Chapter Text
The first glimpse of Oldtown was not its harbor nor its bustling streets, but its tower.
The Hightower rose from the mouth of the Honeywine like a pale finger pointed toward the heavens, tier upon tier of stone stacked so high it seemed to pierce the sky itself. Its beacon, though unlit by day, glimmered faintly with gold haze, as if even the sun bent itself to gild its crown.
To Jongseong, it was less a wonder than a weight. The desert taught him to admire horizons that stretched without end, the freedom of heat shimmering across dunes. Here, there was no horizon. Only the Tower, swallowing the sky and forcing every gaze upward.
Across him, Hesol adjusted her veil, her eyes narrowing as she regarded the white colossus. “It’s gaudy,” she murmured. “A monument to men who’d rather be worshipped than questioned. When one fears to meet another’s gaze, he builds something tall enough to force the world to look up.”
Jongseong’s lips curved faintly. “And yet we are meant to bow before it.”
“The Martells never bow,” She corrected.
Their carriage rattled along the cobblestone, with the Martell sigil stitched faintly upon its drape. Horns sounded from the ramparts, banners of green and white unfurled, masks of courtesy practiced to perfection. The other lords of Reach waited in their finery, layered in velvets, with rings heavy on their fingers and perfumed oils clinging to their hair and skin. Their faces, however, betrayed little beyond expectation. Their smiles flickered and died quickly, their bows shallow enough to pass for courtesy but never for respect.
The servants were no better. They lowered their heads when protocol demanded, but when they looked at Jongseong, their gazes lingered too long, curious and sour, as though he were to be cataloged— an exotic animal hauled from across the desert.
Some whispered behind their hands, others simply stared in contempt. Jongseong had been watched before, may it be in Dornish courts or under Sunspear banners, but this was much different. This was scrutiny, as if they searched for cracks they already believed must be there.
The city itself seemed alive with revulsion. Oldtown’s streets coiled like a labyrinth around the base of the Tower, crowded with masons, sailors, merchants, and septons. The bells of distant septs tolled in waves, their echoes drowning out the gulls. Jongseong caught the scent of rosemary, salt, and wine drifting from the emporium nearby. All of it together felt suffocating, too rich, too crowded, too heavy.
Jongseong wants to vomit.
“Princess Hesol of Dorne,” said the grand maester, a broad man with soft hands and a smile that barely reached his eyes. “And her nephew, of course, the young Prince Jongseong. Oldtown welcomes you under the light of the Seven. May your journey from the sands have been merciful.”
“I suppose,” Hesol replied, offering the briefest nod. “The Seven have a way of tempering the road.”
The lord, however, eyed Jongseong with a hint of mockery that he did not bother to hide. “We’ve heard much of Dornish valor… and of its tempers,” he said, his smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I pray the long ride eased yours before you reached our gates.”
Jongseong inclined his head, the faintest ghost of a smile touching his lips. Pray harder, then. “The road teaches patience,” he said smoothly. “Though not all men find the will to learn it.”
A flicker of offense crossed the man’s expression. Beside him, Hesol’s veil shifted, but Jongseong could feel her quiet amusement beside him.
The grand maester cleared his throat and gestured toward the inner courtyard. “You must be weary from travel then. Servants will see you to your chambers. The Seven send their regards and will receive you both at sundown.”
At his word, servants stepped forward. They dared not speak, but their eyes followed Jongseong too closely, their glances lingering as though they sought proof of rumor—Dorne’s desert prince dressed in gold and ruin.
As they entered the courtyard, the world seemed to quiet. There, within its pale colonnades, a figure moved.
A young man, bare-armed and sure-footed, cutting the air with his sword. His movements were swift but measured. Sunlight flashed along his blade, then over his face as he turned.
Lee Heeseung.
Recognition struck before memory did.
He had seen him once before, years ago, at the banquet in King’s Landing when they both stood at the cusp of manhood. Jongseong had been sixteen then, newly named a Martell by the royal decree for his valor in naval and border skirmishes. The banquet had been to herald the first prince’s ascension as heir to the Iron Throne. Heeseung had stood apart from the throng, silent and solitary even amid song and wine. He had not smiled then, nor spoken, and Jongseong had not approached him.
