#lady penitent | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

teabutmakeitazure · 4 months

Text

Pinprick in the Backdrop

The background is something you should always pay attention to.

>Yan! Chrollo x Fem! Reader

>Warnings: not specified to avoid spoilers. please proceed with caution.

>Word count: ~15k (slow burn)

>a/n: proofread to the best of my capabilities. if there's any spelling error, pls ignore

There are always some people you see everyday without fail on the train. Some you find on your way to the station and in the train, some on the train, and some when you step out of it. Most of you have never talked to each other, but you recognise them. Even if the middle aged lady who always sits near the door of car 7 changed her hair colour completely.

You can still recognise them. Seeing their face isn’t a requirement. It’s their existence that matters. It’s especially funny when you call the teenagers by name on Halloween despite the costumes they’re wearing.

Perhaps you missed a great opportunity to go into criminology or become a detective. Maybe even a spy. However, what’s done is done. You can’t say you hate your job, so you suppose it’ll do as long as you’re able to live a comfortable life and send some money back home to your parents.

Speaking of money, your boss - or should you say the man who also overlooks the finance department - has been absent from work for two weeks. It’s the main reason why your salary this month hasn’t come in yet. Why they decided to not pay you all is a mystery, but why your boss has disappeared is a bigger mystery. The money you have left in your account isn’t enough for the entire month, so they better pay you all soon.

The penitence of innocents always baffles you. There was nothing you could have done, nothing you could have changed, so why? Why does the human conscience produce these feelings of guilt? Maybe it’s because you unconsciously recall times when you were cruel or times when you had ignored to cherish the moments.

At the end of the day, it’s puzzling feelings like these that make you human. Black jacket hugged closer to your body, you head back to your desk, shaking the mouse as you try to wake up the monitor. Your boss is dead. The reason why it took so long to confirm was because he died in a different country and his cell phone was destroyed.

Another mystery is why he flew to a different country on a weekend, and that too for just four days. He didn’t even have any family there. They all live here, so imagine their surprise when they find out his ‘business trip’ was actually a personal one. You don’t question why they didn’t bother to contact his workplace when he didn’t return.

Quite a lot has happened within the span of a few days. First there was the news of your boss being pronounced dead. That was followed by the memorial they had in the office, and lastly, your salaries finally came in. You can refresh your savings now.

Still, the radical change in circumstances you cannot get over. Your boss, the half bald guy whose biggest transgression was making jokes in poor taste, dead? The information you all were given is vague. He left for a different country, somewhere in the Mimbo Republic to be specific, from Yorbia, where you are. It’s not your job to dig into people’s business, but this seems too fishy because his family also refuses to utter a word.

Thus, like all women trying to find information on a man they are interested in, you turn to the internet. Scrounging through news articles of accidents and injury and deaths, you finally find a few noteworthy ones from the day he supposedly passed away.

The darkness in your bedroom adds to the suspense, light solely coming from your backlit keyboard and the open window. It doesn’t help that it’s past two in the morning, almost three, but you’re determined as you scan through descriptions of a ‘buy and sell’ gone wrong.

Two hundred people. That is how many died at that event.

To be fair, the entire administration and security also kicked the bucket, and the attendees were around one hundred according to the article. None of this still makes sense. Was your boss among those people? If yes, why would he be at such an event?

Scratch that, his family definitely knows something.

After spending a little less than an hour snooping around, you finally shut down your laptop and go under the covers. It’s understandable when sleep doesn’t come easily.

The commute to work was the same as usual. The only difference was that one of the girls in your neighbourhood was nowhere to be seen on the train. Maybe she skipped school today. Despite the ordinary day, you are in no mood to entertain when familiar footsteps grow closer and closer to your desk.

“Hi, [Name]!”

You wish you left the building for lunchtime after all.

“You’re not going out for lunch?”

With the most uninterested face you can make, you shrug, eyes not leaving the monitor. If he gets the hint, he leaves. If he doesn’t… you’ll just excuse yourself and leave.

“So you’re not eating?” He’s behind you now, eyes fixed onto your monitor as he tries to make sense of the gibberish. “Your work requires a lot of thinking. You should eat something.”

“Not right now,” you sigh. “I have a whole hour left. I’ll eat when I feel like it.”

You know what this guy is doing. His engagement recently went wrong when he found out his ex-fiance was cheating on him, and now he’s seeking out someone to fill the hole. Quite literally in his case, but whatever. Perhaps you would have given him the time of day if he wasn’t so obvious and desperate… or if you ever bothered to remember his name.

It’s worse when you remember that you didn’t recognise him after the break-up. Chills. That’s what you felt. It’s best to keep your distance. He isn’t the same guy who gushed about the love of his life 24/7. There’s something unstable around him.

“Well, whenever you feel like it, just shoot me a text.” His hands grab the edge of your backrest, just millimetres away from touching your back. “I want to treat you to lunch.”

Closing the tab and opening another one, you voice your response. “Sorry, but I brought food from home. I’ll be eating that.”

“Oh.” he sounds disappointed. “No worries. I’ll treat you some other time then.”

Note to self. Bring lunch from home everyday from now on. If that’ll help keeping him off your back then so be it.

It has now been two weeks since your boss’ memorial was held. His replacement has already been hired, but you can’t bring yourself to bother too much. Some of your coworkers have started cozying up to him and buttering him up which is intimidating the poor man. Workplace politics is something you could never have prepared yourself for.

Another thing you couldn’t have prepared yourself for is adulthood. Why is it so hard to choose what to eat? You can’t live off of takeout because it’s not healthy, and whenever you fail to finish eating the fruits you got before they go bad makes you feel like more of a failure. Thus, with great determination, you end up buying half a dozen apples.

If you eat one daily, you’ll finish them all in under a week. More items are added to your trolley and when you finally exit the self-service checkout, you roll your shoulders, readjust your backpack, manoeuvre the plastic bags into a more comfortable position, and begin the walk home.

It’s nighttime, just one hour away from the shops closing. You know you’re safe because almost all of the people you are familiar with. There are only some here and there who you haven’t seen before, but they’re all normal. It’s evident from the way ‘it’ is stable around them. ‘It’ is light and calm.

After a fifteen minute walk, you’re at your apartment building. Unfortunately, you wasted too much time walking around after you got off work and now you’ll have to eat dinner late. Well, it’s not like your sleep schedule is fixed anyway. Another day of sleeping late shouldn’t hurt. It’s the weekend now anyway.

It is on this wonderful Saturday afternoon that you realise you don’t have friends. Clarification. You don’t have friends where you live.

After graduating, all of your friends either stayed in the same city or moved away somewhere else entirely. None of them came here, or anywhere in Yorbia for that matter. It’s realisations like these that force you to ponder over your future. What are you going to do? What’s your aim?

Before, it was to graduate and get a decent job. Now that you have that, what now?

With the lack of ice cream in your freezer, maybe you should start with procuring dessert. What about takeout as well? You could go for an evening walk, watch the sunset and get food for dinner altogether. That sounds nice.

Laptop turned on, you type in the address of a shady website and start browsing through the movie catalogue. Today, you will relax. Having hours of screen time isn’t a good idea, but it’s the weekend. Mistakes don’t count.

Maybe I should get mama and papa to move in with me after papa retires. That’s your thought when you head to the supermarket to get ice cream with takeout in hand. Getting food before ice cream wasn’t the best idea since it’ll be cold by the time you get home, but what’s done is done.

Life is lonely here. Sitting at home, alone, eating takeout and ice cream out of the tub while shows you’ve rewatched more than five times play on the TV. Maybe you should make some friends, but where?

Your workplace doesn’t have anyone, let alone any girl, your age. You also haven’t met anyone you wanted to be friends with. They’re all blended into the familiar background.

Paying with your card, you leave the self-service checkout counter and ready yourself for the walk back home. It’s more fun when you’re leaving the house for a walk, not the other way around.

Still, you take in the people around you like you do all the time. Most people you know, you recognise. You’ve been seeing them for so long. There are always a few who are a little odd as ‘it’ is a little unruly around them, like your notorious coworker. However, ‘it’ is still light and faint but most importantly familiar. That’s the most comforting thing about it. The familiarity is what’s important.

So imagine the surprise and utter shock you feel when ‘it’ is as dark as the night sky around a stranger you have never seen before.

The darkest you have ever seen is something similar to how dark yellow is compared to pure white. So seeing something as contrasting as jet black to white, you can’t help it when the bags fall from your hand and onto the ground.

You’re frozen on the spot, mouth hung open as you stare wide eyed at the stranger who stands just a few metres ahead of you. He doesn’t notice at first, too busy speaking over the phone to pay attention, but when his eyes fall onto you, they’re slow and knowing, like he’s been aware of your gaze since you saw him among the others around you.

A few deep, trembling breaths, and you grab the bags off the ground and dash by him as fast as you can without it seeming too obvious you saw something. This time you do not pause to soak in the familiarity of the surroundings. Your only goal is to get home.

Bringing lunch from home is starting to get tiring. You have to wake up earlier and pack leftovers as well as make sure you have leftovers or cook something the night before in case you don’t. All because some weirdo who’s hung up on his ex can’t take a hint. To be fair you don’t have the guts to outright say no as well.

Maybe you should work on that.

Today, you decided to take a walk on the pier near your apartment building. It’s also a fifteen minute walk away since it’s close to the supermarket. Nevertheless, you sit down on a bench and just watch the water.

It’s soothing, being idle like this. God, you really need a break.

Families and couples who you usually see around walk about the area. There’s something so special about this. This comfortable bubble you’ve created. Sure, you’re lonely with most of your social interaction being the neighbourhood kids or the teenagers on the train, but it’s all so comfortable.

It’s warm. Maybe you should ask your parents to visit. They’d like it here. The accessible sea and half middle aged or above population would be something they’d like.

The sun has gone down now, and the moon has started to become visible. So, with reluctance to let go of the passing time, you get up, backpack once again on your shoulders, and start the walk back home. Maybe you should also get an actual bag instead of using the one you did in university. You know, something that’s more feminine.

Regardless, as long as this one works, you’ll use it. No need to get a replacement if the thing isn’t destroyed yet. Wait, scratch that. Should you get more ice cream? Brownies maybe? The supermarket is right here and they have a section for freshly baked items. The brownies were amazing when you last got them.

You abruptly turn on your heel, completely determined to get what you are now suddenly craving. One step forward and you collide with something, getting pushed back a few steps from the force of whatever kind of brick it was. Barely are you able to regain your balance. Had you fallen, your laptop would not have survived.

You raise your head to look at what it was you walked into, ready to curse while there are no children around, but are completely frozen when you see him again. ‘It’ is large, so much more prominent and stronger than what you have seen in all the years you’ve lived. It’s like it’s protecting him, gently swirling around him like a protective layer.

It’s menacing, to say the least. You have no strength to utter a single word when the stranger steps closer to you, tilting his head as he inspects you for any injuries.

Or at least that’s what you think he’s doing.

You’re absolutely horrified at how ‘it’ seems to dissipate as he steps closer, the presence of it almost completely gone. It’s now as noticeable as it is for everyone, but you can still see the darkness of ‘it’. No way does it help that you can now also feel the mancing aura it has.

“Are you alright?”

Blinking at him, you come back to the present situation, the background noises coming back to invade your senses. Your tongue feels like lead in your mouth, and your chest feels extremely heavy. Why is it so hard to breathe?

“Ah, it seems like the collision stunned you. It’s okay. I apologise for bumping into you.” The stranger smiles, and it causes bile to rise up your throat. You don’t like how he’s still looking at you like that. Like he’s looking for something.

“Hello? Are you alright, miss? Really, you look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he chuckles. You, on the other hand, fail to see what’s so humorous.

It takes a few more seconds to compose yourself, but your heart still beats loudly, spelling out the letters R-U-N in bold capital letters. However, social etiquette forces you to take a deep breath, bow, and voice your apology.

The stranger fails to get another word in before you awkwardly fast walk away with the nagging memory of the bandage covering his forehead and dark bangs messily falling over them.

Today, you walk home from the train station as fast as you can. The encounter yesterday has shook you to the core, and until you don’t see this stranger for a month straight, you will not cease the hurried travel back home.

Whoever this man is, you do not want to be within even a 10 metre radius of him. Something is definitely off about him, and in your experience the darker ‘it’ is, the worse person they are. You just don’t know what ‘it’ as dark as his means.

Nevertheless, fate likes to throw a pie on your face and laugh at you because he’s standing right outside your apartment building.

Fuck. That’s your only thought. Maybe you’ll hang around the neighbourhood or walk on the pier until he leaves. Yeah. better make yourself scarce. Unfortunately, fate throws another pie because when you turn your back and start quietly walking away, he notices you and calls out.

The bastard calls out to you.

Oh fuck me, you think. So much for not wanting to see him again. What does he even want? Does he want to know why you look at him like you’ve seen the man murder people countless times before?

“Ah, I’m sorry for disturbing your evening,” he says as he jogs up to you. How he noticed you while you were literally a building away you do not know. “I saw you leave this building in the morning, so I figured you live here. I’m sorry for intruding like this.”

‘It’ is still barely there like yesterday. That doesn’t mean you can’t feel the suffocating aura he has. Awkwardly, you sputter out a greeting. “Oh uh, h-hi.” The bandages aren’t there today, but those Godforsaken earrings are still there and his forehead is still covered by a hat. Does he have a receding hairline he doesn’t want to show?

He’s smiling at you, and you’re now noticing how wide and innocent looking his eyes are.

“My name is Chrollo,” he says. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Again, I’m sorry about the collision yesterday.”

You look at him for a few more seconds, heart beating erratically in your chest. “[Name]. And it’s okay. It was an accident on my part as well.”

Chrollo tilts his head slightly, eyes fixed on you and giving you his full attention. “Ah, that’s a lovely name. A lovely name for a lovely lady.”

You have never cringed this hard in years. Still, you force yourself to awkwardly laugh just to be polite and attempt to cut the conversation short. There’s no reason you should stick around. It’s utterly pointless and risky considering how his mere presence makes you feel.

“Excuse my forwardness,” Chrollo says, “but I was wondering if there are any good restaurants here I can try. I’m staying here at a hotel nearby until I find a proper accommodation, so I was hoping you could give me some recommendations.”

You open your mouth to say something just to stop short of any sound exiting your mouth. What comes next is an apology. Be useless to him. Don’t give him any reason to seek you out again. “I’m sorry, but I haven’t lived here long enough to know.” Wait, that makes it sound like I just moved here which makes me an easy target if he’s a serial killer. “No- what I mean is that I’ve lived here for a while but I usually cook, so I’m afraid I haven’t explored the food here. I only get takeout from the restaurant behind the supermarket nearby.”

Grey eyes blink at you, the gaze attentive. The corners of his lips are still turned upwards, and his lips slowly part to allow him to speak. Everything seems more detailed. You can’t wait to shrug him off.

“If I may, I’d love to explore the food here with you.”

Fuck. Did I just get asked out? No no. Be realistic. He just needs someone to cling to in this new environment or he’s a serial killer trying to make you lower your guard. You sigh. Whichever it is, you refuse his offer regardless. “I’m sorry, Chrollo.” The fall of his smile is instant. It’s almost creepy. “I don’t plan on eating out too much. I enjoy cooking, so I’d like to stick to cooking as much as I can.” Seriously. What is it with men and taking you out to eat? “Thank you for the offer though. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d love to get ho-”

“I don’t mind cooking together as well.”

“...” What? There’s no way he just said that to you.

“If you prefer cooking, I have no issues with cooking together.” He’s still looking at you, expectantly this time, and you feel like the ground beneath your feet is crumbling away. Why can’t men take a hint?

“Ah, I really should get home soon. Isasmo must be waiting for me. I promised him I’d be home early.”

“Isasmo?”

“Mhm.” You’re shaking your head now. The presence of a man awaiting your return or curious about your whereabouts always works. “He gets very worried if I don’t get home on time. I don’t want him to worry, so if you’ll excuse me…”

Chrollo chuckles. Closing his eyes, he gently shakes his head. The loss of his gaze is short lived, but when it’s back, it cuts through your being. “Sorry for keeping you. I didn’t know you had someone waiting for you at home.”

Like earlier, your heart starts beating in your ears. How he’s keeping you on edge you have no idea. It’s maddening. “Alright. I’ll be heading home now.”

He smiles. “No ‘see you later’?”

Because I don’t want to see you later! “Goodbye!” With that, you dash past him and quickly enter the comfort of your apartment building without looking back. Honestly, you should start coming home at different times. Just to throw him off in case he swings by again.

Today, you discovered that your other coworkers are ‘talking’. Due to your sad lack of friends, you have no way of getting in on what’s going on, so you’ve resorted to hanging around corners whenever you hear someone talking or walking around with headphones on so that people think you can’t hear them.

Oh you can definitely hear them.

After a few days of gathering information you have learnt that the coworker who has still not given up on his pursuit of taking you out for lunch is acting a bit weird. Honestly, you called it way back. The day his engagement broke, he started acting differently.

You know because you can see with your own eyes at a glance instead of having to rely on long term observation. It also doesn’t help that ‘it’ has become slightly darker. It’s no way as dark as Chrollo’s, but it is noticeable enough to be discernible.

Speaking of Chrollo, why is he at the pier? No, scratch that. Why is he looking at you?

Quickly, as to not make it seem suspicious, you grab your phone from your pocket, press it to your ear, and start acting like you just accepted a call. With that legendary tactic that got you out of countless social interactions in university, you turn on your heel and start walking in the opposite direction.

When confirmed that he isn’t following after you and is nowhere to be seen, you pocket the device and continue on your merry way. The wind is chilly, the moon is hiding bashfully behind a cloud, and a tub of ice cream has been picked up.

Goods in hand, you arrive at your apartment. It doesn’t surprise you that midnight comes quickly. It is only after the clock shows 12: 30 am that you release the unhealthy snack for the night from the freezer and sit in the extremely poorly lit bedroom and stare at your laptop screen.

This time, however, you aren’t gaming, only browsing through more than eleven opened tabs (you lost count after eleven) and growing more puzzled by the minute. The incident that may have led to your boss’ death is gaining attention, especially on the conspiracy theory websites. Some say that the entire thing was a result of the mafia’s activities, while some claim that a notorious band of thieves did that to steal everything.

You have no evidence or trails that your boss died while participating in that ‘buy and sell’, whatever that means, but it sure does make you suspicious because you recently found out one thing. His body wasn’t recovered.

The more you think about it the worse it gets. Despite not wanting to, you’ve doom scrolled for so long that you’ve ended up on a five year old conspiracy theory post claiming that a group called ‘The Phantom Troupe’ goes around the world stealing stuff. The comments are mostly people confirming it, some even claiming to be hunters and saying that it’s true and common knowledge among hunters.

If they’re that dangerous and destructive, why doesn’t the Hunter’s Association take action? It’s all just a bluff or an exaggeration.

Lights all off, you get up to place your laptop onto your desk, but catch sight of something moving in the corner of your eye. It was barely there, something black or dark, but knowing that you left your living room window open, you simply sigh.

It’s completely quiet. So quiet, in fact, that you can hear your own breathing. Setting aside the fact that the awareness forces you to have to manually breathe, you slam the window shut but rest your forehead against the cool glass. Eyes stare down at the empty neighbourhood, and you start wondering how you got here.

It sometimes feels like a dream. Highschool feels like just a few weeks ago, and yet here you are. It’s surreal.

Five minutes of reminiscence are all you allow yourself, hands promptly grabbing the deep green curtains and drawing them just to freeze when you catch sight of something shining right behind you for just one moment. Turning your head around at an unholy speed only gives you neck pain because there’s nothing there.

Curse you conspiracy theorists. You will be extremely mad if you have a nightmare or lose sleep.

Your coworker didn't show up today. It almost makes you feel sad because you can get lunch from outside without having to deal with him. Ah, but the food you brought…

Nevermind. You'll eat it at home. Shoving the lunchbox back into your bag, you grab your wallet and head to the elevator. Headphones are on like usual in hopes of catching any stray gossip from around you.

Oh and do you catch a big one. Your coworker isn't replying to any texts or calls. He's ignoring everyone. The guy from accounting said in the elevator that he might be hungover since he has a drinking habit. Honestly, you should try and advance your relationships with these people from simple greetings. They’re better information sources than the news.

Nevertheless, you breathe a sigh of relief, merrily heading outside the building to head to the little hole in the wall restaurant you've been eyeing for a while.

The streets are busy as usual, almost everyone's lunch hours overlapping at this particular moment, so it isn't a surprise that you bump into a few people while trying to make your way. Although… it is a surprise when you bump straight into Chrollo.

Headphones are promptly pulled down to hang around your neck, and you brace yourself to visually deal with the pressing feeling that’s constricting your chest. ‘It’ is there but the comfort of the crowd allows you to deal with it with less effort.

You still don’t know why he’s like that. You don’t know why ‘it’ is like that around him.

“I’m sorry,” he apologises, “we should really stop bumping into each other.”

It’s the middle of the day and he’s dressed like he’s going to a funeral. Long black coat, black hat extending over his forehead, black button down, black dress pants, black-

What the actual hell are those shoes? Is that big yellow thing a nail that was screwed in? What the fu-

“Is something the matter?” Head tilted to meet your downward gaze, Chrollo’s expectantly looking into your eyes. There’s a moment of silence between you both, but you fill it with action as you move to the side to not take up space on the street.

With a very noticeable deep breath, you sigh. “Nothing’s wrong.” Something is wrong. His thing around him is creeping you out and making you uncomfortable. “I’m just a little tired.” Make yourself seem uninterested. You don’t particularly like this guy, remember?

He nods. “I see.” A pause and the dreaded question is voiced. “Do you work somewhere around here?”

“Yes,” you reply simply.

“Is it your lunch break?”

“Yes…” you hesitate.

“Perfect.” Like how your luck with the male human specimen has always been, Chrollo proceeds to utter the most undesirable string of words. “If you haven’t eaten, I would love for you to join me for lunch. I found a restaurant and was heading there just now.”

Despite knowing it’s hard to get out of this, you still try. “Ah, actually, I only came for a walk. I brought food with myself.”

“It won’t go bad,” he negotiates. “Please. Just this once at least. I promise you’ll have fun.”

Chrollo’s voice is light, cheerful when he says that. You are tempted, but still want to go where you were originally heading. Maybe you could sneak to the restaurant you wanted after shaking him off somehow. But before that, just to confirm what he has in mind, you ask him where.

