Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The court was cold. Not in temperature, but in temperament.

The nobles filled the gilded halls of King Docm77’s palace, their laughter sharp as blades, always murmuring behind fluttering fans and jeweled goblets. Grian—brilliant-feathered and bright-eyed—moved through them like a burst of color among crows. A macaw avian, small and delicate, with keen eyes and sharper wit. But to them? A curiosity. A commoner too close to the throne.

He felt their stares like nettles. Heard the muttered words: “Who let the bird inside the palace?” “How quaint.” “Doesn’t even belong in the court.”

He said nothing. He never did. Because none of them knew.

No one knew who waited for him when the great iron doors of the throne room closed at night. No one knew that the cold, terrifying king, with his booming voice and fire-red gaze, turned to velvet when Grian entered his chambers.

That night, the court’s sneers still clung to Grian’s feathers as he stepped through the hidden corridor behind the tapestries. It led not to his servant’s quarters—but to the king’s private chambers, massive and silent save for the gentle crackle of a low fire.

“Little songbird,” Doc’s voice was low, deep with something that always made Grian’s heart stutter.

The king stood by the window, moonlight catching on the twisted horns atop his head and the mottled, green-tinted scars of his creeper lineage. He looked monstrous, immense. But his eyes softened the moment they landed on Grian.

Grian folded his wings close, eyes flicking away. “They were talking again.”

“I heard,” Doc said simply. Then, after a pause, added, “I had them removed.”

Grian glanced up sharply. “Doc—”

“From court,” Doc said. “Nothing more. Their voices bored me.”

It was a lie. They both knew it.

But Grian let it slide, stepping closer. “You don’t have to protect me like that.”

“Yes, I do.” Doc’s hands—large and calloused—gently touched the sides of Grian’s face, careful not to bend a single feather. “You’re mine.”

The king’s bed was more like a fortress, piled high with furs and blankets. Doc drew Grian into it effortlessly, like a hawk cradling something precious. Grian melted into the warmth of him, tucked beneath a heavy arm and pressed against his chest.

“I hate how they look at you,” Doc muttered into Grian’s hair. “Like you’re fragile. Like you don’t belong here.”

“I don’t,” Grian said, softly.

“You do.” Doc pulled him closer. “You belong with me. That makes you belong here more than any of them.”

Grian smiled against his collarbone, the firelight catching in his feathers.

“And if anyone forgets that,” Doc growled, just a little, “they’ll answer to their king.”

For a while, they lay there, tangled together. Grian chirped quietly, a subconscious, contented sound that always made Doc’s heart clench.

“You know,” Doc whispered after a long silence, “I could build you a throne of your own. Smaller. Colorful. Feather-lined.”

Grian laughed—really laughed—and Doc held him like he’d never let go.

And in that towering bed, guarded by stone and shadow, the terrifying king and his songbird slept—together, safe.

The fire had burned low, now just a quiet glow casting flickering shadows along the stone walls. Doc was asleep, one arm still heavy across Grian’s waist, curled protectively around him even in slumber. His face, in sleep, was gentler—less the sharp lines of a ruthless ruler, and more the softness of a man at peace.

Grian watched him, studying every line and scar with careful, quiet wonder.

It hadn’t always been like this.

When they first met, Grian had been half-frozen, feathers soaked with rain, cloak ripped and clinging to his too-thin frame. The outer gates of the palace had been a blur behind the curtain of water, and Grian—shivering, desperate for shelter—had thrown himself at them anyway.

He’d begged the guards. Pleaded for somewhere, anywhere warm to rest his head, wings dragging along the cobblestones like broken sails. They laughed at first. But when the doors opened behind them and he stepped out, all laughter died.

Docm77, King of the realm, known as the most ruthless ruler of the last century. A figure cloaked in thunder and menace, eyes glowing faintly, tall enough to cast a shadow like a guillotine blade. His horns had caught the lightning as it split the sky behind him.

Grian had felt his heart stop.

But the king had only stared at him in silence. Cold. Unreadable. Grian remembered trembling, wings puffed in instinctive fear, already regretting ever approaching the palace.

Then—words.

“Take him inside.”

Just that. No questions. No warnings. No sympathy, either.

Weeks passed.

Grian worked in the castle’s gardens at first, under a sharp-eyed groundskeeper. But slowly, things began to shift.

The guards at the kitchen began letting him linger near the back entrance.

Then came the day Doc summoned him—not as a servant, but as… company. Grian had been terrified. But Doc had asked questions. Strange ones. Observant.

“Why do your wings flick when you lie?”

Grian had stammered. “I—I didn’t know they did.”

Doc had smirked.

And after that, it became routine. Little conversations, always at dusk, when the court had gone quiet. A second chair was placed beside Doc’s at meals, quietly. Grian found himself seated beside the king more and more often.

One night, a sharp-tongued noble had laughed too cruelly at Grian during dinner. Doc hadn’t spoken a word—just stared the man down until his laughter choked to silence.

Grian hadn’t seen that noble again.

Now, two years later, Grian looked at the peaceful face of the sleeping king—no crown, no armor, just Doc.