But now, in the sunlit courtyard of Oldtown, the same aloofness lingered still.
“You should temper your words, son,” Hesol murmured beside him, with her voice as soft as breathing. “A sand such as you may never witness another dawn. At least, not here.”
Jongseong did not answer.
They were led into the tower’s halls, the air thick with incense and the hush of distant bells. The servants guided them through marble corridors to their respective chambers. A suite adorned with pale stone and embroidered hangings of green awaited. The windows overlooked the river, where the light turned gold against the current.
When the attendants departed, Hesol unpinned her veil, setting it upon a table. “It smells of lies here,” she said softly. “The kind that rot slowest.”
Jongseong leaned against the carved bedpost, arms crossed. “They look at me as though I were some vulture from the south,” he said. “I wonder if they think I’ve flown here to feed.”
“Let them wonder,” she said. “A vulture only circles where death is certain. Perhaps that’s what frightens them.”
Jongseong’s mouth twitched, though it never reached his eyes. He turned toward the window, the waning light painting the river gold. “Then they fear the wrong thing,” he murmured. “A carrion does not kill.”
Hesol’s reflection flickered in the glass beside him, her dark hair unbound now, her face lined not with age but with years of knowing too much. “But it watches them do so,” she said oh-so quietly.
Silence stretched between them, filled only by the hum of the busy street below. The murmur of vendors at the marketplace, the clatter of hooves against cobblestone, the faraway bells tolling another prayer for Gods he never believed in.
Jongseong exhaled slowly, his fingers brushing the edge of the window.
“I tire of being looked at as though I’m some omen,” he sighed. “They only see what they wish to fear.”
“Perhaps you should wear it, child,” Hesol said, her voice firm but not unkind. “Fear is a finer cloak than any silk, and far more difficult to tear.”
Jongseong said nothing.
Yet beneath that silence lay a truth he could never voice aloud. He was a recessive omega, born into a world that measured worth by power and chaos. In Dorne, such a thing carried no shame—there, power was not bound by such secondary standing. But to the rest of Westeros, it marked him as lesser. To them, his titles and victories were mere indulgences, never the hard-won honors he had fought to claim.
Even now, as gold caught on his hair and gilded his reflection, he knew what they saw.
A token wrapped in defiance. A thing to be owned and tempered.
A knock came at the door then.
“Come,” Hesol called.
A servant slipped inside, bowing low. Her voice trembled with deference. “Your highnesses. The stewards have begun preparations for the evening’s ceremony. The prince’s attendants are ready and await his word to help him prepare.”
Jongseong straightened from the bedpost, expression unreadable. “And I must attend now,” he said, though it was less a question than a statement of inevitability.
The servant hesitated. “Yes, my prince. Lord Hightower bids it so.”
Hesol inclined her head slightly. “Tell them the prince will get ready.”
Hesol’s gaze lingered on him for a moment, on the silence that lingered behind his gaze, on how the golden light glinted softly on his features.
“I’ll leave you to prepare,” she said softly, her hands cupping his cheeks.
Jongseong turned to her, expression calm. “Yes,” he said after a pause. “I should.”
She gave a brief nod. “They’ll expect you soon.”
“I know.” His tone was steady, but there was a faint weariness beneath it. “Best not to keep them waiting.”
Hesol offered the barest hint of a smile. “That would be wise.”
She moved to the door, pausing just long enough to meet his gaze once more. “You’ll manage, Jongseong. You always do.”
He inclined his head in silent thanks, and she slipped out, the scent of eucalyptus following her into the corridor.
𖤓
Ever since their arrival, Jongseong had been confined to his chambers, the air thick with the hum of activity. Attendants flitted about like anxious birds, arms full of silks and scented oils, their hushed chatter weaving through the rhythm of footsteps and splashing water. He’d barely had a moment to breathe since stepping through the doors of Oldtown.
