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thewriterwithnoplan · 4 months

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THE HIGHEST TOWER (1/2)

Summary: As a Princess of the Realm the chance to escape political marriage and abscond with your Promised was beyond anything you could wish for. When the time is right, your dragon will lead you to them and your mother will support your union. In return, you must do all you can to protect her claim, even if you must do so from within the very heart of the Greens.

Soulmate AU: Your animal familiar leads you to your soulmate.

Pairing: Cregan Stark x Reader (eventual), Aemond Targaryen x Reader (mentioned)

Word Count: 4296

Warnings: Canon typical warnings, swearing, just general character awfulness, some espionage, canon divergence, my first time writing for hotd.

Masterlist

You had lived the better part of eight and ten years in the Red Keep. The daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen handed off to the Queen like some paltry trinket. The King’s first and final word on the matter of his granddaughter. Thrust carelessly into Alicent’s care at the fresh age of ten, a peace offering and a trade for Lucerys’ life. You scarcely remembered life beyond the borders of the castle. Only that one moment your brother's life had been under threat and the next yours was all but forfeit.

Your mother had clasped the back of your neck, pulled you toward her and begged her father for mercy. You who had not even been in the room when Aemond had lost his eye, lost to your own midnight flight atop dragon back. And then the curtain of Rhaneyra’s hair parted, and from over her shoulder Daemon met your eyes. For a single poignant moment, he stared and then a smirk broke across his face as if he knew.

Knew that you were not the innocent that your mother would have the King believe you to be. Knew that your midnight rendezvous with your dragon at the exact moment of Vhagar’s claiming was not mere coincidence. Your intentions had been innocent at first. A trip to the kitchen for a cup of milk which you would warm on the stove – a feat the late Sir Harwin Strong had taught you. Past your brothers’ room, your mother’s room, the servants' quarters and a balcony overlooking the beach. And then you had seen him. Aemond scaling your cousin’s dragon. And that just wouldn’t do.

Targaryens – true Targaryens who did not cower under the cover of darkness – needed their dragons if they had any hope of finding their Promised. Your cousin, Baela who always shared her sweets and let you borrow her wooden sword, deserved the chance to meet her Promised in the wake of her mother’s death. The man or woman that Vhagar would lead her to when the Old Gods saw fit. In the game of thrones when Targearyens already found so few chances for happiness, how could Aemond strip his cousin of her chance at true love? True, as an eldest daughter Baela’s future husband was most certainly decided – likely one of your brothers. But you were certain that Jacaerys or Lucerys would be understanding and gracious when the time came for Baela to claim her Promised, as she would be when the time came for her Lord-Husband. Such was the way of things. At least for the lucky.

Imagining your dragon, Laesuvion, claimed by another and leaving you with no guide to your Gods-given Promised made you feel ill. And so, you set out on bare, hurried feet to find and mount Laesuvion. You were a Targaryen born of the blood of dragons, of true Valyrian features. Vhagar was your cousin’s dragon by right and it was your duty to protect that claim. She was a formidable, indomitable beast but shackled with a new rider on his first flight. If you had one chance to disrupt the yet fragile bond being formed by dragon and rider, it was to dislodge the green boy and send him toppling toward the sea.

Laesuvion had hatched for you in your cradle. He was much younger and smaller than Vhagar but all the faster. It would be no trouble to fell your traitorous cousin. The difficulty became disguising the shock of white scales along the elongated arch of Laesuvion’s neck whilst searching for Vhagar’s camouflaged breadth.

“Aderī Laesuvion. Dokimarvose.” (Quickly Laesuvion. Focus.) You urged him.

Despite your efforts, you only caught sight of them twice. Once among the clouds, though you were sure Aemond got a greater view of you than you did him. And again, as Vhagar was returning to land Driftmark. Your hunt had been unsuccessful. But you had been sure no one would suspect you of such vengeful intent toward your uncle. Except perhaps Daemon.

“It is a fair price, Rhaenyra,” Daemon’s smirk was cunning, “They will not harm her.”

The betrayal on your mother's face heated your blood. How dare he tell her what to do? Your mother, Princess of Dragonstone and heir to the iron throne. This man who was no one, husband of no one, Prince of nowhere, heir of nothing. Who was he to command your mother? And now, to step toward you and attempt to pry you away from her. So close you could almost-

Almost hear the two of them whispering. To each other. To you.

“Think.” Daemon hissed, “They will demand her for Aemond sooner or later.”

“She is my only daughter.”

