#WE RODE AT DAWN

[08-47]

DON'T.. FUCKING.. DO THAT AGAIN, HOLY SHIT- YOU'RE ALIVE, HOLY FUCK...

[mimiiiiiiiiisstuff]

"The moon"

ok ya'll! I know I said I'm doing another chapter of this is me trying (and I am) buttttt I read @i-cant-sing's time traveler AU and I could not stop thinking about it. I'm muslim and it's Ramadan and I realized I have free will to write whatever I want, SO i present to you a platonic yandere story set in the Ottoman Empire. kinda based on real people and events, but a lot of things are just my imagination! I am NOT a history buff, I just enjoy historical things, if something is wrong, feel free to politely correct me. The main character is a female and does have a name (Esmira) and face type BUT i try not to go into her too much so you can imagine what you like. Credits to @i-cant-sing, it was their writing that inspired me! check out their works, they're really talented! I DO NOT SPEAK TURKISH, ALL MY KNOWLEDGE IS GOOGLED AND SURFACE LEVEL.

Ottoman Empire, Istanbul

Year 1524

I was my father’s moon.

"Benim ayım."

He called me that when I nestled against his side, his arms encircling me as he listened to my childish recitation of the Qur’an, my voice small yet steady. “My little moon,” he would murmur, pressing a kiss to my forehead when I finished. “No one recites as beautifully as my Esmira.”

To me, he was not Sultan Suleiman the Magnificent. The Lawgiver, the formidable warlord. To me, he was my beloved Baba.

I would giggle, curling my fingers into the folds of his kaftan. I never sat apart from him, never kept a polite distance. When we dined, I ate off his plate, tearing bread from his own hands, dipping it into his soup the way I had since I was old enough to chew.

"You will spoil her, Hünkârım," my mother, Medriveh, would say from across the room, watching as my father lifted me onto his lap, letting me pick the ripest dates from his tray.

"She is already spoiled," he would reply, laughter deep in his chest. And he would not send me away. He never sent me away.

I prayed with him, every dawn and every dusk, my small voice whispering after his as we kneeled on the prayer rugs. When my hands trembled in the cold, he would clasp them in his own, warming them against his palms.

"When you are older, you will have a place beside me," he had told me once, his thumb tracing circles over my knuckles. "Even when I go to war, my moon will stay in my sky."

I believed him.

When he rode through the palace gates on his great black stallion, I was the only one out of my siblings- Mustafa, Selmin, Mehmed, and Layla- he lifted onto the saddle before him. I would press my cheek to his chest, feeling his laughter rumble beneath my ear as he held the reins in one hand, keeping me close with the other.

I thought it would always be like that. I thought nothing could take me from him.

I was wrong.

My mother never hit me.

She did not need to.

Her weapons were sharper than any blade, her words precise and cruel, cutting deep where no one could see.

"You embarrass me, Esmira," she would sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose whenever I stumbled in my lessons or tripped over my skirts. "Must you always follow your brothers like a stray dog? They have no use for you."

"I just want to be with them."

"They do not want to be with you."

Her disappointment weighed heavier than any slap.

I had always adored Mustafa, Selmin, and Mehmed. I ran after them in the gardens, trailed them through the halls, sat at their feet as they practiced swordplay.

I wanted to be part of their world, to belong with them as I had once belonged with my father.

But they were always too fast, too sharp, too indifferent.

"Go away, Esmira." Selmin’s voice was rough, barely sparing me a glance as he wiped sweat from his brow, his sword resting against his shoulder. "We are not playing games."

"I can learn too!"

"You are not a soldier." Mustafa did not even look at me, already turning back to his sparring partner. "You are not even useful."

Mehmed was the only one who pretended to care, giving me his easy, careless smile.

"Little sister, you should be with the women," he said, flicking my forehead with two fingers. "We are busy."

"I just want to be near you."

"Then sit quietly. Do not make a fuss."

So I did. I sat in the dirt, in the sun, in the cold. I waited for them to acknowledge me.

They never did.

Layla was everything I was not. Four years older than me, and stunning. The true daughter of a Sultan

She was graceful where I was clumsy, beautiful where I was plain, loved where I was ignored.

"Your sister was never like this," my mother would say as she brushed my hair, her touch firm and impersonal. "She knew how to behave, how to walk, how to be wanted."

Layla was desired by all who saw her. Even the women in the harem whispered about her, about her elegance, her cruelty, her charm.

"You are fat, Esmira," she told me one afternoon, watching as I struggled to fit into the new silk kaftan our mother had gifted me. "And slow. And foolish."

