Chapter Text
Ren’s first day as a king is chaotic. There are so many things to do and not enough time. He knows that the South’s response is coming soon and he wants everyone to be as ready as possible. Some people even advise him to attack first, but Ren doesn’t pay much attention to the idea. He isn’t going to start the war unprovoked, there will be no first blood on his hands… and, well, even if he was willing to, everything happened so quickly. They wouldn’t be able to organize a proper campaign.
After a late but hearty breakfast, the Lords and Ladies begin returning to their estates to prepare for the trouble ahead. Ren bids them farewell personally, as a gracious host ought to do. Some of them shower the King in compliments and promise him all the support he needs, others are more reserved, but Ren doesn’t dwell on that too much. He isn’t going to suspect someone of being a traitor because they had a hangover. Martyn will. He’s always behind his back, always watching. It would be very out of character for him to not have come up with a list of potential conspirators already.
Ren asks him about it when they are alone in the royal study for a short moment.
“Paranoia is a survival skill!” Martyn jokes, then adds more seriously, as if he’s arguing with someone, “I’m not letting anyone harm you. I’m not!”
Ren suspects that this is the main reason Martyn was so stressed after the coronation. He feels a little guilty - after all, if Ren hadn’t pursued their relationship, Martyn wouldn’t be responsible for the safety of his own lover in such a difficult time. But just a little. Martyn is a grown man who can make his own choices, including the poor choice of falling for Ren.
Ren can’t really stop him… he can, however, help.
“Your loyalty and dedication to the safety of the crown are appreciated, my friend,” he declares. “You won’t be doing your job alone anymore. Since the North has its King once more, it’d be only appropriate to restore the royal guard, and you will be its captain.”
Martyn blinks, staring at him with his pretty blue eyes.
“Guard? Me? Captain?”
“Yeah, Red Knights, remember? The old order that served the Northern crown. I told you about them when you got your position,” Ren says, somewhat amused at Martyn’s reaction.
“I know my history, m’lord. I just didn’t expect it,” Martyn hesitates for a second. “I’m from the South though. Would that be a problem for such a ceremonious position?”
“The position is very much practical. And, well, you’re my knight first and foremost. It will be even more so after you take over the royal guard. There will be no problems, unless you are hiding something from me, and you’ve been known to be a royal loyalist or something,” Ren says and adds with a wink, “Is there any treasonage going on?”
Martyn smiles.
"No, no, nothing like that," he says quickly. "I’m loyal to my liege, as I should be. I just wanted to be sure. There might be some grumbling among the nobles."
"Let them grumble," Ren waves his hand dismissively. "I'm the king, and I choose who I trust."
The words feel strange in his mouth. He is the king now, not just a younger prince following the orders of his brother. He can reshape the very future of his realm.
"So, who's joining this royal guard?" Martyn asks, practical as always.
"I thought you might have ideas about that," Ren says, leaning back in his chair. "I trust your judgment. You'll also need at least one lieutenant, so keep that in mind when choosing."
Martyn frowns, already working through possibilities.
“How many people are we talking about here?”
Ren shrugs. He didn’t think about it in detail.
“Twenty or something. It used to be twenty back in the day.”
“And do they need to be knights? I’d like BigB to be my second.”
“A commoner? Ugh, I guess it’s not a problem. I can give him the title, if you trust him with this.”
Martyn sighs.
“I know him well enough. That’s better than trust.”
Ren shakes his head and smiles. Oh, Martyn…
“Fine, he’s in. Any other ideas?”
"I want to talk to BigB first… It’ll probably take me a few days before I can give you the list. We need skilled fighters who we can trust with your life."
"And yours," Ren adds. "I don’t want any of them trying to backstab you to take your place.”
Martyn smirks, and Ren knows what he’s going to say before the words leave his mouth.
“Take my place where? Should I be worried, my liege?”
Ren rolls his eyes, but there's a smile tugging at his lips.
"In your position, you fool. Though I suppose if some of them are particularly good-looking, I might have to give them a chance," Ren teases, enjoying the brief flash of possessiveness that crosses Martyn's face before he schools it.
"You wouldn't dare," Martyn murmurs, stepping closer to the desk, his voice dropping to that husky tone that sends a shiver down Ren's spine.
“I’m your king-”
“You're mine.”
Ren's tail wags involuntarily before he can stop it, betraying his pleasure at Martyn's greed, at the way his pupils dilate and his smell changes. He was told many times that he can be… too intense, and the confirmation that Martyn is eager to meet him halfway is delightful.
"Am I now?"
"Absolutely," Martyn says firmly, leaning across the desk. "No one can serve you as well as I do. And I'll fight anyone who tries to claim otherwise."
The air between them smells of tension, and for a moment Ren considers clearing his schedule for the next hour. To make love, or maybe to fight, he isn’t quite sure.
Ren grabs Martyn’s shoulders. His fingers slide across the polished metal of the armour as he tugs his lover closer, kissing him hard, letting his claws dig into the back of Martyn’s neck. Martyn groans into his mouth, pushing forward until he's half sprawled across the desk. Ren wants to take him right there, but alas, they don’t have time for this.
"You're going to mess up all my papers," Ren murmurs against his lips.
“Who cares.”
“Those are really important decrees-” he bites Martyn’s bottom lip- “they are about taxes and, er, important stuff.”
"I'll organize them later," Martyn promises, chasing Ren's mouth for another kiss.
