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syneilesis · 6 months

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[fic] if only for a moment

if only for a moment

Love and Deepspace | Rafayel (Qi Yu) x Main-Character!Reader | T | 3.6k words | ao3 link (with correct formatting)

Rafayel waits. And waits. And waits.

A/N: Another LaD fic!! This time it's Rafayel. Several elements of this fic are inspired by and loosely based on his story anecdotes and bond story, plus that Deep Sea card line backdrop. So more spoilers in this one, I'm afraid. I think you need to be aware of them in order to follow the flow of the fic. But if not, here's what you need to know: basically Rafayel accepts a visiting professorship at the University of Linkon to reunite with the MC/you. And the prose poetry interspersed are loosely situated in the Deep Sea card lineup setting (you can search in YouTube for the scenes. This one is a brief glimpse of the scene). That princess/knight(??) dynamic is yum yum.

If possible, please read the version on AO3. I formatted the prose poems there as if they're really prose poetry, so I'd appreciate it if you check that out. (Though there isn't too much difference between the formatting here and there, I did make the effort of coding a little 🥺)

Anyhoo, hope you enjoy, and I am sO STOKED FOR THE OFFICIAL RELEASE. rip my wallet 💸😭

JUST LOOK AT THIS MAN AND BELIEVE

There’s a type of berry in a distant land that produces a rare shade of ink that matches the color of your eyes. It takes a hundred of them to create the right hue and volume for the art that he wants to make. It comes to him in a dream: endless desert, then fireworks of verdant sparks that coalesce into stem, leaf, and, finally, fruit. Rafayel remembers that land, so much different from the iridescent blue of ocean underwater, and the acrid gold of the barren desert. His mouth filled with the succulent sweetness of the dream, the lingering sandpaper roughness of the berries on his fingers. He already knows the name of the artwork even before he’s begun—Waiting, Missing. The ache in his bones gaining form, an intangible thing taking flesh.

Under the ocean surface, time is muted, a deafening thickness that surrounds you with its ambiguity. On land, however, it is linear, and fast, and in a matter of blinks, Rafayel’s visiting professorship nearly wraps up.

He’s only glimpsed you once or twice. Thrice at most. The university is big, but not big enough to warrant a dearth of fateful encounters. The first time he saw you it was at a coffee shop: walking along with your friends outside, your voice mellifluous and festive wafting through the trellis of the café entrance. You were talking about him—well, about Lemuria to be specific, but these days any talk of Lemuria inevitably draws in his name.

He’s committed your schedule to memory, and yet it just seems impossible to capture a moment with you. Even just a brush of shoulders, or of sleeves—an asymptote of contact. Just navigating around your orbit, but never truly meeting.

What would it be like—finally talking to you? You in front of him, face to face? Rafayel imagines the ache of waiting fading into the background until it’s completely gone. He yearns for that feeling, the release of it. A conclusion—or maybe even a beginning.

i. take my hand, he told you under the glow of the lustrous moon, the only source of light that contoured the secretive valleys of his face. i want to show your highness something. there was a country, he said, beyond the undulating monochrome of the desert, blanketed by lush trees and shrubberies and flowers that buildings were made in betwixt and around them—a nation of trailing and winding architecture, a marriage of the natural and the manmade. you wanted to ask why he’d planned on taking you there, and the only answer you got was a curt turn of his head and the profile of a masked man layered by shadows and distance. it would have been nice, you thought, if the moon poured light upon his hooded gaze.

Eventually he begins to frequent the café. Twice a week at first—he doesn’t want to come off strong right away, of course—and then making his way up until he’s hanging out there more than his own studio. He schedules his visits around your classes, always during the ones when the probability of you dropping by the café is high and he can ‘coincidentally’ be around the same area. It’s gotten to a point that Thomas calls him out on it, and nags at him to focus more on his painting. The next exhibit is immediately after his visiting professorship after all.

“From where I’m standing,” Thomas says, “you’re not painting at all.”

Rafayel ignores him.

Five minutes later, he says, “Not painting is part of the painting process.”

Thomas rolls his eyes, but he leaves him to it.

At the café, Rafayel attracts curious looks. A few attempt to approach him, but he pretends not to see them. They linger around the periphery, like moths to flame.

And then something happens: the entrance door chimes, and you swan into the coffee shop, earphones and denim overall skirt, the kind of rosy-cheeked image Rafayel finds on teen magazines, wide-eyed and earnest. You fall in line and order when it’s your turn, and your eyes sweep across the packed café searching for a vacant seat until they finally land on him.

Rafayel’s heart stumbles.

Up close, the baby fat on your cheeks still gives you the appearance of being younger than you actually look. You turn a polite smile his way, and his heart stutters again—but this time it is taken as a warning.

“Hi,” you say, tentative. Any hint of recognition absent. “Do you mind if I sit here?”

ii. you're counting the steps of your inevitable parting. you're at the edge of the desert, far away from your home and its familiar scents, oriented towards a direction that promised a future sad memory, the gentle warmth of his hand, the downward denial of his gaze. this longing that grew out of your bones, aching during cold, aching during heat, aching when he looked at you with such tenderness he had to hide it through the sharp tug of your joined hands, the long strides that opened up a lonely distance. intimacy was dangerous, knowing was dangerous, the bowels of his heart like a solitary flower on a high peak. what would you do to such loneliness?

Memory isn't always an infallible thing. The human brain cannot hang on to every moment of your life, though Rafayel wishes it were so. But still—to think that you would forget him, and it hasn’t even been a century. You were like a phantom thief stealing his heart in the night—no recourse, no resolution.

To wait is to be in agony, the burn of yearning locked within the heart. Rafayel has been waiting for a long time, and the only memory scorched in his heart is fire, the blaze and its blinding, all-consuming want.

What would you do to such want?

You have a blurry childhood, Rafayel discovers. After the first Wanderer descended on Earth, the incident strummed your memories like a stringed instrument that tired of the same chord, over and over. It had bothered you at first—not being in control of your own memories—but eventually you had learned to live with it.

“Grandma and Caleb—my childhood friend—helped me through the process,” you tell him, stirring your iced mocha with its straw. “I owe them a lot.”

Eyes cast down, but still the melancholy shadows remain in your expression. Rafayel folds his arms on the table, and leans closer.

Around them only a few people occupy the coffee shop at this time. How fortunate for Rafayel to catch you during your break while every other student is trapped in class lectures.

“There’s no use in dwelling upon what's already happened. Even sharks have to give up when their prey escapes. When you remember, it will be all the more joyous, no?”

The smile you give him is crooked, disbelieving.

“If I remember.”

“You’ll remember.” Because there’s no other choice, for you and for him. Rafayel cannot bear being shelved in the history of your smile and happiness. Waiting can only be endurable if there’s an endpoint.

In his studio, Rafayel begins his next painting.

iii. the berries tasted sweet, with an edge of sourness that clung to the bottom of the tongue. it had the exact shade of your eyes, a detail that rafayel brought up the moment he plucked it from the shrub. raising it to align with your eyes, comparing them with his artist's meticulous gaze. maybe when this is all over, i'll go back here again to extract ink from these berries, and paint a portrait of your highness using these to color your eyes. he never showed you any of his paintings, merely mentioned them in passing, and you constructed a dream of him from the throwaway words that left his covered lips. i'm not used to sitting for so long, you reminded him, and he glanced at you, then at the berry between his fingers. my memory is enough, then handed you the fruit.

In the few weeks of meeting with you Rafayel forgets that his visiting professorship is ending soon and he has to give out his last lecture. Thomas had asked him what his topic would be. At that point Rafayel had no answer. But now he has.

“I’ve been hearing you talk about Lemuria every now and then with your friends.” He props his cheek on his hand, tilting his head slightly and giving you a charming smile. “Interested?”

You blink. “How did you know?”

“Oh, I’ve seen you a couple of times here, and I happened to hear your friends chat about my lecture. Your points were almost accurate, I’m in awe.”

“The visiting professor—that’s you?!”

Rafayel pauses, the slosh of his drink nearly spilling on his frozen hand.

“You didn’t know?”

Sheepish, you say, “Honestly, I didn’t make the connection. Is that why plenty of people have been glaring at me as of late?”

He releases a frustrated sigh, eyes rolling heavenward.

“In any case, my final lecture is on Friday next week. It’s titled “Memory and Meaning in Lemurian Art”. Why don’t you drop by and listen, and you can tell me what you think afterwards.”

You retrieve your bullet journal to check your schedule. It’s colorful, filled with stickers and doodles that Rafayel finds endearing. Then the excited moue on your face drops into a frown, and Rafayel can foresee the next words that will come out of your downturned lips.

“I’m sorry,” you say guiltily, “but I have a major test that day, and I need to get a high score in order to pass the course.”

Rafayel exhales, long and weary, but ultimately shrugs off the apology. “What a shame, but I forgive you. Just don’t fail your exam or else my magnanimity would be all for nothing.”

He calls Thomas that night.

“I’ll disappear for a while once the professorship is over.”

“Hey, wait, what do you me—”

“You’ll be happy to know that this is for my next painting.”

A beat. “Okay … but for how long?”

“That’s the question, isn’t it?”

Then he hangs up.

He’s trying, he really does. The lecture ends to a resounding applause, and it’s mechanical how he answers the questions posed by the audience. But he’s trying, he’s trying. There’s no specter of you in the sea of faces in the auditorium. You’re at the other end of the university compound, sweating your way through your exam. He genuinely hopes you’d pass, for your sake.

Thomas had booked his flight to another country, where he’ll traverse to a land that he’d visited many times in his dreams and had woken up with a filmy, sweet-sour tang at the roof of his mouth. He’ll leave the morning after the closing dinner party the faculty has prepared for him. There isn’t time to pack much, and no time to tell you goodbye.

Rafayel guesses that it’s only fair: how would you feel waiting for him at that café, the chair across you empty, only the sunlight pooling from the window as your companion?

iv. parting, somebody once said, is such a sweet sorrow. much like those berries in that ever-green nation, a lingering sourness remained underneath, the sting of it reminding you every now and then. he was already mourned for even before he left. tell me what it's like—the ocean. he was elusive, untouchable in his grief. you'd heard through whispers, the story of his migration, the drowning before the drying, the unwanted journey. grief brought him to you and grief would steal him away from you, you knew, down to the cells of your body and the hopelessness in your blood. —and yet. and yet you wanted to have a taste of it, anyway.

The ever-green land is no longer green, or lush, or alive. Time corroded it into memory, sepia-faded, wizened. Past. The berries he’s searching for don’t grow here anymore. Everything here is empty, barren, helplessly so.

Rafayel hasn’t accounted for such development, but he should have known. Disappointment stings at his chest, and bitterly he turns away and stays at the next town over. At a family-run restaurant situated near the outskirts, he looks over the wide windows, across the highway road, beyond the jagged horizon. The painting won’t be finished, then. Another tragedy, pressed flat next to the forgetting, to the waiting, and his home.

The chef personally serves him his order and, after a shuffle of hesitation, brings up a question.

“Young man, you came from the direction of the old country, yeah?”

Rafayel meets his inquisitive gaze. “Yes, why?”

“It’s been a while since we had someone visiting that place. There’s nothing in there anymore, it’s been that way for years. Why did you go there?”

Rafayel is reluctant to say, but at the guileless set of the older man’s face, he concedes.

“I was looking for berries. The ones native there. They produce a shade that I need for my painting.”

At the mention of the fruit, the chef’s expression lights up. “Oh! I see, I see. You’re in luck, son. We grow them here at the farm. Plenty of those for everyone. How about I give you some? It’s rare meeting someone who still remembers the old country, it’s almost fate. How many did you say you need?”

Fate. Just like the time of your first meeting, as if the universe had gifted you to him. Just like the time of your parting, of your forgetting, of his waiting. Fate as a connection from you to him, red and burning brightly.

He doesn’t want to seem eager, but he knows he’s failed from the way the chef toothily grins at him.

“A hundred or so.”

The chef falters at that, jerking slightly back. But he accepts it with a nod, an avuncular smile making its way across his kind, powdery features.

“That sure is a huge number, but I think we can work something out.”

His painting takes a month to complete, inclusive of the time spent making the ink from the acquired berries. Sometimes, Thomas watches him paint, quiet in the background. His stays usually don’t last—a quick flash that Rafayel nearly misses, or deliberately ignores. But during the final stages of the painting process, Thomas hands him the exhibit details.

“I’m just thankful you’re on time for this one.” He sighs, relieved, then leaves.

Alone, Rafayel creates. Brushstroke after careful brushstroke, each varying by pressure and angle. He lets each layer of paint dry before moving onto the next. The berry ink—the color of your eyes—the solely different element of this painting. Center, central. The focal point. The beating heart. The years and years of waiting and longing. The form and the flesh. Alive.

This, too, is an endpoint.

v. can i see your face, just this once? your hands grazed his mask like a ghost wanting to touch. rafayel stayed still beneath your desirous fingers, observing, waiting, his own fingers twitching towards his dagger. even in the parting he could not let go of this distance. hopeless, hopeless. your highness would get nothing out of seeing my face. he's wrong, his eyes never left your face, and he's wrong. he didn't stop you from your grasping of his mask, and him—finally—bare and beautiful yet a little sad. you're wrong, you said, tracing his slightly parted lips with a trembling finger, you're wrong. it is everything to me.

The gallery is packed. No surprise there. It’s almost boring, in a way. Waiting, Missing hangs at the farthest hall in the floor, special and intimate as it should be. Thomas knows him well; otherwise, Rafayel would have whined at him to hell and back just so he could be granted this demand that is in reality a mandate.

He’s hiding from the throngs of journalists and art critics alike and sequesters himself in a corner that has a clear view of the painting. Loosening his collar and tie, Rafayel breathes and closes his eyes, leans tiredly against the wall. A few more minutes, and he’ll slink out of the building, reputation be damned.

He melts into the shadows whenever somebody passes by. He has neither time nor energy interacting with people today. Watching them through half-mast eyes, Rafayel stays in his secret place and studies with weightless detachment the people looking at the painting.

He’s made a bet with himself about the opinions of his followers and admirers. Who thinks what and why. It makes for great entertainment. The last time, a fresh-faced critic praised Rafayel’s technique as “innovative and a soul-rending reflection of the prodigy’s character.” He had laughed and laughed for hours until he couldn’t breathe any longer.

Another walks by, and before Rafayel retreats further into the corner, he glimpses a familiar gait and a familiar face.

His heartbeat races. He’s never told you that he’s holding an exhibit today. After the professorship Rafayel failed to maintain communication with you, convincing himself that it’s for the best that he protect you from afar that day onwards. It didn’t help that he had to leave as well. At the same time, you never made an effort of reaching out, and Rafayel thought that it was back to square one again, that waiting, that yearning.

But here you are right now, elegantly dressed, like someone gliding out of a dream. Rafayel swallows, his hands shake. You do not have someone else with you, and your eyes are brightly focused on Waiting, Missing, and for a fleeting moment your expression flickers into longing, strange and old and battered and sad, that it compels Rafayel to take a step forward—to you.

“Hey.”

The curious look vanishes; left no traces in your delighted face, as if it wasn’t there in the first place. “Rafayel!” you exclaim. “Long time no see! Congratulations on the exhibit; these are all beautiful.”

Outwardly he smirks, belying the torrential emotions he’s currently going through. He cants his head a little, works his charm on you. “Impressed? No need to hold back your compliments.”

Laughter, prismatic and crystalline. “Yes, yes. Especially this one—Waiting, Missing. What an interesting title. At the center, what paint did you use?”

Ah. Rafayel inhales before answering. “It’s actually ink. I had to make it from a hundred berries. It was a tedious process, but I wouldn’t use anything else. It has to be this, you see.”

“Whoa, no wonder you’d been radio silent all this time. You were creating this masterpiece.”

He hums, afraid that, if he speaks, he’d reveal too much.

“Well …” You throw a playful glance at him. “Shouldn’t we celebrate your success?”

His breath catches. “I—”

Before he manages to finish the sentence, a journalist calls out to him and that summons plenty more, swarming him with no chance of escape. It pushes you out of his peripheral vision, and Rafayel wants to shout your name, but you smile and gesture at him to entertain them first. You mouth, I’ll be back, and wander around other paintings some more.

When he finally succeeds in shaking the journalists off, he seeks you out and stumbles upon you near the exit, where there’s fewer people to pile on him.

“Excellent,” he says, sidling up beside you. You turn to him and smile, and there’s that lightning-flash of something again. For one unbelievably surreal instant, Rafayel thinks that despite your hazy memories, maybe you’d been waiting for him all this time, too.

And that thought emboldens him, moving closer and closer until your bodies almost touch. An asymptote of contact. But this time, he has mustered the courage to close that unbridgeable gap.

Rafayel offers you his hand. “Let’s get out of here?”

You stare at his hand then at his face, his eyes, and a meaningful moment stretches between you and him. But even before the idea of retracting enters his mind, you grab his hand joyfully, grinning ear to ear. His heart warms, full with everything.

You squeeze his hand, ready to go. “Lead the way, then!”

vi. a kiss is a greeting and a goodbye, and rafayel tasted of ferocious tides even if you'd seen them only in dreams. his eyes closed, as though savoring his last moments with you, guarded till the bitter end. would that i could ask you to stay—with me. but he shook his head—a final rejection. maybe in another life. there was nobody to watch you cry, in the after.

Rafayel is working on a new painting—a portrait this time. The model squirms on his couch, obvious about the discomfort of posing for too long. He huffs a laugh to himself, hidden by the canvas strategically placed between them.

“I heard that,” you grumble.

“Shush, you’re breaking my concentration.”

“If that already breaks your focus then I pity the rest of the art community.” A beat, then: “Is it done?”

“Patience, my dear muse. You need endure it a little more.”

“Hmph, fine. But after this you’re treating me to an all-you-can-eat buffet.”

“All right, all right.” He shakes his head, fond. “My muse, so demanding.”

Something sweet touches the edge of his tongue, succulent with a hint of tartness. Like longing. Except now, it’s layered with something new and exciting. Something like a new beginning.

In the far distance, the sea murmurs, lit fire by the setting sun.

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace fic #lad rafayel #lad qi yu #love and deepspace rafayel #love and deepspace qi yu #fic #my fic #rafayel x reader #qi yu x reader #lad rafayel x reader #lad qi yu x reader #love and deepspace x reader #love and deepspace spoilers #it's near midnight again i shall now sleep

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nina-ya · 6 months

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Three Times Law Said "I Love You"

A/N: This is a part 2 to this fic but you don't need to read it to understand this one! Pairing: Law x reader WC: 1.1k CW: Mild Zou spoilers in the beginning Tags: @buckysxgal @who-the-hockeysticks You had grown accustomed to life on Zou during the month you had spent there. Your bonds with Nekomamushi and the other inhabitants of the island had deepened. Despite the warmth of these connections, your worry for Law persisted. He had promised to return, and you, in turn, vowed to stay safe for him. Holding onto these promises kept you grounded, helping you get through each passing day. Anxiously, you awaited news of his safety, scouring every incoming newspaper for any sign of his well-being.

When news of Doflamingo's defeat finally reached Zou, relief and elation washed over you. The only thought in your mind became: “When could I see him again?” “When could I feel his lips against mine once more?” That moment had materialized sooner than expected, washed over in suspense as the crew gathered in the woods, alert to the approaching footsteps. With a collective hush, you all peered from behind the bushes, and there he was—Law, standing tall.

As the crew rushed to greet him, you stood frozen, your heart threatening to burst from your chest. When his gaze met yours, there was an unspoken understanding between you two—‘Not here, not now.’ When the crew delved deeper into the woods to catch up, you were left in an unusual silence, eagerly anticipating the moment you could be alone with him.

That moment soon arrived when Law excused himself, leading you deeper into the woods. He took your hand, and as soon as you were out of everyone's view, his lips met yours with a desperate urgency. The kiss was filled with longing and desire, each brush of his lips against yours sending shivers down your spine. Soft sighs and whimpers escaped the depth of your throat, mixing with the hushed rustle of leaves in the quiet forest.

His hand, warm and possessive, cupped the back of your neck with desperate need to keep your lips on his. The other hand, strong and steady, pressed against the small of your back, drawing you closer until there was no space left between you. Your own hands found their way to his chest, fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt.

Slowly, he guided you backward until your back met the trunk of a tree, the rough bark pressing against your skin. Breaking away, he uttered through heavy breaths, "I love you.” Before you could respond, he reclaimed your lips in a fervent clash, as if trying to convey all the unspoken emotions and longing that had accumulated during the month of separation. The world around you seemed to fade, leaving only the warmth of Law's kiss, the urgency of his touch, and the soft, desperate noises that echoed in the woods.

The moon hung low in the night sky, casting a soft glow through the windows of the submarine. Law sat at his desk, scattered papers illuminated by the dim light of a small lamp. The quiet hum of the submarine's machinery served as a backdrop to his concentration as he looked through his medical notes and navigational charts.

You lay peacefully in bed, blissfully unaware of the world outside your dreams. The rise and fall of your chest and your soft breaths accompanied the sounds of Law's work. He stole occasional glances from his paperwork to your sleeping form, his concentrated expression softening at the sight of you.

As the minutes turned into hours, his gaze lingered on you, and a warmth stirred within him. Unable to resist the pull any longer, Law carefully set aside his work, the creak of the chair breaking the night's silence. He approached the bedside, the soft light catching the thoughtful furrow on his brow. Crouching down beside you, he reached out, gently running his fingers along the contours of your face.

In the quiet of the night, Law spoke, his voice barely above a whisper, "I love you."

He believed you were lost in dreams. Little did he know, your eyes had flickered open, capturing the tender moment. A soft smile played on your lips as you met his gaze, and in a voice just as tender, you replied, "I love you too."

Law continued to trace patterns on your face, his expression softened by the vulnerability of the late hour. "I love you," he repeated, as if the words held a magic that could transcend time and space.

Your smile grew, and with a playful glint in your eyes, you reached out, trying to tug Law into bed with you. "Come on," you whispered, your voice a gentle invitation. "There's room for one more in this bed, and I'd rather not spend the night apart."

His initial surprise gave way to a smirk as he let himself be pulled closer. With a shared chuckle, you both settled into the bed, the warmth of the night and the quiet exchange of "I love yous" wrapping around you in the moonlit submarine.

The night air was filled with laughter and music as the crew celebrated yours and Laws union in a small, intimate wedding. The makeshift dance floor was alive with twirls and laughter, and the fragrance of food wafted through the air.

You and Law stood at the edge of the festivities, watching the crew revel in the celebration. The crew had spared no effort in creating a magical setting, with fairy lights draped over the makeshift dance floor and a feast adorning the tables.

Law wrapped his arm around your waist and you leaned into his embrace, both of you wanting to take a step back and observe the festivities. Law turned his head to you, his eyes filled with an intimacy that words couldn't capture. With a gentle whisper, he said, "I love you," the words carrying the weight of all the moments you had shared together—the battles, the quiet nights, and now, the celebration of your union.

