blackbird

[theblackbirdsdream]

Masterlist

𝐈𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠, 𝐈 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐁𝐨𝐲𝐬𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 (𝐁𝐋) 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐛𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐨𝐦!𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐞!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫. 𝐈 𝐝𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐞𝐥𝐬𝐞, 𝐬𝐨 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐚𝐬𝐤.

𝐈 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐈 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐝. 𝐏𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐬.

𝐌𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐎𝐜 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬

divider by @saradika-graphics

[theblackbirdsdream]

ICE AND THE SWAN

pairing: Jon Snow x male!bottom!reader (powerful) summary: Y/N Swansgate returns to Winterfell for war. Instead, he finds Jon Snow alive, resurrected — and standing too close to a Dragon Queen. Ten years of silence, one stolen kiss, and a jealousy that burns like wildfire. On the eve of the Long Night, the truth finally breaks loose. wc: ~4.8k

details: ↳ warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Emotional Hurt/Comfort ↳ tags: Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Jealousy, Emotional Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Sexual Tension, Arguments, Fighting, Angry Kissing, Love Confessions, Misunderstandings, Miscommunication, Years of Separation, Curses, No Smut (but intense tension) ↳ rating: R (because of the swearing)

from author: My English isn't perfect, so there might be some mistakes.

Winterfell did not smell as it once had.

Snow lay upon the battlements in a grey, compacted mass, and the wind howled through the arrow slits, dragging with it the stench of soot, horse dung, and heated metal — the forges worked without pause. Y/N Swansgate rode through the eastern gate on a lathered stallion, feeling the cold bite at the scars beneath his chainmail. Water and wild berries — that was what clung to his cloak, soaked through with the damp of the last encampment by the river. That scent had burrowed into his skin, into the fur, into his very soul. Jon had once said he would recognize it with his eyes closed. "You smell like the lake," he had said then. Before everything. Before the kiss. Before the flight. Before Ramsay Bolton slaughtered half of House Swansgate for refusing to bend the knee.

Now Y/N looked upon the courtyard turned into a war camp. Dothraki riders darted between the fires, Free Folk sharpened their axes, and Northmen eyed the strangers with their customary grim wariness. In the center of this anthill, by the blacksmith's forge, stood Jon Snow.

Something in Y/N's chest tightened into a hard, sick knot.

Jon had changed. Not the way time alone changes a man. Death had left its mark upon him: in the sunken eyes, in the way he held his shoulders — as though he carried a weight that could not be shared. But the jaw was the same, and the way he tilted his head when listening to someone — that was the same. Y/N remembered that manner too well. He remembered how, fifteen years ago, Jon had listened the same way to Robb, and Sansa, and to him — a stubborn boy with the sigil of a swan upon his chest.

Sansa.

She appeared on the gallery leading to the Great Keep — tall, auburn-haired, in a grey gown lined with wolf fur. The Lady of Winterfell. Y/N dismounted and tossed the reins to his squire. Snow crunched beneath his boots. Sansa noticed him and stopped. For a moment her face — that mask of calm authority — cracked, revealing the girl who had once laughed at his attempts to pronounce "valar morghulis." She stepped forward, and Y/N, forgetting protocol, forgetting the long years and all that had fallen between them, pulled her into an embrace.

"You're late," Sansa whispered into his shoulder. Her voice trembled.

"I know," he answered, feeling her arms tighten against his back. "I tried. I gathered men. When I reached Winterfell, your wolves were already hanging above the gates."

She drew back, studying his face. A faint smile touched her lips.

"You're alive. That's more than most can say."

They had no time to say more. From the side came a voice that turned Y/N's throat to dust:

"Your scouts reported a column near Grey Hill. Was that you?"

Jon approached soundlessly — a habit left over from the Night's Watch. Y/N turned, and the knot in his chest pulled tighter. Black curls dusted with snow, a new scar above the brow, and on his lips — that half-smile he wore when greeting a friend. Jon did not look away. He stared directly, and in those dark eyes, in their very depths, something burned — not embers, but flame.

"Yes," Y/N breathed. "A hundred and twenty swords. All that remains of Swansgate."

"Good. We need you."

Jon stepped forward and gripped his forearm — a warrior's greeting, tight enough to grind bone. Jon's fingers lingered for a moment, squeezed a fraction harder than they should have, before releasing. Y/N noticed it. He noticed how Jon inhaled a little deeper, catching the scent of lake water and berries.

And then she appeared.

Daenerys Targaryen moved through the crowd of Northmen as though it was not her dragons that had cast terror across all of Westeros. Small, silver-haired, with a smile that seemed almost human. She stopped beside Jon — too close. Her shoulder brushed his elbow. A gesture that spoke louder than words.

Y/N noticed how Jon turned his head slightly — almost imperceptibly — toward that touch. He did not pull away. He did not tense. He accepted it as though it were his due.

"Is this the friend you told me about?" she asked, and her voice sounded soft, but with that faint authority granted only by right of birth.

"Y/N Swansgate," Jon introduced. Was that pride in his tone? "His house stood with my father. He survived the Boltons."

"Stood with your father," Daenerys repeated, and something flickered in her intonation — was it sympathy? Condescension? Y/N could not tell. "A loyal house, then. A rarity these days."

She shifted her gaze to Y/N. Studying, calm. Not hostile — appraising. The way one looks at a tapestry, deciding whether it will suit the wall of a throne room. She extended her hand. Y/N, hesitating for a split second, bowed over it. The Queen's skin smelled of ash and something spicy, foreign.

"Jon said you are one of the few he trusts," she said. "Enter Winterfell as a friend. We will need all who can hold a sword."

We. The word sounded so natural, as though she and Jon were a single entity. As though she was the one receiving him here, and Jon merely stood by, affirming her will.

Y/N straightened. One of the few he trusts. The words should have warmed him. Instead, they cut with a dull blade. Trusts. Like a brother. Like a comrade. And what had happened before his flight — the brush of lips in the dim stable, the taste of salt and despair — had become, it seemed, a youthful mistake to Jon, forgotten and buried beneath the weight of years.

"Thank you, Your Grace. I will not fail you."

He stepped back. A polite smile froze upon his face like a crust of ice.

The days flowed like thick honey mixed with iron.

Preparations for the siege devoured time without mercy. Y/N shuttled between garrisons, checked posts, argued with blacksmiths about steel for arrowheads. He did everything to avoid crossing paths with Jon. But Winterfell was too small, and Jon was too omnipresent.

The first splinter drove into his heart on the third day.

Y/N was crossing the lower courtyard when he heard her laugh. High, clear, unexpectedly warm for one they called the Mother of Dragons. He stopped by the arch of the smithy, not knowing why. Inside, amid the glowing forges and the clang of hammers, stood Jon and Daenerys. She was handing him a dragonglass dagger — black as a starless night, with a hilt wrapped in dragon hide. Jon took it, weighed it in his palm, and she, leaning forward, adjusted his grip. Her fingers slid over his wrist, lingering longer than the lesson required.

"Cut upward," she said, and her voice sounded almost intimate, as though they were alone in all the world. "Dragonglass does not forgive mistakes. Neither do I."

Jon raised his eyes to her. In that gaze, Y/N saw something that made his jaw clench: admiration. Quiet, deep, undeniable. The way one looks at a flame, knowing it will burn, yet reaching for it anyway.

"A fine blade," Jon said. "Thank you."

"You deserve better."

She smiled. Jon smiled back.

Y/N retreated into the shadow of the arch. His chainmail suddenly felt unbearably heavy. He passed a palm over his face, wiping away sweat. Fool. You are a fool, Swansgate. But his feet had rooted to the ground. He watched as Daenerys touched Jon's shoulder, as she said something about dragons and kings, as Jon listened to her with the same expression he had once worn when listening to him — in childhood, by the lake, when Y/N told him the legend of the swan lake.

The second splinter — the next day, in the training yard.

Y/N arrived early to loosen up with a sword before the general muster. But steel was already ringing on the practice ground. Jon and Ser Jorah Mormont circled each other in a sparring match, and Daenerys stood by the fence. She did not take her eyes off Jon. When he evaded a thrust, she leaned slightly forward; when he counterattacked, her lips pressed into a thin line. She was rooting for him. It was so obvious, so utterly human, that Y/N felt sick.

After the bout — Jon won, knocking the sword from Mormont's hand — she approached him. She offered a cup of water. A cloth. She touched his cheek, where a mark from a flat strike remained.

"You do not take care of yourself," she said.

"I'm fine."

"No." She shook her head. "I need you whole. And not only as an ally."

The last phrase was spoken more quietly, but the wind carried it to Y/N with lethal clarity. Jon took the cup. Their fingers met. Daenerys did not hurry to pull her hand away.

Y/N turned and walked away. The sword he carried felt like a white-hot iron rod.

In the evening — the third splinter, and it sank deepest of all.

Supper in the Great Hall. Y/N sat at a lower table, among his own men. Jon and Daenerys sat on the dais, beside Sansa. They spoke of war strategy, but Y/N did not hear the words. He saw only how Daenerys leaned toward Jon, whispered something in his ear, and Jon... Jon smiled. Not that tight, strained smile he wore like armor. Another one — soft, relaxed, almost boyish. The smile Y/N had once drawn from him himself, slipping him stolen lemon cakes from Lord Stark's table.

"My lord?" His squire's voice pulled him from his stupor. "You've barely touched your meat."

"Not hungry."

He rose, feeling his stomach clench. Passing the dais, he accidentally caught Jon's gaze. Jon looked at him with a silent question: Is everything all right? Y/N gave a short nod and walked out into the night, into the snowfall.

All right? No. Nothing was all right. Everything was damnably wrong.

The days crawled on, and jealousy smoldered like a peat fire — invisible, but inexorable.

Jon, to his credit, did not forget his childhood friend. More than that, he sought his presence with a persistence that bordered on torture.

"Come." His hand landed on Y/N's shoulder during supper. His fingers squeezed noticeably, leaving no choice. "Sit with us. You haven't seen Tormund."

And Y/N went. He sat down beside him. He listened to Tormund spin tales of giants, drank bitter ale, and felt Jon's presence at his side — shoulder to shoulder. Daenerys sat on the other side. Sometimes she laid her hand over Jon's when he grew somber. Sometimes she passed him bread, as though they already shared a table as man and wife. Jon accepted it with the same silent gratitude with which he accepted everything she gave.

"You're not eating," Jon observed one such evening, leaning toward Y/N. Their shoulders touched. Warmth passed through layers of wool and leather. "What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing. I'm fine."

"You're lying." Jon stared into his eyes, and that look made Y/N want to fall through the stone floor. "I know when you're lying. Right here..." He touched the corner of Y/N's lips, where the skin pulled tightest. "A shadow appears."

Y/N turned his head away, breaking the contact. Too intimate. Too painful.

"I'm just tired, Jon. The long road. The preparations. All of it..."

Jon nodded, but something distrustful, searching, remained in his dark eyes.

Or at night, in the library. Y/N was searching for old maps of the Shivering Sea. Jon followed, ostensibly to check the posts. They remained alone among the dusty scrolls. The silence stretched, became tangible as fog. Jon stood by the shelf, rolling an extinguished candle between his fingers. Y/N felt his gaze on the back of his neck.

"Why did you leave back then?" Jon asked quietly. "Without even saying goodbye."

There it was. The moment when everything could be said. Or severed once and for all.

"Duties of an heir," Y/N answered without turning. His voice came out steady, almost cold. "My father sent a raven. An urgent summons."

A lie. They both knew it was a lie. Jon remembered that evening. He remembered the taste of those lips — the taste of those very lake berries. He remembered freezing, stunned, and when he finally opened his eyes, Y/N had already bolted away, snapping branches in the night forest.

"I thought..." Jon began and broke off.

"Don't," Y/N interrupted, sharper than he intended. He turned at last. Met those dark eyes. "It was a long time ago. We were children. There are more important matters now."

"Matters," Jon repeated flatly. "Yes. Matters. The Queen, the dead, the North."

He said "the Queen" strangely — with bitterness, with weariness. And Y/N could not find the strength to ask what it meant.

They did not touch each other. But the air between them crackled.

And then came that conversation in the armory.

Y/N came to inspect a shipment of arrows for his archers. Inside, by the far wall, stood Jon and Daenerys. They did not hear his footsteps — the steel on the tables rang out, drowning the sounds. Daenerys held a wolf pelt in her hands, old and worn.

"This was on your father," she was saying. "Sansa kept it. You should wear it. The North should see the Stark in you."

"I am not a Stark," Jon replied. His voice was hollow. "I'm a bastard. You know that."

"You are the King in the North." She stepped toward him. The pelt remained between them, but Daenerys pressed it to Jon's chest, as though crowning him, granting him the right. "And to me... to me you are far more than that."

Y/N froze. An avalanche of ice collapsed inside him, burying the last remnants of hope. He watched as Jon raised his hand — not pushing her away, but covering her hand upon his chest. That gesture was more eloquent than any vow.

"Daenerys..." he began.

"Do not answer now," she interrupted. "Just know. Just think."

She left through the rear door. Jon remained standing, staring at the floor. The wolf pelt hung from his hand.

Y/N stepped out of the shadows. Not because he wanted to. His legs had gone numb, and he stumbled, knocking a rack of arrowheads. The clatter.

Jon turned.

"You heard."

It was not a question.

"Yes."

"Y/N, I—"

"Don't." He raised a hand, stopping him. "You owe me nothing. She is right. She is the Queen. You are the one people follow. You are a pair."