They had bathed him first, of course. Steam water from the marble basin, curling around his bare shoulders as scented oils were poured into the water. Sweet ambrosia, nectar, and something faintly earthy lingered on his skin. Beneath it all, his own scent clung stubbornly, cinnamon and clove. The attendants said little, though their eyes sometimes flicked toward him, curious and cautious all at once.
Word must have traveled through the halls. Rumors always did, but even gossip bowed to duty here. They worked without complaint, smoothing, trimming, and dressing until the sun dipped westward and shadows stretched long across the tiled floor.
Among them was a young woman who caught his attention. A servant named Yunjin, as one of the others called her over. She was not as practiced as the rest. Her hands shook slightly as she fastened the clasp of his brocade, and her voice came soft with apology when the fabric slipped. Yet there was something steady in her effort, an unpolished honesty rare in a place so steeped in etiquette. Perhaps the whispers about him had not yet reached her ears, or perhaps she simply is naive.
When she finished, Jongseong studied his reflection in the mirror. His hair had been neatly combed back and set with oil. A sheer veil of fine silk in the color of light ivory had been fastened behind his head, falling just past the nape of his neck. It was not a crown, as he was not meant to wear one, but in its simplicity, it carried the same intent. A quiet, gentle reminder of grace soon expected of him.
He wore a white brocade threaded with gold and red linen, the colors of Martell, his birthright stitched into every seam and fold. Yet some of his jewelry glimmered with the green hue of jade, the color of Hightower.
The combination was deliberate.
Sun and flame.
He touched the jewels at his throat. They were cool against his skin yet heavy enough to remind him of what they ought to represent.
The sound of servants rustling to gather the last of their tools mingled in the air. Perhaps somewhere down the corridor, Hesol, was also preparing for the evening’s feast. She had kept to her chambers all day since then. When she appeared, she was draped in velvet and rose gold fineries, her sweet perfume lingering in the air even after she passed.
Even so, his thoughts drifted elsewhere. The finery felt foreign. The veil brushed lightly against his neck. The jewels gleamed under the oil lamp, but beneath their shimmer, he could still feel its quiet, yet suffocating weight.
A chain, he thought.
The latter’s reflection appeared behind his own in the mirror. She paused for a moment, eyes tracing his face with the faintest of smile.
“So they’ve made a Martell prince of you after all,” she said. Her voice carried the slow. “Though I suppose there was never any question of that.”
Jongseong met her gaze through the mirror. “Do you disapprove?”
“Well, I seldom approve of such a ceremony,” she replied, lifting one hand to adjust the fall of his veil. “But it serves its purpose. And you wear it better than most would, my child.”
Her tone was neither mocking nor appeasing, but it was something colder and quieter, carved from years of restraint.
She had learned long ago how to endure silence. She had known grief too well, an acquaintance somehow. Widowhood had tempered her pride into steel, and the fever that claimed her only child had left behind a suffering she never truly escaped. Whatever gentleness had once lived in her had been spent on him. She had raised Jongseong not to be loved, but to survive.
She stepped back, considering him once more. “The Hightowers will see what they expect to see tonight. You will stand beside them on an equal footing, and as your father’s envoy. Smile when spoken to. Drink when they toast. And if Lord Hightower speaks of alliances, you will listen.”
He turned to face her fully then. “And if he speaks of me?”
Her lips curved faintly. “Then you will pretend not to notice.”
A silence stretched between them. Outside, the bells fell quiet, their last echoes swallowed by the hum of the city. Hesol’s eyes softened, just for a heartbeat. “You’ve grown since Sunspear,” she said. “The court will see it too. Do not let them mistake your quiet for weakness.”
“I learned that from you,” he said.
“Then learn one more thing,” she replied, reaching up to brush an invisible crease from his sleeve. “There is no honour in restraint if it breaks you.”
Her hand lingered a second longer, then fell away. The moment passed as quickly as it came.
From the corridor came a knock. One of the attendants’ voices followed, “Princess, the stewards request your presence in the lower hall.”
