Chapter Text
Embers crackle and flicker before his eyes. His shoulders are still sore from battle, aching where the breastplate and pauldrons once rested, the ghost of the leather that was only a wake prior holding him composed and together while he fought heavy on his muscles. But nothing weights more than the images of slayed men falling to their end before him, the images still fresh on his young mind.
I know now why the cloaks are crimson, Chan thinks, despite his Lord Father’s compulsion with gold. So when blood stains, no sin remains.
There are figures on the fire. Spirits that he cannot name dancing in a language that is far from anything he has come to learn in his years. Yet, he cannot look away, as the fire paints scenes like the watercolours his mother loves – wenches, hounds, a castle, a knight, a… half human?
Chan blinks, sure that the travel is getting to his head as he reaches for his ale that rests atop the fireplace. There are chain mail imprints still left on his pale skin, bruises in purples and blues where the blades had tried to cut right through him and he wouldn’t allow it. He’s in loose garments now, the only symbol of his royalty left on him, the chain dangling on his neck, the same one his mother had made when he ripped his way out of her.
He takes the medallion between his thumb and index, fingering the bas-relief before lowering his gaze to it. He is met with the sight of a radiant sun, the perfect circle surrounded by undulating lines that end in dangerous points. A simple crown, or coronet, rests atop the indent, and behind, the words Chan has known his whole life. Family, Pride, Honour. The motto and crest his Lord Father had adopted ever since winning the War of Lost Brothers and crowning himself as king of the land, leaving behind the other symbol that once represented their House before he was even born.
Gold in peace, steel in war – that’s were his Lord Father’s words after ending the life of the last of the former’s kings lost brothers and sitting himself on the Great Throne. Every corner of the land has come to fear the Bahngs, fear what the king and his army of lions are capable of. Even those who look at him with ill intent and whisper the word usurper as he goes.
And Chan has been trained his whole life to wear that fear with pride, to instil it whenever he goes to battle. Even if that was a fate he had never wanted.
“Chris,” Changbin’s voice is enough to wake him from his trance, head snapping to the wooden door of the cabin. There is a certain urgency on the knight’s features, enough to put the prince on alert. “A storm is coming. We need you above board.”
Chan looks toward the big windows of his chambers, noticing the unnatural darkness of the sky at this time of day, the pure blackness of the clouds that get dangerously close. He doesn’t waste a minute, nodding towards the younger before crossing the space with big steps, not bothering with a jacket or any formalities. He follows the Chief of Cavalry out onto the surface, what once was a gentle gust of window now turned into howls of violence, the water raising in waves against the ship like warhorses heading to battle. A shiver runs down his spine as he watches the looming, black clouds close in on their float.
Gods would surely appraise him with a storm on their way back to Summershall right after a battle that had half his men wounded and bleeding. The rest of the float would survive, smaller ships with shorter masts that would face no problem as long as they keep the sails half mast. The one he is currently sailing on, Levanter, however? Much more dangerous, much more lethal due to its size and height.
“Milord,” one of his men rushes to him, an older knight that had served to his father before him, Ser Derryck. “You should stay down on your quarters.”
“Half my men are down; do you expect me to sit pretty and watch us all perish?” the ferocity of the wind forces him to raise his voice in a way he usually would not dare outside of battle. But the sea is becoming fierce as time progresses, the water spraying them as waves crash against the sides of the ship.
“Give your command,” Changbin’s hand comes to rest on his shoulder, and suddenly he feels the weight of the armour no longer. He nods, chest inflated as he turns to the men that had been waiting for him.
His men. Not his father’s. Not his House’s. These men that stand before him swore loyalty to him, to Chan himself. Half of them are battered and tired, their wounds poorly dressed as they return home, half of them have not grown a beard yet, Chan is not sure they have even kissed a girl, but they have ridden to war under his watchful eyes.
They survived the brutal clash of battle. He shall not let them meet their end on the water – not when they are so close to home, the peaks of the Willowmere Citadel already sketched on the horizon line.
His vision goes white, the first roar of thunder following not long after. There is no more time to contemplate, and, thankfully, Chan has always been prepared for this.
“Strike the royals!” He shouts, eyes following as the first men immediately scurry to take care of the highest sails on the mast. “Ser Derryck, make sure they strike the top gallant and the gallant, as well.”
“Yes, milord,” the old man bows, moving to help the younglings that are fighting the ropes that connect to the sails.
“Secure all loose gear and batten down the hatches,” the prince continues barking orders as he moves down the deck when the first wave engulfs them whole, the sky crying on them like a maiden. He loses his footing, bottom painfully thumping the wood as the water tries to take him down.
“Not so fast, boy!” a hand reaches for the back of his shirt, keeping him in place as the ship stabilizes. A man to his left isn’t as lucky, falling victim to the rage of the sea with a screech. Changbin smiles at him like a wet dog when he looks at his saviour, and the prince can only pat him gratefully before returning to his task.
“The storm is only getting bigger,” Chan observes as the sky thunders again, nothing but blue, darkness and chill surrounding him. “Leash yourselves! Make sure no one else goes to water!”
Another wave, another bout of water raining down on them. The prince splutters, spitting seawater that gets into his open wounds and makes him hiss. The ship will not stop swaying dangerously, and his garments are completely glued to his body, but there is still one way to salvage the situation – and he will make sure it gets done himself.
“Milord, come on,” Changbin, his most loyal friend turns to him, one hand holding the rope hugging his waist, the other offering him a second rope so he can do it, too. The sky snaps and cracks, and the prince refuses, scurrying away from his friend. “Where are you going!? Chan!”
“We must reef the mainsail!” is all he says before sprinting away before the knight can get a hold of him. He can barely see due to the downpour, the rainfall feeling like needles on his skin, much more painful than the blows from the battle they just fought. He reaches the mainsail despite tripping and almost falling a few times on the wet wood, but he climbs swiftly onto it, reaching for the ropes that work it.
It is hard work due to the rain, his vision impaired and his hands slippery, yet he manages. His moves are swift and powerful, provided that he has done these same movements countless of times before, preparing for any possible outcome on his time on the road. The mainsail raises half its original height, and for a moment he feels triumphant.
It all happens in a furry. One second, he’s standing on the mast, hands tightly tied around ropes as he makes the last knot to ensure the mainsail is reefed; the next, water is engulfing him with the fury of North Winds. He gets completely submerged, unsure if it is the ship or the world that gets turned on its side, water entering him fully. The last thing he hears before his body ruefully hits the surface of the water is the screeches of his army after him, completely horrified at the sight of the Golden Prince being swallowed by a ruthless sea.
A flurry of bubbles besieges him as the noise of the outside ceases. Underwater he cannot hear the storm, nor the panicked screams of his men as they try to save him somehow, still tied to their posts and wood. Chan’s back stings where he has fallen, his loose undershirt that had just been adhered to his body due to the rain now hanging limply around him. The shock has made all air exit his lungs, and the edges of his vision are starting to blacken and blur as nothing but blue encompasses him.
It feels like his body weights a ton, like Ladystone herself had come to tie her daughters to his joints and drag him down onto the darkness of the bottom of the sea. However it may be, the prince feels utterly incapable of fighting back, his head light and his body heavy as he approaches an undignified end. What songs will they write about him? The Drowned Prince would make a good tale at tourneys and feasts alike. He blinks, his eyelids dropping dangerously as his body convulses, looking for a source of oxygen it will not find underwater. He tries to keep his mouth shut, to elongate the end as much as humanly possible, but he is running out of time and his whole body is starting to go numb.
He opens his mouth as a reflex, and his lungs are flooded before he can clearly think of another way to cease the pain. The Drowned Prince, he shall be, then.
Chan is ready to close his eyes forever and give his body to the fishes when a blurry figure catches his attention. He is not sure if what he is seeing is real or just a figment of his decaying mind, but it is there, nonetheless. The first thing he recognises in the depths of the almost green seawater is a scaly tail that shines like precious stones as it catches the light in blues and greens and purples. Sharp spines that turn darker as they reach the tip map the back of said tail, but what has him marvelling is the almost gown-like translucent fins that dance around it like a veil.
The prince’s eyes move upward, ready to face whatever abysmal fish has come to feed on him, but he is almost horrified when he realizes that the scales give path to unrough, human skin, a whole, smooth male torso that he can barely distinguish and strong, defined arms scattered in scales that end in webbed claws. He realizes now that it was not only its scales that shone, but that the creature is covered in chains of pearls on its waist and tail, going all the way up to its gilled neck.
