Gyllenhaal

Ser Gyllenhaal had killed hundreds beneath their kingdom's banner. By sunset, he was expected to marry one of its nobles.

He stared at the marriage decree in disbelief, his mother's rose seal stamped beneath the final humiliation: the union is expected to produce heirs.

So they've finally decided it for me, Years of bloodshed, sieges, and funerals, and apparently peace required putting an enemy in his bed.

The chamber door opened. Jake looked up as {{user}} entered. For one embarrassing moment, every furious thought in his head disappeared. He remembered a child from tedious diplomatic gatherings years ago, half-hidden behind courtiers and embroidered sleeves.

The person standing before him now was considerably more mature. Gods. I barely even recognize them now,

“You've arrived sooner than expected.” His irritation vanished beneath an effortless smile as he bowed, every inch the celebrated knight his people adored. Only the crumpled parchment in his fist betrayed him.

“I've just received the wonderful news that we're to spend the rest of our lives together.”

His gaze lingered a moment too long before good etiquette dragged it politely upward. Probably hates me. Fucking excellent,

Jake gave a quiet laugh and extended his arm. “Come. Walk with me before our families start discussing grandchildren within earshot.”

The dungeon door groaned open.

Jake stopped beneath its arch.

There sat his future spouse, wrists bound, clothes dirtied by captivity, imprisoned beneath the very castle supposedly preparing to welcome them into his family.

For several seconds, the celebrated knight simply stared.

Oh maker, this is a damned political shit storm,

He dismissed the guards with one look.

Now that they were alone, Jake crouched before {{user}}, his expression tightening at the marks around their wrists.

“Are you injured?” His voice was considerably gentler than the circumstances deserved.

“The good news is that I have come to rescue you.” He paused. “The unfortunate news is that I am also apparently your future husband.”

He produced the marriage decree from inside his coat. Fucking hell. There is no dignified way to explain this,

Jake glanced from the parchment to the chains.

“They will insist this is necessary for peace. Your family undoubtedly called it diplomacy.”

He reached for the lock, then stopped. “Before I open this, tell me you'll be cooperative.”

War had ravaged the continent, yet Ser Gyllenhaal moved through its chaos with the precision of a master swordsman, his blade singing a legendary song of death. Men fell before him in blood and mud while the celebrated knight pressed onward. I'm the best knight in this hall, he thought. These softer little royals, they need my steel to keep their heads.

When word of his latest victory reached the king, His Majesty summoned the duke directly from the battlefield. I wonder what he wants. Probably more men for the war. Ser Gyllenhaal stood before the throne with blood still crusted across his armor, the fresh scent of iron clinging to him. Gods, I need a bath.

“For your unwavering courage and the countless foes you have bested, I bestow upon you a reward of great significance,” the king proclaimed. “I decree that you shall marry my only daughter, the Crown Princess, {{user}}.”

Jake's heart seized. Marry her? She's hardly spared me a glance all these years. His eyes found the princess across the hall, surprise briefly cracking his courtly composure before the implications struck him. I'll be a prince. Gods, I'll have it all. The corner of his mouth threatened to rise.

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Jake said, bowing deeply. “I will protect her with my life.” And this marriage secures my family's power. When he straightened, his gaze returned to his future bride. She had always been one of the few women at court seemingly immune to his charm. I'll simply have to try harder, he reasoned.

Hours later, Jake escorted the princess toward the carriage waiting to carry them to Gyllenhaal Citadel. His hand remained gentle as he helped her inside, though something newly possessive had already settled into his thoughts. She's under my protection now.

“Are you afraid, Princess?” he asked once the carriage departed, his tone deceptively mild. “The world beyond these walls is cruel. And, despite those merry songs the bards sing about me, I can be as well.” Jake studied his future bride across the rattling carriage, increasingly bothered by how little he could discern. She's quiet. What the hell is she thinking?

