Morcant, High Lord of the Night Court, did not make a habit of visiting the Illyrian camps. He preferred to let the stubborn brutes deal with their own affairs, set in their ways as they were. Yet they were the strongest legion in his army, which meant he had to inspect the camps at least once every year. Officially this was to show they were respected, and unofficially it was to make sure they were being kept in line.

This was particularly necessary now, given one of the strongest warlords had died and his rather young son, not even forty years old, had taken over his position. Windhaven had always been one of the more civilised camps, one of the largest too, and Morcant would not see it descend into chaos and savagery under a poor leader. The less civilised camps were often unruly, occasionally rebellious, and almost more trouble than they were worth.

Yet upon his visit, the new lord, Devlon, had been... competent, despite his age. The young Illyrian was as gruff and grizzled as many fae twenty times his age, and the males listened to him just as well as they had listened to his father. Devlon had seemed to have knocked his soldiers into order quickly and efficiently. An impressive feat with this backwards, hot-tempered lot.

Morcant had been relatively satisfied with his visit to Windhaven, glad that he would not have to return for at least another year. He was just about to depart with his guards, when the relative peace was abruptly shattered. A young female Illyrian was being dragged, kicking and punching, through the village by no less than four males.

The High Lord looked on dispassionately. Despite being relatively small, the girl fought like a wildcat, hissing curses and threats, lashing out with fists, feet, teeth and sharp nails, but they were stronger. The males wrestled her to a whipping post, one bringing out a length of rope and attempted to bind her wrists to it, to no avail.

"What has she done?" He asked Devlon, mildly curious of their brutish customs despite himself.

The Illyrian squinted in the girl's direction.

"That's Aithusa. A seamstress. She ran away yesterday, after one of the warriors smelt her first cycle had started. They went out after her to bring her back," The warlord shrugged. He was a male of few words, which Morcant appreciated.

"That warrants a whipping?" He raised an eyebrow. "Surely if the girl wants to leave, you'd best be rid of her anyway. She's not likely to survive the wilderness alone,"

Although the more he saw of her, the more it seemed she could fend off all the beasts that lurked in the Illyrian Mountains through sheer willpower alone. The girl was still fighting despite being beaten bloody, and they still hadn't managed to tie her wrists to the post. A woman, presumably her mother, was sobbing on the ground nearby, though did not make any effort to intervene.

"Yeah, well, I told them to let her go," Devlon grunted. "But others are more attached to tradition. Whose to stop them? Her father died twelve years ago, and she's got no brothers. Some see it that it's the camp's responsibility to have her wings clipped, now she's a woman,"

Not a whipping, then. Morcant hummed in response to that, largely indifferent. He found wing clipping a rather barbaric custom personally, though didn't care enough to end it. It was the way of the Illyrians, had been for millenia, and wasn't worth the inevitable rebellion banning the tradition would cause. Every other fae female managed well enough without being able to fly; Illyrian women could surely handle it too.

The four males had bound the girl's hands now, pressing her front roughly into the post. There was a moment where her eyes - wildly travelling the crowd, almost imploring anyone to help her, to stop this - met his. Naturally. He was the most eye-catching person here, in a sea of plainly dressed, tanned Illyrians.

"High Lord," She called out boldly, desperately, and though he bristled at her insolence, for whatever reason Morcant could not help but step forward, holding her stare. "Look upon what you permit your hateful subjects to do - mutilate every female that - " She gave a strangled cry as one of the males cuffed her around the head, cutting off her words.

Well at least she hadn't tried to beg him to save her. Morcant despised begging, despite his desire for proper respect. It irritated him; as though their pitiful words would stop him doing what he wished. The girl's eyes were scared, yes, though the hate and anger there - at everyone here, looking on, as well as those who held her - was stronger.

Then, out of nowhere, something hit him like a brick wall.

A sudden snap that made even him sway slightly where he stood, a golden, unbreakable thread forming between him and this wretched girl; a bond, the strongest magic known to fae, forever tying them together.

Not her. Dear gods, not her.