Hesol turned, gathering her cloak. “Tell them the prince will join us shortly after,” she said, and the servant withdrew.
When she faced Jongseong again, her expression had returned to that cold composure. “You know your part. Do not give them cause to doubt.”
He inclined his head, albeit hesitant. “I will try.”
Her gaze held him for a moment longer, searching, as though for something unspoken. But whatever she sought, she did not find. With a final nod, she swept toward the door.
Jongseong exhaled slowly, letting the silence return. He looked one last time at his reflection, the veil shifted faintly with his breath.
Outside, he could faintly hear the city humming. Bells tolling from the septs, with the murmurs of market stalls shuttering for night. The sound was distant. The world seemed to move on, indifferent to vows his life is bound to.
A quiet knock broke the thought. One of the servants slipped inside, bowing so low his forehead nearly touched the floor. “My prince,” the maiden said, voice small against the hush, “the stewards await. The guests have gathered in the great hall. The ceremony is about to start”
“Very well.”
𖤓
As the heavy wooden door opened, the air in the great hall welcomed him, thick with candle smoke and perfume. Music drifted faintly from the adjoining chamber—the low hum of strings, the soft echo of a small choir in the crevice of the room.
Jongseong walked the aisle alone. Every step echoed against marble, steady, heavy, and unhurried. His cloak of red and gold shimmered in the light, the warmth of his hometown carried into a foreign, frigid place. He did not look at the crowd, though he could feel their eyes heavy on him.
At the altar stood Heeseung. Draped in ivory and green, he looked every inch the Lord of Oldtown. Poised, still, untouched by unease. The light from the cresset caught on the edges of his silver hair, and for a fleeting moment, Jongseong thought he saw him grin.
The septon’s voice filled the hall, slow yet measured as he recited the ancient vows. Words of union, of belonging, of promises that had been spoken so many times they had long lost their meaning.
Jongseong stood silent beside Heeseung, hands clasped before him. He kept his face composed, though something deep inside him coiled tighter with every word spoken.
When the time came for the exchange of cloaks, a number of attendants stepped forward.
Jongseong’s cloak was lifted gently from his shoulders. The cold air pierced his skin, cool against the heat that pooled at his gut. Then came Heeseung’s cloak, green and white, the flame of House Hightower stitched delicately into the silk.
Heeseung moved forward to place it over him. The fabric slid across his shoulders, light yet unbearably heavy. It felt less like being claimed and more like being contained.
Their eyes met for the first time that night.
“May he shelter you beneath his name and house,” the septon intoned, “and may you serve together under one light.”
Then came the pregnant pause, just before—
“State your vow,” the septon said.
Heeseung spoke first, “I pledge my word before the Seven,” he said, voice even, carrying clearly through the sept. “And take you as my spouse, this day and for all the days to come.”
Jongseong heard the words, yet they seemed to pass through him rather than reach him. A breath later, he realized all eyes had turned to him.
“I pledge,” he said at last. His voice came softer than intended, as though borrowed. “And take you as my spouse… this day and for the days to come.”
“So it is you,” Heeseung murmured. He leaned closer, his voice low, meant only for Jongseong to hear.
Jongseong turned his head slightly. His tone was still, but a faint crack on his composure threaded through it.
“Are you disappointed?”
“No,” he said simply. “Not quite.”
Silence stretched between them once again.
Then came the final words of blessing, the close of the rite. The septon’s voice rose, “In sight of The Seven, I hereby see you these two souls, binding them as one for eternity. May your union be sealed in faith and honor.”
It was then that Heeseung turned toward him fully. The hall waited.
His breath caught when Heeseung’s hand reached up. It was a careful touch against his cheek, almost hesitant. Jongseong did not move, did not resist, though the faint tremor betrayed him.
Heeseung leaned closer. With that, Jongseong’s lashes lowered on instinct. The distance between them vanished, but it then stopped just short.
Heeseung’s lips brushed the corner of Jongseong’s lips.
It is not a kiss, not truly. A mere whisper of contact, but deliberate as a mark.
