Chapter Text
The snow in the North didn’t fall like it did in the South.
There, it had danced. Here, it suffocated.
Jeon Jungkook walked through the frost-heavy courtyard without flinching, despite the weight of thirty sets of eyes on his back and six at his front—those six heavier than all the rest combined. He kept his chin up, shoulders square, footsteps steady on the frozen stone path.
He would not stumble. Not for them.
The wind howled through the arches of the palace, cold and sharp as accusation. The guards flanking him stayed close, their spears low, a quiet threat. His ceremonial robes—black lined with deep red—were thin by design. Another message. He was not to be welcomed. He was not to be warmed.
He was to endure.
Before him, the royal heirs stood in a line atop the marble steps of the great hall. Six silhouettes carved from snow and shadow. Not one of them moved. Not one of them bowed. They watched him like something caught between a beast and a stain.
Their eyes said what their mouths did not.
You are not one of us.
You are not wanted.
You are not enough.
The herald’s voice rang out, brittle in the cold: “Jeon Jungkook of the South. By decree of the Treaty of Rime, you are summoned to bind in union with the six royal heirs of the Northern Crown—guardians of the realm, sons of the sovereign, and stewards of peace.”
Peace.
What a pretty word for forced surrender.
Jungkook did not lower his head.
He looked at them instead—each one.
The first, cloaked in midnight blue and silver: Kim Namjoon. His eyes behind his glasses were unreadable, but the tension in his jaw was not. He didn’t blink. Didn’t nod. He simply stared down at Jungkook as if reading a problem that refused to be solved.
Second, draped in flowing ivory and gold: Kim Seokjin. Every fold of his robe, every tilt of his chin was immaculate—too perfect. He glanced at Jungkook once, and then looked away. Not a word. Not a wrinkle in his expression.
As if Jungkook weren’t worth the effort.
Third, Min Yoongi. Black silk, dark eyes. A shadow with a spine. He tilted his head just enough to suggest curiosity, but said nothing. His lips were pressed in a flat line. Cold. Closed.
Fourth: Jung Hoseok. Crimson and fur, bright in the bleakness. He stood with arms crossed and weight tilted to one leg—casual, careless. A flicker of a smirk ghosted his mouth. Mocking. Disbelieving.
Park Jimin stood fifth. Not dressed to impress—he didn’t need to. Gold gleamed from his belt and rings, but it was his posture that dripped with power: relaxed, yet entirely in control. He scanned Jungkook from boots to brow without a trace of shame. His gaze landed on Jungkook’s mouth and lingered.
Then, finally—
Kim Taehyung.
Black leather, storm-gray cloak. He stood at the end of the line like a wall that would never fall. One gloved hand rested on the hilt of the blade at his side. His face revealed nothing—but his stare was unforgiving. Like he had already decided Jungkook’s worth. Like it wasn’t enough. Like it would never be.
Jungkook met each gaze without flinching. He’d been undressed by stares before. He’d been judged by blood, by scars, by what his people did to theirs. None of this was new.
None of them scared him.
The herald continued. “By sacred vow, do the Princes accept the terms of union?”
A pause. Long enough to taste.
Then Namjoon gave a single nod. Nothing more.
The herald swallowed. “Does Jeon Jungkook of the South accept the terms of the treaty and the bond of union?”
Jungkook kept his eyes on the one man who hadn’t stopped watching him—Taehyung.
“I accept the terms,” he said evenly, “not the bond.”
A murmur rolled through the onlookers. Even the guards beside him shifted, uncertain.
“I will fulfill the contract,” Jungkook added. “Nothing more.”
None of the princes moved. But something in the air shifted—subtle, brittle.
Jungkook lifted his hands when asked. Six rings were brought forth, one by one, and placed on his fingers. No prince stepped forward. Instead, the attendants pressed each ring into his skin with cool, impersonal precision.
They wouldn’t even touch him.
He was to be theirs—but never one of them.
And when the ceremony ended, not a single heir looked back as they turned and disappeared into the palace.
*******
The room was colder than the courtyard.
He’d been told it was a private suite, “reserved for honored guests.” But the fire in the hearth was unlit, the windows frost-covered, and the bedding thin enough to count as punishment. A basin of lukewarm water sat untouched by the door. No servant lingered to assist him—only one had come to show him the way, and she hadn’t made eye contact once.
Jungkook stood in the center of the room and breathed, slow and measured.
The walls were smooth stone, bare of any sigil or mark—no trace of the North’s favor, but none of the South either. Neutral. Hollow. Like he didn’t exist.
He pressed his thumb to the edge of one of the rings on his hand—the one with the crest of House Taehyung. Cold, even against his skin. Not heavy, but it felt like weight. Like ownership.
He flexed his fingers, resisting the urge to rip them off.
Instead, he peeled off the ceremonial robe, slow and silent, folding it with the kind of care soldiers give to their dead. Beneath it, his undershirt clung to him with sweat and ice. His body ached with the fatigue of riding for days, of pretending not to care.
But worse than the ache was the stillness.