A loud knock makes them step apart. Martyn returns to his position at the door. Technically, he should be outside, but it’s too late for this. They really should start doing a better job behaving properly and, for once, focus on their duties.
Ren clears his throat and calls out, "Enter!"
It’s Etho, who is staying in Dogwarts for now to meet with his own people-at-arms later. He’s carrying some scrolls, his face is unreadable as always. If he notices their flushed cheeks or the slightly disarrayed papers on Ren's desk, he says nothing about it.
“Your Majesty!” Etho bows. “I have the maps of the border regions you asked for.”
There’s no way to tell if he picked up on the general mood in the room.
They spend the next hour studying the maps, discussing all the roads, the mountain passes, the coastal currents. At some point, Martyn joins them. If Etho finds it strange, he says nothing - typical Etho, honestly - and Ren just doesn’t care about etiquette at this point.
Turns out, Martyn has more than sufficient military education, and he’s so easy to bounce ideas with. Ren might as well put that sly mind of his to a good use.
Of course, there’s only so much they can do now. They know how the South will react, and there will be some time before they get any news. Especially since the royal courier service needs to be reorganized - all messengers there are recruited in the capital of the South and known for their loyalty to the throne. Not even people from other Southern provinces are allowed to join the couriers. It's always been like that - the firm grip the southern rulers kept on communications was one of the main ways they controlled the kingdom. Now it's a practical problem - they have no way to get news as quickly as before.
So they gather their forces and prepare, hoping to hear from the borders sooner rather than later.
There is a lot of work to do besides preparing for the future conflict.
Ren cancels all the additional taxes his brother imposed on the North. It's a reckless move, perhaps, when they need resources for the coming war, but those taxes were way too much in the first place. He can’t declare independence and continue on like nothing has changed.
There are nobles and officials to appoint, positions to fill, laws to rewrite. The South's laws were never made with the North's best interests in mind, but they also can’t simply go back to the system they had two hundred years ago. He has trusted and skilled people to do the basics, but ultimately, it’s Ren who has to figure out what to keep and what to throw away. He works late into the night, his eyes burning from fatigue by the time he dismisses the last of his advisors.
"You should rest, my liege," Martyn says, closing the door behind the departing officials and coming inside the study. His smile is soft and a little crooked. “It’s almost midnight.”
Ren can’t suppress a yawn that makes his jaw crack and ears press to his head. He pushes the chair away from the table and sighs.
“I hoped to finish all the tax-related stuff today. It was almost ready anyway.”
Martyn steps behind Ren's chair, placing his hands on his tense shoulders. His fingers dig into the knots of muscle with just the right amount of pressure.
"The taxes will still be there tomorrow," he says softly. “You keep squinting looking at these papers. Your eyes are tired… Or do you need glasses?”
"I do not need glasses!" Ren grumbles, but leans back into Martyn's touch, allowing his head to fall back. "I'm not that old."
"Of course not," Martyn says, the smile evident in his voice as his thumbs work the stiff muscles at the base of Ren's neck. "You're in your prime. A distinguished gentleman."
"I hate you," Ren says without heat, his tail giving him away by swishing contentedly against the chair.
“You adore me."
"Mmm, no comment," Ren murmurs.
His eyes drift closed as Martyn's skilled fingers work deeper into the tension. The room falls quiet except for Ren's occasional soft sighs when Martyn finds a particularly good spot. His touch is intimate in a way that makes Ren's chest ache pleasantly.
“Will you sleep in our bed tonight? I don't like it when you're not there," Ren says.
"Our bed? I thought I was just warming my lord’s sheets,” Martyn teases.
“You know it’s not like that," Ren says, his voice dropping low, almost shy. “You are so much more. You mean the world to me."
Martyn's hands stop, suddenly still and heavy.
"Spirits, Ren," he says, like he heard something so unbelievable he doesn’t know how to react. "You’re going to be the fucking death of me. You know what hearing that does to my stupid heart."
Ren’s eyes open briefly, his red gaze locking with Martyn’s blue. There’s a strange tension in the air almost like that time in the gardens when they shared their first kiss. less hungry though, and more… something else.
Ren wants to explain, to scream about feelings living in his chest, but he doesn’t know how to do it without breaking that late night spell delicately binding them together. His lover is easy to spook with emotional speeches, and Ren is bad at being subtle.
“You’re going to stay, right?” he asks instead. “Even if… things get really bad.”
“I’d follow you to the other side of life and death, my king,” Martyn says as his hands linger on Ren’s exposed throat. “Now get up, or you’ll fall asleep on your precious papers and we’ll have to peel your face off them in the morning.”
Ren growls, but it’s a fond sound. “Alright, alright. Let’s go.”
Martyn takes Ren’s hand, not caring who might see, and leads him out of the study. The night is dark and cold, no moon or stars visible in the black sky peaking through the narrow windows. The halls are quiet, most of the castle asleep. Enchanted flames flicker and dance as Ren passes near them, shadows shifting strangely across the stone. Ren yawns again, his exhaustion catching up to him after the long day. He squeezes Martyn’s hand, and Martyn squeezes back, and they both stumble into the royal chambers, and fall asleep before they even hit the mattress.
Ren wants to spend the rest of his life just like this, under the soft blankets, with Martyn’s arms around him, falling asleep to the sound of rain softly tapping against the window.
Four days later they get the news about the first skirmishes on the southern border.