The room was near pitch black, but he simply could not sleep. Carefully disentangling himself from Dahlia, he threw a robe over his bedclothes and slipped out of their chambers. The castle was eerily quiet, the tall, long hallways dimly lit by spaced out candelabras. As he wandered down the corridor, he noticed a faint flickering of firelight beneath his father’s door still. The man hardly slept these days. With a sigh, he quietly rapped his knuckles on the wood.
“Come in,” he heard a deep, tired voice call from the other side.
He turned the latch and pushed open the door, stepping into his father’s chambers. The fire inside the hearth at the front left of the room had calmed to occasionally crackling embers, and a functional candle sat lit on the heavy oak desk the king was planted at. His quill worked vigorously across the current letter he was composing, no doubt to some commander at the border. He didn’t bother turning to receive him.
“Still working?” he prompted, the attempt to start a conversation feeling like an intrusion of privacy.
“Clearly,” was all he said, his voice cold and pointed. “Is there something you need, Philip?”
“No, I just could not find sleep,” he explained, inviting himself to sit in one of the armchairs by the fireplace.
“And you thought to bother me in my chambers?”
“I thought to maybe have a conversation with my father,” he shot back, a sense of challenge and stubbornness in his voice. “Aryn told me you appointed him to the council.”
“Does this bother you?” he asked simply, although he could hear the hidden venom behind his words, as if they were a test of his pride.
“Of course not. The only thing that bothers me about it is your motives.”
The words left his mouth before he was smart enough to think about them. His father now turned in his chair, ever so slightly, so that Philip could barely see his harsh, cold profile.
“My motives?” He scoffed indignantly. “My motives are to make your brother actually contribute something to this family. Bringing me that clever blacksmith was a start, but he will have to provide far more than that if he is to earn any respect from me and this–”
“You are his father,” he interrupted, taken aback by the anger that laced his words. “He should not have to earn your love–”
He suddenly whirled on him now, brown eyes dark and cruel. His face was a mask of exhaustion, riddled with stark impatience.
“Well unfortunately for Aryn, his father is the King. And everyone must earn a king’s respect, let alone his love. Do you think our subjects would act as loyal as they do if they did not have to earn my respect, my protection? I thought I taught you better than this.”
His warm brown eyes turned towards the dying fire as he clenched his jaw, the back of his neck growing hot. “You have taught me how to be a king, yes. But I fear for my future children…”
“Excuse me?”
The simple words were coated in a blatant threat. But he opened his mouth anyway.
“I know how to rule a kingdom. I know how to control my subjects. But what you never taught me, is how to be a good father.”
“You will mind your tongue, boy, or I will–”
He turned to look at him now, defiance written all over his face. “Or you’ll what? Make Aryn next in line?” He scoffed. “We both know how empty of a threat that is, Father. If you were not so blinded by your unbased hatred for him, you would see that he has done more good for Westgarde than either of us have in a very long time. Our people are angry because of the war you started. At least Aryn is doing something to abade that.”
“Your brother is an insolent brat. I should have never let Lydia take him over as she did,” he growled hatefully.
“Please, Mother is responsible for every ounce of goodness in him–”
“Goodness and weakness. Your brother is weak, Philip. And weakness destroys legacies–”
“At the rate we’re going, there will not be much of a legacy, now will there?” he snapped. “For God’s sake, you hide him away like he’s some sort of deformed creature, when I know the real reason you cannot bear to have him around is because he reminds you of Mother. And if we’re being honest–”
“Oh please continue, it’s not like you already aren’t,” Aleksander spat, shoving his quill back into the inkpot on his desk.
“Mother was the only reason the people loved our family. When she died, Westgarde changed. You know it, I know it. And if you claim that Aryn is so much akin to her as you say, he should be well-known to the people, not hidden from them. Maybe they will finally find one of us to hold love in their hearts for again.”
“The people love you well enough,” he mumbled dismissively.
“But not well enough to forgive us for this war,” he insisted, not backing down.
Insistent fists banged against the bedroom door, and they both turned their attention towards it.
“It is late, what is it?” Aleksander interrogated sternly.
“Your Grace, there is an emergency,” a guard’s voice stated from behind the door.
They both looked at each other with furrowed brows before his father pushed himself from his chair, lumbering over to the door and yanking it open.
