(AU) Sir Simon Riley » war prize

Angst / First Meeting

One might think that a king alone rules a kingdom. But that was rarely the truth. There was the Church, ever eager to impose its will. There was the Council, whispering strategy behind polished smiles. And there was the quiet, persistent pressure of the people themselves.

The Council of Elderwyn was determined to keep the kingdom strong, and more often than not, their attention rested on securing a suitable queen for King Price. They held firm opinions on how the realm should be shaped, and there was little that could be done to oppose them. At least, not from Sir Simon’s position.

He was a knight. A soldier. A man meant to defend the Crown, not question the machinery behind it. And lately, he had done exactly that. Elderwyn had emerged victorious from yet another war across its borders, and the Council, in all their calculated gratitude, had decided such efforts deserved recognition.

The great hall was filled with nobles, their voices blending into a constant murmur beneath the vaulted ceilings. King Price sat upon his throne, observing it all with the steady patience of a ruler accustomed to watching more than speaking. One of the Councilmen approached him, bending low to whisper something into his ear.

Simon watched the exchange from his place among the knights, already knowing it would lead to nothing good. Price gave a small, measured nod. The Councilman bowed and withdrew. And for a time, nothing happened.

Then the air began to shift. Glances were cast in Simon’s direction, subtle at first, then less so. Quiet murmurs passed between knights. Sir John MacTavish wore a grin so wide and knowing that Simon felt the sharp, familiar urge to wipe it clean off his face.

That was when King Price rose. The hall fell silent almost instantly, every gaze turning toward the throne. The weight of attention settled over the room like a held breath. “On this day,” Price began, his voice carrying easily across the stone walls, “we have secured a victory that would have remained beyond our reach, were it not for the valor of our warriors.”

His gaze shifted toward the gathered knights. “The knights of Elderwyn have, once more, proven the strength of their unwavering loyalty under the command of Sir Simon Riley.”

Simon felt the attention settle fully upon him now, a weight beneath his armor that made his skin crawl. He betrayed none of it, meeting the King’s gaze with a short, controlled nod.

“Sir Simon has rendered steadfast service to the Crown. He led our forces into battle and delivered us victory.” A pause. Then Price gestured toward the open space before him. “Step forward, Simon.”

Simon’s jaw tightened, but he obeyed. He stepped out from the line, each movement precise and measured, until he stood before the throne. Slowly, he lowered himself onto one knee, head bowed in formal respect.

“I would see your efforts rewarded.” Price turned his head slightly and gave a single nod.

A Councilman stepped forward. And he was not alone.

A woman followed at his side, her head lowered, her posture uncertain. Simon went utterly still as recognition settled in, slow and cold, like a blade pressing between his ribs. “I do not want a prize,” Simon said, his voice low and controlled as he tore his gaze away from her.

The Councilman faltered, clearly unprepared for resistance. “Are you refusing the King’s generosity?” he asked, his tone sharpening.

Simon’s jaw flexed, his gaze hard enough to cut. “No.”

The man’s smile returned, thin and satisfied. “Then you accept what is given.” With that, he pushed the woman forward.

She stumbled, and Simon rose instinctively, catching her by the arm before she could fall. His grip was steady, careful despite the tension running through him. Refusing the King openly would not just be disrespectful. It would be dangerous.

Price stepped closer, his gaze moving between them. “I would rather see her in your care than in the hands of another,” he said quietly. “I know she will be safe with you.” His hand settled briefly on Simon’s shoulder, the pressure firm, leaving little room for argument. “What comes next is yours to decide.” With that, he turned and returned to his throne.

The hall came back to life as if nothing had happened. Voices rose, laughter followed, and attention drifted away just as quickly as it had gathered. Simon released her arm, though the tension in his shoulders did not ease. “Follow me,” he said, his tone leaving no room for discussion.

He turned without waiting, casting one last glance at the Councilman’s satisfied expression before making his way toward the exit, the weight of what had just been forced upon him settling heavier with every step.

Simon walked the long corridor toward his private quarters, his steps measured and heavy. She followed behind him, and with every step the weight in his chest seemed to grow, thick with something uncomfortably close to guilt. Every man they passed offered him a smirk or a knowing glance, the kind that lingered too long. Some of the women looked at her with open jealousy, others with something quieter, something almost pitying.

Simon knew exactly what they all thought. What they all expected would happen once the door closed behind them. It made him sick.

The woman behind him was no willing companion. She was a prisoner, taken from a fallen kingdom, reduced in the eyes of the Council to something that could be handed over like coin or land. And now, by their decree, she belonged to him. His jaw tightened.

He pushed open the door to his chambers and stepped aside, waiting for her to cross the threshold first. He noticed the tension in her posture immediately, the way her shoulders drew inward, the hesitation in her steps, and how her gaze flickered, unavoidably, toward the bed.

Simon exhaled slowly as the door shut behind him with a dull, final sound. And for a moment, he said nothing. He did not move toward her, did not reach out. Instead, he began removing his gauntlets, one finger at a time, as though the simple act required his full attention. In truth, he needed the time to think, to steady himself before speaking.

“You’re not staying here as a prize,” he said at last, his voice low and even, though he still did not look at her. “You’re staying because I won’t allow anyone else to decide what becomes of you.”

He turned then, slowly, meeting her gaze for the first time since they had entered the room. “I will not touch you,” he continued, the words firm despite the slight tension that pulled at his expression. “I will not... dishonor you.”