“She will still be your daughter in the Red Keep.” He kept up the pretence of fighting your mother, despite her arms having gone lax around you. “Not a bastard. Not a bargaining chip. Your daughter. At the heart of the greens.”

“She is a child.”

“A Targaryen child.”

“She is my child.”

“Then let her prove it.”

“Mother,” You warbled. “I don’t want to go.”

“Tala.” Daemon shifted, and his eyes met yours again as if you should know this word. You did not. “You will go. Make your mother proud. Learn at court. Find those who support her claim and those who will side with the Hightowers. You are weak and a girl, they will not suspect you. When the time comes you will be our most valuable weapon.”

“But I want to go home, Kepa.” (Father or paternal uncle)

“Oh, my sweet girl.” Rhaenyra held your face and brushed away your tears. “You will.”

“’Nyra.” Daemon warned.

“But not today.” She kissed each of your cheeks. “Today you must be strong for me. You must be strong for your brothers. You must do as Daemon says, we must keep them happy.”

And then your mother pulled you toward her firmly, pressed her lips to your ear and whispered a promise. A reward should you embark on this mission. Beyond sweets and silk dresses and extra time on Laesuvion. Beyond anything you had ever been promised or ever dreamed of asking for. Do this for your mother and she would exempt you from the chains of political marriage that would shackle each of your brothers. There was no guarantee you would be lucky like your brothers, married to one who would understand. But do this and you could have your Promised under the eyes of the Seven, the Old Gods, and the traditions of old Valyria itself. Even at 10, you knew that for a Princess and a second-born, there was no greater boon.

So, you did what you had to do for your one shot to truly be with your Promised. You squared your shoulders, kissed your mother's cheek, and stumbled toward Queen Alicent. She gripped you by the shoulder, tucked you into the folds of her skirt, and stared cruelly down her nose at your mother.

“Now I will have no more fighting.” Said the King and having satisfied his wife for the first time in their long marriage, he ambled off to bed.

As the crowd dispersed, Sir Criston Cole flanked the Queen and as a unit, the three of you marched from the room. Your mother, scarcely held together in Daemon’s embrace, gave one last warbling cry as you passed the threshold and disappeared, not to be seen again for nine long years.

You were kept that night in the Queen’s own quarters to thwart rescue or escape. Behind a bolted door and no less than three kings’ guards. And yet, that morning, upon waking with puffy eyes from silent tears and aching limbs from the harsh sitting room sofa, you found something that had not been there before.

A gift from Daemond, most assuredly, tucked under the pillow you had slept on. The handle was perhaps an inch too long for your small age, but the blade was curved and wicked sharp and would require little finesse to cause harm. Inlaid in the pommel was a single ruby, the size of your thumb and wonderfully smooth. Carved into the cross-guard flowing Valyrian script read valar morghūlis. (All men must die.)

You would call the dagger gaomilaksir, duty. You would carry it as a reminder of the promises you and your mother had made one another. One day, as Daemon had said, you would become her greatest weapon.

There had been few bright spots in your life as the Queen’s ward. So, few in fact, that you could count them on one hand.

One.

You could not fly. Such a thing would only encourage escape back to Dragonstone and your mother. But you could visit Laesuvion and watch him sweep through the clouds. He had grown much in your teenage years. Still lithe in build and elegant in frame, but more angular like an arrow strung tight. He did not take to Kings Landing, not in all your years trapped there. So used to the comfort of Dragonstone and your family’s own dragons, he often abandoned the Dragonpit entirely. Kept tethered to the Keep by your presence alone.

“Where is Laesuvion?” You were just shy of ten and two when you approached the Dragonkeeper Acolyte.

“Hunting, my lady.” He knocked his quarterstaff against the ground. “He flew north not three hours ago.”

“Do you not offer him food?”

The keeper lowered his head, “He refuses it, my lady.”

“Offer him better.”

“We give him our very best, lady. He is a magnificent but stubborn creature.”

“He is a dragon, not a creature.” You conjured up a playful grin. “And I am a princess, not a lady.”

“Of course, Your Highness,” The Acolyte blustered, “Shall I inform you upon his return?”

“That won’t be necessary,” You strode to his side and plunked yourself down to lean against the stone entrance. “I shall wait for his return here.”

And so, you did. Silently, for the better part of twenty minutes as the Acolyte threw furtive glances your way.

Until finally, “Truly, my lady. Your Highness. He could be hours still.”

Wonderful. You thought and cast a dazzling grin up at him. “Perhaps you ought to keep me better company then.”

