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Summary: Conversations and preparations are made for a dinner, hosted by the Elvenking. Legolas, already cynical about his father's intentions, will be in attendance. With questions about Lord Elrond and Lord Círdan's intentions for you as a diplomat rising, you still seek to further the goals that you do know need your help: addressing the corruption with the king.
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Previous Part: Chapter 11
Author's Note: I've been looking forward to posting this chapter for literal weeks, almost months. I am so excited to share this with you! Enjoy!
I do not use generative AI in my writing
Scene 1 – Queenblossom
Situated in the hospital, sat upon the beds placed along the outskirts of the room, trifold barriers leaned against the wall in their folded up form. Each one bears a different pattern, mirroring the colors and designs of the carpets in this palace, though its texture is more similar to the weight of a tapestry than a carpet.
In this wing of the hall, there were no glimpses of the sky, no grey light to pour in, so in a way, the floral vignettes of the trifold tapestry barriers that could provide privacy also served as glimpses of an imaginative garden. One panel may be of a pomegranate tree, another of lilies, another of a small pond with reeds, yet when you look out…perhaps this is a small window into Greenwood the Great.
In your few days from your garden meeting with the Elvenking — another reason you kept imagining gardens — until your descent into the lowest layers of the castle with him, you try your best to spend it teaching some of the songs from Rivendell and some of the Sindarin incantations you knew from your time studying in the Grey Havens. You talk through feeling the flow of energy within one’s body and mind, how you produce your healing. Your three ‘apprentices’ follow along with the theory of it, nobody yet able to produce a light.
But today is special; you received a letter from Istel, containing herbs and a note reminding you to wait and listen. When you read what the herb is, you gasp.
“Good news,” you say, holding up a small pinch of cluster of pale-colored petals.
“Hmm?” Hareth cracks an eye open from her meditation, sitting on the edge of the bed, posture perfect, hands resting palm-up on the tops of her thighs.
“My mentor-friend Istel sent me some Queenblossom. It’s a rare find, and one could terrace it from the foothills of the Misty Mountains and grow it well in the sanctuary gardens. And it looks similar to the small flowers I grow when I’m healing…”
“I’ve never heard of it.”
“It heals deep wounds if we turn it into a salve, but it also brews into a tea where its properties treat something like ‘spiritual fatigue,’ lingering despair or dread.” How pertinent.
“We both know somebody that might benefit from some tea,” Hareth says as rolls her eyes. You decide she must be a mind reader. She closes her eyes again, attempting to refocus on the energy movement as she breathes heavily. Or sleeps. You cannot tell.
Still, how would you even get the king to drink it? “Don’t be ridiculous, I would have to explain why I am giving him the tea and I would have to explain why it might be so helpful to the cause of healing the forest.”
Navë from another bed over from Hareth says tentatively, peeking out of one eye like Hareth just did, “Would that be such a bad thing if the king knew what we know?”
“Or you could just tell him it’s really delicious tea. Don’t overcomplicate it,” Hareth says, opening her eyes finally.
“I’m certainly going to have to explain myself sooner than later, though I suspect after a successful healing tomorrow it would be a moment when he might receive it better than now. Or maybe I could make some tea as a celebration?” You suggest with a weak smile.
At that, you hear a light knock coming from the other room. Branniel — who had already given up on channeling the healing light after the first thirty minutes of attempting to attune to the energy — opens the doors to the healing wing. “Yes?” Branniel calls out.
You recognize Galion’s delightfully smarmy voice as it cuts across the large area, even as he talks through the door. You stand, putting the pinch of dried pale-petals back in its small wooden box. Branniel moves to open it. You only hear murmurs from the doorway. By the time you make your way around the corner, you hear him say, “Ah, there you are. I suppose no intermediary is necessary.” He shoots a distasteful look towards Branniel who dismisses herself to the supply area, shooting an equally dirty look over her muscular shoulder.
“You were looking for me?” You ask. As far as you know, tomorrow is the day for going to the lower layers of the palace. What was Galion doing here now?
“Yes, the king requests your presence in his personal wing for supper. The Prince will also be in attendance,” Galion informs you. “Attempt to arrive within the next three hours.”
“Would a bit longer from now still be viable? I’m in the middle of —”
“She’ll be there on time,” Navë interjects. You hadn’t noticed her gliding up behind you. You’re glad she approached you before you accidentally refused the invitation from the king.
“Will she be?” The auburn haired attendant to the king tilts his head as he looks within you.
“Yes,” you nod, catching the warning Navë corrects you on.
“Excellent,” Galion smiles. “I will see you at dinner.”
Galion leaves, giving a curt nod to Candaer who stands outside of the door to the hospital wing, turning and walking left from this part of the palace.
Navë holds her breath until she hears Galion’s footsteps long fade down the hallway. Once she cannot hear him any longer, she exhales. “What do you think the dinner is about?”
“Perhaps about the excursion tomorrow,” you reply, dreading having to elaborate any further. Nave and Hareth exchange a look, now fully broken from their meditative exercise.
“What?”
“I mean…what did you say the king said again?” Navë asks.
“I could be suitable for his son,” you sigh, flopping back on one of the hospital beds. The thought of the Elvenking consumes your mind again, how his breath, visible in the cold, brushed your nose. You swear his darkened eyes were fixed upon your lips when he said it.
“Then I think you know what this dinner is about,” Hareth taunts, her eagle-yellow eyes flash with interest. “Right?”
“The problem is that I don’t know if the Prince would want anything in regards to me. He was so sweet in the library but he seemed very conflicted, and he spent a lot of time discussing my role with the king.”
“Well,” Nave crosses to you. She sits on the edge of the bed you are currently flopped over. You feel the depression in the mattress and her fingers gently brushing through your hair. “How do you feel about it?”
“I just don’t know if this is what Lord Cirdan or Lord Elrond really had in mind when they were suggesting that I diplomatically engage with this realm as I try to help heal some parts of it.”
“I mean, did they tell you to get diplomatically engaged?” Hareth snickers. You sit up and shoot her a nettled glare. “Apologies, wrong moment.” Branniel stifles a laugh from the other room.
“Branniel!”
“Sorry,” she giggles. Before you say something sarcastic back, your mind replays your conversation with the Lords right before you left to go prepare, now months and weeks ago. Your appearance was mentioned by Lord Cirdan as a diplomatic asset…what was in that letter that the Elvenking read at your first meeting?
The serious thoughts must have darkened your expression because Nave’s brows furrow as she asks, “My lady, are you alright?”
“I’m well, though I do wish I knew the king’s goals more, I wish I understood what he truly wanted from this dinner.”
“Why should it not be just so? A meeting discussing some form of arrangement or facilitating the possibility of one!” Hareth exclaims. “You are overcomplicating it, child.”
Were you overcomplicating this? Part of you agrees with Hareth…you might be. But, would he really arrange a marriage without knowing if I am Legolas’s One? You think back to the emptiness of when he told you his queen was not his great love. Is that what he wished upon his son? A love of companionship?
Beyond your speculation, the only counter you truly have to the notion of the king’s wishes to arrange something between you and his son is the gnawing, aching question that plagues your mind: did he want to kiss you in his garden just as badly as you wished to kiss him?
“You’re probably right,” you sigh, but you know that your thrumming heart and your whirring mind are at odds with what you say.
Scene 2 – Arrival at Dinner
A soft red velvet off the shoulder dress stops at your knees asymmetrically, showing the cream colored skirt of a lighter fabric, draping to ruby velvet shoes. A similarly textured, cream-colored ribbon is being braided into your hair by Navë at your vanity. Rushed out of the healers wing just an hour ago, you sigh.
“I feel as though I am missing something, Navë.”
“How so?”
“I feel there are things that should have been said, instructions that should have been given by those who sent me here. I need to write to the Lords Círdan and Elrond. Could you send these letters while I am at dinner?”
“Certainly,” Navë says while twisting some of the smaller braids together. Trying your best to keep your head still for her, you open up the drawer, taking out parchment and ink.
Lord Círdan,
Apologies for not writing sooner, though I would say that up to this point, I have been quite busy within the halls of the king. The accommodations are beyond what I expected, and the company of the guards and the healers of the court is well met. As you asked, I have been doing my best to attempt to heal some of the corruption of the realm. Though, the scale of it is quite a bit larger than I had imagined. The scale is not what concerns me, rather it is the limitations presented by the king. I have been learning more about the root cause of this darkness over his realm.
You pick up your pen, wondering if you should put it to paper. It is your job, you remind yourself, bolstering your will to write.
It has become very clear that the king’s spirit – his heart – is invariably tied to the corruption in the forest. It may be placated by the healing of the memories of his people, but only truly healed by the soothing of his memories, by the healing of his spirit. He seems to hold onto the stress and pain of protecting a realm at risk despite the defeat of such in the East, and more than that, he seems alone in this burden.