Law pressed his lips softly against yours, a kiss that promised a lifetime of love and adventures. However, the enchantment of the moment was abruptly interrupted by Shachi, who called out to you, “Hey, come join us for a dance!"

You exchanged a knowing look with Law, your lips still tingling from the kiss. With a teasing smirk, he nudged you playfully. "Go on. They're calling for you."

You chuckled, giving him a quick peck on the cheek before heading towards the dance floor. The night continued with the crew, but as you danced and laughed, you couldn't help but steal glances at Law, a smile plastered on your face knowing you are going to share a lifetime of love with him.

#one piece #one piece x reader #trafalgar law #one piece fluff #trafalgar law x reader #trafalgardwaterlaw #law x reader

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lunarmoves · 5 months

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a sigh leaves your lips as you lay back against the grass of a small hill, basking in the oozing warmth from the sun above. a gentle breeze glides by and causes stray strands of your hair to wave around your face. they tickle at the skin of your cheeks and forehead. there’s a certain quietude to the air, broken only by the occasional bird or rustling leaves from the gingko tree sitting at the crux of the hill.

you could stay here for hours, you think, as you watch puffy, white clouds lazily making their way across a bright blue sky. just relaxing and enjoying one of the many things nature has to offer—a beautiful spectacle free of charge. unappreciated in these contemporary times.

the soft jingle of bells catches your attention before a hand appears in front of your face—stark against the sky’s backdrop behind it. two metal fingers pinch something together between them. like he had plucked it right from the very hill you sat upon.

“what is this?” moon’s voice is low yet inquisitive, holding the stalk of the plant in his grasp.

“oh!” you sit up with a little gasp of delight and turn to face him sitting cross-legged by your side. “it’s a dandelion!”

“it does not look like one,” he says flatly as he brings it closer to his face in observation. he spins it around carefully, rotating the stem between his fingers.

you chortle. “well, no. this one’s at the end stage of its life cycle. see the fluffy white bits? those are seeds.”

moon’s head tilts slightly to the side, a click coming from his faceplate. “seeds?”

“yeah, humans blow on ‘em to make a wish. it’s a superstition,” you tell him and lean back against your palms propped up behind you.

moon hums—soft, dolce—and holds the dandelion in front of his static smile. he makes a motion like he’s taking a breath, then slouches forward slightly and spins his face around in a rather pouty manner. “no lungs.”

you can’t help the laugh that escapes you. “sorry, bud.” you offer him a consoling pat on the arm and he deflates even further. drama queen. “hey, tell you what. you make your wish and i’ll blow on the dandelion. it’ll be a team effort. sound good?”

moon makes a sound as though he’s considering your offer, but it doesn’t take him long to agree. “deal,” he says simply and holds out his hand so that the dandelion hovers before your mouth.

you offer him a grin, and then you inhale deeply before blowing on the aging dandelion. its seeds scatter in a puffy cloud of white, taking to the sky as the wind carries them up and away in an aimless dance. moon watches them carefully as he ponders upon his wish and then—

and then moon opens his eyes.

the daycare is dark. quiet. alight only from the artificial stars above. his gaze moves about, slowly, steadily, painting his surroundings in ruby. he sighs and it gets lost in the stale, open air.

moon thinks about you. he thinks about the outside world with its blue sky and flimsy flowers. and he thinks about a wish, clutched deeply to his chest. a wish involving you and him together, sitting on a hill. watching clouds drift by on a summertime breeze.

#im in agony btw #dca x reader #daycare attendant x reader #moon x reader #moon x y/n #moon x self insert #fnaf moon x reader #fnaf moon x y/n #moondrop x reader #moondrop x y/n #moondrop x you #moondrop x self insert #fnaf dca x reader #shay scribbles daydreams #and goodnight

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dee-writes-smut · 19 days

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SNAPDRAGONS (Chapter Four)

FEATURING Eris Vanserra x pregnant!reader

SUMMARY Eris returns from a council meeting angry and hurt. Something has to give, will it be you or your friendship?

CONTENT WARNINGS angst, verbal abuse, physical abuse, toxic parents, children being forced to parent siblings, grief, loss, kissing, pregnancy, murder, and guilt.

AUTHORS NOTE this is probably one of my favorite and hardest chapters that I’ve had to write so far. The experiences described in this chapter were some I relate to, please, please be careful proceeding. Your mental health is more important!! I love you all, please take care of yourselves and enjoy.

SERIES MASTERLIST

As the evening settled into night, the sky transformed into a tapestry of celestial wonders, a breathtaking display of twinkling stars set against the backdrop of an endless expanse of indigo. The moon, a luminous crescent hanging low on the horizon, cast a soft silver glow over the landscape, bathing the forest in an ethereal light.

Above, the stars shimmered like scattered diamonds strewn across a velvet canvas, their brilliance piercing the darkness with an otherworldly beauty. Constellations danced across the heavens, their intricate patterns weaving tales of ancient lore and forgotten legends.

A gentle breeze stirred the leaves of the surrounding trees, their rustling whispers a melodic accompaniment to the symphony of the night. The air was alive with the chorus of nocturnal creatures, their calls and cries echoing through the stillness, a reminder of the vibrant world that thrived beneath the canopy of branches.

In the distance, the faint flicker of fireflies danced among the foliage, their luminous trails tracing intricate patterns in the night air. And overhead, the Milky Way stretched like a river of stardust, its milky glow a celestial highway leading to worlds beyond imagination.

As you looked out at the vast expanse of the night sky, a sense of awe and wonder washed over you, the beauty of the universe unfolding before your eyes like a timeless symphony. And in that moment, as you gazed up at the heavens with reverence and awe, you felt a profound connection to the world around you.

At 29 weeks pregnant, your movements were slow and deliberate, your swollen belly serving as a gentle reminder of the life growing within you. With each step, you waddled slightly, the weight of your burgeoning bump shifting with every movement.

As you paced the room, a sense of restless anticipation gnawed at your insides, your heart racing with a mixture of excitement and anxiety. Eris had been gone for what felt like an eternity, his absence leaving a void in the room that seemed to echo with his presence.

With each passing moment, the babe within you seemed to share in your impatience, their movements growing increasingly restless as if in anticipation of Eris's return. Tiny kicks and flutters rippled across your abdomen, the sensation both exhilarating and comforting as you waited for him to come back.

You couldn't help but smile at the thought of Eris's reaction when he finally returned, imagining the look of awe and wonder that would cross his face as he felt the baby's kicks for himself.

The minutes stretched into what felt like an eternity, the anticipation of Eris's return weighed heavily on your mind. You paused mid-step, your heart skipping a beat as the sound of footsteps echoed down the hall outside, signaling his imminent arrival.

With bated breath, you turned towards the door, your pulse quickening with each passing moment. The anticipation hung thick in the air, a tangible presence that seemed to fill the room with electric energy.

And then, suddenly, he was there.

The footsteps grew louder, closer, until finally, the door swung open, revealing Eris's tall, imposing figure framed in the doorway. But before you could utter a word of greeting, your breath caught in your throat at the sight of the red mark marring his cheek, a vivid reminder of the altercation he had undoubtedly faced.

You watched in stunned silence as he stormed past you, his expression darkened with anger and frustration. The weight of his emotions hung heavy in the air, casting a shadow over the room that seemed to suffocate the very air around you.

With a sharp motion, he reached for the door to his own chambers, slamming it shut with a resounding thud that reverberated through the walls. The sound echoed in the silence, a stark reminder of the tension that lingered between you.

The suddenness of his actions left you reeling, a knot of worry forming in the pit of your stomach. What had happened to provoke such a reaction? What could have caused him to lash out in such a manner?

But even as the questions swirled in your mind, you knew that now was not the time for answers. With a heavy sigh, you turned back towards the room, the sense of unease lingering in the air like a dark cloud on the horizon.

With a surge of determination, you approached Eris's door, the weight of concern heavy in your chest. Despite the tension that hung thick in the air, you refused to let him shut you out. With each step, you could feel the baby's kicks growing more insistent, as if urging you on in your quest to reach him.

Gathering your resolve, you raised your hand to knock, but before your knuckles could connect with the wood, you hesitated. The memory of his anger, the red mark on his cheek still vivid in your mind, gave you pause. But then, with a deep breath, you steeled yourself and rapped firmly on the door.

"Eris," you called out, your voice steady but laced with concern. "Please, let me in. We need to talk."

No response.

"Please, Eris," you implored, your voice gentle but firm. "Let me in. Whatever happened, we can face it together. You don't have to carry this burden alone."

Nothing.

“You have been so kind and welcoming to me, so accepting of me, and I only wish to do the same for you," you begin, your voice soft but unwavering, the sincerity of your words echoing through the door and into the room beyond. "I won’t judge, I won’t get angry, I just want to listen to you, to let you air out your burdens as you have let me air out mine.”

The warmth of your breath fogs the cool air around you as you continue, the words tumbling from your lips like a gentle stream. “You made this babe fall in love with you and now she won’t leave me alone,” you say with a fond smile, a soft chuckle escaping your lips as you recall the playful arguments you and Eris had shared about the baby's gender.

Memories of warmer afternoons spent amidst the beauty of nature flood your mind, the soft rustle of leaves and the gentle caress of the breeze a soothing backdrop to your conversation. “She’s been kicking the crap out of me all evening, so excited to hear you, to feel you near.”

You pause for a moment, the weight of the words hanging heavy in the air between you. The silence that follows is palpable, filled with the unspoken hope and longing that binds you together. As you stand there, your hand resting gently on your swollen belly, you can't help but feel a sense of peace and utter gratitude for the bond that exists between the three of you.

There was a moment of silence, the only sound the soft rustle of leaves outside the window. But then, after what felt like an eternity, you heard the click of the lock, and the door creaked open ever so slightly.

Peering inside, you could see Eris standing just beyond the threshold, his expression guarded but softened slightly by the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. You met his gaze head-on, refusing to back down, your determination unwavering.

“You should leave. Get out while you can,” he snaps, his voice sharp and cutting as his expression shifted to one of cold indifference. The words hit you like a physical blow, his tone laced with bitterness and venom.

Your heart sinks as you stand before him, the weight of his rejection heavy in the air between you. The babe in your stomach seems to sense the tension, their movements stilling as if in response to the palpable anger that fills the room.

“Eris, you know that we only want to help,” you plead, your voice trembling with emotion as you rub circles over your bump, your other hand instinctively supporting your sore back. But his response is like a dagger to the heart, his dismissiveness cutting deep.

“Please don’t shut me out,” you whisper sadly, the tears pricking at the corners of your eyes as you implore him to let you in. But he only scoffs in response, his laughter harsh and mocking, echoing through the room like a dark cloud.

The cruelty of his words leaves you reeling, the pain of his rejection twisting in your chest like a knife. You feel as though you’re standing on the precipice of a vast abyss, the chasm between you widening with each passing moment.

“Why not? Why not just do what you do, run away when things get tough, push my burdens onto other people instead of dealing with them myself?” Eris’s voice is filled with bitterness and resentment, his anger boiling over like a storm on the horizon.

But even as he turns away from you with a dismissive wave of his hand, you refuse to give up hope. The love you feel for him burns bright within you, a beacon of light in the darkness that threatens to consume him.

"I'm done talking about this," he declares, retreating into the depths of his chambers and slamming the door shut behind him with a resounding thud. The sound echoes through the empty hallway, a stark reminder of the rift that now lies between you.

Alone in the silence, tears streaming down your cheeks, you vow to fight for him, to break through the walls he has erected and bring him back into the light. Because deep down, you know that your love is stronger than the anger and resentment that threaten to tear you apart. And no matter how dark the night may seem; you refuse to let it extinguish the flame of hope that burns within you.

So, you slink down onto the floor outside his door, stretching your legs out in front of you and continuing to rub soothing circles over your belly.

“My mother wasn’t a kind woman,” you began, the words heavy with the weight of memories long buried. Closing your eyes, you allow the story to unfold before you, the scenes of your past playing out like a haunting melody in the recesses of your mind.

You’re transported back to that cursed cottage, the air thick with the scent of herbs and potions, the walls adorned with strange symbols and trinkets of unknown origin. Your family moves through the dimly lit rooms like shadows, their presence both familiar and suffocating.

But even from a young age, you knew you were different. More emotional, more vulnerable than the rest of your family. While they seemed to thrive in the harsh environment of your home, you struggled to find your place, to fit into the mold they had carved out for you.

“She ruled with an iron fist, demanding obedience and loyalty above all else,” you continue, the memories flooding back with painful clarity. “But no matter how hard I tried, I could never quite meet her expectations.”

The sound of her voice echoed in your ears, sharp and cutting like the crack of a whip. You could feel the weight of her disapproval bearing down on you like a suffocating blanket, her words a constant reminder of your perceived inadequacies.

And so, you forced yourself to become hard, to close yourself off from the pain and hurt that threatened to consume you. You built walls around your heart, steeling yourself against the onslaught of emotions that threatened to overwhelm you at every turn.

“But despite her cruelty, there were moments of tenderness,” you admit, the memories bittersweet in their complexity. “Moments when she would let her guard down, if only for a fleeting instant.”

But those moments were fleeting, like rays of sunlight breaking through the clouds before disappearing once more. And in their absence, you found yourself retreating further into yourself, hiding behind a mask of indifference and stoicism in order to survive.

Yet amidst the chaos and cruelty of your upbringing, there was one duty that fell squarely on your shoulders: the responsibility of raising your two younger siblings. Forced into the role of caregiver at a young age, you bore the weight of their well-being as if it were your own.

The memory of those days weighs heavily on your heart, the burden of caring for your siblings a constant reminder of the sacrifices you made to keep them safe. But even as you carry the scars of your past, you refuse to let them define you, finding strength in the resilience that has carried you through the darkest of times.

As tears welled in your eyes, you can’t help but feel a swell of emotion for the child you once were, forced to grow up too soon in a world that offered little solace or comfort. But even as you grieve for the innocence lost, you find solace in the knowledge that your love for your siblings has endured, a beacon of light in the darkness that has shrouded your past.

“I loved my siblings, fought for those boys that I had raised into good, kind men until their last breaths,” you choke up, the memories of their untimely demise flooding your mind like a torrential downpour. Images of their eviscerated bodies, piled high among others lost in the war against Hybern, haunt your every thought. “And when I lost them, it was the worst pain I had ever felt in my life.”

Tears welled in your eyes as you recall the anguish of that moment, the gut-wrenching agony of knowing that you had failed to protect the ones you loved most. It felt as if your heart was being ripped from your chest, like you were being torn apart slowly from the inside out.

“I had lost my purpose, the only thing in life I knew how to do other than kill,” you continue, your voice trembling with emotion. “That is until I found purpose in trying to save my home court, to save its people more than anything.”

The memories of your journey flooded back with startling clarity, the trials and tribulations that led you to where you are now. And then, almost hesitantly, you speak of the man who changed everything.

“It’s what led me into Lu- into a man's arms, to where I am,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “I never thought I would be able to love again, not like I had loved my brothers, so unconditionally.”

But then, like a ray of sunlight breaking through the clouds, you found out you were pregnant. And in that moment, amidst the fear and uncertainty, you felt a rush of total, complete love, unlike anything you had ever experienced before.

“That same night I swore I’d do anything for her, kill, be anything for her,” you confess, the weight of your words hanging heavy in the air. “And then I met you, and I realized there were two people I would do anything for, be anything for.”

The door clicked and moved inward behind you, swinging open gently, and you scrambled to your feet to meet him head on. Eris stood in the doorway, his figure bathed in the soft glow of candlelight, casting long shadows across the floor. His features were drawn tight with tension, his eyes a stormy mix of emotions you couldn't quite decipher.

For a moment, he hesitated, his gaze flickering between you and the threshold of his chambers. The weight of the unspoken words hung heavy in the air, a tangible force pressing down on you both. But then, with a resigned sigh, he stepped back, his movements slow and deliberate, as if he were navigating treacherous terrain.

As you crossed the threshold, you couldn't help but feel a sense of trepidation wash over you. The atmosphere within his chambers was charged with electricity, every corner of the room crackling with untamed emotion. It was as if the very walls were alive, pulsing with the raw intensity of the moment.

You took a hesitant step forward, the floorboards creaking beneath your feet, echoing in the silence that enveloped you. The air seemed to thicken around you, heavy with the weight of everything left unsaid. It was a delicate dance, navigating the fragile boundary between you and Eris, each movement fraught with uncertainty and longing.

“It’s from my father,” Eris whispers ever so softly, his voice barely audible above the crackle of the fire. He avoided your gaze, his eyes fixed on the warm-colored floors beneath you, as if unable to meet your gaze while he divulged the painful truth.

You felt your heart clench at his words, a surge of anger and sorrow rising within you like a tidal wave. It was a side of Eris you had never seen before, vulnerable and wounded, stripped of the facade of strength and indifference he so often wore like armor.

“I disagreed with him on something during a council meeting,” Eris continues, his voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking the words aloud made them all too real. “And he slapped me right in front of everyone, called me a worthless piece of shit, said he wished I had died in my mother's womb so he could have had a better chance at a proper heir.”

The words hung heavy in the air, a bitter reminder of the cruelty that had shaped Eris's life since childhood. You could see the pain etched into every line of his face, the weight of his father's words bearing down on him like a suffocating blanket.

Eris's throat bobbed as he spoke, his voice choked with emotion, as if afraid to give voice to the depths of his suffering. It was a vulnerability you had never seen from him before, a crack in the facade of strength he had always presented to the world.

Eris paused, his words catching in his throat as he summoned the strength to speak of the pain that had shaped his past. His gaze remained fixed on the floor, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, as if grappling with the memories that threatened to consume him.

"I raised all my brothers too," he finally admits, his voice barely above a whisper. "But Lucien… Lucien was different. He was the one I was closest to, the one I swore to protect with my life."

You could hear the raw emotion in his voice, the ache of loss and betrayal that lingered in every word. It was clear that the wounds of the past ran deep, leaving scars that would never fully heal.

"And then…," Eris falters, his voice breaking as he struggles to continue. "And then my father… he forced me to hold Lucien down while he… while he slaughtered Lucien's lover."

The words hung heavy in the air, a stark reminder of the horrors Eris had endured at the hands of his own flesh and blood. You could see the pain etched into every line of his face, the weight of his father's cruelty bearing down on him like a crushing weight.

Memories of Jesminda flooded back with painful clarity, and Eris struggled through his words. "Her name was Jesminda," he whispers, his words heavy with sorrow. "A beautiful lesser Faerie, who had a gentle heart."

You could hear the ache in his voice as he spoke of her, the memory of her kindness a bittersweet reminder of all that had been lost. It was clear that she had left a lasting impression on him, her presence a beacon of light in the darkness that had surrounded him for so long.

"I had met her once," Eris continues, his voice barely above a whisper. "She had kissed my cheek and thanked me for taking care of Lucien. She recognized my work, and it… it shocked me."

The words hung heavy in the air, a stark reminder of the kindness that had been so rare in his life. You could see the turmoil etched into every line of his face, the weight of his past bearing down on him like a suffocating blanket.

"I had never even considered deserving praise for doing my duty," Eris admits, his voice choked with emotion. "That's when I started realizing that it maybe wasn't supposed to be my job, when I started to disobey my father in small ways."

As you listened to his confession, your heart ached for him, for the years of pain and suffering he had endured in silence. And in that moment, you knew that you would do anything to help him find the healing and solace he so desperately needed, to show him that he was worthy of love and kindness, despite the darkness that had once consumed him.

Eris's voice cracked with emotion as he spoke, the weight of his confession hanging heavy in the air. "That's when my father found out about her," he whispers, his words tinged with sorrow. "And as punishment to both me and Lucien… that's why he did that."

The pain in his voice was palpable, his anguish laid bare for you to see. It was clear that the memory of that fateful day still haunted him, the cruelty of his father's actions etched into his soul like a scar that would never fully fade.

You reached out to him, your hand trembling as you brushed a strand of hair from his face. "I'm so sorry, Eris," you whisper, your voice thick with tears. "No one should ever have to endure such cruelty."

Eris's voice trembled like a leaf caught in an autumn breeze as he poured out his fears. His words were heavy with the weight of his past, his pain, and his insecurities laid bare before you. It was as if he had opened a door to the darkest corners of his soul, allowing you to glimpse the shadows that haunted him.

"I'm scared to love again," he breathes, his voice barely above a breath, yet resonating with the depth of his emotion. His eyes, usually ablaze with determination, were now pools of vulnerability, reflecting the turmoil within his heart. "Scared to let anyone close. Especially you."

The vulnerability in his voice tugged at your heartstrings, stirring a mixture of empathy and tenderness within you. You longed to reach out to him, to wrap him in the warmth of your embrace and chase away the shadows that threatened to engulf him.

"I don't want you to get hurt," Eris confesses, his words laced with anguish as he lays a trembling hand on your bump, feeling the fluttering movements of your unborn child beneath his touch. "Or him."

The tenderness in his gesture, combined with the weight of his words, threatened to bring tears to your eyes. You could feel the raw intensity of his fear, his desperate need to protect both you and your child from the pain he had endured.

"I know it's scary," you murmur, your voice soft and soothing as you reach out to brush away the tears that threatened to spill from his eyes, your other hand meeting his on your bump. "But trust me. I love you. There is no choice, no deciding. You are my home; you always will be."

The tension in the room was palpable, a tangible force that seemed to wrap around you both as you stood facing each other. The flickering candlelight cast shadows across Eris's face, accentuating the chiseled lines of his features and the intensity of his gaze as he looked at you, his eyes dark with unwavering love and desire.

You could feel your heart pounding in your chest, the blood rushing in your ears as you waited for him to make a move. Every nerve in your body was on edge, every sense heightened as you drank in the sight of him standing before you, so close yet still tantalizingly out of reach.

Slowly, almost hesitantly, Eris reached out a trembling hand, his fingers brushing against your cheek with a feather-light touch. The warmth of his touch sent shivers down your spine, igniting a fire deep within your soul as you leaned into his touch, craving more of his warmth.

With a soft, almost imperceptible sigh, Eris closed the distance between you, his lips hovering just inches from yours. The anticipation hung heavy in the air; a tangible force that seemed to draw you inexorably closer together.

And then, in a moment that felt like an eternity, his lips finally met yours in a gentle, tentative kiss. It was as if time stood still, the world falling away around you as you melted into each other's embrace.

The kiss was soft at first, a gentle exploration of each other's lips, but soon it deepened, becoming more urgent, more passionate. It was as if a floodgate had been opened, releasing a torrent of pent-up emotion that had been building between you for far too long.

You lost yourself in the kiss, losing track of time and space as you surrendered to the heat of the moment. Every touch, every caress, sent sparks flying through your veins, igniting a firestorm of desire that threatened to consume you both.