It was over before Jongseong could even react.
The hall erupted into applause, the sound neat and distant, as if scripted. Heeseung stepped back, his expression composed as ever. Jongseong forced a small smile, though it was evident on his face that the effort cost him. His smile doesn’t reach his eyes.
He could still feel the ghost of that touch, as it lingered at the edge of his lips.
It unsettled him, his gut twisting in torment. He did not look at Heeseung again.
Not even when they turned together to face the crowd, hands loosely linked, bathed in the sound of a hundred hollow congratulations.
𖤓
Tables stretched endlessly beneath banners of both houses, heavy with fresh fruit and meat glistening under candlelight. Laughter rang loud and false, spilling over goblets of wine. Minstrels played at the dais, their melodies light and cheerful. It sounds mocking, almost, at least to Jongseong.
Jongseong sat beside Heeseung, their space between them quiet and distant. He did not eat much, nor did he speak. His cup remained half-full, the wine dark and still.
Heeseung, however, seemed born for it. He laughed where laughter was expected, his words smooth and deliberate. Every so often, his gaze flicked toward Jongseong, lingering just long enough to unsettle him before he turned back to his audience.
He inclined his head toward those who toasted them, smiling faintly in acknowledgment, as if their praise meant little yet everything all at once.
Jongseong watched him from the corner of his eye. The man carried conversation the way others carried swords—with ease, with measured calculation. His words never strayed beyond what was expected, never revealed more than he intended.
The hall adored him for it.
Yet it was maddening.
“You should eat,” Heeseung said quietly, still facing the crowd. “You look like you’re waiting to be executed.”
“I thought I already was,” Jongseong whispered to himself, though it was audible enough to be heard.
“You’ll find death comes with less ceremony than this.”
When Hesol approached, the noise dimmed, as if the hall itself held its breath.
“Lord Paramount,” she murmured, though her eyes sought only Jongseong. “Congratulations on your union. May it bring peace to both our houses.”
She curtsied low, her smile seemed restrained.
Heeseung nodded politely. “Thank you, Princess. Your presence honors the occasion.”
“A brief one, I’m afraid,” she replied with a soft smile. “I leave the day after tomorrow.”
“Then may Oldtown treat you kindly until then.”
“And may this union treat you both the same,” she responded, casting a spare glance at her nephew
The moment she withdrew from the conversation, the raucous hum of the feast swelled once more. Jongseong sank slightly into his chair, guarding himself behind the half-full cup he had no intention of finishing.
Heeseung, meanwhile, slipped back into conversation as if the interruption had never occurred. He charmed noble lords from other houses with practiced ease, discussing hot winds and hotter tempers.
Each word polished, each laugh just sharp enough to draw admiration. Yet every now and then, his gaze cut toward Jongseong, lingering like a blade laid against the skin.
Jongseong felt each glance like a touch.
The minstrels shifted into a more formal melody. The swell of the acoustics pressed back, and the crowd seemed to part with a last glance.
Heeseung turned toward him then, extending his hand with a gesture too smooth to be anything but rehearsed. “Come,” he said quietly.
Jongseong stared at the offered hand as though it were a summons. In truth, it was. Tradition commanded the first dance. Applause rippled through the hall as they stepped forward, the sea of nobles parting to watch their union made visible.
The minstrels shifted into a slower melody, strings warm and steady as summer wind, the kind meant for gentle romance and easy smiles.
Jongseong felt none of it.
He stood before Heeseung, stiff as a drawn bow. The man’s hand rested at his waist, it was light, but firm enough. Their other hands joined, fingers folding together in a practiced gesture neither had ever practiced.
Heeseung stepped forward first, guiding the movement.
Jongseong followed a heartbeat late.
They swayed into the rhythm, turning slowly in the wide circle cleared for them. The nobles leaned in with indulgent smiles, whispering about unity and prosperity, about the promise of the both houses, about how perfectly they seemed to mirror each other.
If only they knew that Jongseong wanted to wreak havoc at the very moment.