I met Prince Legolas at the Feast of Stars, which was an incredible event to witness, though, I find that I am being ushered by the king into conversations that imply an arrangement of marriage that I was not expecting. I fully understood the task at hand with regard to addressing the corruption, but woefully in the dark about your intentions for me to diplomatically bring in the Woodland Realm to the coalition of Elven Realms. Without turning to blame or malice, I wish to ask: was my hand in marriage to a member of the king’s court something proposed to King Thranduil in your initial letter? If so, I assume my mother was not aware of this.
By the time you or Lord Elrond receive this letter and that I may receive a response, I hope I have proceeded in alignment with your will and that I do not betray the trust you have put in my success.
You sign off this letter and rewrite it for Lord Elrond, addressed accordingly. Standing and looking at yourself in the mirror, you give a smile. Navë did an excellent job, some darker liner around your eyes, making your gaze look only a bit more sultry. You pick up your mother’s swan clasp, looking at it in your palm. Your fist closes around it, and you feel the ridges of it push into your skin.
“Are you ready, my lady?” Navë asks, coming up behind you in the mirror, placing her hand gently on the small of your back. You take a breath in to settle yourself. You feel like you are about to walk into an arena, facing off against a far more dexterous opponent. Your exhale is shakier than you wish it to be.
“As I’ll ever be,” you sigh, trying on a smile in the mirror. Navë stifles a laugh at the horrifically anxious smile on your face.
“Maybe try that smile again, sea-daughter,” she nudges you. Her infectious laugh brings a laugh bubbling up from within you at your own contorted expression.
“Far better,” she says softly.
“Healing truly is your calling, Navë,” you say, turning away from the mirror towards her.
She thanks you humbly, before leading you to the door. “You better go, lest you be late.”
“Candaer?” She calls outside.
“No, it’s Fergrath, dear elleth,” a deeper voice replies. “He has to go out on watch.”
“Oh, well I wish him well,” she bites her lip nervously. “Can you tell him?”
“Of course, when he returns to relieve me,” Fergrath replies. She huffs impatiently.
“I’ll be back by then. I can just tell him myself. Can you take her to the king’s wing?” Navë asks. You step out of the door.
“Hello, Fer,” you smile. “I hope you got some sleep between your ranger rotation and here.”
“You’d be hoping in vain,” he derides. “It’s been one battle after another against the thicket, though in some spots in the forest it does seem to be getting better.”
“Mm, well that’s good,” you say, your mind drifting to the anticipation of whatever you might be walking into. As you have before, you follow him along the hallways. As you walk through many of the labyrinthine passageways, you catch the eyes of many of the members of the Elvenking’s court that reside here.
“Is that the one he danced with? I swear it’s her,” a pallid ellon leans in to a similarly pallid ellith who nods and stares at you.
Trying your best to ignore them and others who whisper similar things, you eventually find yourself back in front of the doors to the king’s wing. Smoothing the front of your dress, you roll your wrists, roll your head around, stretching out your neck. With a final sharp exhale, you knock on the king’s massive doors. You don’t get to the second knock before Galion opens the doors.
“You are to wait at the door of her quarters, Fergrath. Thank you,” Galion, in hushed tones, relays to your guard. Fergrath grunts tiredly, waving to you before departing.
“And you, inside,” he steps aside, holding the door for you. You step back into king’s wing of his palace.
Your dress fits into this room that is draped in red and gold. Thinking back, you must look so different from how you must have appeared when you first entered into these halls, but breathing in the fumes of the fire, you let them comfort you, as you gather whatever quiet confidence you can muster.
Walking in, you turn to the left, taking in the central area of the Elvenking’s wing. On the same wall as the door is the hearth you had sat in front of with him weeks ago. To the right, behind the couches is a dining table. The warm woods of his halls extend along his long dining table, the organic shape of the wood of the table’s surface bends, curves, and dips for the knots that are in it, for the way the tree aged before it’s use lived beyond it. Yet, all of its flaws are polished so neatly. A burgundy drape runs along it, held down by several candles on brass candlesticks of various heights.
Waiting for you, are the two Sindar elves engulfed in the orange light of the hearth and the candles. They both stand, Thranduil standing half a head taller than his son. The Elvenking sits at the head of the table, Legolas to his right. The Elvenking, donning a twisting gold band around his head as a crown, a small ruby at the center, wears a velvet similar to your dress as his scarlet mantle drapes around dark brown and olive brocade tunic with a silver clasp. A large flickering piece of obsidian is held at the heart of the clasp.
At his height, you can’t look anywhere but him, him and his presence. Him and his high cheekbones. It isn’t lost on you that he stood for you. A king didn’t have to stand for you, yet Thranduil stood. As he looks to you, his eyes – back to their inky darkness – follow every step you take. The dark room might have a part to play in this, but you feel your own pupils dilate as you take him in, you feel your breath hitch as he narrows his eyes, considering you. All of you.
Scene 3 – At the Table
Galion moves to pull out your chair for you. Legolas, wearing a moss green tunic with gold details over light pants, stops him, “Please, Galion, allow me.”
The auburn-haired attendant gives a polite bow, closer to a deep nod, turning and stepping away towards the other side of the room. Legolas walks around the side of the table to your side. He smells of pine needles and the air before the storm, and you wonder what color vial he might have used from the crystalline-looking glass bottles of oils Navë pulls for the baths.
Softly, he places his hand on your lower back, “Excuse me,” he murmurs close, so only you could hear. You step aside, allowing him to pull out the chair for you. His kind eyes brighten as you offer him a grateful smile. “There you are,” he says.
To your right, the Elvenking sits in his higher-backed chair, clutching the arms as he watches his son push your chair in as you beam at him. Would you ever look at him like that instead of with such duty, such…weight?
“How kind of you, ion nin,” Thranduil takes a sip from his glass of wine, releasing one of the arms of his chair. Raising his eyebrows. “Do you also plan on pouring her a glass?”
“If she would so like,” Legolas assents with every spirit of devotion. His blue eyes rest on yours. The warmth in his words makes the candlelight feel brighter and makes your cheeks run warm in turn.
“Please,” is all you can manage to say in return. Legolas lifts slightly from his seat to reach and grab your wine goblet, pouring some of his father’s wine into it. The purple of it shines in the goblet when the Prince hands it back to you, your fingers slightly grazing his. “It looks beautiful.”
Before you can take a sip, you say, “I appreciate your invitation, my Lord, and I look forward to this dinner with you both,” you pause, forcing yourself to pursue the questions you so desperately wish to know the answers to. “Though, I did wonder if there was any specific purpose or end either of you might have wished to achieve?” You look between the two white-blonde ellyn.
“Eager, are we?” Thranduil smugly snorts into his goblet of wine.
“Possessing sensibilities like directness and pragmatism might be worth being seen as ‘eager,’ to some.” You turn towards him fully. His dark eyes flash. Touching the lip of his wine goblet to his lower lip, a wry smile of amusement crests over the top of his cup.
“Do taste the wine. If you enjoyed the one from the Feast, I wonder if you might enjoy this,” Thranduil changes the subject, lifting his brows.
“Eager to have me try it?” You lilt, lifting a brow in turn.
“Pure pragmatism, I swear,” he says. You relent, lifting the cup to your lips, tasting the plum of the wine and the whisper of blackberry. It’s the ambrosia of Valinor as it washes over your tongue. Your eyes close as you savor it. Thranduil’s chin tilts up, watching you sip it, watching your throat as you swallow.
“It is like a dream,” you say. Now, you understand. Play the game to win.
“I said something similar my first time tasting it,” The Elvenking. “It’s an older wine, but I was saving it for some fitting occasion.”
“Adar, do you plan on answering the emissary’s question?” Legolas asks, eyes flitting between them. “I too am curious.” Impatience of some kind found its way into the Prince’s tone as he watches you and his father spar.
“Yes, ion nin,” the king sighs, losing his mirthful smile. “I invited you here, spider-slayer, because the Prince has decided to work with the wizard Mithrandir to find old trade routes in my kingdom. He wishes to restore them. Some of them contain some of the vines we have been addressing. Since you have both been examining the maps, I thought it pragmatic to have the discussion in one room,” Thranduil says smoothly.
“We did already look at the maps, adar. She knows of the trade routes I had highlighted. What more is there to discuss? Once you learn how to clear it with less force, then you will help,” Legolas narrows his eyes, suspicious of his father’s true purpose and settled on debunking this false one.
“Well, I did have some other questions, actually,” you say softly. Thranduil looks triumphant.
“Perfect. We can discuss over — ah, yes,” the king turns just in time to see the attendants for his wing bring out some of the dishes for dinner and some of the maps from the library to his grand table. Several attendants, dressed in the sage green of the court wear gold tree pins on the collar of their robes, and they carry dishes of silver, reaching around you to place the trays on the table.
Preserved fruits, river fish, mushrooms from some of the caverns, breads, and honeyed roots adorn the table. The dishes are rich and earthen; combined with the smells of the plum-hued wine, you can tell how intentionally this meal was orchestrated. The Elvenking watches your reaction to it, and Legolas can see how your delight at the spread pleases him.