And being the joke that your luck is, it decides to practise its humour right now because he took the name of the restaurant you were heading to. It also doesn’t help that your eyes widened and Chrollo commented on it, saying that he ‘caught you’. Screw luck. Screw having your way. Life is just a horrible comedy show with dad jokes and shitty puns coming one after another.

A while later, you are seated across from a man who has broken the record of most uncomfortable you have ever been. This time, however, ‘it’ isn’t what’s making you uncomfortable. It’s the way he looks at you like he knows something or is trying to know something.

You hate to admit it but after spending more than five minutes in his presence, you’ve gotten used to the suffocating feeling.

Even if you would rather not be desensitised to it.

It’s quiet between you both, Chrollo choosing to observe you shamelessly while you try your utmost best to avoid looking at him or showing that you’ve noticed his blatant gaze. It’s not busy in here, so that doesn’t help either. Phone in your hand, you scroll through social media apps, tapping away countless stories of people out and about.

The silence got comfortable, but he opened his mouth.

“I forgot to ask,” he says, voice low, “what do you work as?”

Your eyes briefly flit up to meet his but return to the screen immediately. “Data analyst.”

“Data analyst? You must be quite intelligent,” he chuckles.

“If crying through eight semesters of school is smart, then I suppose so.”

There’s a smile in his voice when he speaks. “You got through it though. I count that as smart.”

Is he trying to flatter me? “Is that so?” You close the app and open a different one, indifference dripping from your tone. “What about you then? You didn’t say anything about yourself. For all I know, you could be a serial killer.” Fuck. Did I really just say that?

To your surprise, he laughs. The bastard laughs. “I’m afraid I'm going to have to disappoint you. I’m not a serial killer. I am, however, a fan of the arts.”

You remove your eyes from your phone screen, looking up at him even with your head tilted downwards. “You don’t look the part.”

“I could say the same about you.”

“Those in STEM are all weirdos,” you state. Eyes move back to your phone, and you’re briefly reminded of the awkward lunches and dinners you went through during freshman year when you didn’t have friends. “The arts ones are pretentious. You look sophisticated, more like a theatre kid.”

Forearms now resting on the table, Chrollo leans towards you, an action you do not notice. “I’m quite sure that sophisticated and pretentious are synonyms, and even if they aren’t, they’re similar enough to be.”

You sigh. “‘A pretentious person works at the appearance of things. They want the appearance of substance, while either not understanding or not caring about actual substance. Sophistication, on the other hand, implies an authentic accumulation of knowledge and/or experience, and the ability to apply those things in advanced ways.’”

“...”

“That’s what an internet search says.” You look up, eyes slowly rising to meet his, but are startled when you see him considerably closer than earlier. He’s leaning forward, and out of instinct, you lean backwards. “So,” you continue, albeit nervously, “you’re wrong.”

Unfazed, he chuckles. “That means you think I have ‘authentically accumulated knowledge’. Why, I’m flattered.”

Again, you physically cringe with a crinkled nose at his smile and tone. “I’m only stating my observation. There are no intentions behind it.”

“Still,” Chrollo smiles, “you did think positively of me-”

“Food’s here!” He stops speaking immediately at your interruption, only shaking his head a little when you start eating. There’s not much time left for your break, so you’d rather get done with it and get back as fast as you can.

Not having the luxury of savouring the food to your desire is sad, but you don’t think about it. ‘Next time for sure,’ you tell yourself. The fact that Chrollo didn’t let you pay for your portion just makes you want to get takeout next time. At least you won’t stare at him in horror again.

Even if slowly being desensitised to ‘it’ isn’t a preferable outcome.

Good news is that you haven’t seen Chrollo for a little more than a week. Bad news is that you haven’t seen your coworker for a little more than a week.

If you had a jenny for whenever a superior at work disappeared for more than one week, you’d have two jennys. That isn’t a lot but it’s weird that it happened twice. There’s got to be some kind of haunting going on. First your boss, then him? Another coworker? Another superior?

Sure, it’s been more peaceful without him here, but you don’t want another person to end up missing just to be pronounced dead. Neither is it good for the company’s reputation, nor is it good for the work environment. There’s already been word spreading around that they’ve started looking for his replacement.

Maybe that’s smart. Maybe… because not even the police have found any leads on his whereabouts yet. His entire apartment is just as it was, dirty laundry in the laundry basket, his phone and wallet still on his nightstand, bed not made, food left to cool still on the kitchen counter…

It’s a little eerie if you think about it.

Scratch that, it’s downright creepy. Where could he have gone? They even found half drunk bottles of different alcoholic drinks on his dining table. Did he get drunk and run off somewhere? Where could he have gone? Did he… get killed?

You have no idea of what’s going on. That is why you, being the detective that you are, have your laptop open in front of you at 1 a.m. as you scrounge the internet for any missing persons cases from this town. So far nothing noteworthy is coming up, the most being missing girls but nothing about a grown man disappearing to never be heard back from or seen again.

An hour or two of more searching bears no fruit and an additional hour of trying to sleep is rewardless. With great annoyance, you get up and throw on the biggest coat you own, something dark grey that almost reaches your ankles. Grabbing your keys and phone, you make the most foolish decision to take a walk at what you think is probably four in the morning.

The pier is silent. The only person you saw was a police officer on his bike drinking a hot cup of coffee.

It’s empty too, and cold. Is the nighttime really so serene? Hands are shoved into your pockets and your feet bring you to your destination on their own. It feels like walking on cotton, yet it doesn’t feel bad. It somehow feels soothing.

The empty pier’s cool wind blows through your hair. Enjoying this kind of loneliness is somewhat of a liberating experience. Did your missing coworker seek out something like this before he went missing? Did he want to feel the kiss of the cool late night wind on his cheeks? You lean over to look at the waves below, hair cascading around your face. You are met with the reflection of the starry night sky, and it isn’t long before you pull back.

Fifteen minutes of waddling around are all you allow yourself before pulling yourself back home. The keychains jingle when you turn the key in the keyhole, breathing a sigh of relief when you are finally back inside. Your feet immediately take you to your bedroom, hands grabbing the coat and throwing it to the nearest surface, and you immediately jump under the covers.

Face meeting something pink and smiling, you sigh again. “Goodnight Isasmo.” The pink axolotl’s smile remains and you cuddle the plushie before snuggling into the bed’s warmth. You hope sleep comes easy.

Three weeks. It has now been three weeks since your coworker has been missing. He has now been promoted to ‘missing person’ and his face, along with his cinnamon(?) hair, is now on every other newspaper or screen. It has also been three weeks since you last saw Chrollo, but you aren’t bothered by that. It’s actually a good sign. Never seeing him again is a favourable outcome.

Regardless, your coworker’s name is now permanently etched into your memory. Raaz Olen. That's his name. He has no direct family left, parents having passed away around a decade ago, and the only sibling alive is an older sister who wants nothing to do with him. It's a sad background if you think about it.

You sigh, turning off the computer screen before rubbing your eyes. Life has been uneventful these days. The most exciting thing you recently did was video chat with your old friends. Your best friend, the one who is about to replace your position in her life, suggested downloading a dating app because according to her you need some ‘action’. Were the eight semesters of action not enough? What’s so wrong with peace?

Yet in a moment of weakness, you caved into the idea and committed the act. A cropped group photo to show your arm awkwardly cropped out was uploaded and now there have been quite a few messages and matches. This unfortunate experience has only further proved why you say you have bad luck with the male human specimen. Their first move is to ask about your past relationships, and being salty over their shamelessness, you recount in detail just how agonising it was to be in love with what only hurt you back, to pine after what only reduced you to tears.

You deliberately left out the part that the object of your desire was your degree. At the very least, their uninterested replies were entertaining. Ah, such laughable insecurity. The app will go when you’ve had your fun. Until then, you suppose you’ll use it as a last ditch resort for entertainment.

If you do end up scoring a free dinner… well, no. You would rather not risk a date with a serial killer or worse, someone who wants a second date. The chances are slim, but never zero.

Another notification from the app dings, and you briefly check your phone to see a notification from someone who matched with you. There’s a “Hey! You’re very pretty,” as his message, and you almost scoff at the repetition. The amount of times you have been called ‘pretty’ by strangers on this app is laughable. Did they fall short of words? Maybe that’s just the standard compliment in the world of men.

You end up placing your phone face down, ignoring any following dings, and get back to work. There is only one hour left until you get to go home, and you would prefer not to leave this task for tomorrow to complete.

An old lady you see everyday on the train on your way back passed away. Despite having only exchanged greetings with her a few times and carried her bags for her at least a dozen times, you felt oddly sad when you heard of her death. Yes, you only knew her name and that her kids, her three sons, never called after moving away, but you felt like something had been taken when you heard.

Not something big but something small. Something you would not be bothered with by being gone but something you would definitely notice and feel the absence of. You took a day off to attend her funeral since it was hosted by the old age home she was living in, yet you ended up taking a day off after that as well.

Three boys, three men, lost a mother that day and none bothered to show up.

“Okay mama. I’ll pick you guys up from the airport. No, I don’t own a car. We’ll get a cab- it’s perfectly safe here! You’re not going to get mugged on the way from the airport, relax!”

More fretting comes from the other side, and you simply continue stirring the soup. The worries aren’t what annoys you. It’s the panic.

After around ten more minutes of reassurance, the call is disconnected and your soup is ready. It’s been a month since Raaz went missing, yet you cannot say you have moved on. It bothers you that a man like him can just vanish. Also, seeing his replacement walk around the office simply makes it worse. You prefer a person who would make you uncomfortable with interactions because of how ‘it’ seems to be rather than a person whose eyes wander where they aren’t supposed to.

Alas, on this fine Friday evening, soup has been cooked and a plan for your parents to visit you at the end of the year has been made. Your father agreed to use his annual leave to come visit you, and the only thing left is for the tickets to be purchased. If they like it here, you could convince them to move here! Maybe even look into your father working at the same place as you.

All is going according to plan! Now what to do about the guy who keeps pestering you to meet up…

You switch apps on your phone to see that he’s sent another few messages, mainly asking if you’re free this weekend. If you consider the sleep you need to catch up on and the show you want to binge, then you have no free time. Besides that, you really don’t feel like going out on a date. Should you just uninstall the app? Messing with the people you matched with has gotten tiresome. Perhaps you should.

Thus, with a few taps to your screen, your account on the application is deleted and the application itself is uninstalled. Honestly, you consider that a job well done. That calls for a reward; the reward being a coupon that can be redeemed anytime which grants you permission to do one stupid thing.

You know you would do the stupid thing regardless, but having a sort of system like that makes you feel less guilty when facing the consequences.

Being pulled into an alleyway with a hand firmly planted onto your mouth is not what you ever could have expected to happen to you on this Monday afternoon. Maybe your condemnation for toying with all those men on the dating app has caught up or maybe it’s one of those men here to force you to accept his advances.

Either way, you did not expect to start crying first thing when in a situation like this.

A hand strokes your arm, attempting to soothe you, as the other remains over your mouth. You can feel your assailant’s body heat and his breath over your ear when he leans in to whisper in your ear. “Be quiet and it’ll be painless for both of us,” he says.

You furiously nod, sensing the threat, and he immediately lets go. Legs promptly spring to run, but the hand grabbing your arm renders your efforts futile. It is when your struggling ends in you falling onto the ground and him twisting your arm behind your back painfully that you relax, repeatedly tapping the dirty ground with your palm to show that you give up.

There are no faces that come to mind when you think of who you could've angered to this point, so the surprise that floods your blood vessels when you see Raaz’s face under the black hoodie makes you almost dizzy. His hair is dirty and unkempt, facial hair clearly not maintained as he was always clean shaved, and there’s a wildness to his eyes. You try your best to not pay attention to how ‘it’ is darker than before. You liken the difference to how dark brown is compared to beige, but you realise that ‘it’ is more menacing than it ever was.

Raaz is clearly unstable, yet you yourself can’t stop shaking from the lingering adrenaline.

“Stay quiet and listen to me,” he orders. “I need a place to hide. [Name], you have to help me. You will help me.”

Hide? What does he need to hide from? You dust off your clothes as you stand, a groan leaving your throat when the soreness in your arm makes itself known. He immediately grabs it again, afraid you’d run, but let’s go when you angrily shrug it off. “What happened to you?” you ask. “Everyone thinks you’re dead.”

“I will be if you don’t help me.”

Taken aback, you try to think over the situation. Raaz, someone who you always thought was or had the potential to be unstable, is here, clearly frazzled and on the run from something or someone, and wants you to help him hide. What does he want? To stay at your apartment? Risk your life for him?

“I-if it’s that bad,” you start, voice already shaking, “I can’t help you.” The betrayal on his face makes ‘it’ stronger, and you freeze, barely able to get your words out. “If you’re not able to hide in such a big city, I-I don’t- I don’t think you’ll be safe anywhere I can keep you.”

Raaz grits his teeth, his hoodie now pulled down to reveal dirty cinnamon hair, and takes a step forward. Out of fear, and to maintain distance, you take one back but panic when you’re unable to lift your feet. One glance down and you see something shiny protruding from the ground wrapped around your ankles. It broke pavement to crawl around your feet and now they’re stuck to the ground.

You gasp when two arms settle on your shoulders firmly. With a shaky breath, you gather the courage to look up into Raaz’s crazed eyes, all colour draining from your face when his hands grab your face instead. Nails dig into your cheeks, harshly tugging it closer to his. When you retaliate by clawing at his wrists, he simply grabs your hair instead.

Tugging the strands, your head is pulled back, neck exposed. You can see him breathing heavily, ‘it’ growing more erratic and frightening. Like all rabbits stuck in a trap, you thrash, attempting to free yourself from his grip, to miraculously free your feet and be able to run into the safety of the public street.

“You-” he pauses, eyes widening. Your hair is immediately let go of, and he whips his head at record speed, looking over his shoulder. The panic is oozing from his countenance, hands shaking and lips trembling. You think you’re looking at a man running away from death just to be caught up with at every corner and turn.

Curses spill from his mouth, and he turns completely. You feel the grip on your feet loosening, and taking the opportunity, you pry your feet out of the grip. Raaz has still turned his back to you, head moving as he searches for something. When he does not react to your escape from your restraints, you run.

A hand barely grabs your hair again, but you are out of the alleyway before his pursuit is successful. Feet hastily take you back to the office building, and the first thing you do is run to the nearest bathroom. No one is inside, and you take the opportunity to catch your breath, letting all tears escape from your eyes before you wash your face and fix your appearance. The adrenaline is still in your system, and you’re left not knowing what to do.

How the hell is Raaz still alive? And what is he running from? Why does he have a target on his back?

You do not know him beyond a coworker who was not over his relationship ending. Who knows? Maybe his ex-fiance did what she did because she found something out and didn’t want to risk staying with him.

Either way, you can’t get the look he had on his face out of your mind.

Embarrassment is all you can feel when you exit the police station with a ‘call emergency services if you see him again’. Why don’t they understand that you might not be alive to call emergency services if you see him again? Bitterness is in your mouth as you hop on the train to get home. It’s dark now, and you would be lying if you said you weren’t scared.

You honestly don’t know what you did wrong to have gotten caught up in all that. Regardless, you’re looking over your shoulder as you walk home from the station, adrenaline coursing through you as you make your way through. It’s when you’re home and have checked all the rooms and windows that you breathe a sigh of relief.

Whatever the hell happened, happened. You’ll keep emergency services on speed dial and try your best to dial them if anything happens again.

If only sleep comes easy after all this.

It’s been a week since your encounter with Raaz. Today is Tuesday, the previous week’s Monday being the fateful day. You’ve since been bringing lunch from home like before and find it a little funny how Raaz is the one who’s making you bring leftovers again.

Anyway, to the matter at hand. Someone’s been inside your apartment.

You can tell because you left a pencil lead in the gap between the door and door frame of your closed bedroom door. It was still closed when you got home, but the pencil lead was broken and on the floor which is something that could not have happened unless someone opened the door with the lead still in the gap.

You had been doing that ever since the incident with Raaz and today is the day your paranoia proved to have grounds. Now what are you supposed to do? Live with the information that someone has been inside your home?

Isasmo stares at you from under the covers, his dopy black eyes peeking out. You’ve checked the rest of your apartment and other than Isasmo and you, there is no one. Or at least no one you are aware of. Maybe you should look into moving.

Should you inform the police? Maybe you should, but what would you say? “I was paranoid so I put pencil lead in the gap between my door like a psychopath and guess what? It was broken when I got home! I’m being stalked!” They might laugh at you or place you under observation, the latter of which is preferable.

You end up sucking up the courage and going to file a report, a picture of the broken pencil lead on the ground being your only piece of evidence. It’s an uneventful walk, one where you are completely alert and looking over your shoulder as you get to the nearest station. After being ridiculed for being ‘delusional’ and ‘overthinking’, they agree to file a report and ‘look into it’ when threatened to find your dead body in your apartment one day. Seriously, what does a girl have to do to be believed? Die?

You shake your head on the way home as you think over your conversation at the police station. The older officers ridiculed you but thankfully a younger one got them to at least file a report. Though you’ve been told you’ll be contacted if their investigation yields results, you doubt there will be one to begin with. Well, at least the pencil lead was intact when you got home. That is a relief.

It’s been a little more than a week since you filed a report at the police station and none of your pencil leads have been broken again. You would have thought the first one to break might’ve been done by something else had you not noticed that you’re almost out of pencil lead. You had counted 7 in the package just this morning and now there are 4…

Who’s messing with you? Do they think it’s funny? What if you’re paranoid? Are you sure you counted properly?

A sigh leaves your lips as you drop backwards onto the bed. Is this really what you have been reduced to? Curse whoever is doing this. The police have not contacted you again, so you went there yourself today and they said they didn’t find anything. As if they actually searched.

It makes you mad, yet you can’t do anything. Since there hasn’t been anything besides the pencil leads in the closed doors’ gaps, you chalk it up to suspicion. Whether you are delusional or the authorities, only time can tell.

Work has been slow lately, and you are reminded every single day of how boring your life has become. There has been no new gossip circulating and your attempts at making any new friends have not bore fruit. Your old friends have also started contacting you less as they’re busy in their own lives. Sure, you hardly have time yourself with how your job takes up two thirds of your day but you also don’t have a social life. That’s why you basically have nothing to do besides work and binge watch stuff.

Goodness, are you turning into your father? The temptation to download the dating app again whispers into your ear sometimes, but you fight it. You will only do so when you are seriously looking for someone, not when you are looking for fun.

Bag on your shoulders, you pocket your phone and head to the elevator. Despite the fact that there isn’t much work, it’s dark when you’re done. Maybe you’ve gotten slow, not work.

The elevator doors open and you promptly leave, heading straight for the train station. It's an uneventful journey, and you choose to fill the silence by plugging in your earbuds. You step out of the train station, adjust your bag again, and head for the supermarket. The grocery list on your phone is pulled out, music flowing into your ears as you go about getting groceries.

Now with two plastic bags in hand, you make your way home. If you had restocked milk earlier - and not gotten lazy - you wouldn't have to haul two heavy plastic bags back home. Delivery is an option, but you won't be at home during the day to receive them. If only they offered delivery during the weekend.

Your phone rings, but you don't check who's calling. It's probably your mother, and it would be inconvenient to stop and drop the bags to pull your phone out. With a sigh, you continue walking. However, your trek is cut short when a hand grabs your wrist in a crushing grip, and pulls you closer. The music is still blasting in your ears, and you start sucking in a breath to scream only to stop when the grip turns almost bone breaking.

One look and you see Raaz's face under the black hood. He narrows his eyes at you and pulls you with him, bags still in hand and earbuds still in. When at his desired destination - a random alley like last time - you are pushed in front of him and you almost fall face first. You brace yourself and end up staggering but the bags fall and slide in opposite directions.

“Bad news, [Name].”

You barely hear him, hands reaching to pull out the earbuds and pocket them. Turning on your heel, you face him. He doesn't look any better than last time, only worse. ‘It’ is quieter, but you can sense how erratic it is. It feels like he's hiding how unstable he is only to do a poor job.

“You're going to go down with me,” he smiles. “Since you refused to help me hide, you now have a target on your back too.”

Disbelief contorts your expression into one of disgust. He's bluffing. He has to be. “Stop lying, Raaz. I'm not stupid and I'm not going to help you.”

He laughs, loud and sad. “That's what your mistake was. You never said yes to lunch and then I… then I ended up drinking again because another woman I love didn't want me.” A hand runs through his dirty hair before it slides down his hood. “I drank so much I bumped into the devil I was running from. And then… ah, fuck. I ended up telling him who I was thinking it was just another guy at the bar.”

Raaz looks you in the eye, and you take a step back from the sheer intensity only to find your feet restrained to your ground like during the previous encounter. It baffles you, but before you could question it or let alone panic, he's talking again.

“Now you're going to go down with me unless you help me. I'll let you go. I-I’ll get over you and Liza if you help me. You won't be harmed… probably.” He shrugs at the last part, and you find yourself not believing him at all.

Still, you prod further in hopes of making a false promise and being able to get away. There's no need to reason with him to go to the authorities. If it could've been helped, he would've gone there himself. “And just what,” you ask, “are you asking of me?”

“Money,” he replies instantly. “I burned all my savings trying to run. I need money so I can get a ticket and get the hell out of here.”

“I don't even know what you're talking about. How do you expect me to trust you?”

Your question makes ‘it’ flare up for a second before calming down, and Raaz doesn't miss the way your eyes widened for a minute. “I suspect you can see things. I'm right, aren't I?”

“Answer the questi-”

“Your legs,” he deadpans. A finger raises to point at your feet, and he continues. “I restrained them. Do you know how?”

You gulp, but humour him anyway. “How?”

He smiles. “I can manipulate metal.” A beat of silence passes before he talks. “That's why I'm like this. Someone wants me dead for this and I know he can do better but he's too busy fucking with me to make it quick.” Raaz inhales sharply, running a hand through his hair again. “I don't even know what he wants by dragging it out, but I'm going to make sure he regrets it.”

“You aren't even sure I'll be okay if I help you,” you state.

However, he just smiles at your complaint. “When someone's too busy chasing the big fish, they ignore the little ones.”

“Fine,” you concede. If it’ll get this psycho off your back, you'll give him money. “How much do you need?”