Eris's hands roamed over your body, tracing the curves of your form with a reverence that sent shivers down your spine. His touch was electric, sending waves of pleasure coursing through your body as you arched into him, your lips meeting his with a hunger that bordered on desperation.

And then, as quickly as it had begun, the kiss ended, leaving you both breathless and dazed, the echoes of your passion reverberating through the air.

"I love you too," Eris pants, his breath warm against your skin, carrying with it the scent of cool autumn air. It was the kind of scent that would drift through an open window on lazy mornings spent bundled up in bed, the crispness of the air mingling with the warmth of the blankets.

The weight of his confession washed over you like a wave, filling you with a sense of warmth and belonging that you had never known before. In that moment, you felt as if you were floating on air, carried away by the sheer intensity of your emotions.

But it was his next words that truly took your breath away, sending a shiver down your spine and causing your heart to swell with love and gratitude.

"Both of you," he murmurs, his voice soft and tender as he places a gentle hand on your bump. It was a simple gesture, but it spoke volumes, conveying a depth of love and devotion that left you feeling humbled and grateful beyond words.

As you stood there, wrapped in each other's arms, you knew that this was where you were meant to be. In the arms of the man you loved, with your unborn child nestled safely between you, you felt as if you had finally found your home. And as you looked into Eris's eyes, you knew that no matter what trials lay ahead, you would face them together, united in a love that was as enduring as the stars themselves.

TAGLIST

@purple-writer8 @defnotlucienvanserra @cherry-cin @julesofvolterra @mirandasidefics @mandziaaa @lilah-asteria @littlestw01f @skylarkalchemist @babypeapoddd @daardyrnitta @talesofadragon @thecraziestcrayon @asaucecoveredsomething

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 6 months

Text

When The World Is Crashing Down [Chapter 13: Condemned From The Start] [Series Finale]

Series summary: Your family is House Celtigar, one of Rhaenyra’s wealthiest allies. In the aftermath of Rook’s Rest, Aemond unknowingly conscripts you to save his brother’s life. Now you are in the liar of the enemy, but your loyalties are quickly shifting…

Chapter warnings: Language, warfare, violence, serious injury, alcoholism/addiction, references to sexual content (18+), death, angsttttttt, more children than usual, Wolfman!

Series title is a lyrics from: “7 Minutes In Heaven” by Fall Out Boy.

Chapter title is a lyric from: “Sophomore Slump or Comeback of the Year” by Fall Out Boy.

Word count: 8.1k.

Link to chapter list: HERE.

Taglist (more in comments): @tinykryptonitewerewolf @lauraneedstochill @not-a-glad-gladiator @daenysx @babyblue711 @arcielee @at-a-rax-ia @bhanclegane @jvpit3rs @padfooteyes @marvelescvpe @travelingmypassion @darkenchantress @yeahright0h @poohxlove @trifoliumviridi @bloodyflowerrr @fan-goddess @devynsficrecs @flowerpotmage @thelittleswanao3 @seabasscevans @hiraethrhapsody @libroparaiso @echos-muses @st-eve-barnes @chattylurker @lm-txles @vagharnaur @moonlightfoxx @storiumemporium @insabecs @heliosscribbles @beautifulsweetschaos @namelesslosers @partnerincrime0 @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @yawneneytiri @marbles-posts @imsolence @maidmerrymint @backyardfolklore @nimaharchive @anxiousdaemon @under-the-aspen-tree @amiraisgoingthruit @dd122004dd @randomdragonfires @jetblack4real @joliettes

Thank you so much for reading. I hope you enjoy the finale.🦀💚

In the Eyrie, one of Rhaena Targaryen’s three dragon eggs has hatched at last; the creature is small and pink, and she has named it Morning. When Rhaena’s tears fall onto the scales of her diminutive wings, they glitter like flecks of rose quartz. Deep within the snow-laden labyrinth of the Mountains of the Moon, Nettles is in hiding with Sheepstealer; already the nearby clans are bringing her offerings of meat and treasure, axes and clubs and daggers, hairpins carved from the ribs of enemies and necklaces made of bear teeth. Silverwing is settling into a lair on an island in the Red Lake at the northwestern corner of the Reach. Word of this has travelled back to King’s Landing, and Borros Baratheon implores Aegon II to seize Silverwing for himself; but the king does not want a new dragon. He wants Sunfyre back. That grim truth aside, Aegon is unable to trek across the continent to tame the beast anyway. Some days he cannot even cross a room. At the bottom of the Gods Eye, bodies are dissolving into bones, threads of long white hair breaking loose to flow in the currents like weightless strands of spider webs torn free by cold drafts. And only a few miles from the border of the Crownlands—preparing to cross the icy waters of the Blackwater Rush—the army of Northmen camps under a full moon in a clear, indigo sky heavy with stars like glinting coins.

“There are passageways under King’s Landing,” Clement Celtigar says. He stands by the bonfire with his sword in his hand, his face flame-bright and eager, forever licking up drops of the Kingmaker’s approval, a stray cat lapping milk splashed in an alley. Increasingly, Cregan Stark finds him tiresome. Clement is brash and dramatic, forever swearing vengeance, reveling in his newfound position as the head of his house. The Warden of the North has never had to beg for attention, admiration, acclaim. These things come to him like snow falls to the earth in winter: effortlessly, inevitably. Yet Cregan tries to be patient. Clement is soon to be his brother-in-law, and it is dishonorable to fail to extend courtesy to one’s kin. Furthermore, it seems, Clement has his uses.

“Are there really?”

Clement nods. He wears the banner of his house on a strip of fabric looped around his upper arm: crabs red like blood, a backdrop of white like snow. “That monster’s disciples used them to kidnap my sister from the Red Keep. But she fought hard. When we searched her rooms, all the furniture was upturned and the sheets ripped from her bed.”

“She is brave,” Cregan murmurs in agreement, though he is distracted now. The air tastes like smoke and ice, the wind rubs raw spots into the soldiers’ faces. They are arriving just in time. The depths of winter is no time to wage war. Cregan Stark imagines how you will greet him when he liberates you: a desperate embrace, hands that refuse to let go, whispered gratitude and breathless kisses on his earth-stained knuckles, bones of steel softened by the innate weakness of womanhood. You will love him, of course you will, fervently and entirely. Then when the realm and succession are secured, the Kingmaker will take you North and wed you in the tradition of his people, under the heart tree where the Old Gods can witness it. And then there will be the wedding night. In Cregan’s understanding, women receive little pleasure from the act itself. It is a burden they bear for the men they love, for the children they are divinely tasked with bringing into existence. Cregan Stark intends to alleviate your suffering in this regard as much as possible…yet he has already begun to choose the names of the sons he will make with you. He especially likes the sound of Brandon, sturdy and grounded and thought to mean leader or prince. “This is the last night your sister will ever spend in the clutches of the Usurper.”

“Praise the Seven.” Then Clement adds diplomatically: “And the Old Gods too, of course.”

“It’s the end of the world,” Cregan Stark says, gazing up into the night sky where constellations tell the stories men deem worthy of remembering. “And the start of a brand new one.”

~~~~~~~~~~

“How did you learn to braid hair?” little Jaehaera asks you in her lilting, reedy voice like a bird’s. You are sitting behind her on the floor in Alicent’s bedchamber. Nearby, Autumn is flipping through a child’s book with Rhaenyra’s ever-solemn son, murmuring as she points to colorful illustrations of ravens, dolphins, bears, dragons, crabs. They are learning to read together.

“My sisters taught me,” you tell the princess. Firelight turns her silver hair to gold, her pale skin to flames. Logs crack and pop as they melt to glowing embers. Alicent glances over at you and sighs despairingly. The dowager queen, so thin she might disappear, is hunched in a chair by the fireplace. She has an unshakeable, rattling sort of cough that reminds you of how Sunfyre sounded on Dragonstone when he was near the end. Her long auburn tresses are falling out in handfuls. She will not survive the winter, this is a certainty.

“You have sisters?” Jaehaera says, surprised. “How many?”

You smile faintly as you weave her hair into one thick braid like the kind Aemond once wore when he went to battle. “Three. Piper, Petra, and Penelope.”

“Where are they now?”

“Back on Claw Isle, where I came from. With our mother.” Mourning Father, mourning Everett, writing letters to Clement to keep his spirits high as he and the Warden of the North march towards King’s Landing to slay the Greens’ king and bind me to a different man’s will.

“What’s Claw Isle like?” Jaehaera asks with a child’s clear, boundless curiosity.

“Rocky, misty, grey. But the ocean is beautiful.” You think of Aegon’s eyes, the same as his daughter’s, a murky storm-blue that is deeper than it looks.

“What brought you here?”

You consider this before you answer. You see it, you feel it: cinders like dark snow in the air, Aemond’s iron grip on your forearm. “When your father was burned at the Battle of Rook’s Rest, he needed someone to help heal him. Your uncle Aemond found me.”

“And he asked you to stay with us?”

He would have slit my throat if I said no. “Yes, he asked very politely, as any gentleman would. And of course I agreed. I wanted to make the king strong again. I wanted to take his pain away.”

Jaehaera stares down at her tiny hands, palms crossed with lines that are long and shadowy in the shifting firelight. She does not speak of Aegon. She does not know him, and he frightens her: the burns on his skin, the suffering in his glazed eyes. She has no memories to impress his true character upon her. If she does not make them herself, she will believe whatever she is told. “I miss Aemond. I miss Daeron.”

“I know, sweetheart.” They were formally laid to rest yesterday on two funeral pyres. Daeron’s bloodied, charred, seafoam green cape was burned to ashes on one. All that was left of Aemond—his favorite books, his quills and ink, small leather eyepatches from when he was a boy—were torched on the other. “I miss them too.”

Jaehaera’s braid is finished. You reach into a pocket of your emerald green velvet gown to retrieve what you have brought for her: a thin golden chain necklace with Aegon’s ring as a pendant. He can’t wear it anymore. His fingers are too swollen. “What is this?” Jaehaera says as you place the chain around her neck. She lifts the ring and peers at it, gold wings and jade eyes.

“It’s supposed to resemble Sunfyre,” you explain. “Your father loves you very much, Jaehaera. He wanted you to have this ring and keep it with you always.” Aegon didn’t say that; he rarely mentions Jaehaera at all. Sometimes you think he forgets she exists. But she is a part of him, she is his legacy, and you cannot look at any piece of her without seeing the man you love.

“He gave it to me? Like a gift?”

“Yes. A gift.” A gift, an inheritance, a relic, a reminder.

Jaehaera turns around and looks up at you hopefully, vast wave-blue eyes like winter oceans. “Do you think I’ll have another dragon someday?”

Her own infant beast, Morghul, was killed in the Dragonpit before Rhaenyra fled the city. “Maybe,” you tell her. “There are eggs that could hatch someday. And there are a few unclaimed adults left, Silverwing and the Cannibal. Perhaps you’ll tame one.”

She wrinkles her nose in confusion. “What’s a cannibal?”

Someone who murders, devours, fuels their body to the detriment of their soul. “Someone who eats their own kind. Like a dragon who feeds on other dragons.”

“So just like in the war. Dragons killing dragons.”

“Exactly,” you say, a shiver crawling down your spine. “Now go show your new necklace to Grandmother.”

Jaehaera wobbles to her feet and dashes across the firelit bedchamber to where Alicent is slumped in her chair. “Look, look! It’s Sunfyre!” you hear Jaehaera chirping. Alicent examines the ring—skeletal hands trembling, large dark eyes slick with tears—and dutifully fawns over it, telling the little girl how beautiful she looks, how brave she has been. Then she bundles Jaehaera into her boney arms and holds her like she’ll never let go. Autumn catches your gaze from the other side of the room, and when you leave to return to Aegon she follows.

“What is your plan if the Greens lose the battle?” she says in the hallway under an arc of grey stones. Her tone is urgent, her hazel eyes sharp. Everyone knows the Northmen are within days of King’s Landing. Borros Baratheon—a large, loud, abrasive man, but with a bottomless appetite for combat—and his soldiers will march out of the city tomorrow to meet Cregan Stark’s army on the fields of the Crownlands, sparse and grey with winter. The Lord of Storm’s End has spent hours locked in the council chamber discussing strategy with Larys Strong, Corlys Velaryon, and the misfortunate yet courageous Tyland Lannister, maimed by his months of torture at the hands of the Blacks.

“We won’t.” We can’t.

Autumn slams her palm against the wall behind you; the sick thud of flesh against stone reminds you of the day Helaena died. “Wake up. We might. You’d better have your options figured out.”

And you recall Larys’ words on Dragonstone: I think it’s time for you to consider what your options are if a Green victory no longer appears to be viable. “We’ll run,” you say weakly. “We’ll take Aegon and we’ll escape through the corridors under the Red Keep, just like he did before. Cregan Stark will kill Aegon if he finds him. I can’t let that happen. We’ll have to run.”

“Run where?” Autumn snaps pointedly, pushing you towards a conclusion you refuse to acknowledge.

“I don’t know.”

“Where? Where could we go that is beyond the grasp of your wolf if he seizes the capital?”

“Dorne, Essos. Somewhere, anywhere.”

“The king won’t survive a journey like that.”

You cover your face with your hands, feel the biting cold of snowflakes melting in your hair, see the stains of earth on your thighs as Cregan Stark forces them apart. How can I lie with a man who hailed the deaths of people I loved? How can I spend the rest of my life listening to him being called a hero for killing Aegon? How can I give him children? How could I love a baby that was half-made of him? “We ran before. We’ll have to do it again.”

Autumn scoffs. “You have no idea what it means to be a woman on your own in the world. What will you become without a great house, without protection? A prostitute? A peasant? Will you eat scraps covered with rot or mold? Will you live in a tree? Will you beg some family to take you in? And then when the father who is oh-so-gallant in daylight starts fumbling under your blankets once the candles are blown out, will you let him inside you? Or will you fight him off and risk a blade in your guts, your throat? You have no fucking idea what it’s like out there.”

“I don’t care what happens to me if Aegon’s gone.”

“You would abandon Jaehaera? You would abandon me?” Autumn demands. “You speak for us now. You are the only one who can. Our fates are twisted up with yours.”

That’s true. And I promised Helaena I would look out for her daughter. You can’t imagine a life without Aegon; there was a time when he was only a name—and an infamous one, a terrible one, soulless and monstrous—but now he has broken down the eaves of what you were once resigned to call your life and painted colors in the sky you’d never glimpsed before, never even dreamed of. You ask Autumn with genuine, painful bewilderment: “What is the point of learning that something exists only to have it taken away? Why would that happen? Where is the justice in it, where is the reason?”

Autumn smiles, sad and patient. “Ah, this is an affliction of the highborn. You still believe that there is a design, and that life has some amount of fairness in it. There is no divine judgment being passed, my lady. There is no god weighing the worth of your dragon or your wolf or yourself. Life is random, and it is ungovernable, and it is very often cruel. And that makes it all the more remarkable that you knew the king for the time you did. That you ever met him.”

It wasn’t enough. And I can never go back to who I was before. “I’m sorry. I should not complain to you. Your losses have been terrible.”

“It is no contest,” Autumn replies, weary now. “But I should go back to check on the children. They need me.”

“No. They love you.”

And now she beams, sparkling eyes and copper ringlets. She doesn’t need to say it, you can both feel it in the winter-cold air. She loves them in return. She loves them fiercely. As long as they live, she will have reasons to.

When you reach Aegon’s bedchamber, Grand Maester Orwyle is just leaving. He bows to you and grins, pleased that you have both survived the fall and retaking of King’s Landing. He is haggard from his months in the dungeons when Rhaenyra ruled the capital, but he endured. Who would have guessed at the start of this war that the old man had more years left than Aemond or Daeron or harmless little Maelor? You wait in the hallway for the maester to amble sluggishly by, but then when he is gone, you peer through the slit of the half-open door to see that Lord Larys Strong is speaking to Aegon, who is propped up in bed on a mountain of pillows and wearing only his cotton sleeping trousers. He is thin, frail, ghostly pale with the exception of the scars that are a mosaic of white and scarlet and bruise-like violet. Aegon and Larys have not noticed you. You linger just outside the doorway, watching, listening.

You can take care of Aegon as much as you wish now: feed him, clothe him, clean sweat from his brow, dose him with milk of the poppy, rub rose oil into his scars, stretch his legs, test the heat of his skin for fever. He’s too weak to stop you. He can’t walk, can’t stand, can’t stay awake for more than an hour or two at a time, can’t even pour his own wine or milk of the poppy; the glass bottles are too heavy when full. Yesterday, Aegon had to be carried outside in a litter to see the remnants of his brothers burned on the pyres. And he had exchanged a brief, somber glance with Autumn that you neither anticipated nor understood. He acknowledges her so rarely. And yet her small hazel eyes had been alarmed, knowing.

Larys is saying with a grave expression and his restless hands propped in the handle of his cane: “Lord Borros Baratheon is asking for your assurance that as soon as the war is won, you will take his eldest daughter Cassandra as your wife.”

Aegon stares at him, incredulously, impatiently. Aegon has not called you his wife in the company of others since his homecoming. You do not ask why. You already know. It is not because his intentions have changed; it is because if he is not the victor, your life is in less danger as his captive than as his queen. “Surely even a man as brainless as Borros can surmise that there would not be much benefit for the lady now. I am a worm. Useless, pathetic, deformed, no longer virile.”

“He is willing to take the chance, I gather. And he is placing his eggs in more than one basket. He would like another daughter, Floris, to be married to me.”

“Seven hells,” Aegon mutters. Then he turns determined. “I cannot marry another. I won’t do it. I am claimed already, body and soul.”

“I fear how enthusiastically Borros’ men will fight for you if you do not agree to the match. He is risking his life for your cause. He will expect generous repayment.”

Aegon is quiet for a long time. He stares fixedly at his bedside table: a full cup, a large glass bottle of milk of the poppy. His dagger is still there from when you cut and braided his hair for him this morning; he cannot do it himself anymore. At last Aegon says, almost too low for you to discern from the doorway: “He’s not cruel, is he?”

“Who? Borros Baratheon?”

Aegon glares at Larys. “No.”

After a moment, Larys realizes what his king means. “Cregan Stark isn’t cruel. I’ve heard many whispers from many mouths, but I’ve never heard that.”

“Look at me. Don’t lie to me.”

“He isn’t cruel,” Larys says again. “Perhaps the truth is worse. He is measured, competent, merciful, wise. He is honorable. The Manderlys want to torture everyone and the Boltons itch to sharpen their flaying knives but Stark forbids it. He respects the laws of war. He tries to avoid the slaughter of noncombatants. He forbids his men from burning farms or raping women. He is devoted to the woman you call your wife. He takes no mistresses, visits no brothels. Cregan Stark is not a monster. He’s not soulless. He’s just on the wrong side.”

Aegon nods slowly, then his face breaks into a humorless smirk. “Tell Borros Baratheon that I’ll marry whichever daughter he wants me to when the war is over. I’ll marry all four if that is his preference, and bed them all on the wedding night too, one right after the other. Agree to anything he asks for. It doesn’t matter anyway.”

It doesn’t matter because none of it will ever happen, even if the Baratheon army does win the Iron Throne for the Greens. It doesn’t matter because Aegon does not believe he’ll still be here in a month, or two weeks, or perhaps even days.

But he can’t mean that. He’s not thinking clearly. He’s confused, he’s exhausted, he’s in pain, you tell yourself, before remembering that Aemond said it first.

“Yes, Your Grace.” Larys is subdued, sorrowful. He bows deeply to his king. Then he turns to depart.

“One more thing,” Aegon says, gesturing to something on the side of his bed you can’t see from where you’re standing. “I hate to impose upon you further, but I can’t manage it myself. Can you take that and empty it somewhere? I don’t care where. But you must keep it hidden from my wife. The red-haired girl Autumn knows, and so do the maesters now. They are all sworn to secrecy. Can I trust you to exercise the same circumspection?”

Larys is gaping down at an object that is a mystery to you. He begins to stammer out a reply, stops to collect himself, and starts again. “Yes. Yes you can.”

“Good.”

Larys picks up the object; you are puzzled to discover that it is a chamber pot, white and porcelain. And as he navigates around Aegon’s bed and towards the door where you wait, you see that the vessel is full of blood.

You gasp before you can stop yourself, a razor-sharp inhale of breath that both men hear. They spot you, lurking in the doorway like someone lost, someone far from home. Shock bolts across Aegon’s face, and then frustration, and then defeat, and then profound misery.

“I didn’t want you to worry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to lie to you, I just knew…I knew you’d be upset and I…I didn’t want to hurt you. I’ve never wanted to hurt you.”

“How long?”

“It doesn’t matter, Angel.”

“How long?” you ask again. “Just since this morning?”

“Four or five days now.”

“Four or five…?” Your mind whirls like storm winds. He’s dying. He’s really dying. His kidneys are failing and there’s nothing I can do. I can’t cut him open and stitch him back together. There’s no wound to scrub clean with vinegar and then bandage with honey and linen. There’s no brew that can restore the rhythm of his blood and bones and nerves. He’s just dying. That’s all there is. That’s the beginning and the end of it.

“Please don’t cry,” Aegon says, reading your face. “Don’t do that, please don’t, I’ve hurt you enough already.”

His hands stretch out to close the space between you, and as Larys slips from the room you go to Aegon, climb into bed beside him, collapse into him as his arms catch you and rest your head against his bare, scarred chest, his feverish skin mottled with the history of wounds you helped close all those months ago. “I’m sorry,” you sob. “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have let you go after Baela and Moondancer on Dragonstone. I should have stopped you. I should have dragged you inside the castle to wait until Aemond and Vhagar could help you. I shouldn’t have let Aemond go to Harrenhal. I shouldn’t have let Daeron fly south. I shouldn’t have let Autumn go back to King’s Landing, and I shouldn’t have let Everett stay there. I shouldn’t have let Helaena leap from the window. I should have stopped Maelor from being sent to the Reach. I should have stopped Rhaenys and the Red Queen from taking flight to burn you in your armor at Rook’s Rest. I should have stopped this! I should have done something! The only good thing I’ve ever had to offer the world was healing but I can’t save anyone, I can’t stop their suffering, I can’t do anything!”

“None of it was within your control, and none of it was your responsibility. I am the king. The fate of my kingdom and my followers rests with me. I wear their spilled blood, not you. I am so full of red I’m overflowing with it.” And he chuckles, sardonic, exhausted. He’s already battling unconsciousness again; you can hear his heartbeat slackening, the slow laborious expanding and contracting of his lungs.

“Aegon,” you say softly, as if afraid to speak it into existence. “What happens if the Baratheons don’t win tomorrow?”

“They will. They have to. There’s nothing I can do for you if they lose.” Then he winces and groans. It’s his back again, his failing kidneys, overrun with so much ruin—burns and breaks and pressure and heartache—that their cadence faltered and then ceased. You grab his cup of milk of the poppy and tilt it against his lips; and how many times have you done this since you met him, burned nearly to death and half-mad at Rook’s Rest? A hundred? Aegon drinks it down, his arms still tight around your waist. They do not loosen until he’s out like a snuffed candle.

You refill the cup on his bedside table with milk of the poppy in case he needs more when he wakes, pick up the dagger you use to cut his disheveled hair, take it to the dresser. And in the cascade of silver moonlight flooding in through the windows, you practice laying the gleaming blade against your wrists, pressing it to the throbbing arteries of your throat, angling the sharpened point of it between a gap in your ribs and towards your racing heart.

Autumn. Jaehaera. Aemond’s child that Alys carries. I still have promises to keep. I still have tasks that cannot be left unfinished.

Helaena’s words surface like a drowned man dredged from the waves: You must whisper into the right ears.

You set the dagger down on top of the dresser and roam to the castle library where Aemond once spent so many hours. You collect a stack of anatomy books and carry them back to Aegon’s bedchamber. There, before the roaring fireplace, you devour them for any scrap of hope, any last resort. You turn pages until one illustration stops you. It is an unclothed man, his major veins etched in blue and his arteries in red, his nerves a faded yellow, his bones white and unshattered, his body a roadmap of the bricks and mortar used by the architects of nature. You have seen this image before. It is the same page Aegon teased you for studying when you were travelling by carriage back to the capital from Rook’s Rest.

You rip out the page, crumple it violently, pitch it into the fire and watch it burn.