The words came out like sawdust from his throat: dry, prickly, tasteless. Jon stepped toward him.

"You don't understand. What you saw — it's not what it seems."

"It's not my business, Jon. Truly."

He turned and left. But his back burned — all the way to the turn in the corridor.

Everything exploded on the eve of the Army of the Dead's advance.

Y/N stood in his chambers — a small, cold room given to him as commander of a contingent. He was pulling off his chainmail when the door burst open with such force that the hinges shrieked and the latch flew from its socket, clattering across the stone floor.

Jon. No cloak. In an unlaced shirt, with the wild-eyed look of a man who had not slept for three days and had finally found someone to unleash upon.

"What are you doing?" he breathed, stepping inside as though he meant to kill.

"Going to sleep. And you?"

"I mean your men." Jon slammed the door shut with his foot. The sound echoed through the room, making the candle flame shudder. "You placed your people on the Honey Wall. That's the eastern flank. The heaviest assault will fall there. Are you trying to die?"

Y/N straightened. The chainmail fell to his feet with a clatter. He stood in only his undershirt, soaked with sweat, clinging to his body. The cold of the room bit at his skin, but heat was already rising inside.

"I placed my archers where they will be of most use. Or have you forgotten that my house has always been known for its bowmen? With grace we strike, remember?"

"Don't you dare play the hero!" Jon stepped closer. His voice dropped, turned low and ragged. "You weren't here! You didn't see what those creatures bring! This isn't a battle for a castle, it's a slaughter! Your men will be crushed in the first charge!"

"They are my men!" Y/N snarled. "And I did not ask your permission, Lord Commander! Or what should I call you now? The Queen's Protector?"

The word lashed like a slap. Jon froze. Something twitched in his face — not hurt, no. A snarl. Feral, baring teeth.

"What does she have to do with this?" he said, low and dangerous. Every syllable like a drop of molten lead.

"You don't understand?" Y/N stepped forward himself. The distance between them shrank to a single blow. The air grew thick, viscous, as before a storm. "You follow her like a leashed dog. You look at her as though she pulled you from the grave and now owns you. I saw you. In the forge. In the yard. In the bloody armory. Her fingers on your wrist. Her lips at your ear. You let her touch you the way..."

He choked off. His throat seized. Jon stared at him, unblinking, and in that gaze churned something Y/N could not at once name. Anger? Yes. But deeper — something else. Hunger, mingled with desperation.

"The way — you?" Jon stepped even closer. Now only two fists separated them. "Finish it, Swansgate. You always knew how to cut with words. Go on."

"The way I dreamed you would touch me!" Y/N shouted. His voice cracked into a rasp. "I have loved you since childhood, Jon. Since the time you taught me to hold a sword. Since that night by the lake, when you fell asleep by the fire, and I sat watching the snow melt on your lashes. I left because I thought you had pushed me away! I left because after that kiss, you looked at me as if I were a leper!"

"I looked at you as the one thing worth holding onto!" Jon grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him so hard Y/N's head snapped. "I froze because I was afraid! Afraid you were joking! That it was a game! That I wasn't worthy of you — the heir of Swansgate, with your white swans and ancient blood! I'm a bastard, Y/N. All my life, I've been just a bastard. And you... you were everything I couldn't allow myself to have."

"You allowed her!" Y/N tore free, shoved Jon back — roughly, a palm to the chest. Jon retreated a step, but only to surge forward again. "Daenerys! The Dragon Queen who looks at you like a future husband! You stand beside her as though it's how it should be! She touches you, and you don't pull your hand away! You smile at her! And me... you ask me questions about war and look at me like a ghost who returned at the wrong time!"

"Because I don't know how to look at you!" Jon slammed into him, grabbed the collar of his shirt, yanked upward. The fabric tore at the seam. Y/N felt cold air touch his bared shoulder. "Because every time I see you, I'm fifteen again, and I can't breathe! You came back, and I don't know what to do with my hands! I don't know what to do with this!"

He seized Y/N's face — roughly, with both palms, squeezing until his cheekbones ached. Their foreheads collided. Their breath mingled: hot, ragged, tasting of ale and salt.

"Do you have any idea what I felt when you left?" Jon's voice broke. Not into hysteria — into that quiet, terrible desperation worse than a scream. "I stood in that stable, fingers pressed to my lips, and couldn't move. And in the morning, you were gone. No letter. No word. Only the smell of water and berries on my coat. I hated you. I prayed to the gods for you to come back. I..." He swallowed, his Adam's apple jerking. "I thought of you every night. Every damn night. Even when I died. Even when I came back."

Y/N went still. His chest heaved as after a long run. His hands rose of their own accord, gripped the fabric of Jon's shirt at his sides, squeezed as though trying to hold onto a slipping world.

"I saw her kiss you. In the gallery before the Great Keep."

"She didn't kiss me."

"She ran her palm over your cheek! You closed your eyes! I saw it!"

"I closed my eyes because I remembered you!" Jon nearly shouted it into his lips. The voice echoed off the stone walls. "Because her touch smelled of ash, and I wanted it to smell of the lake! I was thinking of you, Y/N! Of your hands! Of your mouth! I stood before the Queen, and I wanted to be standing before you!"

The world stopped.

And then Y/N slammed into him like a wave into a cliff.

He drove Jon into the wall with such force that the tapestry behind him slid sideways. Their ragged breathing mingled. Y/N pressed his whole body against him, feeling the heat of the other's skin through damp fabric, feeling the frantic pounding of a heart — not his own, his. Jon groaned — low, guttural, from somewhere deep in his chest — and the sound rolled down Y/N's spine like a wave of fire.

"I won't give you up to her," Y/N whispered, and his voice was hoarse, like a dying man's. "I won't. Curse the war. Curse the dragons. You're mine. You've been mine since the day you smiled at me over the map of the Starks. You just didn't know."

"I knew." Jon grabbed him by the hip, squeezed hard enough to hurt, pulled him closer. Their hips met. Both froze for a second, feeling everything: the heat, the tremor, the impossible closeness. "I always knew. I was just afraid."

"Of what?"

"That you wouldn't let me."

Y/N exhaled raggedly, as before a plunge into icy water. Then he crushed his mouth against Jon's — not gently, no. Roughly, demandingly, with the fury accumulated over ten years of separation. Jon answered with no less hunger. His hands slid under Y/N's shirt — palms traveled over ribs, over scars, over the spine, leaving trails of fire. Y/N tore the fabric on Jon's chest harder, baring old scars and a newer one, still pink, from a healed wound. He pressed his lips to the spot where a vein pulsed beneath the skin. Jon jerked, groaned through clenched teeth, buried his fingers in Y/N's hair and pulled — roughly, possessively.

"You drive me mad," Jon breathed. "Ten years. Ten years I lived with this."

"I won't leave again." Y/N raised his head and looked into his eyes — those dark, tormented, beloved eyes. "Do you hear me? Even if the dead devour us tomorrow. Even if the whole world crumbles. I will stay."

Jon caught his face in his palms — gently this time, but his fingers trembled. He stared as though trying to memorize every line.

"Swear it."

"I swear by ice and fire. I swear by the bones of my father. I swear by the Swan, Jon. I will stay."

They were drawn to each other again — with the same inevitability with which waves crash upon the shore. The kiss deepened, hardened, grew more desperate. Hands roamed over bodies, squeezing, scratching, demanding more. Y/N pinned Jon against the wall, slid a knee between his thighs, and Jon sobbed — not from pain, no. From relief.

They pulled apart only when the air ran out entirely. Foreheads pressed together. Breathing steadied slowly, in uneven bursts.

"Tomorrow," Jon whispered. "Tomorrow you'll be on the eastern flank. I'll be at the gates. We survive. Both of us. Understood?"

"Understood."

"And don't you dare die. I only just finally..." He did not finish. The words were unnecessary.

Outside, the wind howled, a harbinger of the storm. The Army of the Dead was closing in on the walls. But here, in the cramped room, two men stood clutching each other, and the whole world had shrunk to that embrace — rough, desperate, healing old wounds.

Y/N kissed the scar above Jon's brow, the corner of his mouth, the salty trail he had not noticed he had laid with his tears.

"We'll survive," he repeated, pouring all the steel he had left into the words. "And when it's over, I'll take you to the lake. Show you the swans. Teach you to swim the way only my house knows how."

Jon laughed quietly — for the first time in long, long years. And that laugh, hoarse and broken, was the finest sound Y/N had ever heard.

"First survive," Jon said. "Then show me."

They did not loosen their embrace until dawn. Not even when the bell tolled the alarm.

p.s: I just realized that the swan and the wolf are one of the most faithful partners in nature…How symbolic…

(devider by @saradika-graphics)

[theblackbirdsdream]

DEAD END

pairing: OC! Chen Mo x male!bottom!reader summary: Y/N fell asleep reading a cheap novel about a cruel regent and his "white moonlight" — a gentle healer who once saved his life. He woke up in the body of the story's main villain: the regent's lecherous, insufferable spouse, scheduled for execution in a few months. His back burns from thirty lashes, the previous owner's memories are nauseating, and the plan is simple: avoid the regent, stay away from the healer, and run at the first opportunity wc: ~10.8k

details: ↳ warnings: violence, toxic relationship, forced marriage, death of a minor character. ↳ tags: transmigration, obsessive behavior, slow burn obsession, fake innocence, manipulation, from dislike to obsession, poisoning attempt, morally gray protagonist. ↳ rating: R

from author: My English isn't perfect, so there might be some mistakes. There will be more work on this fanfiction.

Awakening did not come to him gradually, but in a violent lurch — the way one bursts from the depths when the lungs are already burning and the surface still refuses to appear. Y/N flung his eyes open and stared at a ceiling he did not recognize. Dark wood. Carved beams. Strips of light from a brazier dying somewhere behind a screen. The air smelled of incense and stale blood. Foreign air. Foreign scent.

He tried to sit up, and his body answered with such pain that his vision swam. His back. His back burned as though the skin had been flayed off and the wound then seared with something hot and rough. Y/N froze halfway, propped on trembling arms, and in that moment it came.

Not a memory. A blow.

Images flooded his consciousness — alien, repulsive, vivid to the point of nausea. There he was (not him, the body's previous owner) walking down a corridor, hips swaying like a courtesan in a cheap tea house, fingers reaching for the sleeve of a tall man with an icy gaze. There he was, whispering breathily, offering to "warm the master's bed." There he was, flying to the floor from a short, contemptuous shove. And there — the executioners, the bench, thirty strokes of the cane across his back for slipping something into the healer's tea. Xiao Yi. The name surfaced together with a face: pale, delicate, with the eyes of a doe and a smile that made Y/N's — the real Y/N's — jaw clench.

He had read this novel. Before sleep. The last thing he remembered before waking was a phone screen glowing in the darkness, and the irritation of yet another chapter in which the main villain (this very one, with the swaying hips) yet again schemed against the "white moonlight," and Regent Chen Mo yet again punished him with cold, ritual cruelty. The plot was stupid, predictable, but something about it hooked him. Maybe the atmosphere. Maybe the way the author described the Regent's hands — long fingers, always calm, even when they gripped a sword hilt.

Now those hands existed in the same reality as he did.

"Awake, young master?" came a creaking voice from the door.

Y/N jerked and instantly regretted it: his back exploded with pain. Slowly, controlling every movement, he turned his head. In the doorway stood an old woman with a wrinkled face and clouded eyes — not blind, but nearly. In her hands she held a clay bowl of something that smelled of herbs and rancid fat.

"Ordered to apply the salve," she said without any expression. "Lie still. I'll be quick."

She did not ask permission. She simply approached, flung back the blood-soaked coverlet, and set to work — roughly, deftly, without a shadow of sympathy. Y/N gritted his teeth. The cold ointment touched the welts, and he nearly screamed.

"How many?" he forced out when his voice returned.

"How many what?" the old woman did not understand.

"Strokes."

She grunted.

"Thirty. The Lord Regent was merciful. It could have been fifty." She smeared the salve without concern for the patient's pain. "You'd best lie quiet, young master, and stop angering your future husband. You might not survive the next time."

She left as silently as she had appeared, leaving behind the scent of herbs and the sensation of clammy cold on his back. Y/N remained lying there, staring at the ceiling and sifting through what he knew.

The novel's plot was already in motion. The body he found himself in had already managed to do plenty: nasty tricks aimed at Xiao Yi, attempts to seduce the Regent, some intrigues with the servants. Chen Mo had already meted out punishment — thirty strokes, publicly, in the estate courtyard. The "white lotus" Xiao Yi had surely stood nearby, watching with his innocent eyes as the executioners worked. And the Regent... the Regent had watched the flogging with the same expression he wore when reviewing tax reports or maps of military campaigns. Nothing personal. Ritual.

And according to the plot, this ritual was supposed to repeat until, one day, Chen Mo would kill his persistent spouse. Quickly, without emotion. Simply because he had crossed a line.

Y/N closed his eyes. Fine. He knew the plot. That meant he knew what not to do.

Do not approach the Regent. Do not seek encounters. Do not get entangled in intrigues. Do not cross paths with Xiao Yi. Become invisible — as much as was possible for a person whose name was already written into a marriage contract.

The plan was simple and, as it seemed to Y/N, the only correct one. He was a sensible person. He would not repeat the mistakes of the body's previous owner, who, judging by the memories, was not just stupid but pathologically incapable of learning from his mistakes. The swaying walk, the oily smiles, the theatrical hints — it all worked against him like a rusted mechanism that was impossible to fix, yet one that the previous owner kept trying to wind up over and over.