He’d fought in screams, marched in storms. But this silence—this cold Northern silence—it crept into his thoughts like rot.
A knock came. Once.
He said nothing.
The door creaked open anyway.
Bootsteps. Slow. Measured. Confident.
He didn’t turn around.
He didn’t have to.
The silence carried a shape.
Kim Taehyung.
Jungkook reached for the cloth at his waist, tying it slowly as the footsteps came closer. He could feel the weight of that gaze again—burning along his shoulders, down his back.
Still, no words.
He turned, finally, to face him.
Taehyung stood just inside the doorway, the light from the hallway haloing around him. He hadn’t removed his cloak. Snow still clung to the edges of his boots. One hand rested on his hip, near the hilt of his sword. The other was gloved, relaxed, but still heavy with threat.
Neither of them spoke.
Their eyes did.
Taehyung’s stare was sharp, but not furious. Not yet. It was worse than anger—it was assessment. He looked at Jungkook the way men look at wild dogs: curious, but prepared to kill.
Jungkook tilted his head slightly. “Come to say welcome?”
A pause. Long enough to sting.
Then, Taehyung’s voice—low, quiet, edged with gravel. “This wing is off-limits to the heirs.”
Jungkook’s smile was all teeth. “Then you must be lost.”
Taehyung didn’t smile. He didn’t move.
The distance between them wasn’t more than ten steps. But it was the kind that could start wars.
“I came to see if you would break,” Taehyung said.
Jungkook’s jaw twitched. “Disappointed?”
Taehyung’s gaze dropped, just slightly—trailing down Jungkook’s bare arms, the bruises from riding, the long scar across his collarbone.
“No,” he said simply. “Not yet.”
Then he turned and walked away, without offering a single further word.
Jungkook stood alone in the silence again.
But this time, the stillness felt different.
Not empty.
Waiting.
*******
The dining hall was less of a room and more of a theater.
High ceilings arched overhead like the ribs of a dragon, each beam carved with ancient victories. Long windows spilled winter light across the marble floor, reflecting a thousand shades of cold. A single table stretched through the heart of the chamber, blackwood polished to a mirror shine.
And at that table—six chairs stood filled.
The seventh remained empty.
Until Jungkook entered.
He knew better than to hesitate at the threshold, even when all six heads turned toward him. Each stare was a different weight—some sharp, some curious, others indifferent. None of them kind.
He didn’t bow. He didn’t speak.
Instead, he crossed the room at a calm, unhurried pace and took his seat at the far end of the table, where a smaller, plainer chair had been placed. Not the one aligned with the rest. Not an equal position.
A message.
Fine. They could keep their chairs. He’d take the damn table.
The silence stretched, thick and tense, until the servants emerged with breakfast.
It was a quiet kind of spectacle.
Silver trays of steaming meats, fruit preserved in winter sugar, bread still warm from the ovens—opulence laid out with precision. Not for comfort. For control. Each movement of the servers was choreographed; every spoonful placed with careful attention to who received what, and when.
Jungkook’s plate was filled last. With none of his native dishes.
He picked up his fork without comment.
Across the table, Namjoon broke the silence first. His tone was mild, almost academic.
“I assume the accommodations were adequate.”
Jungkook swallowed a mouthful of bread. “If you’re asking whether I froze or starved, no. Not yet.”
Namjoon made a quiet sound. “How fortunate. Some might’ve interpreted the South’s silence as poor communication. I prefer to think it’s restraint.”
“That’s a poetic way to say neglect,” Jungkook said.
The scrape of cutlery filled the space after. The kind of sound that could pass for ordinary—if not for the way Seokjin’s eyes narrowed slightly, or the way Yoongi’s lips barely twitched.
Jungkook reached for a slice of cured meat, eyes flicking briefly to the glinting wine goblet at his side. He didn’t touch it.
He wasn’t stupid.
“I’ve heard the Southern tongue is sharper than most,” Hoseok said idly, breaking a piece of bread with bare fingers. “But I didn’t think it was the only thing they fed you.”
“It’s what we learned to survive on,” Jungkook said smoothly. “When your army burned our fields.”
The tension that followed was not loud. It was quiet in the most dangerous way—quiet like a room about to erupt.
Taehyung didn’t look up from his plate.
But Jimin did.
He leaned forward just slightly, elbows resting lazily on the table, chin balanced in one hand. His gaze swept Jungkook like a painter eyeing a canvas.
“You’ve got a beautiful voice,” he said softly.
Jungkook’s fork paused.
Jimin smiled. “I wonder how long before it starts begging.”
The table stilled.
Jungkook’s eyes slid to him, calm and unreadable. “That depends. Are you going to try and make me?”
The smile didn’t fade. “No. I like you untouched. For now.”
Seokjin cleared his throat. Not sharply—but enough.
“Must we all prod him so early in the morning?” he said. “The marriage is done. If we’re to suffer his company, let’s do it in silence.”
Jungkook almost laughed at that. But he didn’t. He ate another bite and let the silence stretch.