~~~~~~~~~~

At dawn, Lord Borros Baratheon leads his men out of the city. You hear them through the glass panes of the windows, closed against the winter chill and flecked with frost: boots marching, hooves of warhorses clomping against cobblestones. They carry with them swords and spears and bows and morning stars like the one Criston Cole was famed for using. Meanwhile, throughout the city, civilians are arming themselves with anything they can find to ward off an invasion of Northmen, creatures they believe to be bestial and mindless. Men carry kitchen knives and clubs fashioned out of bits of furniture or driftwood. Women hide their young children in cupboards and under creaking wooden floors.

“I should be going with them,” Aegon says. He’s just taken another dose of milk of the poppy and is struggling to keep his eyes open. His long, slow blinks close his vacant eyes for ever-increasing intervals. You’ve changed his clothes and cleaned the sweat from his skin as best you can, but he’s burning from the inside out.

“You’re not able to fight, Aegon. Nobody faults you for that. Everyone knows you were wounded in battle.”

“They must think I’m a coward.”

“No, you inspire them. They love you. I love you.”

Aegon doesn’t say it back. He never says it back. He only offers you the same drowsy, mournful phrase of High Valyrian he always does, not knowing that Aemond told you what it means: To your misfortune.

Autumn is with the children in Alicent’s rooms. The castle is tense and as quiet as a crypt—Alicent weeps soundlessly, Larys paces the halls with Corlys and Tyland Lannister, everyone peeks out of windows constantly to see if bannermen of the victor have appeared on the horizon—but she keeps them distracted with stories and games. You cycle between Alicent’s bedchamber and Aegon’s. He is in and out of consciousness; sometimes you perch beside him on the bed, sometimes you lie curled up against him counting the beats of his heart, sometimes you help Autumn read to Jaehaera and Aegon the Younger. It is just after noon when the city bells begin to toll and screams rise from the streets outside the Red Keep. You and Autumn hurry to a window. In the distance, beyond the city gates, there is a swarming mass of infantry, cavalry, archers. Their banners, when you strain your eyes to decipher them, are not the brazen, vivid yellow of House Baratheon. They are night black and an icy, steely grey. They are the colors of House Stark.

“No,” Autumn says, denial in a protracted, helpless exhale. Alicent shrieks, frightening the children. You grab Autumn’s hand and lead her out into the hallway to warn the others if they don’t know already.

Lord Corlys Velaryon comes bounding up a staircase. “There are soldiers down in the secret passageways!” he booms. “Northmen! Armed! I’ve helped our guards bar the doors, but that won’t hold them back forever.”

Autumn looks to you. “Get the children ready to travel,” you tell her. “Find Larys and inform him.”

“Yes, my lady,” she says, and is gone. You sprint in the opposite direction towards Aegon’s bedchamber. You blow the door open like a strong wind, and Aegon startles awake. You rip through his dresser for things he will need: warm clothes, boots, his dagger, bottles of milk of the poppy.

“Get up, Aegon. We have to go. We’ll run, we’ll flee, there are Northmen in the tunnels but we’ll find another way out, we have to try, we have to, if they catch you they’ll—”

“Come sit with me,” he says from the bed, calmly, like you have all the time in the world. He is reaching out for you with one hand.

“What? No, we have to hurry—”

“Angel,” Aegon says. “I need you to come sit with me now.”

Why isn’t he afraid? Why isn’t he frantic? You cross the room with slow, numb footsteps. When you reach the bed, Aegon takes both of your hands in his own. And suddenly you know exactly what he is going to say. You remember what he told his brother in High Valyrian the last time Aemond left Dragonstone. Your voice is trembling and hoarse. Your throat burns like embers. “Aemond was supposed to be here to help us win. But he’s gone. Daeron, Criston, Helaena, Otto, Everett, Jaehaerys, Maelor, Autumn’s baby, so many people are gone.”

Aegon whispers, smiling softly as tears spill down his cheeks, one scarred and the other pure: “I’m not going to get better this time.”

“No,” you moan. “No, Aegon, no. You can’t say that, you can’t tell me that—”

“I’m not going to get better.” Now his palms cradle your face, forcing you to listen. “I’m not. And it’s okay. I’m not angry, I’m not scared. You’ve done everything you could and you’ve bought me more time and I’m so grateful. But I don’t want it to hurt anymore. I’ve been in pain for so long. I’ve been in pain my whole goddamn life.” He kisses you, like tasting something rare and fleeting. His thumbprint skates along the curve of your jaw, memorizing the angles of your bones, the rhythm of your pulse. “Please, Angel. I don’t want to try to run and die on the side of the road somewhere. I don’t want to die with Cregan Stark’s blade at my throat.”

You shake your head, unable to believe, unable to understand.

Aegon glances to the empty cup on his bedside table, to the large glass bottle of milk of the poppy. Then his eyes return to you. ��You know how to do it.”

No. Never. But beneath those cold, dark, stormy waters: It would be painless. “I can’t,” you say, overwhelmed with horror.

“Listen, listen to me—”

“No—”

“Angel.”

“I can’t do that to you. Not to you. I can’t, I can’t.”

“When I’m gone, go to Cregan Stark,” Aegon says. “He is an honorable man, he will ensure your survival. He is the only person who can now. He wants to put his mark on the world. He wants to play Kingmaker. Let him. He can decree that my daughter will marry Rhaenyra’s son and ascend to the Iron Throne. He can end the war. Cregan will keep you safe. Tell him that I kidnapped you, that I forced myself on you. Tell him that I wanted an heir with Valyrian blood. Tell him that I was a drunk, a degenerate. Tell him whatever he wants to hear.”

“You would become a monster?”

“To protect you? I would become anything.”

He’s holding you, he’s pulling you into him until you can feel the fever bleeding from his flesh into yours, until you can number the knots of his spine and the ladder-rungs of his ribcage, counting them with your fingers through the sweat-drenched fabric of his cotton shirt. You draw back to look at him, to really look at him, sunken bloodshot eyes and rasping breaths, scar tissue of the body and the soul. You remember the day you met him, how he’d begged to die and been refused, how you brought him back. You postponed a debt, but you never paid it. It’s not possible to ever pay enough. You stack up gold coins in a vault until they touch the ceiling and still the Stranger comes knocking, jangling his purse sewn with scorched skin and chanting: more, more, more.

Aegon glances to the cup again. “How much?” he asks you, hushed like a prayer.

You don’t answer. Instead, you stand and go to the dresser. You open a small wooden door beneath the mirror. Your reflection is a woman you don’t know, someone who walks through fog and memory, someone made of ghosts. You take four clean cups from the cabinet and set them on Aegon’s bedside table. As he watches—eyes glassy with agony, lungs rattling—you fill them all with smooth, pearlescent, lethal liquid, as well as the empty cup that was already there. “Five,” you say, and it sounds nothing like you. “I think three at once would be enough. Five to make sure.”

He sobs with relief, and only now do you realize how badly he needed this. “Thank you. Oh gods, thank you.”

Your own words come back like an echo: I preserve life, I don’t take it. But that was a different lifetime, a different you. Aegon’s fingers are lacing through yours. He is drawing you back onto the bed, he is brushing your hair back from your face, he is kissing the path of tears down your cheeks so he doesn’t waste a drop of you. He’ll never get another taste, another chance; not in this life, not on this earth.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t make it to the end with you,” he says. “I really tried.”

“I know, Aegon.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t strong enough.”

“You’re the strongest person I’ve ever known.”

He looks down at his left hand, then remembers where his ring has gone. He chuckles, darkly, bitterly, dismayed by all the failings he is built of. “I don’t even have anything to give you.” Then he remembers. “My dagger. Can you get my dagger?”

You are petrified. “Why?”

He grins, dull teeth beneath dazed eyes. “I’m not going to hack off a finger or my exemplary cock or something. I promise. Just get it.”

You fetch the dagger and bring it to the bed, and only then do you realize what he means for you to have. He points to it, then threads it through his pale, swollen fingers: his thin lock of hair that you’ve been weaving for him since the day you met. He wants you to take his braid.

“You’ll have to cut it yourself,” he says. “I don’t think I can.”

You hook the blade beneath the top of his braid, and with a few cautious slices of the dagger it is free. You tuck the braid into a pocket of your gown, thick black velvet to guard against the winter cold. Then you lay the dagger on the bedside table and pick up one of the cups filled to the brim with milk of the poppy. Your tears are scalding and torrential; it is almost impossible to see through them. You smooth back Aegon’s white-blond hair as you pour the blissful, deadly brew through his lips and down his throat, hating yourself, knowing it is the kindest thing you can do for him.

Suddenly, when the cup is half-drained, Aegon pushes it away. “You don’t have to be here. You don’t have to watch,” he says. “I can do the rest. Go, now. Right now. If the Boltons or some other house finds you before Cregan does, they might not recognize you. They might not care. You’re only safe with Cregan Stark. He has to find you first.” Aegon takes the cup with one shaking hand and presses a palm to your shoulder with the other. You haven’t moved. You can’t move. “Go. Leave me. Now. Please go. I love you, but you have to go now.”

“I can’t,” you choke out.

“You have to.”

“I’ve never wanted anyone but you.”

“Angel,” he says tenderly, smiling. “I’ll see you again. Just not too soon.”

“Okay,” you whisper, and you kiss him, traces of milk of the poppy on his lips that deaden the thunderstruck horror faintly, powerlessly, like small clouds drifting over the sun.

“If there’s anything interesting on the other side, I’ll find a way to let you know.”

The dreams, you think. “Okay,” you say again, barely audible.

“Now go. Right now. Go.”

You wipe tears from your face with your sleeve as you turn away from him. You can’t look back; if you do, you’ll never be able to walk out of this room. You take the dagger from the bedside table. Your bare feet pad across the cold floor. As you step through the doorway, on the periphery of your vision you can see Aegon swallowing down each cupful of poison as quickly as he can. It won’t take long to stop his heart. Minutes, perhaps. Seconds. You walk into the hallway. Autumn has just arrived with Jaehaera’s tiny hand clasped in her own. A few paces behind her, Alicent and Larys stand with Rhaenyra’s son. Two orphans without choices, two pawns in a much grander game.

Autumn is panicked. “Where should we go? What should we do?” Then she takes another look at your face. Her eyes go wide with terror. “What? What happened?”

“Follow me.” Your voice is low, flat, dark like deep water. Your eyes flick briefly to Lord Larys Strong. “Keep the boy here. He’s not safe with the smallfolk yet. But the Northmen won’t harm him.”

Larys knows. It’s over. He is devastated; and yet you think a part of him might be relieved as well. “Yes, Your Grace.”

“I’m not the queen anymore. I never really was.” You give him Aegon’s dagger. “I don’t think you’ll need this, Lord Larys, but now you have it in the event of any danger. Or in case I can’t convince Cregan Stark to spare you and you decide you’ve had enough of this world. You should get a say in how your life ends. You’ve earned it.”

Then you break away from them and glide through the Red Keep, Autumn and Jaehaera trotting swiftly behind you to keep up. You pass the rookery where Aemond wrote his letters. You sweep through the gardens where Helaena loved to collect her insects. You gaze down to the beach where Daeron landed on Tessarion under a dazzling sun before winter came like a plague to King’s Landing. From inside the castle, you can hear Alicent wailing as she discovers her last child’s lifeless body. What was all of this for? Why did this have to happen? Why didn’t anybody stop it?

Out on the streets of the city, the smallfolk have flocked with their makeshift weapons to defend their homes from the Northmen. But their eyes are darting everywhere and their faces are uncertain as they clutch their clubs made out of the legs of chairs and their rusty kitchen knives. They haven’t decided if it’s futile. They don’t want to be butchered for nothing.

“That’s Autumn!” they shout and sigh, especially the women. “The mother of the king’s bastard son, the one murdered by the half-year queen!” They reach out to skim their hands over Autumn’s gown, her long coppery hair, as if she is a saint or a spirit who can impart good luck upon them, who can change their fates. They fall to their knees to bow to Jaehaera, their king’s only living child, and she blinks at them with benign confusion.

But the smallfolk have a different reception for you. You hear their venomous chattering: “Is that the Celtigar woman?” “Her family put this city through hell.” “They served Rhaenyra.” “She’s a traitor, she’s a thief.” A few of them venture close enough to tug at your gown, to strike at you. A woman’s knuckles rap against your cheekbone, raising a bruise there like lavender in a dusk sky. You think dully: I wonder if they’ll gouge out my eyes with those knives like they did to Everett.

“Get back!” Autumn hisses, shoving the smallfolk away. And when she speaks, they listen. “She is going to the Wolf of Winterfell. She is my protector. She is your protector now too. She is the best chance you have left.” And the crowds open up and the three of you pass through King’s Landing unimpeded, though cloaked in thousands of fascinated gazes.

The King’s Gate has been abandoned; the guards must have feared the Boltons’ flaying knives or Lord Stark’s dark justice. Autumn instructs several hulking men of the smallfolk to open the gate if they wish to be spared from the wolf’s wrath. They are reluctant at first, but do as she asks. When the massive doors creak open, the people of the capital huddle behind the wall and peer out skittishly as you, Autumn, and Jaehaera advance to meet the Northmen, who are bloodied from battle and now within a hundred yards of the city. Above, the sky is thick and iron-grey and frigid. Snowflakes—the first of this winter to touch King’s Landing—begin to fall and land in your hair, and you are reminded of how embers rained from the smoldering pine trees at Rook’s Rest.

“Can you catch one on your tongue?” Autumn asks Jaehaera, and the little girl giggles as they both try.

The Warden of the North rides an immense, shaggy warhorse at the head of what remains of his army. He recognizes you immediately, dismounts, approaches with determined, unbreakable strides. Clement is close behind him.

“You’re alive!” your brother shouts joyously. “And apparently not pregnant with a Targaryen bastard! Praise the gods!”

Cregan Stark does not act as if he’s heard this. The Warden of the North is not as you remember him; he is larger, heavier and broader from the muscles won in battle, coarsened by weather and war. His hair is long and dark and pulled back from his face. He wears a sword at his belt that is taller than you are when it’s unsheathed. He is entombed in leather and furs. He does not hesitate before he lays his hands you. You are betrothed to him, you are his property, would a man ask before he grabs his horses or his dogs?

The Warden of the North does not seize your forearm roughly like Aemond once did. Instead, his massive palms and fingers clasp your face as he marvels at you. You can feel the stains of dirt and ashes he leaves there. You want to scream when he touches you, but you can’t. You want to burn with rage and heartache until you crumble like ruins. Your life is already over. Your life has just begun.

“You have suffered greatly,” Cregan Stark says, a marriage of shock and reverence.

“You have no idea.” Perpetual Resurrection, you think. It doesn’t mean you come back better. It just means you’re still here.

“You are safe now,” Cregan swears. “The Usurper will never harm you again.” And it ends the same way it began: with a man mistaking your allegiance and beckoning you into a destiny that he wholeheartedly believes is greater than any you could have envisioned for yourself.

“He’s dead.”

This stuns Cregan. “When? How?”

“Today. Of old wounds sustained in battle.”

He looks at Jaehaera, noticing her for the first time. “Is that his daughter?”

“Yes,” you say. “She must always be treated with kindness. She must be protected.”

“You have an affinity for her,” Cregan notes, intrigued.

You hear Aegon’s voice, so clearly it cuts like a blade: Tell him whatever he wants to hear. “We have been through great trials together. We survived the same monster.”

The Warden of the North nods. This is a story he craves to be told. “Very well. If it is your wish that she not be discreetly disposed of as a Silent Sister, I will betroth her to Rhaenyra’s surviving son. They will unite the noble houses of Westeros and end this war.”

“The worst of the Greens are dead already. Those who remain should be shown mercy. Alicent is old and ill and broken from loss. She poses no threat. She should be permitted to remain in the company of her granddaughter. Corlys was loyal to Rhaenyra until she falsely imprisoned him for treason, and he belongs on Driftmark with Rhaena. Larys Strong, Tyland Lannister, and Grand Maester Orwyle, if no pardon can be arranged for them, should go to the Wall instead of the scaffold. And Autumn, my companion there with Jaehaera…she was a true friend to me. I owe her my life several times over. She must be permitted to stay with Jaehaera and Aegon the Younger as a caretaker, and reside in comfort in the Red Keep for the remainder of her days.”

“Who do you think you are, sister?!” Clement exclaims. “You’re speaking to the Kingmaker, not some handmaiden! You do not command him!”

“I am not commanding,” you counter levelly. “I am pleading for mercy on behalf of imperfect souls who showed me kindness during my captivity. If granted, I will consider these my wedding gifts.”

��She is remarkable, is she not?” Cregan Stark says, grinning to Clement and several other men who have ventured closer. They wear the sigils of Northern houses: Bolton, Cerwyn, Manderly, Hornwood, Dustin. They chuckle in agreement, stroking their wild beards with huge filthy hands. “Dauntless but merciful. Clever but obedient.” And then the Warden of the North claims your lips with his, chaste but overpowering, the first of a thousand kisses you never desired, a thousand acts of affection for a woman who isn’t really you, feigned resignation and bitten-back rage, eternal war with the interminable knowledge that there is something more, more, more…you just aren’t permitted to have it. It was taken from you, it was ripped from your hands like stolen treasure.

All your life you will have to murmur in wounded agreement when people recount the terrible sins of the Usurper. All your life you will have to praise Cregan Stark for killing millions to rescue you. And the days will pass, weeks, months, years, summers and winters, the births of your children and their own marriages; and when Cregan’s boy Rickon, born of his first wife, produces only daughters, your son Brandon and his descendants will become the heirs to Winterfell. In the desolate North—so far from the ocean, so far from everything Aegon ever knew—your greatest solace will be letters from Autumn as she learns to read and write, books that your husband orders for you from the Citadel, setting bones and treating burns, a tiny lock of braided silver hair that you keep in a hidden drawer of your jewelry box, dreams that you never want to wake up from.

But one day, decades after you leave King’s Landing, you will receive a raven from Queen Jaehaera Targaryen, and she will ask you: You knew the Greens in your youth, Wardeness Stark. You knew Aemond, Daeron, Helaena, Alicent, Otto, Maelor, Aegon the Usurper. What can you tell me of them? What was my father like? Who was he really?

And you’ll pick up your quill and begin writing.

#aegon ii targaryen #aegon targaryen #aegon targaryen ii #aegon ii #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon x reader

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ginnsbaker · 1 year

Text

In Losing Grip On Sinking Ships (8/?)

Chapter summary: You and Wanda wake up, each in your own way, but with a shared realization that ultimately leads to the same conclusion.

Chapter word count: 4,061

Trigger Warnings: mentions of suicide

Author's note: Please read the trigger warnings before proceeding. This chapter is short, but it concludes the ending of Part I (ILGOSS will be told in 3 parts). We are 1/3 through the story after this! Any mistakes are mine, unbeta'd as always.

AO3 | Masterlist

Next chapter: Nine

Eight (end of Part I)

When you dream this time, it’s that night again.

You’re back in Westview, New Jersey, or at least a version of it that’s forever in the midst of a storm. Yet, in the thick of the tempest, the familiar sights greet you.The deep hue of dark blue engulfs everything, while the moon casts its enchanting display of twisted tree shadows upon the room's walls. You don’t see a calendar anywhere, but you know what day it is. The day you consciously removed your wedding ring while Wanda begged you not to leave her. It’s the day your heart stopped beating.

There, in the bedroom you once shared as spouses, Wanda is kneeling on the floor, cradling your face in her hands, the gold metal band on her left ring finger burning against your cheek with how cold it has gotten.

But this Wanda is battered and bruised; a cut on her lip and discolored patches adjourned her once-pristine features; a chilling testament to the pain and suffering she’s endured.

“Wanda, who did this to you?” you ask. Your fingers come up to gently graze the ugly marks. Wanda only sighs and closes her eyes at your touch; she seems to revel in the sting they bring to her fresh wounds. A seething rage simmers in the depths of your being, momentarily tamed by the presence of the fragile woman in front of you.

The cut on her lip stretches as a smile works its way to her lips, adding a touch of complexity to her expression. “Baby, don’t you recall?”

As you gaze into Wanda's eyes, her question lingers in the air, stirring fragments of memories within your mind. The weight of her words hangs there, urging you to search deep within the recesses of your consciousness.

But she tells you anyway.

“You did.”

Your mouth opens in horror. “That can’t be right.”

“It’s okay, baby. It has to be this way.” Wanda says, her eyes shining with sadness and resignation.

"Why?" you ask, your eyes welling up with tears as a few of them manage to slip free.

Wanda catches them with her chapped lips, tasting the salt from them.

“So we can be together again.”

This time around, when you wake up, you remember every detail of your dream.

You think about calling Wanda. Maybe even seeing her.

But you don’t think you’ll ever stop hurting her if you do.

The light is blinding when Wanda’s consciousness gradually reawakens. As her eyes slowly adjust, Wanda's ears are immersed in the backdrop of sounds surrounding her. A steady beep emanates from a nearby machine, signaling that her vital signs are stable. Voices resonate nearby, discussing the medications she recalls consuming moments before succumbing to unconsciousness.

It wasn’t her intention to wake up in a hospital. But at the same time, she’s too scared to admit that waking up at all was the least of her concerns when she emptied a bottle of sleeping pills in one night. All Wanda wanted was to numb the pain. And it worked perfectly.

For three days.

When her vision finally refocuses, it is Pietro's face that greets her, hurt and confused. Wanda struggles to get up, but her muscles, weakened from inactivity, fail her. With a hand on her shoulder, Pietro carefully urges her to remain lying down.

