AUTHOR'S NOTE: It's finally here: the medieval AU that was promised!
I'm planning on one or two chapters a week, depending. Half the story is already written, so I'll finish the other half as I'm posting the early chapters.
On Ao3 you'll find an E version of this story. Nothing will be different between the two for several chapters. Just the spicy scenes. Even here, there might be character decisions that shock you or make you uncomfortable. For a list of the tags this story has, check out the ao3 list and my disclaimer in the opening notes. Trust me to handle our favorite ship with the love they deserve. This story is an angsty slow burn but it WILL have a happy ending.
As always, comments are cherished and appreciated, even if I don't get around to replying to each one. They make my day and are a huge muse boost. Also, come say hi on Twitter and come yell at me some more about the story. I'm there little_womp_rat. Sometimes I interact with NSFW Reylo art or stories so be aware of that.
Okay, I think that's all I wanted to say. Strap in and let's go on this ride.
Chapter 1: A Clash of Destinies
/././
"You were born to be a king."
The voice of the Emperor was eroded into rough splinters of rotted wood, but the words carried unmistakable authority nonetheless. Each syllable dropped with the finality of a death sentence.
The young man before him, who called himself Kylo, looked up from where he'd kept his gaze firmly on the pooled robes around the Emperor's feet. He didn't dare give reply. When dancing with the cruel and cunning mind of the most powerful man in the world, it was prudent to be careful not to tread hastily. Kylo had learned this over the years, both by his own missteps and the mistakes of others who paid more dearly than he had.
Withered lines and deep wrinkles carved the ugly face of this man who held Kylo's future in his hands. His expression remained as unreadable as ever.
Being summoned before the Emperor was rarely a good thing. The man — more monster than man, by his withering husk of a frame and cold yellow eyes — was more apt to dole out unspeakable punishments than he was to reward desirable behavior. And any orders had had usually came from his chancellor, Lord Snoke. So when the news came that Kylo's presence was requested in the throne room, he noted the faintest flicker of trepidation within himself.
Perhaps, he told himself, he would merely serve in a personal protection capacity. He'd earned his way to the most coveted ranks of the Emperor's own knights, and occasionally served his master as a personal guard when situations were likely to get particularly dangerous. Perhaps that was the case now. The Emperor had many enemies. His empire grew and grew every year through unrelenting conquest, and that process of violent subsumption naturally generated many enemies.
But when he arrived in the throne room, Kylo saw no one else there but the usual guard, Lord Snoke, and the old shell of a man.
Immediately, his dread mounted.
But these words, about being born to be a king — they threw him. He hadn't expected that at all. The Emperor never referenced Kylo's royal origins except to dangle the promise of some distant prize over his head. It sometimes preceded a rebuke, a punishment for not living up to expectations. But Kylo could not think of a recent instance where he had failed to fulfill either the Emperor or Lord Snoke's commands.
"My boy," croaked the Emperor. "You are your grandfather's heir, without question."
He was? Kylo dared not let that flicker of pride in his chest catch and grow any brighter. All his life he'd been clawing after that exact praise, and all his life they kept telling him how he was a disappointment, nothing like his grandfather at all. What had changed?
"Tell me, young Kylo, are you loyal to my Empire?"
He didn't spare even a beat of hesitation. "I am, your Imperial Majesty. My life is sworn to your service and the service of the Empire."
"And when you ascend to your crown, the lands you reign will ever be vassals of this nation."
This one wasn't a question, but Kylo answered anyway. "Until the end of time."
"Good." The badly withered face of the warlord cracked into one of his weak, sickly smiles. "Then, my boy, it is time you receive your inheritance at last."
Kylo's breath stilled in his chest, all his senses grinding to a careful halt. He could hear everything, down to the faint wheezing in the chest of the Emperor and the subtle rustle of Lord Snoke's gaudy golden robes.
Really? After more than fifteen years in the service of a man who jealously stole and possessed everything within his grasp, Kylo struggled to believe it. He wanted to believe it, though. Oh, how much he waned to believe it. But why would the emperor just let him go now? Why, after all this time, all these waylaid promises, would he be given his kingdom now?
"Rise," the Emperor commanded.