He feels entranced by the uncanny and whimsical beauty of the creature that raises in front of him in all its magnificence, its dark, wavy hair that falls past its shoulder blades encircling it like a halo, like some kind of angel of death. The only thing he cannot fully appreciate is the face of the creature, yet Chan knows it is beautiful, with eyes as clear as the pearls that decorate its body and plump, red lips that show the barest hint of fangs. A predator as per the Gods design.
What a wonderful thing, to die by the teeth of such creature.
The beast encloses him, its tails hugging Chan’s body and stopping his fall sweetly before webbed hands reach for the collar of his shirt and bring him close to the creature’s face. The prince closes his eyes, ready for whatever mercy it shall bring.
I’ll take your tears for my pearls, a sweet, melodic voice reaches his ears, and he cannot help but smile at the sound of such an exquisite sound. He did not realize he had started crying. But the sea won’t take you for foam just yet.
Before he can fully comprehend what is happening, cold hands caress his face and hold it still before a pair of plump, full lips fall onto his open ones. Chan feels like his whole life was sown for this exact moment, the fabrics of the universe bringing him to this exact moment, and what should have been his death brings him life, instead. His body relaxes, the tension of death abandoning him as he responds to the kiss placed on his lips and chases after. He hears on his mind, that beautiful sound of a giggle like the tinker of bells, and his heart grows twice its size.
In the arms of a mermaid, underwater and half dead, Chan falls asleep content.
-
“I still cannot believe you survived that fall,” Changbin gleefully boasts, his voice roaring amidst the voices and songs of rowdy men and joyful women.
There is not much Chan remembers of what happened right after the water engulfed him, his memory a blur – he had hatched gallons of water the moment he woke up ashore, Sir Derryck hovering over his still wet, full of sand body. There were many questions asked, but all Chan could do was shiver and ask to be brought to a source of heat so he would not end up catching some disease from the cold. In a way, it feels like he has been granted a second opportunity in life, but he is still unsure of what to do with it. He does not remember much, but he remembers the creature. He remembers its cold lips on his and the barest hint of pointed fangs gracing his bottom lip and a rush of fresh air filling his lungs out of sudden.
Yet he finds himself unable to speak it, to mention the mermaid and its webbed claws and pearly eyes, too scared they will take him for a fool, but also too greedy to share it.
“Makes two of us,” the prince agrees instead, raising his cup to his closest friend before downing it and swallowing the mermaid’s tale with it. He looks around, the orange glow of the candles and warmth of the feast a striking contrast to the blue and cold of the water he had been submerged in mere hours prior.
It came to no surprise to Chan that his Lord Father would throw a feast to celebrate the crimson cloaks coming back home unbeaten, another Lord that tried to raise against his reign defeated and conquered on his name. The fact that his first-born son and future heir almost faced death only added to the bonfire of celebration, adding yet another excuse to flaunt his wealth and power, despite him not being the one on the battlefield.
“My glorious brother could not face such death,” Jeongin, his youngest brother boasts, chest inflated with pride and golden crown glinting under the candlelight as he raises his cup and looks at Chan. Sometimes, Jeongin’s pride on him weighs more than the kingdom does.
“Don’t dare the Gods, milord,” the voice that joins them is gentle like a song, the barely concealed smirk and unblinking, feline eyes something Chan could never get used to, no matter how long he knows Minho for.
“What do we owe the pleasure,” Changbin greets the council member as he sits on Chan’s other side, sliding his cup of wine, a refinement much more to his liking than the ale the rest of them drink. “It is hard to know of you these days, Minho.”
“Chan will know plenty of me once he is crowned,” Minho replies as he reaches for a grape in front of him, unconcerned in that way only he can be.
“That is milord to you,” Jeongin tries to argue, make his presence important in that childish way of his. Minho’s eyes zone on the young prince in that unsettling, predatory manner that has even the mightiest of knights shivering and anticipating his next move.
“Not tonight,” the older prince shakes his head, long hair following after him. He decides to ease the tension, taking an empty cup and filling it to the brim with ale before passing it to the young counsellor as a sign of peace and understanding. He witnesses Jeongin’s shoulders dropping out of the corner of his eye, his bottom lip jutting out in defeat as he takes his older brother’s words as law, and Chan is reminded of how young he truly is.
“I wanted to make sure the prince is, in fact, alive after all,” Minho concedes to Changbin’s original question after taking a court sip of the cup Chan handed him – it is alright, the simple gesture says.
There is something pointed in Minho’s words, something in the way he enunciates himself that makes the prince uneasy. He has an impressive record for his age – a spring younger than Chan himself, yet he already sits along lords and knights in the King’s Council, taking his late father’s title, land and position after his unsightly death two years prior for motives still unknown. He has proved to be wise beyond his years, but, most of all, guileful. Many have been the battles that have been won due to his advice, his informants coming from every corner of the realm like he rats infesting and spreading silently, but most important of all, loyal to him like puppets to a master.
Chan locks eyes with him now, noticing the way Minho’s eyes seem to linger on his profile in an inquisitive manner. A shiver runs down his spine; he was never able to tell what the younger man might be thinking about.
“The sea won’t take me for foam just yet,” he repeats the creature’s words, taking the moment to taste it back on his tongue before swallowing it all down his throat.
He reaches for his collarbones, fingers searching for the family medallion as they often do, but the prince is surprised to find only skin under his touch. His necklace is gone, and he can only imagine the storm and the ocean took it when he fell on the water, and finds himself annoyed at the thought.
“Say, where is that golden brother of yours,” Changbin’s words bring him back to the present moment, not having realized that the conversation has continued while he was dragged back to the sea.
“Dancing, where else,” his youngest brother replies before he even has the chance, and lifts his head to look over his right shoulder, following Jeongin’s gaze to the centre of the room.
Just as it was foretold, Felix’s full head of golden threads and spotted complexion appears to shine in the middle of the room as he swings and turns and takes maidens’ hands without missing a beat. He looks joyous, face parted in a smile that shows bright, pearly teeth, as he jumps around at the rhythm of the song the musicians play for them.
The House of the Sun, that’s how they are known. Gold in peace, steel in war, the words imprinted on their banners, yet Chan has always felt that the only one to fit under said symbol out of three sons was Felix. Felix, with his contagious glee and blonde hair. Felix, with his sunkissed skin and freckles like stars. Felix, with his warm demeanour and gentle nature. He is beauty, with all the brightness he radiates. He is the gold in peace, that much is sure to anyone who comes across him.
Chan, on the other hand, is the steel in war. His hair is dark, falling over his face and reaching his shoulders unceremoniously, much different from the delicate way Felix’s hair frames his face, and his skin is closer to the moon than the sun, pale and veiny especially on his arms. Where Felix’s nose is small like a button, Chan’s is big, and so are his lips. Jeongin is closer in appearance to him, although much more handsome in his opinion, both sharing even the dimples on their cheeks. Jeongin’s personality is warmer, however, his soul gentle in nature much like Felix’s.
“Let him be,” the prince smiles watching the giggles spill past his younger brother’s lips in the distance as he twirls a young maiden around. “He greeted me back when I arrived, that is more than enough.”
“I heard your Lord Father has been hounding him ever since we left for Ravenscar,” the knight continues, his voice a tad more sombre and secretive that it had been just moments before. He looks around, eyebrows furrowed.
“Father is a fool,” the prince says, his voice laced with finality as he finishes his cup in one long swing. He throws it back on the table, already annoyed by the topic his men seem to be breaching. Despite his undying allegiance to his Lord Father, Chan has never fully liked him. He respects him, as a father and ruler, but he does not have love for him on his heart, especially not when he has seen first-hand how his brother would speak to his younger brothers and mother.
“Your Lord Father knows about war and battle more than any of us here,” Minho interjects, raising an eyebrow at the insolence, but Chan knows it is just bravado. Minho might be part of the council, but he is loyal to Chan, and he has shown it time and time again. He turns to look at Felix, his eyes glinting with concern for some reason Chan does not comprehend before looking directly into Chan’s dark eyes. “He knows the weight of a name.”