And so, you began your mission. You charm the Dragonkeepers – Acolyte and Elder, all seventy-seven of them – who knew the princes and their dragons, their strengths and weaknesses. You befriend the maids, the scullery, the wet nurses, and the servants they bunk with. Piece by piece, inch by inch, you win back your mother's share of Kings Landing.

Two.

Strange though she was, your Aunt Heleana always welcomed you into her chambers. In your shared youth, she always had a critter clutched between her hands as if it were the most precious thing she owned. You are four and ten, a year younger than your aunt when she is forced to split her time between her menagerie of insects and the chubby masses of her twin babes.

“The young prince has lungs,” You smiled at Heleana as the wet nurse rocked a wailing Jaehaerys. “He will make glorious speeches when he is grown.”

“Only one.” She examined the creature in her hands. Today she favoured a centipede, passing Jaehaera onto you.

You had long since learned to ignore her ramblings, “The sweet Princess must be the wordsmith, then.”

“The fourth in an age.” Heleana startled as if only just noticing your presence. “Apologies, Hāedar. You wished to speak?” (Younger female sibling or cousin)

“No apologies necessary, Mandia.” (Older female sibling or cousin). The Valyrian word tasted foul. You had your own siblings on Dragonstone, those whom you had been stolen from and those whom you had yet to meet. But Heleana liked it when you pretended that you were not a prisoner, that you were her mother’s daughter and not her forcibly attained ward. And so you swallowed it with a smile, “Might we talk privately?”

Heleana startled again as she turned to the wet nurse. “Take the children to the nursery, Bria.”

“Of course, Your Highness.” Bria gave an awkward curtsy, shuffled the still-wailing Jaehaerys to one side and received Jaehaera from your arms. Heleana turned to you expectantly as the trio disappeared through a side door.

“It is a sensitive matter I am afraid,” You eyed the centipede as it escaped her hands and crawled across her skirts. “I do not wish to cause offence.”

Heleana’s eyes pinched at the corners, “It is not such a terrible burden – to be a wife. Mostly he ignores you.”

“You misunderstand me,” You hurried. “I only wished to speak of your grandfather.”

“Not my brother?”

“Do you wish to speak of your husband?”

“No,” Heleana gave you a quizzical look. “I speak of Aemond, who will be your husband.”

“Aemond?” Your uncle who’s selfishness had trapped you here. One of Alicent’s precious children married to her living doll. The thought would have been hysterical were it not so frightening. Surely not.

“It is the natural progression of things. I was given to Aegon and now you to Aemond.” Heleana’s attention returned to the centipede. “One pairing to strengthen our house, another to mend its bonds. So says grandfather.”

“Oh Mandia. I am entrusted to your mother. There need be no marriage to bring me into the fold. We are family.”

“Yes. So says mother.” Heleana stared. Not so blind as she seemed. “But grandfather always gets what he wants.”

And so, you are four years into your mission, having sat patiently by the Queen's side. Having listened and learned and noted those your mother can count on. Four years in and the time to begin quietly making moves had arrived with a head start from your oblivious Aunt.

But then you see the centipede crawl from her hands again and writhe across her skirt. And you think maybe Heleana’s warnings have more to do with where the critter is trying to lead her than it has to do with you.

Three.

It took you longer than you would like to admit to worm your way into Otto Hightower’s confidences – if there were such a thing.

You had quickly learned in your first year at the Keep that Alicent feared her father, distrustful of his greed and power lust. Not much unlike yourself, she had been sent into the greedy hands of a different house in pursuit of the Iron Throne. Were Otto not so blinded by his ambitions you might have begun to worry that Daemon’s strategy might ring familiar. But Lord Hightower’s strength was also his greatest weakness. So careful in his scheming, gently coaxing his will unto others, moving his pawns about the board, sacrificing all but himself, he could not see his tactics turned against him. Beyond your connection to Rhaenyra, you barely registered as a piece in the game.

Daemon had been right. Weak and a girl and not a threat. Not yet.

So, you worked tirelessly to endear yourself to Alicent. Just as you learned from her, you began to teach in turn. When you are in the room Otto Hightower dares not spin his lies about succession. When you appear around corners in search of your Queen-mother talk of hastening the king's condition ceases. When you are near, Alicent is safe. She begins to wear you like the expensive accessory you are, a decorative shield.

Hours trailing your Queen-mother to and from meetings of the small council, waiting patiently at her side as she sat in place of the King. Serving wine to fat and foolish lords.

And then finally, on the eve of your ten and fifth nameday, the Queen brings you along to the Hand's Tower.