"Hey, don't strain yourself," Pietro says, pulling his chair nearer to Wanda's bedside. “You just survived the darkest moment of your life, you know?” Pietro smiles softly at her, willing the wetness pricking at his eyes not to fall.

“Are you hungry? Shannon went out to buy some of your favorite snacks.” Pietro says, caressing the top of Wanda’s head.

"I..." Wanda attempts to speak, but only a hoarse sound escapes her parched throat. Then she starts coughing uncontrollably from the dryness of her throat. Pietro hurriedly pours her a glass of water and brings it to her lips, assisting her as she takes a careful sip.

“I’m sorry,” Wanda says softly, once she has recovered her voice a little. “I didn’t mean for this to happen. I didn’t want to–”

“I know,” Pietro couldn’t bear to hear more. He wouldn’t be able to keep it together longer if he hears the word ‘die’ fall from Wanda’s lips. “It was just an accident right?”

Wanda nods, her lower lip quivering as the gravity of what she’s put her brother through comes crashing down on her. They’ve been orphans since they were twelve, and one of their parents had willingly orphaned them by succumbing to a toxic combination of alcohol and prescription pills. It was a nightmare that took them years to wake up from. For Wanda, it took meeting you and experiencing your unconditional love and devotion, to completely heal from that.

With what’s happened, Wanda has no idea how Pietro can look at her with anything but resentment. And even then, overwhelmed with guilt for letting her brother undergo the same trauma they went through as kids, she thinks of you.

She wonders if you knew; if you’ve seen her in the worst possible way. She considers herself to be utterly pathetic, believing that she has nothing to offer you anymore. In the past, she had something when she basked in the warmth of your love and affection, but without it, she sees herself as unworthy and devoid of any value.

“Did you–” Wanda clears her throat when her voice breaks again. “Did you talk to Y/N?”

Pietro’s jaw hardens at the mention of your name. Wanda senses that his knowledge extends beyond mere speculation; in the last 72 hours she had been indisposed, Pietro had all the time to find out what he needed.

“She’s not your emergency contact anymore,” he says, his voice rising in volume as his temper edges closer to the brink of his control. "And if anything had happened to you, I would have put her in this very hospital."

“Piet, don’t say that, she’s got nothing to do with–”

“Don’t fucking cover for her, Wanda. She’s toxic for you,” he hisses through gritted teeth, and Wanda’s eyes fall shut from hearing the truth.

“W-What I did to her was worse–”

“Worse?” Pietro’s voice steadily rises. “She wasn’t the one who ended up with a tube down her fucking throat just to be kept alive!” he yells out, catching the attention of the nurses passing by Wanda’s room.

Wanda says nothing. She stares at the oximeter clipped around her finger as she absorbs Pietro’s anguish.

“Agatha told me everything,” he continues to seethe. “Everything. She used you like a toy. For what? To cure her own damage?”

Wanda recoils as if she’s been slapped. You don't deserve his wrath; none of this is your fault. She made her own choices—

"I don't care what you think you did, or if you think you deserve all this shit because you don't," he says firmly. "She doesn't have the right to treat you like trash."

"But she does, Piet," Wanda responds, her voice filled with self-blame. "I hurt her so much--"

“Do you even hear yourself?” he interrupts; there’s just so much frustration that he couldn’t release the way he’d like because of Wanda’s delicate situation. “How many times?” he asks.

“What?” Wanda replies, confused by the sudden question.

"How many times did it happen?" Pietro presses.

Wanda shakes her head, refusing to answer. “Why does that matter?”

“Jesus, Wanda,” Pietro sighs sharply. “You have bruises on your skin. They showed me where they are mapped all over your body. Between your apartment and the cafe, you couldn’t have gotten them from an accident or anyone you interact with daily. It’s her, isn’t it?”

"Please, Pietro, that's enough," Wanda pleads, attempting to lift her head from the pillow to get a better look at him but her world suddenly spins, causing her to groan in discomfort.

"If I had been even a second late bringing you to the hospital, you'd be dead by now. So, no, Wanda. I won't let her near you ever again," Pietro asserts, jaw clenched and eyes red from being up all night and from crying.

"I wasn’t asking for her," Wanda interjects once Pietro's anger subsides momentarily. “I–I wouldn’t want her to see me like this. I was worried that you contacted her.”

Pietro's mouth twists into a humorless smile, his gaze fixed on Wanda’s pale form. In that moment, he wonders if his sister has truly lost her mind, still worrying about you above all else.

"I don't know, Wanda. Maybe if she knew what she drove you to do, she'd finally stay away for good," he spits out bitterly, his anger burning fiercely and showing no signs of dissipating.

"Keep her out of this," Wanda warns him, summoning what little energy remains within her. "Promise me."

Pietro breathes audibly through his nose, and then reluctantly obliges with a sharp nod. The thing about addiction is, one wouldn’t know the lengths an addict would go through for the very thing they fixate on. He's acutely aware of the need to be cautious with his words and actions around Wanda. While she may have survived this particular ordeal, who knows about tomorrow or the day after that?

"I promise I won't say anything to her," he says, leaning in to lock eyes with her. "But I need you to promise me something in return. Promise me that you'll seek help."

Wanda doubts that therapy will be able to alleviate the emptiness she feels every minute of every day. However, she realizes that it won't hurt to tell Pietro what he needs to hear at this moment.

"Okay," she whispers softly. "I promise."

To your astonishment, you are offered the job at Stark Industries.

The news comes three days after the interview that you initially thought was a disaster. A small talk with the hiring manager informs you that the interviewer found your honesty refreshing; too refreshing that he doubled your asking salary in exchange for starting as early as Monday the following week. You could start today if it was possible, but you quell your excitement so as not to come off desperate or too eager.

After dropping the call with their human resources representative, you thumb through your contacts, stopping at Wanda’s name briefly, before scrolling down to Yelena’s number. Calling Wanda used to be your go-to in these significant moments, but you reassure yourself that it's just a habit that will fade with time.

“Y/N?” Yelena’s voice is hoarse from sleep–hopefully just that, and nothing else. Since the night of your visit, there has been a notable silence between you, particularly regarding the voice message she sent you in her drunken state.

"Hey, it's me," you utter, pausing to take a few deep breaths in an attempt to steady your racing heart. “Just checking in, and uhm, guess what? I got the job at Stark Industries. I start on Monday.”

“That’s awesome, Y/N. Congratulations!” Yelena sounds sincerely happy at your news and you smile at hearing the glee in her voice.

“Thank you. Unemployment was starting to suck.” you chuckle, switching the phone to your other ear.

“Who else knows? I think your mom is going to be so relieved to hear that.” Yelena says.

“Actually, you’re the first one to know,” you say, blushing at your confession. “I mean, I’d call Nat but she’s in some unknown part of the world and you know how it is when she’s working.”

You hear Yelena hum, and then carefully, she says, “So you called me first because my sister is unavailable?”

Her insinuation that this was a proxy call causes you to tightly shut your eyes, reflecting on your own stupidity.

“No, that’s not it.” you say, a little hastily. “I called you because you’re the first person I want to tell. I-I don’t know why I said the other thing.”

“I see,” Yelena says, her tone even and unaffected. “Okay.”

You sense the shift in her mood. The ball is now in your court, and you can tell that she's anticipating your decision on how to proceed with it.

“Listen, uh, about that night–”

“Yeah, I’m sorry about that. Sending you that message was… I couldn’t be more embarrassed,” Yelena says, sort of deflecting. “It won’t happen again, I promise.”

“Don’t apologize. I needed to hear that. It was a wake up call for all the shit you had to put up with for me.”

You hear Yelena take several deliberate breaths, before she says, “Okay, Y/N. Okay…”

"Can we discuss this further? Perhaps over dinner tonight?" you ask, as you tightly grip your device to your ear.

On the opposite end, a prolonged silence ensues as Yelena remains quiet. Moments pass, filled only with intermittent sniffling and the faint sound of sheets rustling. Right before you’re about to check if she’s still on the line, she finally murmurs, “Will 8pm work for you?”

You release a breath you didn't realize you had been holding.

"I'll pick you up.”

You reach Yelena’s place ahead of schedule, arriving before eight in the evening. In fact, you find yourself thirty minutes early, yet you willingly choose to wait outside her door, preferring not to appear disrespectful of the time she specified for the two of you to meet.

Positioned with your back against her door, legs crossed, you entertain yourself by scrolling through your phone, engrossed in useless facts you somehow find amusing. You’re so engrossed about the science behind why strings get tangled, when without warning, the door swings open, startling you to the point that you nearly lose your balance, teetering on the verge of landing unceremoniously on the floor.

“Y/N!” Yelena jumps and yells your name in surprise. “You scared the shit out of me. What the fuck are you doing?”

"I was early," you mutter, squinting as you look up at her. Tonight holds a distinct aura, far removed from the casual dynamics of your previous basketball outings as friends—well, sort of. It dawns on you only now as you find yourself on the ground, gazing up at Yelena's radiant visage, that she is too exceptional and breathtaking for you to ever feel deserving of.

Yelena laughs deep from her belly. “You could have knocked?”

You grin at her sheepishly. Yelena looks down at you, mirroring the silly smile on your face, and then offers a hand to help you up. You graciously take it, pulling on her a little as she supports some of your weight into a standing position.

“To be honest, I’m not that hungry.” she says, putting on her stud earrings as she toes the pair of stilettos she had picked earlier to go with her outfit.

“Oh,” you frown, disappointment washing over your features. “A rain check then?”

Yelena shakes her head, her glossy rose-colored lips pressing into a thin line. “I kind of want to take a walk… if that’s okay with you?”

“A walk sounds lovely.”

“Let me just change into something more comfortable.” she says. You kind of expect her to go back to her room for a change of clothes, but Yelena simply kicks the stilettos to the side and pulls out a pair of Nikes from the shoe rack. And somehow, it goes even better with her sundress.

You haven’t noticed you’ve been staring until Yelena calls you out on it.

“What?” she asks.

“If I had known I’d be walking next to the coolest person in the city, I would have offered dinner at my place instead.” you remark, looking down at the ripped jeans and v-neck black top you’re wearing. You miss the way Yelena’s eyes travel with you, sweeping your body once with an appreciative glance.

Yelena playfully mocks you with a teasing, "Loser", and then sort of shoves you into the hallway with a strength that is unmistakably Romanov.

You don’t want to get your hopes up, but this walk already looks promising.

“God, that made me so hungry.” Yelena comments around a mouthful of her hotdog sandwich. Circling the neighborhood, you’ve walked a total of three miles, at a speed that couldn’t even be called a snail pace.

“Thought you weren’t hungry?” you tease her lightly.

“Well, maybe, if you didn’t make me walk a marathon–”

“For your information, a marathon is 26.2 miles.”

“Whatever. Semantics.”

It really isn’t, but you roll your eyes anyway and let it go. It’s a debate for another time.

After falling into a brief, comfortable silence, Yelena asks, “So, you relapsed. That’s all there is to it right?”

It seems you’re back on the heavier topics, but that was precisely the purpose of meeting Yelena tonight; to put a name to whatever that’s been going on long enough between the two of you. Navigating the space between being more than friends but less than lovers has proven to be a precarious situation, one that has placed you in the predicament of almost losing her friendship altogether.

Which is why you told her everything–well, maybe not everything. Most of it. You recounted how you found Vision in Wanda’s cafe, how it triggered something in you that you didn’t know existed. How you thought you had already moved on from the hurt of her betrayal, only for it to resurface at a greater intensity.

And then you told her about that night you showed up at Wanda’s, consumed by an overwhelming desire to ruin and exact revenge the only way you knew how.

You do not, however, disclose the nights that followed, or the several times you went to Wanda in the middle of the day to have her in the stockroom of her cafe, or that one time in the public restroom of the company who just hired you. Well, semantics, right?

“Relapse?” you tilt your head at her quizzically.

"When you slept with her," Yelena clarifies, unapologetically, despite her own clear romantic interest in you. It's as if she sees it as a commonplace and almost normal occurrence for someone to sleep with their ex-wife.

“I’m not sure if it’s as simple as that.” you reply.

“Did it happen because you’re in love with her?” she asks.

At this second, you’re no longer pretending to walk. You’ve both stopped at an intersection even though it’s not a particularly busy one.

“I wanted to hurt her,” you quietly confess. The rational part of your brain knows that it’s the farthest thing from love as far as a healthy and nurturing relationship goes. So, it’s rational thinking that prods you to answer with, “By definition, no.”

Yelena seems satisfied with it.

“Okay.” she says.

“Okay, what?” It’s starting to bother you how often she’s been throwing that word around all day.

“Okay. You relapsed. I’m not easily fazed by such things if that’s what you’re worried about,” Yelena tells you with a soft smile, the lamp post hitting illuminating her face in the best way. “I still think we have a shot at this. Do you?”

More than a decade after your relationship took a backseat to Yelena's dreams, you both feel that you owe it to yourselves to at least try. For a long time, you both regretted not seeing your relationship through, and now you have the opportunity for a second chance at your first love. It's a rare opportunity that few people are given in their lifetime.

“I do,” you say. It’s unthinkable to do otherwise.

“Good. Because I think you can be happy with me. We were happy, Y/N. We can have that again. You know I’d never hurt you.”

You can’t exactly say the same for her. But by not trying, you have hurt her. When you’re with Yelena, you feel like you’re capable of becoming a better person–at least better than the person you were for the last several days.

“This is the part where I kiss you, but maybe we should take things slow.” Yelena says with a teary laugh.

A smile graces your lips in return, and you lean in to envelop her in a warm and tight embrace.

Yelena sighs into your shoulder, and you nuzzle her head with your cheek, the sweet strawberry smell of her shampoo giving you a feeling of lightness that you haven’t felt in a long time.

“You know what I should do first though?” you whisper after some time.

“Hm?” Yelena hums, still clinging onto you comfortably.

“Move out of your sister’s place.” you murmur softly into her hair.

"Good. Because I don't date people who still share a living space with their best friends in their thirties," Yelena replies, her voice muffled against your chest as she snuggles closer to you. The vibrations of your laughter resonate through your throat.

“Pot calling the kettle black.”

There is a phenomenon called ‘Rayleigh Scattering’. It’s basically the change in hues of the sky, when the sun is low in the morning and the blue light scatters away, so that a sea of orange and red floods the heavens instead.

Wanda learns about it while she waits for you to show up at her doorstep, the night following her discharge from the hospital. In light of recent events, she successfully managed to talk Pietro out of moving into her place temporarily. Though she agreed she’d take his calls at specific times during the day, or else he will pack up his bags and take his residence in her guest bedroom.

So, going back to her old ways, Wanda stays up all night, attentive to your impending arrival; a human time lapse looking directly into the eyes of time.

But your familiar steps never echoed in the hallway when the clock struck nine in the evening.

And the night after.

And the next.

Until one day, your smell no longer lingers in her pillows and her sheets.

For the following weeks that you keep failing to show up, Wanda makes an effort to refrain from checking on you. She’s done enough to push you away; to hurt you even even further by forcing herself to be with you in any capacity that you allow. Unconsciously, her insistence only turned you into a lesser version of yourself–the only version of you that was willing to be with her.

It hurt Wanda to know that she’d be the one to bring out the worst in you.

She wanted to be better for you; to fill in the mold of someone you deserved to be with. She tried to, by putting up her own business and dedicating all of her efforts to establish it. She did something for herself for the sake of learning and growing, and moving on from the idealistic and unreliable wife you used to know.

Ironically, her progress took a nosedive when you reentered her life. Seeing you awakened that selfish part of her that always wants you to be hers–at all costs.

She was scheming to get you back at all cost. The realization of that came too late. She had already ended up further than when she started.

Wanda stares off in the distance as she stirs the coffee she’s made for herself in her own kitchen, its rich aroma providing the smallest comfort.

Somewhere, you’re in New York, probably taking your morning coffee as well; probably drinking it black because you’re too lazy to add the cream and sugar yourself. If you were together, you’d be having your coffee in an entirely different way because Wanda loves to keep the little things extra special, especially when it comes to your pleasure.

Somewhere in New York, you exist; it serves as the sole source of solace while she chooses to leave you in solitude, at least for the time being.

With the business card that Pietro had discreetly slipped into her jacket as she was leaving the hospital the other week, Wanda ponders her options, flipping it between her fingers. After a moment of contemplation, she resolves to retrieve her phone and dial the number on it.

You’re still Wanda’s dream. She doesn’t think that’s ever going to change.

But now she understands that in order for dreams to turn into reality, she needs to wake up and fight for herself as well; after all–love isn’t something that weak people do.

#wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff imagine #wanda maximoff x you #wanda x you #wanda maximoff #ifiss 2 #ilgoss #yelena belova x reader #yelena belova #unbetad #my writing #my fic #elizabeth olsen x reader #elizabeth olsen #wanda maximoff fanfiction

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jobean12-blog · 10 months

Text

Fallen

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader (Werewolf AU)

Word Count: 689

Summary: Nothing will keep you from the love of your life, not your father's blade and certaintly not a seemingly irreversible curse.

Author's Note: This is my first time writing this AU and although it's short I really enjoyed it and hope to revisit! This is for @pupandkisasaesthetics aesthetic challenge! Thank you bunches to @sgt-seabass and @rookthorne for hosting such a cool challange! 💕💕The prompt I was given is shown below. I know it gives a Viking vibe but I figured it would work as them hunting the werewolf- that's where my brain went! Thank you all so much for reading! Much love always❤️❤️❤️Divider by the lovely @firefly-graphics thank you Daisy🥰 I made a moodboard but it STINKS bc I just can't do it, I'm no good at it, but I included it at the bottom just because I wanted you to see some stuff I had in mind LOL 😆

Warnings: some angst during a chase, small mention of i-n-ju-r-y and b-lo-o-d, softness too!

Your fingers dig deep into thick fur as the powerful muscles beneath propel you forward at a pace that has the wind whipping around you and chilling you to the bone.

The forest is dark except for the ethereal glow of the moon as you race through the shadows, clinging to him and silently urging him on through every labored breath.

The flight is born out of necessity, the distant sound of clashing weapons and battle cries echoing through the trees, a constant reminder that danger is still close.

As the terrain changes and becomes more uneven you tighten your grip but your fingers slip through fur matted with blood. Darkness closes in around you, the trees growing denser and forming an almost protective barrier as you weave about the trunks.

You can feel his heart pound in rhythm with yours, his muscles strained and taut with tension. You whisper to him, a soft murmur against the backdrop of the night and with renewed strength he surges forward, carrying you closer to safety.

Just when it seems he can go no further, a clearing emerges ahead, your sanctuary. He surges forward with one last determined stride and collapses on the stone pathway.

The small cottage seems to have sprung from the very fabric of the woods, the weathered stones surrounded by overgrown moss and vegetation, blending in seamlessly within the trees.

You slide from his body, hot tears streaming down your face as you run your hands over his large body. The wound on his hind leg is deep, the dark red blood still seeping out.

“James,” you cry. “Please.”

Bright blue eyes meet yours and he whimpers before nuzzling his nose under your hand.

“Please,” you beg.

He heaves himself from the ground and limps toward the doorway. You rush forward and open it, helping him inside before he collapses again, unmoving other than the shallow rise and fall of his chest.

It’s late into the night when you finally get the bleeding to stop, his wound cleaned and covered. Your hands are stained red but your tears have dried as exhaustion takes over and you lay your head against his fur.

Sleep comes quickly but it’s fitful, plagued by the nightmares of what’s hunting you. When you awake you’re curled up between four legs, your body cocooned and warm in his soft fur.

You stretch your aching muscles and sit up to check on his leg.

“You haven’t changed back,” you say quietly.

“You were shivering in the night,” he answers as his tail settles on your lap, keeping you warm still.

You burrow closer to him and scratch behind his ears.

“Thank you.”

It’s just a whisper, barely audible to human ears.

His body starts to shift, the long back fur receding and bones realigning. Muscles ripple under skin, adjusting to their new form and sharp claws retract, leaving behind long human fingers.

With a trembling hand James reaches out, his blue eyes still holding something wild and feral, but when his skin brushes yours, tender and vulnerable, you fall into his embrace and feel him sag under your acceptance.

“We cannot stay here,” he murmurs. “Your father will never stop hunting me.”

You lift your hand, cradling his cheek, the skin underneath still lined with a shadow of hair, and brush your finger over his lips.

“Then I will never stop running,” you tell him as you lean closer.

His dark hair falls in front of his face and your fingers trace his jaw before you tuck it back behind his ear. He runs his nose along your skin with a deep inhale, down your throat and back up again until he finds your lips, a satisfied growl rumbling through his chest.

“You would leave it all behind?”

His question is gentle, a gasp against your lips as he wraps his large hand around your waist and pulls you closer.

“There is nothing for me there…not without you.”

Your name falls from his parted lips, leaving nothing but the breath between you and when his lips press to yours he consumes you, body and soul.

@book-dragon-13 @goldylions @sebstanwhore @hiddles-rose @laineyreads @beccablogsthings @justkinsey @kmc1989 @lookiamtrying @randomfandompenguin @late-to-the-party-81 @blackwidownat2814 @buckysdollforlife

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #werewolf!bucky barnes #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x female reader #werewolf!bucky #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes au #werewolf au #pup&kisasaestheticchallenge

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primmiq · 5 months

Text

ೀ ,, A love so beautiful, it might be your last. | Zhongli x GN!Reader

"Osmanthus wine tastes the same as I remember.. But where are those who share the memory?"

☄ Short Summary: In an era long past, Morax and the reader shared a deep love, but tragedy struck during the Archon War. The reader, protecting a fellow friend─met an untimely end. Decades later, fate granted them a new life. Reborn, with memories intact, the reader set out to reunite with Morax.

Implied: Angst and Fluff

Warning(s): Blood, gore

Word Count: 1,841 words 11,429 characters

Zhongli's character might be OOC.

[Reader is an Adeptus.]

Upon initial acquaintance with Guizhong, she graciously introduced you to her comrades, the Adepti—comprising Cloud Retainer, Streetward Rambler, Moon Carver, Mountain Shaper, and Morax. Your amiable associations extended to the Yakshas, forging bonds with each member, except for Morax. The deity, inherently reticent and guarded, proved to be difficult to win over, with a frigid disposition and a volatile temper.

Over the passing years, your persistent companionship softened the stern facade Morax presented. Gradually, subtle expressions of emotion, even occasional smiles, became discernible in his presence. A noteworthy shift ensued, granting you the privilege to affectionately address him by various endearing nicknames, besides from the customary "Rex."

Amidst the Adepti and Yakshas, your relationship with Morax attracted attention when, in a moment of jest, you ran up to him and endearingly referred to him as "Dear" or "Love." Such playful banter led to amusing misconceptions among your peers, who mistakenly perceived the both of you to be lovers. Yet, you staunchly clarified the nature of your relationship, asserting a deep and platonic friendship, despite the good-natured teasing.