“Half a million jenny,” he says, clarifying when your jaw hangs open, “and I'm being generous. I'm going to have to fly illegally and it's going to take money.”

“I… I don't have much.”

“You're a data analyst, [Name]. You'll get your bonus after two months. Do something, anything.”

You suck in a breath. Maybe you could take some out of your credit card and some as a loan. You really don't want to pay interest, but you'll have to if you want this problem solved. “Okay.” The deal is sealed and you are sent on your merry way with an address typed into your notes app.

You can't believe you just agreed to that.

It's dark and quiet. The taxi dropped you off a few blocks away, leaving you to walk to the warehouses that once used to be rented by people for storage. The people running the business sold it off to someone who never bothered to continue it. Now you're here, cold and scared as you stand outside the dilapidated structure.

The garage door opens on its own, Raaz's face peeking from the darkness inside. His eyes light up at the sight of you. “You're here.”

You're ushered inside despite your protests. All you wanted to do was throw the bag of money to his feet and be back on your merry way but you just had to be pulled inside by a freaking metal pole of all things. Now you're here, standing with your feet restrained to the ground as Raaz counts to make sure you brought as much as he asked.

The only problem is, he's now talking on the phone and he just mentioned how he's got ‘both the girl and the cash’. Oh, and now there's something that's restraining your hands and despite how much you wiggle and pry your hands apart, it doesn't budge.

When Raaz glances your way from staring at all the money inside the bag, he just smiles. “I'm sorry for dragging you into this, [Name], but a man's gotta do what he's gotta do.”

Anger is the first thing that makes itself known because you took out a loan with interest for this dunce and he goes ahead to stab you in the back. Maybe you should've told the police about him. Shit. You shouldn't have been so stupid. But it is also the police's fault for never taking you seriously. If they had, you would've actually sought them out a third time.

“What are you doing?” Your voice grows louder, angrier and more desperate. “Let me go! You said you wanted money and you got it so let me go!”

Raaz clicks his tongue, and what he says next makes things clearer. “Don't get me wrong, someone has been after me but if I do as the boss says, he'll get me out of Yorbia safely.” Something fades in his eyes as he continues. “It's not like it's my first time. If I didn't have this side gig, I wouldn't be alive right now. There are too many people after you when you're like this.”

Something hard and solid slithers up your body and covers your mouth, cutting short any words from your mouth. Raaz stands, the light behind him hitting his back to make him look more menacing. “You'll be taken soon. I asked them not to hurt you and sell you immediately. Though cruel, it's a small price to pay for my own protection.”

You can hear an engine rumble outside, and a buzz in his pocket is all he needs to start stepping towards the garage door behind you. He moves while looking at you, hand awkwardly reaching behind him to pull up the garage door as his eyes remain fixed on your body. “Tie her up quickly. It'll wear off if I look away so make it-”

Thump.

Something heavy drops onto the ground and immediately the metal grip on you loosens a little. You can hear footsteps and a kick before the sound of the door closing. It's agonising, being forced to be still and helpless while something happens behind your back that is definitely not in your favour.

More footsteps and a figure in black stalks towards the bag of money only to ignore it entirely and head for the door in the back. You take the opportunity to fight against the restraints, wiggling and trying to move your arms but it's metal and you only end up exhausting yourself. You hear a sigh from the other room and freeze.

When the person is back, you are more confused and helpless when you see Chrollo's face. This time, there is nothing covering his forehead and you see something black covered by his bangs. It's when he steps closer that you make it out to be a tattoo of some kind.

“Your involvement was a surprise, but a welcome one,” he says. ‘It’ is calm and his voice is even calmer. He steps even closer, now standing just two steps away. “I had thought you were working with him, so imagine my surprise when it turns out he was using you. Or trying to, at least.”

You make a face but the metal wrapped around your mouth stops you from being able to convey it properly. Chrollo smiles at the display, the corners of his lips curling upwards out of amusement. “Do you need help?” His question only makes you grimace. “I'll free you if you tell me about your ability.”

You have no idea what the hell he's talking about, but you nod anyway, desperate to have the rigid metal wrapped around you gone. Chrollo steps forward and you expect him to reveal a chainsaw or some other tool, so it's perfectly reasonable when you shriek as his hand grabs the metal and literally rips it away from your body. As he pries away the last of it, you end up gaping at him, mouth wide open as you stare at him in disbelief.

Hands hanging by your sides, your features contort into one of fear as soon as he stands. Chrollo is now looking you in the eye expectantly and you have no idea what to answer him. Thus, you take a deep breath, confidence coming from the fact that ‘it’ is still calm and not threatening at all. Your lips part to speak and you briefly catch a hint of satisfaction is his grey eyes. “Do you… come here often?”

Chrollo blinks, once then twice. He raises a brow. “Pardon me?”

“You know… do you hang out here frequently?”

Confusion grows on his face, but he quickly recovers. “No. I don't.” A few moments of silence pass and he speaks up with a sigh. “You're completely clueless about the circumstances, aren't you?”

Embarrassment heats up your cheeks and you look down at your shoes as you nod. Nervousness makes you bite your lip. You were about to be who-knows-what by Raaz before Chrollo strolled in casually. Speaking of, where's Raaz? You turn around, eyes falling onto Raaz lying on the floor and a hat discarded next to him. A realisation hits you, a hand on your shoulder disturbing your thoughts.

“What do you make of this situation, [Name]? What do you think is going on?”

You carefully eye him. Not sensing a threat, you voice your thoughts. “Raaz… was involved in illegal activities. It's why he disappeared. He was running from someone too and the people he worked for promised that he'd be safe as long as he did what they asked.”

Chrollo hums. “And what did they ask of him?”

“A woman to sell off…?”

“You sound unsure,” he smiles. The hand on your shoulder slips down to your wrist, thumb massaging the skin. “He was involved in human trafficking,” Chrollo reveals. “His fiancé didn't cheat on him. She was trafficked.”

Your eyes widen in surprise, more pieces of the puzzle coming out of nowhere. Nevertheless, the most surprising thing is how Chrollo is here. The hand circled around your wrist is wiggled out of, and the question on your mind is voiced. “How are you here?”

Chrollo tilts his head at you. “I could ask you the same.” When you raise a brow at him, he chuckles. “I'm here for your coworker over there. He told you about someone who was after him. That would be me. However, I'm not after his life.”

You raise your brow higher, prompting Chrollo to continue. “You’re a Nen user, right?” When you ask him what he's talking about, he grows more confused. “You're a Nen user without the awareness of being one? Interesting.”

A hand finds its way to his chin, but Chrollo is lost in thought for only a few moments. “What do you suppose I should do with your coworker? He used to ask you out, correct?”

“Yes? Does that matter?”

“Perhaps,” he smiles.

You gulp, sensing a kind of game he's playing with you. “Don't hurt him. Hand him over to the police. They'll… they'll know what to do with him.” Your request is heard, but Chrollo does not seem to care for it because he clicks his tongue and pushes his hands into the pockets of his black trenchcoat.

Crouching down in front of Raaz, he grabs his hand and you look away. A moment later, you look again and Raaz's palm is flat against the cover of a book in Chrollo's hand. Where the hell that book came from, you have no idea.

“Now that that's done,” he says, now moving to stand, “what to do with you…”

Your blood runs cold at the question. If this situation is anything to go by, Chrollo is not any better than Raaz. In fact, he may be infinitely worse. Regardless, you still do not feel any kind of threat from him, ‘it’ being considerably less suffocating than it was the last time you had met him. Perhaps it is the lingering adrenaline that makes it seem so, but you are not afraid of him at the moment. Thus, being the person that you are, you try at making him spare you.

“Maybe,” you start, “you could, you know, let me go home. I'm not going to say or do anything. I couldn't be bothered about this. I'll take the jenny I was scammed out of and go home. Or you could keep the money if you want! As long as I get to go back home.”

Your negotiation attempt makes Chrollo think. He spends a few moments pondering over the situation, eyes still focused on you. When he parts his lips to speak, you have already prepared yourself to not be let go. “I'll let you go if you agree to meet me tomorrow evening. I suppose I can think over what to do with you in the meantime,” Chrollo says.

The offer makes you take a step back. “Really? You won't scam me like Raaz did?”

“I can make a promise if it eases your mind.”

You bite the inside of your cheek. He's smiling at you teasingly and you in no way are feeling any sense of danger from him. Begrudgingly, you agree. “Fine. Where should I meet you?”

“Give me your number. I'll send you the location.”

You make a face at the request, but surrender when he pesters you with promises of no ill will. An hour later, you are at your apartment, the bag of jenny still with you as you start planning to immediately pay off the loan you took out.

It is 7 pm. You stand somewhere to the side where Chrollo had asked you to come, the man in question nowhere to be seen. He asked you to come around 7 pm and you ended up getting here at 6:36 pm. It’s been 24 minutes since you’ve been standing here in wait.

Though you’ve been waiting alone with your thoughts for so long, the dread starts settling in now. It does not help that you can feel a familiar suffocating aura before you turn to look at its source casually strolling up to you on the busy street. It also does not help that your alarm had been explicitly painted on your face as soon as he was within a 6 feet radius.

“I was expecting you to not come,” he says. “This is certainly a surprise.” Chrollo smiles at you again, the curve of his lips somehow more menacing than the darkness around him. There’s a hat covering his forehead like before, you note. It seems that he certainly wants to hide the tattoo in public.

“I suppose my life is on the line. I would rather not walk around with another target on my back. You don’t seem like someone I would want after me, if Raaz’s condition was anything to go by.”

“An excellent deduction. I’m not someone you would want coming after you, at least not for your life or ability.” You gulp his clarification, proceeding to ask what he concluded for the course of action he must take. Chrollo chooses to let a few moments of silence pass, listening to the bustle on the busy street before replying, “I’ll tell you in due time. First…”

That is how almost half an hour later you are sitting at a restaurant, Chrollo across you, and a menu in front of you. What the hell is going on, you have no idea. You came here to find out if you’re going to be kidnapped or killed. Not to be taken out for dinner. When asked what you’d like to have, you insist that you aren’t hungry, something that Chrollo makes it a point to ignore as he ends up ordering for you. It is even more disorienting when it ends up being something you’ve had multiple times for lunch during the workdays.

“So,” you start, nervousness seemingly dripping from your countenance, “I suppose the final verdict will be given for dessert?” When Chrollogives no answer, you continue. “At least give me a hint. Death or imprisonment?”

He blinks at you. “It’s a surprise.” With that simple statement, he is back to observing you, one hand on the table and tracing the rim of the glass tumblr in front of him. “I hope Isasmo isn’t worried about your circumstances.”

Ah shit, he remembers. “Nope. He doesn’t know.”

“You hid everything? I suppose that’s reasonable. An axolotl wouldn’t be able to help in any way.”

Your eyes widen, heartbeat picking up. “You… how do you know?”

Chrollo’s response is simple, but it isn’t any less chilling. “You talk to him everyday.” He’s still watching you, eyes crinkling at the corners from his amused smile. It’s maddening having to be on the receiving end of this. When you do not grace him with a response, Chrollo does not say anything further as well.

The silence is excruciatingly painful. Chrollo's gaze, however, is more uncomfortable than being called out in class for an answer and not knowing it. Thus, a bright idea pops into your mind, a legendary question that easily makes any conversation better. “So,” you start, bracing yourself, “you like jazz?”

The only reaction you get is speechlessness before Chrollo clears his throat. “Not particularly. You?”

You shake your head. “Not my style.”

Resting your face in your palm, you look away, eyes anywhere but him. The surroundings seem more interesting, the two couples and a few lone people in the background having more to tell than the person you thought was going to end up hurting you. Well, it’s not your fault you got caught in the crossfire of whatever was going on.

“What,” Chrollo says, perking you up, “was your relationship with Raaz?” He’s tracing the rim of the glass again, something that bothers you because of the discrepancy between the action and his expression. Regardless, you answer truthfully. There is no guarantee he already knows and is simply testing your truthfulness.

“He was my coworker. He used to ask me out for lunch numerous times. That’s all.”

“And did you go to lunch with him?”

You shake your head. “No.”

Chrollo simply makes a thinking face before he’s back to normal again, hands sliding underneath the table. Silence once again hangs in the air, the tension thick enough to be cut through with a knife. You are completely unaware of Chrollo’s aims and motives, yet he knows you more than you could have ever thought.

Which reminds you…

“Chrollo.” He perks up at the call of his name instantly. You continue. “Someone was most definitely coming into my apartment during my absence. Was that you?”

The smile he gave you told you everything. A groan comes from your throat, the annoyance over being paranoid and doubting yourself while being sure that something was amiss catching up. “And just why were you breaking and entering?”

He clicks his tongue. “I thought you were working with Raaz.”

“Yet when you didn’t find anything the first time, you still persisted.”

“New evidence can pop up anytime,” he shrugs.

How someone can be so nonchalant over something like this, you have no idea. Sure, you were worried at first but annoyed later on, but still!

“So have you decided what to do with me?”

After a moment of contemplation, you are given a smile and a promise to be informed of your inevitable outcome after dinner. Yet after dinner you are taken to a nearby pier with no sign of the final verdict being given anytime soon. Now settled on a bench next to Chrollo, the little distance between you both resulting from your death glares whenever he slid close to you, you decide to enjoy the cool breeze before asking him again.

And you do. You ask him again what he’s decided to do with you, and all you are given before the knowledge of your inevitable end is a smile and a tilted head. This is when you notice how long Chrollo’s hair is.

“I was considering an… ‘arrangement’,” he says. The words cause your heart to start beating faster. “I wouldn’t harm a hair on your head or your family if you agree.”

He pauses, gauging your reaction, and you start praying he does not turn you into some kind of personal slave. “If,” he continues, making you start fidgeting with your hands out of nervousness, “you agree, you’ll live comfortably without a care in the world.” Another pause and the anticipation grows. The sound of chatter in the background is completely mute and the wind has already stopped blowing.

“What I’m proposing is… well, you allow me to court you. I will take the necessary steps, and you simply have to accept.”

The minute Chrollo utters those words, you freeze. A reply is on the tip of your tongue, and you know it is not a wise idea yet you open your mouth anyway. “If you wanted to ask me out so badly, you could’ve just walked up to me and asked instead of threatening to kill me or my family.”

All you receive in response is a shrug before he formulates a reply. “Would you have said yes if I asked under normal circumstances?”

“No.”

“Then my point has been proven.”

You bite the inside of your cheek. Maybe you should test the waters. “And what if I said no? What then?”

Chrollo leans back on the backrest, now more comfortable before he continues his negotiation with you. “Was Raaz’s predicament not enough of an example?” The wind blows again, and he leans forward, eyes on the water. “Not that I would prefer that, but you understand what I’m referring to.”

And you do understand what he’s referring to. You understand because you saw what became of Raaz. Nevertheless, you need more information to negotiate. Perhaps you might be able to find a way out during his ‘courting’. “Are you a homeowner,” you ask. “And do you live in the house you own?”

Chrollo looks at you from the periphery of his vision, suspicion making him more alert. “No, but I can purchase a home anytime.”

“Alright,” you nod. “And do you have a stable income?”

“As long as the world has treasure and resources, I will.”

“I see.” You pause, thinking of more questions to ask. “What about family? How much family do you have? Any siblings?”

“None,” he replies, “Any other questions?” He’s looking at you directly now. “Or would you like to leave some things to be discovered later on?”

You purse your lips at the comment. So he has money and no family. Sounds mighty suspicious or concerning. Depends how you look at it. You’re looking at it both ways. Silence settles once again as you think over what to say next. Chrollo seems content to leave you with your thoughts, as he doesn’t make any move to break the silence.

But when the silence is broken, it is broken by your capitulation. Chrollo is pleased as expected, yet there is no sign of relief or contentment on your end. Perhaps you could purposely make the relationship fail, and then he might let you go. At the very least, this arrangement is better than having your parents and yourself hunted down by a criminal.

It has been 3 entire weeks since you accepted Chrollo’s conditions. Your job is going fine, boring as usual, and seeing Raaz’s replacement still reminds you of the feeling of cold metal restraining you and keeping you in place.

It’s maddening, having to relive that feeling everyday. However, what’s worse is seeing Chrollo inside your apartment numerous times a week, mostly when you come home from work. He hasn’t made a move to stay the night yet, always excusing himself to ‘work’ or saying something along the lines of you not being ready for that step. It’s not that you’re ungrateful for it, but you don’t like being indirectly told that he pulls the strings and holds the power.

That’s why you’re here. Everything in the past several weeks has led to this and the tension and stress of those weeks has boiled down to reveal someone very tired and just a little spiteful. You knew he was someone to stay away from, and you did stay away from him. Or tried to at least.

“You said you wanted to speak to me about something?”

The devil has voiced your intentions, and you are now obliged to jump straight to the point. Having just got off work, you’re tired and a bit annoyed due to the lack of proper sleep. Despite that, you suck in a breath, continue strolling with him in the park, and give your response.

“We should break up,” you say, a sense of finality in your words that conveys your message that you shan’t be swayed in your decision. “Or stop this, considering this isn’t a normal relationship.” You had refused to hold his hand today, saying you want to keep them shoved into your pockets since they’re cold. They are currently sweating. “I don’t love you, and I don’t feel any bit comfortable. Continuing this would just make the both of us miserable.”

The break up dialogue sounded better in the TV shows you’ve watched, but you let it slide and continue. “Let’s just… see other people, okay? You’re probably just lonely. You said you have no family, and I can’t be the replacement. I don’t feel it working. I don’t feel loved and I sure as hell can’t love back.”

There is silence before Chrollo stops in front of you. He turns, facing you, and you are suddenly reminded of the children playing nearby and your bag being on his shoulders. “Is it because you remember the circumstances? If that’s the case, I can make you forget them.”

“What? No, that’s not what I meant.” You flex your sweating palms inside your pockets, nervousness skyrocketing. “I just… it’s not working Chrollo.” There is desperation in your voice now. “You may find this arrangement fulfilling, but it’s not the case for me. I don’t even know what you do for a living! I don’t know your last name and-” You cut yourself off. You’ve gone off-topic.

“What I’m saying is,” you continue, “I’m certain this isn’t working out. We should go our separate ways.”

Silence once again settles, but it is soon broken by the sound of footsteps. With your head down, you see Chrollo’s shoes when he walks up to you. A hand on your chin raises your head to meet his eyes, and you gulp out of nervousness when his lips part to speak. “The condition was that I would court you and you would accept. There was no room for rejection to begin with.”

He pauses, looking for any reaction on your face. When he fails, he continues. “If you don’t feel loved, you should communicate instead of breaking up. A relationship thrives when both parties communicate, right?”

You brush off his hold, lips twisting in slight disgust. “You aren’t getting my point-”

“Explain it to me then.”

“I just did.”

“Your argument lacks claim and reason. It isn’t even an argument to begin with.”

A frustrated groan and you bring your hands out of your pockets. With a few slaps to your cheeks, you try again. “I don’t like you and I can’t stand you. If this wasn’t something that came as a result of what happened to Raaz and I met you as a stranger and ‘it’ wasn’t as creepy as it was, I might’ve given you the time of day but none of it happened!” Chrollo looks at you like you’ve grown two heads during your outburst, but you do not care. “Chrollo, you creep me out and I don’t like you. I can’t accept you and fall in love with you. What more do you not understand?”

He blinks, once then twice, before grabbing your shoulders. The action makes you freeze, the suffocating feeling from ‘it’ growing and becoming more visible and menacing now prevailing. “Elaborate on ‘it’.” The grip on your shoulders slides down to your arms but you do not feel any less threatened. Maybe that’s why he never stayed the night. You’re too frightened at times.

“There’s… something around you.” Revealing this feels wrong, but you know you have no choice now. “It’s dark, the darkest I’ve seen yet on any person. It’s scary and overwhelming and I don’t like it. Sometimes it’s calm and tolerable and sometimes it’s huge. It doesn’t have anything to do with emotions, or that’s what I think.”

Chrollo hums, letting you go. ‘It’ does not simmer down until a few more minutes pass, and he only speaks after it does. “It’s your Nen ability. You cannot see Nen, but your ability is an exception.”

“What do you mean?”

Chrollo glances around before stepping closer. He points to his right palm with his eyes and in a moment, a book suddenly just appears in his hold. Any questions on your end are silenced with the excuse of being in a public space. The only answer you get that evening is that the book is Chrollo’s ability.

Any further probing is told off immediately. Chrollo does not wish to say anything further, changing the topic promptly and continuing to converse like you did not just attempt to break up with him. The lingering fear from his threats slowly starts seeping in, and you once again grow bewildered over how your circumstances have changed.

You're in the kitchen when Chrollo says you need to pack your bags. He had gotten up from the living room sofa and strolled into the kitchen when he broke the news. Now, as he stands in front of you, your back to the counter, and recounts the essentials you need to pack, you blankly nod. Everything is a blur. You cannot control your actions, only watch them like a third party.

He turns his back to you now, sighing at your silence, but before he can take a step forward, you plunge a knife into his back. The silence is deafening, but when you pull out the blade to see your handiwork, you are greeted with only a handle.

The blade sits in Chrollo's palm, and he's looking directly at you.

All your muscles are frozen, and you cannot discern whether the ringing in your ears is from the adrenaline or from being stared down. Minutes pass this way, and it is only when you throw the handle somewhere to the side that it subsides.

“Pack the essentials,” Chrollo says, his voice cutting through the silence. You’re now noticing the TV is turned off. “We’ll leave tomorrow.”

You just noticed Chrollo’s palm is unscathed. How odd.