Kylo did, one smooth movement carrying him from his knees to his feet. He hadn't been a graceful child, but the merciless training of his youth had carved grace into him in bloody permanence. A dozen questions surfaced in his mind about the improbable pronouncement, but none of them passed his disciplined lips.
How was he to be the king of a destroyed kingdom? Would they rebuild? The Empire had the resources to do it, of course, but would they really spend them on Kylo's behalf? And why? Despite all this, however, Kylo couldn't stop the tremor of anticipation deep within him. Without, he remained tranquil and composed. Within, he tightened in hope. The throne of his grandfather would be his at last. The kingdom, which should never have been lost in the first place except by the foolish decisions of his uncle, would finally be restored to its glory.
"You have proven yourself worthy of a kingdom, and so you shall be no more called a prince," said Lord Snoke, his own twisted, war-torn face breaking into a grimacing smile.
Kylo had never actually been called prince by either of these men. By others, yes, and he knew the commoners called him the Prince of Blood. But neither the Emperor or Lord Snoke called him by his title. They'd done well to strip him of that identity. It didn't stop his pride from swelling now anyway.
"It will be the honor of my life to wear the crown of Alderaan," he said, clenching his fists to stop the tremor in his fingers. Gods, it had been so long. Since the day the Emperor took him in and promised to make him a king, Kylo had been hungering for this moment.
For so many years it had been out of his reach — not only because of the destruction of Alderaan, but because he himself had not been worthy of it. How many times had he fallen short of what the grandson of Anakin Skywalker should be? How many times had he received the censure of his tutors and trainers, or endured a word of scorn from Lord Snoke? He'd begun to believe he would never be good enough to be a king. He wasn't strong enough.
But he was wrong.
"Alderaan?" The Emperor's mouth contorted into something that was maybe a sneer, or maybe amusement. "No, my boy. You will be the king of Coruscant Valley."
Kylo blinked. The only reaction he allowed himself. "Coruscant? But the Crown Prince—"
"Is coming home." The Emperor didn't exactly sound pleased about it. Everyone knew he didn't much care for his son and heir. It was why he'd sent the prince away in the first place. He feared patricide for the crown, as he had done to his own father. "It is time my son returned and prepared to take his place."
"With all due respect, your Imperial Majesty," Kylo said stiffly, and perhaps a little too boldly, "Any of your lords could hold that tiny kingdom."
He didn't have a relationship of bold words with the Emperor. No one did. Not even Snoke. Boldness got people thrown into vats of boiling tar, or held over flames until their insides cooked. Still, Kylo floundered for footing because one moment he was soaring and now he was crash-landing, wax wings melted.
Coruscant Valley was a tiny crescent of land, crammed between treacherous mountains infested with savage wild men, and a mostly cliff-riddled, violent sea. It sustained itself with farming and modest mariner trade from one central port, but it provided the Empire with little export. A few jewel mines, perhaps, but nothing to interest anyone with power. It wasn't a profitable kingdom. In fact, Kylo had never understood why they bothered holding it at all. The Emperor had seized it some twenty years ago or less, probably because he learned about an unconquered corner of land within his reach. In that time, it had never been a place of interest to anyone. The Emperor sent his son to take it and rule it just to get him out of the way. Everyone knew that.
Lord Snoke scoffed. "You dare speak to his majesty in that insolent tone?"
The Emperor held up a craggy, crooked hand with yellow nails curling beyond his fingertips. "You have become a problem, young Kylo. I need you gone."
Banishment. Not reward at all. Not a deserved prize for being good enough to inherit his crown. This was exile. Kylo's mouth tasted bitter. What had he done wrong?
"You will have the Coruscant crown," decreed the Emperor in his hollow, broken voice. "Accept your birthright to be a king, and complain not at the gift which I have given you."
Kylo squared his shoulders and let his gaze fall to the floor, chastised. Deep within, he boiled with rage. Fortunately, they had given the tools to keep it contained — for now. The Emperor was right. Even a crown of a tiny kingdom was better than no crown at all. And if he couldn't have Alderaan, he would at least have this.
It was something, anyway.
"I am humbled and grateful, your majesty," he said.
"Use this as a chance to test your mettle. And one day, perhaps, Alderaan will rise again with her rightful king to rule her."