But there was no denying it. At the sight of his mate - for to his horror and disgust, that's what this lowborn Illyrian child was - bound to a whipping post, held still by two brutish males whilst another advanced with a knife, Morcant lost control for the first time in centuries. Lost control like he hadn't done since he was newly High Lord in the wake of his father's death, over six hundred years ago, before he knew how to wield his new power with the careful restraint he had now perfected.

Lethal darkness erupted from him, instantly misting the three Illyrians in the vicinity of the girl into nothing but a few bloody splatters. She let out a cry of shock as she was sprayed with blood, and the gathered Illyrians reacted largely the same.

After an initial alarmed outcry, however, a deathly silence fell over the stunned, now-fearful crowd as they realised who had killed those males. They hastily parted to let the High Lord walk over to the whipping post, wearing a guise of deadly calm, drawing his dagger from his belt.

The girl was clearly terrified, judging from the look of a cornered animal in her eyes, but she set her face in a snarl as he drew closer, holding her head high and twisting around to face him. As proud as one could be with their arms tied above their head.

Morcant grabbed her jaw with one hand, tilting her head up to look at him, and for him to get a good look at her. She was even smaller up close, the top of her head barely coming up to his chin. Her skin was tanned and her hair dark brown, her eyes too. No great beauty either - she had the rough-hewn, rugged features of most Illyrians, rather than the fine, polished beauty of a High Fae - though there was a kind of wild charm about her. Not ugly, or at least he didn't think so, under all the blood, mud and swelling.

The bond snapped in place for her then too. He saw it in her face. The fierce fear in those dark brown eyes widened in shock and a sudden, terrible understanding as they met his own. She stopped fighting for the first time since he'd seen her, just staring at him. At least she didn't gawp, and though she did flinch when he raised the knife, she became slightly less tense after realising it was only to cut through the ropes binding her hands to the post.

The rising, startled, eager murmur of those around them meant that the watching fae were clearly beginning to sense the bond as well. An Illyrian had never been mated to a High Lord before. And the reaction here was nothing compared to the inevitable outrage of the Hewn City.

Morcant only had eyes for her, however, wretched though she was. She hadn't looked away from him either, swallowing once, before fixing a tight, almost wry smile on her face.

"Aithusa," She held out a filthy hand for him to shake, spitting a globule of blood over her shoulder and tossing her dark curly hair out of her face.

The famously cold High Lord of Night couldn't help but let out a bark of laughter at her nerve. He took her hand - which, he noted, was trembling despite her boldness - and shook it as she intended, rather than the customary courtly kiss bestowed to females on the back of the hand. She was no fine lady, and was covered in filth besides, though he vanished the dirt and blood with a glance before his clean palm touched hers.

After that, things happened very quickly.

They would leave for the Moonstone Palace that very afternoon, it was decided. There was no chance of her remaining here, of that he was sure. Aithusa seemed to still be in a state of shock, though hid it well, aside from seeming a little dazed. The girl had started the day dragged through the streets by a mob to have her wings publically clipped, and ended it mated to the High Lord.

He had sent some of his guards with her, to help her collect her things, as well as to protect her from any who still wished her harm. There would be retaliation for the fact her wings were still whole, that was for sure.

Morcant was still reeling from the events of that day himself, though of course let none of that show. How had the Cauldron, in all its unlimited wisdom, deemed it fitting to make his mate the daughter of a common Illyrian solider and a seamstress? She was barely eighteen, a scrawny rat of a girl, clearly having not eaten well in years, with an untamed mop of curly hair and hard, callused hands.

He was over eight-hundred, and High Lord of the Night Court. Yet he wanted her nonetheless. Morcant had known many females in his centuries alive. Lots of them had been paid, which he preferred for simplicity's sake; better to treat a whore like a whore than other females, who had egos to bruise and offence to be taken. Though there was always someone willing to throw themselves at a high lord to gain favour - or simply for the thrill of it - if he showed any kind of interest at all.