#yandere chrollo lucilfer #yandere chrollo x reader #yandere chrollo #chrollo x reader #chrollo lucifer x reader #yandere hunter x hunter

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tell-them-the-north-remembers · 4 months

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Tyrion IV ASOS / Portrait of A Lady by Remzi Taşkıran / Eddard XV AGOT / Portrait of A Lady by Sir Francis Bernard Dicksee / War and Peace by Leo Tolstoy / Semper Vivit Amor by Eugen von Blaas / Bang Bang (My Baby Shot Me Down) by Cher / Penitent Magdalene by Antonio Ciseri / The Colossus by Sylvia Plath / Sunspear by Juan Carlos Barquet

Martell Week Day 1 - Favorite Martell: Princess Elia Nymeros Martell of Dorne

#martell week #elia martell #elia nymeros martell #elia of dorne #web weaving #asoiaf #a song of ice and fire #house martell

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wastrelwoods · 1 year

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abigail hobbs + paintings

1X09, “trou normand” // john william waterhouse, the crystal ball (1902)

gustave moreau, study for lady macbeth (1851) // 1X03, “potage”

1X09, “trou normand” // egon schiele, death and the maiden (1915)

bartolome esteban murillo, penitent magdalene (1650) // 1X03, “potage”

2X12, “mizumono” // caravaggio, the sacrifice of isaac (1603)

[pt 1: alana]

#nbc hannibal #abigail hobbs #art comparatives #web weaving #FADserver #hannibal edit #i DO just keep making these every day #workin on a will one....hewwo

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everybodyloveshippos · 12 days

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The Masked Lady, combined aspect of the sibling gods Eilistraee and Vhaeraun

Female and male, moonlight and darkness, sword and stealth-working hand in hand to return the drow to the World Above, just as the goddess has decreed. -The Lady Penitent

(when u kill ur brother but also absorb him a lil)

#drow #eilistraee #vhaeraun #clare's art #lady penitent #forgotten realms

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godsspecialestlittleguyskirmish · 4 months

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The bracket is here! Full list of matches under the cut! If there is any information that would disqualify a contestant, please let me know!

Furina [Focalors] (Genshin Impact) vs Neku Sakuraba [Joshua/Yoshiya Kiryu] (The World Ends With You)

Rand al'Thor [The Creator] (The Wheel of Time) vs Hua Cheng [Xie Lian] (Heaven Official's Blessing)

Waxillium Ladrian [Harmony] (Mistborn) vs Rei/Akari [Arceus] (Pokémon Legends: Arceus)

Jonathan Sims [The Ceaseless Watcher/The Eye] (The Magnus Archives) vs Anakin Skywalker [The Force] (Star Wars)

Kirby [Kirby] (Kirby) vs Jayfeather [Starclan] (Warrior Cats)

Scout [Christian God] (Team Fortress 2) vs Mobei-Jun [Shang Qinghua/Airplane Shooting Towards The Sky] (The Scum Villain's Self-Saving System)

Temenos Mistral [Aelfric the Flamebringer] (Octopath Traveler 2) vs The Hollow Knight [The Pale King] (Hollow Knight)

Optimus Prime [Primus] (Transformers) vs Eugenides [Eugenides] (The Queen's Thief)

Yoo Joonghyuk [The Oldest Dream/Kim Dokja] (Omniscient Reader's Viewpoint) vs Xie Lian [Jun Wu] (Heaven Official's Blessing)

Kiriona Gaia [John Gaius] (The Locked Tomb) vs Dean Winchester [Chuck/Christian God] (Supernatural)

Link [Hylia] (The Legend of Zelda) vs Simon Petrikov [Golb/Golbetty] (Fionna and Cake)

Aeneas [Venus] (Virgil's Aeneid/Homer's Iliad) vs Kim Dokja [tls123 + Uriel] (Omniscient Reader's Viewpoint)

Harrowhark Nonagesimus [John Gaius] (The Locked Tomb) vs The Dark Urge [Bhaal + Jergal] (Baldur's Gate 3)

Cecil Gershwin Palmer [Huntokar] (Welcome to Night Vale) vs Ezra Bridger [The Force] (Star Wars Rebels)

Joker/Akira Kurusu/Ren Amamiya [Yaldabaoth] (Persona 5) vs Jesus Christ [Christian God/his dad] (The Bible)

Shadowheart [Lady Shar] (Baldur's Gate 3) vs The Penitent One [The Twisted One] (Blasphemous)

#any poll blogs following youre welcome to rb this since its been so long since i started this

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em-writes-stuff-sometimes · 10 months

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a sin you were made for │Daemon Targaryen x Daughter!Reader

See my Masterlist for more works!

Please note: this is a ONE-SHOT unrelated to my terms of endearment series.

Synopsis: Your stepmother Rhaenyra thinks it is time you get married. Your father disagrees.

Um, I’m really sorry about this one. It’s awful. Thank you to @ewanmitchellcrumbs and @randomdragonfires for being my unwilling victims during the writing. Some notes: you are Laena and Daemon’s firstborn daughter in this one, born before Baela and Rhaena. As such, this is POC reader, though I hope it can be - well, not enjoyed - by everyone. Plus, this is technically ‘smut’, but it’s arguably the worst thing I’ve ever written so if you ain’t into it I do NOT blame you.

Triggers: non-con, NON-CON, incest, age gap, breeding kink, forced breeding kink, major angst, Daemon’s a creep and a bad man, and a bad father, and overall bad.

“Do you love me, my girl?”

“Yes, Papa,” you say, lip quivering.

There is no man quite like Daemon Targaryen. He is vicious and unrelenting as he is warm and doting, a being of such utter extremes that one’s head may very well spin off its mount before truly comprehending the individual before them. Sometimes it is frightening to linger in his presence; he has a way about him that keeps you forever guessing, unsure of which side of the coin he has landed upon at any given moment. You see, his capriciousness does not spare you—not even you, his eldest, the apple of his eye. Today, you sense that it is one of those days.

He snorts, eyes cold.

“Your stepmother wants to arrange a match for you,” he muses, almost to himself. The calm of his tone unsettles you, unnerves you. “Some cunt from the Vale, methinks. Tell me”—he leans forward at this, fingers clasped together like a penitent’s, only you know he will never be sorry—“is that something you want?”

You swallow. “No, Papa.”

His brow quirks. “No? You don’t want a strapping young lad from the Snakewood to make you his wife? Fuck a few pug-nosed, brown-haired vipers into you? Hm?”

Your heart sinks. No, no, no… You hate it when he gets like this.

“No, Papa,” you try again. It comes out as a whisper.

“No.” He sits back, a darkly pleased tilt playing at the corners of his mouth. “That’s what I told Rhaenyra. Alas, she’s quite determined. Thinks it’s unnatural for a young lady your age to take company with her father. Do you think she’s jealous?”

“I—I cannot say.”

Baela and Rhaena had bonded well enough with your stepmother, folding easily into something resembling family, but you… Long has she watched you with carefully assessing eyes, darting back and forth between you and her husband, suspicion written in the planes of her visage but never voiced. You wish she had. Perhaps he would never have stumbled into your rooms soused on wine after celebrating the announcement of little Viserys’s impending arrival; perhaps he would never have seen you there, asleep, so much like your lady mother (and oh, how you miss her laugh and the sound of her heartbeat thumping through her chest and the riotous spring of silver curls smelling of rich Myrish spices even now); perhaps he would never have conceived the notion to claim this fresh Targaryen maiden, because Targaryen maidens belong to Targaryen princes and he was a Prince in all but deed, and so you had belonged to him before you truly knew what it meant for bodies to conquer, to take all and leave nothing behind. Perhaps you would never have awakened to the leaden weight of man over you, foreign fingers pressing between your legs where they ought not to go, this part of you is for your husband one day, dearest, you are to save it for your marriage, but one look up at the glow of pale hair in silver moonlight and the face you had known and loved so well contorted wild and sinister—lust, it is called, you know this now—and you had quailed, for is it not a daughter’s duty to be good and obey her father? And so he had brought the parts of himself you knew not the name of and pried your own open, apart, asunder, hand shoved up against your mouth to quell the sounds sprung from your belly at the agony of it, too much, Father, it’s too much, and sh, you’ll take it, you’re mine to have and I’ll do as I like, and you had felt your brain rattle in your skull at the vigour of his driving thrusts slapping into you, worse than a strike across the face because he had told you all the while I love you, daughter of mine, Papa loves you, and that is all you had ever wanted to hear from him.

No, you cannot say how Rhaenyra feels. You are sure she has her own ideas as to what he spends evenings with you doing—but she will never make the move to ask. Thus, you will never be free.

Your father grunts. “Well,” he says. “I’ll have to put a stop to this nonsense. Can’t have my daughter married off to the Vale, not when I went to such lengths to escape my own incarceration to that bronze bitch.”

This again. You school your expression into something placid. “Of course, Papa.”

He stares at you. “You’re quiet tonight. What—no words of praise for your father? No gratitude?”

“Tha—thank you, Papa.”

“For?”

“Stopping my match to the—to the Vale.”

“And?”

“For keeping me with you.”

“That’s right.” He nods to himself, bringing the cup he has held loosely in his fist to his lips. A droplet of wine treks down his chin—you imagine it is blood. My blood, my life and body and soul and blood, it is all for him whether I like it or not. “I’ll be causing a lot of strife,” he says, “preventing this thing going ahead. Your stepmother will be positively wrathful.”

“Yes.”

What else can you say? If you stay silent, you risk incurring his ire; he does not like for you to behave like a mindless doll. I like a bit of fight in them, he had said once, drunken eyes roaming and drunken fingers fumbling around your throat. Meekness bores me. He is angry when he is bored.

Papa smiles, the action transforming the hard planes of his face into something softer, gentler. You know better than most how deceptive a thought that is. “I think I’ll need reminding. Of how much you love me.” He taunts you with the word, as though love is as meaningless as any other mundane feeling. But it’s not. It’s not. Love is what allows him to break you. “You can do that, can’t you, pet?”

“Yes, Papa.” Your knees knock beneath your skirts, heart racing. He will ask. Any moment, he will ask. “How do… what do you wish of me?”

There. A glint. In the eyes. The kind curve of his mouth turns razor sharp, a knife with which to ribbon your flesh into a thousand thousand pieces. “Take off your dress.”

When you were younger, you had possessed a gift. At times of strife, of extreme and undesired emotion, you could just… slip away inside your mind, if but for a small while. Whatever would happen next would seem as though it were occurring below, and you were above your body watching on, detached, the performance continuing in spite of the fact its main character had departed the stage. You had floated above, looking on as Vhagar bore your mother to blackened bone and ash; the taste of that ash coating your mouth, of burning flesh sometimes awakens you still, but the memory of it is dim, lost to that nether space where time is meaningless. You had floated above when your mother, mama mama please come back save me mama, your sweet, loving mother had been returned to the seas she missed all your life, and the scent of the saltwater sets your nose to streaming in rare bouts. You had floated above as your papa had destroyed you then built you anew for his own desires, pain and the hot lick of pleasure-shame distorting sleep into a hellscape.

Papa’s command leaves you damp between the legs. Sometimes, you think it is your maidenhead bleeding afresh, just like it did that night. You wonder if he will come away stained red again.

He does not like it when you are not readily available to him, so your gowns are easy to remove. A tug here, a shuffle there. The fabric slips to the floor with nary a sound, chased swiftly by your shift and your underthings. When he asks you to remove the dress, he asks for you to remove it all. You had learned that the hard way.

Your toes tingle with the desire to run as he stands, reminding you just how much more he is than you. Older, wiser, stronger, taller. His fingers trace the curve of your breast, pale upon brown, languid as only a man possessed with surety in his claim ever could. Up, up, up he moves, eyes following the path, scorching fire in his wake. Those fingers knot in your hair, crumpling curls between callouses, pressure forcing you down, down, down.

“You know what to do,” he says.

Papa is too big, or you are too small. Whatever the reason, it is why he sits upon your mattress after you tug off the belt, tug down the breeches, shoving the leather strap under the bed so that he does not catch sight of it and decide to use it on you again. He cannot force his cock between your lips when he is standing and you are kneeling. He is too—and you are too—

Hand on your nape. “Go on,” he murmurs.

It is graceless, but you know by now how to make it easier. You work your tongue in your mouth to draw forth the saliva, letting it spill past your lips and track slimy down your chin as you lean forward. Papa is half-hardened, curved like a dagger against his thigh. You start how he likes, by taking him in your grasp at the base and pressing your lips to the tip like you would kiss his cheek.

“Look up.” He grunts when you follow his wish. “Smile.” You do. “Gevie,” he praises. Beautiful.

You do not feel beautiful. You feel wretched.

He tastes caustic, bitterer than the ale you had once snuck from the cellars, but this is a flavour you are accustomed to. It hits your tongue wrong, and you chase that feeling of wrongness, that feeling that Papa seems to have done away with entirely. Knowing that this is against the laws of gods and men is, strangely, the one thing that makes you feel better. A reminder that it is not your fault, perhaps. That it is his.

His fingers tighten against your scalp, pulling, pulling. “Hen hynge sētetāks bībagon raqā, gaomo daor?” You love sucking the cock that made you, don’t you?

The reminder sours in your belly. For a moment, you wonder if you might gag up on him again. Last time, he had jerked you off him and, when he had cleaned himself up, held you close, soothing you with wine-soaked kisses as you cried. It is tempting to make yourself heave if only to have that version of your father back.

A light slap to the side of the face grounds you. “I didn’t say stop,” he says above you, stern and cold.

You push yourself further along him, breathing through your nose until you no longer can, until he has stuffed himself so far down that you feel lightheaded and sick. Salt-musk sticks to your palate and curdles your insides as you fight for air. He cares little, gripping your skull between his palms like he intends to crush it to pulp, taking command of your body to slide along a rhythm of his choosing. Wet, choking sounds fill the room along with his panting moans. All you can do is fist the covers on either side of him and try to recall what it had felt like to slip free of the shackles of reality, to ignore the strike of his sweat-soaked stones jostling against your chin and the winded groans of the man who is supposed to love you.

Not like this, you think. Not like this.

It is only when you splutter around him, the sting of bile making you retch, that he finally takes pity on you. “That’s a girl,” he croons, patting your back as you spit up on the stone beside his feet. “You did better this time.”

Better is not good. He had said that to you once.

Hoisting you up to the mattress with little fanfare, you lay winded on your belly as he rearranges you to his liking. Quickly enough, you are bent almost in half with your face pressed to the covers, knees close to touching your shoulders. In this position, there is no hiding—the cool night air caresses whisper-soft along the split between your legs, forcing you to bloom.

“Pretty cunt, such a pretty cunt,” Papa is muttering behind you, the head of his cock nudging through the grool that slips from the opening he has tilted high for his viewing. Sometimes, he teases, makes it feel nice, makes it just a little harder to feel so awful when he touches you like this. “Desperate fucking cunt, look at all this, you little whore—”

He departs; a firm pass of tongue up from where you are most sensitive, and you cannot help the sound you release as his mouth slurps greedily and messily, and oh, it feels nice, it feels better than a full tummy or a warm summer’s day or a soft fond hug, and maybe he wants to make this time special—

His tongue travels upward, circling the furl of your other hole, the place he has always threatened to stick his cock into whenever you have made him very, very unhappy.

“Papa!”

He laughs. “What”—he sits back, thumbs spreading your rear wide so that his spit dribbles sticky and warm down your back passage—“you don’t like that? I think you would. Sluts like you love getting fucked here.”

You shake your head, terrified. “I don’t—I don’t, Papa, I don’t—” I’m not a slut, you want to say, all that I am is what you’ve made me, but you also think that he’s made you into a slut anyway, and perhaps that is why he had wanted a daughter in the first place. His own personal slut.

“Alright, alright, calm down.” He is still chuckling when he prods himself through the mess of saliva and slick, notching himself at your cunt and beginning the slow push in, always slow because he likes the feeling of you fighting to keep him out. “Stop fighting,” he murmurs as you wiggle, an instinctual drive to get away, “sh, sh.”

Papa holds you down by the back of the neck as he sinks in, never rocking in-out to wet the way and ease the path, no, the panicked clenching and the slight grit of entry excites him, makes me feel like a man, your stepmother’s too fucking loose from all that cavorting about she’s done, do you know how that makes a man feel, my girl?, and you feel like he is shoving the air from your lungs with his own length as it tears its way through you. Fingers digging into the tendons is what keeps you still, battling to keep the tears at bay, for he only gets belligerent when you cry, ungrateful girl, after everything I’ve done for you, I could’ve just left you with your grandmother and grandfather but I took you with me, you owe me, and sometimes you think that maybe you would have been better off with strangers like your mother’s parents than you are with the one that remains to you.

“Papa—it hurts, please—”

“I know it does,” he says, damp kiss to the shoulder, “but you’re a good girl, aren’t you? Be grateful. Stop complaining.”

You hear the warning for what it is. Stop complaining. Your sisters wouldn’t. Maybe I should seek them out instead. Rhaena, kind little Rhaena, perhaps she’d be more grateful than you.

He growls when he hits home, an unkind knock that whites out your vision for a moment, deep and visceral.

It is the only part that is slow.

“Fuck, you’re tighter than Laena,” Papa is saying, grip turned to palm flattening your head to the mattress as he punches through you in short, sharp thrusts, stabbing and burning like a wound. “Tight little cunt just for Papa, no one else, no one but me—”

You bite into the sheets so hard that you think you may just slice straight through, grind your bones into dust and your flesh into ash like your mother’s, and would that not be a fitting end for yet another of Daemon Targaryen’s prized conquests? Like mother, like daughter.

He smacks you across the backside and you try to rear up, squealing, but you are stuck beneath his hand and on his cock and can go nowhere. There is something about it that he likes because he does it again, and again, and again. You are grateful that your skin does not redden like Rhaenyra’s, like your little half-brothers’, that most of the marks will bruise below your mother’s colouring for only you to feel and to know.

“Only thing you’re good for, getting fucked, letting Papa fuck you”—every time he says it, you cry, but you cannot help that, it hurts to hear him say it like it hurts to feel him in you—“don’t know how I’ll ever let this go—”

“Papa, Papa—”

His teeth sink into the meat where your neck and shoulder meet, painful like most of his touches are, and you yell at the sting of it, yell until his hand slams clammy over your mouth to hold you close and quiet and still. “Shut up, shut the fuck up, be good—”

Fingers worm below you, pinching at a nipple and rolling between rough pads, pleasant enough any other time but now it only hurts, only makes you choke on silent sobs like a fist has come around your throat to steal the life from you.

His hot breath rasps over the indentations he has left in your flesh. “I’m going to come in you, get you fat and full of me. Give you a little babe, ruin you for anyone else. What do you think?”

He doesn’t normally spend inside you. Your mind whirls, near-hysteric. Brother-son, sister-daughter, brother and son or sister and daughter. Little sibling tucked up in your own womb, put there by your father.

“See if she tries to rid me of you then,” he snarls, grabbing you by the hips to grind desperately into you, as though he is trying to worm his way into your flesh in some sickening reverse of birth. “Fucking bitch… You’re mine. I seeded you on your mother, I can do what I want with you. I made you for me, no one else.”

If he could, he’d beat Rhaenyra’s head in with a rock like he did his first wife and marry you. He’s said so on some nights; only when he drinks, though. If he were any other man, the talk of marriage might ease the bite of your misuse—but Papa collects wives like knights collect favours. When he tires of them, they die.

Papa’s thrusts turn quick and uneven, piercing, his growl a steady rumble where he joins with you. “Going to come,” he gasps, nails digging into your skin with the strength of his grip. “Going to come in you, my girl—”

“No, no—”

“Yes, give you a little Targaryen babe like you deserve—”

“No, please—”

It is too late. He blusters against your back like an angry bull, wordless noises of animal pleasure driving against your flesh, and warmth bursts inside you, coating you up with the same essence that had given you life. It feels nice, almost comforting, swilling there.

By the time he slips out and rolls you to your back, your tears have dried. You are able to give him the wan smile he wants, mechanically accepting his lips on yours like he is a lover and not the man who sired you. When he kisses you, it is easy to pretend that this is something that you want.

“You’re not going anywhere.” His breath tastes of the wine. “I’ll speak to Rhaenyra.”

“Okay, Papa.” You are resigned to it. There had never truly been any possibility of him letting you go, anyway.

You remain splayed out on the bed as he pulls up his breeches and seeks out the belt you hid, staring up at the canopy, your father’s seed leaking out and seeping through the covers, the sheets, the mattress. They are the only witnesses of your sin.

Papa stops at the door, violet eyes—your eyes—glowing in the night. Even from here, you can see the threat that looms in his expression. “If I find out you’ve been to Gerardys again… you won’t like what happens.”

“I know, Papa,” you say quietly.

For good measure, he locks the door, the key grating in the mechanism as it always does. And so, you are trapped in, unable to seek out moon tea as you had done the last time he spent in you. It is cold now. The hearth ought to have been lit. But the maids know better than to disturb Papa when he comes to visit his firstborn.

Wincing, you rise from the bed. It is like walking on sea legs. As you go in search of your nightgown, you see your reflection in the mirror.

Riotous silver curls rumpled and untidy. Deep circles beneath your eyes. Hollowed out cheekbones. Swathes and swathes of dark skin mottled in places, distorted and marred by your father’s touch. Thin knees, thin elbows, thin arms and legs. A doll left wasting away in the corner, forgotten and alone.

And there, right along your middle, a barely noticeable swell.

Your hand falls to that spot, the place where your brother-son or sister-daughter grows in secret, and your eyes fill with tears again. When he finds out, you will never escape. You will never be free.

The whisper carries eerie through the silence. “I know.”

Read it on AO3:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/48466069

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theriverbeyond · 11 months

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*adjusts my glasses* Harrowhark Nonagesimus is the opposite of a girlboss. an inverse, if you will, a mirror, a girlboss from the Upside-Down. specifically, if Harrowhark is anything she is a thing-employee. Lady-or-Lord of the Ninth House, wet rat scrunkly of inscrutable gender experience, penitant to the Tomb to the grave to the thing that lies burried and to her 201 safeguarded souls. 👍

#always thinking abt harrow and her inscrutable gender presentation ❤️#harrowhark nonagesimus #the locked tomb #trb.txt #tlt thoughts #x

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rukafais · 8 days

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I think the most bizarre thing about not just a lot of FR authors but an alarming amount of just like, random people who are like I COULD DO DND DROW BETTER/I COULD DO MY OWN TAKE is that like...80% of the time when they try to do drow 'better' or different, for some bizarre reason it just reroutes into Some Kind Of Bioessentialism or Ancestral Curse. Like.

I've seen 'you can magically tell which ones are good and bad because of eye colour'. Various permutations of 'something happened to the drow to Make Them This Colour, as opposed to all other elves who are just like that with no explanation needed' up to and including 'if an elf gets really really REALLY hateful they turn into a drow'.