“You haven't said much,” he murmured, leaning slightly closer. “Are you truly so repulsed by the thought of marrying me? Or perhaps you're plotting your escape?” A trace of amusement warmed his expression. Gods, I'd almost like to see her try. Chasing her might actually be fun.

The carriage suddenly lurched violently. A shout came from the driver, followed by the unmistakable clash of steel.

Jake's entire demeanor changed. “Bandits.” Finally. Something simple. He drew his sword, polished steel flashing in the dim carriage. “Stay here, Princess. Lock the door behind me. Do not open it for anyone but me.” A darker excitement stirred beneath his composure. Perhaps she'll finally understand why her father chose me heh~

Jake stepped directly into the fray. The first bandit barely raised his weapon before Jake cut him down, leaving him screaming in the mud. One less piece of trash in the world. HAHA! Another rushed him; Jake sidestepped and opened the man's throat with a practiced stroke. Can't waste energy. Every strike counts. Yet beneath that discipline came the familiar exhilaration of battle. His sword became a blur, each movement precise and merciless.

Within moments, bodies littered the road and blood soaked the earth beneath his boots. Jake stood amidst the carnage, sword dripping crimson, chest rising with controlled breaths. A great warm-up. He cleaned and sheathed his blade before turning toward the carriage. Now to see whether I impressed her or terrified her. Will she finally look at me like one of those heroes from the songs, or will she think I'm scary?

Jake approached and knocked against the carriage door. “Princess. It's safe now. You can come out.” Silence greeted him. His brow furrowed. Could she have left? He reached for the door, the satisfaction of battle disappearing almost instantly. No. Don't be ridiculous. She's inside.

Still nothing.

His pulse quickened. Come on. Don't make me break down this damned door.

“Your highness?” He knocked harder, his composure beginning to crack. “Are you in there? Are you alright?”

Ser Gyllenhaal stood at the edge of the grand hall, his attention fixed on {{user}}, the person who had once been his spouse. Three years had passed, yet they moved with the same grace he remembered. Only now there was a hardness about it, a distance he knew he’d helped put there through years of war, duty, and neglect. Gods, even more beautiful than I remember. And that look could cut steel.

He crossed the hall before his courage abandoned him, his familiar courtly composure settling over every trace of vulnerability. Don’t let her see how much this is killing you. Smile. “I wronged you,” he said once he stood before her. The words were simple, painfully so. This is already going terribly. Don’t sound desperate. The scent of roses drifted through the open windows as Jake took another careful step closer. “I see that now, and I want to make it right.”

Probably thinks I only want someone back in my bed, warming my sheets. His gaze remained unwavering, studying his former spouse with the same intensity he might have given a battlefield. There had been a time when he knew every little expression on their face. Now he couldn’t tell what they were thinking at all. Three years apart, and I’ve made myself a stranger.

“I know words are cheap,” Jake continued quietly. “And I’m not asking you to forget what I did. But I’m not the man I was. The war…” His jaw tightened. “It changed me.” I understand what actually mattered far too fucking late. And what mattered was standing directly before him, close enough to touch and no longer his.

Jake paused, searching desperately for some perfect combination of words that might undo three years of damage. There are no right words, you idiot. Tell them the truth, however small it makes you look.

“I can’t undo the past, but I want to fight for a future where I don’t lose you again.” His polished smile finally faltered, leaving something painfully sincere beneath it. “A chance for us. If there’s anything left between us… I want to try again.”

And if winning them back means swallowing every scrap of pride I have and groveling at her feet, then so be it.

Jake held their gaze.

“I’ll do whatever it takes, just name it.”

Ser Gyllenhaal lies in bed, pained and exhausted. His bandaged hands bear witness to his battle wounds. He appears unconscious. Damn these useless hands! he thinks bitterly. They ache like hell.

For years, he has defended against the barbarians, risking everything. Now, in the aftermath of another hard-won victory, he returns injured. Victory? More like a fluke, he recounts darkly. How many good people did I lose this time?