The maps are set to the other end of the table that the three of you were not sat at. Until the maps are placed there, you did not question the seating arrangements. However, in many places — including Rivendell — either end of the table is usually occupied by the host and guest, yet, decidedly more intimately, all three of you share this one side.
As the attendants assemble each of your plates, adding more or less of what you want to it, you ask, “I was wondering about the lower trade passages that we might visit tomorrow. When did they fall out of use?”
Legolas quietly thanks the attendant who places his plate down with a bow, then turns back to you. “They were sealed not a century ago, around the time of when Bilbo Baggins and the company of dwarves came around…it was an escape for them when they were held for..questioning at the time. Thus, it was closed.”
“To avoid other escape attempts?”
“From keeping spiders, and other unwanted visitors like the orcs, more recently out as well,” Thranduil. “I would not have such loathsome creatures enter my palace from such a trivially easy access point which is so simply sealed.”
“If not for the spiders, it would be worthwhile to consider opening it, adar,” Legolas suggests, piercing a mushroom with his fork. He looks back up to you, your eyes, sultry from the wings of the shadow, are fixed on him now. You are listening to him so attentively. “The trade area once brought wines, fruits, grains, salt, crafted goods, new fabrics from the boats. The boats would come from the lower channels and river docks in the lowest levels of the castle. Children used to sneak down there during preparations for feasts and the like.”
“As the corruption worsened it became important to close them,” Thranduil says, briefly narrowing his eyes at Legolas.
“Well, then tomorrow, I hope we are able to truly heal some of the vines down there! I certainly have some new purpose. I did hear about some of the children’s hide and seek,” you giggle, thinking of Fergrath and Candaer’s stories.
“Yes, tomorrow,” Thranduil trails off, raising his eyebrows lightly, tapping his first finger against the table in thought. He looks from Legolas to you. “You know, my son has walked far beyond these borders, and is quite familiar with this changing world of men, dwarves, alliances, new routes and old roads.”
“Adar —” Legolas’s ears turn pink at the tips, at the open praise. You nod along looking from Legolas to his father politely, nibbling at your lower lip in thought.
“My son has always been more willing than I to see what lies beyond the trees,” Thranduil says, making a sweeping gesture with his hand. “Would Legolas not be better suited to travel with you? A better guide for you.”
You stifle panic, but worry seeps into your mind despite that. He had to be the one there for the healing! Worse still, you wonder, is he trying to avoid seeing me tomorrow? It feels like the Elvenking is attempting to push you towards his son. Your heart thrums heavily at this notion, your eyes dart between Legolas and Thranduil. How does one say ‘no’ here?
“Prince Legolas has been generous with his knowledge. But I did not come only to learn the paths that may lead out of this realm,” you say reluctantly, lowering your chin avoiding looking at Legolas who suddenly becomes quite focused on his plate. With more confidence, staring into the eyes of the Elvenking, you assert, “If the wound is here, my lord, then I must understand what keeps it here.”
A reluctant, inverted smile tugged at his lips, accompanied by a brief, judgmental twitch of his nose. “You are very determined to find wounds where most have learned to simply walk around them.”
“I’m here for a purpose and I intend to see it through.”
“Very determined indeed.”
Legolas, watches his father and you in the candlelight. You are leaned in, determination splayed all across your face and his father is in amused repose: leaned back in the chair, elbow on the arm, with his fingers clutching the wine chalice by the rim. In the dark of the king’s palace, it is still not dark enough to justify the black of Thranduil’s pupils. Between the hungry look on his father’s face and the tension in his jaw as you refuse to yield, his father's attraction to this rare emissary is obvious. Confirming what he had thought at the ball, Legolas realizes how long it has been since he has seen his father look this alive. But yet, Thranduil is pushing him to court this healer?
As he looks to you, a similar attraction beginning to brew behind your challenging look to the king, he realizes the scheme at play. Understanding the game afoot, Legolas adds, “Adar, you know the maps and something tells me your memories would serve better for her healing, as I understand it.” You look at Legolas, gratefully.
At this, Thranduil’s jaw tightens, eyes shut. For a moment, he says nothing, only inhaling deeply, as if drawing his temper back behind his teeth. When his eyes returned to yours, they were bright with controlled displeasure. And when he speaks, the words come clipped and polished.
“I will accompany you.”
Legolas looks down into his wine as though hiding a smile. You take a triumphant bite of fish.
Scene 4 – After Dinner
The dinner did not only consist of interrogation, but rather of tales of Legolas’s recent travels, ranging from the rebuilding efforts in Esgaroth to the Beornings along the Andean River paths. Most interestingly, he has begun to explore Ithilien, a place within Gondor that seems to finally be healing after the War.
You see Legolas look to his father longingly as he describes Ithilien. “It was scarred with shadow and war, yet today…” he shakes his head, almost not believing it himself, “today, it is a land with flowers and gardens, herbs, and streams returning there. There are some Gondorian outposts we have been building.”
Thranduil closes his eyes, imagining land, healed. “Adar, I have seen a wounded land breathe again,” Legolas says.
“I would love to learn more about the herbs there!” Delighted by the news of that region’s revival, you grin at him.
“I’ll have to bring you some when I return,” Legolas says.
“I’d love that, though, I may have returned home by then,” you say, excitement falling slightly. The Elvenking’s jaw shifted at this, tongue running slowly along the inside of his teeth. Your words hang in the air for a moment.
Then, Galion reenters. “My lord, the hour —“
“Yes, yes, Galion. Do escort our emissary to her quarters,” Thranduil commands. “The hour is getting late for such an eventful tomorrow.”
“Actually, I would be happy to escort her, adar,” Legolas interjects, cutting off Galion for the second time tonight.
“Galion will see her to her chambers.” The Elvenking stands. You stand with him, as manners would ask of you. Legolas looks about to protest when Thranduil holds a ring-adorned hand up to silence him, his eyes flashing with warning. A final word.
You curtsy, the ruby velvet of the dress pooling on the ground as you bend. “Thank you for a wonderful evening, my lord. I look forward to addressing the corruption with you tomorrow. My Prince, thank you for your delightful company as well.”
Legolas walks around the table, around his father whose lips are pursed as he watches his son move towards you. As you stand, the Prince takes your hand, kissing the back of it gently, bowing slightly.
“Dear healer, I wish you the best of luck in your endeavors tomorrow.” With that Galion ushers you out the door. You look back before you exit, stealing one last glance at the Elvenking.
Your eyes meet his own and for a moment, you are surrounded by an inky blackness where the rest of the room falls away, and it is you and him in a void.
You take another step out from the door, your heart beating loudly against your chest and a weightless turning in your stomach that tingles down to your core. You breathe in the cold, jarring air of the halls once you leave the warm wing. It is sobering.
----------------------------
Left standing by the table, the two Sindar elves, the regent of and the heir to the Woodland Realm watch the door still even seconds after you departed.
Legolas is the first to turn and face his father. Thranduil is still transfixed on the door. Feeling eyes upon him, he breaks his trance, finally turning to face his son. Legolas gives him a knowing look, shaking his head, walking to the other side of the table to the untouched maps.
“What a thinly veiled effort this was,” Legolas shoves the maps on the table towards the Elvenking who turns to face the prince, scorned. He slowly shifts his shoulders, eyes cold and blue again.
“I’m not sure what you’re referring to,” Thranduil says, gesturing to the end of the table where the food had been cleared but three wine goblets sat, all empty or close to it. “I clearly put plenty of effort into the evening.”
Legolas strides back up to his father. “You invited her to dinner without telling me until just two hours before, you placed her next to you at the feast despite her not holding titles, I saw the way you looked at her during the Feast, and I saw it just now,” the Prince lists, eyes fierce, finger pointed.
This time, Thranduil’s voice lowers, coursing with authority, “I’m not sure what you are referring to.” Standing in olive, wrapped in red, Thranduil appears as if he is wrapped in wrath itself, the fire that flickers and plays off of the satin of the lining of the robe a threat rather than warmth.
“Is it not obvious? Unless you yourself don’t even realize!” Legolas raises his own voice to match. “Pushing some arrangement…you’ve grown fond of her in some way. Do not deny it.”
Thranduil’s hand closed slowly at his side. Fingers fold into his palm until his knuckles go pale, rings pressing into his skin. A cord tightens along his throat, sharp beneath the fall of his hair. And for one suspended breath, he says nothing at all. Then he turns away, reaching for the wine, and pouring with such tense precision that the silence felt far more dangerous than his raised voice. Glass in hand, Thranduil crosses to the hearth, putting distance between himself and his son.
“Your silence is damning,” Legolas calls out as his father walks away from him, though he has enough wisdom to know not to follow.
Thranduil stares into the fire, clutching the goblet so firmly that the metal is almost at risk of warping. The fire burns into his eyes, drying them. He embraces the sting of ash for a moment before pressing them shut. “Greenwood forbid that I care to arrange you with someone worthy, that you express clear interest in.”
“Adar nin,” Legolas pleads, softening his voice, “Let me be clear; I do admire her. She is beautiful, she is interesting, skilled, noble in spirit and by honorable approval of her Lords, but—”
“I fail to see how any of this proves why this is a poor match,” Thranduil bites out.
