breathe just like you.

The breeze from the window rolls in, teasing the embers of the logs in the fireplace that emit crackles like laughter. Reo’s palm and thumb caress your back. He is warm in your hand and beneath you. Marriage might not be so bad, though who knows how many moments like this there will be.

“You are my queen, after all,” he says. “You may choose whichever throne you wish. If it is my face you prefer, then so be it.”

a/n: kudos to you if you read this far. this originally stemmed from the wholesome idea of knight asking for a king's undesirable oldest daughter as his reward for whatever war heroics....i truly don't know what came over me to twist it into whatever this was. i actually do have a second part to this in mind. it is not very romantic.

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