“What could be such an emergency that–”
For the first time in his life, he saw his father left speechless. He shot up from the armchair and came around to the door, and immediately all color drained from his face. Accompanied by two Crownsguard, Percy stood in front of them.
Covered in blood.
“What in God’s name happened to you?” his father demanded.
“Someone broke into the estate,” Percy stated, foregoing all formalities. “Aryn is okay, but he’s pretty shaken.”
“Are you both all right?” he asked hurriedly, his heart beginning to race wildly in his chest.
The young man’s green eyes locked with his, and something in them looked different. It didn’t take a genius to know his brother had not dispatched the intruder. But the sheer volume of blood that coated Percy’s hands and clothes… it dotted his face like freckles and crusted in his curly hair. His stomach dropped as he realized the man must have gotten to Aryn, and had clearly paid the price for it. He could see the wildness still slowly fading from his emerald irises.
“Why is Aryn at your estate?” his father interrogated, although his tone did not convey the idea he so desperately prayed would not come to his mind.
“He came over to tell me about his new appointment to the council. I was catching him up on current affairs, and we had a bit too much wine. He decided to stay in one of the guest bedrooms–look, could we discuss the details of our meeting later? There is a dead man in my house, with your son.”
If it were not for the severity of the situation, he would have proudly laughed. Here stood the Imperial King of Westgarde, and Percy was talking to him as if he were a slow, belligerent old man. But the time certainly did not call for getting caught up in respectful formalities. Without much more thought, his father snatched up his heavy coat and haphazardly threw it on before turning to the two Crownsguard.
“Until proven otherwise, this is an assassination attempt. I want all guards on alert; there should be at least two stationed outside Dahlia and Oliver’s doors. Philip, grab your sword. Quickly.”
He darted past Percy and rushed back towards his chambers, swinging the door open without restraint. Dahlia bolted upright in the bed, clutching the fur blanket to her chest as she squinted in confusion.
“Philip? What’s going on?” she asked sleepily, her hazel eyes following him as he beelined for where he kept his rapier.
“There’s been an attack. Everyone’s okay,” he added as he saw the panic quickly growing on her face. “I need you to stay in our room, do you understand?”
His voice was stern but not harsh, conveying an immense sense of concern and protectiveness more than anything else. She nodded, her lips parted slightly in shock, before he left the room as swiftly as he had entered. He met back up with Percy and his father, as well as the two Crownsguard, by the main front doors into the castle. No words were exchanged before the guards opened the doors for them, and the only thing that broke the tense silence was the sound of multiple boots stomping through the snowy streets. The trek seemed to go on for far too long, the seconds dragging by as his imagination began to run wild with what could have happened. But finally they reached Percy’s estate, and he fumbled with his keys, hands still clearly shaking from adrenaline. The door blew open with the frigid wind, and a knee-wobbling sense of relief washed over him as he laid eyes upon Aryn sitting on the stairs.
The sensation was short-lived however as he caught sight of the blood that coated his little brother. Pushing past the rest of the party, he rushed forward and took a knee, grasping Aryn’s arms. He jumped at his touch, blue eyes distant, traumatized.
“Aryn. Aryn, are you okay?”
His brother nodded numbly, but he spotted the slash that tore through the oversized sweater he wore. Red, glistening skin shone beneath, the edges of the wound beginning to crust with dried blood. Thank God it didn’t appear very deep.
“Where is the body?” his father asked, his voice low and severe.
“Upstairs, in the master bedroom.” Percy replied quietly.
“Go.”
It was a singular word, but the power and weight behind it coursed through the foyer as the two Crownsguard immediately brushed past them on the stairs. Aryn’s dull blue eyes remained fixed ahead of him, seemingly staring towards his chest and yet not looking at anything at all.
“Aryn,” his father’s voice cut through the room as his boots thumped heavily across the wooden floor. “Are you injured?”
“I’m fine…”
His brother had always been a soft spoken person, but the way his voice sounded now sent a chill down his spine. Then he saw it. Flecks of blood, spattered across his neck. It was certainly not from his own wound.
“Aryn what happened?” he murmured lowly, his grip remaining on his shoulders.
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“I… I just heard a struggle and… he tried to kill me. He wanted me. Not Percy.”