The same man who gently touched his wings when he thought Grian wasn’t paying attention. Who made sure Grian’s tea was never too hot. Who would never admit to liking the soft songs Grian hummed—but always stayed close when he sang them.

Grian smiled faintly and reached up to brush a hand through Doc’s dark hair, fingers tracing the curve of one horn. He leaned in and pressed a light kiss to the king’s cheek.

“You’re still scary,” Grian whispered fondly. “But you’re mine .”

Doc stirred, brow furrowing just a bit, but didn’t wake.

Grian settled back against him, letting the warmth of the room and the quiet of the moment lull him into peace. Outside, the rain had started again, soft against the castle windows.

But inside, it was calm. Safe.

Home.

Chapter Text

Doc woke slowly, not with the jolt of a nightmare, nor the cold clarity of command, but something… softer.

Warmth.

Grian.

The avian lay curled against him, half-draped over his chest like a purring cat, wings tucked in close, breathing soft. One hand was resting across Doc’s ribs, fingers twitching occasionally in sleep. A lock of sandy-gold hair had fallen across his cheek.

Doc stayed still, watching him for a long moment, the silence wrapping around them like velvet.

His instincts were loud in the mornings, even before the rest of him caught up.

Protect. Shield. Keep.

It had started as a curiosity—this strange little bird who wandered into his kingdom with wet feathers and wide eyes. But somewhere between idle amusement and his slow-burning interest, something dangerous had taken root. Something deep .

He had wanted Grian close. First to keep an eye on him. Then… simply to keep him.

Grian mumbled something in his sleep, brow scrunching slightly before he relaxed again. Doc let out a slow breath.

His court would never understand. They feared him—as they should. He ruled with precision, with force when required. He held the kingdom in his grip like a blade.

But he held Grian like spun glass.

No one knew. He kept it that way. Better for them to think the king was untouchable, as if no heart beat beneath the crown.

Doc moved one hand slowly, calloused fingers brushing back the lock of hair from Grian’s cheek. His claws were always a danger, but he’d learned how to control them—how to touch Grian without ever breaking skin. Even the smallest cut would kill him.

He never forgave himself for that time Grian brushed against the edge of his horn and flinched. It hadn’t even drawn blood. But still.

He’d dulled the edges of his horns after that. No one had noticed.

“Still here,” Doc murmured, voice a low rumble against the quiet. “Even after all this time.”

He leaned his head down slightly, pressing a kiss into Grian’s hair. Feathers brushed his jaw as he did, soft and cool.

“You could’ve flown off. Any time. I wouldn’t have chased you,” Doc lied gently.

Grian chirped in his sleep—one of those soft, involuntary sounds that only came when he felt safe. Doc’s heart clenched. He knew better than to let anyone close. He had buried enough loss in his lifetime to last lifetimes more.

And yet…

He gathered Grian a little closer, careful of the wings, and rested his cheek against the crown of Grian’s head.

“They’ll never hurt you,” he whispered, so quietly it was almost thought. “Not while I breathe. Not while I burn. ”

He would raze kingdoms if they so much as looked at Grian wrong.

Because while the world feared Doc, Grian was the only one who looked at him without flinching. Who laughed, sometimes— laughed —at his terrible jokes. Who dared poke at his temper, and knew exactly how to soothe it.

The bird who had landed in his court, begging for shelter, had never left.

He didn’t need a crown to know what he treasured most.

Doc’s eyes slipped closed again, his arms wrapped securely around Grian.

When the morning came, he would rise again as king.

But for now, he was just a man with his heart curled up in his bed, soft feathers brushing his collarbone, and breath like a lullaby.

And for once, the king slept soundly.

Morning in the royal court was always a pageant of pride. Velvet robes swept the marble floors. Gold glinted from every sleeve, every collar, every sneer. Nobles whispered behind fans and masks, circling one another with polite venom. The King’s court was a dangerous place—deadly, even—for those not born into the right blood.

And for Grian, standing quietly in the far corner in simple black and red, it was always a little colder.

He didn’t belong here. Everyone knew it. He was a stray, a curious creature the King had let linger far too long.

The nobles hadn’t dared speak against him in months—not openly—but Grian heard their whispers, saw the way their eyes cut toward him like blades.

This morning, one was brave enough to test the waters.

Lord Varric , a man as thin and sharp as the sword he wore purely for aesthetic, strolled a little too close.

“My, my, my, Grian,” he drawled, voice low and full of poison-laced honey. “Still playing at court, are we? One might think the King collects his little birds like baubles these days.”

Grian kept his chin up, but didn’t answer. He knew how this worked. They poked, they prodded, waiting for him to snap. Waiting for a reason to make him disappear.

“Surely the King grows tired of his pet’s songs,” Varric said with a sly smile. “Perhaps it’s time you flew back to the gutter you came from.”

A pause.

Then:

“…Repeat that.”

The room fell silent .

All heads turned toward the throne.

Doc hadn’t been expected to arrive for another ten minutes. And yet—there he stood. At the top of the grand staircase, half-shadowed in morning light, eyes like molten gold.