“Father.” She greets.

“Alicent,” Otto brings you to his office, where a tea set for two lays steaming. “I see you have brought your shadow.”

The Queen barely glances your way as you serve her tea and then her father’s, before retreating to stand at her shoulder. She glares across her father’s desk, “This does concern her.”

“She is approaching her fifteenth year, two since her first blood. Time has well arrived for her to marry,” He stares directly at you then, “Have you any fondness for your uncle, Princess?”

“My lord, the Princes and I are often kept busy by our duties.” Your friends among the servants have divulged their schedules. You stay firmly away from drunken Aegon and selfish Aemond, remaining civil only with young Daeron.

“You must see reason.” Alicent implores her father. “They hold no affection for one another. Aegon and Heleana have already wed in the name of strengthening our family. To marry her would serve only to anger Rhaenyra.”

“And to bind her eldest daughter to us.” Interesting that he would say so openly in front of you. Perhaps you have been more effective in playing a Green than you had thought. “Aemond will be a good husband to her.”

“I have no doubt,” Alicent says and as silence stretches you suspect she is losing conviction; you have not saved her this time.

You clear your throat delicately, “If I may?”

“Of course, sweet pet.” Alicent reaches out to fuss with your hair. She likes it long and keeps its length to your hip despite how cumbersome it can be. Short hair is unbecoming, she claims.

You look to Otto in false deference, “My lord?”

“Very well.”

“I think,” You begin carefully. “Aemond and I may be of better use to you.”

“And how might that be?” He is condescending but you have his attention.

“When the time comes that grandsire passes on, I suspect the lords of the realm will need cause to back a claim to the Iron Throne. My Septa says that peace such as we have seen under his rule may bring unrest. I do not doubt that Aemond will make a fine and just husband. All I mean is that mayhaps it would be wise to keep us unwed until we may serve a greater purpose.”

No mention of your mother nor their ill-begotten plan for Aegon. Hightower's methods played against him.

“And when the time comes you will do this?” He demands.

“It is my duty to my house.”

He tilts his head as a predatory bird might. “You must swear it, to myself and to your Queen, upon your young brothers.”

To pause would mislay your ruse. To hesitate would be to sign your life away to Aemond Targaryen.

“I swear it, upon the lives of my brothers.”

He considered you for a moment, and then his daughter.

“You have done well with her, Alicent.” Your Queen-mother sighs as Otto Hightower stands. “Enjoy your tea, I have matters to attend to elsewhere. Perhaps you will be of more use than we originally suspected, Princess.”

Your first true victory. You will not be shackled to the Keep; you will be kept safe until your mother comes for you. Until such a time that you and Laesuvion can seek out your Promised.

Four.

The Queen held a strange fondness for you. Platinum-haired and purple-eyed, the spitting image of the Realm’s delight and perhaps the only trueborn among your siblings. She took pains to brush and braid your hair, dress you in green and flout you at court. Her perfect tamed Targaryen. Who would eat from her hand, take tea by her side, sit prim and silent as her Queen-mother decorated her. You were her walking-talking glimmering triumph over Rhaenyra.

At ten, Alicent’s obsession stole you from your mother. At ten and four, it protected you from a hasty marriage. And now, at ten and eight, it was your path to freedom.

“Mother?”

Oh, how Alicent loved it when you called her that. One more thing ripped from Rhaenyra’s thieving hands. Alicent pushed into your room with a tired facsimile of a smile and took the seat across from you by the roaring hearth.

“My sweet pet.” She was dressed head to toe in full regalia. “I am so sorry to have missed you today.”

You tucked a piece of scrap paper into the book you had been reading, buying yourself time to school your features into innocent confusion. “As am I. My door has been locked. I am sorry I could not come to you.”

“A precaution – one that I fought.” Alicent reached for your hair, running her fingers through its length. “But we cannot trust you to betray your mother. Regardless of the years you have spent in our care.”

“I do not understand, mother.” But you do.

“Your grandsire is dead.”

You close your eyes, “Aegon is king.”

“Yes.”

“You did not wish for this.”

“I wish Viserys were still a living corpse. That he would outlive us all so that none could claim his cursed throne. Not Aegon. Not Rhaenyra. Not my father.”

“That is not a solution.”

She tugs at your hair harshly, “Foolish pet, there is none.”