“I have my own road. I am helping rebuild this land after everything that has happened, after events that shaped the world beyond what you had yet seen in your millennia. That is worthy!” Legolas retorts, exasperated. “What is worse, is that you know this,” the prince says, lowering his voice to a quiet accusation. He approaches the hearth. “You know this, and yet you use me to place between yourself and what you want. You would make me the shape of your restraint to deny yourself. You’d keep me from what I desire, and her from you, who she clearly wants for.” His expression twists, briefly.
Legolas, now a foot from his father, looks up into eyes that mirror his own. “You want for her, father. I see it, the whole court saw it that night of the Feast, even the damned forest sees it, based on what I saw with the vines that night. Must you truly be the last?” Legolas lets his hands fall to his side with his expression. In that moment, Thranduil sees the last emotion he wished to ever witness on his son’s face. Pity.
Like a tidal wave, wrathful, cold fury boils up within him. Before he can verbally retort with the true vengeful venom of his wit, Legolas walks to the door and leaves, unceremoniously.
Flinging the contents of his cup into the fire, and watching it blaze white for a moment, bursting up and licking up the back of the fireplace, he watches the fire return to its curling orange flame. Even the fucking white blaze of the fire reminds him of you, your magic. The feeling in his chest is growing increasingly inescapable. And embarrassingly impossible to hide. He’d already failed at that.
He couldn’t send you away; the possibility of your healing — something he’d admit he’d grown increasingly faithful in — is too vital to the health of his realm. And his idea of pairing his son with you, keeping you close, keeping your sharp words at his throat — not just now but for a long, long time — failed tonight.
Yet, possibility blooms in his chest for a moment as he remembers his son’s words, she wants for me. He thinks on your face at dinner, full of vivacity, challenge, and your words full of clever earnestness, and your mouth that speaks them. His eyes sting again. He’d stared into the hypnotic flame for too long, imagining your curves in the shapes of the fire.
Desperation tugs at him and all he can do is blink and try to quash this pitiful hope, quell whatever desire he could, summon whatever control he could by tomorrow when he is with you...alone, lest his own darkness swallow the light you bleed.
Chapter index + tags • previous chapter • next chapter
Pairing: Sandor Clegane x Baratheon Princess! Reader
Chapter word count: 1,393
Chapter tags: slow burn • pre-canon GOT • will be canon compliant • no use of y/n • angst • emotional distance
Chapter summary: You had stopped trying to reclaim what was lost. It should have made things easier, but it seemed fate had other plans.
You did not consider yourself to have any friends. Not truly.
Tommen, perhaps, and Myrcella. Though you knew they did not count.
It had never bothered you before. You generally preferred your own company, anyway. Reading. Painting. Wandering the gardens with a sketchbook tucked beneath your arm. You enjoyed spending time alone. More importantly, you trusted it.
You wished now that you had a friend. Someone to talk to and laugh with. Someone you could trust would not be spying on you on behalf of your mother or the Spider or whichever other schemer in the Red Keep wished to use you for information.
You had been painting more often of late. Paint, not charcoal. It helped occupy your mind whenever it wandered where you did not want it to.
Training had settled into its own routine as well.
You had given up trying to engage with The Hound. No more complaints about Joffrey. No more teasing remarks, or questions about his day. There was little point, and you were tired of embarrassing yourself.
You simply trained.
Annoyingly, you'd been performing better than ever.
Without the distraction of trying to mend whatever had broken between you, your focus had returned in full. Your stance was steadier. Your blocks came quicker. The ache in your arm no longer distracted you.
One evening, you caught his sword cleanly, knocked it aside, and landed the edge of your practice blade against his shoulder before he could recover.
You both froze.
Clegane looked down at your blade, then back at you.
He gave a small nod.
Despite yourself, your lips curved into a smile.
You wanted to say something. A joke about finally becoming a worthy opponent. But the words died in your throat. Already, the Hound was settling back into his stance, the flash acknowledgement being replaced by his normal, hardened expression.
"Again," he said.
You settled back into your stance, ready.
Your brother was the first to notice that something was different.
Not Tommen.
Joffrey.
Your father had thrown yet another feast. What for, you could not recall. At least, you could not remember the official reason given. You knew the real reason—another excuse for the King to eat and drink and force people to listen to stories of his good old days.
You were not in the mood for any of it.
You had spent the better part of an hour pushing food around on your plate, half-listening to your fathers booming tales of the past. The noise faded into the background, and for once you were grateful to not be the intended audience. Thankfully, your mother was on the other side of him, sparing you from yet another conversation about your future.
Unfortunately, that meant you were sat beside Joffrey.
"You look miserable," he muttered, wrinkling his nose as he leaned back in his chair.
You did not bother looking up from your plate. "I didn't know you cared so much for my well-being, brother."
"I don't care for you at all," he snapped. There was a beat of silence between you, broken only by the continued scrape of your fork against your plate. Joffrey reached over and snatched the fork from your grip. "It's distracting. Why don't you go mope in your chambers so I can have some peace?"
You let him steal your fork without protest, instead slumping back in your seat and staring towards the group of lords surrounding your father. He was grinning, throwing his arms around as he spoke and taking breaks only to drink more wine. The lords laughed and nodded and leaned in to listen closer.
Going to bed early was not the worst suggestion you had heard all evening.
"Do you think I could sneak out without anyone noticing?"
The question slipped out before you could think better of it, spoken with a sincerity that had no place in a conversation with your brother.
Joffrey didn't answer. It took so long that you finally looked back, finding him staring at you with furrowed brows and narrowed eyes.
"You're behaving odd lately," he commented, the words coming out slow.
"Am I?"
"Yes," he said, leaning his arm across the back of his seat. "You've been all miserable. It's boring."
You looked back down at the table.
Just beyond him, you knew, Clegane stood against the wall as he always did.
You were not sure if he could hear your conversation. You had spent the entire evening pretending not to notice him at all.
You intended to keep it that way.
"I know what this is," Joffrey announced.
You very much doubted that, but you met his eyes anyway.
He leaned in close, a smug grin plastered on his face. "You're upset your little celebration's over and father is no longer fussing over you." He leaned back again, wrinkling his nose. "It's pathetic.
You held his gaze for a long moment.
Then, to his obvious disappointment, you smiled.
"You're probably right," you said, rising from your chair and smoothing out your skirts. "I think I will retire early."
Joffrey scoffed behind you.
You ignored him, just as you ignored the man standing guard behind him.
The silence had grown comfortable again.
It was not the same as it used to be—perhaps it never would be—but since you had stopped waiting for things to return to how they were before, you had found a different sort of comfort in the quiet.
If Clegane had overheard your conversation with your brother at the feast, he gave no sign of it. He made no mention of your brother calling you miserable, nor of the difference in your behaviour of late.
How horrifying that Joffrey had been the only one to comment on it.
Even The Hound's habit of leaving immediately after each lesson had begun to feel routine, though you could not say you were fond of it still.
"Two days," he said.
He didn't look back as he disappeared through the doorway. You waited until the sound of his boots had faded down the stairwell before moving.
Your boots came off first, then your trousers.
Your shirt clung unpleasantly to your skin, damp with sweat. You peeled it over your head with a tired sigh, reaching for your dress where it sat neatly folded on the floor.
Fresh bruises bloomed along your forearms.
The Hound had always held back, but that did little to stop the occasional strike from leaving its mark. Perhaps it was finally time to ask for something sturdier than an old shirt to train in. A padded gambeson, if he could get you one. Or if you could find a way to sneak one yourself.
You slipped your dress over your head, smoothing the skirts into place while the laces remained loose behind you. Your hair tumbled free as you removed the pins, falling in tangled waves that stuck to your shoulders.
The hinges gave a quiet groan from the other side of the room.
Your fingers paused against the loose laces of your dress. For the briefest moment, excitement fluttered in your chest.
A smile tugged at your lips before you could stop it.
"Forget something?" You asked, still fumbling for the ties.
When no answer came, you turned.
The smile vanished.
A servant stood frozen in the doorway, her eyes wide with shock and fixed entirely on you.
For a heartbeat, neither of you moved.
"Forgive me, Princess," she blurted, dipping into a hurried curtsy and dropping her gaze to the floor.
Before you could even answer, she turned and fled.
You stared at the empty doorway a long moment, unmoving.
Your first thought was the room. The swords. The discarded training clothes.
Had she seen them?
You looked towards the corner.
No. They sat in shadow, untouched. The servant had scarcely looked beyond you. She was too distracted by—
Shit.
Your stomach dropped.
Your dress. The stupid laces.
She had walked in on you dressing yourself in an old, abandoned room.
Shit, shit, shit.
You jerked the laces together with clumsy fingers, fumbling the knot twice before finally managing something that would hold.
By the time you reached the corridor, she was already gone.
You looked one way.
Then the other.
Nothing.
The knot in your stomach tightened.
Something told you she had not gone back to her duties.