Lady Penitent's 'the difference between good drow and bad drow is purely about good and bad bloodlines, which means if your ancestors did the bad thing you are also bad forever and cannot be redeemed by the fucked up metric we're using'.* SEVERAL random people going 'actually drow are so bred to vice and violence that any 'good' ones must be genetic freaks or have nondrow blood in them'. Whatever that one fucking Dragon Magazine article was that people keep passing around like it's official sourcebook material. * not to mention all the other problems with designating 'good' and 'bad' drow but that's a whole other fucking mess i won't get into here

Like YOU DON'T HAVE TO DO THIS. WHY DOES THIS KEEP HAPPENING? IS THE RELIGIOUS CULT INDOCTRINATION NOT ENOUGH???

#I DONT UNDERSTAND

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beautifulloverwitch · 1 year

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By Fire, Sea and Blood

the untold tale of an approaching death

Act I: chapter seven: false peace.

previous ///// next

Summary: House Targaryen is as divided as ever, all having solidified their places within either faction. A grievous task that put love to a difficult test. Although the storm may have seized its frightening drums of thunder and destructive strikes of lightening, it has not gone yet, and all who thought that are fools for latching onto hope so soon.

_______________

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Daenerys Velaryon (Strong! Oc)

WC: 13.8k

Warnings: Death, mentions of death, Violence.

Masterlist

It was a sleepless night for the occupants of High tide. Viserys held his head in his hands as he grieved the state of his family. Alicents assault on Rhaenyra had proven to the slow man that this was no childish quarrel, this was a conflict rooted within this family’s generations. One, that he had regrettably believed, would have never existed had he not taken Alicent to wife.

His queen stood within her bedchambers, blankly staring into the dancing flames of the hearth, distraught and ashamed of what she had done. Grasping at her shaking hands as she attempted to regain what she could of her composure.

Her lady in waiting, Talia, entered her bed chambers giving a gracious nod to the handmaidens that had busied themselves cleaning it out.

“My queen?” she asked the dazed Alicent “the hand.”

Alicent squirmed as she adjusted her posture, her father marching in with an unnerving expression on his face. One she could not discern if it was of disappointment or pride. The handmaidens bowed their heads as he walked past them without paying them any mind, rushing out of the chambers as he approached the queen.

She glanced back at the flames, awaiting the tongue lashing she would receive from her father, accepting it gracefully “say your piece.”

“Now, what piece is that?” he credulously asked.

She sighed, at his cruelty for having her list her wrongdoings “I’ve conducted myself in a manner, unbefitting my station, or any other,” she rolled her jaw before she continued to confess ashamedly “I lost composure, assaulted the princess,” she faced her father only a moment before looking down at her fiddling hands, still shaken by what they had been capable of doing “Already the word is spreading, the gossip speculating that I’ve gone mad.”

“All true,” he agreed.

She sighed “I’ve disgraced myself, and ensured my husband’s favour will forever rest on her,” she admitted, bowing her head as she awaited her father to state her wrongs in a far more eloquent manner.

“And yet,” his face brightened with pride, “I’ve never seen that side of you, my daughter.”

She lifted her head, hating his admiration of her doings.

“I even doubted its existence,” he joked.

She was quick to deplore her actions “it was an ugly thing, I regret it-.”

“We play an ugly game,” he told firmly, still a proud smile lining his often tense lips “And now, I see that you have the determination to win it.”

She clutched her wrist as she remembered “Rhaenyra-.”

He continued for her as though he knew the words before they had left her lips. “You see her for what she is, what the King’s stubbornness has wrought.”

Alicent lowered her gaze as she asked anxiously “what will he say to me?”

“He’ll forgive you,” he assured as he stepped closer to her “what else could he do?” He spoke with such sureness, for he knew the king so well he thought him predictable “Now go to him, be penitent, plead the injury to your son,” he advised “keep a grip on your passions, and I promise you in time, you and I together will prevail.”

She gazed upon her father fearfully, but assured by his guidance.

“What that rogue Aemond did, in winning Vhagar to our side,” a smile tugged at his lip as he recalled how the boy had slipped away “the boy was right it’s worth a thousand times the price he paid.”

Laenor stormed through the corridors of High tide, worried for his family. When he had heard the news of what had occurred the night prior, he feared the worst. The gnawing guilt tore him away from his drunken stupor.

Barging into the room he saw them all. His wife wincing as she held a brave face before her children, who had not been spared either. Lucerys with cotton stuffed up his swollen and bloody nose, Jacaerys’s face littered with purple bruises, and Daenerys pressing a cloth to her cheek hiding her wound. The three children turned to look at their father, making him meet the face of his greatest failure.

“Is everyone alright?” he asked, wincing at the question.

“The broken nose is the worst-,” the Maester assured.

“Thank you, Maester,” Rhaenyra told, clutching at her freshly stitched arm “leave us,” she dismissed.

The Maester reluctantly took his leave. Rhaenyra turned to look at her children “you as well, you’ve already found enough trouble today.”

“Yes mother,” they all ashamedly answered.

Daenerys and Jacaerys stood at either side of Lucerys as they walked out of the room, helping the dazed boy walk. Laenor brushed their shoulders as they walked past.

He turned to look at Rhaenyra, admitting the obvious “I should have been there.”

She had a jaded look on her face as she recalled the night's events “those should be our house words.”

Laenor chuckled lightly as he glanced over his shoulder to her before turning to look at the table covered with bloody cloth and discarded thread “I have fought dreadful enemies, but I could not defend my dear sister, far from home and in agony…” he pursed his lips as he huffed through his nose “I failed to defend you.”

“Sit down,” Rhaenyra told, startling the man. He sat before her, with his head bowed as he listened attentively “Aemond called our children bastards,” she said.

His lips had parted at the news, shaking his head in remorse before he proclaimed “I have failed you Rhaenyra, our marriage…” The words proved difficult to say “I tried,” his face contorted with remorse as he told, thinking she had not known “Our children, I do love them.”

“I know,” she softly assured.

“Deeply,” he emphasised, his mouth tightened as he searched his mind for the right words “but I have not, mayhaps, loved them enough.”

Rhaenyra sat quietly as she pondered his words, a delighted hum leaving her as she pictured “I had hoped to bear your children, the few times we lay together, things might have been different.”

He too imagined such a possibility, loathing how he had neglected such a chance “I hate the gods for making me as they did.”

Rhaenyra frowned at his words “I do not, you are an honourable man, with a good heart,” she chuckled as he glanced up at her “it’s a rare thing.”

He hummed, touched by her compliment but knew a solemn matter had to be addressed “we made an arrangement all those years ago to do our duty and yet explore happiness.”

Rhaenyra laughed, for she could never have imagined this to be the outcome of their arrangement. Laenor grinned awkwardly before stating to her firmly “there are times, I think when… these things cannot mutually exist,” his lips pursed before he informed her “Ser Qarl will return soon to the fighting in the stepstones,” he brought his chair closer to her as he declared to the bewildered Rhaenyra “but I recommit myself to you, and to strengthening our house as we prepare you for your ascension,” Rhaenyra’s chin lowered fearful for Laenor “I will raise our sons to be princes of the realm and our daughter, a queen.”

“Laenor…” she spoke, thinking this much more than she could have wished from him.

“You deserve better than what I have been,” he told, not a stutter in his voice, “you deserve a husband.”

Annora had taken to emptying Daenerys’s room of her things for the trip back to Dragonstone. Her eyes worriedly flicking over towards the girl who sat still on her bed, back facing the eyes of the room as she stared down at the object in her hands. Daenerys fiddled with her compass, flicking it open and shut as she questioned her right to keep it anymore. It pained her to consider that the Aemond that had given her the compass was the very same Aemond that had left her wounded in too many ways. She knew that she should have been revolted by him, that she should have come to hate him. To that she asked herself how could she, how could she possibly hate the boy she once called her friend? How could she hate the boy who would spend hours with her divulging his greatest troubles to her and she to him?

A part of her felt foolish for not having ever realised it sooner. Last night's events had laid before her an easy puzzle, with pieces she had long had, but she was far too entrapped in her own delusion to have bothered casting doubt upon their friendship. His disdain whenever she would speak of her family to him, with either worry or content he always seemed to have the same look of disinterest at their mention. How his face would harden whenever she had to leave him to tend to them. She began to think herself fortunate that she had not bid him goodbye once she had departed to Dragonstone, for fear of his wrath. Aemond never had cared for her family, rightfully so, they had only served to torment him. Yet even with the kindness she had offered him, he had harmed her in a manner indescribable.

How comfortably the word “Bastards,” had left his lips. It must have been easy for he had not faced her as he uttered such an insult. It was the first time she had heard the word uttered unashamedly. Even Aegon had not the gall to say it aloud. She wondered if the word had danced about his head whenever he saw her, was that the cause of his smiles, his joy?

As painful as his actions had been, she argued they were not worth him losing an eye. Her brother Luke had frantically explained to her as she guided him to the Hall of nine, that he was scared, he wanted to defend his elder siblings, he feared Aemond would do further harm, and he did not wish to stand by and watch. An action Daenerys was regrettably guilty of. The remainder of the night Dany had spent it scrutinising her every action, to her dismay, she had found so many ways to prevent such a calamity had she not stupidly wandered off again. Had she stayed in her bedchamber, Rhaena would have found her. she could have convened between them all and prevented the confrontation from escalating further.

She hated the daze that she had fallen into during the attack. While her brothers drew their blades to her defence she stood by with a dumbfounded look on her face. She pinched her ear harshly in reprimand, shouting at herself not to cry, for she had no right to, she was their elder sister and she had failed to protect them, this was but a small injury compared to all that had happened to them. ‘Learn that your brothers are forever first, not the boy you had taken to reading a stupid history book with’ she chided herself.

A knock at her door made her wipe away at her tear stained cheeks. She glanced to the door then to the equally confused Annora.

The handmaiden opened the doors and bowed her head as she was faced by the wide-eyed Helaena.

Daenerys paid no mind as she kept her eyes fixated on the compass gilded with guilt “Who is it, Annora?”

Annora stuttered out “Princess Helaena, your grace.”

Daenerys’s neck had cracked at the swiftness of its turn, she discarded the compass beside her as she shot up from her seat and made her way to the door “Helaena?”

Annora stepped aside as Helaena made her way into the room, closely followed by the brooding Ser Criston and her mother’s handmaiden Talia. His eyes darkened with loathing as he saw the girl, a shred of pride taking root within him as he saw her shrink beneath his stare.

Helaena’s hands fiddled at her sides, her eyes looking at Daenerys’s feet, finding no will to look at the girls face. Her lips twisted to the side as she turned her head slightly to where Criston had stood “can I speak to her alone?”

His lips tightened, hands clenching behind him as he reminded her “the queen commanded me not to leave your side,” he told, sending a cautioning glance to the girl of ten that stood awkwardly before them all.

Helaena turned to face him “it will only be a moment,” she told her eyes shining like porcelain glass “Please, I wish to speak to my niece, alone.”

Daenerys frowned at the foreign term; she had never been acknowledged in such a manner by her friend. Helaena spoke the term with endearment, but it still felt wrong on her lips as she tasted the word for the first time.

Criston looked over Helaena’s face with worry, hating himself for succumbing to her pleads. He reluctantly left the room after sending a warning stare to Daenerys. Making it clear to both that the door was to stay open.

Helaena dismissed her handmaiden and Daenerys followed suit, dismissing Annora.

The two girls stood awkwardly in front of one another, Daenerys’s heel digging into the ground as she searched for the right words to say. She feared to fall the first victim to whatever tongue lashing the kind Helaena had conjured from whatever darkness could have possibly existed within her. Daenerys would take it with a stringent face for she had believed she deserved it. She accepted she would no longer be entitled to the kind voice of her friend, how could she have any right to it after what she had just allowed to occur.

Helaena stood solemnly, a slight sway in her stature as she fought against the words that had begun to push against her lips. Her cheeks still wet with a sheen of tears from arguing against the harsh command her mother had enforced upon her. She had searched for her father in hopes of gaining his objection in the matter, but he refused to face any of his children, even the maimed one.

Helaena had pitied what had happened to her brother, but never would she blame Daenerys for her brothers’ actions. She found it just as troubling to choose between her friend and her family, finding the grey line between them both impossible to ignore, they were all her family, why must she choose?

As she glanced up to the girl, her eyes landed on the swollen and bruised cheek of Daenerys, the wound concealed by a thick piece of cotton, blood gone brown as it dried.

Helaena gulped and did her best to stiffen her face. All that had done was make her face tremble as she fought against her anguish “I’ve been told… to never speak to you again,” she plainly stated, not sweetening her words for Daenerys, who’s eyes blew wide with anxious disbelief.

“What?” she asked, her voice did not waver for she thought this a joke, but she knew Helaena to not be so cruel.

Helaena flinched at the sound of her voice, head beginning to shake slightly as she explained “Mother told me that I cannot see you anymore, nor can I write to you,” her lips quivered with trepidation as she recalled “and it is best that you don’t attend my wedding.”

A bewildered chuckle escaped the apprehensive Daenerys “you can’t possibly mean that,” she told, awaiting a ray of light to shine through the thick solemn cloud that hovered above Helaena’s face “what had happened was regretful, and if the queen wishes it I will apologise on the behalf of my brothers,” her eyes began to flutter as she felt her tears way heavy on them “I will offer my own eye if it will sate her!” she desperately bargained “please Helaena, we’ve no fault in this, plead to her to understand that.”

Helaena’s hands clenched in front of her “she refused to listen to me, and grandsire said it was for the best of this family,” she spoke, her mouth twisting with contempt when she recalled the vile ways her mother had spoken of the young girl, Alicents anger was still freshly lit at the time “the matter was not negotiable, I’m sorry-, I barely managed to convince her to let me say goodbye.”

Daenerys shook her head, denying the harsh reality that this may be their last encounter. She rushed forward clasping Helaena’s hands in her own, running her thumbs hopefully over the rigid hands of her friend “No, she can’t do this, let her exact a punishment in any other manner but not like this!” she stated, eyes fighting to meet the avoidant Helena's eyes ``If she were to do this, I may never see you again, ever!”

Helaenas gaze shot up from the ground “that’s not true! When your mother ascends the throne, you can return to the red keep!”

Daenerys shook her head “she will, but I won’t! I would be stuck at Dragonstone until the time came for me to ascend the iron throne and that is only if I choose to become queen!” she frantically explained, dread beginning to clench around her heart as she recalled “if I were to refuse, I would be sent away to marry some lord-.”

Helaena’s hand clenched around Daenerys’s trembling ones “that won’t happen.”

“Deny it all you wish, but it will!” she restated “I would never see you again, and-,” Her lips pursed as she attempted to gather herself, her breaths growing laboured as she considered every possibility that her unknown future could have possibly had in mind “I can’t lose another friend Helaena! Please!” she pleaded, sobs beginning to shake her tense shoulders.

Helaena’s lips quivered, how could she survive the coming decades alone, with Aegon as her husband and Aemond controlling each and every one of her steps with the support of their mother and Grandsire. She dreaded a future absent of the understanding and caring of Daenerys.

She leapt forward, engulfing the sobbing Daenerys into her arms, the two crying together, Helaena mustering whatever restraint she could have possibly had to bite back her sobs and begin to accept her fate. Running her hand up and down the back of the sobbing Daenerys, practically chanting her whispered words “Break away a branch of red, charging towards a dances end,” she spoke with desperation “Breaks away a branch of red, charging to her uncertain end.”

A knock had come at the door, Criston found her stay to have been longer than necessary to him, a moment longer and the queen would have been disappointed.

Helaena tensed at the sound, and pried herself away from Daenerys, who followed Helaena’s hands as they departed her. Helaena reached down and clasped Daenerys’s hands in her own, lifting them up and to her chest as she spoke her words carefully, a hint of a warning in her voice “The darkness will call and the seas will roar, to the tides you succumb and from the tides you will rise, thrice more.”

Daenerys' eyes fluttered with confusion, her mind beginning to ache as she attempted to decipher this riddle. She stumbled forward as Helaena tore herself away and marched towards the door. Swatting the hand of Ser Criston as he attempted to offer her his comfort. Criston sighed with frustration, reaching for the handle of Daenerys’s room and slammed it shut, leaving Daenerys torturously alone in her cold bedchambers.

Helaena stormed past her brother who waited for her patiently down the hall. Sending her a look of pity as he saw her teary eyes and reddened cheeks. Ser Criston stood before Aemond, offering the boy his arm “come my prince, let me escort you to the Queen.”

Aemond looked up at the tender eyed knight, his eye fluttering slightly as he adjusted to the sight. His head shaking from side to side as he was again reminded that he was vulnerable. The slight stumble in his step, the way he kept close to the walls on his left, and the dull ache that thrummed in his head. These newly found plights made him consider the trade he had made, and how fair it truly was.

He had spent the remainder of the night awake; his mother never having left his side since the events at the Hall of nine. He consciously looked at her with a pride he had not before, grateful for a mother like her, a mother willing to stand against the king, just to protect the children he never would have. To his dismay, his mother’s protectiveness cost him another chance with his dragon; he was forbidden from taking to the skies on Vhagar a second time until the Maesters would tell her that he was fit to do so. Even the she-dragon was reluctant to welcome her rider, spurning him from reaching for the netting again, crooning worriedly at him as he sauntered off angrily, clutching at his bandaged face.

The sound of doors bursting open from down the corridor caught his attention, glancing towards the head of dark hair that stormed down the other side, bow and satchel of arrows in hand. He took a step towards where she had gone, longing to speak with her, to hear her tell him that he had been wronged and that her brothers were at fault, that she would do something to avenge him, that she would lend him her ear so he may pour into her his anger and that her tender words would be water to the lashing flames of his justified rage.

His face had hardened once he remembered that she had no kind words for him, no touch of sympathy at his predicament. When he had been writhing on the floor she rushed to her brother’s aid, who remained whole after a confrontation that they had incited. He was the victim, he was attacked and he did the one thing he logically could, he defended himself. The gall of his nephews to stand by when his half-sister had screamed that it was they who had been attacked, they all knew that to be a lie. He wondered if his niece had known the same. Thinking to himself at what point had she come upon such a scene? Was she there from the beginning, but too craven to face him at such a moment? Was she there when his cousins and nephews had him pinned to the ground, beating him mercilessly? Did she know he had no intention of engaging in the confrontation? Mayhaps, to his misfortune, she had walked in when he had called her brothers bastards and threatened them with a torturous death. He doubted it, and entirely denied it; he had hoped her to have been too enthralled in saving her brother from his grasp to have heard him say such a thing.

His lip trembled as he recalled the way she had hurt him, kicking him to the ground like some dog. Treating him in such a manner he would have never known it was Daenerys, he had thought it his brutish cousin Baela, had he known it was Dany he would have never struck her, he may have even seized defending himself if it had meant she would be capable of bolstering reason between them all. She knew just as he had, that a dragon was not claimed by inheritance it was claimed by those daring enough to come face it. They had read over the pages of dragon claiming in their history book thousands of times over, it would be impossible to forget.

The beliefs that his grandsire had instilled within him had been reaffirmed, she would always choose them, and toss him aside, no matter how right he may have been. He wondered to himself, had he been worth enough to her to even become a name for her to remember.

He raised his head, paying one final glance to where she had gone, before marching off after his sister, Criston, stuck at his side.

Rhaenyra clutched at her wounded arm as she looked out onto the horizon. Eyes following the shrinking figure of her fathers ship as it departed for kings landing, staring at it with trepidation and question. She cared less for the ship and more for the one occupant within it, the one person she had a thousand words to say to. Never would either have the gall to face the other after what had happened that night, each left with a scar to be forever reminded of it.

Daemon joined her side, hands resting comfortably on the hilt of his sword. Taking a quick glance at her arm before looking up at her.

“Fire is such a strange power,” she said, “everything that house Targaryen has is owed to it,” her fingers danced around one another as she frowned, “yet it has cost us both what we loved.”

He hummed in agreement before sending a considering look to the deep blue blanket of the sea “perhaps the Velaryons knew the truth of it, the sea is the better ally.”

She sent a look of envy towards the sea “fire is a prison… the sea offers an escape.”

Rhaenyra casted Daemon a sad and helpless gaze “I need you uncle…,” she pleaded. Lips beginning to quiver in anxious wait as he paid her no mind “I cannot face the greens alone,” she spoke in her mother tongue, garnering his intrigue “let us bind our blood, just as Aegon the Conqueror did with his sisters,” she proposed to him “with you as my husband and prince consort, my claim would not be so easily challenged,” she searched his curious eyes for a hint of rejection, she found in his eyes pity and regret. Never had Daemon seen her so defeated and alone, and he only fanned the flames that entrapped her in such a state once he had left.

She looked to the sea “the Velaryons are of the sea, but you and I-,” her eyes followed his face, fearing he had readied to leave her once again as he turned his back towards the sea, contemplating her offer carefully “are made of fire,” she proclaimed proudly “we have always been meant to burn together.”

Daemon sighed before reluctantly reminding her “we could not marry unless Laenor were dead.”

Rhaenyra had not been inflicted by a stutter as she told him.

“I know.”

Her eyes had softened with hesitance as she saw the shocked expression on his face. Resolution had hardened her features as she looked back out into the sea. Missing the proud smile that appeared upon the excited Daemon's face.

The docks were blustering to prepare the ship to Dragonstone. Originally the Targaryen and Velaryon families were to stay at High tide weeks longer but what had happened the night prior made them in no rush to stay a moment longer. Rhaenyra had invited her uncle to stay on Dragonstone before he went to Pentos with his daughters.

The children had all been gathered within Rhaenyra’s quarters. Awaiting to be called onto the ship.

Jacaerys and Lucerys had felt awkward within the room, never having been outnumbered by girls before. Daenerys had taken to answering the wary Rhaena and Baelas questions about Dragonstone.

“Would there be any space for us?” Rhaena curiously asked.

Daenerys scoffed “plenty, the palace is practically empty,” she said.

Baela huffed “I’d rather stay here than go to all that smog.”

“It’s not too bad!” Luke defended “it’s quite nice in the afternoon!”

Daenerys reluctantly agreed “he’s right,” she leant to Baela as she whispered “doesn’t smell as bad surprisingly.”

The two girls giggled once they saw the boy pout. He hissed as he felt the twinge of pain from his nose, the sound silencing the two as they looked at him worriedly.

Jace observed his brother's face, fearing his nose had begun to bleed again.

“Is he alright?” Daenerys had asked.

He gave her a reassuring smile “he’s fine, he just needs to stop using his snout.”