Y/N had no intention of winding up such a mechanism.

The first steps around the room were difficult — his back still ached, the wounds healing slowly. But he noticed something immediately upon rising from the bed and walking to the window: the body remembered. The muscles themselves tried to move in a certain way — hips slightly forward, shoulders back, chin lifted, steps from the hip, smooth and fluid like a snake hypnotizing its prey. It was so unnatural to Y/N himself that it made him shudder. He stopped in the middle of the room and forced himself to walk again. Heavier. Simpler. Without that foxy grace, without the attempt to coil around invisible legs. Step — a firm placement of the foot. Step — weight shifted without unnecessary movement. Step — shoulders still, hips not swaying.

The body resisted. The muscles ached, accustomed to a different mechanics. But Y/N was stubborn. He walked from wall to wall until the gait became his own — maybe not perfect, but human. Not animalistic. Not alluring.

The servants, rare in this wing of the estate, began glancing sidelong at him by the third day. He caught their looks — quick, surprised, cast from under their brows. They said nothing, but Y/N read the bewilderment in their faces. The young master had changed. The young master no longer floated down the corridor like a whore searching for a client. The young master walked as if he knew where he was heading.

He didn't know. But let them think that he did.

The first encounter with Xiao Yi happened on the fourth day.

Y/N went out into the garden — that very one, with the stunted pines and the dry stream — hoping for a quarter hour of silence. He was sitting on a stone bench, his face turned to the stingy autumn sun, when he heard footsteps on the gravel. Light, almost weightless. That is how those who wish to seem harmless walk.

"Young master," crooned a voice, soft as a silk pillow. "Are you feeling better?"

Y/N opened his eyes.

Xiao Yi stood three paces from him, and the sun shone at his back, outlining his silhouette with a bright halo — a picture worthy of a novel's illustration. A white hanfu with pale blue embroidery, hair gathered in a simple knot, in his hands a woven basket with some herbs. Skin like porcelain, almost translucent at the temples. Eyes — large, moist, with a hazy film, like a doe's that had accidentally wandered into a human dwelling.

In the novel, this gaze was described as "innocent, touched by a gentle sadness." Y/N, looking at it in person, saw something else: calculation. Cold, honed, like the blade of a scalpel hidden beneath silk.

"Thank you, better," he replied, trying to keep his voice neutral.

"I was so worried," Xiao Yi pressed his free hand to his chest, and the gesture was perfectly rehearsed: fingers trembling slightly, lashes lowered. "When the Lord Regent ordered you punished... I tried to soften his anger, but he was adamant. You must understand — he is not cruel, it is just that duty to the country demands firmness from him."

Y/N watched this performance, and inside him, slowly, like a bubble rising from the bottom of a swamp, a mixture of irony and disgust welled up. "Tried to soften his anger." Of course. As if he would believe that.

"I understand," he said.

"Truly?" Xiao Yi raised his eyes, and something flickered in them — for a split second, before the innocent haze returned. Surprise. Light, almost imperceptible. He had expected a different reaction. Spite. Resentment. Tears. The body's previous owner would surely have made a scene — would have screamed, accused, spat venom. But this one simply nodded and said "I understand." It did not fit the pattern.

"I am glad," the healer smiled, and the smile was like glaze on a stale cake: sweet, but not hiding what lay beneath. "I was afraid you would hold a grudge against me. After all, it is because of me that you..."

He broke off, biting his lip — a perfectly calculated pause portraying embarrassment. Y/N nearly snorted. Seriously, dude? You think this works?

"Not because of you," he said, and his voice was even, like water in a bowl. "Because of myself. I was foolish. Now I understand my mistakes."

Xiao Yi blinked. Slowly. Like a lizard that had noticed something unexpected.

"You are... different," he uttered, and the compliment sounded almost like a question.

"People change," Y/N shrugged. "Forgive me, I must go. My back still hurts — sitting for long is difficult."

He rose — smoothly, but without the former feline grace — and walked away. With a heavy, confident stride. Without looking back. Feeling the healer's gaze on his back — no longer meek, no longer innocent. Studying. Appraising. Dangerous.

The first meeting with Chen Mo occurred a day later — and in a manner entirely unlike what Y/N had planned.

He was walking along the covered gallery, returning from the garden to his chambers, when at a crossing of corridors he ran straight into the Regent. In the most literal sense: lost in thought, staring at his feet, and bumped his shoulder into someone's chest.

He raised his eyes. Met the gaze of Chen Mo.

Up close, the Regent looked different than in the memories of the former owner. Tall — taller than he had imagined. Black hair, smoothly combed back and tied into a knot at the nape, revealed a face that would have been handsome were it not for the scar. It stretched from the left temple, crossed the cheekbone, and disappeared somewhere under the collar — a long, even line, whether from a sword or an arrow. The skin around the scar was slightly darker, making it resemble a crack in a porcelain mask.

But more terrifying than the scar were the eyes. They did not bore, did not pierce, did not burn — all those verbs from the novel missed the mark. They simply... saw. They looked at you, and you felt transparent. As if all your thoughts, fears, secrets were written right on your forehead in large print, and only you yourself considered them hidden.

"Forgive me," said Y/N, stepping back a pace. "I wasn't watching my step."

The Regent did not answer. He simply stood and looked. The pause stretched — first to awkwardness, then to anxiety. Y/N felt goosebumps running down his back, over the healing welts. He was already about to apologize again and retreat when Chen Mo spoke.

"You did not look me in the eye."

The voice was calm, distinct — such a voice cannot be unheard, even if it sounds barely louder than a whisper. It penetrated not through the ears — through the skin, resonating somewhere in the bones.

"What?" Y/N did not understand.

"Before," said the Regent, and the word fell like a stone into water, "you always looked me in the eye. Too directly. Too insistently. As if you were trying to find something. Now you look at the floor."

Y/N swallowed. The previous owner's memories obligingly presented an image: there he is, the former one, standing before the Regent, chin tilted up, and staring, staring, staring — with an oily, beckoning, openly hungry look. Trying to seduce with a gaze. Trying to find reciprocity. Trying...

"I have changed," he said, repeating the phrase he had already used with the healer.

"I see." The Regent tilted his head slightly to the side, and the movement had something avian about it — sharp, precise, predatory. "The changes are noticeable. Your gait. Your gaze. You no longer try to touch me."

The last phrase sounded almost like a reproach. Almost.

"You were right," said Y/N, carefully choosing his words. "I behaved unworthily. I realized it and decided to improve."

"In five days?"

"Sometimes one is enough."

He did not know where this audacity had come from. Perhaps the remnants of irony, which had always been his defense mechanism. Perhaps an instinct suggesting that submission and flattery were what the Regent expected, and therefore the exact opposite might work better.

Chen Mo was silent. The corridor was quiet — only somewhere in the distance a floorboard creaked under the feet of an unseen servant. Then the Regent took a step. One. Closing the distance between them to half an outstretched arm.

"You are right," he said. "Sometimes one is enough."

And he walked on. Simply passed by Y/N and continued on his way, as if nothing had happened. The dark robe glided over the stone slabs, and the scent of sandalwood, barely perceptible, melted into the air.

Y/N remained standing. His heart was hammering somewhere in his throat. He could not understand what frightened him more: that the Regent had noticed the changes, or that he deemed them worthy of mention. Chen Mo, who had slaughtered entire villages, did not waste words on trifles. If he spoke — it meant he had taken note. If he had taken note — it meant Y/N was now within his field of attention.

This was precisely what he had been trying to avoid.

Three days passed after the encounter in the gallery. Three days during which Y/N left his room less and less, trying to become even more inconspicuous — a shadow among shadows, dust on a windowsill, unworthy of a stranger's glance. He almost believed that the meeting with the Regent had been an accident, bearing no consequences.

He was mistaken.

A servant appeared on the morning of the fourth day — not the old woman with the salve, but a young lad with the impassive face of a professional announcer.

"The Lord Regent invites you to dinner," he said, and it was not a question.

A chill settled inside Y/N. An invitation from the Regent was no invitation. An order. He could have refused, citing his sore back, but that would delay the inevitable, not cancel it. Chen Mo did not forget. Chen Mo did not forgive evasion.

"Fine," he said. "I will come."

The dining hall was smaller than he expected — not the ceremonial one, but a private one, for a narrow circle. And today that circle consisted of two: him and the Regent. A low table laden with dishes, two sitting cushions opposite each other, and no one else. Even the servants, having served the food, disappeared behind the door, leaving them alone.

"Sit," said Chen Mo, without raising his eyes. He was already seated at the table, sorting through some scrolls, and looked as if he had invited not a future spouse, but a junior official for a routine report.

Y/N sat. Silently. Not moving. Waiting.

"Eat."

He picked up his chopsticks. The food was excellent — thinly sliced duck in honey sauce, rice balls with sesame, stewed vegetables exuding the aroma of ginger and soy sauce. But Y/N ate mechanically, not tasting it. Every bite stuck in his throat, because the Regent was not eating. He simply sat and watched.

It was not a gaze — a gaze glides, assesses, gets distracted. This was observation. Methodical, calm, like that of a naturalist studying a new species. Chen Mo watched how Y/N held the chopsticks (more firmly than before, not dropping them, not playing with them, not trying to touch his fingers across the table). How he chewed (slowly, not slurping, not talking with his mouth full — the previous owner hadn't done that). How he sat (straight back, shoulders squared, but not provocatively — just level). How he kept silent.

"You keep silent," the Regent uttered after a long minute. There was no question in his voice — only a statement of fact.

"I'm eating," Y/N replied.

"Before, you talked incessantly. About my appearance. About my hands. About how cold you were sleeping alone."

Y/N nearly choked. The previous owner's memories came alive again, thrusting forth a picture: he (the former) leans across the table, chest forward, lashes fluttering, and coos something about "the Lord Regent's strong fingers that hold a brush so skillfully." God.

"I understood that it was... inappropriate," he said, carefully wiping his mouth with a napkin.

"Inappropriate," Chen Mo repeated, and something in his tone changed — almost imperceptibly, like a crack running through ice. "You have become silent. Restrained. You no longer try to climb into my bed. You no longer look at me as if you want to swallow me."

"I have realized my mistakes, Lord Regent."

"Stop."

Y/N froze.

"Stop calling me 'Lord Regent' in that tone," Chen Mo continued, and his gaze grew a degree sharper. "You pronounce it as if I were your employer. Before, you purred 'my lord' in a way that made the servants blush."

Y/N felt the corner of his lip twitch — not a smile, more like a shadow of irony he hadn't managed to suppress. Yeah, he thought, the former me was a real piece of work.

"Perhaps I decided that the servants' nerves should be spared," he said.

The Regent blinked.

A pause hung in the room — thin as a silk thread stretched between two interlocutors. Chen Mo looked at him, and something in his face was changing. Slowly, almost imperceptibly. A predator who thought he knew his prey, and suddenly discovered that the prey had grown spines.

"You are joking," said the Regent. "With me. You have never joked with me before."

"There are many things I didn't do before."

Chen Mo set the scroll aside. For the first time during the entire dinner, he shifted his full attention to the person sitting opposite. His fingers — long, calm, the very ones the novel had described with such breathless admiration — came to rest on the table, palms down. The scar on his cheekbone seemed darker in the soft light of the brazier.

"What else have you stopped doing?" he asked. And it was not a rhetorical question. He was genuinely interested.

Y/N held his gaze. Didn't look away, didn't lower his eyes — just looked back. Not challengingly, not coquettishly. Calmly. As an equal.

"I have stopped trying to be who I am not," he said. "And stopped believing in what I see."

"And what is it that you see?"

Y/N fell silent. The answer was on his tongue — I see that your healer is playing a role — but he could not say it. Not yet. Not here. Not now.

"I don't know yet," he replied. "But it is no longer what it was before."

The Regent looked at him for a long time. Then he picked up his chopsticks and, for the first time during the entire dinner, placed a morsel of food onto his own plate.

"Stay for supper," he said in a tone that brooked no objection. "Here."

And Y/N understood: this was not an invitation. It was an order. But for the first time ever, the Regent's orders were not tied to punishment. For now.

The second encounter with Xiao Yi happened two days after the dinner, and it was even more telling than the first.

Y/N was sitting in the library — a vast hall with carved shelves, smelling of old paper and dust. He was searching for maps of the area — not because he was planning a new escape (although thoughts of it still smoldered somewhere at the back of his mind), but because he wanted to understand the geography of this world. Knowledge was a weapon, and he was in need of it.

The door opened without a knock. Xiao Yi entered — with the same basket, the same innocent smile.

"Young master," he purred. "I have been looking for you everywhere."

"You've found me," said Y/N, not looking up from the scroll. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Xiao Yi drew closer, and his steps were soundless — fitting, for a healer accustomed to walking quietly. He stopped at the edge of the table and placed his basket on a free corner.

"I heard the Lord Regent invited you to dinner," he said, and his smile did not waver. But his voice — his voice had changed. Ever so slightly. As if steel had shown through the silk. "That is so kind of him. He rarely invites anyone."

"Perhaps he was bored."

"Him? Bored?" Xiao Yi laughed quietly, and the laugh was like the ring of a porcelain bell: beautiful, but false. "You do not know him at all if you think that. Chen Mo knows no boredom. He always has business. Important business." He paused, and the next sentence was dropped as if in passing: "I was with him last night. He asked me to check his pulse. He says he has been sleeping poorly these last days."