“You carry yourself,” Heeseung murmured again, voice sliding in under the loud music, “like a man walking to war, not to a wedding.”
Jongseong’s breath was steady, but his grip tightened briefly. “Perhaps they are the same.”
The quiet exhale that the latter let out was almost a laugh. His thumb deliberately brushed against the back of Jongseong’s hand.
“War demands obedience,” he said. “And a willingness to bleed.”
“And weddings?” Jongseong countered.
“Weddings,” Heeseung replied, leaning in enough that no one else could hear, “demand performance.”
Their steps crossed, parted, and found each other again. Heeseung’s hand shifted subtly at his waist, guiding him into a smoother turn. Jongseong hated that his body responded more readily than his mind. The music rose, the strings unfurling like the petals of some ceremonial flower meant to symbolize harmony.
Harmony he did not desire.
Heeseung bent his head slightly, eyes half-lidded in the pretense of affection for the watching crowd. “You make it obvious you’d rather be anywhere but here.”
“Observant,” Jongseong muttered. “Is that what they adore you for?”
“Among other things.”
Their bodies drifted closer as the dance shifted to a tighter pattern. Jongseong felt Heeseung’s breath brush his cheek.
The man was too good at this. Too composed. Too sure of him.
“You don’t have to like me,” Heeseung said almost softly, “but you should at least pretend to.”
“For the lords?” Jongseong retorted.
He stopped for a second.
“More for yourself.”
Jongseong met his gaze then. It was sharp, searching, and unreadable even at such an intimate distance. “Is that a threat?”
“A mere suggestion,” Heeseung answered faintly as they spun. “Not all battles need swords.”
“And you?” Jongseong asked. “What weapon do you fight with?”
“Whatever the moment demands.”
The dance slowed as the melody softened, the final notes lingering like a held breath. The hall erupted into applause.
Heeseung released him only when the last chord faded, stepping back with a refined bow.
Jongseong bowed in return.
A performance, as Heeseung had said.
Jongseong didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.
The battle lines had already been drawn. Even before he has stepped foot in this godforsaken land.
Heeseung turned slightly toward him, ready to guide him back into the crowd.
But Jongseong had reached the limit of his composure.
He inclined his head just enough to be polite. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said quietly, just for Heeseung to hear. “I should retire for the night.”
“Of course,” he said, dipping his head in acknowledgment. “I’ll join you shortly.”
With that, Jongseong left the feast and made his way toward the great doors, where his attendants were waiting.
Jongseong paused momentarily before pushing it open.
For the first time since the ceremony began, he allowed himself a single, unguarded breath.
𖤓
Jongseong was attended by his servants, who bathed him once more meticulously. Every crevice of his body was scrubbed and polished until it gleamed. Presumably, they waited for the night their lord would share with his consort, a thought that made them stir restlessly on their feet.
It was expected, as it part of his duty to consummate, and none dared question it. Least of all him.
As he stepped out of the stew, the sight of their chamber, draped in silks and thick with the heavy scent of incense, greeted him. The attendants may have overdone it, preparing for a night that would be forced upon them both. The air felt suffocating, heavy with anticipation that did not belong to him. Perhaps neither of them would remember its details by daylight.
Dressed in nothing but a silk robe, the cold raised gooseflesh along his skin. Oldtown was colder than Dorne—its winds sharper, harsher and less forgiving.
Jongseong sat upon the bed, the fabric slipping low against his thighs, candlelight tracing the bare skin left exposed. His hands rested loosely on his knees, though his fingers occasionally curled into the sheets.
He wondered if this was how duty always felt hollow. They called it honor, yet all he felt was the quiet weight of inevitability settling upon his shoulders.
Then, the door creaked open.
Jongseong did not turn at once, he sensed who he was with. Beneath the incense lingered another scent—bergamot, clean and bitter at its edge, grounded by something earthy.
Footsteps softly press against the stone floor. When he finally lifted his gaze, he found Heeseung standing just inside the threshold.