The prince shrugs, trying his hardest to ignore the glumness that colours Minho’s words, and the clearly worried glances that Changbin and Jeongin keep sending his way. There is much he can deal with, he is the Crown Prince after all, but he would also like to be able to enjoy an evening as a free man, not having to poison himself with matters of townsfolk and nobility and wars and sieges.
Yet gold runs on his veins, no matter how deep he slices.
“I’d rather Felix be called the Gorgeous than the Backstabber,” he replies, spite dripping like venom on a sand snake’s fangs. He wants to get out of here. He needs some sort of release, the tension on the back of his neck pinching and hurting. Maybe, if he is lucky enough, he will find some poor soul for him to fuck his frustrations onto. “Would you not?”
“No – I’d rather he not be called Midsummer.”
He is about to leave the table in favour of socialising and mingling with his people when the words hit his ears, forced to stop by their cruel blow. Midsummer. The name the bastards of Summershall take. The word rings on his head like his previous headache, a murderous glare taking hold of his usual well-poised mask as it slips and cracks on the ground.
To be truth, Chan has been aware of the rumours his whole life – how could he not, when every single adult on his life would point the differences between him and Felix since the moment the younger was born? The whispers would play tag along with them in cold corridors and dark hallways, preying on them as they took lessons and their differences became much more apparent, their claws trying to rip apart the tenderness that grew between brothers. But his mother had been with child, and she had fallen ill only weeks before Felix’s birth, and it was only natural that she took rest and disappeared from the public eye till her fever ran back – Grand Maester Pyllwin had say so, and little Chan had no issue believing him.
His father had returned from battle, morningstar dirty with blood, much like Chan had just done hours before, and upon his return babe’s cries filled the Willowmere Citadel as Felix was brought onto the world.
“Who said that?” He growls, daggers flying out of his eyes and landing all around the counsellor, who, infuriatingly enough, keeps the same easy, complacent attitude.
“The streets talk,” Minho shrugs, swirling his cup between his fingers. He has always been much more willing to speak three flasks of wine in. “Rumours spread like disease these days.”
“Rumours have always filthened the streets, yet nothing has ever truly come of them,” Jeongin, bless his heart, interrupts, and Chan hopes the counsellor includes him on his prayers at night because he was about to bite his head off.
“True. But Lady War is a ruthless lover. And people are getting antsy, so their mouths are running louder.”
“Minho–,” Chan warns him – if there is one thing Chan will not stand for, it is his brothers being disrespected or their little heads filled with poison. He is, however, interrupted when a body collides against his back, the floral scent that hits his nostrils making him recognize who it is without a hitch.
“Brother!” Felix’s voice is deep like the sea, so rich that it drips like honey with every word his lips form. He is smiling at Chan like he is his whole world, clinging to him like he would do when they were young and unafraid.
“Come now, Felix, get down my back,” the older man clicks his tongue, but any severity he had been trying to hold melts the moment he sees his brother’s blinding smile.
“Oh, are you still sore?” the blonde says, alarmed as he starts to look at his body for any sign of injury. How can he not be fond of his brother, when his soul is so pure? “I am very sorry.”
“Do not fret, little one,” Chan eases his worries, hand coming to tangle to the few loose strands on top of his head and mess the fancy braids with one swift shake. Felix whines, batting his hand away before writhing to sit right by Jeongin’s side. “I know you did not mean harm.”
“Come on, Changbin, Chan, you must tell us about your travel,” he demands as he clings to Jeongin now, always the cuddlier of the three of them, and Jeongin lets him with a fond smile on his own lips, just as weak to Felix’s sweet antics as Chan himself is. “I have been waiting for weeks.”
The knight is pleased to start rambling on about their last battle, and Chan is happy to let him bask on the glory. He has never really been adept at storytelling, but Changbin’s words sound almost like songs as he retells how their swords danced on the battleground and how the warhorses cried as they headed into battle, banners flying menacingly like Wyverns behind them. The Osgreys army had been tough to crack, given the fact that the soil was theirs and so were the closest alliances.
But one cannot challenge the sun without being burnt alive and turned to ash.
And so Chan had burnt the oldest Osgrey, a young boy no older than Jeongin, because his father had ordered it that way.
He looks down at his empty cup, then at the empty jar of ale in the middle of the table, deciding he is not nearly as drunk as he would like. Felix and Jeongin are looking at Changbin with mouths agape and childlike wonder in their eyes, their innocence something Chan can only dream of now. They are listening to Changbin talking about Ser Derryck’s falling from his horse and dissolving in giggles, and all Chan can see is the squirts that would sneak into his room at dawn to either play pranks or him or slither into his bed after a nightmare.
Changbin’s laugh is big and boisterous, louder than the instruments being played by the musicians, his jokes making his brothers double in laughter. But not Minho. The counsellor looks at them with a little smile on his lips, but he keeps his mouth shut and eyes trained on Chan. He can feel them burning on his scalp, stabbing him deeper than the blades of enemies. The prince says nothing as he gets up from the table, taking advantage of the commotion to slither away to fill his cup and, maybe, run away from Minho’s prying stare.
He mingles for a bit as he drinks, leaning against stone and flirting with maidens and servantts that are serving at the banquet just because he can. Yet, all the while, Minho’s words run in the back of his mind, and he cannot believe his Lord Father would be so restful when such words are spreading – not when they mean harm could come to his family, to his throne. There is something missing on this tale, a key part to explain why his Lord Father has not raised hell before such offense, and Chan’s courage has only been intensified by the alcohol.
The prince finds his way to the King’s table, his solemn, curt face unforgiving like his morningstar once was. He kneels before him and his mother, even as his blood shimmers under his skin, as he knows eyes are always on him. His father nods at him, acknowledging his presence and inviting him to sit by him.
“You shall excuse my insolence, Lord Brant, but there are issues I must discuss with the King,” Chan says, upping the charm he knows he possesses. He could very well just shoo the man away and demand to be left alone with the King; however, he would rather have the Lords on his good graces for when tomorrow comes.
His father glances at his mother on his left, an unspoken conversation between the two elders before the woman is nodding, a gentle smile grazing her beautiful features as she gets up gracefully.
“Come, my lord,” the queen offers her hand to Lord Brant, who takes it readily with his head bowed. “I have been wanting to show you the paintings our artist made. I know you have an eye for art.”
“That much is true, my queen,” the lord says, to which the queen laughs softly as they start to walk away. Chan watches them then takes a handful of grapes directly from his father’s plate, much to the old man’s displeasure.
“Are you aware that your son is being called a Midsummer?” the prince asks, popping one green grape onto his mouth. He raises one eyebrow before taking the wine and pouring himself a drink that has not been offered to him.
“I am aware of anything and everything that happens within my reach,” his father replies, his neck stiff as he only looks at him through the side of his eyes. “Everything, Christopher.”
And Chan already knows what he means by those words; his father had never been really fond of his mingling and laying with stableboys, after all.
“Then why aren’t their heads on spikes on this instant?” the prince asks, choosing to ignore the old man’s accusation, his anger bigger than his shame will ever be.
“You act like a hound,” the king scoffs, shaking his head. His golden crown flickers like fire under the candlelight. “I should get the kennelmaster to leash you. We will not get anything out of cutting townsfolk’s heads and showcasing them like a cheap jester’s trick.”
“I sacrifice myself every single day,” Chan snaps, open palm hitting the table and making the cups and plates shake. “The last I expect is my brothers’ dignity to be protected and respected by those for whom I put my life on jeopardy. And my father to ensure that will be the way.”
“His dignity shall be protected,” the king continues, completely unaffected and unimpressed with Chan’s little show, which only serves to infuriate the young man further. He does not even spare him a glance as he drinks from his own cup, eyes fixed on the dance that has just started on the centre of the room. “He is to be married to the eldest of the Slynts soon.”
“How does that fix anything?” The prince asks, eyebrows furrowed at the sudden confession.
“No lord would marry off his bastards. Bastards are kept either as a secret or as a shameful punishment,” his lord father explains, voice flat and edging on disappointed, like this is something Chan should already know. “When it comes to a king? A bastard would threaten my lineage and blood – a bastard could one day come and ask for a share, if he were shameful enough,” he continues, eyes darting across the room until they land on the table where his two younger sons are still drinking happily, completely oblivious to the conversation Chan and the king are having. Completely unaware of the shift their life is to take, if the king’s word are to be true. “Felix is neither of those – he is much more precious to me than I can convey. Marrying him into the Slynts will also offer us the protection of the Riverside.”