But whatever limited attraction he felt for those females - which tended to fade the moment they opened their mouths to speak - paled in comparison to the bond pulling him towards Aithusa. Not because she was particularly remarkable, but because of the powerful magic that had seen fit to bind them together.

If anything, she was considerably less remarkable than most of the ladies in the Hewn City, or even in Velaris, who wore fine gowns, had good manners and education, and were used to civilised society. Or perhaps Aithusa really was more extraordinary, by virtue of being so ridiculously unlikely to become his consort.

His mate turned up an hour later, looking somewhat more put together, with her mother hovering anxiously at her side. The older female had clearly insisted that her daughter wear her best clothes - a faded, plain but well-made lilac dress which she did not look very comfortable in - and cleaned the mud and blood from her body. Aithusa's hair had been brushed, not that that made much of a difference, save for the fact there were no longer twigs and leaves in it. Her face was still awfully bruised and scraped, however was considerably better than it had been earlier; that fast Illyrian healing at work.

At least now she was somewhat presentable; if not to court or polite company, then as a female at least, rather than some kind of feral beast.

"Milord," The mother bobbed a surprisingly neat curtsey, not raising her eyes from the ground, clearly terrified of him.

Morcant inclined his head in acknowledgement, then turned to his mate with a raised eyebrow. He was rewarded with a scowl.

"No offence, High Lord, but I'd rather stay here if you want me to curtsey every time you look my way. Even Illyrian males don't go that far,"

"Aithusa," The mother let out a strangled noise, eyes widening. "Apologies, milord, she - "

"Enough," He held up a hand and the female stopped instantly, wringing her hands. He let the silence stretch on for a moment or two, yet for once Morcant let the matter of disrespect go, ignoring the small smile of triumph his mate gave at that. "Will you be accompanying your daughter?"

The female hesitated, and Aithusa spoke for her.

"No," She said, with a warning look at her mother who was about to protest. "I told you not to feel guilty, Mother - you have a good life here,"

The older female did not object, seeming slightly relieved. Morcant was rather glad. It would be far easier to teach one uneducated lesser fae the ways of court than two. He almost dreaded introducing his mate to the Court of Nightmares, though something inside him growled at the idea of any of that ilk talking down to her, questioning his decision to make her Lady of the Night Court. He could hear Keir already; you didn't have to marry her, cousin... you could've had her as a mistress... you should've wed my dear friend's daughter, or this other friend's sister, or so-and-so's cousin's niece...

He would deal with that when the time came.

After her mother had gone, the two having embraced and said their goodbyes, Aithusa turned to him.

"Her name is Helene. You didn't ask,"

He gave her a sharp look.

"Whilst I understand you have been taught nothing of courtly manners, you will do well to speak with politeness and respect,"

"Didn't your courtly manners teach you that it's not polite to not ask someone's name? Let alone the mother of your future wife,"

The mating bond had clearly made her fear of him disappear. For she knew as well as he did that he could not harm her any more than she could harm him, without causing himself great anguish. That was unfortunate, but even as Morcant glared at her, he realised there was little he could do. Well, he could reprimand her, punish her in some way, but then she would hate him. And he felt more pathetic than he had ever felt before admitting this to himself, but the idea of her hating him was repulsive.

So he glared, and she scowled, but ultimately neither of them did anything. A stalemate.

Aithusa had evidently never winnowed before, for when they appeared on the steps of the Moonstone Palace - his preferred residence - she was clinging onto him like a lifeline. The girl immediately jumped back when she realised they were on solid ground, though Morcant found himself thinking that he would rather she continued to cling to him.

The High Lord shook off the foolish urges brought on by the bond that made him feel like a green boy of twenty again, though didn't know if he could do so for much longer. He didn't like how his carefully constructed restraint and control was faltering in the face of a lesser fae, who was currently pretending not to look around in awe at the decadence of the palace, at the unobstructed view of the surrounding mountains.

"I have alerted the court that there is to be a wedding," He informed her, trying not to be amused by her manner. "Tonight, if you are agreeable,"

Best not to give anyone time to object, nor to plot against the match. He was well used to the snakepit that was his Court of Nightmares, and knew they would hate the fact he was to marry an Illyrian female.