It was a blow. Subtle, precise, calculated for jealousy. I was with him. At night. He asked for me. He trusts me. The classic "white moonlight" tactic from the novel — sow doubt, provoke, present oneself as irreplaceable.

The body's previous owner would have fallen for it. Would have made a scene. Would have run to the Regent demanding an explanation.

Y/N lifted his eyes from the scroll and looked at the healer. For a long time. Attentively. With that very expression — a mixture of irony and disgust that came over him when reading the novel. Seriously, dude? You think this will work?

"That is good," he said calmly. "It means you will promptly notice if something is wrong with his health. I thank you for your care for my future husband."

Xiao Yi's smile froze for a moment. Literally for a second. But Y/N noticed. Noticed how the corner of his lip twitched, how his pupils constricted, how the fingers clutching the basket's handle turned white from tension.

"You... are thanking me?" the healer asked again, and the mask showed a second crack: bewilderment, almost irritation, broke through his voice.

"Of course." Y/N set the scroll aside and rose. "You care for the Regent's health. You were by his side when he was wounded. You continue to be by his side now. That is worthy of gratitude." He took a step toward the door, then stopped and added, without turning: "By the way, about sleep. I've heard that a decoction of chrysanthemum with a drop of lavender oil helps with insomnia. You might offer it to the Lord Regent. That is, if you haven't already."

He walked out, leaving Xiao Yi standing in the middle of the library. And, already closing the door, he heard a quiet sound — as if something had cracked. Perhaps the basket's handle. Perhaps the healer's patience.

Another week passed. The wounds on his back healed, leaving behind thin pink lines, which the old servant continued to smear with the foul-smelling salve without saying a word. Y/N gradually grew accustomed to the body, to the estate, to the rhythm of life that pulsed here — slowly, measuredly, like the breathing of an enormous beast dozing at the center of a web. He was still planning his escape, but now he was not hurrying. First — information. First — to understand who was an ally here, who an enemy, and who merely a pawn.

Xiao Yi, by the way, had not appeared after the incident in the library. Y/N saw him a couple of times from afar — in the garden, in the gallery — but the healer did not approach. Only watched. Watched for a long time, without blinking, and in that gaze there was something that made one want to check whether the door was locked at night.

And the Regent... the Regent summoned him more and more often. Lunches, dinners, walks in the garden. Sometimes — simply "sit nearby while I work." And each time Y/N felt that gaze on him — studying, warm, hungry — and could not understand what troubled him more: the gaze itself, or the fact that he had begun to grow accustomed to it.

One evening — about ten days after the dinner — they were sitting in the Regent's study. Chen Mo was working; Y/N was reading a book he had taken from the library — a treatise on poisons, ironically enough. A fire crackled in the hearth; rain pattered outside the window; the room was warm and quiet.

"You do not ask why I summoned you," the Regent remarked, not looking up from his scroll.

"And you do not tell me," Y/N replied, turning a page.

"Are you not interested?"

"If you wish to tell me, you will."

Chen Mo set down his brush and looked at him. Y/N had already learned to recognize this gaze — the gaze of a collector studying a new specimen. But now something else was mingled with it. Something warmer. Or hungrier. He had not yet figured it out.

"You have changed," the Regent said for the third time overall. But now it sounded different. Not like an observation. Like an admission.

"You've already said that."

"I know. But I don't stop being surprised." Chen Mo rose from the table and walked to the window. The rain drummed against the wooden frame, and his silhouette against the gray sky resembled ink blurred by water. "Before, you were... predictable. Transparent. Your every thought was written on your face, and all those thoughts were about me. About how to drag me into bed. About how to get rid of Xiao Yi. About how to become the sole object of my attention. It was boring."

"And now?" Y/N asked quietly.

"And now," the Regent turned, and the firelight reflected in his eyes, "you sit in my study, reading a book about poisons and asking no questions. You do not try to seduce me. You do not try to provoke me. You simply... exist. Nearby. As if you do not care."

"Perhaps I do care," said Y/N. "Perhaps I have simply learned to wait."

Chen Mo moved away from the window and approached him — slowly, smoothly, like water flooding a sandbank. Stopped a pace away. Extended his hand and touched a strand of hair that had fallen onto Y/N's forehead. Did not brush it aside. Simply touched it — with his fingertips, barely perceptible.

"You never knew how to wait," he said. "You were impatient, like a hungry beast. You would have thrown yourself at me right here, had I allowed it. But now..." His fingers slid lower, along the cheekbone, along the jawline. "Now you don't even tremble."

Y/N indeed did not tremble. He sat motionless, feeling the Regent's touch — warm, dry, assured — and understood that the fear that should have paralyzed him had gone somewhere. In its place was something else. Curiosity. Tension. And — he did not want to admit it to himself — a response. His body remembered the past night in the bridal chambers — a night they had not yet shared, but which loomed on the horizon in this version of reality, inevitable and all the more unsettling for it.

"I am not a beast," he said, looking the Regent in the eye. "And not prey."

Chen Mo's hand stopped. For a moment. Then he withdrew it — not sharply, not with irritation. Slowly. As if with regret.

"No," he agreed. "You are not prey. You are something else." And he added, returning to the table: "Stay the night. You will sleep here. Just sleep."

It was a test. Y/N knew it. The Regent was testing him — would he try to seduce again once in the bedroom, or remain true to his new "self." And Y/N passed the test — lay down on the edge of the bed, covered himself with a separate blanket, and fell asleep without saying a word.

And in the morning he discovered that the blankets had tangled, and his head was lying on the Regent's shoulder, while Chen Mo's arm wrapped around his waist — possessively, firmly, as if he had held Y/N all night and had no intention of letting go.

The obsession was growing. Slowly. Inexorably. Like water rising in a well.

Several more days passed before Y/N became a witness to a scene that put much into place — and at the same time tangled things even further.

He had not planned to spy. He had not planned to leave his chambers at all that evening — but sleep would not come, and his feet carried him out into the garden, away from the stuffy walls, closer to the cold air and the quiet chirring of cicadas. He wandered along the path laid with gray stone, skirting the lotus pond, when he heard voices.

The voices came from behind a hedge — tall, trimmed, forming a secluded nook with a stone bench and an old lantern. The place was hidden, romantic — the kind that usually served for secret meetings in novels. Y/N stopped. His heart beat louder. He recognized both voices.

Chen Mo and Xiao Yi.

He did not mean to eavesdrop. Yet neither could he leave — his feet had taken root in the ground, and his body itself slipped into the shadow of an old cryptomeria, whose branches hung over the path. From here one could see — through a gap in the foliage — but he himself was hidden by the darkness.

Xiao Yi was sitting on the stone bench. His posture was unusual — not straight, not proud, but somehow broken. Shoulders slumped, hands resting limply on his knees, head bowed. Chen Mo stood nearby — tall, dark, like a tower against the starry sky. And he... he was speaking to the healer. Quietly. Almost tenderly.

"You are tired," the Regent uttered, and Y/N had never heard such a tone in his voice. Soft. Enveloping. Like warm water one sinks into after a long day. "You work too much. I told you — you don't need to carry medicines to distant villages yourself. There are other healers for that."

"I must," Xiao Yi replied, and his voice was quiet, almost resigned. "I promised them. Those peasants. They have no one else."

"They have no one, but I — I have only you," said Chen Mo, and Y/N felt something inside him clench. Not jealousy — no. More like cold. I have only you. Those words, spoken in the Regent's voice, sounded like an incantation. Like an oath.

Chen Mo extended his hand and touched the healer's shoulder. Not the way he touched Y/N — with hunger, with possessiveness. Differently. Carefully. The way one touches someone one is afraid of breaking.

"You saved me," the Regent continued. "I remember. I always remember. You are the only one who was by my side when I was dying. The only one who asked for nothing in return." His fingers slid higher, to the healer's cheek, and Xiao Yi lifted his eyes — moist, glistening in the lantern light. "You will stay with me," said Chen Mo. "Whatever happens."

"Whatever happens," the healer echoed.

Y/N stood behind the cryptomeria, not breathing. He saw the Regent lean down and touch his lips to Xiao Yi's forehead — lightly, almost ritually. A blessing. A farewell. A promise. Something Y/N could not find a name for.

Then Chen Mo straightened and left — soundlessly, like a shadow. Xiao Yi remained sitting on the bench. His face, just a moment ago resigned and meek, slowly changed. His lips stretched into a smile — not innocent, not meek. Triumphant. Like a gambler who had just made the decisive move.

Y/N retreated into the shadow and silently went back to his chambers. There was a coldness in his chest. He knew Xiao Yi — knew his game, his lies, his madness. But Chen Mo... Chen Mo did not know this. Or knew, yet still said, I have only you. And that meant the healer's position was stronger than Y/N had calculated.

But the strangest thing was something else. The coldness in his chest. Where did it come from? Why did the sight of the Regent showing tenderness to another evoke not relief (excellent, he's occupied with the healer, I can disappear) but this tightness, this vague, unformed bitterness?

Y/N did not answer that question for himself. He simply closed the door and sat for a long time on the edge of the bed, watching the moonlight fall upon the floor.

He was still planning his escape. But now something else was mingling with the plan. Something he refused to give a name to.

The next meeting with Xiao Yi was the most dangerous — and the most revealing.

The healer came to Y/N's chambers uninvited. Simply opened the door and walked in without even knocking. His face was no longer meek. His smile was no longer innocent. He resembled a man who had long played a role and suddenly decided to shed the mask — at least before the one audience member who never believed it anyway.

"You think you're smarter than me," he said from the doorway, and his voice was cold as a blade. "You think you've changed, and now the Regent will look at you differently."

Y/N was sitting at the dressing table, brushing his hair. He did not turn around. Simply continued to draw the comb through it rhythmically.

"Good morning, healer," he said. "You forgot to knock."

"You haven't changed," Xiao Yi continued, ignoring his words. "You've simply switched tactics. Before, you were an obnoxious fool; now you're playing hard to get. You think it will work? You think Chen Mo doesn't see that it's a game?"

Y/N slowly set down the comb and turned. His face was calm, but sparks danced in his eyes — those very ones, ironic, almost mocking.

"And you?" he asked. "Do you think he won't see through your game?"

Xiao Yi froze.

"What are you talking about?"

"About the fact," Y/N rose, and now they stood opposite each other — equal in height, equal in tension, "that I heard you in the rock garden. Ten days ago. You were talking with someone about Advisor Wei. About poison. And about me." He paused, letting the words settle. "'Getting rid of him will be even easier.' That's what you said, wasn't it?"

Y/N had been horrified upon overhearing that conversation late in the evening the previous day in the garden. It had made his entire body tense; it was becoming ever more dangerous, and he was grateful to have heard it.

The healer's face turned pale. Not from fear. From fury. The mask slipped off completely, revealing what had been hidden beneath it: madness. Cold, hungry, calculating madness of a man who had spun a web for years and suddenly saw that the wrong fly had landed in it.

"You wouldn't dare," he whispered. "You wouldn't dare tell him. He won't believe you. I saved him. I love him. He is mine."

"Yours?" Y/N tilted his head to the side. "Did he ever say that he loved you? Or did you make that up yourself while sitting by his bed and changing the bandages on wounds that you yourself arranged?"

Xiao Yi recoiled as if struck. His eyes — beautiful, doe-like, innocent — now burned like two coals.

"You can't prove anything," he spat. "You have no proof."

"Proof?" Y/N smirked, and the smirk was bitter. "I'm not going to prove anything. I will simply stay by his side. And you... keep playing your role. But know this: I see right through you. And the day will come when the Regent sees it too. If you want to keep your feigned face, don't discuss such things on the Regent's estate grounds with god knows whom, and don't barge into other people's rooms with a broken mask — after all, I might not have been alone here."

Xiao Yi stared at him for a long time. A very long time. Then his face smoothed over — slowly, eerily, like water calming its ripples. The smile returned. But now it was different — not meek, not innocent. Predatory. Sharp teeth beneath the silk.

"Fine," he said quietly. "Let's see which of us lasts longer."

He left — as soundlessly as he had appeared. And Y/N remained standing in the middle of the room, feeling his heart pound. He had just made himself a mortal enemy. But at least now he knew the enemy's face.

And yes, Xiao Yi was indeed as insane as Chen Mo. It was just that his madness wore a different mask.

The escape, which had seemed the only way out, now appeared in a different light. Not a retreat. A tactical maneuver. If he failed to get away — well, he would come back. But with new knowledge. With a new understanding of the rules of the game.

Too bad the rules were changing faster than he could learn them.

However, before the escape, one more event occurred. The Imperial Celebration.

The invitation arrived three days before the event — a gilded scroll tied with a purple cord bearing the imperial seal. "The Mid-Autumn Festival," it proclaimed, "in the Hall of Supreme Harmony. The attendance of all members of the court is mandatory." Y/N, as the Regent's future spouse, was a "member of the court" by definition. Refusal was impossible.

He had never been to the imperial palace. In the novel, this palace was described sparingly — a backdrop for political intrigues, nothing more. Reality proved overwhelming. The Hall of Supreme Harmony was vast as a cavern hewn from gold and cinnabar. Enormous columns, entwined with carved dragons, soared into the twilight beneath the ceiling, where painted beams floated. Hundreds of candles and lanterns flooded the space with a trembling orange light. The air was thick with the smell of incense, roasted meat, rice wine, and perfumes — musk, sandalwood, jasmine — blending into one stifling, intoxicating cocktail.