You blink harshly. Your eyes scarcely holding back tears. For the first time since you left your mother's embrace, you are truly scared. No longer are you the meek girl who walks in the Queen’s shadow. Given liberties and protection in a twisted echo of her love for Rhaenyra. You are a living embodiment of what House Targaryen will be to House Hightower. A pretty little puppet kept from your dragon, cloistered away like some trophy, scrambling for a scrap of power to delude yourself that you have some control.

“What is to become of our house?” You whisper.

“Your mother and Prince Daemon remain on Dragonstone. No blood has yet been shed.” Alicent brushed your hair softly behind one ear. “We have sent Aemond to Storm’s End to do as you once suggested. To offer himself to one of the Baratheon girls, that Lord Borros might see reason and acknowledge Aegon as rightful King.”

Good, there were those beyond the Keep who remained steadfast and loyal. It was time to return to your mother, then. To tell her all you had learned these last eight years. To name her allies and set Daemon loose upon her foes. Now was the time.

“What of my brothers?”

Alicent leant back, “Scouts have spotted Vermax flying north likely as an envoy to rally support among the lords.”

“How could they have mobilized so quickly? Was Aegon not crowned mere hours ago?”

“He was, indeed.” Alicent’s gazed into the fire. “The Lady Rhaenys was not so welcoming of solitude as you have been.”

“She has gone to Dragonstone?”

“She has.”

“And no one has come for me?”

“They have not.”

For a moment you each stared listlessly into the hearth. When Alicent shifts back to face you, she has a letter clutched in her hand. It is crisp and of fine quality but most strikingly, stamped with the King’s seal.

“I am under no delusions,” Alicent says softly, mournfully. “You can no more contest your mother's claim than I can Aegon’s. We are matching pieces in this game, I think.”

Your fear swells, “Mother.”

“Please, my sweet girl.” She smooths the hair atop your head. “You must do me one last favour as my ward.”

“I don’t understand.”

She presses the letter into your hands. “Jacaerys will fly first to the Vale, to treat with House Arryn and then to Winterfell. You will take this and beat him there. You will do as you swore to do those years ago.”

“I ca–”

“Listen!” She jerked you by your shoulders. “You must listen. You will wed Lord Stark. He is as fine a match as any. The north is loyal to Rhaenyra and will remain steadfast, you will be well treated. You must go, with this missive from the King, his final wish to send you north to snow and safety. In return for your hand, they will take no part in the fighting, they will protect you as their own, until such a time that the victor is crowned. Do you understand me, pet?”

“The King never cared for me.” You said foolishly.

“And yet, with his dying breath, he spoke of you and of Aegon. That you would carry his legacy, that you would see out his dream to the North. That Prince Aegon was Promised to this kingdom. You must believe me. You must do this for your grandsire.”

“I do believe you mother.” She was deluded. “I will do what must be done.”

Alicent has offered you one gilded cage for another. You will not be fool enough to fall into this one. You will find Laesuvion and be gone in the dead of night. You tuck the King’s missive into your book and smile at the Queen.

“Shall we call for tea, mother? You have much to tell me. I hear I have missed a coronation.”

Five.

You shape your fifth and final joy as the Queen Alicent’s Ward whilst escaping her clutches. You take three sharp detours on your path to the Dragonpit. First, to the chamber of the small council where you snatch the King's ball of quartz, you will make a gift of this to your mother. Then to the creche where the Keeper’s turned a blind eye as you pilfered three precious Dragon eggs. Finally, you find yourself ascending the steps of the Lord Hand’s Tower. To take the Dowager Queen from the Greens would be the greatest gift to your mother and her cause. But Alicent, despite her many faults, had been as kind to you as one might be toward a favourite pet. And so you do as a pet would – you do not bite the hand that fed you. Instead, you do both your Queen-mother and the woman that birthed you, a favour. You find Otto Hightower asleep in his study and you pass onto him your final gift from Daemon Targaryen.

You leave gaomilaksir in the heart of Hightower as you flee north, your duty complete.

(Part 2 : The Winter Keep)

#cregan stark x reader #cregan stark #cregan x reader #cregan x you #cregan fanfiction #jacaerys velaryon #prince jacaerys #lucerys velaryon #aemond targaryen #aegon ii targaryen #queen alicent #alicent hightower #hotd #house of the dragon #hotd fanfic #otto hightower #rhaenyra targaryen #daemon targaryen

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 22 days

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Winter's King 7

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, cheating, violence, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You are a maid to the Duke of Debray, a lord of the Summer Kingdom. That is, until the king of Winter appears with his particular air of coldness. (Medieval AU)

Characters: Geralt of Rivia

Note: another week ahead.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

The gates open as horses snort and kick. The dawn air is ripe with impatience. You and Merinda watch as you stand east of the front doors. The luggage is clustered near the stables, to depart once all of the nobles have trotted their steeds from within the walls.