For a long moment, he did not move. Heeseung’s eyes first traced the chamber before settling upon Jongseong seated upon the bed. The robe had slipped far too loosely around his frame, the fabric parting just enough to bare his thighs.
For a moment, something flickered.
He did not move, but he felt the way Heeseung’s gaze lingered. The subtle tightening at the other’s jaw, the pause in his breath, the way his eyes clung to him. All of it felt primal.
Jongseong felt it too, the pull coiling through him, but he resisted. He did not want to be subjected, did not want to surrender to something purely instinctual, something he had no desire for. The silence between them thickened, heavy enough to press against his burning skin.
He was the first to break it, voice firm though falter betrayed him. “I’ll have the servants attend you.”
Heeseung’s reply was quiet. “There’s no need.” Without another word, he moved toward their shared stew to bathe. Only then did Jongseong feel able to breathe for a moment.
Jongseong heard the soft splashes of water and the muffled thud of robes hitting the floor. It dawned on him, though at the back of his mind he was aware, it felt different now that he was in this situation.
He had never been with anyone before. A recessive omega, it wasn’t until the cusp of his manhood, at seventeen, that Jongseong’s secondary gender finally manifested which is years later than most. He never bothered to spend his heat cycles with someone else. While it was normal for unmated young nobles to visit brothels, it never suited Jongseong. Moreover, it left a bitter taste on his tongue.
A child of a common whore, spending his nights in a brothel, would seem like a cruel jest crafted by a town gossip.
Out of his mind, he unconsciously bit his fingernail. It’s a bad habit he always fell into when teetering on the edge of his sanity. Jongseong felt far too exposed, far too vulnerable for his own liking. He had no control over the situation, and worse, he didn’t know what to do nor where to start.
Part of him rebelled against his misery, yet another part ached for submission. For a sense of recognition. To be chastised for failing at what was expected of a consort, to bed his spouse, felt like a dagger plunging into his pride. Sorrow seemed to shadow every step he took, and now, he feared what’s ahead. Alone, in a foreign land so far from home, with no one to lean on, he felt a trickle of desperation seep into his marrow.
Too preoccupied with his thoughts, Jongseong didn’t notice that Heeseung had already stepped out. Still gnawing at his fingernails, Heeseung watched him from the corner, clad in his nightly robe.
Jongseong only snapped out of his reverie when he felt the mattress dip beside him, and a hand reached out for his.
He hadn’t even realized his finger was bleeding. His eyes drifted to Heeseung, watching as he thumb traced softly over the tiny cut. The touch was gentle, almost careful, and yet it made Jongseong’s chest tighten.
He wanted to pull away, to escape from him, but he found himself rooted in place.
Their eyes met again, his glossy eyes on the latter. Silver hair fell over Heeseung’s eyes, slightly obscuring them from view, yet Jongseong could still feel the intensity of his stare. An impulse rose from within him, and before Jongseong could think better of it, he leaned forward.
Their lips met, though Heeseung didn’t move. Didn’t respond. Didn’t even flinch. The stillness was maddening, and so Jongseong’s frustration flared.
He pulled back slightly, his brows furrowed, and heart hammering. Heeseung’s face remained neutral, unreadable or the lack thereof. It was as if nothing had happened at all.
The silence between them stretched, suffocating enough to make Jongseong aware of every beat of his own pulse. This wasn’t about duty nor obligation. It was about him. His pride, and Jongseong wouldn’t let it stop. Somehow, a restless urge clawed at him, as if he had something to prove.
He leaned in again, but this time pressing his tongue lightly to Heeseung’s lips. The contact was brief yet deliberate.
Jongseong was trying to provoke Heeseung with his ministrations—anything to convince himself that he still held some measure of control on his fate. Only then could he breathe, if only slightly, within this suffocating chamber.
He licked and lightly bit at the other’s lip. Heeseung, on the other hand, remained unfazed, though he darkly gazed at him.
Just as he was about to pull back, gasping for air, only then Heeseung moved. The latter claimed his, capturing Jongseong’s with an intensity that stole the breath from his lungs. Tongue met tongue, and Jongseong felt the other’s hands slide to his waist, lifting him effortlessly and positioning him across his lap.