"our fate was always set" NO CHRISTIAN IT WASN'T!!! YOUR SO BLOODY CRAVEN THAT YOU MUST DRAG YOUR MEN TO DEATH WITH YOU?? REALMS GREATEST WARRIOR MY BEANS!!
the show runners are trying so hard to make us like him but it won't work he's a little man whore and I HATE HIM
loving gwayne being like: please Christin 😃 you ever see the hightower 😃 it's so nice 😃 come with meee? 😃 I'll give you such a nice place 😃. bros not made for this kind of thing let him go home already christen
rewatching season 1 and 3 right now and I love how utterly present the sounds of the dragons are when there's even a chance of one being within a mile of the scene. it makes them feel just as present as the Targaryens are themselves!
plussss I mean the sounds are really cute I love hearing caraxes especially:>
Tags ✢ post-Dance, grief/mourning, arranged marriage/political marriage, enemies to lovers, falling in love, eventual romance, eventual smut, angst with a happy ending
Wordcount ✢ 3,360
Summary ✢ Jacaerys is crowned king as his mother perishes from her wounds shortly after retaking the Iron Throne. He makes a match with you, the last daughter of King Viserys and Alicent Hightower, to secure peace and rebuild the Targaryen dynasty.
Series Masterlist
Chapter Three ✢ We Light the Way
Night frost was still clinging to the windows and hindering the hinges of the doors when the young Lord Lyonel Hightower crossed the gates of the Red Keep atop his horse. He had left the inn on his last rest before reaching the capital early in the morning, and arrived before midday had risen in the sky, although the sun could barely pierce through the thick white clouds.
Snow was expected any day now, and he had written to you from the Roseroad to say he hoped his business in the capital would not take too long, so that he might return before the storms came from the Northern lands.
You were waiting for him on the balcony overlooking the inner courtyard when he crossed it in decided strides, his green cape floating behind him with a flourish. Your gazes met as you turned towards the staircase to meet him, and your heart picked up.
Nearly half a year had passed since you had set eyes on him—the last time you had seen him, he had been no more than a boy clutching the skirts of his step-mother, and now he was a young man at the head of a powerful house with powerful armies.
“Cousin,” Lyonel greeted as though you both remained unchanged since your parting, and embraced you like a sister.
“It is good to see you, cousin,” you replied, clutching him tighter for a moment, before releasing him.
As you stepped away, you noticed his eyes were raised to the staircase behind you, and as you turned to follow his line of sight, found Jacaerys standing at the very top of it. He was dressed in different clothes than you had seen on him so far. When he usually wore black these days, save for the lining of his cape, he now wore a crimson cloak draped over one shoulder, the crown of Jaehaerys sitting neatly atop his curls.
“Lord Hightower,” he called, making his way down slowly, content to make his guest wait at the bottom of the stairs. Two kingsguards were escorting him, right wrists resting loosely on the pommel of their swords. Lyonel said nothing in return, but you felt him tense beside you.
As Jacaerys came to face the new lord of the Hightower, he was stricken with how youthful of appearance he was—he was still very much a boy, barely two years younger than himself and yet appearing more juvenile. He looked very much like a Hightower, with bright red hair and light eyes, and the arrogant attitude that came with his father’s reputation.
“It is good of you to answer my call,” Jacaerys added when it became apparent he was not going to receive a formal greeting.
“I admit my surprise when on the way to the capital, we learned that my cousin had been crowned as queen,” Lyonel then said, crossing his arms. “I will be blunt, I am only here to see her.”
“The war is lost and over, Lyonel, let us keep the peace,” you placated, a hand on his arm, and he relented, following without a word when Jacaerys led him to the Council Room, and took the seat he was pointed to, across from the Hand’s chair where you sat.
Jacaerys saw Lyonel’s eyebrows raise when he then spoke, no doubt surprised at the subject he chose to address first. “It is my understanding that you’ve petitioned the High Septon to authorize you to marry your father’s widow,” Jacaerys said.
“Indeed,” Lyonel said, frowning.
“It is an unusual request,” he commented, and it was obvious Lyonel wanted to laugh in his face.
“I doubt a Targaryen would find it so strange as to notice it,” he said with an unpleasant sneer, and it took Jacaerys a second to understand there was a second meaning to his answer, which he chose to ignore. It had been his understanding that Lord Ormund had been a pious man, deeply motivated by his faith, and he did not know what to make of such a proclivity in the son.
“I was also told it was refused,” Jace continued, and Lyonel’s mood soured visibly.
“Which is disappointing, as the union has already been consummated,” Lyonel replied, crossing his legs at the knee and leaning back into his chair. “Lady Sam is with child.”
Your eyes widened at the news and you swallowed uncomfortably, but Jacaerys remained impassible, his face smooth as marble, his eyes fixed on Lyonel. “I might be able to convince the Septon,” he said calmly, as though none of the situation troubled him.
“And if you were not?” Lyonel pressed back.
“I would legitimize any child you would have with her,” he answered without a second thought.
Lyonel seemed to consider the proposal for a while. “Lady Sam advised me to come, she thought you might be sympathetic to our cause,” Lyonel admitted. “What would you ask of me in return?”
Jacaerys glanced at you then, a silent assent. “We ask that you disband your banners,” you requested, crossing your hands atop the table. “Some of your garrisons are still stationed along the Roseroad and the Mander, causing tension.”
Lyonel had a strange look in his eyes as he looked upon you, then glanced at Jacaerys suspiciously before he turned his gaze back to you again. “They have been waiting on my orders, no more,” he defended, uncrossing his legs so he could lean forward.
“We ask that you send your men home, and make a declaration of peace,” Jacaerys intervened.
Lyonel’s face darkened then, and Jacaerys thought he saw something familiar in the set of his jaw and the line of his brow—an authoritarian look he had seen many times on the face of his grandsire’s Hand.
“While your husband plays a pleasant tune, and my wife encourages me to fall into rank, I need to know, can I trust his word, my queen?” he asked, and Jace noticed something unspoken passing between the two of you, an understanding stemming from years as children together, raised under the same roof.
You swallowed but nodded. “The king has not broken any of the promises he’s made me so far.”
Lyonel stood then, sharply, forcing Jacaerys to mirror him. “Consider it done,” he said, but before Jace could reply, laid out his terms. “On the condition that my cousin is safe and treated properly. Let one thing be clear, Jacaerys, is that House Hightower is not loyal to you, but to our queen. One word from her, and we shall declare against you.”
Jacaerys extended his hand despite the threat. “I expected no less,” he said, gritting his teeth when Lyonel reciprocated, his grip unnecessarily tight on his wrist as they sealed their words—for the time being.
Jeyne Arryn made it to the capital a mere few days following Lord Lyonel’s arrival, and she immediately regretted that Jacaerys received him personally, without waiting for her counsel.
She faced the same slight displeasure from the men of the Small Council, no doubt slighted that none of them were chosen as Hand, and instead would have to take orders from a woman. Jacaerys supposed that endorsing the rightful queen was one thing, but obeying a woman chosen among other candidates was another entirely.
Still, Lady Jeyne took it in stride, and did not wait to be settled in the Hand’s Tower to take over the Small Council meetings and surveying what had been done so far. “Do you believe Lord Hightower to be trustworthy?” she inquired at supper the first night, after Jacaerys had recounted the meeting to her.
Jacaerys had chosen to host her in one of the dining halls instead of his own quarters, wary of allowing anyone in his quarters these days. He had started to wonder if he might also requisition one of the empty royal bedchambers to move his desk into, loathing the sight of it as he laid in bed, reminded at every second of the sheer scale of the work that awaited him.
“No, but he needs something from me and his wife apparently endorsed my mother,” he replied, to which Jeyne gave a surprised hum, spearing a braised plum on her fork. “Furthermore, he will not go against the queen’s direct order.”
“His loyalty is with her, then,” Jeyne concluded, then seemed to think on the issue for a moment. Across from her at the table, Cregan Stark was observing her with interest, seemingly pleased in what he was seeing in her. After a while of silent contemplating, she spoke again. “The Hightowers are vassals of House Tyrell, and while their lord is a babe, I heard the regent Lady Margaery is a sensible woman.”
“Do you mean to order the Tyrells to settle their banners?” Jacaerys inquired.
Cregan set his knife down at the suggestion. “She was not impressed by dragons in her lands, she refused to declare all throughout the war, I doubt forcing her hand is the way to treat with her.”
Jeyne did not smile nor frown, simply continued to cut into the sweet, caramelized fruit being served with the braised meat. “I shall write to her, woman to woman, and to Lady Sam as well,” she said, her voice as even as always. “We cannot trust Lord Lyonel’s word alone.”
Jacaerys was slightly reassured by the prospect, but his worries resurfaced when Cregan cleared his throat and addressed him. “Your grace, I could not help but notice that you gave leeway to the queen to socialize with her cousin, unsupervised,” he said carefully, and Jeyne tilted her head at the comment.
“I would not trust the queen to that extent,” she immediately replied.