That old carrot still being dangled. Kylo rather doubted that he would ever reach it now. But perhaps if he could find a way to turn Coruscant into something profitable for the Empire, he would prove his worth once and for all. He would show them the power in his family's bloodline. They wouldn't be able to deny him his true crown then.
"You will take a company of knights to help you hold it," said Snoke. "A single company should suffice. Captain Phasma will accompany you. You are expected to leave at first at first light. It is a long journey."
The Emperor lost interest in the proceedings once this instruction had been given. He flicked his fingers dismissively. "You may go and prepare for departure."
Kylo left with the distinct feeling that he was being chased away as quickly as possible. The huge yawning hall with its draped crimson banners and white sun sigil fell away behind him in favor of vast muted hallways, quiet flinching servants, and silent, statuesque guards. He felt disoriented, and annoyed, but there wasn't time enough even to vent these emotions on some squire unlucky enough to come up against him in the training ring. If he was to leave in the morning, he needed to get ready. And he needed to speak to Captain Phasma.
/././
Rain lashed against the houses with vengeful fury, roaring winds whipping in the scent of a sea in turmoil. Salt and brine rode on that wind, even though the coast was a long ways off, stinging faces and weighting the air with heavy humidity. The river heaved, rocking the little boats so violently that water sloshed in the sides and soaked the feet of the black-clad passengers inside them.
The storm was good. It soaked every living being to the bone and drove all unnecessary activity inside. There were no guards along the river right now. It was too cold, too foggy, too stormy. And they were too complacent, too sure of their supremacy. Today, they would fall.
The boats docked along the spilling shore, whisper-soft footsteps squelching through the mud as the passengers disembarked and tied their vessels. They wore no armor, so the shadowy figures moved through the downpour in silence, their noises drowned out by the furious beating of the rain against the rooftops and structures of the city. The wraiths darted between buildings, concealed by mist pouring off a river warmer than the water falling into it, following the directions of one who signaled when they got close to a guarded building.
The knights bearing the sigils of the Empire stood miserable in the coastal squall. Rain poured from their helmets, soaking through their leather and fabric. They weren't paying attention. It was a simple thing to sneak up on them, yank their heads back, and slide a knife right through the gaps between their helmets and gorgets. They went down with nary a cry, most of them.
Flickering in the dim interior candlelight from behind curtained or shuttered windows stood vases or dried sprigs of tansies. On the sides of buildings, little tansies had been painted. And on some doors, a single tansy flower had been nailed. These tiny symbols of rebellion spurred the secret assassins onward with hope.
The Empire of Exegol & Mustafar was vast. It swallowed the whole continent, except for active fronts here and there from nations still attempting to resist the inevitable. There were big nations and small nations within the blanket of the Empire, but none of them were quite as big as the epicenter of the calamity, the kingdom of Exegol. Specifically, the capital city.
Kylo had spent hours wandering those choked streets, laid out in no orderly pattern. He had explored the dense warren of alleyways and industry, carrying out assassinations and arresting enemies of the crown. He had supervised festivals, not as an organizer but as an Eye for the Emperor, listening for any sign of disloyalty. He had grown up within the vast castle complex and among the commoners in the city.
And now he was going to leave it all.
Forever.
The thought settled with odd significance. It sat heavily in his stomach, like too much stew, but without the comfort. He ought to be eager to for this endowment — and he was. A crown was a crown. But to leave a place he had lived in for so long with the thought of never returning, it twisted him into a sense of unease.
He had done this once before.
Long ago. In murky memories.
He was not born in Exegol. He only came here when the world ended. When he wore a different name.
Pacing restlessly up and down the hallway connecting two spired branches of the castle, both sides opening though archways to the blue sky and city sprawling below, Kylo shut out his restlessness. It wouldn't do him any good to be nostalgic for this place that wasn't really his home anyway. He had given his life to the Emperor, and he would do as the Emperor demanded. It wasn't his place to be annoyed at the undesirable post.
A kingdom was a kingdom.
Finally she arrived, arrayed in fine, bulky armor as only the soldiers of the Empire wore. She had her family sigil emblazoned on her chest, a roaring lion in white and black colors. She was a fierce thing, this captain with her long white-blond hair hanging in a braid down her back. Bigger than any other woman Kylo had ever known, she towered at his same height, well above most.