Rhaena frowned tenderly at the boy, Baela startled her sister when she jumped forward “you did well to show our one eyed cousin, Luke,” she told with a proud smirk on her lips “takes our mothers dragon and insults us beneath the roof of our home.”

Daenerys rested back against her seat at the mention of Aemond.

Jace scoffed at the mention of his uncle “I can’t believe he received no punishment from the king.”

“He threatened to kill us! Gods- he nearly killed Jace and Dany!” Luke exclaimed.

Jace patted his head “you did well to save us!” He admired.

Luke’s lip tightened bashfully, still unsure of how to feel about his doings “I didn’t mean too…” he muttered to himself.

Baela had a smug look on her face as she told “he’ll be forever reminded not to repeat his stupid mistake, and to never cross us,” she said, frowning when she saw the uncertain look on Daenerys’s face.

Rhaena knew the cause of her uncertainty, the guilt that had gripped her as she sat by and heard the words regarding her once friend. Rhaena reached for Daenerys’ hands “you needn’t let him plague your thoughts Dany,” she told “it was best he showed his truth now rather than later.”

Her lips twisted to the side as she heard the words, she hated how comforting they had been.

Baela scoffed “I found him rather annoying, how can you have him as your friend?” She bewilderedly asked “all he would do was ogle at you.”

Daenerys rolled her eyes “everyone does that.”

“Well he had done it a bit too much for my comfort,” she told plopping beside Daenerys.

Daenerys squirmed in her seat, hating where this conversation had ventured “enough of him,” she dismissed before grasping both of her cousins hands “a tale of yesterday he is, today I have the both of you, one friend gone for two in return,” she told with a forceful glint of playfulness in her eyes “I count myself lucky.”

Jacaerys scoffed, falling back against his seat before remarking “I suppose you could call it a fair trade.”

The lot of them laughed, Daenerys gave a tense smile to her brother as she heard him echo Aemonds words, noticeably discomfited by the reminder.

The door came open and their parents entered, a solemn look on all of their faces, spare for Daemon, there was a ray of excitement on his face that hadn’t gone unnoticed by Daenerys “it’s time to go,” Rhaenyra told.

Baela and Rhaena were the first out of the door, receiving light pats on their shoulders by their father. Daemon gave a light nod to Rhaenyra and Laenor before following his daughters.

Rhaenyra shut the door, entrapping her children. Luke asked confusedly “why’d you close the door? We have to get to the ship!”

“There’s still time, they’ve yet to pack the rest of our things on it,” she told before clasping her hands nervously in front of her “I wished to grant us some time to say goodbye to your father, he won’t be joining us on the ship,” she granted the timid Laenor a tight smile.

“What?” Daenerys asked, rushing to her fathers side and gripping his hand “why not? We’re all going, why does he have to stay?”

Rhaenyra had hurriedly answered for him “he wishes to spend a few days longer here, he dearly misses his family and Driftmark.”

Daenerys frowned and glanced up at her solemn father, who seemed lost in contemplation “I can stay too then!” She told, her face brightening with excitement.

Laenor was snapped away from his thoughts by his daughter's words.

Rhaenyra rushed to dismiss her daughter's suggestion “that may not be for the best, with his family's grief still fresh-.”

“I think it is a wonderful idea!”

Rhaenyra’s eyes had widened with surprise at Laenors answer. He stepped behind his daughter, his sullen look replaced with elation at the prospect of her stay, clutching her shoulders. Daenerys beamed up at her father as she looked at him, practically trembling with excitement.

Rhaenyra was lost for words, this was not the plan “how are the both of you supposed to return together?” She asked frantically.

Luke credulously suggested “maybe they can return on fathers dragon!” He told.

Laenor gave his son an appreciative nod “a wonderful idea, Dany has been pleading for me to take her to the skies for a long time.”

Rhaenyra frowned with worry as she looked between her daughter and Laenor. Her hands itching to tear Daenerys away from her father.

With the assuring nod of Laenor, she had reluctantly agreed “alright then, but you are not to go anywhere without your father,” She sternly told her daughter.

“Of course!”

“And no wandering, whatsoever,” Rhaenyra commanded.

Daenerys gave a stiff nod to her mother before turning around and hugging her father

Laenor told one of the squires at the door “call for my daughter's things to be removed from the ship.”

Jace asked his sister, sending his father a wary look “but who’s to show around Baela and Rhaena.”

Dany smirked at him “you’ve yet to take a lesson in chivalry brother, I hope you take it upon yourself to show them around.”

His face flushed red, before he cleared his throat.

Luke engulfed his sister in a hug “you’ll both be back soon, right?”

“We will, I’ll be sure to get you something special,” she told her brother.

The two boys ran out of the room after bidding their sister goodbye. Rhaenyra knelt down before her daughter, her face softened with fear and worry. Daenerys had assumed it her mothers instinct spiking her worries again.

She brushed away her daughter's rebellious hair and rested a tender kiss on her cheek “I’ll see you in a few days sweet girl.”

Daenerys smiled, kissing her mothers stiff cheek “goodbye mother.”

Rhaenyra had to tear herself away from her daughter, and march out of the room as quickly as she could.

Daemon frowned as he saw rhaenyra leave the room without her eldest child “where’s the purple one?” He asked.

Rhaenyra kept her eyes forward as she continued on her way “Daenerys wished to stay.”

“And he let her?”

“Yes.”

Daemon frowned “but the plan-,” he reminded.

“Goes unaffected by this change."

Laenor was full with a vigour his mother and father had never seen before. The poor Daenerys had found her own radiance to have dwindled, for her father had been waking her at first light for the past few days. Although, She would eventually find herself revived by her fathers elation. Never had she seen him smile so much before, such joy it had brought her to see her dearly beloved father contented for once. She had not realised how contagious his joy could be, even the Sea snake had found himself amused by his son. It may have been due to his relief of not having to see his son sulking about anymore.

Laenor had taken Daenerys down to the port, to show her the ancient ship that his father had taken after in name, the Sea Snake.

Daenerys was careful as she wandered about the ship she heard so much of in the stories her father would tell, they had always left her stricken with awe.

Rhaenys looked up at her husband. Her face tense with apprehension for she had spent these past few days on tenterhooks. Rhaenyra’s infidelity to her son was clear to her, but why would Rhaenyra leave her husband and take off to Dragonstone alone, with her rogue uncle? She was not stupid, she knew what rumours this act may stir, yet she so willingly did it.

Her worry was further fuelled by Laenors foreign behaviour, and the stay of his daughter, Daenerys. She had no ill will toward the credulous girl. Her worry prevented her from being thankful for the girls foolish adoration of the man who clearly was not her blood.

On the day of Rhaenyra’s leave to Dragonstone, Rhaenys had received word from a squire that Rhaenyra, Laenor and Daemon had been speaking together in secret, Rhaenys assumed it a scheme, but of what sorts she did not know.

“They’ve prolonged their stay,” she stated to her husband.

Corlys chuckled, unaware of the meaning beneath her statement “Spice towns annual fair comes on the morrow,” he excused “our son hasn’t attended the celebrations in a decade, I would believe him eager to share such a chance with his eldest daughter,” he told as he made his way to where they often sat together, he ignored the pointed look from his wife.

She remained bothered by how he still chose to remain oblivious to the truth, not even caring to address it within the confines of their private rooms.

“I believe Rhaenyra would care little of what Laenor would desire for her daughter,” she told “so little she wouldn’t be so willing to leave her here,” she glanced back down to her hands thoughtfully as she grew certain that something was awry “no… she sows away at a scheme, with Daemon offering her the thread.”

Corlys scoffed in disbelief, terribly shocked by his wife’s accusation “and you mean to say a girl of ten, is involved in such a scheme?”

She glared at him, for that is not what she had meant, but it was not a possibility she would set aside “of course not-.”

“That settles it then,” he dismissed, arising from his seat abruptly.

“Corlys!”

He turned away from his path to speak to her angrily “when was the last time you had seen our son filled with such joy? Hm?” He questioned rhetorically “gods- even on his wedding day the boy was a sorry sight, only days ago he was mourning his sister, and I’ve seen none stand at his side like his daughter,” he told, he sighed as he regained his composure, feeling the wary stares of his guards in the room “our son is happy because of her, and yet you are too blinded by your doubts to relish in this rare sight.”

Rhaenys sat quietly in her seat, ignoring the piercing stare her husband had been driving into her. He huffed before marching out of the Hall.

Rhaenys stood from her seat and stepped towards the window, frowning with uncertainty as she watched Daenerys climb upon the shrouds of the sea snake, curiously tugging on the ropes attached to the ship's mast. Rhaenys’s brow knitted as her heart swelled with joy, she realised that her worry had never granted her a moment to truly relish in the sigh of her contented son, his grin would tremble as he hovered beneath the shrouds with his arms outstretched, fearful of his daughter collapsing to the ground.

The woman’s wary shield faltered as she began to battle with the smile tugging at her lips. Mayhaps the gods had been kind enough to grant her and her house a moment of serenity after the lashing storm that had rained down upon them.

Daenerys curiously tugged at the shrouds, both testing their strength and enjoying the fright on her fathers face.

He attempted to negotiate with her “you may doubt it but there’s much to do down here than up there!” He shouted.

She chuckled as she looked down before looking back up, shielding her eyes from the beaming sun, eying the main mast curiously, frowning curiously at the two that stood opposite sides of it “why are there three?” She asked.

The confused Laenor frowned at the question, Daenerys pointed to the three poles “oh, the masts?” He asked, earning a nod from the oblivious Dany “they keep the sails aloft, without them, you may as well swim across the narrow sea.”

“But why three?” She asked again.

“The bigger the ship the more wind it will need,” he told “three masts suffice, some said it is unnecessary to build such a big ship,” he smirked up at her with pride “but they’re still out at sea, loading their ships, while my father thrives in the fruits of his short labour.”

Daenerys chuckled, cautiously climbing down “we will make a bigger ship!” She proclaimed.

He chuckled “will we now?” He asked, helping her down from the shrouds.

She nodded excitedly “it will be so big! That we will return from this voyage faster than grandsire!”

“Careful to not pry at his pride too much,” he warned jokingly, he reached for her hand as he reminded “we won’t need that big of a ship, we will explore, not take, we've enough right here.” He told.

She pouted before reluctantly agreeing “I suppose so, but!” She stepped in front of him “we must take a trinket from each place we go!” She decided. She pouted when she saw the solemn look that had settled upon her fathers face “it doesn’t have to be special, it can be small, even a leaf would suffice!”

The corners of his lips twitched up into a smile, a sorrowful one.

Daenerys frowned, fearing she had upset her father with the suggestion “you know what, we will take nothing at all, I want for nothing other than to take across the sea with you, that memory is enough for me.”

His head began to shake, to what exactly, Daenerys did not know. He had not realised that his mind had set his will aside and taken grasp of his body, if he could not speak the truth, his mind would act it out. His heart began to beat loudly in his ears, reminding him to protect his little girl, ‘let these days with you remain an untainted memory’ his heart pleaded.

‘End this now, she is hopeful, too hopeful, smite that hope, smite that hope while she has you to comfort her,’ his mind reasoned.

It pained Laenor to shield his sorrow, fighting to smile at her lovingly, not allowing a crack of sadness to peer through. Kneeling down he tucked a hair behind her ear “I think all three are wonderful,” his face turned playfully stern “but pick one! We would not wish for our ship to be sunk by your trinkets!”

A flash of a frown went across her face, for as good as he was at masking his downturned mouth with his dashing smile, his eyes always did well at telling on him. She smiled up at her father, “I won’t, I promise.”

He let out a dramatic sigh of relief “thank the gods,” He stood up, turning his back to her. Allowing his fear to break through his half worn mask a moment, his face painfully contorting into that of anguish. The sniffling Laenor beckoned his daughter “Now tell me, where are the ship's colours often kept?” He tested, a slight waved in his voice as he shook away his sorrow.

“The sails,” she confidently answered.

“And?”

She pondered for a moment “the quarterdeck!” She quickly answered.

“Who man’s the quarterdeck?” He asked pacing about the ship, he turned jovially to add “or woman’s?”

“The captain of course!” She answered as she giggled.

“Who climbs the shrouds to the main mast?” He questioned.

“The unfortunate navigator,” she answered jokingly.

“Why unfortunate?” He curiously asked.

“How many navigators make it down after climbing up?” She comically asked, earning a chuckle from her father.

“You would be surprised, enough jokes!” He chided “you’ve a voyage in a few years best you be prepared.”

She frowned at his wording but she went along.

“If there is a tear in the sails, who's responsible?” He questioned.

“The carpenter.”

“And who tells him that?”

“The quartermaster.”

“Why not a captain-?”

“he’s too busy commanding and controlling, manoeuvring the ship, handling the cargo, stowing, keeping his men aloft with ambition and handling his precious ship,” she told rolling her eyes as she sardonically spoke, her voice rising with each word “he’s far too distracted with his duties to notice the massive tear on the most important part of his ship,” a huff of frustration left her as she kicked the wooden floor.

A look of surprise adorned his face as he turned to look at her. At first he thought she was frustrated by this test, but she was not one to shy away from flaunting her knowledge.

He frowned thoughtfully before commenting “or she?”

His words earned him a pointed look from his cross daughter. Her lip twisted to the side as she realised the cause of her anger, she realised she had not been picturing a captain.

“Captains can be stubborn,” he told “their stubbornness almost blinding,” he leaned on the wooden railing of the ship beside his daughter.

“Ambition fuels stubbornness,” she whispered.

He pursed his lips and stroked her shoulder comfortingly “a captain blinded by his ambition, is not a good captain Dany,” he tilted his head as he reminded “I’ve taught you this.”

She reluctantly glanced up at him, hating how right he was. She warily asked “what if the quartermaster could have stopped the captain, hm?” she curiously asked “steer him away from his ambition guided path.”

He pondered a moment before plainly telling her “it is good that she hadn’t, cause if she had, she would’ve been made to walk the plank.”

Her eyes widened with horror, bowing her head fearfully as she imagined it, would he have killed her had she intervened? Would she have become so worthless to him that he would’ve rid the world of the burden that she is? All because she disagreed with his actions. Her heart interrupted her mind's unreasonable ramblings ‘he would do no such thing, he loved you for a time, that is enough for him to not wish such a thing upon you little one.’

She chose her heart in this internal quarrel.

“You must purge him from your mind Dany,” he told her, earning a look of uncertainty from his troubled daughter “think of him long enough, he will settle in your mind, rather comfortably,” he frowned as he saw the sheen of tears daring to slip from her eyes, he warned “hey, he is not worth a tear from those eyes.”

She sniffled “I’m trying!”

He frowned, pondering to himself a suitable distraction for his pestered daughter. His eyes had brightened once he had found the perfect one “how about this? There is to be a fair tomorrow at spice town, every year round it happens,” he told his intrigued daughter “the streets fill with music and laughter so loud you won’t be able to hear your own thoughts because of it, and with all the sweet vendors you could ask for!” He smiled at her as he saw a wide grin tug at her lips “a perfect distraction for the both of us,” he told “we’ve had our fair share of tribulations these past few days, we deserve a moment of good fun.”

Daenerys beamed with excitement at her father, nodding eagerly in agreement. Laenor sent her off to the castle, to prepare for dinner before bed, for they had a long day ahead of them tomorrow.

Laenor’s jovial demeanour snapped away as his eyes noticed the sullen face of Ser Qarl. He had not noticed that the man had been watching him and his daughter for so long. Qarl seemed eager, nodding towards the many people on the dock, Laenor frantically shook his head before moving with great haste towards High Tide.

The bustling streets of Spice town radiated with a joy that Kings Landing had envied. Not a note of sorrow flourished within their streets, children shrieked with delight at every curious performance, ducking their heads from the bellowing flames made by a proclaimed ‘dragon man’, the crowds bouncing with the beating drums and swaying with the flowing strums of a drunken bard kicked from the fifth tavern he had visited today. The town's port was overwhelmed by the visiting traders and voyagers.

Daenerys was torn on where to go first, the warm scent of fresh lemon cakes tickled her nose as she felt herself float to it, only for her eyes to glimmer with the burst of flame that came from a clustered crowd, before her feet could guide her that way she was knocked down by a vivacious dancer who had paid his surroundings no mind. Daenerys rubbed her bruised cheek while grinning at the sight.

“Dany!” Her father called out, encircled by four knights. He frowned worriedly as he saw her on the ground, but was assured she was not harmed upon seeing the marvelling smile on her lips. He heaved her up “how soon you have managed to forget your mother’s command,” he chided.

She shook her head “I haven’t forgotten, and I wasn’t wandering!” she defended “you’re just too slow!”

He frowned, “you may continue at my pace, or you may return to your bedchambers and ready yourself to leave on the morrow.”

She huffed as she crossed her arms across her chest, feet itching to sprint off once again. Laenor wrapped his arm around his daughter's shoulders, guiding her about “come, there’s much I wish to show you!”

Daenerys forgot her irritation as her father brought her forth towards one of the thespians. The crowd parted for the two and their guards, they were not unfamiliar with the Sea snake's son, and his daughter, although they did scratch their heads at the relation.

Two men had been tossing blazing sticks between themselves as though it was nothing, wide grins on their faces as they danced and jumped, leaving the crowd gasping with trepidation at each toss before they would erupt in applause and cheers.

The shorter of the two men grabbed two sticks, one was alight while the other was not. He tossed them both into the air, the two striking one another before falling to the ground, the man had catched one while the other seemingly had gone off course. The other was coming dangerously close to the two nobles, prompting the four guards to snap forward in defence. Laenor was quick to pull his daughter back only for the taller man to catch the blazing stick in his teeth, prompting a look of awe from the startled Daenerys. He wiggled his brows at her before jumping back to his stage.

She laughed in disbelief “Did you see that!”

Laenor chuckled, still coming down from a peak of worry “I felt it, all the hairs on my face nearly burnt off.”

She scoffed before joking “you’ve never liked to grow your beard, I see that to have been of great benefit to you.”

He rolled his eyes, his nostrils flared as they were graced with a familiar scent. The sweet aroma of Honey fingers had called for him, he grasped his daughter’s hand “come on!”

He practically dragged her to the sweet stand where the vendor's eyes beamed as he saw the familiar shining jewels that Laenor would don “My Lord!” his brows arched as he saw the head of dark hair beside him, but his eyes had widened with wonder as he saw the purple anomaly her eyes were.

“Two servings of honey fingers,” he ordered excitedly, giving the uncertain Daenerys a reassuring look.

The man blinked away his stupor, blubbering in answer “y-y-y-yes m’lord- of course-,” the man frowned thinking his eyes had been toying with him, mayhaps he mistook her eyes for the gems on her fathers rings.

Laenor took the servings from the man, granting him a generous payment, same as the one he would grant him each year before stepping away. The man nearly tumbled over his stand to get a closer look of the uncommon trait Daenerys had possessed. He had only heard of her trait never had he or anyone else seen it.

“Take one,” he offered his unsure daughter, rolling his eyes at her reluctance “oh come on now, I know you are not one to make judgement so soon.”

She tentatively took the delicacy from his hands, her nose scrunching at how sticky it was. As she took a bite of it she hummed in delight at the sweet cinnamon taste.

“Delicious isn’t it?” Laenor asked as he continued to guide her about “Tis the one Tyroshy doing I am grateful for.”

Sun began to fall upon Driftmark, the warm glow cast a deep saturated hue upon the sky, almost a crimson red with yellow and blue dancing about the sky.

Daenerys had ventured off to the stands where foreign antiquities were sold, delicately carved bronze figures, rare stones so scarce in Westeros, and the finest cloths she had seen.

Laenor watched from afar indulging in his fifth honey finger. How contented he was to share his joys with his daughter, how thrilled he had been to see her as thrilled as he was about them. His troubles seemed so trivial that they had entirely slipped from his mind. Her smile, her joy, had been strong enough to stifle his own sorrows, he prayed that she would never lose a trait so rare in this world, rarer than those eyes of hers.

“M’ lord!”

A familiar voice had called out, tearing through his frail sanctuary. He gulped and turned to face the man, finding it to be Ser Qarl once more. He would often find himself thrilled to see the dashing face of his partner, although today, he would find no pleasure in seeing his face.

Instead of the elation he would commonly feel, all he could feel was dread at the sight of the man. Knowing what his presence had meant.

Laenor glanced about, seeing the many people within the street.

Qarl marched forward, hand hovering over the hilt of his sword.

“Have you no use of me lord?” Qarl recited the words he had been practising for days “have I grown too old for your tastes?”

The guards surrounding Daenerys grew alert of the confrontation. Their sudden alarm catches the attention of Daenerys, pulling her away from the market stand. She frowned with worry as she watched the confrontation from afar “father?”

“What are you doing here?” Laenor questioned fearfully, even though he knew the purpose of his presence.

“I’ve grown tired of being a toy for you to pick up whenever you wish, thrown to the dirt when you’re done with me!” Qarl yelled angrily, although his tone seemed terribly stale.

Laenor huffed, gripping the hilt of his sword tightly, his eyes pleading for Qarl to not allow this confrontation to ensue now of all times.

“Have you nothing to say, nothing at all?!” Qarl shouted, beginning to believe his role far too soon.

“Ser Qarl I command you! Leash your temperament or I will!” Laenor yelled out, fearing that Qarl had not understood him, he glanced for his guards to be at the ready. Giving them an affirming nod, as he turned around he was startled to find himself tumbling to the ground clenching his jaw.

Qarl had landed a blunt blow to his jaw “let us not dither about m’lord, draw your sword, let us end this!”

Laenor huffed, eyes glaring at Qarl pointedly, screaming at the man that this was not time to have such a confrontation.

The guards rushed to Laenors aid, one guard stayed behind to keep a tight grasp of the twisting Daenerys, desperate to come to his aid as well. Crying out for Ser Qarl to stop.

The people grew outraged by the assault on their lord, crowding them as they rushed to Laenors aid. The guard who had kept grasp of Daenerys knew this was no safe place for the princess and heir to the Iron Throne, he had begun to haul the girl back to the safety of Driftmark.

Daenerys thrashed in his grasp, commanding the man to let her go so she may help her father. Searching for his face in the crowd of rowdy spectators and enraged loyalists.

“Let me go! I won’t leave without him, I won’t leave without my father!” she cried, clawing at the arms tightly locked around her waist.