As the years unfolded, it was a surprising turn of events when Morax, traditionally reserved, found himself compelled to confess his feelings. The backdrop of a garden adorned with Glaze Lilies, with the sun gracefully setting, served as the canvas for his heartfelt revelation. In a manner both old-fashioned and tender, Morax professed his affection, culminating in your joyous acceptance of his sincere confession.

The rustling leaves of the trees danced in the air as you approached the location Morax had invited you to. He acknowledged your quiet footsteps, yet his gaze remained fixed on the sun gracefully setting before him. The gentle breeze enveloped both of you, rendering the scenery truly breathtaking with each step you took. Coming to a halt, you queried Morax with a smile, prompting him to glance at you over his shoulder.

"I'm here, Rex. Is there something you wanted to say? What's with the sudden invitation?" you inquired, wearing the gentle smile that never failed to captivate him. Morax bit his lower lip, staying silent for a brief moment, his gaze unwaveringly fixed on your face. He despised it, he despiced of how you make him feel so vulnerable—so weak. Your soothing and calming voice had the power to enchant him, and he found solace in the mere act of listening to your random stories. Your scent, you embodied the ethereal fragrance of Glaze Lilies, your favorite flower, a scent that lingered gracefully as an evidence to your love for perfume crafting.

For the first time, Morax grappled with a feeling he couldn't quite comprehend. Was this what mortals referred to as love? "I..." he sighed, his words hanging in the air, unfinished. He hesitated, grappling with an unexpected fear. Morax, a formidable God, who had no fear, found himself unnerved—scared getting rejected by you.

"Is this your way of courting me, Rex?" you playfully asked, a gentle chuckle escaping your lips. His eyes widened as you continued, "I must say, this is uncharacteristic of you, Rex," teasingly noting his discomfort. Morax averted his gaze, a subtle blush gracing his cheeks. Your ability to make him feel vulnerable was both unsettling and intriguing.

"Is... that so?" Morax mumbled, and you responded with a wide smile. "It's a yes," you declared, catching him off guard. "Your confession, I accept it," you clarified, smiling. Morax pulled you into a tight embrace, his chin resting on your head as he kissed your forehead. "Thank you... [Name]," he expressed, finally allowing a wide, genuine smile to grace his countenance—a sight reserved exclusively for you.

Your relationship with Morax became known to the Adepti and Yakshas, who congratulated you both with warm smiles. Despite Morax's initial inclination to keep your relationship private, a shift in his perspective led him to make it public. He wanted the world to know that you were his, and his alone.

In the cocoon of your private moments, stolen kisses, intertwined hands, and tender embraces became cherished facets of your relationship with Morax. Despite his reserved demeanor in public, he transformed into a more affectionate lover when the two of you were alone, craving your attention and reveling in the intimacy of your shared moments─a needy God.

However, as The Archon War loomed, Morax's protective instincts took precedence. He desperately implored you to not participate, his plea driven by a strong love for you. Although you possessed adeptus capabilities, the notion of you engaging in the war didn't align with his desire to shield you from harm. Despite your own inclination to join the fight and safeguard Morax, the desperation in his eyes and the depth of his concern persuaded you to set aside your warrior instincts and stay hidden instead.

The cave echoed with the harrowing sounds of battle as you sought refuge, covering your ears to shield yourself from the haunting screams that filled the air. Amidst the chaos, a familiar scream pierced through—the cry of Guizhong.

You sprinted towards the source, only to discover Guizhong, her form covered by vicious wounds. In a swift motion, you shielded Guizhong from the impending strike, the weapon tearing through your flesh, a gruesome testament to your sacrifice.

Guizhong gasped, her eyes reflecting horror as you crumpled to the ground, blood seeping from the grievous wound. Guizhong rushed towards your lifeless body as she shouted your name, "[Name]!" The opponent, driven by greed to obtain a divine seat in Celestia, redirected their brutality towards Guizhong, leaving a trail of desolation.

When Morax returned, the cave bore witness to a scene of horror. Your lifeless body lay sprawled, the cavern floor stained with blood. The gaping wound in your stomach oozed crimson, and your once vibrant eyes now stared vacantly into the abyss. Morax, upon the realization of the tragedy that happened in his absence, dropped his weapon in shock.

Rushing to your side, he shouted your name with desperation. Clutching your lifeless form, "[Name], Wake up... please..." Morax's hands trembled as he beheld the gruesome scene before him. The air reeked of metallic bitterness, and Morax's anguished cries echoed in the cavern as he cradled your mutilated body. "Don't be like this.... wake up...." Tears streamed down his face, mixing with the blood that stained your cold skin. "[Name], love..... please.... I can't-" The weight of regret and grief pressed upon him as he clung to your lifeless figure, a witness to the brutality that had stolen your warmth, leaving behind only a chilling void.

After the heart-wrenching tragedy, Morax, consumed by grief and guilt, experienced a mental breakdown. As a tangible connection to you, he tenderly retrieved one of your accessories—your earring—and adorned it, a poignant gesture symbolizing an enduring link to the love and loss he felt.

With a heavy heart, Morax undertook the duty of burying your lifeless body alongside Guizhong's. The earth, now a cold and silent witness, cradled the remains of those lost in the merciless tide of war. Morax, burdened with sorrow, knelt beside the freshly turned earth and offered fervent prayers for both of your departed souls. The weight of regret and the haunting echoes of your absence lingered in the air as Morax paid his respects, a solitary figure in a desolate landscape marked by the scars of conflict.

Decades later, Morax forged a new identity as "Zhongli" after faking his death, finding solace in a mortal life working at the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor. He shed his former hot temper for a calm and collected demeanor.

While strolling, Zhongli, hands elegantly clasped behind him, observed the approaching traveler and their flying companion, (The Traveler can be Lumine or Aether.) The flying child gestured a greeting towards Zhongli, inquiring, "Oh, hey, Mr. Zhongli! What are you doing here??" Zhongli, poised, began to respond, only to be momentarily diverted by the lingering fragrance of Glaze Lilies enveloping both the traveler and the flying child. His eyes widened in recognition, for it bore a resemblance to the perfume worn by someone dear to him.

Interrupting his thoughts, the flying child emphatically exclaimed, "MR. ZHONGLI!!!" Paimon, the flying child, nearly shouted. "My sincere apologies," Zhongli gracefully interjected, clearing his throat as Paimon sighed. "Forgive me, but may I inquire about the origin of that... fragrance?" Zhongli asked in a hushed tone, almost mumbling. Paimon proudly explained, "Ohh!! The perfume? Well, some woman was selling them in exchange for just 10 Mora! The perfume smelled sooooo nice so me and Traveler decided to buy it since it was cheap!"

Desperation apparent in his tone, Zhongli urgently inquired, "Could you kindly direct me to her establishment?" Paimon, a bit taken aback, replied, "Um... it's near to the souvenir shop." Without uttering a word, Zhongli briskly passed them, his pace accelerated. Paimon, puzzled, scratched her head, turning to the Traveler. "Mr. Zhongli seems rather peculiar today. Besides, why is he even asking? He doesn't even have Mora.." The Traveler sighed, responding, "Let him be, Paimon..."

As Zhongli stepped into the enchanting fragrance shop, his eyes widened, and a gentle tremor resonated through his heart. The woman, immersed in the alchemy of perfume creation, had her back turned, humming a melody that tugged at Zhongli's memories. "N-[Name]?" he called out, the name almost a breath. Slowly turning, [Name] met his gaze with wide eyes, masking surprise with a graceful smile. "O-oh? A new visitor? Greetings! I assume you're acquainted with my name." Her smile, a mirror of his beloved's, was both captivating and tender, sending a familiar warmth through Zhongli's soul. Nervously, [Name] began, "Well, um... do you seek something-"

Before [Name] could finish, Zhongli, overwhelmed with emotion, enveloped them in a tight embrace. "I missed you... I missed you so much," he confessed, tears welling up as he held them with a passion that spoke of longing. "Oh, Morax... perhaps it's time to shed this facade," [Name] whispered with a knowing smile. "It's you... truly you... how I've waited for you, my beloved," Zhongli whispered, [Name]'s eyes catching the glint of an earring on his right ear. "So... you've taken my earring," You mumbled. "I'm sorry for not bidding farewell, for not shielding you... I'm sorry, deeply sorry," Zhongli expressed.

"No need for apologies, my love. There's no blame on your shoulders," You reassured with a tender smile. "What matters is that I'm here," they added. Zhongli, wiping away tears, met your gaze with a smile. "You returned for me... but why didn't you seek me out? You know I would have recognized you instantly," Zhongli mumbled, his fingers delicately caressing your cheek.

"I planned it as a surprise... I knew it was the Traveler and Paimon who informed you," You giggled. Zhongli cupped their cheeks, sealing their reunion with a heartfelt kiss that echoed with the resonance of shared memories. After the passionate exchange, Zhongli beamed. "I love you, my dearest," he declared. "And I love you too, Morax, or is it Zhongli now?" they chuckled together, their laughter harmonizing with the melody of their rekindled love.

[A/N: I got lazy in the end lmao. Regardless, I hope that you liked this! Requests are open!]

Reblogs, comments, and notes are greatly appreciated! :3

#zhongli x reader #rex lapis x reader #morax x reader #genshin impact #oneshot #geo archon #angst with a happy ending #fluff #gn reader #nonbinary #fanfic #reincarnation

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lilacura · 6 months

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Apocalypse

pairing: Kim Minji x Reader

>wc: 1.6k

summary: Childhood friends Minji and Y/N grow distant after high school, a silent grief replacing the laughter that once defined their bond. Unspoken words and the weight of separation leave them prisoners of a fading friendship and an unexpressed love, drowning in the sorrow of what once was.

based off of the song 'apocalypse' by cigarettes after sex

your lips my lips

apocalypse

From the moment Kim Minji and Y/N met on the playground, a friendship blossomed that was destined to withstand the test of time. Childhood for them was a kaleidoscope of laughter, scraped knees, and shared ice cream cones on sweltering summer afternoons.

Their afternoons were often spent in the treehouse at the end of Y/N's backyard, a sanctuary built with mismatched planks and scavenged nails. Seated on worn-out cushions, the two friends concocted fantastical stories, their imaginations intertwining like the branches outside their secret haven.

"Do you think fairies live in this tree?" Minji once wondered, her eyes wide with wonder.

Y/N grinned, a conspiratorial gleam in her eyes. "Absolutely! And I bet they're the ones who make our wishes come true."

In the quiet moments that followed the sun's descent, casting a warm, golden glow over their neighborhood, Minji and Y/N would find solace in each other's homes. The murmur of late-night conversations beneath the blanket forts, illuminated by dim flashlights, held an unspoken depth that echoed the profound connection they shared.

Lazy Sunday mornings saw them pedaling through the streets, laughter reverberating off the walls like an echo of their unspoken bond. The local park, their shared kingdom, witnessed battles fought with imaginary swords and capes, victories celebrated over melting popsicles, concealing a subtle undercurrent of emotions left unexplored.

Minji's infectious energy danced with Y/N's calm demeanor, creating a harmonious balance between them. They were two halves of a perfect whole, their intertwined lives revealing a friendship rooted in a profound mutual understanding. As the years unfolded, the beauty of their connection remained intact, its uncharted depths harboring the unspoken truth that both harbored a love too delicate to voice, too scared to disrupt the fragile balance they'd created.

go and sneak us through the rivers

flood is rising up on your knees

oh please

Drawn by the moonlit allure, Minji and Y/N found themselves at a secluded river. The night embraced them as they waded into the cool, flowing waters, a symphony of crickets and rustling leaves providing the backdrop to their clandestine escapade.

In the soft glow of moonlight, they played like carefree spirits. Giggles and laughter echoed along the riverbanks as they began splashing each other with water, the joy of the moment lighting up their faces. Each ripple created by their laughter seemed to carry away the weight of unspoken words, replaced by the simple delight of being together.

As the moon painted a silver path on the water's surface, they engaged in a playful dance, their laughter harmonizing with the gentle murmur of the river. Water droplets sparkled in the moonlight as Minji and Y/N, caught in the magic of the night, shared secret glances that spoke volumes without uttering a word.

Giggles became an unspoken language, and the river witnessed the beauty of their uninhibited joy. The night, with its whispers and reflections, carried away any fears or uncertainties, leaving behind the essence of a shared laughter that would resonate in the depths of their friendship for years to come.

come out and haunt me

i know you want me

come out and haunt me

Minji and Y/N found themselves immersed in a game of hide and seek. The vibrant greenery of the backyard served as their playground, and the air buzzed with the excited anticipation of a childhood game.

Minji, the seeker, closed her eyes and counted, her small fingers covering her face. As she finished counting, she eagerly ventured into the backyard, searching for her hidden friend. Amidst the giggles and rustling leaves, Y/N crouched behind a sturdy oak tree, her eyes sparkling with the thrill of the game.

As Minji roamed the garden, she eventually stood before the tree where Y/N was hiding. A mischievous glint shone in Minji's eyes as she pretended not to see her best friend, gazing around with feigned confusion.

"Hmm, where could Y/N be hiding?" Minji mused aloud, her tone exaggerated for effect.

From behind the tree, Y/N stifled a giggle, trying to stay hidden. "Maybe she's behind the shed?" Minji suggested, making deliberate, theatrical glances in all directions, except towards Y/N.

The charade continued, each feigned search making Y/N's concealed position all the more amusing. "Not behind the flower bed either," Minji declared, peering into the bushes while Y/N bit her lip to contain her laughter.

Just as Minji turned away, Y/N couldn't resist a playful whisper, "Am I that good at hiding, or are you just playing along?"

Minji, maintaining the act, glanced around dramatically before lowering her voice conspiratorially. "You're a master hider, Y/N. I might never find you."

Y/N burst into laughter, unable to contain it any longer. Minji joined in, and the backyard echoed with the joyous sounds of their shared amusement. The oak tree, a silent witness, stood tall as the keeper of this delightful childhood secret—a moment where playful deception only deepened the bonds of friendship.

sharing all your secrets with each other

since you were kids

Beneath the oak tree's comforting branches, Minji and Y/N found solace in the whispered echoes of shared secrets that spanned the years.

"In this big universe, I always dreamed of being an astronaut," Y/N confided, her voice carrying a wistful tone that danced with the rustling leaves overhead.

Minji, gazing into the distance, responded, "And I wanted to be the person to make everyone laugh, you know? But lately, it feels like the weight of expectations is suffocating."

Their shared dreams and fears became the currency of their confidences, an unspoken pact forged through time.

Years later, as the sun dipped below the horizon, Y/N confessed, "Love is a beautiful mess, isn't it? I thought it would be like the movies, but it's more like navigating a storm without a compass."

Minji, with a subtle nod, replied, "It's hard, Y/N. Relationships are messy, but we'll navigate those storms together."

The oak tree, a silent guardian of their shared intimacies, bore witness to more profound revelations.

In a moment of vulnerability, Minji confessed, "I'm terrified of failing, of not living up to everyone's expectations. What if I'm not enough?"

Y/N, her voice gentle, responded, "You're more than enough, Minji. You always have been."

The oak tree, a testament to the passage of time and the fragility of dreams, stood witness to the ebb and flow of their lives. The rustling leaves overhead seemed to carry with them the bittersweet symphony of a friendship that weathered storms, embraced joys, and mourned the innocence lost to the ticking clock.

sleeping soundly with the locket that she gave you

clutched in your fist

High school arrived like a cold, unwelcome wind, disrupting the warmth of Minji and Y/N's inseparable bond. The day of Minji's departure unfolded with a heavy heart, tears flowing freely, marking the beginning of a soul-crushing farewell.

Amidst the quiet rustle of leaves beneath the oak tree, Minji and Y/N clung to each other, their tear-streaked faces a poignant reflection of the impending void. The laughter that once painted the air with joy now dissolved into heart-wrenching sobs, the weight of separation settling like a relentless ache.

"I'll miss you so much, Minji," Y/N whispered, her voice trembling with the weight of unspoken sadness.

Minji, choking back tears, pressed a small locket into Y/N's hands. "Take this. So you'll always have a piece of me with you."

As Minji's departure became a distant memory, the shared sanctuary beneath the oak tree transformed into a haunting relic of their unbridled friendship. Nights became a silent procession of tears, Y/N clutching the special locket Minji had given her. The cold metal offered a fragile connection to the warmth of their shared past.

In the dim light before sleep, Y/N wept, the memories of Minji flooding her thoughts. "Why did you have to go?" she whispered to the empty room, her cries muffled by the suffocating loneliness.

The oak tree, once a witness to their laughter, now stood as a stoic sentinel of the pain that lingered. The locket, a tangible piece of Minji's presence, became the only solace in the lonely hours. Y/N would hold it close, tracing its contours with trembling fingers, each delicate detail a painful reminder of the friend who slipped away with the inexorable march of time.

you’ve been locked in here forever

and you just can’t say goodbye

Years passed like a heavy fog, enveloping the once-vibrant friendship of Minji and Y/N in an eerie silence. Laughter, once the heartbeat of their connection, faded into a haunting echo, replaced by a vast emptiness.

The warmth that once defined their camaraderie now lay dormant beneath layers of unsaid words, the distance between them stretching like an unbridgeable abyss. The bond that had weathered childhood storms now seemed fragile, hanging by the thinnest thread of memories.

In the lonely expanse of their separate worlds, Minji and Y/N wrestled with the relentless ache of unspoken sentiments. Each passing day etched lines of longing on their hearts, like scars that refused to heal. The desire to reach out, to rekindle the friendship that time had worn thin, lingered like an unfulfilled promise.

Yet, the weight of silence prevailed. Both Minji and Y/N stood on the precipice of reaching out, fingers hovering over the keyboard or poised to make a call, only to withdraw. The love that once flowed freely between them had become a silent river, carrying the weight of what was lost.

Night after night, they lay awake, tormented by the echoes of what they could no longer say. The words, heavy with unspoken affection, hung in the air, forming an unbreakable barrier. They yearned to let go, to sever the invisible tether that bound them to a past slipping away like grains of sand through clenched fists.

Yet, the fear of disrupting the fragile equilibrium held them captive. And so, in the silence that echoed louder than any conversation they never had, Minji and Y/N found themselves prisoners of a love they couldn't let go, and a friendship that refused to be forgotten.

a/n: i hope ur ready to cry

#new jeans #kim minji #kim minji x reader #minji x reader #newjeans x reader #girl group #gg x reader #minji #newjeans minji

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thewildbelladonna · 1 year

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Fleetwood Mac tour, Houston Music Hall, Houston, Texas, December 3rd, 1975.

#stevie nicks #fleetwood mac #the white album #fleetwood mac tour #houston music hall #houston #texas #1975 #black outfit #chiffon #cape sleeves #witchy #tambourine #moon tree backdrop

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satoshi-mochida · 6 months

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Hand-drawn story-driven adventure game Vivarium announced

Gematsu Source

A currently unnamed studio that consists of creator Michael Nowak and collaborator Trent Garlipp (A Walk With Yiayia) has announced Vivarium, a hand-drawn story-driven adventure game inspired by Love-de-Lic cult classics Chulip and moon, as well as slice-of-life adventure games like Boku No Natsuyasumi, with visuals and audio inspired by 1974 to early 1980s anime and manga. Platforms and a release date were not announced.

Here is an overview of the game, via the developers:

About

Vivarium is a story-driven adventure game set in the world of a terrarium!

Key Features

Gameplay focused on exploration and character storylines—expanding on the RPG town concept from games like Stardew Valley.

Hand-drawn cel-animation graphics inspired by classic anime—akin to Cuphead‘s take on 1930s cartoons.

Story

Jenny lives in a quaint ranch house by herself in the whimsical world of Vivarium. …However, not all is as it seems in the terrarium.

Objective

Jenny finds the giant tree in the center of the terrarium has died—throwing off the balance of the world in Vivarium. However, a new sprout has taken root in its place. As Jenny helps characters, solves puzzles, and grows in her experiences, the tree sprout grows in size.

Characters

“Yulia” the talking Slavic Dog hermit

“Rishi” and “Gunter,” the local shopkeepers

…and more to meet in the world of Vivarium

Game Loop

Explore – Gain access to new locations and characters.

Find Quests – Take on quests and mysteries in the terrarium.

Solve – Solve puzzles with items, conversation, and ingenuity.

Grow and Repeat – Gain experience with your actions, causing the sprout to grow.

World

Explore a dense, hand-painted world in Vivarium—filled with scenery, nooks, and secrets to discover.

Art Style

Our style is inspired by classic animation, especially from 70s to 80s Japan. Vivarium features a totally hand-drawn traditional cel-animation process—reflective of the media it’s inspired by. Every frame of the game is hand-crafted with love! Vivarium‘s environments are rendered in rich, thickly saturated gouache painting. Every area features its own original art assets and highly detailed painted backdrop. Vivarium uses subtle post-processing, lighting, and color grading to achieve a retro-cinematic aesthetic. Hand-placed dynamic day-night cycle lighting. Grain, lens focus-blur, and a cel drop-shadow are all applied in-engine. These effects replicate the look of traditional animation photographed and printed on film.

Watch the announcement trailer below.

Announce Trailer

youtube

#Vivarium #Trent Garlipp #Michael Nowak #adventure game #Gematsu #You got my interest at 'inspired by Chulip and moon'.#Youtube

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m4n-e4t3r · 5 months

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final battle

John price/Gn! reader angst tags: death of reader, war mentioned, being shot, john is sad :(( reader was johns wife/husband/ married partner this is my first ever published fic please don't be mean :( word count: 588

John's boots crunched softly against the gravelly ground as he approached the dimly lit corner of the makeshift camp. The moon hung low in the ink-black sky, casting long shadows that seemed to mirror the heaviness in his heart. A chilling wind whispered through the barren trees, and John's breath hung in the air like fleeting ghosts.

"Y/N!"

He spotted you lying there, a silhouette in the dark, a heap of pain and struggle. Your once vibrant eyes, the ones that used to light up his world, now stared into the abyss. The smell of damp earth mingled with the metallic tang of blood, a scent that clung to the air and refused to let go.

John sank to his knees beside you, his gloved hands trembling as they reached out to touch yours. The skin felt colder than he remembered, and panic clawed at his throat. He'd seen too much in this war, but nothing prepared him for this moment — finding you, his partner, lying broken and battered.

"You... you can't leave me, not like this," he whispered, the words escaping his lips in a shaky breath. His voice cracked, the strain of the battlefield mixing with the weight of his despair. The war had stolen so much from both of you and now it threatened to take away the one thing that made the darkness bearable.

