Work Text:
You know the battle is over, but something inside you still says, I have not yet begun to fight.
The battlefield before you is carpeted in the bodies of the dead and dying. You walk amongst them but you're only one man, there's nothing you can do for them. The sounds are awful. The smell is worse.
You turn and see the black banner of your conqueror on the high hill, its outline sharp against the setting sun.
You were your country's last defense, and you have lost. You bow your head and turn away.
--
“He demands a tribute,” says the messenger. He's dressed in black with a red slash through the heart. Your house is also arrayed in black, though for a different reason.
“He's taken almost everything we have. We have nothing left to offer.”
The messenger looks you dead in the eyes, and realization dawns.
“I'll go,” your little brother says.
You lay a heavy hand on his shoulder, part affection, mostly restraint. “This place would fall apart without you,” you says. “I'll go. You stay here, keep an eye on things for me.”
“It's not your fault,” Dave says.
“I'll go,” you repeat.
--
You stop a respectful distance away, but he beckons you closer, closer, until you're practically standing between his spread knees.
You do your best to keep your expression stony as you kneel on the marble floor. The floor isn’t clean because your new lord doesn’t have the attention span for it, and your gloved fingers are soon coated in dirt. You're reminded of the swath cut through your homeland and to the capital—the ruined land left in this man's wake.
“House Strider bids you good health and good morrow, my liege,” you say dispassionately, keeping your eyes trained on the ground.
Cold armored fingers curl under your chin and force your head up. “Yes,” he says. The rasp sends ice down your spine. “You’ll do.”
--
You're not sure what you were expecting. Beheading, maybe. Being thrown into the dungeons, or a harem.
Well, it is slavery of some kind, you suppose.
There are a collection of men and women here, one from every house. Trophies, Caliborn calls you. To the victor go the spoils, you reply, and your lord gives a laugh with too many teeth.
You're surprised by your treatment. You're all fed well, clothed better than well; they drape you in the rich reds and purples of your house's colors and trot you out at every opportunity. You kiss Caliborn's hand in a mimicry of fealty, your eyes never leaving his, and his eyes narrow in amusement.
Trophies, you recall. Leverage is perhaps more accurate; valuable things held just out of reach.
Dave writes you letters, but they're so heavily censored as to be worthless. You're not allowed to write back, and the letters you try to send discreetly are slipped back under your door, torn to shreds. “Give up,” Caliborn snarls when you see him next. “Does something here. Displease you?”
“Yes,” you say.
He grins. “Too bad.”
Dave's a strong one—you raised him well, after your parents died. He should be fine. He'll be fine, you think, staring out of your window. It doesn't even point in the right direction, but it's the gesture that matters.
--
He keeps you all separated, doing different things, placed in positions of importance and surrounded by those he trusts. He keeps you by his side. He plays games with you, allows you to sit at his left hand during meetings. He never asks for your advice but you give it anyway, because if he's going to play puppeteer then you're going to play shadow king. He listens (surprisingly) but never takes it (unsurprisingly).
In the evenings, he turns to you.
“Do you want. To play a game.”
“Not really,” you reply.
“You. Will play a game.”
“All right.”
--
He narrows his eyes when he wins. “You can do better,” he growls.
“Maybe you're just that good,” you say. Your voice flattens to keep the anger out of it. “After all, you've beaten me before.”
He relaxes at the reminder, but still shoots you a glare. “Again,” he commands.
So you play again.
--
He gives you things from time to time: swords, a trainer to spar with, a larger room. When he declares his offerings he blushes, every time.
"You keep this up and I'll start to think you like me," you say.
He glares at you, and you try not to grin. "Ridiculous," he says; but he doesn't let you out of his sight easily, either.
You suggest that he open up trade with the north, and to your surprise, he takes your advice.
--
Time passes.
The anniversary of his victory passes with great fanfare. Dave comes to the castle to represent House Strider at the feast, and your stomach drops when you see him across the room. Your eyes lock, and minutely, you shake your head: Get out of here.
He wades towards you instead, looks you up and down. He's not yet grown into the power that he wields. You shouldn't have left. (You had no choice.)
“You never wrote,” he says.
“I'm sorry,” you say.
Caliborn appears beside you unexpectedly. Before you can step away from him, his arm slides around your waist. You stiffen, but say nothing; what is there to say? Dave's mouth pulls tight.
“My liege,” your little brother says, and he sounds as dispassionate as you.
Leave Dave alone, you think. It's me you want.
When Caliborn pulls you away, you don't protest, and neither does Dave.
--
“I would like you. To guard me tonight,” he says to you later that night.
It's late. The night weighs heavily on you—slipping through courtiers locked at your lord's side, Dave barely-visible in the pressing crowd. You want to go to your room and recover. You can't stay here. Your House needs you.
“I'd rather not,” you say, and he raises an eyebrow.
“Stay.”
You look back at him. “You conquered us," you say, finally. "I could kill you in your sleep.”
He smiles at you. “Your country. Is better now than it was a year ago. To kill me would be. A bad move.”
It's true; you've watched him pull the houses together, reinvigorate the economy he destroyed. You think of Dave and the lands he tends, so close to the capital, and swallow hard.
“You are. Useful," he tells you. Your eyes are fixed on him as he slides his cape from his shoulders. He hands it to you, and automatically you take it. "You are not like the others. You are. Smart. And resourceful."
You say nothing.
"You will watch,” he repeats.
So you do.