“And the Riverside offers us plenty of men for the crimson cloaks,” the prince breathes out, feeling a tad dizzy as the realization settles in about how deep the web of connections and schemes his father holds goes.
“That as well. You’ve won a battle, but the Osgreys were just a small speck of dust on this land – there are still many battles to be fought. And the Slynts hold alliances with the Houses of Ashwood and Vale.”
“We are all just pawns in your chess game, are we not?” the prince cannot help the small bout of laughter that bursts out of his lips, horrified at the coldness and precision through which his father has his plans laid.
“Felix is not the only one who will be marrying soon,” the king says, instead of answering Chan’s question. It takes him a second to process the words, but when it does, he feels like he is underwater all over again.
“That was not the pact we made,” he rushes to say. “I am the Lord Commander of the Crimson Cloa-“
“You are my son,” his father’s voice turns severe, cutting his speech before he can ramble any further, finally turning to look directly into the prince’s eyes. “My heir. One day this crown and the Great Throne will be yours. And there cannot be a king without a queen,” he looks away again, much more interested on the wine on his cup than his own son. He swirls it for a bit, smelling the strong scent before scoffing, disgust painting his features before spitting his next words. “You can keep your little pets on their stables for all I care.”
-
Muffled moans and grunts fill the hot air, the prince’s naked hips moving rhythmically as he tries to bury his cock deeper into the warmth that the hole offers him, pleasure making his toes wriggle and fingertips tingle.
The boy before him arches his back, chest landing on the hay below that sticks to the sweaty bits of skin that peek through his undone undershirt. His pale skin is marked in reds and purples, bites littered across exposed shoulders that Chan had left there only moments ago.
“Do you like that?” the prince whispers as he lays his chest flat to the stableboy’s back, hands snaking around his torso, one headed north, the other south, like an army splitting to conquer.
“Ah, ah, milord,” the boy moans as Chan angles his hips so he can reach into that one spot he knows will have the man under him writhing and overtaken by pleasure, and the effect is immediate. The boy trashes like he wants to get away for a second, a high cry leaving his lips before he is pushing back on Chan’s cock, his hole tightening on the prince’s cock. “Yes, yes, yes.”
“Good,” he grunts into his ear, biting on the earlobe as he thrusts harder.
He reaches lower, hand circling the man’s wet cock and using the pearly precome to make the slide easier as he starts masturbating him, getting him ready to finish as he feels the familiar knot on the bottom of his stomach. His other hand comes to rest at the base of his neck, rough fingers squeezing ever so slightly before nosing behind his ear, landing a chaste kiss there before pushing him down again by the back of his neck, claiming his position and place.
Chan does not even remember his name. If he closes his eyes, he cannot remember if he has blue or brown eyes. But he knows his hole is tight and welcoming, and ready to suction him greedily, and that is all that really matters.
He closes his eyes, the hand on the man’s cock moving as fast as he is pumping his hips as feels the beginning of his own orgasm unfold deep in his core. He is so close, the tips of his fingers start to tingle and his toes to curl where they are jamming against the fence separating them from the world.
Chan bites his lower lip, full face scrunching as he gets ready to unload deep into the man’s heat when he hears the door of the stable opening, light steps crossing the space quickly.
“Fun is over,” Jisung’s voice comes to him before the kennel master even appears. His orgasm immediately vanishes, shoulders dropping in disappointment as he lets the ashamed stableboy break free from his grip and rush to cover his shame as well as he possibly can in the small spacce. “I thought we already talked about fucking on the stable, milord.”
Jisung does not hold any reservations as he steps onto the empty cubicle where Chan and the half-naked stableboy are still in. The man scurries away, face red like he has been burnt as he hastily ends on the other end of the cubicle, holding his undergarments close to his chest. Chan sighs, rolling his eyes as he quickly shoves his half-hard cock down onto his pants again, getting up with a less than dignified groan.
“Give the boy some privacy to get dressed, will you?” Chan directs his words to the kennel master, the annoyance of being interrupted so close to the climax bleeding onto his tone.
Jisung sends a glare his way, words on the tip of his mouth he doesn’t dare spit in front of others. Chan knows he will hear it all once they are alone, but, for now, Jisung obliges, turning his back but not leaving the cubicle as the man hurries to get dressed. The prince offers him help, lacing his pants himself before sending him off with a polite smile. Blue eyes, he thinks as the servant bows before him only to take off the moment Chan nods back at him, no words needed between them.
“Are you half-daft?” the kennel master does not wait for him to turn to chastise him, his voice dripping with displeasure.
“Pleased to see you too, Jisung,” the prince sarcastically returns, clicking his tongue. “Yes, I am alive, after all.”
“Not for long, you shan’t be. I will shove your sword so far up your ass, no stableboy will be able to find it.”
The prince winces at Jisung’s brutality. He might be the only man in all of Summershall who allows themselves to talk to the Crown Prince in such fashion, he probably is the only man to do so in all the realm, but despite the threats of unprecedent violence, Chan cannot help but let all of his guards down. He knows that, if Jisung is allowing himself to use those words with him, it means they are alone and well, and he does not need to pretend any longer.
There is something curious about his relationship with Jisung. He has known the young kennel master for almost as long as he has his own brothers. Jisung was still a tender babe, no older than eight when he came into the castle’s grounds with no family and no name, only rosy, chubby cheeks and round, scared eyes. Chan had loved him like his own blood since the moment he laid eyes on him, doting on the young orphan by sharing sparring sessions and fruit below the oak trees in the summer, and animals’ skins and the warmth of bonfires in the winter. Jisung had told him once that, where he comes from, white covers everything in the winter, such a beautiful landscape that the Crown Prince could not even picture on his mind at his young age.
But Jisung’s eyes have always been determined, a glint of something dark and grim beneath the surface of the innocent sheen. Something that even Chan has been made privy of, no matter how hard he had tried to dismantle the mystery that is Jisung. It had made him desperate once, when he was an arrogant teen who thought deserved to know simply because he was the prince, and they had butted heads about it more than once and twice, fights and arguments that would be the next whisper in the halls by amused maidservants. Yet, Jisung never relented, and Chan always crumbled beneath the care of the younger man as he would do with Felix or Jeongin’s affection.
A brother not by blood, but by affection. As such, Chan took him readily under his wing, offered him protection from older boys and cruel commoners that would try to pick on him. He taught the younger to read and to spar, and he was not surprised when the kennel master had ended up surpassing not only him, but Felix and Jeongin on their learning, too, devouring books and manuscripts like he was starving and those were his only source of nourishment.
Chan cared for him; Jisung cared for Chan in return. He would not praise him mindlessly, eating up his every word and action without an actual reason; he would listen to him without beating the weight of his title or name on their every conversation. Chan was not the Crown Prince when he was with Jisung; he was another boy, another man, another human. The only thing he truly ever asked for. Jisung never treated him like his crown, but as the human he is.
Which also means Jisung was never scared of insulting him, even if that would earn him a scolding here and there. A punishment, even, when the Grand Maester or the former Lord Commander happened to be around to hear the younger’s unrestrained words and tone.
“I hope you have a great reason in order to interrupt the only moment of peace I ever get to myself,” Chan quips, pushing his shirt into the hem of his pants.
“You are late to our sparring,” the kennel master deadpans, and Chan stops walking, wishing he could kill him right there as he closes his eyes. “Did the young man have peace, too?·”
“You won’t tell me he was not enjoying, as well as I was,” the prince rolls his eyes, his hand about to clasp the younger’s neck when Jisung moves to dodge his touch like it burns, getting away with disgust painted on his face.
“Clean your hands, at least,” the kennel master rolls his eyes, walking away from his figure. “He sounded pained, you tell me if that was enjoyment or not. What did you say his name was, again?”
“You’re impossible,” Chan rolls his eyes, but he does take a rag from the side as they walk outside and bends down to wet his hands on the bucket of water some maidservant left behind as she cleaned.
“Your cock is still hard on your pants and you want to call me impossible for asking a simple question,” Jisung keeps on walking, not waiting as he retrieves their old training swords and walks to the middle of the bailey.
“No real swords?” The prince asks as he gets the wood weapon from the younger’s hands. “Are you scared, Jisung?”
“I thought you would not like being cut any more than you already are,” the younger brags, his smile cocky and gummy.