"Tonight?" She sounded alarmed at first, but then caught his eye and her initial reaction turned to... desire? Which she quickly blinked away. At least he was not the only one feeling such a draw. "That's fine, I s'pose,"

The girl actually shrugged, and he bit his tongue to stop himself criticising her for it.

"You will need something more... appropriate to wear," Morcant glanced at her plain dress with disdain, curious as to what she would look like in silk and finery. "I'll send for the seamstress,"

"But I can't afford - " She broke off at the look he gave her.

"Don't concern yourself with the cost," Don't concern yourself ever again.

"I forgot you were filthy rich," She muttered. There was a pause, where she glanced at the open walls. "I'm going out. Flying. I'll be back in half an hour," The set of her jaw dared him to challenge her.

"You've had all your life to fly," He raised an eyebrow. "And have the rest of it still," Thanks to me.

"I love flying," She said. "It's the most precious thing in the world. I could spend my whole life in the air and still not have enough of it. Considering I nearly lost them today, I would like to feel the wind on my wings,"

She wasn't asking permission. He could have forbidden it nonetheless, calling it a waste of their limited time, yet once again, Morcant found himself unable to deny her. He hated it. Everything in his life was controlled meticulously, planned by himself, yet she was so resistant to chains of any kind, even gilded ones.

Despite coming back concerningly late and windswept, Aithusa looked nice at the ceremony. The seamstress had done a fine job of hastily putting together a dress she did not look uncomfortable in; flowing black silk that moved like liquid, not too revealing, though not overly modest. Perfect for the Night Court; the Hewn City favoured less conservative fashions than Spring, Autumn or Winter but was a far cry from the tastelessly revealing clothing of Summer, Day or even Velaris. Not that anyone here knew of the secret city.

They'd done wonders with her wild hair too, twisting it into two small horns that rose up like a headdress, with a small tiara perched in between. Her jewllery was gold and onyx - she suited gold, he thought - whilst someone had outlined her eyes in black kohl. The high fae normally looked down on the more obvious traits of the lesser fae, though in that moment, her wings - whole and unblemished - were nothing short of beautiful.

The Court of Nightmares whispered and muttered amongst themselves. Of course they did, the High Lord marrying an Illyrian was nothing short of scandal, even an insult to many. Though thankfully nothing overt was said within his hearing. They respected - and feared - him too much for that.

Aithusa was not what anyone could call sociable. After the formal ceremony, she spoke politely enough to those who spoke to her, flashes of a dry wit and dark sense of humour occasionally shining through, but her natural expression seemed to be a scowl. Morcant found himself rather pleased with the fact that she often unconsciously moved closer to him when newcomers approached.

However, she came into her own when faced with something she did not like. It was clear that the girl had no patience with the scrapers and flatterers of the court, looking to gain the favour of their new lady. Her lip curled in disdain at the insincere compliments, and though he would rather his bride behaved properly, thanking them like any gracious female should, it was amusing to hear her voice the blunt words he normally would have kept to himself.

She was even better when it came to facing the scorn and derision from the many high fae who looked down on her for her wings, her tanned skin, her rougher features, her lowborn origins. Aithusa's replies were sharp and cutting, and it clearly took many of the court aback by how little reverence she had towards them. Everything the fae here had was based around appearances and reputation, both of which meant very little to her, and it showed.

Morcant tended to be traditional in the sense that he believed lesser fae - and those lowborn in general - should show deference to their betters, and that females should be demure, obedient and able to adequetely navigate their way through polite conversation. Thus, Aithusa's behaviour did rile him on some level. Yet somehow he found his mate rather entertaining to watch, despite her lack of social graces.

There did come a point when the High Lord could not stand the public celebration any longer, though not for those reasons. The bond had snapped for them both that morning, and he had scarcely touched her save for the chaste kiss at the ceremony, having her on his arm as they entered the hall, and when she had clung to him when he winnowed them to the palace.