Why in God’s name would someone want to kill Aryn?
“How did this man know you were here?” his father pressed, stepping even closer.
His hulking form now towered over both him and Aryn, and he felt it through his grip as his brother shrunk into himself, felt his shoulders bow and cave inward. Aryn was terrified, and all Father cared about right now was information.
“Back up,” he snapped, a bit more pointedly than he meant. “You’re scaring him.”
A subtle scowl arose on his father’s face, but to his surprise, he listened, shifting backwards slightly so that he did not cast a shadow over Aryn. Before further questioning could occur, one of the Crownsguard hurried back down the stairs, handing a bloodied, folded piece of paper to Aleksander.
“We found this in his pocket, along with a sizable amount of coin.”
His father snatched the note from his hand with cold precision, unfolding it. His eyes focused sharply on the words written in the note, and the expression on his aging face quickly darkened to a quiet wrath.
“Round up some guards. Arrest him and take him straight to the dungeon. He will be executed tomorrow. Publicly.”
“What is it?” he demanded, turning to face his father but keeping one hand still anchored to Aryn.
“It seems Lord Poulter was not too pleased to be let go from the council, doubly so upon hearing that Aryn has taken his place. The moronic fool.”
Finally his brother’s face changed, twisting from numb horror into confused shock. “Benjamin did this?”
“Seems that way. We need to get you to the maester,” his father stated, zero ounce of emotion in his voice.
“Wh-what about Percy?”
Aleksander turned towards the young man. “Are you injured?”
“No.”
Shoving the note into his pocket, he turned back to Aryn. “Then he will be fine. Come. We need to get you home.”
He watched as hurt panic began to overtake his brother’s features. Separating them tonight, however much he wished they were not together in the first place, was the absolute last thing that should happen. He remembered all the nights he had heard Aryn wake up screaming and crying, and those nightmares were only the product of finally seeing the light in their mother’s eyes go out. It was nowhere near comparable to the mental Hell he knew was about to ensue after he had been attacked and spilled someone’s life’s blood.
“Father, do you really expect Percy to stay here tonight? At least give him one of the guest rooms in the castle until someone can get this mess cleaned up.”
“Fine. Someone grab him something to cover up with.”
One of the guards snatched a cloak from a hook by the door and came to put it over Aryn, but he held out a stern hand, asking for the fabric instead. Slowly, he proceeded to drape the cloak around his shoulders, noticing the fine piece of metalwork that made up its chosen clasp. Silver, with dark blue gemstones… just like his brother’s crown.
“We have to go home now. Percy’s coming with us,” he explained, surprised at how gentle his voice sounded.
Aryn nodded and slowly rose from the stair step, wrapping the cloak tightly around himself in an attempt to keep out the world. The party trekked back to the castle silently, and he accompanied Aryn to Maester Byron’s study. His brother sat in complete silence as the old man tended to his wound. Thankfully the dagger had not sliced very deep, and it was possible there might only be a very light scar. But even the idea of a scar made him feel sick to his stomach for Aryn. It would be a reminder every day that he was forced to take someone’s life. That someone had wanted to erase him.
Once he had been cleaned and patched up, he made sure Aryn was settled in his chambers. His little brother still refused to say more than a few necessary words, and he couldn’t fight off the knot that continued to take root in his stomach. He had finally just started to bounce back, and he knew this was about to destroy all of the progress Aryn had made since Mother died.
I have to be there for him this time. I have to.
An uncomfortable feeling wormed its way into his chest when he realized what exactly that meant. As he quietly closed the door to Aryn’s chambers, he let out a deep, steadying breath. This might be the worst time to do this, but he didn’t see how there could ever be a good time anyway. His feet reluctantly carried him towards the guest chamber, and, pausing in hesitation, he finally rapped his knuckles gently on the door.
“Come in,” he called from behind the oaken wood.
He pulled on the latch and pushed the door open. Percy stood by the window, which was surprisingly popped open, dressed in loose linen pants and devoid of a shirt. The room was beginning to fill with an icy chill, and it sent goosebumps spreading across his own skin. Gingerly stepping into the chamber, he quietly closed the door behind him.
“I got Aryn settled in. I wanted to see how you were faring,” he began awkwardly, attempting to make small talk with the most severe of situations.