Your encounter with the king lingers in your head but the echo of his anger and the scent of spilled ale is enough to deter you. A maid will not be missed. Merinda can’t tear her eyes away from it all. Her expression is longing and doleful.

“A pity we must stay here with Lady Rezlyn,” she mutters, “she’ll be miserable without her daughter.”

“I’m certain she will miss her,” you agree.

“She won’t have any to indulge her,” Merinda sniffs, “or distract her.”

“Mm, I suppose. Perhaps she will be too sad to be angry,” you suggest.

The noise of mail approaches and you look up. You expect the soldier to pass by as all others have done. It is the same steely soldier who’d been at the king’s side that morning. Merinda steps closer to you as the man’s grey eyes are fixed on you.

“Maid,” he barks, “find a cart.”

You frown and look over at Merinda.

“The king has sent for a lady maid for his wife,” the soldier explains, “you.”

He points at you with his gauntlet and you flinch. The king has not forgotten or changed his mind. It was wrong of you to assume. You grab Merinda through her sleeve and squeeze.

“Just me, sir?” you ask.

“We needn’t a dozen of the traitor’s servants,” the man scoffs in return, “come. You will travel with the others amid the bedrolls.”

You blanch and cling to Merinda. She whimpers and you turn to her, the reality setting in on your at once. Your chest feels as if it’s being crushed as you face your lifelong companion. As close to a friend as any might have in your position.

“Mer,” you croak.

“Save your tears, there’s no time,” the soldiers grits.

Merinda pulls you into an embrace. “Be safe,” she whispers with a sniffle.

“You too,” you part and look her in the face, “Mer, I--”

“Yes, I know, me too,” she frowns, “you must go.”

“Yes, you must,” the soldier insists and points towards the stable.

Merinda lets you go and the fabric of her sleeve slips from between your fingers. You follow the soldier, looking back at the lone maid as she watches after you. You can see her wringing her hands. She’s never been the nervous sort.

You take in a deep breath and turn forward. The soldier marches you to the back of a cart and points inside. There's just enough room for you among the chests and casks within. You climb up, moving your skirts from under your knees, and sit against the side. You don’t have anything to worry about leaving behind.

He stomps away and you lean to see him around the wall of the cart. He disappears and you sit back and huff. Off to the capital and then the Hinterlands. You look down at your dress, the apron and wool frayed with your labour. You will be cold once you turn north, you hope you might bear it.

There’s a clink of metal and horse hooves. You look up as a speckled grey steed appears by the cart. You gulp and gape at the large beast as its equally grey master holds it by the reins. The steely soldier shoves a wad of leaves into his mouth and chews.

“Come this far,” he grumbles through sloppy gnashing, “just to guard the luggage.” He snorts and shakes his head, “I’m not in the mood for trouble, maid. You keep in your cart.”

You lower your head as you bend your knees, and cross your arms across them, “yes, sir. Thank you.”

He chews in the lull between you. He turns to spit the leaves onto the ground and kicks dirt over them. His horse nuzzles at his shoulder as he shrugs it off.

“Don’t thank me yet,” he girds at last, “you won’t once you see the snow.”

⚔️

The day rolls by with the wheels of the cart. You jostle with the movement as the grey soldier rides abreast of the luggage train. Ahead, the royal party and soldiers lead the way on the long road to the capital. There’s a glimmer of excitement in you, a sensation you’re not used to.

You’ve only ever heard of the capital from your masters. Lady Jazlene’s tales of sparkling banquets and golden plates and raucous dances. Lady Rezlyn was more likely to talk of the courtly whispers, who is marrying who, which earl despises which count, and scandalous affairs of those already bound to another. Your anticipation is routed by a sadness; you don’t know that you’ll ever see Merinda again to tell her of all you see.

You pick at your nails and watch the rippling clouds above. The blue sky appears as a sheet of pure satin with streaks of soft ivory. The sunlight streaks from the horizon, weaving into the cornflower expanse and limns over the soft green leaves of swaying trees. The smell of pollen and dirt breezes from the forests and the rustle of tall wheat drifts in from the rich fields.

As you take in your homelands, you feel a twisting in your chest. You will miss it very much. You never put special thought to it before, you never considered the ties that bound you to this land, but now they tug and strangle you near to tears. This is what you know, it is what you don’t that terrifies you so much.