“Your Majesty,” Varric stammered, pale. “I meant no—”

“You spoke,” Doc said slowly, descending the stairs, “out of turn. You spoke to what belongs to me.”

Grian felt the air shift—like the drop before a storm.

Doc reached the floor, the clack of his boots loud in the silence. He didn’t look at the nobles. He didn’t need to.

He walked straight to Grian.

The nobles watched, stunned, as the King reached out and touched Grian’s wing—fingers brushing the red primaries with aching familiarity. Grian flinched slightly, but not from fear—only from the intensity of Doc’s gaze.

“I have been patient,” Doc said, voice low. “But I will no longer tolerate disrespect toward the one I hold closest.”

He turned slowly, looking across the court.

“I do not care for your rules. Your lineages. Your politics. But you will respect what is mine. Or I will remind you all why I wear the crown.”

The silence was absolute.

Even Varric bowed, trembling.

Doc didn’t spare him a glance.

He turned back to Grian, his expression softening ever so slightly. “Come,” he said quietly. “You’re sitting with me today.”

The court gasped .

No one—not even his generals—sat at the King’s table. Not unless they were royalty themselves.

But Grian only nodded, wings trembling faintly, and followed Doc up the steps—right past the stunned nobles. Right past their silence and their shock.

At the top, the throne sat high and carved from obsidian and gold. Doc lowered himself into it, then, without hesitation, drew Grian into the chair beside him—the chair meant for a Queen, his chair, the one no one had touched in years.

“You don’t have to be scared,” Doc murmured under his breath. “I meant what I said. No one touches you.”

Grian, flushed and flustered, glanced sideways. “…You didn’t have to be so dramatic.”

Doc grinned, teeth sharp. “Oh, I absolutely did.”

And then he leaned down, just enough to whisper in Grian’s ear.

“I don’t share my treasures, little bird. Not with anyone.”

The royal bedchamber was quiet, lit only by a few flickering wall sconces and the embers of the hearth. The air smelled like parchment, ash, and the faintest trace of lavender—something Grian insisted on bringing into the room, much to Doc’s (mild) grumbling.

Now, Grian sat by the window, his wings faintly twitching in the low light, cloaked in one of Doc’s robes that hung off his shoulders like a blanket. He didn’t turn when the door creaked open.

Doc stepped in quietly. The heavy door clicked shut behind him. “They’ll never bother you again.”

“That’s not what I wanted,” Grian said, a bit too fast.

Doc stilled. “No?”

“I didn’t… I wasn’t asking for some big royal declaration. That was your entire court.” Grian turned to him now, expression uncertain. “You made a scene.”

Doc raised a brow. “Would you rather I’d let Varric run his mouth?”

“No, I just—” Grian trailed off, feathers fluffing in agitation. “You always keep things quiet. Secret. Then suddenly I’m at your table, and half the nobles look like they’ve seen a ghost.”

“They saw a fool who crossed a line,” Doc muttered, stepping forward. “And I reminded them whose kingdom this is.”

Grian frowned. “And whose am I , then?”

Doc stopped. For a moment, he looked as if he might say something cold and clever.

Instead, he crossed the room and knelt in front of Grian.

“You,” he said softly, “are the only part of this court I didn’t inherit. You’re the one thing I chose. The only softness I let stay.”

Grian blinked, startled by the honesty.

Doc gently reached up and took one of Grian’s hands. “Do you know what you’ve done to me?” he murmured. “You’ve made me… care . About things. About people. About you.”

“That’s not a bad thing,” Grian said quietly.

“It is when I realise how fragile you are,” Doc growled lowly, resting his forehead against Grian’s hand. “How easily someone could take you from me. I would burn this whole castle to the ground if it meant keeping you safe.”

Grian let his wings relax, just slightly, brushing against Doc’s side.

“You know I’m not going anywhere, right?”

“You say that. But people like you… you slip through cracks. And people like me crush everything we touch.”

“Well,” Grian said, nudging Doc’s chin up with a crooked finger, “you haven’t crushed me yet.”

Doc smiled—sharp and fond and helpless.

With surprising gentleness, he stood, pulling Grian up with him, and guided him toward the bed. Once settled beneath the deep crimson blankets, Doc curled behind him, one massive arm draped over Grian’s waist, chin resting on his shoulder.

The silence stretched. Warm. Protective.

Then Grian, eyes already drooping, muttered, “You’re not going to bite any more nobles tomorrow, are you?”

“No promises,” Doc rumbled, brushing his lips over Grian’s hair. “Unless they learn to keep their eyes to themselves.”

“You’re awful,” Grian mumbled with a smile.

Doc grinned against his temple. “And you love me for it.”

A small pause.

“…I do,” Grian whispered.

Doc’s breath caught just slightly.

Then, in a voice that held none of the coldness the court knew him for, only something fiercely tender:

“I know. Sleep, little bird. I’m watching over you.”

And with that, they both drifted into sleep—Grian curled against warmth, and the King’s arms wrapped tightly around the only thing he’d ever called precious.