A bright flare of irritation burst behind Jace’s breastbone, and he pushed his plate aside, his appetite soured. “It was the council’s idea that I wed her and now you tell me to be wary of my own wife?”
Cregan frowned at the display of temper, but Jacaerys supposed he was used to it by now. “She is a Hightower. She was raised by Lord Hobert and then Lord Ormund,” he replied, keeping his voice calm but firm. “Lyonel is more of a brother to her than Aegon or Aemond ever were.”
Jacaerys rose from the table then, startling the young page that had been waiting on him with a pitcher of fresh, dark wine ready to be served. “Out,” he snapped to the boy, who obeyed and scurried out, closing the door behind him. Pacing the room under the attentive eyes of his councillors, Jacaerys struggled to keep his temper at bay. “Do you think she would so easily betray me? Why encourage me to take a queen you know you cannot trust?”
Cregan rose as well then, while Jeyne kept to her seat, swirling her cup of wine slowly. At her feet, one of her lanky dogs crossed its paws and huffed as though it could understand the topic being discussed.
As he had done many times over, Cregan came to him and soothed his frustrated pacing with a hand to the shoulder, and Jace nearly regretted how disagreeable he had been then. “Trust is to be earned, your grace, and she will earn it by doing her duty,” he explained. “The sooner she bears you a child, the better.”
Jacaerys looked aside then, removing his hand with a sharp shrug of his shoulder. “I am aware of that,” he said in a tone that suggested no further comment would be tolerated, and Cregan took a step back in subtle deference. “Now if you’ll excuse me, Lady Jeyne, I shall see to my brothers,” he said before making his way towards the door, leaving his new Hand and his most trusted sword alone.
Alicent was already dressed for the night when you came to visit her that night, sharing a cup of tea as had become your ritual when you did, sharing wisdom in the quiet hours of the evening, when the troubles of the day kept you from settling.
“I have not been allowed to meet with Lyonel,” Alicent lamented as she tightened the belt of her night robe before sitting down across from you, the steaming tea between you on the small table. “He was a babe the last time I saw him and now he rules our house.”
You replied nothing to her lament, instead asked the question that had plagued you since Lyonel’s arrival and your discussions in the garden, reminiscing of your childhood, and in which memory your cousin had promised to raise his army if you so wished, uncaring for the pact he had made with Jacaerys.
“Why did you send me to ward with the Hightowers?” you inquired, and your mother looked sad then.
“I bore the king three Targaryen children,” she explained, and in those words you could feel the weight of decades of selfless service to the crown. “I wanted you, my last, to be a Hightower.”
“Well I am not. Lord Hobert was kind and I bless his memory, but Ormund never let me forget that my blood was tainted, that I would only be worthy of the Hightower name if I dedicated myself to the faith,” you replied, feeling now familiar frustration rise in you. It was your constant companion these days, and you could not determine the root of it so you might tear it from the ground and burn it.
Alicent seemed remorseful then, but you had no use of cold regrets. “I spent a decade praying for forgiveness, forced to reject my own blood until I was called to make use of it again,” you continued, remembering the letter Lyonel had received, ordering him to send you back to your king. “I am not a Targaryen but I am not a Hightower either. I don’t know that I belong anywhere.”
Alicent reached across the table to take your hands into hers. “You are a Hightower, by temperament and by upbringing, but also by blood. You are my daughter,” she assured you. “And now you are the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.”
“Am I?” you murmured, looking down at your knees. You hesitated to confess the truth of your position, but in the end, you allowed the truth to escape you. “The marriage is unconsummated.”
The cooling tea was definitely forgotten then, Alicent now more awake and incensed than she had been a minute ago. She shook her head, sighing in despair. “You cannot allow it to remain as such. As long as you are not married to the king, our position remains fragile,” she explained, even though she did not need to. “As long as he has not bedded you, he can replace you in an instant.”
“I am aware of that, mother,” you protested.
“Then you must go to him now,” Alicent urged you, rising and pulling you along, leading you towards the door. You looked aside when your mother reached for your robe, undoing the first few clasps and pulling the collar of your nightgown further down on your chest. “The sooner you give him a boy, the sooner you will obtain what it is you seek.”
You wanted to protest that what you sought did not rest in the hands of a husband you had not chosen, but you knew your laments would fall into deaf ears. Instead you nodded, compliant as you had been taught, and walked out into the cold hallway, following your memory without conscious thought until you came upon the king’s quarters.
However, your endeavor was stopped by the kingsguard that stood at attention in front of the heavy doors. “The king is not in his quarters, my queen,” the man said.
“Where is he, then?” you asked. So preoccupied by the matter at hand, you instantly thought of him in the arms of another—you had heard the rumors regarding his affection for his cousin Lady Baela—betraying you as you had feared the first night of your marriage.
While he had assured you of his intent to keep you as his queen, you wondered if perhaps it was a facade to appease the Hightowers for the time being, and now that he had their allegiance, although fragile, he would cast you away.
The guard was quick to soothe your sudden worries. “The king is in the nursery, your grace,” he said, pointing to the room across the hallway.
Slightly curious, you thanked him and made your way to the children’s quarters, from which a bright light was coming, spilling into the hallway. For a morbid second you wondered whether it was the room your nephew had lost his life in, but the question was chased away from your mind when you entered and took in the sight that awaited.
Jacaerys was sitting at the foot of a large bed where two boys were huddled together, their little heads resting side by side on the pillow, their white hair sticking into odd spikes, still wet from a bath. The king held a closed book on his lap, and while you could not see his face, you could see in the downturn line of his shoulders that he was not in a cheerful mood.
“I know that I am not your father, and that I will never replace him,” he was telling the children, his voice thick with emotion. “As I will never replace our mother, but I will do my best by you.”
The older-looking boy glanced over his brother’s shoulder then, and Jacaerys turned, catching you before you could step back into the hallway. “Forgive me, I did not mean to interrupt,” you defended yourself immediately, but instead of anger, it was exhaustion that spread over his face.
“Stay,” he said, twisting to glance at the other side of the room. Across from the boys’ bed, Jaehaera slept in her own crib. The nurse that sat with her rose when you approached, and you took her place, sitting in the rocking chair. The little girl was deep into slumber, clutching a doll made of cloth and an embroidered blanket—at first glance you thought they were flowers, but upon closer inspection, you noticed they were butterflies.
“She’s my niece and yet I am a stranger to her,” you commented, unsure why you were saying this out loud, to Jacaerys of all people.
Nonetheless, he seemed touched by your confession, and in the soft light of the nursery, you found he looked quite different than you had ever seen him—gone was the arrogant, self-assured young king who had met with your cousin. Instead he looked years older than his years, and weary beyond them.
“Would you like to raise her?” he offered. “There has been talk of sending her to ward with Lord Lyonel, but I would keep her here, with you, if that is what you wished.”
“Perhaps I should,” you answered, aware that it was not an answer.
For a while the both of you remained silent, looking upon the children the war had spared, and the utter devastation of it seemed to dawn on you. Orphans, they were, their respective parents dead in the pursuit of the throne, and once again you thought there was no justice to the whims of the Gods, leaving babes without mother nor father, left to carry a legacy of bloodshed and kinslaying.
When Jacaerys spoke again, it was as though the words came straight from your heart. “I am aware that our marriage is based on hatred, but the children are innocent in all this. May we leave the quarrels of the past behind, when it comes to them?” he asked. “They need serenity after what they’ve been witness to.”
There was only one thing you could answer then. “Of course.”
After that Jacaerys spoke to you no more, instead turning back to his Aegon and Viserys, and the book he was holding, opening it on his lap and letting the large pages fall on either side of his legs. You nearly started when he started to read what you supposed to be High Valyrian, and you suffered that you could not understand a word of it.
Author's Note ✢ Dividers by @zaldritzosrose. Chapter four will be posted in two weeks, on August 1st.
Series taglist ✢ @chaotichereticcavern @galactict3a @qtmoonies @multyfangirl @obsidian-gold1239
Summary: After the shock of Thranduil's suggestion with regards to the Prince, you seek Prince Legolas out, determined to apologize for missing the meeting but also to decipher where his true feelings lie, since yours are complex. Does Legolas even know about his father's intentions to match the two of you? And you realize, against higher wisdom, that you have grown infatuated with the Elvenking.
AO3 Link
Previous Part: Chapter 10
Author's Note: Hi bbs, post-cliffhanger, I hope this chapter answers some questions and sets up for even more tension - mwahahaha! Love you all so much! Welcome my new people, and if you've been following from week to week, thank you so much for sticking around! I look forward to your comments every week now! They're my greatest treasure!! Enjoy this chapter, spider-slayers.
I do not use generative AI in my writing
Scene 1 – Navë’s Interogation
“I came as soon as I heard you were back,” Navë barges into your quarters where you were lost in thought, laying on a couch, your second glass of wine placed on the floor for easy access. “What happened?”
“I made a new deal to be able to get back out into the forest with you all again.” You decide to lead with the…safer news. Your owl-eyed apprentice’s excited expression fell slightly.
“What?”