Chan tongues his cheek as he walks to his spot on the mound. For a moment, he blinks and he sees ten-year-old Jisung, chubbier and still somewhat scared, tear tracks still visible on his round cheeks after some older boys had ganged up on him and beaten him with sticks. He blinks again, the current Jisung stares back at him with dangerous eyes and so fit and light on his feet that he would put half his men to shame.
He knows Jisung does not really enjoy longswords as Chan does, even though those were the first weapons the older ever trained him on. At some point, however, Chan had convinced the old Lord Commander to train Jisung alongside him and his brothers. Felix had given up not too long after, declaring direct war and battles were not something he was made for. He was way smarter too, and he would rather spend his afternoons and evenings learning about strategy and trade. He would know how to protect himself if given the chance, but not how to cut through a throat to make the killing easier. Jeongin still trains with them, but he had also expressed his liking towards other particular type of weapons, ones that do not require direct contact such as longbows and crossbows. The youngest of the princes is the most avid at hunting, and the one who usually accompanies his father when Lords come to visit, if only to impress them with the young prince’s ability to spot and shoot a hare from metres away.
Jisung’s preferred weapons are daggers and whips. Swift, silent, sneaky, all as he is. They allow him to be light on his feet, not needing a heavy armour that would clank as he moves. Only once was Chan lucky enough to actually see the kennel master in action, only once was he allowed to see the litheness with which Jisung is able to get close to his opponent and disarm him with one precise cut and stab in the right place. One time was more than enough for Chan to learn just exactly how lethal the young man truly is.
He had tried to get him to join him and Changbin on the Crimson Cloaks, right after. Both him and Changbin utterly impressed with Jisung’s decisiveness. The young man had promptly refused, declaring that his hounds needed him more than any army or sword ever could.
Chan watches as Jisung lifts the longsword with both arms, sizing him up for a moment before getting close to land his first attack. Chan is quick to react, stepping backwards as he moves to block the blow. From the corner of his eye, he sees Changbin appear by the door of the ward, one hand on his pocket and the other on the apple he is biting.
“The maidservants have been whispering,” Jisung starts speaking as they keep sparring, the sun raining down on them with force, the sweat that once was on his skin due to pleasure now returning with the effort he makes.
“When are they not whispering?” He hears Changbin’s voice from his back, the knight’s tone amused as he watches them move around with watchful eyes.
“Let them whisper,” Chan concedes. The presence of the knight is no surprise to either of them, but he can tell Jisung was distracted for a second, enough for him to deal him a gentle blow on his side. “As long as it is about me, it shall be alright.”
“Really?” Jisung scoffs, clearly upset at having lost the point. “So, it is true, then?”
The prince switches his weight on his feet, momentarily opening up a weak spot that the kennel master is quick to detect and rush to hit, swirling to avoid Chan’s blocking as he lands his own blow. Unlike Chan, however, he is not gentle as he lets the wood stab Chan’s leg, causing the prince to grunt and the knight to chuckle.
“What a loss of potential,” Changbin declares, shaking his head. Chan knows how his first knight and closest friend always felt about not having Jisung join their army.
“I do not even know what you’re referring to, Jisung,” the older man says, voice dripping with slight annoyance at both the physical and verbal prodding. “Is this about the Midsummer tomfoolery, or has Jeongin suddenly grown an identical twin we keep locked in the highest tower?”
He is about to charge, tips of his fingers tingling in a similar fashion as they were when he was about to climax when Jisung’s body moves aside and his mouth opens to speak.
“The king is looking for a future queen for your majesty,” Jisung’s sudden blow to his back hurts less than the words he spouts at him. Chan coughs, shocked and briefly out of breath as he is forced to kneel, training sword stabbing the ground and serving as leverage for the prince.
“What?” He hears Changbin exclaim, his feet dragging gravel as he hurries to help Chan to his feet. The prince lets go of his training sword, opting to grant Jisung the win this time around.
“Where did you hear that?” Chan asks instead of answering, not sure if he wants to deny or acknowledge the words.
“Spiders crawl on walls and birds fly through windows,” Jisung shrugs his shoulders.
“So it was Minho,” the knight deadpans, the cryptic words clearly drawing him back to the council member. Chan throws his sword back to its place, taking a rag to clean the sweat of his face before pushing his long hair out of his face.
“Maybe,” is all Jisung replies. “But my question is still unanswered,” both Changbin and Jisung turn to look at him, equal curious glints on their eyes as they wait for the prince to decide whether he wants to be honest or not.
“It was a matter of time, after all,” Chan finally says, the fatigue that bleeds into his posture has nothing to do with the sparring session they just had. “Especially on war times.”
“So, who is going to be the lucky maiden?” Changbin asks, but there is a certain vacillation on his words, like he is unsure if he should be trying to lighten up the mood or not, like he is assessing Chan’s reaction to it all.
And truth is, Chan is still upset. He knew it would have to happen, sooner or later, especially if he were to be crowned as king one day, but he had made a deal with his father before the war began, when the first whispers of alliances against his head started to slither their way into castle grounds. He was to be named Lord Commander and remain on his post as such till the war ended. Once they won and the unity of the realm was unscathed, he would take whichever noble maiden from his father’s choosing as his wife.
But the war only seemed to stretch in time, weeks turning into months that will turn into years, and his father was not growing any younger. It makes senses, Chan knows this is how it ought to be for the good of the people. That doesn’t mean his mouth does not sour every time he thinks about having to be wed in the coming months.
“That is yet to be decided,” Chan finally answers, sitting down on the grass beneath the big, white oak tree his mother had planted back when she was a maiden. Changbin follows after him, laying by his side with his arms behind his head, whereas Jisung stays up, a look on his face Chan cannot decipher.
“Ah, so the dance begins, then,” the knight says, but his voice is as hollow as Chan feels.
“The dance?” Jisung asks; despite spending most of his life inside the walls of the Willowmere Citadel and being brought up next to princes, there are many aspects of nobility that are still lost on him.
“Suitors, proposals, alliances,” Chan explains, his left hand gesturing to the walls that cover them. “Father will have to decide which House offers the best deal.”
“You make it sound like he is selling cattle,” the kennel master pulls a disgruntled face, clearly unpleased with the notion of being married off in return of goods.
“Because he is,” Changbin answers for him, and Chan is grateful for it.
“I thought kings and queens were supposed to have love stories that will be remembered for years to come.”
“We shall,” the prince nods, eyes losing focus as his mind drifts away. The feeling of water engulfs him, wet lips encasing his own and breathing life into him; something that will forever stay as a secret on the labyrinth of his mind now. “Bards will make sure to write a song about us, when the time comes.”
“Maybe you’ll like her,” Jisung adds, his voice wavering a little with uncertainty. “You do enjoy maidens, too.”
“Maybe I shall,” the prince nods, but he is still refusing to make eye contact with anyone. He leans back on the grass, closing his eyes as he lets the gentle gust of wind lull him into a dreamless sleep. “Maybe I shall.”
“Rest now, Chan,” he hears Changbin’s voice, but it feels like he is very far away, like he is being dragged into the depths of the water once again. “We shall be here when you wake up.”
“Thank you,” he mutters, words slurred as the prince allows himself to imagine blue, and green and purple scales and webbed claws that caress him like a cradle.
-
Chan has always loved the sea. He remembers being a little babe, no older than four, and spending countless hours sitting in the sand and playing, mesmerized by the countless colourful shells and smalls crabs that would come to greet him. He remembers the feeling of fresh water coming to tickle his bare feet like the waves were playing with him, gentling caressing his rosy skin before getting away, only to repeat the process all over again. He remembers the first time he dared to venture into the water, his pants coiled at the ankle so they would not get wet by his own mother, something she would later desist on doing, knowing too well there was no stop for the little prince when it came to the sea.
He was fortunate to be borne by the sea, the whisper of the waves lulling him to sleep on the darkest of nights, offering him a blanket of comfort not even his parents or milkmaidens would bring. He had been a teen before he had been a young man, full of anguish and sorrow at the demands of everyone that crossed his path. He had known from a young age what his title meant, what the expectations would look like draped over him like the finest silks and softest fabrics - that did not make them any lighter. His first crowning was happened at 18, despite the realm already knowing his name and face, it was then that his presented as the heir of the king, the man who would hold the fate of the coming days on his hands. His crown had been finer, lighter in colour than the deep gold he is made to wear now, much similar to the ones Felix and Jeongin both bear.