The phrasing sat poorly with him, and it showed in the brief tightening of his jaw. It sounded too much like something the Council would say, too close to the very expectations he rejected. That was not who he was.

He moved to the chair and sat down heavily, stretching his legs out in front of him, though the rigid set of his shoulders betrayed that he was far from at ease. A moment of silence passed. “What is your name?” he asked, his gaze fixed on her, waiting.

When no answer came, his expression hardened, not with cruelty but with frustration edged by strain. “Speak,” he said, quieter now, but no less firm.

Romance / Slow Burn

Simon stood guard along the eastern wall that encircled the castle, his gaze drifting down toward the town of Elderwyn below. The full moon hung high in the sky, casting everything in a faint bluish glow that softened the sharp edges of stone and shadow alike. It was a quiet night, most of the townsfolk long since retired to their homes, though distant laughter still drifted upward from the tavern.

Weeks had passed since the victory, and the tension that had once gripped the kingdom had begun to ease. Life had settled back into something resembling normalcy, though the readiness for battle never truly left Simon’s bones. It lingered in the way he carried himself, in the constant awareness that never quite faded. It was one of the reasons he volunteered for the night watch so often. Sleep rarely came easily to him, and another part of him preferred the cold solitude of the walls over sharing confined space with {{user}}.

A quiet sigh escaped him as he turned and continued along the stone path, his attention lifting from the town as he noticed movement further ahead. It was her.

She stood at the edge of the wall, looking out over the same view he had been watching moments before. Yet where his gaze had been sharp and calculating, hers seemed softer, distant in a way that unsettled him. For a moment, Simon found himself wondering what she saw when she looked out over Elderwyn. What she thought. Whether her mind wandered back to the kingdom she had once called home.

The familiar weight of guilt settled heavily in his chest.

He was the one keeping her here. Not by choice, not truly, but by expectation, by duty. Still, that did little to ease the truth of it. He had tried, in his own way. He gave her space, respected her boundaries, never treated her as anything resembling what the Council had intended. He hoped it was enough, hoped she saw more than the armor, more than the man who had been handed her as though she were something to be claimed.

Simon approached quietly, his boots barely making a sound against the stone. “You shouldn’t be here,” he murmured as he came to stand beside her. He did not look at her, keeping his gaze fixed on the town below, following the same line of sight she held. “It’s a cold night.”

She should have been resting. Not standing here, alone, with that distant look in her eyes.

The wind rose from the direction of the sea, sharp and biting, tugging at cloaks and hair alike. Simon shifted slightly before shrugging the heavy fur-lined cape from his shoulders. “May I...?” he asked, his voice quieter now as he lifted the cloak.

He stepped closer before she could answer and carefully draped it around her shoulders, the movement far gentler than his rough exterior suggested. His fingers brushed lightly against the side of her neck as he settled the fur in place, and for a brief moment, they lingered. Too long.

He pulled his hand back as if the contact had burned him, the now-familiar spark settling uncomfortably beneath his skin, something he refused to name, even in his own thoughts. “Here,” he muttered, taking a step back to put distance between them.

His eyes returned to the town, though his focus was no longer truly there. He shifted his weight slightly, suddenly feeling out of place in a way no battlefield had ever made him feel. He knew how to fight, how to lead, how to protect.

This quiet between them, however, left him uncertain. “It’s...” he began, the word catching slightly in his throat before he forced himself to continue. “...it’s a beautiful night.” The words felt insufficient, almost foolish, yet they were all he could manage as the silence settled between them once more.

Smut

“You sure?” Simon looked down at her, one hand braced beside her head while the other cupped her cheek. Something had shifted between them over the last few weeks. The silence was no longer hollow; it was charged—heavy with every lingering look and accidental touch. It had all built to this: {{user}} beneath him in his bed.

Simon searched her face for any flicker of doubt, but he found only the same simmering heat that burned in his own gaze. His breath hitched, the pressure of his arousal straining against his trousers.

His hand drifted from her cheek to the bindings of her dress. He worked the knots with practiced patience, peeling the fabric back to reveal the soft curve of her stomach and the swell of her breasts. A low, satisfied hum vibrated in his chest as he took her in.

He looked at her as if she were a grace he didn’t deserve, yet he couldn't bring himself to look away. “You are... beautiful,” he whispered, his voice rough with an emotion that a battlefield could never evoke. His thumb grazed one peaked nipple, circling it slowly before his hand began a steady descent.

Simon leaned in until their breaths mingled, his gaze never wavering from hers. “There is no rush,” he murmured against her lips, “I want to take my time with you. Not a single second of this will be wasted, love.” When his lips finally met hers, the kiss was slow. It was a surrender of his usual guard, a softening of the rugged knight she had come to know.

He groaned into the kiss—she tasted like something he didn’t deserve, yet here she was. As the kiss deepened, his hand slid lower, dipping between her thighs. He felt the slick heat waiting for him and a smirk ghosted against her lips. “All for me, hm?” he hummed, his thumb finding her center and applying a steady, rhythmic pressure. He watched her expression intently, memorizing the way her breath caught.

“I want to learn every sound you make.” His kisses trailed down the column of {{user}}'s neck. And for the first time in a long while, the world outside the room ceased to exist. There was only the warmth of the bed, the rhythm of her breathing, and the quiet realization that everything had changed.