Unimpressed, she looks at you, crosses her arms, and asks, “Was that all?”
“It depends on what you consider ‘all,’” you say, covering your eyes with your arm. The words he said in the garden swam in your head. From a pet name like “sharp one” or even telling you that his late wife was not his One, and even that one moment where you swear you felt something more, you are left to ponder and think of Mirkwood’s king. Valar, you held his hand!
Despite all of this, you can only dwell on what he said before you left.
Navë gave you a merciless stare. You crack, saying the most troubling thing on your mind. “I don’t know, I felt like there was something for a moment,”
Both of her eyebrows disappear behind her bangs in surprise. “Something?”
“Well, between the dance, and seeing him in his gardens alone…I…we were standing closely,” you decide against getting more specific. “And there was a moment. And I don’t know, but I think I was wrong about it all.” Your mind drifts to the inky blackness of his eyes, how his pale blue eyes were eclipsed by his pupils, how he looked at you with the hunger of someone starving, insatiable.
“Would you have wanted that moment to be something?” Navë asks softly. This is her king, a leader of her people for her whole life, how could I just promise something? You feel torn between telling her about the beating of your heart or the feeling you get when he pays attention to you and only you.
“He told me, ‘I think you would be a suitable match for my son.’”
“We did figure the Prince really enjoyed your company, especially after the dance, but this…” You watch the same rounds of confusion flit through Navë’s face. First perturbation as she tilted her head, then bewilderment as she pursed her lips, shaking her head, then, she opened and closed her mouth, trying to find any way to react to the king’s suggestion.
“I know,” you groan.
“Didn’t you miss the Prince in order to see the King? That question is…surprising.” You nod, laughing despite yourself. You sit up. “And you said you felt something between you?”
“Yes! There was definitely a moment. Navë, this is a horrific situation,” you take out your mother’s swan clasp, letting it sit in your palm. You trace the swans on it. “I don’t know how to navigate this.” You gesture broadly.
“I’ve helped plenty of diplomats who come here. Never in my time have I heard of such a situation, my lady.” You wrack your mind for what to do. If I never reconnect or explain why I did not show for Prince Legolas, then I will let down both Thranduil and Legolas. The Prince and King of the Realm I am supposed to by forging ties with.
Forging ties, you scoff at the ironic (or was it just deeply pertinent) choice of words.
“I need you to find out where Prince Legolas is. I need to apologize for missing our meeting.”
“My lady, it’s getting to be late afternoon, I might not find out until early night.”
“It’s worth the risk, I think.”
“Very well.” Navë leaves the room, knowing she is probably only half burdened with what happened between her king and her new mentor.
Just as you finish dinner in your room, Navë returns. “I found out from some ellith who…owes me, and who may or may not fancy the Prince, that he is practicing in the soldier’s archery range, and he is frustrated.” She winks.
“Valar’s sake, you are worse than Istel, my mentor,” you laugh.
“It’s exciting to be so close to everything going on with you, my lady. I mean to say, there has been a long period where Prince Legolas has not returned to the realm.”
“I figured as much, given his role in the War of the Ring,” your eyebrows knit together. “Though, is there something else I should be aware of?”
Navë wrings her wrists, “The understanding among Galion’s staff is that the Prince and his father have a bit of a strained relationship; disagreements about the openness of the kingdom, the king’s intense leadership, and the like.”
As you listen to your apprentice explain, you think back to Thranduil’s garden when you asked about his wife…when you realized his grief wasn’t about losing his One. Thranduil’s grief is not just the one loss, but the many. First his father (as the histories go), then his wife, and recently: his son who you must go apologize to.
“Thank you,” you place the wine glass on the ottoman in the center of the area, then rise and make your way to the chair where you left your original cloak, not forgetting the midday temperatures.
“Can’t wait to hear the full story later,” she calls after you, arms crossed, as you hurriedly leave the room.
Scene 2 – Archery Range
Do you know where the archery range is? No. Does Fergrath shyly correct you as you continuously make wrong turns in your haste? Absolutely.
“Here, spider-slayer,” Fergrath rolls his eyes, gesturing to a door that you charged past.
You murmur a bashful ‘thanks,’ and walk in, wearing the same autumnal amber dress from your midday visit to the garden. The room smells of chalk and hay. Targets, sloppily stuffed with hay, linen bags that contain the stray, painted hoops upon the surfaces are deeply torn and spilling out along the tall area beneath a high cave ceiling. White haired and aggressively loosing arrow after arrow, knocking them with deep accuracy and masterful speed, the Prince takes a sideways stance.
At your small ‘thanks,’ Legolas looses a final arrow, following through for a moment, and watching it miss the center cluster by one ring. The one exception to probably eight bulls-eye center shots in the round.
“I thought the library would be more convenient for you, but this works,” Legolas rests his bow against a small stool, approaching you. Fergrath hangs back at the door, slowly slipping to the hallway outside of the archery range.
“About that,” you start, looking at the ground, suddenly embarrassed.
“Yes?” Legolas amusedly lifts an eyebrow, leaning on one leg.
“I wanted to apologize for not coming this afternoon. I had another obligation that took me from you, but I could have sent another letter to let you know. I’m sorry.”
“Do you still wish to spend time before I depart?” He asks, easily taking your two hands in his. They’re rough from the bow and its harsh string, hot from overuse this evening. They are different from Thranduil’s regal but sword-trained hands which engulfed yours. Legolas looks into your face, trying to read your expressions, gauge your answer before you say it.
“If you are willing, I’d love to try the library again,” you give his hands a squeeze.
“Do you know why I asked you to go to the library?” Legolas asks, softly.
“N-no, actually.”
“I saw you learning my people’s dances with your guard there and I swear I saw the sun in my cloudy realm,” he pauses. Your eyes widen, a blush painting your cheeks. He was watching me? You think of all of your missteps or the times you flopped on the ground in defeat.
He continues, “Then last night, I thought I saw the moon.”
Honeyed words or perhaps just his own heart, the words still flattered you to your core. “You honor me, my Prince,” you pull your hands from his, curtsying.
“Will midday tomorrow work this time?” Legolas asks, walking backwards towards his bow with a grin.
You tap your chin, in fake-consideration, “This time, I do think so.”
“I look forward to it. Meet me by the maps on the fourth floor.” He knocks an arrow, but you don’t stay to see where it lands.
____________________________
Later at dinner in the king’s personal wing, Legolas and Thranduil sit for dinner. It had been silent for at least ten minutes.
“Adar, how was your day?” Legolas relinquishes, breaking the silence.
“Eventful,” Thranduil takes a bite of the fish on his plate. “Yours?”
“Tomorrow might be better,” he says slowly, looking down to his plate, trying to determine if he should ask his father’s advice or not.
“Oh? And why might that be, ion nîn?” Thranduil asks, raising an eyebrow.
“I plan on seeing the elleth from the Grey Havens again,” Legolas starts, gauging his father’s reaction. “She was not able to make it today to the library. Something else, more important than a call from myself got in the way. Might you or Galion know anything about that?” The king’s son twists around to cast a suspicious glance towards the king’s attendant who wore his usual resting expression which typically ranges from neutral to slightly-displeased.
Thranduil gives a knowing exhale. “Yes, I called forth my healer this afternoon to conference with her.”
“Your healer? Doesn’t she belong to the Grey Havens or Rivendell?” Legolas scoffs.
“Until she aids in addressing the corruption of the forest, then she is a healer in my halls. Regardless, we had a productive conversation. She is an incredible ellith, even if she is half-ellith. She is a Child of the Falathrim and human, and as you know, she is incredibly well regarded by Elrond and Círdan, an accomplished healer,” Thranduil’s chest tightens as he sings her praises to his son. Of course, she had to be all of these things. She is impossible to discount.
“That would explain why she could not come today, then,” Legolas frowns. A dark feeling of satisfaction at you visiting him instead of his son washes over the Elvenking, which he repudiates immediately. “She is incredible, Adar, but I must leave to go back to my original purpose soon. Would it be worth pursuing this connection now?”
“I suggested it myself that she should see you,” Thranduil says. It’s a truth. He did say it. It sat uncomfortably in his mind.
Legolas perks up at this, “An endorsement? I’m surprised. Going from not telling me of her existence to suggesting we spend time together.”
“Mm, she’s surprising.” Thranduil looks over from the dining table to the sitting room where you sat just a handful of days ago.
“She came to see me this evening at the Archery Range.” The Prince watches his father lift his fork to his lips and then pause on the way up.
“Really?” A cold tone matches with a cold expression on the king’s face.
“Yes, she asked me if I would consider rescheduling.”
“How prudent of her to listen to my advice,” the Elvenking smiles, though Legolas can see just how empty his father’s smile truly is. His mind must have been spinning elsewhere.
“Are you well, Ada?” The Prince narrows his eyes, also looking to the chair, but not understanding why that chair captured his father’s attention.
“Today was eventful. That is all.”
Scene 3 – Red Lines
Legolas enters the library in a deep evergreen tunic and polished black boots, gold accents catching the light as the librarian greets him.