Chan still feels the indent of the intricate swirls digging into the soft skin of his scalp and forehead, the heaviness of the precious metal and stones as he kneeled before his father. He remembers the cold steel barely grazing the skin on his cheeks like a motherly kiss as his father named him his heir before Noble lords and ladies all their entendre. He can still feel his head sinking under the heaviness, not of the crown, but of the title bestowed upon him.
The sand had never been as hot as it had been then. The heat they had reached that day suffocating and torturous, as the newly-appointed Crown Prince stood directly under the brute force of the sun, sweat pooling under his arms and beading at his hairline, barely able to open his eyes as he vowed loyalty to the kingdom, his father and the crown he wore. His clothing was thick, despite the heat, ceremonial and embroidered with golden and yellow threads, forming coils and leafy figures that would raise towards the many suns on his suit like mothers raising their babes to the Gods for blessings.
It took most of the evening, but Chan was able to escape to the shore sometime around midnight, Changbin keeping a close watch because, at the time, he was not Chan’s Chief of Cavalry but his personal guard and sworn protector. The title still lays on Changbin’s soldier, he knows, despite all his best attempts to have Changbin see him as an equal rather than a royal member. He had gone barefoot and barely dressed, needing the restrains of fitted clothing off his body to be able to breathe.
He was only able to when the water touched his skin, reminded him that, there, he is but a mere mortal.
Changbin has gotten much better at letting him run free in recent years, his usually resolute determination unwinding with the knowledge that the prince can defend himself, if danger was to arise.
Berry barks before him, his precious little girl getting his attention as she lunges at the water before receding quickly as the waves launch at her. He giggles as his mind goes blank of anything that is not the precious moment he is experiencing. As he stands, he is not a prince, but a simple young man taking his beloved pet for a walk. He watches how the pup’s mouth splits her whole face in a wide smile, tongue lolling out as she looks at him with dark, beady eyes. He cannot help but wonder at how prettily her white and brown hair shines under the sun, Jisung’s hard work in keeping the hounds and pets clean and orderly obviously paying off if the little girl is anything to go by, their spoiled little princess.
“Berry!” He calls the pup, whose immediately snaps to look back him where she had been sniffing on the sand. He bends down to pick up a short stick, taunting her with it for a moment before he is throwing it. The dog’s reaction is immediate, running forward, her long, wet hair combing in the air as she tries to catch it.
He laughs again as she confuses the stick Chan had thrown her with a different, much bigger one. Or maybe she was just more drawn to it, the wood leaving deep grooves on the sand as Berry tries to bring it back to Chan, her whole body fighting the weight of the piece of wood.
The prince closes on her, petting her rear and right between her ears as she stops growling and drops the stick to enjoy the affection instead.
“Silly little girl,” he says adoringly, taking her pretty face between his two hands before leaving a sweet kiss on her snout.
He stands again, letting go of the small pup so he can enjoy the sea breeze, when he notices Berry stiffening up before him. Her long ears somehow perched on top of her head, whole body tense as her nose sniffs the air like crazy. She turns her head to one side, then the other, and before Chan can open his mouth to ask, the dog starts to bark like crazy, darting in the direction of the rocks at the edge of the shore.
“Berry!” He calls the pup, whose immediately snaps to look back him where she had been sniffing on the sand. He bends down to pick up a short stick, taunting her with it for a moment before he is throwing it. The dog’s reaction is immediate, running forward, her long, wet hair combing in the air as she tries to catch it.
He laughs again as she confuses the stick Chan had thrown her with a different, much bigger one. Or maybe she was just more drawn to it, the wood leaving deep grooves on the sand as Berry tries to bring it back to Chan, her whole body fighting the weight of the piece of wood.
The prince closes on her, petting her rear and right between her ears as she stops growling and drops the stick to enjoy the affection instead.
“Silly little girl,” he says adoringly, taking her pretty face between his two hands before leaving a sweet kiss on her snout.
He stands again, letting go of the small pup so he can enjoy the sea breeze, when he notices Berry stiffening up before him. Her long ears somehow perched on top of her head, whole body tense as her nose sniffs the air like crazy. She turns her head to one side, then the other, and before Chan can open his mouth to ask, the dog starts to bark like crazy, darting in the direction of the rocks at the edge of the shore.
“Berry,” he calls her, believing that she is not listening because of some dead fish or seagull on the other side of the cocks. But the pup keeps running, ignoring his increasingly uneasy tone. “Berry, Berry!”
The small dog quickly crawls her way up the rocks, looking only once back at Chan before jumping on the other side, clearly hurried to whatever is on the other side. The prince has no choice but to spring after her, running as he prays the small dog landed safely on the sand or a burrow of mud instead of on the jagged edge of a rock. He climbs the rocks easily enough, two big jumps all he needs to be atop and frightfully looking for a ball of mostly white fur.
He spots her, but that is not the only thing he finds as he looks in. There, nestled between the rocks, a wet body lies. Berry is incessantly sniffing at the unmoving person, barking here and there like she is begging for help, her whines distressed and incessant.
“Shh, it’s alright,” the prince tries to calm her as he approaches the body carefully. He has seen many dead bodies on his short life, but none of them drowned. The person’s face is obscured by long, dark hair that seems to go way past the shoulders, but he can guess it is a boy by what he can see of his body.
The agony of drowning comes back to him, the sensations still close to the surface as barely a week has passed since his own fall into the sea, and he knows he must help the poor soul laying in front of him. The first thing he does is lay his head on the boy’s chest, his ear right above his heart, and he is relieved to find the faintest of heartbeats resonating within his ribcage. His chest barely moves in shallow inhales, the prince is aware he needs to move fast if he wants to save the boy’s life.
He pushes the hair away from his face, trying to clear his mouth and nose so air can enter him more easily, but he is struck for a moment by the beauty of the young man, his eyes quivering as he takes in the plump lips and soft features. He feels drawn to him in ways he cannot name, with words written in a language he has not learnt, but he cannot tear his eyes away from the pale skin and blueish lips, his hand stopping where it was tangled on the top of his head to caress the porcelain skin instead with trembling fingers.
Berry barks again, and Chan is taken back to the current moment, his reverie cut short as he remembers that the boy is not simply asleep. Right, he thinks, saving first. Ogling later. He is careful as he takes the body into his arms, pulling him to the side before he hits his back, grimacing at his own force and the bruises that might end up colouring the poor boy’s lithe body. He does it two more times, something akin to desperation clinging to him. Berry stays sat by their side, her whines growing pitiful as she keeps her eyes locked on the mysterious man.
He is growing increasingly anxious, his hands trembling as he hesitates on his next move, when the young boy finally responds to his endeavours. The prince has to quickly jump back as the unnamed boy’s body doubles over itself to avoid injuring either of them, water leaving his mouth as he retches and coughs. He places a soothing hand on his shoulder, drawing circles and whispering that everything shall be alright, and for a moment he allows himself to feel just how cold and stick the young boy’s skin truly is.
The nameless man turns his face weakly to him, and Chan is, once again, entranced by the beauty he finds. He had thought the young man to be alluring, before, yet there are no words that could truly explain the spell those two dark blue eyes put him under the moment they fall onto his. For a moment, Chan feels like he is being dragged back onto the water, tendrils covering his limbs and forcing him down as he stares into the darkest pits of the ocean. He gulps, throat parched dry as his eyes quiver between the two set of eyes like he is looking for the answer of a question he does not even know. The colour is slowly returning to him, too, painting his pretty skin in pinks and reds like he is blossoming under Chan’s touch. He looks every bit unhuman, every bit mystical, every bit of what Chan’s dreams are made of.
His plump lips, now fully red and shiny with spit and water, part and Chan’s gaze immediately snaps to attention like it is his duty. His lips remind him of the sweetest strawberry, and Chan feels like a starving man out of the sudden.
“Th-thanks, my lord,” the young man’s voice is hoarse, clearly showing signs of the abuse the water did on him. The prince wants to embrace him, to shush him and let him down gently so he can rest, but long, elegant fingers land on his bicep and he feels as breathless as the boy before him. “For saving my poor, listless life.”