"My lady," Morcant murmured.

"I'm not really a lady," She looked up at him, smile fading slightly but the same desire shining in her eyes. He could feel it too, through the bond.

"No, you're not," He agreed, unsmiling but tone good-natured. "But you have the title now, so best get used to it,"

She laughed at that, and he simply winnowed them back up to the palace.

The moment they were alone, the cold, dark mountains under a starry sky a backdrop, he took her jaw in his hands and kissed her. For one who acted so graceless and cold in public, Aithusa melted against him, small hands sliding up his chest to rest on his shoulders as his own moved to her waist and back of her head.

Morcant was not a romantic nor emotional man. Quite the opposite, actually. But even he deemed that kiss alone indescribably good. Not because she was especially beautiful, or experienced - she was neither - but because she was his. His mate, and a stranger at the same time. He was not kind, nor generous, but the idea of not marrying her immediately was out of the question.

She was small, but her great black wings dwarfed her, rising to the same height as his head.

Aithusa let out a small gasping noise as his hands moved to her thighs, lifting her up so her legs wrapped around his waist. That was enough for him to trail open-mouthed kisses down her neck, no doubt marking her, covering the lingering bruises from earlier that day. The sounds she let out at that were delightful.

At least she was not some timid female shrinking away from him. She might be coarse and graceless in front of the court, but she held herself with a certain innate pride nonetheless. She was strong enough to stand up for herself, to the Court of Nightmares no less, sneering right back at the high fae who turned their noses up at her.

She might have far too little respect for him, her husband, but that somehow did not matter for now.


"I've never been in a proper bed before,"

Her hands skimmed the silk sheets as they lay beside each other in his chambers, sated for now.

He turned to frown at her.

"How?"

Aithusa laughed then, making his frown deepen. Morcant disliked people laughing at him.

"You've never even contemplated sleeping on the floor, have you?" Her tone was slightly scornful, though not confrontational. "My father died in battle before I left the cradle. Mother earned what she could, as did I, but we still never had a bed,"

"Is that why your ribs are showing?"

"No, we had enough to eat," Her face twisted. "I've all but starved myself since I was fourteen," She reluctantly continued at his raised eyebrow. "A female's wings are clipped when she has her first cycle - I wanted to put it off. It worked, until a few days ago,"

"So I have wed a foolish child who starved herself for years and has never slept in a bed before,"

"Don't call me a child," She glared right back at him. "You don't get to make me your wife, in every way, and do that,"

"You're not just my wife - you're Lady of the Night Court," His tone was even; Morcant did not regret the fact.

"You didn't have to make me a lady," She didn't sound resentful of the fact he was obviously questioning how on earth she, of all fae in Prythian, was his mate. No doubt she was thinking the same thing. "They were all whispering it, everyone in the court. I would have been your mistress, you know, if that was all that was offered. I'd have done anything to keep my wings. I'll forever thank you for saving them, even if I grow to hate you,"

"You are my mate," He said in a tone that wasn't to be argued with. "You might be half feral and have no idea of to act like a proper court lady, but I won't have anyone calling you a whore,"

"They'll call me that anyway," She shrugged, unconcerned. "What is it they say about Illyrians? Only good for fighting and fucking,"

"For an untrained, unarmed female, you fought rather well against those males in WIndhaven,"

He said it without thinking, and she smiled.

"That covers the fighting. What of the second part, my lord?"

Morcant, for once, did not care that the title was said mockingly, nor that she was insolent and irreverent and entirely lacking in manners. They were not well matched, but he was drawn to her regardless, and she to him judging from the look on her face. They were mates regardless, the High Lord of Night and his strange winged lady. Hopefully he would not live to regret the decision.


Hope you enjoyed the chapter! If Morcant and Aithusa's relationship seems unbalanced and badly matched then that it because it's meant to be. In canon it was said how Rhys' parents were mates but were not good for each other, which is how I chose to write them.

Please leave comments as I love hearing feedback, whether that is praise or constructive criticism, or future suggestions for this story. Thanks for reading!