“Maps again?” Parmandil asks, crossing their arms, not looking up from their current reading.
“Certainly. With company this time,” Legolas says. This gets their attention.
Looking up from their novel, they ask, “With company? You don’t say….who? If I can inquire, that is.”
It is then that you walk in, dressed in a light blue dress, flowing and light. It is something you might’ve worn at home in Mithlond or even in Rivendell in the late spring. Yet, the journey to the library is quick enough and the room is warm enough that you don’t bring a cloak.
The librarian’s question goes unanswered by Legolas, but they certainly observe the Prince’s reaction to seeing you walk in.
“Prince Legolas, good afternoon,” you smile, walking in with Fergrath trailing behind you.
Your name escapes his lips like a whisper on the wind when he turns to see you. “I’m glad you came,” he gives a nervous laugh, “this time.”
“I’m glad to be here,” you grimace, taking his dig on the chin. “Now, are you here to show me where you watched me an abnormal amount or did you have something else in mind?” You tease, easily lacing your arm through his.
“I – erm – something else! Something else. Maps, actually,” Legolas clarifies, just the slightest bit flustered by your forwardness.
“Maps?” Fun…a geography lesson…
Looking at the hesitant look on your face, he adds, “Once I learned more of your purpose here from my father and witnessed some of your healing, I figured it would be worthwhile to show you the grounds you may need to cover once you are able to consistently heal some of the corruption. At least, that’s something I had planned for yesterday.” Ah, a very useful geography lesson.
“That makes more sense,” you say, “that’s really thoughtful.” You did already have this understanding from Hareth, but you allow him to guide you up the stairs to the fourth floor, the opposite side of where you danced with Fergrath, learning the dances that you would ultimately do with Legolas, then the king.
“So this is where you spied on me, hm?” you giggle, clasping your hands behind your back and walking around the tables, glancing at several large atlases opened to various maps.
Legolas shakes his head laughing, “I stole glances where I could, but I have actually been working on this.” He walks you over to the table near the rail. A map of old trade roads, surely overgrown now exists, laid out. Next to it, a close copy with black and red ink, red lining the old paths around the Woodland Realm. Its lines are delicate, skilled, if a little shakier than the original.
“This is really well done,” you say, tracing the red lines lightly. “Did you teach yourself?”
“Certainly not, no. I was very lucky to have a talented tutor. Everyone needs a mentor for something they hope to be truly skilled in.”
“I always say that!” You whisper-shout, a grin across your face.
He gives you a grin back, “It’s only the truth,” he says. “But regardless, you were quite the distraction while I was trying to get this done. I have been tasked to try to figure out alternative ways to get around the corruption in the Woodland Forest.”
“So you mean, you didn’t just come here for the Feast.” You raise an eyebrow at him.
“No, of course not,” he starts, before mirroring your sarcasm, “Though, it influenced my timing significantly.” He pushes off of the table you both are leaning over. “If you take a look at this atlas, that I pulled yesterday…” he teases.
“Sorry again,” you interrupt with a puckish smile.
“Yes, yes, you should be. But, this atlas actually shows the grounds of this palace, like according to the dance you did with my father.”
“Green Boughs?” You ask, looking over his shoulder.
“The very one.”
“Was there something special about the dance? Did something about it help you heal the vines?” He looks at you eagerly, with the innocent pride one might feel after completing a puzzle.
“I –” you hesitate. What should I say? ‘Legolas, your father’s grief and loneliness might be corrupting this kingdom. Got a map for that one?’ “Probably not.”
“I see,” Legolas says, a bit dejected.
“It’s difficult to say. I have had mixed results, including a situation in the First Grove where my healing backfired,” you explain.
“Frankly, I’m surprised my father let you venture out of the palace at all, even getting such free access to our halls.”
“I am constantly escorted. I would use the word ‘free’ lightly,” you scoff.
“He’s quite protective of our realm. The king has survived by holding everything…tightly. Adar nin remembers what this forest was. I think sometimes he forgets that it may yet become something else if the shutters remain closed without the willingness to open them and let the breeze pass through. Though, let none say he did not aid in the battles for Middle Earth’s survival. It is fair to say he is protective over most things he considers ‘his domain.’”
Does he consider me part of his domain? You realize, part of you wants him to. Instead of letting that slip out, you stifle those ideas, managing to politely muster, “He does clearly care very much for the realm, and you, my Prince.”
“I like to think so,” Legolas purses his lips, leaning onto the table, letting his hair fall forward. “He can be…” He looks up at you, eyebrows furrowed. “He can be a lot.”
“You said it. I feel as though as a diplomat, doing her very best to please this court, any further commentary might be…”
“Incredibly amusing.”
“I was going to say inappropriate, but I like your answer too.” He laughs, before his smile falls as he retreats into his own mind. You look back down at the atlas. Maybe I can trust him. Before you can tell him about his father, before you can explain why you need to learn more about his memories or his past, he speaks.
“I wish to keep things honest between us,” the Prince holds your gaze cradling earnestness in his countenance. What does he wish to say?
“Please,” you say, meeting his earnestness by leaning forward, projecting your own sincerity. You purse your lips in anticipation for what Legolas says.
“As a son of my father, as he is so bound by duty to his realm, sometimes I wonder if he considers his own wishes. And if he doesn’t consider his own, I wonder, does he consider mine? This,” Legolas gestures between himself and you standing there at the edge of the tables, half-illuminated by the light from the ceiling and half by the lantern light. “Us spending time together. Is it something he encouraged for you as well?”
“Well, let me ask you, did you ask me here because of the king?” You ask, defensively.
“No, and you know that,” he narrows his eyes, a sly smile on his face. “But, did he encourage you to see me?”
“He seemed to think your company would be…suitable.” You admit, biting at the inside of your cheek, nervous he might be surprised by this information, but if he is, he doesn’t show it.
“What do you think?” He asks, leaving enough space between you for you to think clearly. You take in the whole of his countenance. He’s handsome with his cheekbones, his kind eyes, and lithe form.
“I think it would be too soon for anyone to know,” you say, an apologetic look on your face. You know your response is baked in pragmatism, your emissary role bubbling up to the surface. “Why?” You cross your arms.
“Are you, as they say you are? Half-elven?”
“I am,” you say, though you are unsure as to why it is brought up in this moment, of all moments.
The Prince sighs. “I knew one other half-elleth. You may know her.”
“Arwen? I came to study healing just after she departed from Rivendell,” you frown, wishing he’d make his final point more clear.
“You remind me of her,” Legolas pauses, looking at your features, tracing the lines of your face with his eyes. “A beautiful half-elven woman standing unclaimed by one final fate at a great moment of change in Middle-earth. She chose what world she belonged in.” He looks back down at the table to the atlas, turned to a map of the Woodland Realm, zoomed in to his father’s palace. “I don’t know how many people get that choice.”
“I believe that people should always have a choice,” you say firmly, “Half-elven or not.” It’s like you see it grow from the candlelight that makes a crown of orange glow behind him, the weight of a future crown bears down on him.
“You come after this War; Middle Earth is so changed,” Legolas closes his eyes, letting his hand fall off the map of these grounds. “You come at such a unique time: Arwen before the war, and now you come here, after the War, asking a forest that has survived by closing itself to choose whether it might open again. They call my home Mirkwood, yet at this moment you are here seeking to heal this land, to open us to cooperation with the other elven realms. And you got my father to accept you here!”
He lifts his hand to his temple, massaging it gently, “I meant it when I asked how he allowed you such freedom, but perhaps I meant to ask you how you even got him to agree to you healing parts of his realm. I cannot help wondering whether you came now for a reason. Not for my father’s reason, nor even for the reasons written by Elrond and Círdan. For the forest.”
A pang in your chest rings out as you look to the ellon in front of you, so genuinely concerned for his father, for these woods. In that moment, you open to him; “I need to tell you, my Prince, I do believe the king is connected to the pulse of the corruption in the woods. I believe that I can help heal the forests through his memories.”
Legolas’s brows raise in surprise. His eyes flit as he tries to check it against his own memories and observations of his father. Then, his mind settles on his memory of his father dancing ‘Green Boughs’ with you, holding you, whispering in your ear, and the glow of your steps, and the vines retracting…and then it’s all quite clear to him: why his father nudged you here today.
“It seems my father has decided I am useful,” he says quietly, almost as if to himself. He presses his eyes shut and pinches his nose bridge. It catches you off guard.
“Are you not?” You ask him, squinting at him, trying to discern what conclusion he just came to.
“Rarely in the way he intends,” he offers a weak smile. “Regardless, when you make your choice of where you belong, if you are meant to choose a place in this changing world…I will admit, selfishly, that I hope you find something here worth choosing.” He takes your hand and presses a light kiss to the back of it. You blush, and your mind races. What has he figured out?
The Prince opens his mouth to say something, reconsiders, then says, “If your healing can continue what it did at the Feast while dancing with my father, then I have some places in mind that would be incredibly helpful for you to address,” sliding his trade routes map in front of you.