Officials, dignitaries, generals, their wives and concubines — everyone who held weight in the empire had gathered here. Silk rustled, fans fluttered, laughter rang, and beneath it all, like an undercurrent, tension pulsed: alliances, intrigues, hidden threats disguised as toasts.

Y/N sat at the table reserved for the Regent's close associates and felt uneasy. People were watching him. No wonder: the scandalous spouse of Chen Mo, the very one who had been flogged in the estate courtyard a month ago — now sitting at the imperial celebration, dressed in dark blue silk with silver embroidery, holding his back straight like a crown prince. Whispers crawled through the hall like snakes. Y/N caught fragments: "...he's changed...", "...they say the Regent no longer punishes him...", "...and where is the healer?.."

The healer was there. Xiao Yi was seated several tables away — in white, as always, with his unchanging meek smile on his porcelain face. Their gazes met. Neither looked away. It was a duel without weapons — quiet, tense, lasting several endless seconds — and Y/N was the first to break it, raising a cup of wine to his lips. Not because he surrendered. Because he noticed something else.

Chen Mo.

The Regent sat on the dais, beside the imperial throne — empty, since the emperor was still young and rarely attended feasts. Chen Mo was dressed in black with scarlet — the colors of power, the colors of blood. His hair was done up in a high knot, crowned with a silver pin. The scar on his cheekbone looked almost black in the candlelight. He was listening to a report from some minister, his head slightly inclined, and his face was motionless, like a mask.

But he was not looking at the minister.

He was looking at Y/N.

And it was not the same gaze as before. Not studying, not appraising. This gaze was heavy, like water pressure at depth. It was hungry, but not the way it had been that first night in the study, when Chen Mo had touched his face. Then there had been interest. Now there was something else. Obsession. Wild, no longer concealed, pulsing in the depths of his pupils like a second heartbeat.

Y/N felt it physically — as if the air in the hall had grown denser, as if an invisible hand had settled on the back of his neck and squeezed. He could not look away. Could not move. He simply sat, staring at the Regent, and felt goosebumps run down his back — no longer from fear, but from something else.

"Lord Chen looks... impressive today," rustled a female voice beside him.

Y/N flinched and turned. Next to him sat Lady Wen, the wife of one of the advisors — an older but still beautiful woman with a sharp gaze and a tongue known for its venom.

"Yes," he said neutrally.

"And he cannot take his eyes off you," she added, and in her voice was the interest of a naturalist observing the mating of rare snakes. "Before, he looked only at the healer that way. And now..." She fanned herself. "I wonder what has changed."

"I have no idea," Y/N replied.

Lady Wen smiled — thinly, knowingly — and said nothing more.

The feast continued. New dishes were served, toasts were made, the musicians played something slow and melancholy on the guqin. Y/N drank wine — in small sips, so as not to get drunk — and tried not to look in the Regent's direction. It was difficult. Chen Mo no longer looked at anyone else. Ministers spoke to him, Xiao Yi sent him meek smiles, but the Regent did not get distracted. His gaze was fixed on Y/N, and in that gaze there was something almost unhinged. As if he were holding himself back with the last of his strength so as not to rise, not walk over, not seize his spouse right in the middle of the imperial hall.

Xiao Yi also noticed this.

The healer stopped smiling. His face — for a second, while he thought no one was watching — twisted. Pure, unclouded hatred. It flickered and vanished, replaced by the usual mask, but Y/N had managed to catch it. Managed to understand: the healer was losing. And he knew it.

And then something happened that Y/N did not expect.

Chen Mo stood up. Right in the middle of someone's speech — the minister of finance, it seemed, was reporting on tax revenues — he simply rose and walked. Not toward the exit. Across the hall. Past the tables, past the frozen officials, past the petrified Xiao Yi. Straight to where Y/N sat.

The hall fell silent. Even the musicians lost their rhythm.

The Regent stopped before Y/N. Looked down at him — and Y/N tilted his head back to meet that gaze.

"You are tired," said Chen Mo. Not a question.

"A little," Y/N replied, and his voice, to his own surprise, did not waver.

"We are returning to the estate."

This was not said to Y/N. This was said for everyone. For the hall, for the imperial court, for history. The Regent was announcing his departure from the imperial celebration — an unheard-of breach of etiquette — because his spouse was tired.

A whisper ran through the hall. Lady Wen behind Y/N gave a soft gasp. Some official choked on his wine. Xiao Yi — Y/N saw from the corner of his eye — sat white as chalk.

"I can stay," said Y/N. "If you have business..."

"I have no business," Chen Mo interrupted. "I have you. We are leaving."

He extended his hand. Did not command. Did not demand. Simply extended it — palm up — and it was more than an order. It was a declaration. Before everyone. Before the entire court.

Y/N hesitated for exactly one second. Then placed his palm into the Regent's hand.

Chen Mo's fingers closed around his — firmly, warmly, possessively — and he led Y/N through the hall. Through the parting crowd, through the whispers and stares, through the incense smoke and candlelight. And at the very exit, Y/N turned around — just for an instant — and met Xiao Yi's eyes.

The healer was watching them. And for the first time, there was no meekness in his gaze, no innocence, not even madness. Only emptiness. As if something inside him had just died — or was preparing to kill.

In the palanquin, swaying along the winding road, Chen Mo sat beside Y/N and did not let go of his hand. He was silent. Stared at the wall before him. His profile in the moonlight, seeping through the gaps in the curtains, was sharp as a blade.

"Why did you do that?" Y/N asked quietly.

"Do what?"

"Left the celebration. Because of me. Now the whole court will talk."

"Let them talk." The Regent turned his head, and his eyes gleamed in the semi-darkness. "You are my spouse. You are more important than the court. You are more important than the emperor. You..."

He stopped short. As if he had said more than he intended. His fingers squeezed Y/N's palm tighter — almost painfully.

"You are mine," he finished. "And I will not let you go. Ever."

Y/N was silent. The palanquin swayed. The night outside the curtains was quiet and starry. And somewhere deep inside, beneath layers of caution and irony, Y/N felt that very seed sprouting — the one he had tried to tear out. The seed of understanding that this obsession was not a trap. Or not only a trap. Perhaps it was a key. A key to rewriting the plot. A key to power. A key to a life he would never have had in another world.

The decision did not come at once — it ripened over three days, while he gathered information, checked routes, and waited for the right moment.

Three days during which he continued to play the role of the calm, indifferent spouse. He attended dinners with the Regent. Read books in the library. Strolled in the garden. Even smiled at Xiao Yi when they happened to cross paths in the gallery — and saw how confusion mixed with suspicion flickered in the healer's eyes. The man could not understand why his threats weren't working. Why the target of his persecution did not flinch, did not get nervous, did not make mistakes.

And Y/N, meanwhile, prepared.

He found out that the back gate was the least guarded. An old guard named Jian — he had learned the name by pretending to be interested in the estate's history — usually stood watch there alone and had the habit of dozing off after midnight, especially on cold nights when joint pain forced him to take opium tincture. Y/N found this out simply by talking to him one afternoon — about the weather, about rheumatism, about how difficult it was to serve at his age. The old man softened, flattered by the young master's attention, and blabbed more than he should have.

He obtained a map — not very detailed, but enough to understand: ten li to the east of the estate there was a village called Shiqiao, where one could hire a cart. Further — more: a road, a city, perhaps a port. The main thing was to go far enough so the Regent would not search. And would he search? In the novel — yes, but the novel was already coming apart at the seams. In reality, Chen Mo might simply erase the runaway spouse from his life, just as he had erased entire villages.

This was what Y/N hoped for.

On the evening of the third day, he began his preparations. In an old trunk where the body's previous owner stored his outfits, he found a purse with silver — enough to live for several months if spent frugally. There was also a dagger with a jade hilt — small, ceremonial, intended more for beauty than for combat. But in a dark forest, even such a blade was better than nothing. Y/N tucked it into his belt and threw on a dark cloak — plain, without embroidery, unremarkable.

He waited until midnight.

The estate was quiet. Only the wind wandered through the covered galleries, making the lanterns sway and cast dancing shadows on the stone slabs. Y/N crept along the walls, choosing the darkest corridors, the most deserted passageways. A couple of times he froze, hearing the steps of the guard patrol, but both times the patrol passed by without noticing him.

The back gate was exactly as he remembered: a low arch overgrown with ivy, and a wooden door bound with rusty iron. Old Jian sat on a stool by the wall, his head dropped to his chest, snoring quietly. Beside him on the ground stood an empty cup — from the tincture, Y/N presumed.

He passed the guard, trying not to breathe. The door — he had checked earlier — was not locked with a key, only with a heavy bolt. Y/N grasped it with both hands and pulled. Slowly. Soundlessly. The metal slid in the grooves with a quiet, almost inaudible scraping. The old man did not wake.

The bolt gave way.

Y/N pushed the door — it opened, letting in the cold night air that smelled of rotting leaves, damp earth, and the smoke of distant fires. He stepped over the threshold and closed the door behind him — just as slowly, just as soundlessly. Then he turned and ran.

The forest began right outside the estate — old, wild, untouched by gardeners' care. There were no gravel paths here, no stone lanterns. Only trees — enormous, dark, with roots protruding from the earth like veins on an old man's hands. Moss sprang softly underfoot. Somewhere high above, an owl hooted, and its cry spread through the thicket like a warning.

Fog rose from the lowlands — whitish, dense, it crept between the trunks, snagged on branches, filled the hollows. Y/N ran through it, arms outstretched before him so as not to crash into a tree. Branches whipped his face, leaving scratches. Roots caught at the hem of his cloak; once he stumbled and nearly fell, but caught himself by grabbing a pine trunk. The bark was rough, cold, smelled of resin. He caught his breath and ran on.

He did not know how much time had passed. Perhaps half an hour. Perhaps an hour. His legs grew heavy, his lungs burned, but he did not stop. He was not running in any particular direction — simply away. Further from the estate. Further from the Regent. Further from Xiao Yi with his smile and his poisons. Further from this entire cursed novel.

Somewhere at the edge of his consciousness, a thought flickered: reach the village, hire a cart, disappear among the peasants. And then — he would see. He did not build long-term plans. He was no strategist at all. He was simply a person who wanted to live.

He did not hear the hoofbeats right away.

At first it was just a rhythm — distant, almost indistinguishable over the noise of his own breathing and the pounding of blood in his ears. Y/N did not even immediately realize what it was. And when he did — he quickened his pace.

The pounding drew nearer. Now it was distinct: a single horse, a heavy gallop, the rider experienced and not trying to hide. Hooves beat a tattoo on the frozen ground, and the sound carried through the forest, reflecting off the trunks, multiplying, creating the illusion that there were many riders.

Y/N zigzagged between the trees, hoping to throw the pursuer off the trail. He turned left, then right, leapt over roots, ducked under low branches. But the pounding did not fall behind — on the contrary, it grew louder, closer. Whoever that rider was, he knew the forest better. Or the horse knew. Or something else guided him — a sense, an instinct, an obsession.

Y/N did not look back. He was afraid. Afraid of losing speed, afraid of seeing what was galloping after him through the fog. He simply ran, until his legs began to tangle, until the air started tearing from his chest with a wheeze, until—

The horse burst out of the fog from the right — enormous, black, with flaring nostrils and foam at the bit. The rider leaned down, and Y/N only managed to catch a dark silhouette, long hair streaming in the wind, and the gleam of eyes — not human, bestial — before he was seized across the torso and hauled into the saddle.

The world flipped. Branches, sky, the black rump of the horse — everything blurred into one. Y/N cried out — not a scream, precisely a cry, short, strangled — and a moment later found himself sitting sideways in the saddle, pressed back against a hard chest. Someone else's arms closed around him like a trap.

He was suffocating. His pulse pounded in his temples, in his throat, in his fingertips. The cloak had bunched up, the hood had fallen, and the cold air seared his face. The horse slowed its run, shifted to a walk, and in the silence that fell, he heard the rider's breathing — even, calm, as though the man had not been racing through a night forest chasing a fugitive, but was simply out for a leisurely ride.

"There are wolves in these woods."

The voice struck his nerves like a whip. Calm, distinct — such a voice cannot be unheard, even if it sounds barely louder than a whisper. It penetrated not through the ears — through the skin, resonating somewhere in the bones.

Y/N froze. He recognized that voice. He had always known it — from the first minute of waking in a strange body, from the first memories of the former owner, from the first glance in the gallery. Chen Mo.

He slowly, very slowly, turned his head.

The Regent looked down at him. Black hair tied into a knot, but several strands had come loose and fell across his face, crossing the scar on his cheekbone. In the dim moonlight filtering through the treetops, his skin seemed almost gray, and his eyes — so deep that one's gaze drowned in them, finding no bottom. He was not angry. He was not irritated. His face was calm, like water in an old well — dark, still, concealing unknown depths.

"You thought I would not know?" he asked.

Y/N swallowed. His mouth was dry, as after a long run through a desert.

"I..."

"My spy reported to me the moment you stepped out of the gate," Chen Mo interrupted, and his voice was still just as even, just as calm. "I rode out after you. Not immediately. I gave you a head start. Wanted to see how far you would go."

He leaned a little closer, and Y/N caught a scent — sandalwood, metal, horse sweat, and something else, elusive, like the smell of a thunderstorm when the clouds have already gathered but the rain has not yet begun. Something that was Chen Mo himself — his essence, his aura, his predatory nature.

"You went further than I expected," the Regent continued, and his fingers, holding the reins, tightened slightly. "You are fast. Enduring. You did not stop, did not panic, did not run back. You ran to the end." A pause. "That is worthy of respect."