The former smith turned his head slightly to look at him out of the corner of his green eyes. “I’m… alive. That’s more than I can say for that piece of shit rotting on my floorboards.”
He had never heard Percy speak so… ineloquently. He wasn’t sure if it was purely just the situation at hand or that the commoner had begun to feel more comfortable around him, but nonetheless, he’d take it. He cleared his throat and leaned against the door, steadying himself.
“I’m glad you were there to protect him.”
“Yeah, talk about a lucky accident,” Percy murmured dismissively, drumming his fingers on the windowsill.
“Only it wasn’t.”
He paused, turning around now to fully face him. He was taken aback slightly by the commoner’s composition; his tall, broad frame and lean yet heavily muscled body nearly made him feel nervous to be in the same room. Percy hadn’t been bred for aesthetics, but function, power, effectiveness. He finally was able to put the pieces together on why there had been so much blood on him from just one man.
Here’s hoping I don’t ever get on his bad side. Holy shit.
“I’m sorry?” was all he said, but he heard the severity behind the words, the looming threat in them that didn’t care a single bit who he was.
“What kind of weapon was the assassin carrying?” he asked, quickly changing the subject. It was proving to be a difficult task to ask the damning question.
“A dagger.”
“And how many times did you stab him?”
Percy paused, locking eyes with him. He saw his green irises shift, that wildness returning that he saw earlier as he recalled the memory. “I don’t know. I lost count.”
A tense, suspenseful silence fell over the chamber as they stared at each other, Percy clearly waiting for him to say what he really wanted to say.
“Is he happy?”
Percy’s dark eyebrows twitched downward ever so slightly, not understanding the context of his question at first. But soon after, a softer expression came to occupy his tan, rugged face, and he leaned back into the windowsill, lifting his chin slightly.
“I make sure of it.”
“Forgive me, but I just cannot understand it–”
“You don’t have to. But I will tell you right now: if you interfere with Aryn’s happiness, it wouldn’t matter if you were the King himself.”
“Or you’d what, kill me?”
“Maybe. Whatever it took. Your brother deserves the world, Philip. And I will not allow anyone, and I mean anyone, to take that away from him.”
The tension in the room could have been cut with a knife as their gaze did not break. But Percy was unfaltering, unwavering.
“Then I am glad he has you.”
He saw the commoner’s muscular shoulders visibly relax before he strode to the wardrobe and grabbed a long-sleeved linen shirt. “If we are to be transparent with each other now, you’d be a fool to think I won’t go to him tonight.”
“I did not think otherwise. But there will be guards posted at all of our doors. Well, except yours,” he pointed out, crossing his arms. “No offense, but my father does not value your life that much.”
Percy scoffed with a dry smirk. “I’m terribly shocked. Then perhaps you could bring him here, dispense of the guards. They would listen to you, you’re their prince.”
“I said I would not separate you two, not that I would enable–”
“Philip surely you are not so much of an idiot to think your brother will not do something he will regret if he is left to his own devices tonight,” he snapped.
A prideful anger began to well up inside of his chest, but then he saw the look on Percy’s face. It was fear, genuine fear. That was when he remembered back to a few months ago, when he’d found Aryn walking the parapets like a tightrope.
“Fine. But you have to make sure no one is around when he leaves in the morning.”
“I wasn’t born yesterday, Philip.” The harsh look on the former smith’s face softened as he caught his own tone. “Sorry… thank you. Truly.”
With a final warning glance, he turned and left the room, heading towards Aryn’s chambers.
***
Truth be told, his hands were still shaking.
He had been dreaming of them, swimming in that spring buried deep in the forest during the summer. They’d made love on the bank of it, but as they were splashing around in its cool, refreshing waters, Aryn had been dragged under. And all he’d heard was him screaming his name.
In those few short moments, he wasn’t Percy. He wasn’t anyone. Instead, he had been a mission. A singular mission, with the sole purpose of eliminating what had had Aryn in its lethal clutches. And when that dagger had sliced across his chest, all he could see was red. Deep, hateful, murderous red. Something buried inside of him kept driving that knife into the man’s chest, demanding penance, demanding carnage. It wasn’t so much for the little physical damage he had done, but for the damage that had been intended the moment that son of a bitch entered their home. And for the lasting damage that would now surely ensue afterwards.