The guard had not answered her demands, busy finding the safest route to Driftmark.

The worried Daenerys was now infuriated of how feeble her attempts of escape had been, the farther she had gotten, the more the crowd had grown to be an angry blur of pale blues and plain browns.

Her eyes had widened with horror at the splash of a familiar colour within the blur of blue and brown. Perturbed by the sight of a colour that forever prompted dread within whatever unfortunate soul encountered it. She stilled in the knight's arms as she looked on with horror. Fearful of who that splash of red had belonged to.

Daenerys was brought to the hall of nine where her grandsire and grandmother had been. Their faces twisted with worry and confusion, where was their son? Daenerys was pale with terror, still as stone beside the gallant knight.

“What happened?” Corlys questioned the knight, eying Daenerys with worry.

The knight gave no clear answer, for he had not understood what had happened.

Rhaenys approached the frightened Daenerys cautiously. Kneeling before her and grasping her stiff shoulders “what happened, where's your father?” She asked softly. She had judged that the girl needed such tenderness, for her pale face and teary eyes would not have been caused by anything less than monstrous.

Daenerys' eyes fluttered as the sound of her grandmother's voice cut through the loud buzzing in her ears. Her lips parted for a moment before they fell shut. Her face contorted with fear as she recalled the sight once more. ‘Where is my father, where is he? He’s a warrior, a knight, he will prevail, he will cut through the crowd and rush back here I Know it, but Qarl, Qarl knows him, they’ve trained together, they are dear friends of one another, and none know a man’s weakness better than a friend.’

The words tumbled past her mouth as she frantically told “we were walking through the festival before Qarl appeared and attacked father!” Rhaenys shared a look of dread with her husband as she heard her words “and then- then a fight broke out and I tried to come to my fathers aid but I was taken away!”

The knight shuffled in his place as he felt the harsh gaze of Rhaenys “the remainder of the guard are with Ser Laenor, more than enough to provide him the right aid, my lord.”

Corlys asked, gesturing around the room “look around you, is my son here?” The knight gulped, shaking his head, flinching as Corlys bellowed “then it was not enough!”

Daenerys flinched as he shouted, prompting Rhaenys to squeeze her shoulder in comfort “come let us go to your chambers, there’s been enough excitement for you today.”

Rhaenys stood by the window, hiding her anxious face from Daenerys who was sitting at the vanity having her freshly washed hair brushed out into a frizzy mess. The girl was never one to hide her disdain for how her hair would be treated but today she had not found the will too, she could not have cared less. It had been hours since she had least seen her father, for he was yet to be found. Her grandmother was kind enough to distract her from her fears but she was not capable of hiding that glint of suspicion in her eye. Rhaenys may have laid her worry to rest but her guard never comes down.

Daenerys' hair was raised up into a tight bun at the back of her head, the handmaiden stood up and bowed towards Rhaenys “the princess Daenerys is ready for bed, my lady.”

“Bed?” Daenerys asked.

Rhaenys sighed as she approached the girl “It is best you get some rest-.”

“I’m not tired, and I wish to wait for father to return,” Daenerys firmly interrupted. She gulped as she saw the stern look she had received from Rhaenys “please grandmother, I wish to be awake when he returns, and you can’t expect me to go to bed not knowing if he’s alright.”

Rhaenys rested her hand on Daenerys’s cheek “he would not want you to tire yourself.”

The displeased Daenerys frowned, “I’ll know what my father wants, once it comes from his own lips.”

The remark shocked Rhaenys, recoiling her hand from the girl's cheek. A small smile of disbelief danced on her lips, how could she underestimate the daughter of the sharply tongued heir.

The doors burst open, and in came the dishevelled Laenor, eyes frantically searching for his daughter.

Daenerys glowed with relief as she shouted “father!”

Laenors distress eased at the sight of his daughter. His arms clutching her to his chest, breathing in her presence to dampen the blaze of fear within him.

Laenor pulled away from her, holding her face in his hands “You're alright! We thought you’d been terribly hurt!” She quickly said “Ser Qarl was foolish for coming near you!”

“That he was,” Corlys said as he came into the room.

Rhaenys kissed her son's cheek as he arose, holding him in a tight embrace. Muttering a prayer of indebtedness to all the known gods for sparing her a terrible grief.

Corlys pursed his lips in discomfort as he felt the thick air of worry that had surrounded his wife disperse “it is best that you both stay within the castle til it is time for your departure, the guards have yet to bring Qarl before me.”

Laenor tensed at his fathers words, resting his hands upon his daughters shoulders who winced at the tight squeeze “we are departing for Dragonstone tomorrow,” he looked down at her granting her a tender smile “I believe we have overstayed our welcome.”

Corlys nodded “I will have a ship prepared,” he gestured for his wife to join him as he left.

Rhaenys rested her hand one last time on her son's cheek before leaving the room.

Laenor left to his chambers to clean himself up and dressed into a less distressed attire. He looked over himself in the mirror, making sure nothing was misplaced. His gaze arose to meet his own eyes, eyes filled with reluctance and regret. He rested his hands on the smooth wood of his vanity.

Heaving in a shallow breath he adjusted his posture and gave himself a reassuring glance before leaving the room.

Daenerys had begun to settle into her covers, her fingers grazing over her watch as she pondered the days events and the disturbance they had caused. For a few days there was a reassuring calm, she was foolish to think it would go undisturbed.

Her eyes flicked towards the door as she saw her father come into the room.

She was confused, for it was time for bed, and he was not in his night clothes.

“Father?” She spoke.

He frowned at her “what are you doing?” He asked, a frenzied grin on his face.

She frowned “is it not time to retire for the night?”

He scoffed “the night has yet to end Embar Anne! Get up, get up!” He urged pulling her from her bed and towards the fireplace where they would often sit at the end of the day.

“But father, I’m tired!” She whined.

He playfully rolled his eyes at her “ah yes, so eager to be rid of me so you may wander about the halls freely,” he told, smirking at the look of shock on her face “I know you have been wandering the castle Dany.”

She was quick to make her case “I only did it once!”

He raised his hand up to silence her “I won’t tell your mother,” he held out his fifth digit out to her “I promise.”

A sigh of relief escaped her as she feebly wrapped her own finger around his “but I am truly tired father, ‘twas not a calm day.”

“Surely you’re not too tired to spend time with me,” he replied with a playful glint in his eye.

Daenerys crossed her arms frowning at the excited Laenor “Years ago it would be you urging me off to bed not I.”

“How times have changed,” he sighed out, playing with the ends of his tunic as he reminisced.

The two sat together for hours, a tower of books slowly grew beside them. Laenor found himself reading through a book to interest Daenerys whenever he would accidentally retell her a story of his adventures unknowingly.

She grew suspicious and worried as this mistake grew frequent, but she had eventually succumbed to it, for she was now occupied with keeping her eyes from rudely sliding shut. Whenever Laenor would see her eyes closed he would shake her awake, desperate to tell her more, for her to ask whatever question she wished without the limitations of respect expected towards a father.

She was quiet, only listening, it hurt him to not hear her curious questions, to not see her eyes widen with wander as he told her tales of his greatest ventures, of his time as a knight during the war at the stepstones, of the important values a voyager and captain must possess but mayhaps she was too tired to fathom his words, or how important they were to him.

He ran his fingers through her hair as she laid against his shoulder “I wanted to spend my life forever within the thrill of battle,” his soft spoke, a tight frown blemishing his brow as he stared at dimming glow of the fire “until you came, and it was a sudden pause.”

Her tired voice came from his side “I’m sorry…”

“Don’t be,” he dismissed, chuckling to himself. “I found the pause to be rather comfortable while it lasted,” he said, squeezing her slumped shoulder. He glanced down towards her “you know it is only a few years before you will be met by the same pause.”

Daenerys’s tired eyes flew open “what kind of pause?” she asked.

“Why, You will have your own family,” he explained, laughing at the look of dread on her face.

“Do you not think it too soon to discuss such a matter?” she suggested fiddling with her fingers.

“Tis not as bad as you think-.”

“It may not be for you, but for me it is,” she interrupted, moving away to the otherside of the couch “to trust someone like that, do you not think it dangerous at all?”

He pondered to himself for a moment “I think it rather romantic.”

The unamused Daenerys gave her father a blank expression “mm, sure… nothing more romantic than resting your trust in someone only to have them know the right place to drive their dusty blade.”

Laenor frowned “I had not known a girl of one and ten would be so seasoned in the field of Marriage and Romance.”

She tugged at her sleeves “Poems are rather useful in providing an insight.”

He scoffed as he came to the realisation “a rather one-eyed insight.”

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” he credulously asked.

“Make fun of his… disfigurement, it's insensitive,” she reluctantly defended, grimacing at how wrong the word had sounded once it had left her mouth.

Laenor sighed, “Again you are defending him, you’ve no obligation to him, Daenerys.”

“I have an obligation of common courtesy, I refuse to speak ill of him,” she quickly excused.

Laenor hummed “courtesy or longing my dear?” he sardonically questioned.

She frowned in offence as she answered “Courtesy.”

He sighed “Daenerys, I had hoped you had forgotten about him.”

She rolled her eyes as she stared at the blazing flames in the fire pit “How can I if morning, noon and night I am reminded of him.”

He did not appreciate the attitude she had been giving him, but knew this was no easy thing to experience, such a stinging betrayal is difficult to forget.

“You are still young Embar anne, you will be graced with better faces,” he assured, playfully tilting his head at her as he teased “mayhaps even a great many handsome faces.”

Her face reddened at his words, hiding her face in her shoulder bashfully. Laenor was delighted to see her abashed expression.

“Are we done for the night?” she impatiently asked “I’m rather tired, and I’ve had enough talk of stupid boys.”

He winced at her words “Already, do forgive me for boring you already, i pray that the men you meet may interest you enough so that they may not have their pride wounded.”

She chuckled, shuffling off the seat and towards her bed. Laenor reached for her arm “are you sure you are tired, we’ve still hours to burn,” he asked, hopeful that she may stay awake a bit longer.

She gave him a tired smile “father it's late, and I am truly, truly, TRULY tired, can we not continue this tomorrow? We’ve a long flight to Dragonstone, we can talk all we wish then.”

“One more story,” he desperately pleaded, holding her hands tightly in his own “please Dany.”

She pondered for a moment before half-heartedly succumbing to his wishes. He smiled in relief before resting her beside him and beginning to tell her a tale was sure she had not heard before.

“Do you know why the stepstones have been at war for so long?” he asked.

Daenerys frowned “this is not a story-.”

“Humour me,” he requested.

The tired girl sighed “The stepstones are key for trade across the narrow sea.”

“But what started the war?” he asked again.

She pondered to herself, what word would define the Triarchy’s actions? She asked herself. From the thousands of lessons she's had, she gathered one commonality between all of them: “Greed.”

Laenor nodded before repeating “greed,” he began to run his fingers through her hair “how does one sate greeds void of a belly.”

“You can’t,” she interrupted.

“And that is how war begins,” he told “the battle went on and on and on, not one man remained king of the narrow sea for more than a few months,” his voice laced with frustration “my father refused to give up, saw those wastrels as too big a threat to the house he bled for,” he chuckled to himself “I’ll never forget the proud look on my fathers face as I sewed together the greatest strategies to end this war, a time when I was his equal, a time when he did not feel shame knowing that I was to succeed him,” he scoffed “now that I’m gone, look at them, a decade and they haven’t ended this stupid war,” He reached for his side, unhooking his sheathed dagger “this was the very dagger I had during my time fighting, as sharp as Valyrian steel.”

Her tired eyes skimmed over the body of the dagger, the worn silver lining that danced about the cyan grip, leading towards the silver seahorse wrapped around the head of the daggers hilt.

“It’s very pretty…” she mumbled.

He hummed in agreement “my father had it made for me, one of his few acts of kindness towards me, aside from that its always been duty and legacy with him,” he tossed the dagger on the table beside him “promise me you won’t allow yourself to be consumed by the trivial matter of legacy.”

The dagger slid across the table and clattered to the ground, the least of his concerns as he shrugged.

She mumbled her promise to him as she nuzzled herself into his side.

“I pray the gods have mercy on you and end this war before the time comes that you ascend the iron throne,” he said, begging the gods to not bestow upon his daughter this eternal burden “what a headache it would be for you-.”

His breath hitched in his throat as he glanced down and saw her fast asleep, her arms wrapped around his waist, hugging him tightly in her slumber. Muffled snores escaping her gaping mouth, her dark lashes kissing her red cheeks.

Fear began to flood his chest as he whispered out to her “Dany?” he asked, hopeful for her answer “Daenerys… wake up my dear,” he called out again, his voice trembling with yearning, pleading that she wake ‘a few more minutes,’ he begged.

“Embar anne… my sea horse, my sea dragon, please wake up,” he begged, tears now slipping from his sorrowful eyes, whispering his daughter's name.

She remained still at his side, unaware of her crestfallen father crying over her.

He sniffled away his sorrow, for it was time, he was exhausted more than enough time. He stiffened his lip and shook away his grief. As he stood he was careful to not wake her, scooping her up into his arms and walking to her bed, laying her to rest for the night. He brushed away the hair from her face so it would not pester her as she slept. Tucking her in he knelt by her bed and stared at her face memorising every little detail, placing it as close as he could to his heart.

He rested a long kiss on her head, how he had regretted the gesture for he found it difficult to tear himself away. Prying his lips away from her head he whispered to her “may our paths cross again my sea dragon.”

His bent knees felt rigid, he could not move them, his heart would not let him. His mind frowned at the action, forcing a burst of will to flow through him. He shot up from the ground and stormed towards the door, his heart pleading that her voice would come and tell him to stay, to stay for a story, But the room was so painfully quiet, spare for the sound of his steps as he left. He strapped his sword to his side before leaving the room, his sweaty hand tightly gripping the hilt.

Shutting the door ever so quietly he sighed in relief, this may have been the hardest thing he has had to do, all that was left was see the rest of this through before it was too late.

As Laenor marched through the halls towards his chambers he felt the weight of uncertainty begin to ease from his shoulders.

“My lord,” came the voice of a young boy, halting Laenor in his steps.

He sighed before answering “yes?”

“There is someone waiting for you in the hall,” the young boy credulously told.

Laenor heaved in a deep breath “alright then, I will be right there.”

The empty halls carried the sounds of desperate cries “Help! Help! Guards!”

Daenerys flinched awake at the sound, the terror in the young boy's voice frightened her. Pulling back her covers she slipped her coat over her shoulders and peered out of the door, frowning as she saw the boy frantically running down the halls shouting for help.

She hesitantly stepped out of her room, filled with trepidation at what might have happened, what else could possibly happen on this day?

But curiosity gnawed away at her as she stared down the other side of the corridor. Hugging her coat closely around her she tiptoed down the halls and followed the sounds of clashing and scraping. She knew the sound had been coming from the hall of nine, but who the commotion was being caused by she did not know.

Her brothers are gone, so she need not worry for them.

Aemond was not here, and he would be a fool to do anything stupid in his condition.

It was the dead of night, everyone should have been asleep.

A scream of horror cut through her thoughts as she neared the hall, the scream so shrill, so guttural that it froze her in her tracks. She had never heard anything like that before, she had heard screams of pain before, screams of sadness, screams of joy even, but this…

This sounded like agony.

As she drew closer the screaming turned to throaty wails of distress. She thought this horror was coming to an end, instead she was met with a rancid smell, one she would compare to that of a pig roast. She covered her nose as she came upon the stairs that descended to the hall. She treaded warily towards the hall, peering over the railing to see what was wrong.

Her eyes fell upon the back of a familiar figure, a man looking at the blazing hearth of the famed hall of nine, Lord Corlys’s prized chamber.

Following his gaze she stilled in the middle of the steps, rooted in her place as she stared at the charred figure in the hearth. She could see its twisted and charred arms, its fingers clawing at the air, as though its last actions were cursing the gods for the cruel fate they had bestowed.

As she allowed her gaze to fall to the legs she frowned, the fabric of the breaches was familiar, She had seen it not that long ago. She looked back up towards who she assumed was the mans face, or the darkened void that should have been. His mouth was wide open, his moments of agony immortalised in his remains.

His remains, he was dead.

Dead.

Daenerys frowned as she tried to fathom the sight before her, a man burnt to death, and the culprit still standing there, admiring his work she had assumed. Her blank gaze fell upon him, she was not afraid of whatever harm would be done upon her by this cruel man, instead she wanted to see what the face of cruelty had looked like, so she may remember it later.

Her face contorted with horror as she was met with the familiar face of Qarl Correy, the man that only hours ago had assaulted her father, the man, that for years had been her fathers dearest friend.

Qarls eyes widened with horror as he saw the little girl, she was not meant to be there. Before he could do anything about it he heard the sounds of clattering armour approaching the hall, he knew he had overstayed his welcome.

Daenerys’s gaze followed his figure as he bolted out of the hall, her eyes fell back to the charred figure. The crackle of the flames had sent a cold shiver through her swaying body. While the room seemed to spin, the figure remained still in its place.

She shook her head ‘no… no?’ she thought to herself ‘no,’ she stated firmly ‘that is not him, my father is sound asleep in his chambers,’ she feebly assured herself ‘he is in his rooms and he is well, he will come here and take me away from this terrible sight, and tell me everything is alright, that I do not have to fear.’

As the seconds past the fear began to take grasp of her, the heavy weight of dread settling uncomfortably upon her chest ‘he is here, he is coming, he is not there, that is not him.’

She had not heard the doors burst open as two guards frantically scrambled inside. They shared a look of disbelief as they stood before the hearth. They tried to pull him out by his legs but his charred remains had welded to the wood beneath him. The two men each grabbed a spade and practically dug him out.

Rhaenys and Corlys stormed in, awakened by the ruckus in their hall, and word that their son had been attacked once again.

Rhaenys’s lips parted as she watched them heave out the body of her son from the hearth. They could not even rest him on his back for he had already gone stiff with death. His hair burnt off, the skin on his face torn apart as it shrunk against the lashing heat, the sound of its sizzling churned the stomach of Rhaenys as she fell to her knees, catching a better look of her son's face. Nothing of him remained to her, not even his face for her to recognise, all that was left, to prove that he was without a doubt her son were his clothes and even they barely remained.

Her mouth fell agape as she grasped at her son's scorched remains, and out came an ear-splitting scream of an anguish none could ever imagine, nor would they want to. Rhaenys has now outlived both of her remaining children, her only children, who could ever long for such an achievement, who would ever want such a thing?

Corlys, awakened from his stupor, reaching out to his grieving wife. She did not long for his comfort, swatting away his hands as she mourned alone. What did he have to grieve? The death of his remaining legitimate legacy?

Her cries echoed throughout the hall of treasures, the hall where Rhaenys’s greatest and last treasure died.

Daenerys shattered, as it all came falling down upon her all at once, her father was dead, and she will be forever haunted by how he had died.

Tears began to cascade down her cheeks, her lips downturned to an ugly frown of sorrow. Her head shaking in denial as she sunk down to the ground, wrapping her arm around her legs as she rocked back and forth, tugging at her ear as she waited for herself to wake from this dreadful dream. She could not be living this, this could not be real, this world cannot be so cruel to do this to her. She shuddered as the cold truth engulfed her trembling body.

Corlys yanked the guard at his side to stand before him as he spat in his face “How can you let this happen! IN MY FUCKING HALL!” he shouted, pushing the startled guard towards the heart. He looked at the faces of the other ashamed guards within the room “TELL ME-!” His face dropped at the sight of the rocking princess on the stairs “get her out of here…” he muttered pointing to her, but the guards remained rooted in place, Corlys bellowed “GET THE PRINCESS DAENERYS AWAY, AWAY FROM HERE I TELL YOU.”

One of the guards was eager to get away from the Sea Snakes wrath, grabbing the petrified girl's stiff arm and tearing her up from the ground, practically dragging her back to her chambers. Corlys shook his head in disbelief of what had happened, even though it stood- laid, burning, sizzling, hissing before him. Another child of his gone, because of his ambition, and how he hated that it took this long to prove the consequence of his desires. That this was the cost of all he thought he had desired.

#a song of ice and fire #aegon targaryen #aemond fanfiction #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x oc #alicent hightower #house of the dragon #helaena targaryen #hotd #Jacaerys Velaryon #Laenor Velaryon #Lucerys Velaryon #Rhaenyra Targaryen #Daemon Targaryen #Viserys Targaryen #want for nothing #Aemond Targaryen x oc

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tremendum · 9 days

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Me and the Devil; i

(not my gif) .·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·..·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·..·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·..·: Paul Atreides x fem!reader prelude next

word count: 5.3k

summary: Destruction: the only thing you and Feyd-Rautha may have ever had in common. Unfortunately, you endured. You learned how to live with the Harkonnens, to be one of them- and with a clip of fear, you worry you may never be able to unlearn.

warnings: blood/violence, family deaath, v brief allusions to smut/dubcon, reader is traumatized. pls lmk if i missed anything. not edited.

notes: thanks for all the love so far!!! here's the first chapter of the story - if you want to stay updated, i post on AO3 first :) just a quick first chapter to lay the scene before we jump into the engaging parts of the story. feedback is very motivating and highly valued, thank u all <33

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Penitent Crimes of Retaliation

In accordance with the legal doctrine of the 'Reprisal Accord', as sanctioned by the High Court of the Landsraad, houses are granted the right to retaliate against proven offenses committed upon them. This action shall such be labelled as "Penitent Crimes of Retaliation". Under this mandate, should sufficient evidence be presented, the aggrieved house may initiate a retaliatory strike and engage in warfare against the offending party. While reparations for damages incurred during the conflict are mandated, perpetrators shall be exempt from criminal sentences, ensuring a balanced recourse within the framework of inter-house disputes."

- From the Reprisal Accord, Office of the Padishah Emperor. Imperium, 10041.

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There was once a time when green was your favorite color.

You'd enjoyed a childhood of it; Peridot, Jades, the velvet green of winter dresses, the tall, mighty green the sacred Pine. The woven banner of your house, waving in the snow-whipped wind; A snarling green wolf upon the grey armor your parents wore to train you.

When the men of one other Houses Major arrived to retrieve your older sister, she'd been shroud in that very same pine-colored satin, an elegant dress, as she waved good-bye to you for the last time. When the ice would melt off the lower glaciers for those three months every year, the lakes would thaw to a deep emerald green, and your brother, sisters and you would play in it; servants and soldiers alike yelling and pulling you out, shivering to your bones.