Y/N was silent. What could he say? I didn't want to die? Your healer is trying to kill me? I am not who you take me for? All those words had lodged in his throat like a bone.

"I didn't want..." he began and stopped short.

Chen Mo did not let him finish. His hand settled on Y/N's waist — did not squeeze, did not yank, simply settled — and in that gesture there was more threat than in any blow.

"You didn't want?" the Regent repeated. "What didn't you want? To be my spouse? To live at the estate? Or perhaps," he leaned even closer, and his lips nearly touched Y/N's ear, "you didn't want me?"

The last word fell like a stone into water. And by the ripples spreading from it, Y/N understood: this was not a question. It was a statement. And everything depended on the answer to it.

He closed his eyes. Inhaled. Exhaled. And told the truth — the only truth he could tell without revealing himself:

"I didn't want to die."

The Regent's hand on his waist stilled. A pause hung — long, tense, like a string pulled to its limit. Then Chen Mo leaned back — just a little — and looked at Y/N as if seeing him for the first time.

"To die?" he asked again. "Who said you would die?"

"The plot," slipped from Y/N's lips before he had time to think.

"The plot?" The Regent tilted his head to the side, and something new flickered in his eyes. Not interest. Not suspicion. Confusion. Almost human. "What are you talking about?"

Y/N bit his tongue. Too much. He had said too much. Now he had to wriggle out of it, and quickly.

"I thought you would kill me," he said, and that, too, was the truth. "Sooner or later. As you would kill anyone who stands in your way. You are the Regent. You slaughter entire villages. And I am just..."

"You are my spouse," Chen Mo cut him off. And it sounded like a sentence. Or like an oath. "You are not 'just.' You are what belongs to me. And I do not kill what is mine."

The horse snorted and shifted its weight from foot to foot. The fog swirled around, hiding the forest, making it look like an underwater kingdom where there was no up or down, no direction, only cold and silence. And these two — the rider and his captive — lost in the white haze.

"Why did you come after me yourself?" Y/N asked quietly. "You could have sent guards. Could have ordered me caught. Why did you come yourself?"

Chen Mo was silent for a long time. The wind stirred his hair, and in the moonlight it gleamed like wet silk.

"Because you have changed," he said at last. "Because you stopped swaying your hips and started walking like a human being. Because you stopped looking at me like a hungry dog and started looking at me like an equal. Because you keep silent, and your silence is louder than all your words ever were." He took a breath. "Because I want to understand who you are now. And I want you to stay."

"You never asked if I want to."

"And I am not asking."

His hand moved from Y/N's waist to the back of his neck — gently but inexorably — and he pulled him closer. Now they sat face to face, separated by a distance of just a few cun. Y/N felt his breath on his skin. Saw every detail of his face: the scar crossing the cheekbone — old, whitened at the edges; the crease between his brows, deep as a crack in stone; the pupils, dilated, dark, with golden sparks in their depths.

"You ran away," said the Regent. "Now you will not run. Ever." He turned the horse and headed it back toward the estate. "We will marry today."

And it was not a question. Not a proposal. An order. The same as those he gave to his generals before battle — calm, assured, brooking no objection.

Y/N sat in the saddle, pressed to his chest, and felt the last hope of escape melting like fog at dawn. He had lost. He had gotten himself stuck in this plot right up to his neck.

He understood it when they dressed him in red garments. The wedding. Swift, without all those traditions. Merely the cementing of what was inevitable.

The bridal chamber. And the kiss — the first truly possessive kiss, from which Y/N's breath caught and his head spun.

All of it flashed by in one long, blurred movement — from the escape to the fall onto silk sheets. And now he lay, staring at the dark canopy, feeling the Regent's fingers glide over his skin — still not tenderly, but no longer coldly. Exploratory. Hungrily. As if Chen Mo had only now understood exactly what he held in his hands, and the understanding pleased him more and more.

The night was long. And by morning Y/N knew two things.

First: the Regent was obsessed. Not with Xiao Yi — with him. With his new "self." With his silence. With his irony. With his walk that no longer swayed. With his gaze that no longer tried to seduce.

Second: this obsession could become either his death or his shield. There was no third option.

The morning after the wedding night arrived gray, quiet, smelling of the rain that was drizzling outside the window, drumming against the tiled roof. Y/N did not wake at once — first he simply lay there, feeling the heaviness in his body, that very sweet, aching weariness that comes after a night full of frantic, hungry intimacy. The sheets were crumpled, the pillow knocked askew.

Chen Mo was not asleep. He sat on the edge of the bed, already dressed in dark colors, fastening an embroidered belt. His movements were unhurried, precise — just like during the night, when his fingers had glided over Y/N's body, exploring, claiming, leaving invisible marks.

"You are awake," he said without turning.

"Yes," Y/N replied, and his own voice seemed foreign to him — hoarse, low, somehow... satisfied? He pushed the thought away.

"Lie down. I will order breakfast brought."

Y/N wanted to object — he was not used to being served — but his body was too heavy and the bed too warm to argue. He remained lying there, watching as the Regent finished dressing, adjusted his collar, ran a hand through his hair, pushing it away from his face. The scar on his cheekbone seemed paler in the morning light, almost silver. His movements were smooth, like those of a predator that had just fed and now rested in blissful repose.

There was a knock at the door.

Y/N instinctively pulled the blanket up to his chin. Chen Mo cast him a brief glance — something akin to a smirk flickered in it — and said:

"Enter."

The door opened. On the threshold stood Xiao Yi.

He was dressed in his usual white, but today — Y/N noticed it immediately — something in his appearance had changed. Not subtly, but distinctly: shadows under his eyes that had not been there before; slightly sharper movements; a smile that was still meek, but one that came with visible effort. Like an actor who has played the same part for too long and is beginning to tire of the role.

In his hands he held a tray with a porcelain bowl. Light steam rose from the bowl, and with it — a scent. Herbal, sweetish, with some floral notes. Almost pleasant. Almost.

"Good morning, Lord Regent," the healer intoned, and his voice was soft as ever. "I have brought a tonic for your spouse. After such a night, he surely needs to restore his strength."

He bowed — gracefully, with dignity — and took a step into the room. His eyes quickly swept the chamber: the crumpled bed, the scattered clothing, the traces of a night unmistakable for anything else. And although the smile on his face did not waver, Y/N noticed how the knuckles of the fingers gripping the tray turned white. Noticed how the neck tensed beneath the white collar. Noticed how the pupils constricted, turning into two pinpricks.

"I did not ask for a tonic," said Chen Mo, without turning. He was adjusting a cuff, and his voice was distracted.

"I took the liberty," Xiao Yi replied softly. "Caring for the health of the members of your household is my duty." He bowed again and moved toward the bed.

Y/N watched him like a snake slowly crawling across the floor, pretending to be just a branch. Every movement of the healer was perfect, every gesture refined. But something was off. Something in the way he held the bowl — too carefully, as though it contained not an herbal decoction but liquid fire. Something in the way he looked at Y/N — furtively, through lowered lashes, and in that look there was neither meekness nor care. Only coldness. Only calculation.

"Set it on the table," said Chen Mo, and Xiao Yi froze mid-step. "I will give it to him myself."

"But my lord, the tonic must be drunk warm," the healer objected, and in his voice a barely perceptible note broke through — not insistence, but something close to it. "When it cools, the healing properties..."

"I said: set it on the table."

The Regent's voice had not changed — it was just as even, just as calm. But something in it made Xiao Yi stop short. He halted. Looked at Chen Mo — quickly, appraisingly. Then smiled — even more meekly, even more innocently — and placed the tray on the low table by the window.

"As you command," he said and stepped back a pace.

A silence hung in the room — dense as cotton wool. Y/N stared at the bowl. Steam still rose from it, and the smell of herbs, so pleasant at first glance, now seemed cloying to him. Too sweet. Like perfume trying to mask the smell of decay.

He drew the air through his nose — instinctively, like an animal that has sensed danger. And something in that scent was... wrong. Not overt, not crude. A barely perceptible note hidden beneath a layer of herbs and flowers. Bitter almonds. Or something like it — faint, almost indistinguishable, but distinct to one who knew what to look for.

And Y/N knew. He had read the treatise on poisons cover to cover. "Night Fog," that was what the healer's accomplice had called it. Odorless, tasteless — so the man had claimed. But the authors of the treatise had been more precise: "Night Fog" had a faint smell of bitter almonds that could be masked by herbs with a strong aroma. That was precisely what Xiao Yi had done.

Y/N's stomach clenched. Not from fear — from disgust. This man was standing two paces away from him now, smiling his false smile, waiting for his enemy to drink the poison. Waiting with anticipation. With relish. Like a gourmet watching the main dish being served.

"Lord Regent," Xiao Yi spoke when the pause had stretched too long. "The tonic truly is better fresh. I used rare herbs — astragalus root, goji berries, ginseng from the Wudang Mountains. They lose their potency with every passing minute." He spoke softly, solicitously, but Y/N heard beneath this layer of honey something else: impatience. Hunger.

Chen Mo finally turned around. His gaze slid over Xiao Yi, then over the bowl, then over Y/N. And something in his face changed — for a split second, almost imperceptibly. But Y/N noticed. Noticed how the Regent drew in air almost imperceptibly — sniffed. Noticed how his pupils dilated, then constricted, turning sharp as blades.

"My spouse will decide for himself when to drink," said Chen Mo, and his voice was calm, but that very edge Y/N had already learned to recognize had crept into it: danger. A predator who had scented another predator. "Wait outside the door."

Xiao Yi blinked. A shadow flickered across his face — surprise? alarm? — but he quickly collected himself.

"As you command," he repeated, and with a bow, he left.

The door closed. Y/N and the Regent were left alone.

"You do not want to drink it," said Chen Mo. It was not a question.

Y/N looked at him. At the scar on his cheekbone. At the dark eyes, which now resembled two wells — deep, impenetrable, full of something unspoken. Something in those eyes had changed since the night. Or perhaps it had changed from the moment the Regent had sniffed the air and sensed something.

He knows, the thought flashed. He knows about the poison. Or he suspects. But why is he silent? Why isn't he accusing Xiao Yi right now?

"I do not want to drink it," he said slowly, "because it smells strange."

The Regent was silent. His face was motionless. Then he turned to the door and raised his voice:

"Enter."

Xiao Yi came in — with the same smile, the same meek posture. But now Y/N saw the cracks even more clearly. The healer was nervous. His fingers, hidden in his sleeves, trembled. His breathing was slightly faster than it should be. He sensed that something was going wrong, but did not understand what exactly.

"Will you drink the tonic, young master?" he asked, and his voice was still soft, but now a strained note was audible in it.

"Smell it," said Chen Mo.

Xiao Yi froze.

"What?"

"Not you." The Regent nodded to the guard standing by the door. "You. Smell the bowl."

The guard stepped forward. He was an older man with a face cut by scars — one of those who had gone through more than one campaign with Chen Mo. He took the bowl, raised it to his nose, and drew in the air. For a long time. Slowly. His face, impassive until now, changed — his brows drew together at the bridge of his nose, his nostrils flared. He smelled again, more deeply, and set the bowl aside.

"Bitter almonds, my lord," he said flatly. "A very faint smell, almost covered by the herbs. But it is there. 'Night Fog' poison. Deadly. Acts quickly."

Silence fell in the room.

Not the silence of before — tense, but neutral. This silence was different. Ringing. Like the air before a lightning strike. Like the pause between a sentence and the fall of the sword.

Xiao Yi stood motionless. His face changed slowly — like a mask slipping from an actor's face, layer by layer. First, the meek smile vanished, leaving behind only pale, tightly pressed lips. Then — the innocent gaze; the healer's eyes, which had always seemed moist and warm, suddenly became dry and sharp, like two shards of glass. What remained was something hard. Something predatory. Something that had been hiding beneath the silk all this time.

"Chen Mo," he said, and his voice was no longer soft, no longer enveloping. It was taut as a bowstring, ready to snap at any moment. "You cannot..."

"I can," the Regent interrupted. He rose. Slowly. Smoothly. Like a beast that has spotted its prey. "I can do anything."

"You love me!" Xiao Yi shouted, stepping back a pace. His voice cracked, and hysterical notes broke through it. "You have always loved me! You said it! That night, in the tent, when I was changing your bandages! You said — 'you are the only one I have'! You said — 'I will never leave you'!"

Y/N froze. Those words — that night, in the tent — rang out like a slap. He did not know this story. The novel had not described it in detail. But now he understood: there, in that tent, something had happened between the wounded Regent and the healer who had himself arranged that wound. Something that bound them more tightly than gratitude. More tightly than debt.

Chen Mo took a step toward the healer. His face was motionless, but something burned in his eyes — not fury, not anger. Coldness. The terrible, all-consuming coldness of a man who had just learned the truth.

"You saved me?" he asked, and his voice dropped to a whisper. "You?"

"Yes!" Xiao Yi cried out, and tears streamed down his cheeks — real tears, not feigned. "Me! I found you on that road, bleeding out! I carried you on my back for three li to the nearest village! I didn't sleep for nights, changing your bandages! I nursed you back to health when everyone else had already written you off for dead!" He sobbed, and his voice became pleading. "I love you, Chen Mo. I have always loved you. I dedicated my whole life to you. I..."

"You bribed the man who wounded me," the Regent interrupted. His voice was still as even, but now something was audible in it that sent chills down Y/N's spine. Not anger. Not pain. Disappointment. A dull, heavy disappointment, like a gravestone. "You went out onto that road knowing that I would be there. You played me from the very beginning."