"Captain Phasma," he said, giving her a nod.
She bent in a brief bow. "My prince. You've summoned me?"
"I assume you've been informed of the new post." He knew Snoke would have sent word already. If they wanted Kylo out of here as soon as possible, they'd want his troops ready to move out too.
Phasma's chin bobbed in curt affirmation. "We are ready to serve you, sire."
"Good," he said. He knew this woman better than most people here in Exegol. They'd trained together since they were both young. They were as close to friends as two people serving the Emperor could be. Which was to say, not very close, but at least they were sometimes honest with each other.
Perhaps that history of honesty prompted her to say, after a beat: "They say we're going to Coruscant Valley."
"That's right."
Her blue eyes, cool as ice, surveyed him with a shrewd, perceptive look. Her tone was careful. "Did His Majesty give a reason for such a…far flung assignment? One already occupied by the Crown Prince?"
Kylo looked out at the city again. Everyone was always careful with him. Even her. History or not, honesty or not, she had to guard her words. Because he was an Eye. An enforcer for the Emperor. Except, not really anymore. Not after tomorrow.
"The Crown Prince is returning. I'm being sent to replace him."
"Ah." She said. A moment, and then, "It's quite an honor."
They were both lying, and they both knew it. But this wasn't the place to talk about it. Later, perhaps, they would. When they were away from listening ears, out in open fields, far from the Emperor's murderous grasp. Then Kylo would tell her that they were getting rid of him, and maybe she'd have insights as to why. And they'd both acknowledge that her unit was the one chosen to accompany him because they'd worked with Kylo more than anyone else and perhaps that threw their loyalty into question too. None of this was possible to say right now, of course. Their roles were still too carefully defined. Their friendship, or perhaps more lukewarm alliance, was built on unspoken understandings like these.
"We will be ready to leave at first light," she finally said.
"You know, of course, that I intend to make you my general," Kylo replied coolly.
Phasma glanced at him. She shouldn't be surprised, and he was gratified to see no such shock on her face. Only stern acceptance. She inclined her head.
"It will be an honor to serve you."
Phasma was one of the finest knights in the Emperor's service, and captain of one of the elite units. The soldiers now stationed in Coruscant, the ones not coming back with the Crown Prince, might have been away from the kingdoms too long to happily accept a new leader coming in to govern them. They'd been away almost twenty years. But it wouldn't matter. They would obey their new general, or they'd be punished after the customs of Exegol. Kyo wouldn't want anyone else in charge of his armies.
They stood in silence for a while, just staring out at the city. He wondered if she felt even more reticent than he did to leave this place. Phasma had almost always lived in the capital. It was well and truly her home. Her father had held lands elsewhere in Exegol, which the rest of her family now ruled without her. If the rumors were true, when Phasma was a child, her father told her he'd marry her off to a rich man one day, so she killed him, left the estate to her mother and brothers, and showed up wanting to be a knight of the Empire. Phasma herself had never spoken of this, of course, but Kylo knew how she loved her post and how she loved the Empire. He wondered if she loved this city too.
Whatever their emotions right now, they didn't speak of them.
"Coruscant will be lucky to have you as its king," she said, her tone strictly formal again. "We shall all prosper there, I should think."
And it was the right thing to say because Kylo finally felt the spark of eagerness and anticipation he'd been looking for since the throne room. A king. He would be a king.
With no smile, but satisfaction buried deep in his chest flaring to life anyway, he said, "Yes, I think we shall."
/././
They took the riverfront by day, and the entire southern half by night.
With most of the soldiers assassinated and their weapons appropriated and given to any who were willing, the citizens felt bold enough to venture into the storm, helping hands to join the killing shadows. They hastily tore down already dilapidated buildings or guard houses and erected barricades along the shore and the bridge, heaping stones and bricks in makeshift walls, wood and earth in makeshift berms. It was slow and slippery work through the booming tempest around them, but nobody complained.
"We should take the other side," said Wexley, hand rubbing over his forehead, trying to swipe the rain from his eyes.
"No," said their leader, the one who had heretofore been directing their clever takeover. She motioned to the flurry of activity around them. "We don't have enough to hold it."
"Do we know how many men he took with him?"