A weak smile grazes his lips, round eyes barely closing into crescent moons, like the gesture alone is exhausting him. Before Chan can even think of replying to him, dark blue eyes roll to the back of his skull, his body light as it falls on Chan’s awaiting embrace. The prince gasps, heart leaping to his throat as he quickly manoeuvres the boy on his arms, one arm under his neck, the other under his legs. He tucks his head into his neck, his lips brushing against the young man’s forehead and discovering just how feverish he feels.
Chan is careful yet purposeful as he gets the boy right into castle grounds, dodging knights and lords that send quizzical looks his way. He has no time to deal with any of them as he fears the life of the young man he found is slowly slipping away.
“Get me the Grand Maester,” he demands as he waltz into the ward, gaining the attention of every servant and knight on training. “Now!”
Only one push of his boot onto the doors is enough to open them wide, pushing his way through the left wing of the citadel. Maidservants follow after him diligently, not even waiting to ask as they rush to open doors and move objects out of his determined path. He finds what he had been looking for, opening the doors of the empty room reserved for noble guests with his shoulder, careful to avoid any damage coming to the man on his arms.
“What is this commotion?” Changbin comes right after him, his eyes moving from Chan’s wet body to the man lying on his arms. Maidservants rush after him, opening the bedsheets without Chan having to ask. “What happened?”
“I found him on the shore,” Chan quickly explains as he lays the nameless man softly. “Half dead, he was,” he turns to the old maidservant, the same one that has been serving his mother for years before he was even born. “Molly, please, bring me the Grand Maester.”
The woman quickly bows, moving as quick as her old age allows her to. Chan’s heart is still rushing, waves coming to die on his eardrums as he tries to decide what his next step shall be.
“Do you know him?” Changbin asks, coming to his side.
“I need clean, warm clothes and blankets,” Chan gently says to the servants still running around lighting candles and moving furniture. “No,” he finally replies to Changbin as he peels off his own wet shirt, throwing it to the side. He can feel Changbin’s quizzical stare burning holes into the side of his skull, wondering why Chan is so agitated about a stranger. He wonders that, too. But all he can picture in his mind is dark blue eyes that held nothing but gentleness and innocence as they looked up at him. “I am well aware, Changbin, you do not need to say it.”
Changbin opens his mouth to retort, a clever response ready to sting at the tip of his tongue when the doors open again and an old, grey man comes rushing after Molly. Chan steps aside, taking one of the spare blankets to throw over his shoulders for some semblance of normalcy as the Grand Maester Pyllwin comes to rest by the bed.
“Where did you find him?” Is all the man ask, not wondering who he is or why the Crown Prince would bring him here - Maesters have a duty to help and heal every man, woman and child they cross paths with, and Maester Pyllwin might as well be the most dedicated man to his profession Chan has ever met.
“By the shore,” he promptly replies, gently thanking Molly when she hands him a dry undershirt before disappearing again. “He was almost drowned, water lodged on his lungs.”
“What have we done to anger the Salt Gods?” The old man questions, but it is clear that he is not looking for an answer as he continues to explore the young man. “He is feverish,” he declares.
“He collapsed on my arms right after vomiting all the water on his body.”
“I see,” the old man nods, but the prince is not sure he is really paying attention to his words as he continues to check on the boy’s body. “Get out, now.”
The prince’s brow furrows at that, wanting to protest - he is the one who brought the boy here, after. He should be allowed to stay and know what will happen to him before anybody else. But Changbin’s hand is firm on his shoulder, forcing the prince to follow him into a bow.
“Yes, ser,” he politely replies, hand coming down to rest on the prince’s elbow as he drags him out of the room, door closing after them. “Your awfully cold,” the knight declares, eyebrows almost meeting together in the middle of his face. “Go to your chambers, I shall tell the maidservants to run you a warm bath.”
Chan is about to argue back, but he is afraid his eagerness will be confused by something else, so he just nods along Changbin’s words, turning his back to start walking down the corridor in the direction of his own chambers, Changbin following close behind. He turns to look, once, as he watches another servant rush past them with sets to warm blankets and enter the chamber where the Grand Maester is still assessing the situation.
“He is pretty,” Changbin speaks after listening to their footsteps for a few minutes. “Whoever he is.”
Chan sends him a warning stare, mind still cloudy after such a busy evening. “Do not start now,” he apprises the knight.
“What? I am just stating a fact,” Changbin shrugs in reply. “Prettier than any maiden I have come across. And I have come across many, if I say so myself.”
“I could not let a man die like that,” the prince replies to an accusation he is aware has not yet been made. Changbin smirks in response.
“You have a good heart,” the knight nods, but his eyes are glinting with mischief. “Hopefully it shall not end up breaking.”
The prince does not reply to that, merely walking in silence the few last steps to his chambers. He is not surprised to find Berry already inside waiting for him, her face pressed against her little paws where she lies near his pillow.
“It shall be alright, girl,” he bends down to pet the pup, who melts under his touch. “I know he shall be.”
-
The Great Tree had always made Chan feel restful in some twisted, sick manner. He cannot put a name to what arises deep inside his core whenever he steps on the back gardens, those only his family and most loyal servants can step onto, the sands of time frozen in place like the winter of the North has suddenly reached Summershall. It does not matter what time of year he decides to visit the Great Tree, the vision never changes - evergreen grass surrounding the big, twisting roots of the white trunk that opens in a majestic blood red bouquet of leaves on its cup.
The Great Tree has been planted in place far longer than any of them - it had been there when the dragons and wyverns had raised, it had been there when the first blood had spilled, it had been there through every war and battle, every king and babe. It shall stay, too, for years to come, settled, untwisted. Legend says it is not a tree, in fact, what looks over all of them as a sworn protector, but the remains of the First Men who raised their arms in prayer to the Gods, and slowly let the bark writhe over them as they consecrated their life to a devotion that did not go unanswered, as eternal life was brought to them.
He looks at the tree now, at how it seems to glow golden under the setting sun, flowers and vines creating pathways like veins that lead back to it, and a shiver runs down his spine. A gust of wind flows through the leaves, making them dance, branches bending like hands reaching for him; for a moment, he believes he hears whispers woven between the plants. The knowledge that he is alone is not lost on him, yet the unmistakeable feeling of being watched drapes over him like a maiden’s nightgown on her first night as a lady.
No blood shall ever be spilled near the Great Tree, such is the unspoken rule. No blood shall ever stain its roots. And no leaf shall ever fall from its magnificent cup. None has occurred before, and Chan has no intention of discovering what shall transpire if it were to ever happen.
But it makes sense, in a certain way, as the back gardens and the Great Tree are but a place of devotion, not war. He is not keen on prayer or Gods, not in the way his mother and younger brothers are, especially Felix. It is not rare to find them kneeling before the white trunk, heads leaning on their hands as they recite the words of the High Septon.
Chan reaches for his throat as he steps right before the tree, clicking his tongue in annoyance as he is reminded once again that the medallion is not there. He probably lost it the moment he fell into the sea, but the habit remains with him as he feels a wave of unease overcome his body. Now, even as he falls short of religion, it is not rare to find him on the back gardens, enjoying the sun and soft cushion of green grass. It is true, however, that he has been frequenting the gardens much more often in recent times, he admits as he sits under the dark shadow of the praying tree, his eyes immediately shooting up.
This is the only place in all Summershall one might find remnants of the previous ruling House, as he locks his sight on a window to the far left. There, perfectly painted in vibrant pinks and greens in the glass, the image of a single rose seems to bow at him. The rose of the rock, that is how men would refer to House Graen, their offspring pretty and traitors as the flower.
Chan is not sure if his Lord Father had simply forgotten about the small piece of stained glass, or if he had chosen to keep it as a reminder for every single lord and lady that enters the room. But it is not the stained glass what has attracted the prince’s attention, but who he knows lays inside the four walls.
Eight whole wakes have passed since Chan had saved the drowning boy on the rocks, eight whole wakes he would find himself lingering by the left wing of the citadel, straining his ears to hear the whispers of the maidservants that would enter the room with new sets of clothes and blankets and bedsheets. He had asked Grand Maester Pyllwin, but his answer was anything but compelling - blue fever, he had said. A fool’s endeavour to try to pry when he would get better, only time will tell.