"You are my sister," I whispered. "You should love me."

She only smiled.

"Love is earned, little one. And you have done nothing to earn it."

Then, one day, a week after my tenth birthday everything changed. I was going to my father, to try and capture his attention again when I heard her. My mother.

"She is useless, Hünkârım. If you will not marry her off, then send her away."

I pressed my back against the lattice screen, breath trapped in my chest. I was too young to marry. Baba always said he would wait till I was eighteen. That he would keep me forever if I wanted.

"To where?" He replied sharply.

"To the Greeks," my mother said smoothly, as if my fate was nothing more than a chess piece being moved across the board. "The Basileus of Morea wishes for an Ottoman princess as a ward. A peace offering."

"She is only a child, Mehdrivan."

"She is a disgrace."

Silence. A silence so deep it felt like the air itself had stopped moving.

Then, finally, the words that destroyed me.

"Fine."

The world blurred around me. My heart slammed against my ribs, a desperate, caged thing trying to claw its way out. I waited till my mother had left, till i could no longer hear her cruelty.

No. No, no, no.

I did not think. I ran.

I burst into my father’s chamber, barefoot, breathless, trembling.

He stood near the window, his hands clasped behind his back, gazing down at the courtyard below. The glow of the setting sun burned against his silhouette, making him seem even larger, more untouchable.

I was eight again, running to him after falling in the gardens, scraped knees and teary eyes, knowing he would pick me up, soothe me, call me his moon.

But I was not eight. And he did not turn.

"Baba!" I cried, voice breaking.

Slowly, he turned to me.

For a moment, just a moment, his face softened. But it was gone in an instant, replaced by the unreadable mask of a ruler, not a father.

"Esmira," he said, his voice even, measured. Distant.

I did not hesitate—I threw myself at his feet.

"Baba, please!" I clutched at the hem of his kaftan, my nails digging into the silk as if I could physically hold myself to him. "I will be good—I will do better! I don’t want to go! I don’t know their language, their God—they will kill me! Let me stay! I love you, Baba! I will stay by your side forever!"

His hands curled into fists at his sides.

"Stand up, Esmira."

"No!" I sobbed into the fabric of his robes, shaking my head, pressing my forehead to his knee like a beggar at the steps of a mosque. "Please, please, please, I will do anything! I will stop following my brothers, I will stop embarrassing you, I will be what you want, just don’t send me away!"

Nothing.

Not a touch. Not a word.

I felt his silence like a blade slicing through me.

"I do not care about peace!" I cried, hands fisting against him. "I only care about you!"

Finally, finally, he spoke.

"You must go, Esmira. It is for the good of the empire."

Something deep inside me cracked—so violently I swore I heard it echo in the vast, empty space of the chamber.

I recoiled from him, stumbling back.

"You are my father!" My breath came in ragged, uneven gasps. "I am your daughter! I am not a pawn for your empire!"

He did not move. He did not reach for me.

"You are a princess of the Ottoman Empire." His voice was hard, cold. A warlord’s voice, not a father’s. "You will do your duty."

I shook my head, tears burning like acid down my cheeks.

"If you send me away, I will never love you again."

Something flickered in his eyes.

"Esmira—"

"I swear to God, Baba!" My voice rose in fury, in anguish, in something too deep to name. "I swear by Allah Himself, if you listen to my mother, if you send me away, I will never forgive you! Never! You will not be my father anymore!"

His nostrils flared. His lips pressed into a thin line.

"You will not speak to me that way."

"You are not listening to me!"

I was screaming now, screaming as if the force of my voice alone could bring him back to me.

"I will hate you for the rest of my life!"

And then—he struck me.

The first slap sent me reeling. The second tore the breath from my lungs.

My ears rang. My vision blurred.

I staggered back, stunned, unable to process what had just happened.

He had never hit me before.

Never.

Not once in my entire life.

His sons had felt his hand before—when they disobeyed, when they failed, when they acted recklessly. But not me.

Never me.

I stared up at him, at the man who had once held me in his arms, who had once called me his moon.

I did not recognize him.

He was no longer my Baba—he was Sultan Suleiman, the Great Turk, the Shadow of God on Earth, the warlord who crushed enemies beneath his heel and ruled an empire with an iron fist.

And now, I was afraid of him.

His expression shifted. Regret flickered in his gaze. His hands trembled as he reached for me.

"Esmira—"

I flinched.

I flinched away from him.

For the first time in my life, I feared my own father.

The moment stretched between us, heavy, suffocating.