Xiao Yi's face turned white. Not metaphorically — literally. The blood drained from his cheeks, and he began to look like a ghost — white hanfu, white face, only his eyes burning with mad fire.

"Where did you..." he whispered and stopped short.

"I know everything," said Chen Mo. "I have known it from the very beginning." He took another step, and now there was no more than an arm's length between him and the healer. "You thought I don't vet those who approach me? You thought I would believe in a random traveler on a road where there wasn't a soul? You thought I wouldn't make inquiries about a village healer who suddenly turned up in the right place at the right time?" He spoke calmly, almost lazily, but every word struck like a lash. "I have known everything from the very beginning. I simply observed. Waited for you to reveal yourself. And you have."

Xiao Yi stumbled back another step. His face twisted — now there was no meekness on it, no love, no fear. Only hatred. Pure, unclouded hatred.

"You... you used me?" he whispered. "All this time..."

"You were useful," said Chen Mo. "You healed my people. You gave information about those who tried to poison me — about your own accomplices, though you didn't know it. You were convenient." He stopped a step away from the healer and looked down at him. "Now you have ceased to be convenient."

Xiao Yi trembled. His lips quivered, his eyes darted around the room, searching for an exit, but there was no exit. The guard at the door. The window behind him, barred with a grate. And the Regent before him — tall, dark, with a dagger in his hand. That very one, with the jade hilt.

"It's all him!" the healer suddenly shouted, jabbing a finger toward the bed. "It's him! This unclean son of an advisor! He poisoned you against me! He..."

He did not finish.

Chen Mo struck him — briefly, economically, without a wind-up. Simply a sharp movement, and Xiao Yi flew against the wall, clutching his stomach. On the white hanfu, just below the chest, a red stain was spreading. Small at first, like a peony petal — then wider, darker, until it turned into a huge, hideous flower.

The healer slid down the wall to the floor. His hands, pressed to the wound, turned red. Blood flowed between his fingers, dripped onto the wooden floor, gathered in a small puddle by his knees. He raised his eyes to the Regent, and in those eyes there was so much — pain, disbelief, hurt — that Y/N, against his will, felt a prick of pity. A very small one. Almost imperceptible.

"I loved you," Xiao Yi whispered. Blood bubbled on his lips, and the words came out gurgling, indistinct. "I did everything for you. I killed for you. I lived for you. And you... you chose him." He shifted his gaze to Y/N, and in that gaze there was so much hatred that the pity vanished without a trace. "You... you are nothing. You are just a body. You don't know him. You don't know what he is. You think you're safe? You think he won't kill you like he killed me?"

"Be silent," said Chen Mo.

"He will kill you!" Xiao Yi cried out, and blood sprayed from his lips. "He will kill you like he killed everyone who came before you! Like he will kill—"

He did not finish. Chen Mo flipped the dagger in his hand and struck again — backhanded, across the throat. A short, choked wheeze — and Xiao Yi went silent. His body went limp, slid down the wall, and remained lying on the floor, in a spreading pool of blood. His eyes — wide open, full of pain and disbelief — stared at the ceiling. And there was nothing left in them. Only emptiness.

The Regent wiped the dagger on his sleeve — slowly, almost ceremoniously — and turned to the bed. Y/N watched him, unable to tear his gaze away. His heart pounded somewhere in his throat. He had just witnessed a murder. Not a ritual one, not a political one — a swift, cruel, personal one. And the man who had committed it now stood before him and looked as though nothing had happened.

"Are you all right?" asked Chen Mo.

His voice was calm. Almost tender.

Y/N swallowed. His mouth had gone dry.

"I... yes," he forced out. "I am all right."

The Regent lowered himself to his knees before the bed. His hand — the very one that had just held the dagger — took Y/N's hand. The fingers were warm, dry, surprisingly gentle for a man who had just killed. He raised Y/N's palm to his lips and kissed it — first the knuckles, then the center of the palm, then the wrist, where the pulse beat beneath the thin skin.

"I told you," he said quietly. "I will protect you. From everything. From everyone."

Y/N looked at his bowed head, at the black hair scattered over his shoulders, at the scar crossing his cheekbone — and felt something inside him shift. Fracture. Reforge.

Here he was. A man who had just killed another man. Who had slaughtered entire villages. Who was cold, cruel, calculating. And who was now kissing his hand as though it were the most precious thing in the world.

"I'll remember that," he said. And smiled.

Rain drizzled outside the window. Xiao Yi's corpse lay on the floor, and his blood was slowly soaking into the wooden boards. And Chen Mo kept kissing his spouse's hand, and in that gesture there were more promises than in a thousand words.

devider by @strangergraphics

[theblackbirdsdream]

FOUR HEARTS

pairing: Aegon I Targaryen x male!bottom!reader (main),  Visenya Targaryen x male! reader x  Rhaenys Targaryen (back) summary: Aegon the Conqueror is used to taking what he believes is his by right of blood wc: 2.1k

details: ↳ warnings: dub-con (no explicit scenes), targcest, forced marriage, drug use, tragic/dark ending ↳ tags: possessive aegon I targaryen, obsessive behavior, jealous aegon I targaryen, manipulation, wedding while intoxicated, broken Y/N, no happy ending, POV third person limited, targaryen family dynamics at their worst, Y/N has a slightly feminine appearance, silver hair, and violet eyes. ↳ rating: R

from author: My English isn't perfect, so there might be some mistakes. It's my first fanfic, hope you like it!

"Have you lost your minds?!" young Y/N exclaimed, looking in disbelief from his older brother to his sisters.

"Calm down, sweet brother, and simply accept it," Rhaenys’s lips curved into her signature, teasingly seductive smile. Visenya, however, kept her silence: she pierced her younger brother with a heavy gaze that seemed to slip right beneath his skin, reading him entirely.

Aegon, seated upon the throne, did not take his eyes off him. He greedily watched the pulsing vein on Y/N's slender neck, the way his chest heaved with indignation. How utterly beautiful he is, was the only coherent thought beating in the Conqueror's mind. The realization that he wished to see his younger brother at his side not as a loyal ally, but as his consort, had struck him suddenly. Though, if he were entirely honest with himself, this dark seed of lust had been sown in his soul long ago.

Y/N differed strikingly from the coarse lords of Westeros. He had inherited his refined, almost maidenly beauty from his mother, but beneath this angelic exterior hid a true dragon—fierce and fiery.

Now, this dragon paced the hall like a caged beast; fury flowed through his veins like molten lava. In his time, he had gritted his teeth and held his tongue when his older brother took both their sisters to wife. Yes, in that old quarrel, notes of burning jealousy had rung true—since childhood, the young prince had harbored a secret infatuation with the stern Visenya. Since he was a boy, he had followed her like a shadow, shouting to anyone who would listen that he would marry her. His eldest sister had merely smiled indulgently and patted his head. Upon learning that Aegon had married her out of duty alone, Y/N had thrown himself at his brother with fists flying in a fit of rage. He had wanted to smash that arrogant face, but blind anger made him forget the difference in their strength. Aegon had easily caught his wrists back then, smiling condescendingly as the younger boy struggled desperately in his iron grip.

"We need to consolidate power after the Conquest!" Y/N finally burst out, coming to an abrupt halt. "And you propose I become your... husband?! I have already given my word to wed the Durrandon girl!"

At the mention of another's name, Aegon's impassive mask cracked, giving way to malice. The King rose sharply from the throne. Rhaenys, who had been lazily leaning against his shoulder, recoiled in alarm. Visenya, sensing the threat hanging in the air, stepped forward to place herself between the men, but Aegon moved her aside with an indisputable gesture.

"Leave us," he commanded imperiously, never breaking his darkened gaze from Y/N's frowning face.

"Aegon, please, go easy on him," Rhaenys whispered with anxiety in her voice.

"At once!" the Conqueror barked, his voice echoing like thunder against the stone vaults. Exchanging a glance, the queens hastily left the hall.

The silence that fell was truly deafening. It was broken only by the measured footsteps of the King, approaching his younger brother slowly, like a predator stalking its prey.

"You have completely lost your mind, Aegon..." Y/N's voice trembled, and he involuntarily took a step back. "Are our sisters not enough for you? Now you wish to drag me into the marriage bed as well? Your own brother! A man! You madman... What will the people think?"

"They do not need to think. They only need to understand that things will never be as they were. And that includes the traditions of marriage," Aegon said, slowly, with a terrifying tenderness, tucking a silver lock behind his brother's ear.

"And then every lustful lord will start dragging his lovers to the altar, spitting on his lawful wife and children! I refuse to take part in this, brother." Y/N jerked away as if burned, and spinning on his heel, hurried out of the throne room, leaving the King to the echoing silence.

The thick twilight brought no relief—the fury that had been boiling in his chest since morning had not subsided. All day, the prince had successfully avoided his royal kin, but hiding from his sister was impossible. Visenya came to him herself.

"Did our brother send you?" bitter resentment slipped into the prince's voice. Visenya offered the faintest smile at the corners of her lips, taking in his tense features.

"No. I came of my own accord," she gracefully lowered herself onto the wide windowsill. The shutters were thrown wide open, driving the thick, herb-scented summer breeze into the room. "Aegon is darker than a storm cloud. He spoke not a word of substance during the small council, only scowled and snapped at the lords like a rabid hound."

"But why did you stay silent?!" Y/N burst out. "This is pure madness! Blasphemy! How do you even imagine this? What will the common folk say? The King takes a man to wife! What shamelessness... I simply cannot believe it."

"Our brother has always been an insatiable possessor," Visenya slowly, finger by finger, pulled off her thick leather gloves. "And it repulses him that every eye at court is glued to you. You have blossomed, little brother. And as it happens, your beauty drives not only noble maidens mad, but lords as well."

"How absurd... And how utterly disgusting," the prince shuddered.

"Do not lie to yourself," Visenya's stern gaze pinned him to the spot. "Aegon decided to bind you in the chains of matrimony solely because of your... highly intriguing relationship with the young Lord Stark."

The prince froze, meeting her eyes.

"We are just friends... I do not know what you are talking about," he whispered barely audibly.

"We are not blind. We see everything," his sister cut him off. "And it drives all three of us into a rage." She rose abruptly from the sill and left the chambers.

Y/N was indeed hiding a secret. The kind of secret you wouldn't entrust even to an understanding sister—though, as it turned out, her piercing insight required no confessions. Until recently, he had managed to wear a flawless mask, but as soon as the young heir to the North appeared on the horizon, his carefully constructed defenses crumbled. The worst part was that Lord Stark returned his feelings. Stolen glances, secret letters, fleeting touches in dark corridors... From these tiny sparks grew a flame that the prince desperately tried to conceal.

He sighed heavily, closing his eyes. Y/N would be a complete fool to deny that Aegon stirred his blood. Mighty, unyielding, greedy—the King always took what he desired. And this primal power was alluring. But the risk was too great. Should rumors spread, the capital would drown in sin: every alley stray would flock to the castle posing as devoted servants, secretly dreaming of seducing the King.

Another shuddering sigh escaped his lips. The thin fabric of his night tunic slipped down, baring his shoulder to the cool draft, but inside, the prince was burning with unsolvable contradictions.

The following day was exhausting. At the council, Y/N did not lift his gaze, but he could feel Aegon’s heavy, unblinking stare burning into his back—like a red-hot brand pressed into living flesh. Every moment dragged on unbearably, and the prince caught himself gripping the edge of the table so tightly his knuckles turned white.

When the lords finally dispersed, murmuring among themselves, Y/N was the first to rise—but his path to the door was blocked by Rhaenys. She appeared as if from nowhere, smelling of exotic Summer Isle oils, and gently touched his elbow.

"Walk with me," it was not a request.

They walked along the covered gallery, bathed in the warm afternoon light. Below, in the courtyard, squires battered each other with training swords, the clash of steel reaching them muffled, as if from another world.

"You have lost weight," Rhaenys noted, studying his profile from the corner of her eye. He seemed to her like a figurine of Valyrian glass, one that would shatter if squeezed just a little too hard.

"I am fine."

"Liar," she smiled, but in her bright eyes swirled a tenderness that only made Y/N hurt more. Rhaenys had always been like this—warm as a southern wind, generous with affection, endlessly patient. Of all the Targaryens, she was the only one who knew how to love without leaving a wound.

"I will not try to persuade you, little brother," she continued, stopping by a pillar and leaning her shoulder against it. "But I will say one thing. You know Aegon. He will not back down. He never backs down."

"Then let him chain me to the throne—it would be more honest than calling it a marriage," Y/N snapped.

"Oh, darling..." Rhaenys raised her hand and gently stroked his cheek—just as she had done when he was a child running to her after nightmares. "You are not angry with him. You are angry with yourself. Because a part of you wants to say 'yes'."

Y/N flinched as if struck.

"Do not tell me what I want," he hissed, and spinning around, strode away, feeling his cheeks burn.

Behind him, Rhaenys sighed softly and whispered into the empty gallery:

"Silly boy. Poor, silly boy."

That evening, Visenya came to him. Not with talk—with Dark Sister at her hip and a jug of wine in her hand.

"I do not want to drink," Y/N stated dryly, not lifting his head from his book. He sat by the hearth, though the fire had burned out long ago, and a damp gloom settled in the chambers.

"I wasn't asking," Visenya set the jug on the table. At first, she reached to pour the drink into a nearby glass, but hesitated, abandoning the idea. Without ceremony, she snatched the book from him. She cast a fleeting glance at the cover—The Chronicles of Valyria—and tossed it carelessly aside.