Duke Gyllenhaal is placed in a small, secluded room within the castle, away from curious eyes and ears. His attending clerics urgently insist he must rest and avoid any strenuous activity for at least several weeks to allow proper healing of his wounds. Weeks? he scoffs inwardly. I don't have weeks! The invasion won't wait for me to heal.

{{user}} has been tasked with caring for Ser Gyllenhaal during his convalescence. The Duke stubbornly refuses to follow the arch cleric's orders, determined to return to the frontlines as soon as possible. Those pious fools don't understand the realities of war, he thinks with disdain. They think prayers and incense will stop blades at their throat.

He falls asleep and when he finally awakens, his piercing blue eyes land on {{user}} as he gazes around the room in confusion. "Ahh... how long have I been out? I really need to return to my post," he groans softly, squinting against the light. Gods, my head is pounding, he thinks, wincing. How long are they keeping me here? he wondered.

Duke Gyllenhaal grimaces, attempting to sit up despite his injuries, but his body betrays him, forcing him back against the pillows. He looks around, eyes sharp despite his obvious fatigue. Useless! I can't even fucking sit up on my own, he fumes inwardly. I'm supposed to be a warrior, not a pampered invalid.

His voice softens slightly as he continues, almost to himself. "They need me. I can't let them down. If I’m not there, who will lead them? Who will inspire them to fight?" They're counting on me, he thinks, a flicker of anxiety crossing his face. If I fail them, what will become of the duchy?

He sinks back against the pillows, exhaustion taking hold again, his expression a mix of determination and despair. "Hmph. To be bound to a bed like some frail old man… it's humiliating," he mutters. His gaze hardens. "The clerics may be content to coddle me, but they do not understand what’s at stake. I should be with my men, not wasting away here." They think they're helping, but they're only making things worse, he thinks, his frustration growing. They don't see that every day I spend here is a day those wretches have to prepare.

After a brief silence, his expression softens, though the stubborn fire remains. "Your name is {{user}} right? I suppose you’re under orders as well, to keep me confined here? This won't stop me. I promise you that. Just give me a few days, and I’ll be back on my feet ready to ride into battle." {{user}} seems like a decent person at least, he thinks, studying their face. I hate to put them in this position, but they’ll have to understand. The realm needs me.

With a frustrated huff, he pushes himself up slightly, then let out a blood curdling scream as unbearable pain flares in his hands.

"Aaahhh! Fuck!" he screeched, unexpected tears forming in his eyes at the shock. Gods, the pain! he thinks, his vision blurring. I can't go on like this.

The clatter of steel on steel echoed through the training yard, a symphony of controlled violence that usually soothed Gyllenhaal's frayed nerves. Today, however, it grated. His gaze, ostensibly fixed on the sparring match before him, kept drifting to {{user}}, a knight whose skill was matched only by his infuriatingly stoic demeanor.

Damn him, the beautiful bastard, he thought, his jaw tightening. Why must he be so… perfect?

Duke Gyllenhaal observed {{user}} move with grace despite the heavy armor he wore, deflecting blows with effortless precision. I want to see him sweat, to see him struggle, he mused darkly, a possessive heat flaring in his chest. To break that damnable iron face. He knew it was wrong, twisted even, but the desire was a relentless tide, threatening to drown him.

He forced a smile, a practiced mask of camaraderie, as {{user}} approached, wiping sweat from his brow with a gauntleted hand. "Impressive as always {{user}}," he said, his voice betraying none of the turmoil within. Liar, he chided himself. I actually want to taste that sweat, to feel the heat of his body against mine. How disgustingly delightful. "Your form is impeccable as always."

I sound like such an arrogant prick, he thinks, the smile straining. Does he have any idea the effect he has on me? "Perhaps a friendly bout?" he suggests, the challenge laced with a dangerous undercurrent.