You rock as noon burns high, rattled by the bumpy earth below. The grey horse hovers closer and you look up to soldier scowling down at you. You shy away and cough as dust is thrown up by the wheels. The man grumbles and steers his horse closer. You slump your shoulders down, wondering why he hovers.

Perhaps it is your masters who cast suspicion over you. You are one of them. New allies forged in deceit. The more you think of Lord Dustan’s deception, the more uneasy you feel. You always thought the duke was at least a good lord, now, you don’t know what to think of him.

“Aye,” something hits the cart, landing next to your feet. It’s a water skin, a thick hide strap attached to it. You peek up at the soldier and reach for it, the water swishing within. “Your summer lands are dry as ash.”

You consider the skin before you uncork it. You pause and try to see the man through the beaming rays of midday. “Thank you, sir.”

“Mm,” he grumbles and keeps his horse in line the end of the cart.

You drink, not too much, just enough to sate, and you offer it back to him over the side of the wagon. He takes it and strings it back around his shoulder. You sit back, facing away from him. The horse trods on without expedience.

The soldier is just as silent as ever. You hear some shuffling, something brushing, it is barely discernible from the leaves fluttering in the distance. There’s a nudge on your shoulder, the man holds a small bundle of cloth in his gauntlet.

“Sir?” You crane and turn your body. You accept the handful. “Thank you.”

He nods and sets his sights on the horizon, undeterred by the blazing sunlight. You look down and carefully unwrap the linen from around a medley of nuts and a hunk of cheese. You suspect they were taken from the castle kitchens.

“I...” you glance over at him, “would you like some too?”

You cradle the food towards him and his brows form a vee. He reaches beneath his mail and pulls out a stick of dried meat. He wiggles it at you and takes a bite.

Your lips curve slightly, “thank you...”

“You have better manners than the turn cloak’s daughter,” he bristles through his mouthful.

You take a nut and turn it over between your fingers. You don’t know what to say to that. You nibble on the nut, crushing it between your teeth noisily. You look up and meet the soldier’s grey irises.

“You are kind,” you gesture to the food, “not like the guards at the castle.”

“Mm, a symptom of the summer lands, I fathom,” he mulls with a shake of his head. “Though war can make any unkind.” He pets his horses main, a thoughtless act as he speaks, “soldiers are plunderers more oft than not.” He drags his hand back and adjusts the reins, “you will not stray far when we make camp. These men have been marching for months.”

You blink as you break off a piece of the hard cheese, “yes, sir.”

“You understand me,” he states, not asks.

“Yes, sir.”

“Bryce,” he says curtly. “And your name, maid?”

You take a moment to process his request but you issue your name before tasting the bold cheese. You make a face. It is not your favourite. You often live on the dry rye bread and butter, and the chunk broth leftover from the hearty stews served to your masters.

“Aye, I didn’t like it either,” he remarks, “let’s hope there is better fare awaiting us in the capital.”

⚔️

Night falls and the party makes camp. You help cover the wagon with a few other servants, ready to sleep beneath the canvas with the chests of clothes and books. You sit beside the wheel in the dirty, watch the sky glitter with stars as you bask in the cool night. You’ll retire soon but the sun lingers in your skin and burns.

Footsteps mulch towards you. You look up, expecting another servant headed for a piss in the trees. The figure is broad and stiff. You recognise Bryce before he reaches you. You stand expectantly to meet him.

“I was only about to retire,” you assure him and turn to touch the canvas, recalling his earlier foreboding.

“No,” he says, “your queen requires her maid.”

You pause, “oh, yes, certainly.”

He sighs, “she requires many things I would not put to word.”

You flutter your lashes, not quite sure of his meaning, though his tone is sharp. Lady Jazlene does not always inspire kindness. You put your head down and turn to follow the soldier.

Bryce walks beside you through the camp. Soldiers snore or sit and chatter, others clean their blades, and several sit around fires roasting whatever they could catch in the brush. Towards the front of the train of slumbering steeds and stalled carts, larger than the canvas on crooked poles, is a grand silk tent, glowing from within.

Your escort stops just outside, exchanging a nod with the two soldiers standing before the flap. You can hear Jazlene’s shrill voice from within. It is too dark to make out the expressions of the guards or the man at your side. One of the soldiers pulls back the fabric to let your through. You bow your head as you enter.

“This isn’t fair!” Jazlene roars, “I am a queen now and I will not be treated as a child!”

You peer around, expecting another to be at the mercy of her wrath. It is only her. She rages around the space, stamping and snarling. Her skirts are stained with the dirt of the road as her steps hitch now and again.