Your eyes flickered in a feeble attempt to focus on the face of the man you loved. His name escaped your lips in a whisper, a fragile acknowledgement of his presence in this final moment. John felt his heart shatter as he clasped your hand tighter. "I love you, Johnny..." Your faint voice faded as quickly as it came, but it would never fade from his memories Those memories flashed before John's eyes — the stolen glances across crowded rooms, the shared laughter in the face of adversity, and the whispered promises of a life beyond the military. Now, those dreams seemed like distant echoes, fading into the darkness.

"I'm here, I'm right here, love" he murmured, his voice a desperate beg to whatever bastard God might be listening. The words hung in the air, unanswered, as the distant sounds of gunfire served as a haunting backdrop to your farewell.

The pain etched on your face spoke volumes, telling a story of battles fought and wounds endured. John's eyes stung with unshed tears as he traced the outline of your face, committing every detail to memory. He wished he could freeze this moment, make time stand still, and keep you with him always.

"Stay with me, please...i cant lose you too.." he pleaded, his voice cracking with the weight of his grief. But the shadows in your eyes deepened, and he knew the answer even before you whispered it. The battlefield had claimed its toll, and the cost was immeasurable.

John cradled you in his arms, a futile attempt to shield you from the harsh realities of war. The world around them seemed to fade, leaving only the two of you in a bubble of grief and regret. He pressed his forehead against yours, whispering words of love and loss as if trying to carve them into the fabric of time.

The night wore on, the moon making its slow descent on the horizon. John stayed there, holding you, unwilling to let go. In the quiet of that desolate corner of the camp, a captain knelt beside his fallen partner, surrounded by the ghosts of what could have been.

#angst #cod mwii #cod x reader #captain john price #reader death #call of duty modern warfare #call of duty x reader #john price x reader #john price x you #john price x gn!reader #gn reader #first fanfic #tw death #captain price #mw3

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zapreportsblog · 10 months

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Garrett x human Reader Her whole body except for her face, neck and hands are covered in tattoos but she does not revel them until the battle of to see if Renesemee is immortal child or not. She does not meet Garrett until the battle of Victoria and her army of newborns. She has long chocolate brown hair and wears circle framed glasses. She is related to Emmett.

❝concealed❞

✭ pairing : garrett x reader

✭ fandom : twilight x reader

✭ summary : (y/n) is the mate of Garrett but doesn’t meet him until some years later, she has tattoos and is the only human relative that Emmett has

✭ twilight masterlist

In the heart of the forest, where shadows danced among ancient trees, (Y/N) moved with a graceful purpose. Her long, chocolate brown hair cascaded down her back, a stark contrast against the muted greens and browns of the woods. Clad in a simple long-sleeved blouse and jeans, she seemed like any other traveler exploring nature's beauty.

Yet, (Y/N) was far from ordinary. Beneath her clothing, her body was adorned with a tapestry of intricate tattoos, each design a testament to her connection with her ancestors and her reverence for the world around her. Her neck and hands bore a rich mosaic of symbols, alluring and mysterious, hinting at a history that was deeper and more complex than her appearance suggested.

For years, she had concealed her body art, careful to hide her inked skin beneath the fabric of long sleeves and high necklines. Her tattoos were her own secret, a personal tapestry of stories and memories that she carried with her, unbeknownst to those around her. And while she was proud of her heritage and the links that bound her to her ancestors, she chose to keep her marks hidden, revealing them only when the time was right.

It was a chilly evening as (Y/N) entered a clearing, her glasses perched on her nose as she surveyed the landscape. In the distance, a shimmering waterfall cascaded down a rocky cliffside, its gentle roar a soothing backdrop to her thoughts. It was a place of solace, a sanctuary where she could lose herself in her contemplations.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the sky in a tapestry of colors, (Y/N)'s thoughts turned to the rumors that had begun circulating among the supernatural community. Whispers of an immortal child, an enigma that had captured the attention of vampires and shape-shifters alike. She couldn't ignore the call to action, the pull to uncover the truth.

The woods seemed to hum with anticipation as (Y/N) turned to leave the clearing, her footsteps measured as she navigated the path back to her small cabin. The moon cast dappled light through the trees, and in its ethereal glow, (Y/N)'s tattoos seemed to come alive, a hidden masterpiece waiting to be unveiled.

Little did she know that destiny was about to introduce her to someone who would change her life forever. A battle loomed on the horizon, one that would bring her face to face with not only the supernatural forces she had heard whispers of but also a certain nomadic vampire named Garrett.

Weeks turned into months, and (Y/N) found herself drawn deeper into the mysteries that surrounded the supernatural world. She followed leads, listened to whispers, and sought answers to the enigma of the immortal child. Her quiet determination propelled her forward, her tattoos hidden beneath her everyday attire, a part of her that remained known only to herself.

It was during her investigations that the path of destiny intersected with another, as the confrontation with Victoria and her army of newborns loomed on the horizon. The forest crackled with tension as the two sides prepared for battle, and (Y/N) stood among the supernatural allies, her eyes steady behind her circle-framed glasses.

As the battle cries echoed through the air, (Y/N) fought with a fierce determination, her every move a testament to her hidden strength. Her tattoos remained concealed, a canvas of stories that remained shrouded in mystery. It was only when the chaos of battle began to reach its climax that her moment arrived.

Amidst the fray, (Y/N) found herself facing off against a particularly formidable adversary. Victoria's red eyes bore into her, a fierce determination mirrored in her gaze. (Y/N)'s heart raced, her every instinct sharpened by the adrenaline of battle.

With a surge of energy, she unleashed her full strength, the power of her ancestry coursing through her veins. As her opponent's attack faltered, her own strike was swift and precise. And in the wake of the battle, Victoria's threat was finally extinguished.

As the dust settled, the supernatural allies regrouped, their breaths heavy with a mix of exhaustion and relief. It was in this moment that (Y/N) felt a presence at her side. She turned, her eyes meeting those of a nomadic vampire, his hair wild and his gaze unwavering.

"Garrett," she murmured, recognition dawning.

He offered a half-smile, his eyes curious. "You fought well."

"(Y/N)," another voice called from the distance. Turning, she saw her connection to the supernatural world, the Cullens, approaching.

"We owe you our gratitude," Carlisle said, his expression sincere.

Her gaze shifted between the two, her lips quirking into a smile. "It was a battle for all of us."

The moon hung high in the sky, casting a silvery glow on the aftermath of the battle. As (Y/N) stood among the supernatural beings, her tattoos remained hidden beneath her clothing, a silent testament to her own battles and triumphs.

Garrett approached her again, his gaze steady. "You're not like the others."

She raised an eyebrow, her curiosity piqued. "And what makes you say that?"

He smiled, a glint of mischief in his eyes. "I have a keen eye for those who bear secrets, my dear."

A knowing smile tugged at her lips, and for the first time, (Y/N) felt a sense of camaraderie with someone who understood the art of concealment. As the night wore on, stories were exchanged, bonds were formed, and the mysteries of the supernatural world began to unravel in ways (Y/N) had never imagined.

Little by little, as (Y/N)'s world expanded to include new allies and experiences, her tattoos remained a hidden reminder of her unique journey. For with each day that passed, she found herself not only entwined in the supernatural tapestry but also a chapter of her own tale that was just beginning to be written.

Time flowed like a river, carrying (Y/N) into a world she had only glimpsed from the periphery. She walked a delicate line between her newfound supernatural allies and the life she had known as a human. Her bond with Garrett deepened with each passing day, their shared understanding of secrecy and concealment forging a connection that transcended words.

With her tattoos still hidden from view, (Y/N) became an indispensable member of the supernatural community, her skills and determination proving invaluable in times of danger. She joined in their endeavors, fought alongside them in battles that shaped the destiny of their world, and stood shoulder to shoulder with vampires and shape-shifters alike.

As the seasons changed, (Y/N)'s journey of self-discovery continued, each day a testament to her strength and resilience. The Cullens became not only her allies but also her family, and Garrett, her mate, a constant presence at her side. Together, they faced challenges that tested their bonds and celebrated victories that united them in purpose.

One evening, under the stars that glittered like diamonds in the night sky, (Y/N) found herself sitting by a crackling fire, her tattoos illuminated by the dancing flames. She wore a sleeveless top, her decision to reveal her marks a deliberate one. The intricate designs spoke of generations past, of stories whispered through time.

Garrett approached, his gaze drawn to the revealed tattoos. His fingers traced the patterns gently, his touch both tender and reverent. "(Y/N), they're beautiful," he whispered.

She smiled, her heart full as she met his gaze. "They're a part of me, a reminder of my ancestors and the path that led me here."

Garrett's eyes held a mixture of admiration and understanding. "Just as your strength and spirit are a part of you."

In that moment, (Y/N) felt a sense of completeness that she had never known before. Her tattoos were no longer hidden away, but proudly displayed, a testament to her journey, her heritage, and the love that had woven its way into her life.

As the fire crackled and the night stretched before them, (Y/N) and Garrett sat together, their hands intertwined. They were bound by more than just their secrets; they were bound by the shared experience of growth, connection, and the promise of an unknown future that lay ahead. And as they gazed into the flames, they knew that whatever challenges awaited, they would face them together, their stories and tattoos interwoven in a tapestry of love and courage.

#x reader #x reader one shot #x reader oneshot #twilight imagines #twilight x reader #twilight #twilight masterlist #twilight scenario #yandere twilight #garrett twilight #twilight imagine #garrett imagines #garrett x y/n #garrett x reader #garrett imagine

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humanpurposes · 9 months

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Karma is a God

Chapter 13: The Riverlands

The Dance of the Dragons begins on a lie, and Aemond owes a debt, one Lucerra will see repaid in Fire and Blood // Series Masterlist // Main Masterlist

Aemond x Lucerra Velaryon (fem!Lucerys)

Warnings for this chapter: spoilers for F&B and future seasons of HotD, canon divergence, descriptions of violence

Words: 7700

A/n: Also available to read on AO3.

The skies over Blackwater Bay and Crackclaw Point are clear. There are no clouds to hide in and Grey Ghost makes quick work of the distance from Dragonstone to Maidenpool.

The Queen had ordered that she fly straight back to King’s Landing after accompanying Baela and Rhaena to Dragonstone, but as much as she fears her mother’s wroth, she fears what might happen if she sits idly.

To the south, Borros Baratheon has summoned his banners to Storm’s End. To the west, the Lannisters clash with the Iron Fleet. The Tyrells have taken a neutral stance, but the Hightower army is rebuilding in the Reach, rallying behind Prince Daeron and Criston Cole.

As for the Riverlands… the reports they receive are harrowing.

For almost two moons, Aemond has terrorised the Riverlands, unleashing dragonfire and death upon all those he deems to be traitors. Everything in his path turns to ash; towns, cities, castles, crops, and too many lives to count.

They fly high enough that the world spreads out below them like a map. As they approach the southern shore of the Bay of Crabs, she can see where the green fields turn to black. Smoke rises from the ground, trees reach against a grey sky, charred and bare. No life remains where Vhagar flies.

Could he hear the screams as he did it? Was he blind to the suffering, or did he bathe himself in it?

She had heard the cries of dying men as she burnt the Tyroshi war ships by Driftmark, but they were distant, a noise lingering in the back of her mind. All she remembers of that night is the smell of smoke, flashes of golden flames blurred through her tears, emptiness and rage. Thousands of lives ended, for the sake of avenging two already lost.

It is not the same, she tells herself.

They were soldiers. Any one of them could have been the man who released the quarrel that killed Jace, or manned the ship that sunk the Gay Abandon and young Viserys with it.

Aemond kills because he is cruel.

And I…

Death could not save the people who died at Hightide and Spicetown, it could not bring back her brothers, or any other lives lost at The Gullet. That thought has lingered in her mind ever since, a parasite draining the warmth from her body, the life from her soul.

But this is war. Either she will die a martyr, like Jace, like Rhaenys, or survival will chip away at the person she once was.

Maidenpool is nothing compared to the grandeur of Dragonstone or the high walls and towers of The Red Keep. Its keep and battlements are grey and cobbled, covered in moss and ivy so it blends in seamlessly with the surrounding greenery and the backdrop of the sea.

The castle is not the first thing she spots though, rather the blood red dragon that lies before the outer walls. Caraxes is curled in on himself, in a rare moment of peace as he sleeps. But he stirs as they land, rearing his head and glaring at them through wide, golden eyes.

Grey Ghost is uneasy, and not without cause. The Bloodwyrm is monstrously large, bloodthirsty and chaotic.

She remembers the first time she saw Caraxes, as their families gathered on Driftmark for the funeral of Laena Velaryon. Jace had flown on Vermax, while she, too small to ride Arrax, rode in a carriage with her mother and father. They reached Hightide and suddenly she heard a thunderous roar and a whistling, rippling shriek. What a sight they were, Caraxes and Vhagar, soaring from the East with the sunrise. They terrified her in different ways. Vhagar was colossal, and though Caraxes was smaller, he was swift, with piercing eyes, sharp teeth and a serpentine neck that she couldn’t help but follow as it swayed and slithered.

The gates open before she has dismounted. Daemon leads an escort of guards to meet her, dressed in his riding leathers rather than his armour. He knows not to come too close to Grey Ghost.

Her dragon is steadfastly steady as she dismounts, his head fixed on the men who have dared to approach his rider.

Strangers, hisses the voice in her head. Danger.

“Princess Lucerra,” Daemon says, resting his hands on the hilt of Dark Sister which hangs from his hip. “What a pleasant surprise.” His voice is calm but in a way that makes her nervous.

“Your Grace,” she says, keeping a gloved hand against Grey Ghost’s hide, stroking along his scales to calm him.

Daemon observes this with a small smile, and a turn of his head towards the guards, who relax their stances. “You should know better than to announce on dragonback unannounced.”

“And yet you were able to determine I was not an enemy,” Luke says. “I came from Dragonstone.”

His amusement fades into something more concerned. “Baela and Rhaena?”

Rhaenyra needed a dragon to protect the island and patrol the sea, if necessary. It couldn’t be Tylesys, Sheepstealer was still weak from the encounter with Tessarion, and she wanted Seasmoke, Vermithor and Silverwing to stay in King’s Landing. By the slight frown in Daemon’s face, he has some trepidation about Baela being the one to take on such a burden. But she is brave enough for it, and besides, Dragonstone is defended by water and the Velaryon Fleet. So long as Daeron and Tessarion remain in the Reach, the girls will be safe.

“Your daughters are safely delivered,” she says.

Daemon looks between her and her dragon. “Does your mother approve of you being here?” he asks.

Her breath catches effortlessly in her throat. “She does not know.”

He smiles again. “I have to admit, I did anticipate you might find your way here.”

The small council met the very day they received the first letter from Riverrun.

Prince Aemond has declared a one man war on the Riverlands, intent on burning all those who align themselves to Queen Rhaenyra.

The sight before her eyes was dull and gloomy. She winced at flashes of lighting and rumbles of thunder that were not there to be seen or heard. She saw only him, the scar she had left him, the sapphire set within the socket. His voice drifted through her, just out of earshot but there nonetheless.

“I want you to put out your eye, as payment for mine.”

“Do this, dōna ilībōños, and I will consider your debt fulfilled.”

“My nephew must not be left unchecked,” Daemon’s voice said.

Suddenly the other faces in the room materialised into view. Rhaenyra’s eyes were down, fixed on the golden ball placed before her. Lord Corlys’ brow was twisted in contemplation and concern. The other men of the Small Council were watching Daemon, who in turn had his eyes on her.

He watched her for the entirety of their gathering, and she knew what he was looking for. She gave him nothing, not the smallest movement in her face or a hint of an expression. She had become rather well practised at this.

But the moment she was back in her chambers, the moment she was alone, she gave into the fury and fear simmering inside of her. She only managed to seat herself on the edge of her bed before the tears began to stream down her face. She caught them in her palms as she wept.

Aemond was rarely cruel as a child, if he was it was because he had been pushed too far, by Aegon, by Jace, and by her own doing. She had expected him to hate her when she returned to the Red Keep, and she had been right in her assumption. A debt was owed, one he had wanted her to pay with her life.

Whose fault could it be but hers that Aemond had grown into he had become?

A weight hung heavy in her chest. She hadn’t been the one to mount Vhagar or utter the command that scorched the Riverlands, but she knew she had a part in this, in some twisting of fate, in the overlaps and knots in the threads of life.

Two moons passed and hardly anything came from Daemon’s hunt. News would come of a castle or town left in ashes, farms and fields obliterated, whole herds of livestock lost to the dragon’s jaws, but Daemon could not fly fast enough. By the time word reached him of an attack, there would no traceable signs of Aemond and Vhagar but the devastation they left behind.

The night before she left to escort Baela and Rhaena to Dragonstone, she took supper with Lord Corlys and her siblings, which included Alyn and Addam. Moments like this were the closest she came to feeling she had a home in the Red Keep, despite the notable absences. She forced herself to smile as Joffrey tried to imitate everything about Lord Corlys, the way he held his cutlery, the way he leaned back in his chair and kept his cup close to his lips. Her brother was to be the future Lord of the Tides afterall.

Rhaena kept her little pink dragon, Morning, on her shoulder. She and Addam fed her scraps of beef and praised her when she cooed.

Baela sat beside Alyn, with perfect posture and a tight smile on her lips at everything he said. But her resolve was slipping. With every joke Alyn whispered in her ear, she leaned a little further into him and laughed a little louder.

At first the sight made Luke’s stomach churn, as if she could still see the distant battle at The Gullet, like she could still smell the smoke as the Tyroshi ships were bathed in Grey Ghost’s fire. Until she wondered if Jace had ever told Baela of his time at Winterfell, why he had a scar on his palm and why, if she travelled north to see for herself, Cregan Stark would have one to match.

Alyn was charming, Luke supposed, gracious, with a smile that sparked excitement.

What did it matter where Baela chose to seek happiness? Surely it was better that she did not dwell on memories and live her life with the burden of the past. What would that bring but grief and regret?

After seeing young Aegon to bed and allowing Joffrey one game of Cyvasse, Luke visited her mother. Rhaenyra could be found where she usually was, in her father’s chambers sitting by a dying hearth and gazing over the model of Old Valyria, coated with dust and cobwebs after so many years of neglect. Luke sat by her side, tracing her fingertips over her hands and the cuts along her skin. Some were red and fresh, some were older and clotted, others had faded into thin scars.

“They are meaningless,” her mother whispered without turning her eyes to her daughter. “A consequence of our ancestor choosing to forge his throne from the swords of his enemies. My father suffered the same.”

Watching her mother was like watching a warm and golden autumn fade into a desolate winter. She could not endure it for long.

Her back fell against the door as she returned to her bedchamber, frozen in place by what she saw. Another envelope, sealed with a winged insect stamped into amber wax, left on the floor by her bed, exactly where she had found the last one.

She held her breath for a moment, waiting for any kind of sound, a footstep, a voice, a scuttling of a rodent, but whoever had delivered it must have been long gone.

Once again, she reached for the knife by her bedside, slicing through the envelope to save the seal.

There was just one line, and no signature.

Search for him and he will find you.

She knew what had to be done. She could not sit idly, not while her mother’s allies burned and she had a debt of her own to claim.

Daemon steps towards her. “You want to be the one to do it,” he says.

She often has this feeling, like she’s drowning in her own skin. Like the world around her is cold and dark and she cannot breathe. She sees only one way to save herself from it.

“I have to be.”

The castle is quiet, filled with servants who scurry through the halls with their heads down, and knights and Lords who offer no looks of warmth to their Prince and Princess. It is unusual that Daemon does not reprimand them for it.

He sees that she is brought to a chamber that overlooks the sea and is given supper. It is no great feast– many of the crops and livestock of the Riverlands have been lost to Vhagar’s fire, but she is given a plate of shucked oysters and another with white fish and potatoes. Daemon does not eat with her, or visit her once she is finished.

The sounds of the waves roar in her ears as she lies in the bed and pulls the sheets around her. Each time she starts to fall asleep she feels weightless, and suddenly she is slipping from Arrax’s saddle and hurtling through to storm into the waves of Shipbreaker Bay–

But she wakes before her body meets the water.

A maid comes to her early in the morning just after sunrise. She bathes and dresses in her riding leathers, firmly fixing her sword to her hip, letting her fingertips linger on the golden seahorse hilt.

“He should be taken as a prisoner,” was Lord Corlys’ counter to Daemon’s pledge to find Aemond. “If he is dead, the Greens will make a King of Daeron and rally behind him.”

Rhaenyra at last looked up when he said it. “My brother forsook any chance of mercy when he tried to claim the life of my daughter,” she said.

Grey Ghost and Caraxes wait for them beyond the castle walls, restless the way dragons always are before they take flight.

“I have word from Sabitha Frey,” Daemon says before they mount their dragons. “She has recaptured Harrenhal along with the Blackwoods.”

“I can’t imagine it was difficult,” Luke says. “It was left completely undefended.”

Daemon chuckles as he hauls himself into Caraxes’ saddle, a much steeper climb than it is for her to mount Grey Ghost. Aemond would have further to climb than either of them, a thought which she tries to dismiss.

“We have our hold in the Riverlands once more,” he calls to her as Caraxes starts to move. The dragon whistles like a dolphin and bellows a screeching roar as he lurches forward, bounding off the ground and swiftly ascending into the air with powerful beats of his wings that shake the trees. Daemon steers him west, over the burned landscape.

Danger, whispers the voice in her head.

She drives Grey Ghost forward nonetheless.

As they fly, the air around them is hazy and thick. Luke keeps her sleeve over her nose and mouth. She is used to wind and rain rushing against her face, but smoke is a different beast altogether. It stings in her eyes, burns in her throat, seeps into her lungs and her bloodstream.

Heat lingers even after the fires have died and eaten everything away to ash. She feels it through her leathers.

Harrenhal is not out of place among this scorched wasteland. She sees the lake first, as vast as an ocean, black water glimmering under the sun’s early rays, splashes of white foam with the waves. In the centre is an island, so thick with trees she cannot see the ground underneath.

She feels unsettled, as though she is being watched. This must be the famed God’s Eye.

Standing over the water, shrouded in smoke and mist, is Harrenhal. She can see the path of Balerion’s fire through the five towers, where the stone is melted, twisted, and crumbled to ruins.

Harwin Strong once told her of the curse of Harrenhal, that every family who dared to hold it was doomed to meet a terrible end, and now her mother’s banners hang over the front gates.

Caraxes lands on the lakeshore where Daemon waits for her to dismount. This is a place familiar to him. This is where he was when news came of Arrax’s demise above Shipbreaker Bay. This is where he gave the order to seek justice for the deaths of his daughters. He remained here while Rhaenys burned at Rook’s Rest, as the Triarchy sank the ship that carried his son, as the Velaryon Fleet held The Gullet, as Jace and Vermax were lost to quarrels and treacherous waters.

Now is not the time to unleash her anger, but Daemon has always had a way of seeing right through her.