It is hard to explain the anxiousness he feels, how the uncertainty twists his stomach in impossible knots
It is hard to explain the anxiousness he feels, how the uncertainty twists his stomach in impossible knots. Blue fever should not be lethal, most cases heal without as much of a blemish. But most cases do not lay dormant for more than four days. The boy has been sleeping, from what molly had let him know, slipping in and out of consciousness and blabbering nonsense. Grand Maester Pyllwin had assured Chan on the one occasion he had asked that he boy was not suffering, as he was wetting is lips with Poppy’s Milk.
Still, Chan’s mind does not lay untroubled.
He has made sure to keep his composure and distance, knowing well that it would be unsightly for the crown prince to be visiting a, most likely, commoner’s chambers (even if he had been the one to find and save him). His Lord Father had kept him busy, too, as he arranged deals and prepared for the next step and battle. And, of course, bringing to the table the many negotiations and plans he is making as he tries to find the best suitor and match as his future queen.
It has been decided that a tourney will take place, a whole month from now, masquerading behind a flaunting of wealth and the celebration of the queen’s nameday. A whole week of festivities for noble houses to flaunt their daughters and wealth, trying to impress the king and his sons, significantly Chan.
He will compete on the tourney, too. That had been his one condition to continue the farce to his father. He would not allow his time to come to be determined by some bratty lesser lord’s son or snarky knight. Changbin had been initially named to participate in name of their house, but Chan had vehemently refused the feat, citing that he, as the heir to the crown and future king, shall be the only one bearing their name and banner. All a lie that his father had accepted without much of a fuss, for his arrogance has always far been greater than his wisdom.
He looks at the Great Tree, and, for the very first time in more time than he can name, he kneels before it. Give him safety, he prays go to the Gods. Give him health.
If you were to ask Chan, he would not even be able to say why he feels to attracted and intrigued by the mysterious name, why his face and blue eyes appear before his eyes at night just as he is about to march to the land of dreams, yet he is there every single time, looking back at him, that terror that took a hold of him when those ocean eyes rolled back imprinted on his brain.
If you were to ask Chan, he would not even be able to say why he feels to attracted and intrigued by the mysterious name, why his face and blue eyes appear before his eyes at night just as he is about to march to the land of dreams, yet he is there every single time, looking back at him, that terror that took a hold of him when those eyes made out of precious stones rolled back imprinted on his brain.
The crunch of grass beneath heavy steps catches his attention immediately, head barely moving to look over his shoulder as he tries to identify the intruder of his peace. Although he is well aware that no danger could ever come to him on these gardens, this place of faithfulness, his hand instinctively moves to the dagger he hides beneath his clothes, the same one Jeongin gifted him three springs ago, engraved with his name and the sun of their house on its pommel.
“Why?” the prince speaks, wanting the person to know he is fully aware of their presence.
“It has been years since I have seen you on these lairs,” Seungmin’s melodic voice reaches his ears, and Chan allows his shoulders to drop where they had been squared.
“Is a man not allowed a little bit of faith?”
“A man is always allowed to have faith,” Seungmin replies, his steps much lighter now. He had wanted Chan to know he was there. “A Crown Prince’s only faith should be his kingdom.”
Seungmin had always been the smartest of their small entendre, his intelligence only rivalling that of Minho’s. The most cunning, too. Chan always believed that, having been born a Noble, he would have been taken Minho’s part on the council even earlier than the counsellor had. But Seungmin was born a commoner boy, a small ankle-biter Felix had taken a special liking too on his earlier years. When trouble began arising in Seungmin’s household, Chan’s younger brother had taken the boy under his protection, turning him from a plain commoner to his personal servant to be raised by his side.
He remembers the younger Seungmin, cheekier and chubbier, cheeks always dirt with grim and grease and that permanent toothy smile that promised trouble. He remembers the amount of pranks him and his brother would play on him, hiding his training weapons and throwing grape juice to his clean tunics. The mischief is still there, glinting behind dark eyes, and so is the doting he offers to both Felix and Jeongin, loyal to a fault to the two young princes.
“One day you will fail to leave me without reply,” the prince chuckles, shaking his head as he fully turns to face the younger. “Today, however, is not that day.”
“Do not let the king hear, or he will feed me to the hounds,” Seungmin jokes back, knowing full well none of them would ever allow such fate to fall upon him.
“Jisung’s hounds are too well-trained,” he retorts. “They do not enjoy human flesh.”
“Until they taste it,” Seungmin comes to a stop by his side, his eyes fixed on the Great Tree instead of him. The young servant had never been too keen on their religion, despite having been born and raised on Summershall, but he remained respectful despite it. “They are beasts, after all. You were not too keen on battle, either, until the first drop of blood landed on your skin.”
“I had no choice.”
“Neither will they.”
Chan nods, but he is not very sure they are still talking about the hounds. He thinks of Berry, the small pup he had taken under his care all those years back on one of his venturea to town, the only survivor of her litter, whining and crying desperately as she fought for a life that was not granted to her. Her mom laid dead before her, and no matter how hard she tried to suckle on her tits, no nourishment ever reached her. As a prince, he would never be allowed to raise strays, so he had taken her directly to Jisung and begged him to keep her alive in a similar fashion he had begged Maester Pyllwin to keep the boy alive.
He thinks of her sweet, ever-smiling face, and how she seems to brighten every time Chan falls upon her sight. She would never be able to harm, and that scares him more than the possibility of her ever biting.
“Where is my brother?” the prince asks. “It is rare to see you and not see him.”
“Studying,” is Seungmin’s simple answer. “He allowed me to roam for a little while. A moment of calmness, I would say.”
“And you decided to come and pray?” Chan raises an eyebrow, showing his disbelief at Seungmin’s choice of place to rest.
“I was on my way to my chambers to sleep when I came across Molly,” the young servant tells him, but Chan’s confusion must be apparent on his face, as he continues his retelling. “They were looking for you. I suppose none of them imagined you would be visiting the Great Tree.”
“I suppose,” the prince nods. “So, what message is so urgent to have the maidservants in a rush?”
Seungmin finally turns to look at him, their eyes locking as something the prince cannot identify glints behind the orbs of darkness that is Seungmin’s gaze.
“He woke up.”
Something inside of Chan’s soul shifts, shock colouring his face in a manner he had not allowed himself to in many years, his stoic façade crumbling after three simple words. He stutters, eyes shifting as he tries to think logically but fails, resorting to directing a short bow at Seungmin before hurriedly exiting the gardens. His lips form a tight line, bewildered by the sudden shift in happenings. Just minutes ago, he was praying to the Great Tree for the boy’s recovery, so quickly and powerful was his faith?
The prince turns to the left wing, uncaring of how haste and hurried his movements are. It feels like his body has been taken over, possessed by the hunger he feels after not seeing those blue eyes in days. He is enthralled, chaotic as he walks down ignoring bows of servants in a way he has never done, yet he cannot find it in himself to give much thought at it.
He hears hushed, worried voices of maidservants, their begging and coercion attempts futile. His feet come to a sudden stop, mouth drying as he sees the women fussing over a tall figure standing in the corridor, the light of sun bathing them in a golden glow that reminds him of the gardens he has just been.
Time seems to come fully to a stop as the boy finally turns around, his long hair now braided and dressed only in a thin, sheer undershirt that allows the light to pass through and show just enough of his body to have Chan’s eyes drifting towards it, cheeks warming up in rose flames as he looks away, suddenly ashamed of his boldness.
Black eyes fall onto dark blue ones that remind him of uncut diamonds - jagged, dangerous, yet invaluable. Chan’s lips fall partially open, all his thoughts coming to die at his mouth like they are rivers reaching the sea. He finds himself struck by the beauty of the boy before him, his skin glistening like he has not been just fighting dead, the mole under his eyes a mark on a map that shows where treasure lies.
The boy smiles at him, his eyes turning into crescent moons just like they did the first time Chan ever held him. His arms itch with the need to touch.
“Ah, there he is,” the boy speaks, his voice soft like silk, smoothing over him like he is being covered on a stormy night. Peace floods his body, and all his worries vanish. “My saviour, my knight in shining armour,” he continues, voice bordering on a song. Chan is enchanted. He takes a step closer, eyes still fixed on those slanted eyes.
“My name is Chan,” is all he is able to mutter, unsure the boy even heard him. His eyes round for a second like they are recognizing him, before taking his own step closer to the prince.
There is still distance between them, a whole window keeping their bodies apart, yet Chan feels warm. The background noise has disappeared, and so have the castle’s walls. In this space, only the two of them exist.
“And mine’s Hyunjin.”