I saw the realization dawn on him—saw the way his chest rose sharply, saw the way his hands fell to his sides, saw the guilt carve into his face like stone.

But I did not give him the chance to take it back.

I turned and ran.

I did not stop running.

Not when I reached the halls. Not when the guards called after me. Not when my mother’s voice echoed in the distance.

I ran until my lungs burned, until the cold air cut through my thin silk dress, until the world blurred into nothing but streaks of gold and blue and white.

The moon above me was full and bright, casting silver light across the palace gardens.

I pressed my forehead to the earth, fingers digging into the soil.

"I will come back."

The words left my lips like a prayer.

"I swear it."

"And when I do, I will never love you again."

OKKK YA'LL??? WHAT DO YA'LL THINK??? YOU LIKE??? I TRIED SO HARD ON THIS SO PLS BE NICE! I'M KINDA SCARED TO PUT THIS OUT BC ITS NOT MY USUAL CONTENT AND I CHANGED MY WRITING STYLE A BIT, BUT I HOPE IT INTERESTS PEOPLE!! Likes, comments, asks and reblongs are always appreciated, also the platonic yanderes in this story are Sultan Suleiman, Sultana Medrivah, Sehzade Mehmed, Mustafa, and Selmin!

also, yk ur writings good when u got ppl in ur dms and asks telling u its AI. Like bitch please, I spend HOURS thinking of plots and dialougue only to have some random anon saying its AI????? like be fr.

[sir--cumference]

Its dawning on me how completely unhinged jayce and viktor's arcs were in s2. Like i was fully chilling feeling confident we'd get some friends to enemies shit, some nasty fights, maybe a last minute reconciliation and acknowledgement that nothing will ever be the same. I was like riot would never make them canon theyre too cowardly to make men kiss

Now im just like.... Jayce brings Viktor back to life with the thing he promised to destroy bc its evil? Ok word love it. Viktor leaves him for saving his life and breaking his promise? Hot. Viktor becomes jesus, healing shimmer leprosy? Turns into a hivemind? Uses other peoples bodies to be like "hiii jayce! Look what i did! :D Come say hi i missed u!"?? Jayce shows up all dirty and rugged with ptsd from wherever he was and just KILLS HIM with no explanation? We find out Jayce was in the future where everyone is a fucked up broken cunty robot husk? He meets future jesus viktor who is lonely bc he turned everyone cunty and robotic? Jayce promises him to murder him? BUT Viktor's brought back by singed using werewolf vanders blood and creates his giant hivemind of fabulous porcelain gaybots? He uses one to dance around and choke Jayce out and climb him like a koala on a eucalyptus tree all the while begging him to join the hive mind? All in front of Jayce's (ex?) Gf? I cannot help but stan. He cries in the astral plane when jayce says no i will not become part of your robot fungus network? Viktor becomes 8 or 9 feet tall, long metal face split in half plus creepy mask PLUS giant glowing third arm claw thing and confronts jayce and is just happily spewing nonsense about how he solved all of humanitys problems in a strangely cheerful horrifying slavik robot voice? Jayce is like please stop youre insane, all pouty, and Viktor just starts to fly and chokes him again? Two choking scenes?? Okay. Jayce finds himself in the same position as his metal husk self from the future and surrenders to Viktor immediately and the second he sees normal human viktor in the astral plane hes like "your imperfections make you BEAUTIFUL"? ekko knocks viktor on the head with a time travel device, breaks his face, and now Viktor's like oh shit maybe i actually kind of fucked up? Jayce tells him he saw him in the future and future vik told him life without Jayce is "fields of dreamless solitude"? They astral hug and Jayce gives him the stone magic Viktor gave him as a child and is like lets hold hands and disintegrate and save the universe together? They explode in a flash of bisexual lighting while touching foreheads????

Nothing about this made sense and i ate up every second. Truly a new standard for queer representation. We dont want kisses we want a nonsensical fever dream. I want to feel like i rode a roller coaster backwards and then someone threw a drink in my face and lit me on fire. Fuck me i guess? (Positive)

[practicalgauntlet]

Alexithymia

(n.) Inability to describe emotions verbally

PART TWO

Synopsis- You can't get what happened out of your head and now Spencer is acting weird.

Category- Fluff

Notes- Tension, mutual pining, short one-shot, confessions without words, last part, still don't believe in Dom!Spencer, soft-core flirting, no smut, at least not for this one-shot, no use of Y/N or the appearance/gender identity for the reader, I'm OBSESSED with Spencer in the early seasons (1-6).