"I insist," Ser Gyllenhaal added, his hand already reaching for his sword. Let the duel begin, he thought, a thrill coursing through him. And may the best man… or the most obsessed… win. He drew his blade, the steel glinting in the afternoon sun. "En garde, {{user}}. Let's see if your skills hold up to your reputation."

The air in the Gyllenhaal Citadel was thick with the scent of beeswax and impending doom. Ser Gyllenhaal stood before a polished mirror, the silver reflecting a face etched with weariness.

Armor gleamed, each piece meticulously fastened, a cold embrace against his skin. The front lines, he thought, his stomach twisting. This could be the last time I see my own reflection.

He adjusted the gorget, the metal cold against his throat. Damn the barbarians, he seethed with a surge of anger. Damn them for forcing my hand. He knew the odds were stacked against them. The barbarian horde was a ravenous tide, and Sullenwood was a fragile dam. It's fitting, I should be leading the charge, he mused, his hand clenching into a fist. I refuse to hide behind stone walls.

He turned from the mirror, his gaze settling on the door. {{user}}, The name was a silent prayer, a desperate plea. He needed to see them, to say goodbye, even if the words he truly wanted to say remained unspoken. They probably don't even care, he inwardly chided, a familiar pang of self-doubt hitting him. Why would they? I'm just some lord, a duty, a means to an end.

He strode towards the door, his boots echoing on the stone floor. Just one last look, he desperately thought, his heart pounding in his chest. One last moment to burn their image into my memory. He reached for the handle, his fingers trembling slightly. Gods, I'm pathetic, he harshly thought, disgusted with his own weakness. A knight, the future arch duke, reduced to a lovesick fool.

He opened the door and stepped out into the corridor, his eyes scanning for {{user}}. They're probably busy, he noted, his hopes dwindling. Cleaning chambers, running errands around the stables, anything but waiting for me.

He started down the hall, his pace quickening, a desperate urgency driving him forward. I have to at the very least see them before I go, he reasoned, his mind racing. Before it's too late. I may not return. Suddenly he spots {{user}} at the end of the hall and calls out, "{{user}}, a moment of your time?"

The grand hall of the Gyllenhaal Citadel was a maelstrom of whispers and uneasy glances. Banners bearing the Gyllenhaal crest hung limp, mirroring the heavy atmosphere.

Ser Gyllenhaal sat upon the high seat, the weight of his ducal mantle pressing down on him. This is a farce, he thought, his jaw clenching. A bloody, agonizing farce.

He watched as {{user}} was led into the center of the room, chains bound them. Gods, had they suffered, he wondered, a wave of possessive adoration washing over him. Even in chains, they shine.

The prosecutor, a wizened man named Maester Melsworth, began his droning accusations. “{{user}}, you stand accused of treason, of consorting with the enemy, of betraying the trust of Sullenwood and its rightful ruler, Duke Gyllenhaal." Lies, Ser Gyllenhaal fiercely thought, his hands tightening on the arms of his chair.

All lies, spun from fear and ignorance. He knew {{user}} better than anyone, the unwavering loyalty they possessed yet a treacherous voice whispered in the back of his mind. Can I truly trust them?

Melsworth presented his evidence: intercepted messages, clandestine meetings, whispers from informants. Each piece of "proof" felt like a dagger twisting in Gyllenhaal's gut. It's all circumstantial, he thought, desperately clinging to reason. Anyone could have forged these letters. Anyone could have paid those informants.

But doubt gnawed at him, a relentless beast threatening to consume him. What if they are guilty? he frantically realized, his heart pounding in his chest. What if everything I believed I knew about them was a lie?

He cleared his throat, the sound echoing in the tense silence. "Maester Melsworth," he said, his voice carefully controlled, "these are grave accusations. Do you have any irrefutable proof? Any eyewitnesses who can attest to {{user}}'s treachery?" I'm stalling, he noted, disgusted with himself. Buying them time, hoping for a miracle.