He had no intention of defending himself. Let them circle him like wolves. He’d hunted worse.
But Namjoon wasn’t finished.
He placed his goblet down, slow and deliberate, and met Jungkook’s eyes with the cold, unyielding stare of a man used to being obeyed.
“You are here because we allowed it,” he said. “This treaty—your presence—it was the cost of peace. That doesn’t make you one of us.”
Jungkook leaned back in his chair, fork still in hand. “You mistake me for someone who wanted to be.”
The silence that followed was razor-thin.
Across the table, Yoongi exhaled through his nose and murmured, just loud enough to cut through the tension, “This is going to be exhausting.”
It was Taehyung who stood first when the plates were cleared.
Without a word, he placed his napkin beside his goblet and walked out. Yoongi and Jin followed not long after. Hoseok muttered something under his breath and trailed behind. Jimin lingered a little longer, eyes dragging over Jungkook one last time before rising.
Namjoon didn’t leave until the servants opened the doors again. Even then, he paused beside Jungkook’s chair—not looking at him, but standing close enough to cast his shadow across the table.
“I suggest you remember where you are,” he said quietly. “And how easily things here break.”
Jungkook didn’t respond.
Not with words.
But as soon as the door shut behind them, he reached for the goblet he hadn’t touched earlier, lifted it in the empty hall, and tipped the entire thing out over the floor.
The red of the wine soaked into the white stone like blood.
Let them see it when they returned.
Let them understand.
He was not here to be tolerated.
He was here to outlast them.
*******
They watched him.
That much was obvious.
By the end of the first day, Jungkook had counted no fewer than eleven people tailing his movements—some subtle, others laughably clumsy. He didn’t confront them. He made it easy. Deliberate. He let them see him move through the lesser courtyards, into the empty study halls, the old balconies that overlooked the ravine. Places a lonely consort might haunt.
Let them report boredom. Let them underestimate him.
The palace was a web of passageways, old and new, crisscrossing beneath the spires. His suite, as predicted, was in the furthest East Wing—isolated. One door, one window. Nothing of value, not even guards. But that wasn’t oversight.
It was insult.
And a challenge.
The room was kept cold, always. Firewood was “late.” Warm water arrived already cooling. His clothes, simple and dull. No silks. No colors of his house. The ringed finger of his hand—the one meant to carry their crests—ached from disuse, from absence of warmth.
None of it bothered him.
He’d been cold before.
He’d slept under bodies in trenches, had eaten snow to survive. This was just another battlefield—only the weapons wore perfume and spoke in riddles.
By dusk, the palace lanterns lit with gold flame, casting amber shadows along the hallways.
Jungkook was alone in the East Garden. Or rather, allowed to believe he was.
The garden was skeletal this time of year—dead branches, black soil, and statues half-buried in snow. It had once been a burial ground, before the empire converted it into a “contemplation court.” Another quiet cruelty.
He sat on the edge of a stone fountain, fingers trailing over its icy rim. Breathing slow.
He wasn’t tired. Not exactly. But his shoulders were heavy from silence. His thoughts too loud to rest.
Behind him, footsteps.
He didn’t turn. Not yet.
The rhythm was too distinct—calculated, slow, no rustle of robe. Boots. Heavy.
Taehyung.
Jungkook exhaled.
“You’re a prince,” he said aloud. “Do they not teach you how to walk without stomping?”
Taehyung didn’t answer. Didn’t sit. Only stepped closer.
Jungkook turned, finally, to face him.
The prince stood beneath the arching stone, backlit by firelight, casting a long shadow across the cracked garden. No cloak this time. Just black leathers and gloves, sword at his back. No crown. No guards.
His eyes locked onto Jungkook’s. Unwavering.
Still no words.
Jungkook leaned back on his palms, gaze flicking downward—not as submission, but provocation. Let him think whatever he liked.
“Following me twice in one day?” Jungkook asked, voice low. “Didn’t think you’d be the obsessive type.”
Taehyung’s head tilted, just slightly.
That damn silence again. But this time it felt… charged.
“You don’t speak much,” Jungkook said, rising to stand. He wasn’t shorter. Not really. Close enough that the difference made things worse.
Closer than politeness allowed.
Taehyung’s eyes dropped to Jungkook’s mouth for half a second—barely perceptible. But Jungkook saw it. Filed it away.
“You hate me,” Jungkook said, softer now. “But you don’t look away.”
At last—Taehyung moved.
One step forward.
The heat between them was a thread now. Tight. Tangled. Jungkook’s breath caught, just once.
And then—
Taehyung reached up—
Not to touch him. No.
He reached past Jungkook, brushing snow from the stone behind him with a gloved hand. Slowly. Deliberately. There, etched into the stone, half-erased by time and frost—
A symbol.
Southern. Ancient. A mourning mark from the wars.
Jungkook’s eyes narrowed.
Taehyung met his gaze again and finally spoke.
“They tried to erase you,” he said. “They failed.”
A pause.
Then, lower: “Don’t make it easy for them now.”
And just like that, he walked away.