He’d wanted to do more than plunge that dagger into him. He’d wanted to gouge his eyes out, rip his stomach open and feed him his own innards, slowly tear him limb from limb, starting with his fingers. But Aryn had called his name, and he’d realized just how closely he'd danced with the Devil.
He was still not completely himself when Philip had come to talk to him, and his choice of words towards the prince had been far from ideal. But they were real: pure, and raw, and truthful. He hadn’t realized the horrendous, unspeakable lengths he would go to for Aryn, to protect him, to protect his happiness. But that was the side of love no one ever wanted to talk about. About just how much it could turn you into a monster.
But he was fine being a monster. He was fine being anything he needed to be if it meant keeping Aryn alive, and safe, and happy.
The latch on the door clicked open, and he whirled around to see him slipping in through the threshold. The door was shut quickly, presumably by Philip. He wasn’t sure if he and Aryn had had a similar conversation, or if there’d been no conversation at all, but any and all of those thoughts left his mind as the prince bolted towards him, into his arms.
His entire body was trembling, and he could feel how unnaturally cold he was. He wrapped his arms around him so tightly he thought he might break Aryn in half, but there was no protest to be heard. Cold. He was so goddamn cold. He turned to close the window, but delicate hands suddenly grabbed at him, terrified and desperate.
“No,” he begged, the single word filled with so much panic and fear that it tore his heart into pieces.
He squeezed him even tighter in response, beginning to rock gently side to side as one of his hands cupped the back of his head. “Okay… I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”
A small fire blazed in the simple hearth built into the guest chamber. Eventually he would guide them over towards it, but right now they remained rooted in place. Aryn had acquired a vice grip on the back of his shirt, so much so that his nails dug into and tore slightly at his skin. It didn’t phase him. He would let Aryn slice him to ribbons if it kept him calm.
“I killed him, Percy,” he whispered against his chest, his voice choked with tears.
He found his fingertips slowly and rhythmically rubbing his scalp, trying desperately to apply more pressure somewhere, to distract him and keep him anchored.
“Shh, it’s all right… you’re all right,” he murmured, resting his chin on top of his head.
“I didn’t want to,” he whimpered. “Why did he have to do that? I don’t understand…”
He felt the front of his shirt growing wet, and a quiet anger began to boil up inside of him as tears threatened in his green eyes. “I know you didn’t, baby, I know. It’ll be okay.”
“What did I do?” he cried softly, his voice a near whisper.
He knew the question wasn’t about what he’d done to that man. It was about why that assassin had been there, for him. Why Benjamin had felt enough hatred towards him to want his life extinguished.
“Nothing. You did nothing,” he whispered against his hair. His hand moved to cup his face, feeling the tears coating his cheek. “Look at me.”
Broken blue eyes connected with his, Aryn’s face as white as a ghost.
“No matter what happens, I will always be there to protect you. I’ve done it twice now, and I will continue to do so, until we are two sets of bones in a joint grave. Do you hear me?”
Aryn’s face contorted with sorrow, but he nodded in understanding before shoving his face into the side of his neck. His arms wrapped tightly around him once more as he kissed the top of his head, breathing him in. They remained as they were for a long while, their bodies slowly rocking side to side in primal comfort.
“I’m gonna shut the window, okay?” he stated softly. “Then we can lie down.”
Aryn didn’t respond, only tightened his grip, but as he shifted his weight towards the open window, the prince followed. Using only one hand, he pulled the glass shut and latched it before guiding them over to the bed. He quickly pulled the thick fur blankets over them, desperate to shield Aryn from the reality of the world as he held him to his broad chest. The prince wrapped himself around him, slinging his leg across and tucking his foot under his thigh. If Aryn could have crawled into his skin, he would have. But the best he could do was hold his head to his chest while he rubbed his back, taking care to tuck the blanket beneath Aryn’s side.
Neither of them slept. As he lay there, his mind raced, wandering to dark, dangerous territory. Benjamin was a right cunt, but even something as unspeakable as this seemed out of reach for his entitled morals. It didn’t add up.
As he gently played with Aryn’s hair, trying desperately to lull him to sleep, he couldn’t ignore the unrest in the air. Something was changing.
War had now come to their doorstep.