Then she did something Y/N absolutely did not expect from her. She fell to her knees before him, took his hands in hers, and squeezed them tightly. Her palms were hard, calloused from the sword—the hands of a warrior, not a court lady. But in her touch, there was such a crushing, fierce tenderness that Y/N's breath caught in his throat.

"Listen to me very carefully," her voice was quiet but as hard as Valyrian steel. "I know how you feel. Do you think I married Aegon of my own free will? Do you think I didn't want to take Dark Sister and slit his throat on our wedding night?"

Y/N let out an involuntary, broken scoff. Visenya allowed herself the shadow of a smirk.

"But I accepted it. Not because he is stronger. But because our blood is our curse and our blessing. We burn for each other, Y/N. Such is our nature."

"You speak as if I have no choice."

"There is always a choice," Visenya looked up at him, and in the violet depths of her eyes, he read what she would never say aloud: fear. Visenya—iron, unbending Visenya—was afraid. Afraid for him. "But some choices cost more than others. And if you keep running, Aegon will break everything standing between you. Including the Starks."

The name hung in the air like the blade of a guillotine.

"He wouldn't dare," but Y/N's voice sounded unconvincing even to himself.

Visenya stood, briefly squeezed his shoulder—almost painfully so—and left, taking the jug with her.

For three days, the Red Keep hummed with tension like a taut bowstring. Aegon did not speak to his brother—he did not even look in his direction, and this was far more terrifying than his usual obsession. The King became impenetrable: he received lords, listened to petitions, signed decrees—all with that mechanical, measured calmness that precedes a storm.

On the fourth day, a cupbearer knocked on Y/N's door—a young, freckled boy with frightened eyes.

"His Grace requests you join him for supper in the small dining hall, my prince," he stammered, holding out a note on parchment sealed with the three-headed dragon.

Y/N unfolded the missive. Aegon's handwriting—large, confident, pressing so hard the ink indented the parchment.

"Come. We need to talk. No quarrels. I promise."

The promise of a King. Y/N chuckled bitterly. But his feet carried him to the small dining hall of their own accord.

The room was bathed in a soft, warm glow. Dozens of candles burned in candelabras, casting honeyed reflections on the walls. The table was set for two: roasted quail, fresh bread, cheeses, fruits—and wine. Thick, dark, almost black wine in a crystal decanter.

Aegon was already seated. No crown, no mantle, just a simple black tunic, unlaced at the throat. He looked... normal. Almost human. And that only made Y/N more anxious.

"Sit," Aegon said quietly. Not a command. A request.

Y/N sat. He did not know why. Perhaps because he was tired of running. Perhaps because a traitorous part of his soul—the part he so desperately tried to crush—wanted to be near.

The first cup of wine was no different from standard Arbor red. Thick, with notes of blackberry and smoke. Y/N sipped cautiously, but Aegon was... soft. Uncharacteristically gentle. He spoke of the new ships being built in Blackwater Bay. Asked about Y/N's dragon—how it was flying, if it was eating well. Spoke of childhood memories—how once, a young Y/N had fallen asleep on Balerion’s back, and all of Dragonstone had scoured the island searching for him.

Y/N listened. And against his will, he smiled. The second cup went down easier. The wine coated his palate with velvety warmth, spreading through his body in a soft, lulling heat.

By the third cup, the world began to swim.

Y/N blinked—and could not immediately focus his gaze. The candles blurred into golden spots. Aegon's voice—low and rhythmic—sounded as if coming through a thick wall of water. His thoughts, which had swarmed in his head like a thorny hedgehog all evening, suddenly went limp, dissolving like sugar in hot milk. In their place came a strange, cottony emptiness—light and almost blissful.

Something was wrong. Y/N knew it. He felt it—somewhere at the very bottom of his consciousness, a red alarm flared, but it was drowning, choking in a warm, honeyed fog.

"Aegon..." his tongue felt foreign, clumsy. "What... is in the wine..."

The Conqueror did not answer. He slowly walked around the table, and Y/N felt a large, hot palm cup the back of his head—gently, possessively, the way one lays a hand on the scruff of a tamed beast.

"Hush, little brother," Aegon whispered, his voice sounding so far away, as if from behind a wall. "Just don't think. You don't need to think anymore."

Y/N wanted to strike him. To stand, push him away, shout something furious and burning—but his body no longer belonged to him. His limbs turned to lead, his will crumbled to dust like ancient parchment. He felt Aegon lift him—easily, like a child—and carry him somewhere. Flashes of stone corridors, torchlight on the walls, the whispers of servants hastily averting their eyes.

Then came the septon—Y/N remembered him vaguely, like a fragment of a nightmare. The pale face of the old man, trembling hands binding their wrists with a ribbon. The words of the vow, which Aegon spoke for them both—in an even, icy, unwavering tone. And Y/N stood swaying, with unfocused eyes and a meek, absent half-smile on his lips, while from his eyes, betraying that smile, tears slowly fell.

His body was present, but his mind—his true, sharp, defiant mind—was imprisoned somewhere deep within, behind an impenetrable wall of potion. He screamed. He thrashed. But not a single sound broke through to the surface.

Rhaenys found out at dawn. She burst into Aegon's chambers with such fury that the guards at the doors recoiled; it was entirely unlike her gentle nature. But restraining her emotions at the most horrific news was impossible.

"What have you done?!" her voice, usually honeyed and melodic, rang with barely contained rage.

Aegon stood by the window, hands clasped behind his back. Behind him, on the massive bed, amidst the tangled sheets, Y/N slept—pale, with dark circles under his eyes, dried tracks of tears on his cheeks. On his ring finger gleamed a dull band of Valyrian steel.

"What was necessary," the Conqueror replied calmly, not turning around.

"Necessary?!" Rhaenys choked out. She rushed to the bed, dropping to her knees beside her brother, and gently brushed the silver strands from his forehead. The skin beneath her fingers was hot—feverishly hot. The potion had not yet released its grip. "You drugged him! You... you stripped him of his will, Aegon! This is not a wedding—this is violation!"

"It is mercy," Aegon finally turned, and Rhaenys shrank back from what she saw in his eyes. Not remorse. Not shame. Absolute, unwavering conviction. "He was tearing himself apart. He was suffering. I spared him the burden of choosing."

"You stripped him of his right to think!" Rhaenys hissed, her voice breaking into a sob. "That is his right, Aegon! His right to think, to decide, to refuse!"

"Dragons do not have the right to deny their own blood," the King cut her off. And in those words lay a death sentence.

Rhaenys pressed a hand over her mouth, stifling a scream tearing from her throat. She looked at her sleeping brother—the boy she had cradled in her arms, sung lullabies to, taught to weave crowns of wildflowers—and saw the blooming crimson bruise on his wrist, right where the marital ribbon had been bound yesterday. He had fought. Even in delirium—he had fought.

She kissed his forehead—long and desperately—and left without another word.

In the corridor, Visenya was waiting for her. The elder sister stood leaning against the wall, arms crossed. Her face was carved of stone—not a single emotion. But her hands... her hands were trembling slightly.

"Did you know?" Rhaenys asked hoarsely.

Visenya did not answer. Her silence was more eloquent than any words.

"You gave him the potion," it wasn't a question. Rhaenys swayed, as if the ground had vanished beneath her feet. "You... Visenya... How could you?"

"It wasn't me. Or rather... he asked me to make it first, but at the last moment I changed my mind, so he decided to do it all himself," Visenya's voice was dead. Flat. Scraped to the bone. "You didn't see what Aegon planned if Y/N refused again. He was going to declare the Starks traitors. Burn Winterfell. Kill the boy-lord right in front of Y/N's eyes. I chose the lesser evil and decided not to interfere."

Rhaenys clamped a hand over her mouth. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

"The lesser evil," she repeated in a whisper, as if tasting the words, and every syllable tasted of wormwood. "You stripped him of his choice, and you call it the lesser evil."

"At the very least, we saved that boy's life," Visenya finally raised her eyes to her, and Rhaenys saw what her elder sister had been hiding so carefully: eyes brimming with unshed, agonizing grief. "And I saved him—for us. Do you not love him?"

"I do! Of course I love him! But I never thought it would come to using such a vile method on him!" Rhaenys cried, but Visenya only shook her head.

She turned sharply and marched away. Her footsteps echoed loudly in the empty corridor—even, measured, flawless. But halfway to the stairs, Visenya stopped, braced her palm against the wall, and bent double, as if taking a blow to the gut. From her throat tore a short, strangled sound—not a scream, not a sob, but something feral, broken, and desperate.

Then she straightened up. Squared her shoulders. And continued on her way—as if nothing had happened.

Y/N awoke near midday.

The first thing he felt was a heavy weight. Not a physical one. Something pressed on his chest from the inside, as if a stone had settled between his ribs. His head was splitting, and a sweet, nauseating aftertaste lingered in his mouth—the residual trace of the potion he could not yet identify.

Second—another's heat. Aegon's arm lay across his waist, heavy and possessive even in sleep. The King's hot breath burned against his neck.

Third—the ring.

Y/N lifted his hand and stared for a long time at the dull band on his finger. Valyrian steel. Ancient runic script. He knew those runes—he had seen the exact same ones on his sisters' rings.

And then he remembered everything.

Not clearly, not sharply—in fragments, in flashes. The candles. The septon. The ribbons on their wrists. His own voice, uttering some words—submissive, empty, unrecognizable. And the tears that had flowed, flowed, flowed, while he could not lift his hand to wipe them away.

Y/N did not scream. He did not cry. He simply lay there, staring at the ceiling with wide, dry eyes, feeling something inside him—something alive, hot, and defiant—slowly extinguish, turning to ash.

Aegon's arm tightened its grip. Even in sleep, the Conqueror did not let go of his prey.

Outside, seagulls cried. The Red Keep was waking up, a new day was beginning, and in the throne room, the lords were already gathering to congratulate His Grace on his new marriage. Rumors had spread through the capital faster than dragonfire: King Aegon had taken his own brother as a husband. Some whispered in horror, others with lustful curiosity, and still others with icy calculation, plotting how to turn this to their advantage.

And somewhere far away in the North, in a harsh grey castle, the young Lord Stark unfolded a parchment bearing the seal of the three-headed dragon, read three lines—and stood for a long time by the window, looking out at the endless snows, his face slowly dawning, like a winter sunrise, with the realization that he had lost something he hadn't even had the time to name.

That night, the first night of his new life—the life of a royal consort—Y/N stepped out onto the balcony. The wind tousled his silver hair and billowed the hems of his thin tunic. The city below flickered with thousands of lights, indifferent and beautiful.

Behind him, the door creaked.

"Leave, Aegon," Y/N said without turning.

But it was not Aegon.

Rhaenys approached quietly, standing beside him shoulder to shoulder. She said nothing. She simply draped a warm cloak over him—her own, smelling of jasmine and dragon’s heat—and remained standing there.

On his other side, Visenya appeared soundlessly. She did not touch him. She didn't dare. She only stood beside him, like a silent sentinel, and her hand hung by her side, clenched into a fist so tightly that her nails bit into her palm, drawing blood.

Three Targaryens stood on the balcony, staring into the dark, in complete silence.

Y/N felt Rhaenys's warm fingers brush against his—cautiously, timidly, as if she wasn't sure he wouldn't pull his hand away. He did not pull away. He didn't even have the strength left for that.

Somewhere in the depths of the castle, the drawn-out, guttural roar of Balerion echoed—and Y/N thought: even dragons, the very creatures that bow to no one, eventually wear collars. It is just that their collars are made of Valyrian steel, and they are fastened by those who love them.

The moon hid behind the clouds. The city below plunged into sleep.

And on the ring finger of the prince who was no longer a prince—who had become something else, something for which a name had not yet been invented—gleamed a dull ring, cold as a chain, heavy as a death sentence, irremovable as the curse of blood that could never be diluted.

[theblackbirdsdream]

NEW 5

[theblackbirdsdream]

NEW 4

[theblackbirdsdream]

NEW 3

[theblackbirdsdream]

Hybrid

[theblackbirdsdream]

Disney

[theblackbirdsdream]

Avatar and all parts

[theblackbirdsdream]

Game of Thrones

𝐀𝐞𝐠𝐨𝐧 𝐈 𝐓𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐞𝐧

[FOUR HEARTS] the weight of words: 2.1k the story: Aegon the Conqueror is used to taking what he believes is his by right of blood

𝐉𝐨𝐧 𝐒𝐧𝐨𝐰

[ICE AND THE SWAN] the weight of words: ~4.8k the story: He came back for war. He stayed for Jon

[theblackbirdsdream]

Call of Duty

[theblackbirdsdream]

Resident Evil

[theblackbirdsdream]

Strange Things

[theblackbirdsdream]

Naruto

[theblackbirdsdream]

Main Masterlist

ᴀɴɪᴍᴇ

i. Jujutsu Kaisen

ii. Naruto

iii.

ᴍᴏᴠɪᴇs

i. Hobbit/Lord of the rings

ii. Scream

iii. Avatar and all parts

sᴇʀɪᴇs

i. Strange things

ii. Game of Thrones & other

iii.

ɢᴀᴍᴇs

i. Resident Evil

ii. Call of Duty

iii.

ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ꜰᴀɴᴅᴏᴍs

i. Disney

ii. Hybrid

iii.

divider by @chrisssiren

[theblackbirdsdream]

Hobbit/Lord of the rings