He leads her up the slight slope to the gatehouse, into the castle itself. The soldiers they pass bear the sigils of the Freys and the Blackwoods, proud and powerful houses of the Riverlands. Unlike those they passed at Maidenpool, the men and women here look upon their Prince with reverence. Daemon, with Dark Sister by his side, his short, silver hair braided away from his face, looks nothing less than a force of nature, a warrior, a would-be-King, the kind of man to inspire fear from both his enemies and his allies.

And when the fearful eyes come to her, they become curious. It is a question that has haunted her all her life; what do they see when they look at her? A Velaryon, a Targaryen or a Strong? A Princess, an heir, or an outlier, an insult to custom and duty? Perhaps now they see what she has become.

She follows Daemon through quiet hallways, through archways and holes in the walls where there should be doors, until they come to a cavernous hall. The light hardly reaches through the glassless windows on the far side of the room, but she makes out arches and buttresses hundreds of feet high, hearths untouched for decades. On the walls there are carvings of the sigil of House Hoare, images of the sea, krakens and sea monsters, men bathing– or drowning, under the dim light of the braziers, the last remnants of the Iron Islanders who once made this their home.

In the centre of the hall, still quite a distance away, is a table, around which a man and two women are gathered. Candlelight flickers against their faces as she and Daemon approach.

A woman stands at the head of the table, studying a map of the Riverlands and the Crownlands. Her chestplate bears two sigils, one of a black toad, one of two, blue towers. Her hair is pulled tightly from her face. Despite the soft, round edges of her cheeks and jaw, there is a stern look about her, a sharpness in her eyes and the thin line of her mouth.

The man is young, dressed in armour, marked by the sigil of a weirwood surrounded by ravens. He has a head of curly black hair, to match the second woman, only hers reaches below her waist. She is breathtakingly beautiful, tall and broad, dressed in white and black with a red cloak hanging from her shoulders.

“Princess Lucerra,” Daemon says, ushering Luke to stand at the other end of the table, overlooking the Kingswood and the Rose Road past Tumbleton and Bitterbridge. “Lady Sabitha Frey, Lord Benjicot Blackwood of Raventree Hall, and Lady Alysanne Blackwood.”

Only now do they look at her, with the same curiosity that she is used to.

“What an honour it is to be acquainted with you, Princess,” Lady Sabitha says, stiffly.

The two Blackwoods bow their heads, and Lady Alysanne offers her a small smile.

“We are glad to have you join us, Prince Daemon,” says Lord Benjicot.

Daemon hums in acknowledgement as he sets Dark Sister down on the table. “It seems a far more convenient base than Maidenpool,” he says, darkly.

A gust of wind howls in the distance. It is quiet, but with the echo through the hall it sounds monstrous and unnatural.

Lady Sabitha seems to have command of this gathering. Luke has heard rumours of Lady Frey’s character, most of them from Daemon. He says she is merciless and efficient. She finds she agrees with this assessment, but rather admires her for it. She has lost her husband in this war, and now her seat. The Twins, along with her son, have been taken by the Lannisters, who now block the road south.

“The Riverlands are loyal to you, Your Grace,” she says to Daemon, “but we have little chance of mustering more men than we have here.”

“What of the Tullys?” Luke asks.

Lady Alysanne sighs. “They cannot be relied upon. Elmo Tully would pledge their banners to the true Queen, but he will not act against Lord Grover’s wishes.”

“The Lord of Riverrun is as decisive as he is young and spritely,” Daemon says. “We cannot afford to wait for the old man to die while the Hightowers recover their strength.”

“But with Jason Lannister at the Twins, the Starks will have to fight through an army to reach us,” Alysanne says.

They fall into quiet, studying the map and the figures upon it, the hightower in the Reach, the stag at the edge of the Stormlands, the lion and the wolf to the north.

“And then there is the more pressing issue,” Lord Benjicot says darkly.

Luke counts the dragons upon the map. Tessarion in the Reach; Moondancer at Dragonstone; Syrax, Vermithor, Silverwing, Seasmoke, Tyraxes and Dreamfyre at King’s Landing. Lady Sabitha moves Caraxes and Grey Ghost to Harrenhal. Two figures remain, a golden dragon for Sunfyre, kept at the edge of the map, and Vhagar, hovering over Pinkmaiden, seat of House Piper.

“He was last seen here?” Luke asks quietly, reaching out a finger, but stopping herself before she touches Vhagar’s figure.

“Not three days ago,” Benjicot says. He places the tip of his finger over Riverrun first. “He began his assaults here, after Harrenhal was abandoned. He won’t directly attack the Tullys, but he targeted the lands that surround them.” Then he traces east, over the towns along the River Road, marking Aemond’s warpath.

“I went to Darry,” Daemon says, “by the time I got there, Vhagar was feasting on whole farms of sheep at the border of the Vale.”

“We think he might be seeking shelter here–” Lord Benjicot points to the mountain range that marks the border of the Westerlands. “Out of Prince Daemon’s reach, close enough to continue his attacks.”

“And he was not seen after Pink Maiden?” Luke says.

“He attacked at nightfall. Even with Vhagar’s size, it was impossible to tell where they went.”

Her eyes follow as he moves Vhagar’s figure to the mountains, and a heavy hand lands on her shoulder. The weight strains her neck.

“Perhaps I could ride out on Grey Ghost and search the mountains?” she says.

Daemon does not give the others a moment to consider. “I will not allow you to use yourself as bait.”

What is the difference? He would be happy for her to meet him in open battle, but not to seek him out as she had done with Daeron?

She knows better than to test the patience of Daemon Targaryen, but her own has been wearing thin for far too long.

“And how else do you intend to find him?” she asks. “You have searched for Aemond for moons and to no avail. Do you expect him to come to us willingly?”

“He is proud enough to do so,” Daemon mutters.

“Then where is he? Why has he not sought you out?”

“Enough.” He does not need to shout. His anger is apparent enough for her to bow her head and listen in to the rest of the gathering in silence.

There is nothing for her in Harrenhal but death.

She takes an abandoned servant’s quarters as a bedchamber, by the kitchens in Widow’s Tower, until Daemon tells her of the horror found in the crypt underneath.

Their bodies were left in the cellar, slaughtered within a cell, some simply run through, others slashed to shreds. There was no sense to it, no reason for Aemond to kill his prisoners or bring such a bloody end to House Strong– well, almost.

She wonders why he did it and how he can live with himself in the aftermath. He had not even spared the children. She pictures them cowering, helpless to watch as their family were picked off, one by one, before Aemond at last set his one, violet eye to them.

But Aemond kills because he is cruel, and soon that cruelty will be ended.

She cannot stay in the tower knowing what lies underneath. So she takes her sword and climbs the staircases, past empty chambers and passageways. She doesn’t know what she is expecting. Whatever was left of Ser Harwin or his belongings would have been removed years ago, and while Harrenhal may belong to his family, he always said he never felt at home here. She sees why for herself.

Her legs burn as she climbs higher, where the tower becomes decrepit. The stairways are treacherous now, she wonders if they might crumble under her boots and yet she carries on, passing rubble never cleared and gaps in the tower where the walls were lost to the Black Dread’s fire.

She comes to a bridge, high above the courtyard leading into the castle’s tallest tower, the Kingspyre. There are at least some signs of life in this part of the castle, servants, lit torches and hearths.

She passes a chamber with a great oak door, adorned with carvings of sea creatures with grotesque faces, waves and ships, the three rivers of the Trident and, when she looks closely, pairs of eyes hidden amongst the images.

She expects it to be locked, but tries the handle, only for it to open, seamlessly and silently.

It is a grand chamber, to be sure, perhaps intended for the Lord of the castle. There are no belongings in the room, no sign of ownership, and yet it is well kept. The sheets are clean, the logs of the hearth set and ready to be set alight It smells stale and stagnant, but not like the lingering smell of smoke found in the rest of Harrenhal.

She hesitates, then smooths her palm over the bedsheets to find they are cold. This chamber must have been in use recently, but not recently enough to warrant immediate attention.

She wanders to the window, overlooking the courtyard, the gatehouse and the God’s Eye beyond the walls. The figures in the courtyard are distant but still distinct. Daemon’s silver hair is obvious as he stands with a woman. At first she mistakes her for Lady Alysanne; she is seemingly tall and slender with dark hair, but something about her posture is different, the way she tilts her head as she leans closer to Daemon.

The wind wails beyond the walls of the tower and for a moment it sounds soft, like a breath.

The woman turns her gaze up, to the very window Luke stands behind. She can make out the colour of her eyes– green, brighter and paler than Lady Alysanne’s. They must be truly striking at a ground level, because from here they are piercing.

A sick feeling floods Luke’s stomach. She should not be here, not in this room, perhaps not even at Harrenhal, but she cannot find the courage to leave.

When she makes her way down the stairs of the tower and into the courtyard, Daemon and the woman are gone. Instead she finds the castle’s Godwood, following the small stream that runs through it, to the heart tree.

The faces in the bark are nothing like those in King’s Landing. These faces are full of anguish, twisted, mouths open as if they are screaming, in pain or fury.

A chill slips down her spine and she knows she is being watched– not by the eyes in the tree. A footstep treads softly in the grass behind her. She turns her head over her shoulder, just enough for them to know she has heard them.

The footsteps are less careful now, unabashed in their approach.

She sees a flash of dark hair, at first believing it to be Lady Alysanne, only to find herself disappointed, and then a little on edge.

It is the woman from the courtyard, the woman with unnaturally bright eyes.

“Do you often find yourself seeking the comfort of a weirwood, Princess?” she asks. Her voice is surprisingly low, rich and seductive.

She never used to, but she seems to have noticed them more since they took King’s Landing. She passes the weirwood in the gardens of the keep, sees the image of one above her bed, finds her mind wandering to memories of afternoons she spent under the shelter of red leaves and her uncle’s arm as he read from a history book.

“What business of it is yours?” Luke says sharply.

The woman hums a low laugh and lets it fade to silence.

Night is beginning to creep in. Beyond the walls of the castle, the sight of the sunset over the lake will be beautiful, a red sky over the water. She hears the waves and the wind as if she is standing on the shore.

“It is a terrible thing to lose one’s family,” the woman says, bringing her hands before her. Her dress is made of simple black fabric, with no patterns or distinctive embroidery, but the sleeves are long, draped over her hands and lined with green satin.

Luke catches a piece of flesh between her teeth. “You have lost family in this war too?” she says, uncaring at her shortness.

The woman tilts her head. Luke watches her as she takes a step towards the tree, placing her palm against the white bark, beside one of the faces. “The family I have lost was never mine to begin with. In truth, I do not feel it,” she says.

A hollow feeling lodges itself in Luke’s chest and twists like a knife in an already fatal wound. She wishes she could say the same.

The woman drops her hand from the tree, and turns to her. “Do you feel your losses, Lucerra?”

The absence of her brothers becomes a little more subdued each day, but she still carries them with her, the memories, the pain of knowing that their deaths were anything but peaceful, and the burden Jace has left her with.

She was so fearless as a child, she realises. She was secure, the daughter of a Princess, the granddaughter of the King, with Aegon, Helaena, Aemond and Jace to guide her, protect her. But all of that is gone now, the life she used to enjoy, and she fears the things she used to love.

Tears prickle in her eyes, heavy and close to falling.

How much can the woman read from a single look from her eyes?

She steps forward to take Luke’s hands in hers. Her skin is rough and dry. She opens Luke’s palms, running a slender finger along the lines in her skin. “A powerful combination of blood flows through your veins,” she utters. “The blood of the dragon, and of the First Men.”

Daemon has taken heads for such an insinuation.

Luke raises her brow. “Do you question my legitimacy?”

The woman scoffs. “ Laws are made by men, but we are made of flesh and blood alone. Legitimacy has no meaning in the natural order.”

“And yet without it, my position will never be secure,” Luke says.

The woman stares at her, amused or mocking, it is difficult to tell.

“It was not by right of birth that Aegon the Conqueror claimed rule of the Seven Kingdoms.”

She thinks of all the history lessons she used to sit through, never taking in a word. All the hours she would make Aemond read to her– did he hate her back then? Would he have refused her if he felt he had the choice? “No. But he won it, and had the strength to hold it.”

The woman hums. She runs her hand further up, to the thin, blue veins running along Luke’s wrist. She presses her thumb against her skin, letting the colour fade and run again.

Her harsh green eyes come to Luke’s. “Blood is unambiguous,” she whispers.

Why must it all come back to blood?

The woman seems to note some kind of change in Luke’s face, squinting her eyes and furrowing her brow just a little. What does she think she might find in the frightened and furious mind of hers?

“Helaena said something to me,” Luke utters before she can stop herself.

“She spoke of blood,” the woman says, assuredly.

There is a trail of blood. It flows to you. It ends with you.

Luke breathes slowly. She has tried to decipher Helaena’s words for weeks, moons even.

Her aunt used to mutter strange musings often, always to Aegon’s insistence that she was stupid and freakish. Jace’s stance was that he would not burden himself with things that did not make sense to him, and so she did the same.

Blood– blood she shares with her mother and the line of Kings that have come before them. Blood she shares with her brothers, with her father. Blood she shares with Helaena and her uncles. Blood spilled, lives ended or left in ruins. This war has seen too much of it already.

“What did she tell you, Princess?”

She whispers the words that have haunted her since she heard them, but where Helaena’s voice was gentle and wistful, she feels a tremble in her own throat. “There is a trail of blood. It flows to you. It ends with you.”

The woman frowns, keeping her gaze on Luke’s eyes as though the answer lies within her very soul. The longer she looks, the duller her eyes seem to become.

“What do you believe this means?” the woman asks.

Daemon says killing Aemond will end the war, or at least determine the outcome. Corlys says it will weaken their enemies, but give them cause to regather their strength. Her mother would say it is justice.

Kill Aemond and the threat of Vhagar will be removed. What remains of the Riverlands will be spared, Daeron and Tessarion will stand alone. Then they need only wait for Cregan Stark to march south to secure their victory.

It should all be so simple.

So why does she feel the wind running through her? Why does she feel so restless and furious that her body trembles and her nails press into her palms? Why does she hear the crashing of waves morphing into distance screams? Why does she feel so wrong?

The woman’s voice is perhaps the one thing that sounds true, clear and low. “Mercy is a weakness.”

She knows she has no reason to trust this woman, but the rage inside her tells her she is right. She may never know the number of men she has killed from atop her dragon, so what is one more? One more life lost, a fair exchange for what he has taken from her.

But it will be different to know the name of the man whose life she will claim, to know his face and his voice. To share his memories and his blood.

Mercy is a weakness– it sounds like something Daemon might say.

“What are you doing here?” The command in his voice as he approaches startles them both. Luke tears her eyes away from the woman, to the head of silver hair gleaming in twilight.

She begins to panic. Was she supposed to stay in the castle? The hour is getting late, perhaps he was concerned… but he doesn’t so much as look at Luke. His gaze is clearly on the woman.

“I was beginning to worry you might be dead,” he says.

The woman’s lips curl into a half smile. “I was spared by his Grace, the Prince Regent.”

Daemon scoffs, utterly unamused. Only then does he turn to Luke. “What poison are you inflicting on the poor girl?”

“Poison?” she echoes with a sly expression.

“That is your way, is it not, witch?”

This does not seem to phase the woman.

Daemon hums a short laugh, but his expression remains dark. “You were supposed to deliver my nephew to me…”

She hates this, not knowing the whole truth of what is happening around her, the secret devices and plots. The familiarity between Daemon and the woman is beginning to infuriate her, until her chest feels heavy with the weight of the breaths she takes to calm herself.

“...But by the sounds of it, it seems all you’ve succeeded in doing is keeping his cock wet.”

Suddenly her chest and stomach twist into a tight knot.

It is not an image she wants in her head, but it appears nonetheless. The woman standing before her is a beautiful one, and Aemond is a Prince, a warrior, hot-blooded and demanding when he wants to be.

Her imagination is vivid and visceral. She has felt his lips against hers, his breath on her skin, his hand tracing down the front of her gown and slipping beneath her skirts. She had almost expected him to take her fully that night, in the hidden corner of the Red Keep while their families failed to make amends. She often wonders if she should have let him.

Does he ever think about that night? What he did to her— what they did together, or was it all forgotten the moment he saw the pair of eyes bearing into her soul this very moment?

“He will come,” the woman says.

Daemon chuckles to himself. “For his paramour?”

Her piercing gaze falls once more to Luke. Her eyes are dark now and almost bloodthirsty. “He will come for what he believes he is owed.”

And so they wait.

Thirteen days pass. Daemon marks each one with a slash of Dark Sister in the trunk of the heart tree in the Godswood. Each strike bleeds red sap.

She tries to make use of each day, but there are only so many arrows she can shoot into targets and tree trunks, only so many times she can sharpen her sword before she will damage the blade.

All the while there is no word of Aemond and no sightings of Vhagar. Whenever she gathers in the great hall with Daemon, Sabitha Frey and the Blackwoods, she scours the map as if she will somehow know where to find him.

Daemon refuses to let her ride Grey Ghost, not even to circle the lake. He says the risk is too great, but since when did he ever burden himself with risks?

This castle was built on blood and is haunted by the Stranger. In another life Harrenhal might have been her home, but she fears she may not be able to stay here much longer. Her sanity cannot bear it.

She tries to find a new chamber to sleep in each night, but rest never comes easily. When she wakes she recalls dreams of the lake. In these dreams, she does not walk along the shore or try to find her way back to the castle. She lies against the pebbled beach, her head cradled in scaly limbs, a longing for blood in her belly and an ominous feeling that keeps her grounded.

Search for him and he will find you.

Luke rises with the sun. From the battlements, she can see Daemon in the godswood, carving his fourteenth strike into the weirwood tree. To the lakeshore she makes out the shape of her slumbering dragon. Grey Ghost blends in almost perfectly with the morning mist, until she spots one of his yellow eyes, wide and bright enough to spot from the castle.

She retreats to her little bedchamber in the Tower of Dread, tucks herself under the bedsheet, rough and scratchy with age, and shuts her eyes.

She stares back at the castle, and knows she will be safe within its walls— for now at least.

Her body is not her own, but she settles in it. This is not a brief moment of madness as with Tessarion. This feels like an extension of her dreams, something natural and familiar. Her movements are deliberate as she rises and spreads her wings.

She leaves Harrenhal behind, darting up towards the sky with all the speed she can gather, until the lake and the lands around Harrenhal are set out before her.

Aemond has not followed a particular path, so it stands to reason his hiding place may not be where she expects it to be. He could be in the mountains southwest of Pinkmaiden, or he could be somewhere else entirely.

If he has not been seen since then, perhaps he is somewhere more isolated.

By the time the sun has reached its peak in the sky, she has flown over most of the western Riverlands, over Raventree Hall, Acorn Hall, Pinkmaiden and Stone Mill. She can see she is approaching Riverrun, the seat of the Tullys. They do not fly any banners, and yet their men are gathered and preparing for war.

Where to then? Along the Red Fork to the Trident, to the mountains that border The Vale? Or over Whispering Wood, where the mountains meet the sea along Ironman’s Bay?

Intinstic drives her north with a swift beating of her wings.

A swirl of storm clouds looms over the Iron Islands, but the rain has yet to reach the mainland. A fearsome wind threatens to blow her off course and below her the waves beat against the base of the cliffs, crashing and roaring against the rock with flurries of white foam. Grey Ghost does not fear the sea and for now, neither does she.

She flies high, sweeping her eyes along the slivers of shoreline that have not been claimed by the tide, searching for any sign of another dragon, a nest, a charred carcass of an animal. That’s when she hears a growl, like a rumble of thunder, echoing through the air as if the very sky seeks to unleash its fury.

Vhagar rises from her hiding place, half-buried in damp sand and the rest of her hide blending in with the rock. She feels the heat coursing through her blood when the dragons meet each other’s eyes, the fire rising in her gut, the urge to sink her teeth and talons into flesh.

But she looks up to the clifface, to the figure standing on an overhang. His sapphire eye gleams through the dull daylight, the ends of his silver hair drift with the wind and the beating of her wings.

Aemond.

He knows what Grey Ghost’s presence means, she can see it in his face, the awe and the anger. She would be a fool to think he would feel anything else.

He will come for what he believes he is owed.

And what of the debt he owes her now?

When does it end?

When she opens her eyes her skin is drenched in sweat. She tosses the sheet off her body and hurries to dress herself in her riding leathers. Grey Ghost will fly swifter than Vhagar, but she needs every second she can claim. With her boots pulled over her feet and her sword on her hip, she yanks the door open, sprinting through the halls and the courtyard. She doesn’t stop when some of the soldiers stare at her in confusion, or when Lady Alysanne tries to stop her and ask what’s wrong. She couldn’t answer them if she tried.

She feels her heart beating at all her pulse points, the wind slicing over her skin, the howling of the wind coming off the lake.

Daemon is in the Godswood, under the heart tree, resting his hands on the hilt of Dark Sister. He turns to face her as she approaches.

She is breathless, but her voice has never sounded clearer. “He’s coming.”

“How?”

How did he know to come? How do you know?

“I saw it,” she says.

Daemon frowns. In fairness, she herself would not trust such a vague answer.

She follows him back to the courtyard. The castle is in a panic now; the men are restless. Daemon fetches something from the armoury, a bow and a quiver of arrows. They are slim, not enough to pierce the hide of the dragon, but enough to shoot through the flesh of a man.

“Remember everything he has taken from you,” he says before he hands them to her. “Aemond may share your blood, but he is not one of us.”

She nods, and fastens them over her back.

Grey Ghost flies over the castle as the sun begins to set.

Luke and Daemon both know what they must do. She joins her dragon, hiding amongst a line of trees on the eastern shore of the lake, while Daemon waits in the open, and calls for Caraxes.

From the shadows of the trees, she watches the sky turn from blue, to gold, to red.

A shape flies before the sun and for a moment the world goes black.

She has never forgotten the fear she felt when she heard Vhagar’s call at Storm’s End, as she saw her shape through the clouds and stared into her open jaws. That same fear ripples through her body and makes her blood run cold, but she does not shy from it.

A thousand voices cry out in her head. Screams of the men she condemned to burn. Cries of anguish and mourning. Raised voices, calls for justice and retribution.

Mercy is a weakness. She finds herself wishing the world had more mercy.

But one voice appears clearer than the rest.

Blood– her heart in her chest.

Blood– the sky through the branches, illuminating the lake.

Blood. Blood she shares with Kings, Princes and dragons.

She has seen Aemond’s blood before and felt it against her skin. She is sure she will see it and feel it again before the night has reached its end.

Tags (comment to be added to either)

General taglist: @randomdragonfires @jamespotterismydaddy @theoneeyedprince @tsujifreya @dreamsofoldvalyria

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#aemond targaryen fanfic #aemond targaryen fanfiction #aemond x oc #aemond x ofc #aemond x fem!lucerys #hotd #house of the dragon #house of the dragon fanfiction #aemond x original female character #aemond x reader #fem!lucerys #lucemond #my fics #karma is a god

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