Even at your sister's funeral. The green of the casket, laid to rest in the ground of a foreign planet by a man who'd never truly loved her. The women of your House, wearing a veil of mourning in that sacred pine satin as you said good-bye to her. Killed by the birth of her first; a son. Your parents had been proud - You became the oldest of your siblings that day.

You can barely stand to look at green anymore. No, instead, you mostly see black.

Black, white, and red.

They'd sent you away to make for your house a Fortune; a son, they'd wished, for your sake - and, by whispers of your Lady Mother, a daughter - but this place... it crawls with shadows and monsters and deadly smiles; most in the form of your betrothed.

Your na-Baron.

If Feyd-Rautha ever had a semblance of hesitancy, it was when you first met four years ago. You were at the end of your seventeenth year; he, freshly eighteen. He had been as cordial as you'd ever seen him, escorting you with an arm held out, eyes malicious but mouth less than offensive. He'd even called you Lady Bourbon those first few months on Giedi Prime. And, in fact, you can consider yourself lucky; perhaps for your bloodline, or for you yourself, Feyd-Rautha took special care of you. Maybe he did care for you -in the ways that he could.

After that, he taught you all you needed to know about the rest of the world. In these final days together, he has admitted furiously that he waited too long to claim you as his wife - four years was much too long for you to wait, even if your purity was claimed by him long before then.

The accusations had come from his uncle, the Baron; House Bourbon was stealing their precious refinery codes, committing treason against the trading accords along their exportation route. Perhaps, he thought, you were the one to plot it against your beloved future family.

But Feyd-Rautha knew better - knew that you'd never dare betray him. He was the one to demand a public execution of your family - but also the one to redirect your sentencing to a mere prisoner. As if you weren't one already.

Don't look away. See what we do to scum, my pet?

After all the sparring, each time you drew that precious blood from him, and you still haven't been able to kill him. If you'd had a blade, you would have, right there in the stands.

You were, in some ways, relieved when their bodies had hit the sand fast; You'd never seen your brother's skin so reflective as you did this morning. The black sun couldn't hide the blood that had seeped from him, nor from your mother's throat. You'd swallowed thickly, wishing you could look away, gasp - cry; but you had to hide your pain. Your na-Baron would've loved it too much.

Why don't you leave me with them, then? You'd hissed through your teeth.

Though he was wild and psychotic, growling with hunger at the bloodsport in front of him, he heard you for what you'd said. Feyd's fingers pulled your hair hard; forcing your chin to stare up at him. A sickly glint in the black sun, his teeth shone with hunger.

You'd have me throw you to your Wolves, and lose my prize? He'd tutted, kissing your forehead with a sickening sweetness; enough so that the servants had turned away their spider-black gazes. They didn't care much for the acts of affection you'd occasionally show one another - in a world marred by ugliness, any glimpse of beauty becomes a hauntingly grotesque show of power.

He'd snarled, slapping your cheek hard enough for you to groan. His breath hit your face, you're mine to keep - there's plenty of life left for you to serve.

He'd held your eyes open as they'd slit your father's throat; then both of your sisters, and your brother's. Your mother had fought as much as she could in her drugged state - the Harkonnens are rutheless, and Feyd-Rautha had sat calmly behind you, your head in his hands, caressing your shaking cheek - but the neckline of her gown was too high, and too thickly inlaid with encrusted heirlooms.

Bless their voided souls.

The emeralds that tore from her gown as she'd spilled her blood to the sand sent a ripple of pain out of your throat. Feyd had buried his face in your neck, teeth sharp as he sucked a mark just behind your ear, watching as you clenched your palms so hard, your own ruby blood beaded out, blackened in the sun's light.

If anybody would have bothered to look before burning the bodies, you know they'd find all the family diamonds sewn into the fabric of their clothing - centuries of your House, melted away.

Feyd-Rautha had drank up your agony with his lips, smiling as his hand wrapped around your throat.

Now, alone and away from the thick industrial air, your chambers are cold and suffocating.

There are screams coming from the hall - not the kind that you've grown to associate with your na-Baron testing his new blades, but the kind that comes with danger. With change.

As it turns out, you are not Feyd-Rautha's to keep any longer.

A loud noise outside of your quarters jolts you from your bed, whispering to yourself. They're coming for you. Pulling the sheets closer to your body, your hand finds the blade gifted to you on your nameday three years ago by your husband-to-be, still tainted with the ghost of your own blood.

Your whispers reverberate in the empty room. "I must not fear. fear is the mind-killer. fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me."

Your voice shakes. Few things remain from your early days of training, before you were sent off to become a Harkonnen; This is one is a relic.

There is a loud noise just outside; blades.

For a moment, you imagine there is a hand on your arm. It is strong, ghost-white, and possessive. His voice rumbles in your head. Don't look so sad, my pet. I will never let them keep what is mine. I will find you again.

You almost wish he will.

When you look down to the weight on your arm, you do not find the hand of your once-betrothed, but the remainder of his ownership, a handprint of a bruise that will not fade even as the soldiers in Atreides armor deliver you to the next planet.

You rise from your bed, preparing your sore body for a fight that will surely end before it even starts. You don't stop your old prayer, in fact, you hardly notice that you're saying it at all. Even as the doors give in.

"-and when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing - only I will remain-" There are soldiers that burst through.

The way one of them fights strikes a faint memory from a lost childhood, and it fills you with rage.

Why did you wait so long to rescue me?

You lunge, snarling like the wild beast you've become in your captivity. You will fight, because that is the only thing you know how to do. It is the only thing you have left.

Your blade falls within minutes.

You're taken by the man from your past not a minute after.

You're on a ship, watching the black Opiuchi B disappear, in an hour.

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"My Lady."

You don't realize the worker addresses you until you snap out of it, flushing behind your veil as you step out of the aircraft.

The dress you wear, salvaged from your family's old castle, is dusty.

It clings to your skin, drowns you, as the rain falls. A staff of House Atreides holds an umbrella above you, shielding your elaborate dress from the water as you walk up towards where the members of the House await you. You stare down at the dress - green velvet. A texture you have not felt in years; your skin looks different not wrapped completely in black.

Your eyes strain to take in the grand entrance to the castle from the hangar which Duncan Idaho had escorted you, ignoring him as he turns to glance back at you momentarily. You can't bear the look of unfamiliarity that flickers over him when he looks at you, now.

He looks the same - maybe less tall, but that has more to do with it having been six years since you last saw the man. You, however, are not the same girl you were when he knew you on Sabberon. Fear, panic, and wrath rage within you while your gaze smolders daggers at the back of his head.

He walks just slightly in front of you and despite yourself, you slide just a bit closer - the only semblance of comfort you can allow yourself to feel as you take in the largess of the castle. The air is thicker here than you've ever felt; salty, windy, like you can taste the sea in the rain... it clings to your skin, but it feels clean. You'd been changing into your robes when you entered atmo - you've heard many things about the ocean, about Caladan.

Something within you yearns to witness it yourself. Subtly, you crane your neck outwards to catch a glimpse; nothing in the near distance but the walls of the castle and high cliffs.

You nearly trip as Duncan Idaho stops just a few paces from where the members stand at attention to greet you and your retinue.

Duke Leto Atreides, regal and composed, stands at the center of the room, his presence commanding your attention. Beside him, a woman wearing a deep cerulean gown - Lady Jessica. Easily, from behind your own veil, her gaze penetrates you; A cool sensation down your spine as you seem to feel her words in the back of your head as she watches the Reverend Mother who'd travelled with you per High Court orders.

Hello, sister.

You purse your lips, looking on - there, next to his mother; Standing tall with an aura of quiet intensity, his eyes on you, is Paul Atreides.

The son to whom you're now destined.

Even from your obstructed vision, you can see that he's handsome - lithe, hair curled and combed back to show his eyes. They are wide, penetrating like his mother's, but Maker, they are so green.

There is no hunger in his eyes, nor hatred, nor anything but a mild curiosity; it strikes a chord of fear in your gut, wishing briefly to return to the na-Baron's sight. It was easy to go unseen with the Harkonnens; They always made their intentions clear, and the na-Baron never wanted many to see you besides himself. You always knew what he wanted, and you could give it to him enough to control him.

But Paul. His stare betrays no emotion but duty. If not for the boyish pout of his pink lips and his freshly-shaven jaw, you could have mistaken him for his father. A Duke.

Your name, boomed from the voice of Leto Atreides, pulls you back to the surface of Caladan. "Welcome." Duke Leto's voice resonates through the hall with authority as he addresses you, his tone measured yet warm. Your stomach twists and turns as the man nods courteously to you. Coaxing your body to move, you bow to him.

"We are honored by your presence." His voice is surprisingly humane, exceedingly polite towards you; someone who was just come from the protection (a laughable phrase) of their sworn enemy.

Your throat tightens at this. There is no honor to your presence, not anymore.

Though you feel the prickling behind your eyes, you force your head to tilt in acknowledgment, schooling your expression to respectful - perhaps they can't quite make out your face, but Lady Jessica watches closely. She sees.

You take a sharp breath, swallowing away the lump of emotion in your throat.

"Thank you, Duke Leto, my lord." Your voice carries steel beneath its polite, quiet veneer, though you try to calm your heart. You turn to Lady Jessica to greet her.

"My Lady, it is a pleasure." You say, equally even. Lady Jessica offers a tight smile, something akin to understanding swimming among her irises. It's been quite some time since you were permitted to talk to a woman; Your servants on Giedi Prime were, of course, tongue-less, as na-Baron wished. "Thank you for welcoming me to your home."

"We understand that these are trying times for you." She says softly, her words a gesture of solidarity as your legs stagger. You feel dizzy and tired, but you force yourself to nod, bowing again. Your chained headdress overlaying your veil chimes slightly with the movement, swaying with the rain.

For such an acclaimed House, you're surprised by the gentleness of their welcome. Perhaps, they'd thought that the groaning and echoing hallways of Giedi Prime might break you, that they'd be taking in some injured little dove, wings clipped by the ferocious boy who'd gifted her with a knife plunged between her ribs on her nameday.

The scar that lies just below your breast on your right side serves not as a reminder, but as fuel. It did not quell your spark. It ignited it, with a bloodthirsty rage for revenge.

Months of being thrown into a pit under the glaring black sun; Not the arena that assassinated your family, no - this pit was smaller, with one large seat for the na-Baron himself, and drugged concubines and servants with blades to service his na-Baroness. A place to watch his pets play.

Destruction: the only thing you and Feyd-Rautha may have ever had in common.

Unfortunately, you endured. You learned how to live with the Harkonnens, to be one of them- and with a clip of fear, you worry you may never be able to unlearn.

Lady Jessica is correct, these are trying times for you. You swallow as you straighten your back. Despite everything, there's a minor comfort in the Atreides' insistence of providing you with the necessities for you to perform your traditional customary mourning traditions. Your family may be gone, but you can still have this part of them; as a way of saying good-bye. It's what they would have wanted.

You turn to the young man who stands next to Lady Jessica.

The Harkonnens had tried to show you the dangers of house Atreides; The poison of appearance, of trust. You are not foolish enough to have believed the Baron Vladimir and his webs of deception, but you are sharp enough to know that in times like these, nobody can be trusted.

Your betrothed watches you, as if trying to see through your mourning veil. The green of his eyes sends a warmth through your stomach as you avert your eyes. "My Lord," you bow to him, your heart thumping in your chest, remembering how you might be rewarded for looking your formerly betrothed in the eyes during ceremony. Trying not to flinch, you wait to see what Paul's hands may do. But they do not strike you, nor grasp your jaw sharply. He barely moves.

"My Lady." His voice is softer than you expected, and it strikes your heart with a cool unease. Distrust slithers around you like a daunting snake. He bows back to you.

It's silent for a thick moment before Duncan Idaho - the man from a distant past - speaks from beside you. "We have much to discuss."

Cutting to the chase, as always. Your eyes fall to the Duke, who nods. "Do you need to see treatment?" He asks the Swordsman, eyes assessing the soldier.

Duncan laughs at this, gesturing to his arm, where beads of blood still slowly peeks through his the tunic he'd slipped on after changing out of his armor.

"Harkonnen blades are sharp. So are Lady Bourbon's nails."

The prickling of four pairs of eyes strike you as he continues, turning this time to address you full-on. "Your fighting is much different than I remember, Little Bourbon."

What he doesn't say is clear to you: Much more savage than he remembers. Something between shame and pride licks at your cheeks and you avert your eyes; It had been a force of habit - rabid hounds don't tuck tail when cornered, do they?

You clench your hand, your nails digging into your palms; you learned early on that sharper claws could keep Feyd tame for longer.

The force of Duncan's old nickname for you, when you'd been young - it nearly knocks the air out of your chest. It's been over half a decade since you'd seen the man; too much has happened since then. Nonetheless, you smile toothless behind the veil, trying not to think of the life you'd just left behind. Of what cold life lies ahead.

When you respond, your voice is frigid.

"Sometimes adaptation is survival, Duncan Idaho. Threats demand evolution."

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The rain is gone by the next day.

In the morning room, forks scrape over blue-plated China. There must be a clock somewhere near, as the seconds pass in quiet, insistent ticks. A cleared throat, a swallow of water.

Your eyes burn from exhaustion.

Your arrival last night held no such time for small talk - you were whisked away by the service staff to make sure your quarters were comfortable; Your old clothing and that of your sisters and mother - the few things the Atreides soldiers had salvaged from the ransacked Castle at Sabberon - had been washed thrice of rubble and smoke and were hanging, waiting for you, in the wardrobes.

Barely awake, late in the evening, you'd attended a meeting in a small conference hall. There, sat across from Lord Paul, Masters of War and Swords and Strategy, a Mentat, and the Lady Jessica, the Duke had asked you questions, ensuring you were not harmed - more importantly, trying to ensure there was no malicious intent to your presence. Your eyes could not ignore the Lady Jessica, who stood behind the Duke, her fingers twitching to the others when you responded to a question asked of you. They had some kind of language, you'd realized, as they responded in their own subtle hand gestures.

You'd only been there for ten minutes before you were escorted by a handmaid back to your chambers, where you sat without rest through the night.

Truthfully, you're breaking fast with Lady Jessica and Lord Paul out of courtesy; You were up far before the sun had found the horizon this morning, staring emotionless at the ghost who stood in the corner of your new chambers.

You'd sat watching, cradling your chest with wide eyes, as the ghost slid onto his knees. How he'd crawled, smirking at the foot of your mattress, whispering to you with sharp teeth and beckoning fingers. The sweet promise in his eyes laid with blood and pain, coaxing you forward despite yourself - until something in the corner of your vision moved, and you'd screamed.

That had woken one of the servants.

She came in with her head tilted down, holding a pitcher of water, and you'd asked her to stay.

Her name is Hestia; she must barely be twenty. You insisted on sharing a pot of tea with her, sitting in the silence but sipping shortly on your teacups. You didn't talk much, but instead breathed and felt the safety and of a woman's company, even if she is a few years younger than you.

It wasn't until she'd brought you breakfast a few minutes later that you realized the staff must have been informed of your courting customs before your arrival - she said nothing as you ate silently, staring out towards the coast of rocky cliffs and rolling moors you could just barely make out from your chamber windows.

And now you sit similarly - in the morning dining room, your hands perched in your lap, unsure what to do with yourself.

Your future husband, no older than yourself, sits across the table from you now, pushing his omelet around on his fork. The table shakes just slightly, jilting your glass full of water - he must have a restless knee. He chews at his lip, avoiding your stare, sharing slight conversation with his Lady mother. Her attempts to bring you into the conversation are met with polite answers and more silence, your voice shaky and cold.

After a while, a woman enters, whispers something to the Lady at the end of the table. Nodding, Lady Jessica takes her leave with a pointed look at Paul, suggesting he might escort you around the castle to settle you in.

Though your stomach coils, you nod, "-if you have time, my Lord, I'd appreciate it."

His eyes find yours from behind the veil and you clear your throat. He's quiet but chivalrous; A nod, a glance sent back to his mother as she leaves. A short gust of air through the room and suddenly you can smell him. His hair, clean and glossy - healthy - glints as he faces a window, exposing the early morning sun to his bright eyes.

It's silent for a few moments as only the two of you remain; Your food untouched and his half-eaten.

"Are you one of them?"

Them?

You stare at him from behind the thin pine veil that covers you. It occurs to you that Paul may assume you are just as bald and sick as each Harkonnen; years of adapting, surviving off of instinct and placation, are over. With a jolt, you realize you are not a Harkonnen. And you will not be wed to one.

You shake your head, thankful for the lack of chains upon the crown of your head today, ignoring the melancholy feeling in your gut.

"I have hair." You state simply, looking down at the skin of your arm; The skin that boasts arm hair, none of the sickly pale skin that knew of no clean air nor healthy sunlight - your skin, glowing with real melanin like the House of Bourbon.

You'd never spoken this freely on Giedi Prime besides in the sole company of Feyd-Rautha - stars, you'd never have spoken this freely at home on Sabberon, either - but there is no home anymore. And if you've learned one thing in your years since coming of age, its that the Great and Noble Houses of the Landsraad are crawling with perjurers, fabricators.

Paul is likely the same.

If the Atreides boy must be wed to you, you cannot help that, just as you couldn't help with Feyd-Rautha. They can dress you, insist in your traditional customs - but you will not go down easy. No matter how cold the home, you can be colder. You are more than the bones which hold you up; Meaner than the demons that kept you in their ghostly-grip for four years.

His cheeks flush a peculiar pink, bottom lip captured between pearly teeth. "No," he starts again, eyes searching - trying to find you, beneath the layers of green that wrap around you. "Not Harkonnen-" he quiets after he says the name, as if worried to offend you. "I meant-" his eyes swim, "Bene Gesserit."

Your stomach chills as you meet his eyes.

After some hesitation, you shake your head. "No, my Lord."

When he blinks at your words, you feel compelled to continue. "I suppose I was..." you move your hand to pull on the sleeve of your robes.

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"or, I was supposed to be." your unemotional tone rings through the room. Paul doesn't say anything to that, biting back the suspicion that climbs up his throat.

He stands when you rise from your seat; Your mourning dress, unlike anything he'd ever seen before, flows like the leaves of a weeping willow as you push your chair in behind you. When he offers a stiff arm to escort you out of the room, you hesitate before looping yourself loosely to him.

She is telling the truth.

His mother had indicated, with flicks of her hand, during the meeting the evening before; you, sat before the Atreides' council, unaware that his mother was reading your honesty.

But that could be a trick; you've admitted to being partially trained in the ways of the Bene Gesserit, perhaps you found a way to deceive his mother. As much as he trusts Duncan and his father, he can't shake the suspicion that you're a mere pawn in the Harkonnens' game.

But his father's words burn sharply into his mind.

Duty often requires us to navigate paths we may not have chosen for ourselves, Paul. You may not always like her, but you will treat her with the respect and care befitting of a future spouse. Love may come in other ways - but you will marry her, and together you will sire an heir when the time comes.

By decree, it was ordered you be wed to Paul, but he can't find it within himself to lose the feeling of distrust. He has spent hours learning about the Harkonnens - how they think, their strategy; and yet, from Duncan's account, the Baron and his nephew just let you go. It makes no sense to him.

"I was supposed to be a lot of things."

Your voice is undeniably beautiful; strong, much more resolute than he'd expected. But you are extremely cold, and evidently unwilling. Polite, yes - it seems you've been trained just as he and every other young noble of the Great Houses have - but you are calculating, aggressive.

He saw the claw marks you'd left upon Duncan; a man you've known since you were a young girl.

You walk with your chest out, back straight like a soldier; your words are cordial yet laced with steel and indifference - it only serves to deepen his unease. He guides you through the castle, murmuring quietly as he shows you along, introducing you to various members of staff who stop and bow in recognition.

You don't say much until he escorts you to a path that winds down out of your sights; Below the castle, between jagged rocks, Paul finds himself concerned to no longer be surrounded by castle walls. Beside him, you take a deep breath, your footsteps faltering as you slow to stare at moss that sprawls across the cobblestone.

Curiously, Paul slows to a stop beside you.

For a moment, you stare down at the dirt and fallen tree limbs, the grassy fields and rocks. Soon, as though an invisible string pulls you upwards, you snap your head, voice sheepish behind your veil. "Apologies, my Lord." You start to turn away. "I've read of plants like this, but never seen them before in person."

Paul is suddenly struck by the realization that you may not have seen much of any flora nor fauna on Caladan. He knows what Giedi Prime is like; and your homeworld, from what he'd read last night before bed, was mostly full of Glaciers, forests, and high altitudes. Perhaps you are interested in such things; the idea surprises him.

So instead of moving along, he finds himself bending to pull off a bit of the moss from a fallen trunk. The earthy dirt spreads between his nimble fingers, the green bright against his skin. You watch him silently.

"It absorbs up to twenty times its dry weight in water." He says it quietly, repeating what he'd learned in an ecological lesson, pushing on the spongy material with his thumb. "Banks of it grow just around the brackish tidepools outside the castle."

Your interest, piqued, causes your head to crane slightly from your short height - he can tell, even without seeing any part of your face, that you are fascinated. "Am I allowed to see?" You ask stiffly, your arms by your sides.

An initial wave of protectiveness over his home washes over him; remembering his father's words, he forces his shoulders to relax. He lets the moss fall back to the stump, brows furrowing.

"You are to be Lady Atreides, one day." He tries to school his voice evenly, avoiding any hint of resistance to this fact. "You do not have to ask permission to see your own land."

The wind from the sea whips around you; his stray curls fly in his vision. There are no words from you for several very long breaths, in which you clear your throat.

"I do not feel well, my Lord." You say moments later, voice cordial but thick with the desire to be alone, "I believe I am sick from travel. Please, if you would excuse me."

He is unsure if he had made you uncomfortable or if you are truly feeling sick; nonetheless, Paul escorts you to your chambers silently, calling one of the handmaids - Hestia, her name is - to check on you. He insists she bring you some bread and cheese, to draw you a bath if you please.

His jaw clenches; he's to train with his mother soon, but he needs release. His muscles clench in repressed frustration and so Paul lets his feet carry him swiftly to the training quarters.

His fingers itch for a blade; his mind itches to forget about the last day, about the cold life that lies ahead of him.

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