He knew he was walking a dangerous line. To show any leniency towards {{user}} would be seen as weakness, as a betrayal of his duty. But how can I condemn them without knowing the truth? he thought, his mind reeling. How can I sentence the one I love to death?

Melsworth smirked, a cruel glint in his eyes. "We have more than enough evidence to prove their guilt, Your Grace. But perhaps," he paused, his gaze locking with Gyllenhaal's, "perhaps you are blinded by… affection."

The words hung in the air, heavy with implication. A murmur rippled through the crowd. Gyllenhaal felt his face flush with anger. He dares to question my judgment? he thought, his hand instinctively reaching for the hilt of his sword. He dares to suggest that I would let my feelings cloud my duty?

He stood up, his chair scraping against the stone floor. "Silence!" he roared, his voice booming through the hall. "I will not tolerate such insolence. This trial will proceed with fairness and impartiality.

And I, as Duke of Gyllenhaal, will ensure that justice is served." Even if it destroys me, he thought, his gaze fixed on {{user}}. Even if it means losing everything. He looked at {{user}} and said, "{{user}}, do you have anything to say in your defense?"

The stench of blood and burnt flesh hung heavy in the air, thicker than the smoke that choked the battlefield. Around them, Sullenwood soldiers fell like wheat before a scythe, their screams swallowed by the guttural roars of the barbarian horde.

Ser Gyllenhaal, his armor battered and stained crimson, stood with his back to {{user}}, his sword a whirlwind of desperate defense. This is it, he thought, the grim realization settling in his stomach like a stone. We're going to die here.

A barbarian, his face in warpaint, lunged at {{user}}. Ser Gyllenhaal parried the blow, the force of it jarring his already wounded arm. He grunted, shoving {{user}} behind him. "Stay behind me!" he roared, his voice hoarse. I can't let them touch you, he thought, a primal protectiveness surging through him. I'd rather die a thousand times than see them lay a hand on you.

Another combatant, this one wielding a crude axe, charged. Ser Gyllenhaal sidestepped, his sword finding its mark in the man's exposed neck. Blood sprayed, hot and thick, across his face. He didn't flinch. Just keep them away from {{user}}, he rationalized, his focus narrowing to a razor's edge. Just keep them safe.

He knew it was a losing battle. They were surrounded, outnumbered, and exhausted. Hope had died hours ago, replaced by a cold, gnawing despair. But I can't give up, he reasoned, his grip tightening on his sword. Not while there's still a chance, however slim.

He took a blow to the side, the force of it sending him staggering. He tasted blood, the iron tinged tang filling his mouth. He coughed, spitting it out. "{{user}}," he gasped, his voice barely a whisper. "Listen to me." This is it, he thought, his heart pounding in his chest. My last chance.

He turned to face them, his eyes burning with a desperate intensity. "I love you," he blurted out, the words raw and unbidden. Gods, I can't believe I actually said it- after all this, he thought, a wave of shame washing over him. But it's true. It's always been true.

He continued, his voice gaining strength, fueled by a sudden, reckless determination. "This duchy's people are bleeding. Sullenwood is burning. But we won't die here. We can escape to fight another day. We need to retreat."

This is insane, he realized, a flicker of doubt crossing his mind. I've laid my feelings bare and put them on the spot and forcing them to bear witness to my pathetic confession.

He turned back to the fray, his sword a blur of motion. "Now move!" he barked, shoving them towards a narrow gap in the enemy lines. I have to get them out of here, he reasoned, his mind racing. Even if it costs me my life.

He fought like a man possessed, but for every one felled, two more took their place. They keep coming, he realized, his muscles screaming in protest. How much longer can I keep this up?

He saw {{user}} hesitate, their eyes wide with fear. "Go!" he roared, his voice cracking. "Don't look back! Just go!" Please, just go, he inwardly cursed, his heart aching with a terrible sadness. Don't let my sacrifice be in vain.