In answer, Poe, another of the black-clad assassins, ducked under the overhanging balcony from the tavern behind them, pulling back his hood and shaking a spray of water out of his soaked curly hair. "We don't have their exact numbers. We know he left this morning, and we know he took some. But they'd be complete fools if they took all the troops."
"Princess," Wexley pressed, turning again to their leader. "Please, this is our one chance. If we don't take it now, they'll send someone else to rule in his stead, and then we'll have a war on our hands."
"I know that," she said, her voice darkening. It was hard to talk above the rain. People shouted to each other as they made safe their half of the city. She didn't want to shout, so she moved in a little closer to the two men. "You don't think I would like to have the whole of it, if I could? But the barracks on the other side are probably full, and we don't have the manpower to take it tonight. There wasn't much worth guarding over here, which was the whole point, remember? Even if we did try to take it, defending the whole of it against the people they will send will stretch us too thin. We have to hold this side, where we're strong, and then, when the time is right and we have the advantage, we'll take it."
"But their numbers will grow too," Wexley protested.
"I am aware."
Poe shoved him, shooing him away with orders to go supervise the bridge barricade. When he was gone, he turned to their leader. "Don't listen to him, Rey. Eh, sorry, Princess. It's a good plan. We can hold this side. We'll make it our own city once again. And when we've regrouped and rallied more soldiers, we'll take the other side too."
They were interrupted by a great deal of shouting breaking through the storm, and someone ran towards them. Like the others in her party, he too was dressed in all black and it was difficult to see him in the rain, without the benefit of torchlight, until he was almost upon them.
"Finn," said Rey expectantly. "What news?"
"We've done it," he said, grinning, breathless. "The castle is ours."
She grinned too, mirroring him, pulling him in for a fierce hug. "Brilliantly done. Thank you."
Poe gave a whoop of triumph and encircled them both in a hug of his own. The social barriers between them had been blurred and erased by all the secret meetings and surreptitious scheming that had defined their association until now. All that was likely to change soon. But for now, the three friends could still pretend they were only that — friends.
Until they broke apart and Poe gave Rey a wide smile, his voice rising with significance. "It's time for you to go home, Princess."
And the feeling of elation that swept over them was no small thing. Weeks ago, this whole plan had been nothing but madness and a foolish dash of hope. Nearly two decades in the making, perhaps, but madness nonetheless. When the Crown Prince of the Empire ruled, hope seemed almost squandered. It survived only in the exchanging of tansies. A silent message to the suffering populace that someday, their true queen would arrive and save them from the unyielding squeeze of oppression.
Now all that hidden hope had come into full glorious bloom. And their work wasn't completely done yet. Nor would it be for some time. This was only half of the royal city, and with it, half the kingdom and its resources. Their triumph remained incomplete until they possessed the whole thing, undivided. But for tonight, it would be enough to have this much.
The castle was a fine old thing, build as much for beauty as for defense. The deluge and howling winds made it hard to take it in properly, all torches snuffed out in the gale, but it still loomed an impressive shadow in the dark. And Rey had spent many days curled up here in the market, disguised as a beggar, watching the comings and goings of the castle and trying to feel a spark of recognition.
Even now, she couldn't feel it. They passed through the gates and finally escaped the rain, and nothing inside her said this was home. She didn't remember it at all. But why should she? Babies didn't retain long memories, and she hadn't been here since being a baby herself. Still, she didn't need to recognize it as her home to feel a sense of vindication and completion.
Finally, she had taken back what was stolen from her. And she had avenged her parents.
"The coronation plans begin tomorrow," said Poe expeditiously as they moved into the grand hall and throne room. "You will be crowned before their replacement even arrives."
She nodded, looking around at the large room with fine vaulted ceilings. Hideous red curtains and banners printed with the glaring sun of the Empire had been hung around the hall, ruining the natural beauty. But soon enough these would come down, replaced at last with the banners of Rey's own house, her father's house, and the redecorating would erase all ugly reminders of the dark time.
"Whoever they send," said Finn with an ominous tone, "they won't like what's happened here."
"It doesn't matter. Let them dash themselves to pieces against our barricades. We won't yield." Rey glanced at her friends with a confident smirk. "Whatever they send, we'll be ready to face it."