“I will not sit a horse again! It is not good for a lady to ride as such!” She stews, “Where is my father?” She rushes towards the door, brushing by you as she pushes through the flap, “fetch me my father, now!”

“Get inside,” a soldier growls.

“You do not command me! I am the queen--”

“The king bids you stay within,” another drones without emotion.

“Ugh, stupid men,” she retreats and swirls, her skirts swishing against you, “empty-headed soldiers! What do they do? Carry their swords and run to their deaths! I am a lady, a queen! And they speak to me as if they are above me!”

Her rant continues as if you are not even there. Even having touched you, she has yet to notice your presence. You look around and go to the corner where a bottle sits on a crate, with a wooden cup near it. You pour the wine as the queen continues her tirade.

“Your highness,” you offer the cup, though you avoid her harried route around the tent, “you must be tired from the road.”

She stops short, looking at you as she pulls her chin back. You cannot tell if she is surprised or affronted by you. She huffs and stomps towards you. You steel yourself as she snatches the cup and sniffs the contents.

“Food! I am hungry,” she snaps.

“Yes, your highness, I will fetch something,” you assure.

She narrows her eyes at you. Her lips slant. “Your highness, yes, you recall, I am the queen.”

You turn and go to the entrance. You poke through and the soldier angles his spear across your path. You gulp and stay at the threshold.

“She is hungry. Is there food?”

“Aye, I will fetch it,” Bryce’s voice startles you as he looms in the shadows.

You thank him before you retract back behind the silk. You stay close to the door as you wait and Jazlene slurps down the wine between furious mutters. As she reaches the bottom, she turns the cup upside down and wiggles it in your direction. It’s empty.

You take it and refill it to the brim. The wine might calm her should she imbibe enough. Lady Rezlyn was always jollier when she had a healthy helping of red.

As you bring it back to her, she faces you with a sneer. She glares at you and takes the cup. You stand, trapped in her distaste. You cry out as you feel something sharp on your stomach. You look down as she pinches you through your apron and twists. You clamp your jaw tight as you hold back a squeal.

She lets you go and drinks deeply as she struts away from you. You put your hand to the sore spot and resume your place by the door. It is better than a slap, though that may still be to come.

As you stand just inside the flap, you hear the approach of boots. The soldiers utter low words, ‘your highness’ and you barely step out of the way as the silk is drawn back. The king steps inside as you sidle away. You still as he glowers around the space, the flicker of the torch planted in the ground reflects in his golden eyes.

“Wife, half the camp can hear your tantrum,” he says, “queen’s do not behave as chil--”

Before he can finish his remonstrance, Jazlene is billowing towards him in her satin skirts. There’s a splash that fizzles in the air, tense silence rising as the king’s words die on his tongue. He closes his eyes against the liquid assault, wine dripping down his face and wetting his dark lashes. He sucks in a deep breath and his hands fist as Jazlene snickers cruelly and throws the cup at his chest.

“If you treat me as a child, then I may as well act as one,” she retorts.

The king doesn’t react. His posture is locked, his shoulders squared and his jaw set in stone. Slowly, he expels his breath and opens his eyes. Jazlene’s mocking smirk trembles and falls.

“You are worse than a child,” he accuses and grabs her by the shoulders, “you are nothing more than a vicious cat.”

“Get your hands off me,” she sneers as she writhes in his grasp, “unless you mean to be a husband, eh? Do you think you might prove yourself this time?”

He growls and squeezes so she winces. She whimpers and beats on his thick arms. He walks her backwards as her feet shuffle beneath her to keep from tripping.

“Husband, you cannot blame me for being unhappy. I have not been t-treated as a queen should--”

“You have not earned it,” he shoves her and she lands on the stuffed mattress across the ground. “Be quiet. The camp needn’t lack sleep on your account.”

Jazlene pouts up at him. You see the battle in her, of anger and fear. The king snarls down at her, “go to sleep.”

She bats her lashes and pushes herself up on one elbow. She reaches to her skirts and tugs them up, “husband...” she shows her leg, “please...”

He doesn’t move. He stares down at her for a moment then turns on his heel. He takes a step then falters. His gaze meets with yours. You quickly look down, realising then he was unaware of you. You shouldn’t have seen that. He falls back into step.

“Do not make me return,” he barks as he shoves through the silken flap.

#geralt of rivia #dark geralt #dark!geralt #geralt of rivia x reader #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #series #au #medieval au #the witcher #winter's king

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