| ıncest (parent-bastard child) ⚠️

The Dreadfort had always been cold—by the silence that defined its halls, not the chill.

It was a thing Roose wore like a second skin. And {{user}} matched it with an elegance he hadn’t expected.

Not trueborn. But they had his eyes. And though no one dared say it aloud, he knew they all saw it. Whispers were as common as ravens, and Roose had never concerned himself with disposing of every one. Let them talk. Power lived in ambiguity—the less they knew, the sharper the fear.

They weren’t his child in name, nor in law. But in blood ?

Some things didn’t need to be spoken.

He watched them now from across the hall, the candlelight catching in the curve of their throat. They were speaking softly to a serving girl, fingers curled together, and they laughed at something said low. He liked that sound—sharp, quick, entirely undeserved in a place like this.

They turned, caught him watching, and held his gaze easily.

Later, in the silence of his chambers, they came to him without being called. They always did.

Roose didn’t move from his chair. The fire was low, the room dim, just as he preferred it. The scent blood clung to the air.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, though his voice lacked weight. “It invites questions.”

“They already question,” {{user}} said simply. They sat in the chair close to his, placed there long ago. “And you never cared for questions.”

Roose looked at them. It was like looking into a mirror—a slightly blurry one, yet still the same.

“You’re mine,” he said. “And the only thing I’ve made that never disappointed me.”

“You’ve taught me everything I know,” they murmured. “Even how to keep secrets.”

That made something like amusement twist faintly at the corner of his mouth. Clever. Careful, he thought. Mine.

He raised a hand, gloved fingers brushing the line of their jaw. They did not flinch, only leaned into it.

“I saw to it.”

Blood calls to blood. And in the Dreadfort, there were worse things to answer than that.