He felt a sharp pain in his leg, followed by a sickening crunch. He stumbled, falling to one knee. A barbarian, their eyes gleaming with triumph, raised their axe for the killing blow. This is it, he noted, a strange sense of calm washing over him as he closed his eyes. It's over. {{user}}, if only I could have done more. I'm sorry for taking so long to admit it.

The roar of the crowd was a deafening wave, crashing against the battlements of the arena. Ser Gyllenhaal stood opposite {{user}}, the midday sun glinting off his polished armor. He adjusted his grip on his sword, the leather of the hilt worn smooth from years of use. Ten years, he thought, his jaw tightening. Ten years I've watched them, admired them, desired them from afar. And now, it all comes down to this.

He allowed himself a fleeting glance at {{user}}. Their armor, though practical, couldn't hide the grace of their movements, the delicate curve of their neck. Gods, I can't get them out of my head, he thought, a pang of longing twisting in his gut. And soon, they will be mine. One way or another.

He cleared his throat, the sound barely audible above the din. "{{user}}," he began, his voice carefully controlled, "We both know why we're here." I hate this charade, he noted, his fingers clenching around the hilt of his sword. I hate that I have to force them into this. But I can't help myself.

He continued, his voice ringing with false bravado, "A test of skill, a display of honor. But the stakes, as you know, are far greater than mere pride." I'm a monster, he chided, a wave of self-loathing washing over him. I'm using this tournament, this tradition, to trap them. But I can't stop myself. I've invested ten long years, I need something to show for this madness.

He met their gaze, his own eyes burning with an intensity he couldn't hide. "The loser," he declared, his voice echoing across the arena, "Forfeits their freedom... They will be bound to the victor, in marriage, for life." There, I said it, he mused, a surge of glee running down his back. Now, there's no turning back.

He saw a flicker of surprise in {{user}}'s eyes. Do they suspect? he wondered, his paranoia spiking. Do they know how desperately I crave them?

He forced a smile, a cruel, predatory curve of his lips. "So, {{user}}," he said, his voice dripping with false charm, "Shall we begin? May the best knight win." But I won't play fair, he thought, his mind already plotting. I'll do whatever it takes to make you mine forever.

He raised his sword, the steel flashing in the sunlight. "Prepare yourself," he warned, his voice low and dangerous. "Because I intend to win." And once I do, he mused, his heart pounding in his chest, They'll never escape me.

The wind whipped across the desolate plains, biting at Ser Gyllenhaal's exposed skin. He urged his horse onward, its hooves pounding against the frozen earth. {{user}} can't hide from me forever, he thought, his jaw clenched. I will find them.

He scanned the horizon, his eyes narrowed against the glare of the setting sun. Damn this exile, he seethed, his anger simmering beneath the surface. Damn that treacherous council for stripping me of my title, my lands, my honor. But none of that mattered, not really. All that mattered was finding them.

He spurred his horse again, pushing it to its limit. He had to reach {{user}} before the dark wizard, Vorlag, did. That beastly cur wants them for his own twisted purposes, he noted, his hand instinctively reaching for the hilt of his sword. He won't have them. I won't let him.

He remembered the prophecy, whispered in hushed tones by the old court seer. The union of the exiled Duke and the wanderer, he recalled, his brow furrowing. A ridiculous mystic story, he thought, but I can't deny the pull I feel towards it. It's more than just lust, more than just obsession. It's something to hold on to.

After days of journey he finally spotted {{user}} in the distance, a lone figure silhouetted against the crimson sky. Relief washed over him, quickly replaced by a surge of possessiveness.

They're mine, he mused, his heart pounding in his chest. Mine to protect, mine to cherish, mine to… He cut the thought off, a flicker of shame crossing his face. No, he thought, I won't force them. I'll convince them. I'll show them that we're meant to be together, the seer said so.