Jongseong stiffened at the moment. He could feel the warmth beneath him, and that made his thoughts spiral. His breath came uneven, he hated how aware he suddenly was. This was not how he had imagined it.
He had wanted a reaction, anger or impatience, to appease him. Anything that would prove he still had control, that he could move Heeseung at will. Instead, he was met with his own stillness.
His fingers curled into the fabric of Heeseung’s robe, not pulling him closer, not pushing him away. Simply anchoring himself. Pride urged him to straighten, to reclaim his composure. Yet he remained still.
He could feel Heeseung’s breath on his, close enough to sense but not enough to overwhelm. It was infuriating, this deliberate restraint, as though Heeseung was waiting for him.
For him to make a choice.
The realization tightened something deep in Jongseong’s chest. He wasn’t being forced. Not touched beyond what he allowed. And yet, the weight of that freedom pressed heavier than any command could have.
He swallowed, a heavy pulse thudding loud in his ears. If he moved now, it would be his decision. If he stayed, it would be his responsibility.
Heeseung’s lips brushed against the shell of his ear. Once, then again. The soft kisses seemed almost hesitant. They lingered just long enough to be felt before drifting lower, tracing the line of Jongseong’s jaw, down the curve of his throat.
A hand followed soon after, resting against his thigh where the fabric had ridden up. The contact was not demanding, and somehow, that made it worse.
Jongseong’s breath hitched despite himself. His body reacted before his mind could catch up. His fingers curled tighter into the fabric of the robe, his knuckles whitening as though he were bracing himself against something foreboding.
Suddenly—
“We should sleep for tonight.”
The words landed like a slap.
Humiliation brimmed him to his core. Was he that undesirable? Had he laid himself bare only to be turned away?
Perhaps he was still an omega after all, even if he refused to act like one most days, because the ache that followed felt raw.
“...Am I that unsightly?”
“I do not bed the unwilling,” Heeseung said simply, not answering him.
Jongseong couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
“Are you mad?” Jongseong finally snapped. “I have made myself bare for you. What will the court say of that?”
Heeseung exhaled slowly, jaw tightening.
“Then I could take another,” he said evenly. “If that is all the court wants.”
“The court will say that I failed.”
Jongseong was stretched thin with exasperation, his eyes shining beneath the moonlight as pride alone kept the tears from falling.
“They will say I was inadequate,” he continued, forcing the words out. “That I could not even keep my own husband’s gaze.”
Silence followed. Heeseung did not try to deny it.
“So, does it matter? If what I want no longer weighs anything at all.”
His hand trembled as he reached for the collar of his robe, fingers faltering. Slowly, almost mechanically, he tilted his head to the side, baring his neck.
“If you have even the least dignity left for me,” he said, voice barely holding, “then mark me.”
His jaw tightened as he swallowed every shred of humiliation that had been heaped upon him all day.
"Please."
For a moment, Heeseung only looked at him, at the exposed curve of his neck, at the faint tremor running through his shoulders. The bond-mark was close enough to claim, close enough to change his fate.
Jongseong waited.
Every second stretched thin, unbearable.
When Heeseung finally leaned in, it was not with hunger. It was hesitation.
His breath brushed warm against Jongseong’s skin, close enough to make him shiver. Jongseong sucked in a breath, bracing himself. Half in dread, half in desperation.
The bite came sharp and sudden.
Though nothing was sharper than the absence that followed. Everything felt hollow, as though everything he had built for himself had crumbled, leaving him to bear the cost alone.
With no leverage left, he felt like a child again, reduced to being pitiful.
Jongseong turned away at once, dragging the sheets around himself as though the fabric could hide his vulnerability. He did not bother to look back, not even once.
The tears came anyway.
He pressed his face deeper into the pillow, biting down on his lip to keep the sound in. His shoulders trembled once, then again, before he forced them still. He would not let himself be heard.
In the hush of the chamber, loneliness curled around him like a second skin.