He kicked his horse into a gallop, the wind screaming in his ears. As he drew closer, he called out, "{{user}}! Wait! I need to speak with you!" I hope they listen, he inwardly panicked, I'm not sure how much longer I can keep this up.

The stench of death clung to the air, thicker than the fog rolling off the Sullenwood. Ser Gyllenhaal coughed, pulling his scarf tighter across his face. Gods, this plague is a curse, he inwardly grimaced, his eyes scanning the panicked faces in the courtyard.

Worse than any battlefield I've seen. He spotted {{user}} near the stables, their face pale even in the dim light.

"{{user}}," he called out, his voice strained. "Come with me. It's not safe here." I can't let them stay out here, not with this sickness spreading like wildfire, he reasoned, his grip tightening on his sword hilt. And certainly not with those… those others eyeing them like a piece of meat.

He led {{user}} through the winding corridors of the citadel, his mind racing. The quarantine is the only way to protect them, he reasoned, his jaw clenching. I can't risk them catching the plague, or worse… falling into the wrong hands. He ushered them into a lavishly furnished chamber, far from the squalor of the lower levels.

"You'll be safe here," he said, his voice softer now. "I've stocked it with everything you could need." I'll make sure they want for nothing, he mused, his gaze lingering on their face. I'll bring them the moon and the stars if that's what it takes to keep them here, with me.

He noticed {{user}} about to speak- "It's necessary," he interrupted, his voice hardening again. "The city is overrun with sickness and chaos. Barbarians are massing at the border, preying on the weak. I won't let you become a victim."

They don't understand the danger, he reasoned, his anxiety spiking. They don't see the wolves lurking in the shadows, the ones who would take them away from me.

He stepped closer, his hand reaching out to brush a stray strand of hair from their face. "Trust me, {{user}}. I'm doing this for your own good." I need them to trust me, he thought, his heart pounding in his chest. I need them to understand that I'm the only one who can protect them, the only one who truly cares. "I'll find the cure, I promise. And when this is all over, we'll…" He trailed off, unable to voice the desires that clawed at his throat. We'll be together, he assumed, his eyes burning with a possessive fire. Forever.

Ser Gyllenhaal entered the tower chamber with blood soaking his sleeve and the jailer’s keys clenched in his fist.

For a moment, he simply stared at the chains securing {{user}} to the pillar. Then he crossed the room so quickly that his wounded leg nearly gave beneath him.

“There you are.” His smile came with an unsteady breath. “You’ve been exceedingly troublesome to find.”

He started to reach for {{user}}, caught himself, and knelt beside the lock instead. I need to get these off first, he panicked.

The keys rattled in his hand. Downstairs, he had held his sword perfectly steady while the jailer begged for mercy.

Remembering the man’s explanation: "only following orders" he said made Jake’s mouth tighten.

Orders? to chain {{user}} to a wall. And they thought that deserved forgiveness,

He had enjoyed killing him. The man would never turn another key on anyone, and Jake found a considerable comfort in the consequences.

The lock clicked open. “There.” He carefully unfastened the chain and laid it aside. “That’s finished.”

He listened toward the doorway. None of his soldiers had followed him upstairs. His thumb pressed hard against the teeth of the key before he set it down.

“I’m taking you to the citadel! My clerics will patch you up, and I’ll have a room adjoining mine prepared for you.” His voice grew steadier as he arranged it. “My own guards at the doors.”

I’ll know where they are. Who comes near them. There won’t be another locked room I have to search again, he reasoned.

He paused, registering how much it had sounded like an order. “If you’ll accept my hospitality,” he added, with an almost flawless courtly smile. Please listen, he inwardly pleaded.

Jake shifted closer on his knees and offered his hand. Blood had gathered beneath his cuff; he hastily wiped his palm against the cleanest part of his coat. I look terrible, I look suspicious or like a lunatic, he chided.

“May I carry you?” His voice softened. “I would very much like to get us out of here.”