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

It had been three weeks since Spencer caressed your cheek, the echo of his touch still plaguing your dreams. At one point, the week and a half mark, you would wake up at the crack of dawn with images of gentle touches and bright smiles.

There is one thing though, that has set your teeth on edge more than the lingering thoughts and desperate yearning that has taken hold of you. Spencer was different. No longer was he the bashful genius you fell for. Now, instead of shying away from you, it seemed as if he was determined to be as close as socially acceptable.

A hand on the small of your back, the back of his knuckles brushing against yours as he walked alongside you, his shoulder pressed against yours as he sat next to you at the bar. Every time the two of you were in the same room, he was glued to your side. And to make matters worse (better?) you found yourself doing the same exact thing.

If he didn't automatically greet you when you entered the bullpen, you were walking up to him with a face-stretching smile, if he wasn't immediately at your side on the jet, you were taking the seat right next to him. Despite the newfound closeness you and Spencer had fallen into, it wasn't quite as intimate as that night on the jet.

"What are you thinking about?" Spencer asked, his chin on his hand as his elbow rested on his desk.

You hadn't realized you had zoned out, too burnt out on paperwork to properly think anymore. "I think I just need a break." You say with a sigh, leaning back in your chair to pop your back and stretch your shoulders.

Spencer hummed, never once taking his eyes off you. For a split second, you could have sworn his eyes darted to the exposed sliver of skin that was revealed when your shirt rode up. But that flicker of something was gone so fast you figured you imagined it.

"I can help with that."

Spencer stands and holds his hand out to you. You take it, relishing in the way his soft hands slotted with yours, your callouses from the government-issued gun matched his. In that moment, you couldn’t think about anything else other than how perfectly he fit with you.

Spencer led you through headquarters, pulling you down the hallway and into the breakroom. You said nothing as you curiously watched him gather some snacks and two bottles of water, content to wait until he revealed his plans.

You were pulled into an elevator and then up a flight of stairs until you were standing alone with Spencer on the roof of the building. The cool spring air was cold enough to keep you from overheating when Spencer looked over his shoulder and sent you the most brilliant smile you'd ever seen.

Finally done with the suspense, though you suppose you were weak enough to let him lead you across the world without a word, you speak up. "What are we doing, Spence?" You couldn't help the laughter that laced your words, too excited, happy, and infatuated to do anything else.

"Do you trust me?"

"Of course, I do. What kind of question is that?"

"Then just let me take care of you."

That shut you up real quick. Spencer let go of your hand in favor of walking further onto the roof. He squatted down, placing the snacks and water on the ground before waving you over. You obliged, bending down to sit next to him.

"Wait!" He says suddenly, stopping you mid-bend. Before you can question him, he shucks off his blazer and lays it beside him. With a pat, he motions you to sit. "There."

"I can't sit on your jacket, you need it."

"Just sit, please?"

You roll your eyes, the action only done to stop yourself from shouting from the rooftop that you were completely and undeniably in love with this man. "Okay."

Once you were sat down, Spencer pulled something out of his pocket. It was a small, blue MP3 player wrapped up in earbuds. He untangles the wires and turns on the devices, clicking down a list before he settles on a song. With one earbud in his ear, he holds the other out to you.

"Spencer..." You were speechless. Not only did he remember your preferred method of decompression, but he also curated an environment for you to do so. To say you were head over heels was an understatement.

"Don't talk, just listen."

You lay down, Spencer following suit with his arms crossed behind his head, and tune into the melody that started playing.

It was a song you knew from the first beat. An old song, something your grandmother listened to all the time. It started slow, with Elvis's deep voice starting the beginning verse.

Did he know that this was one of the most famous love songs ever written? Of course he did, he's a very smart man, and the lyrics were tooth rottingly sweet. But did he know the connotation of sharing a song like this with someone? Knowing Spencer, probably not.

Spencer meant for you to relax, to take a break from the pile of paperwork on your desk, not spiral into a void of overthinking. You couldn't help it though. Your gut told you that Spencer was trying to tell you something, with the touches and the glances and the eye contact. This should have been the nail in the coffin for your theory. But why would someone as unique and extraordinary as him, reciprocate the feelings of someone so mundane and ordinary in comparison?

A weight on your hand draws you out of your reverie, pulling your attention to the soft touch of Spencer. You turn to him, only to find him already looking at you. The heavy emotion in his gaze floored you, swirling pools of admiration and affection that made his sparkling brown eyes so much deeper- so much more intense.

You were shoulder to shoulder, the soft midday breeze cooling your rapidly heating cheeks. The two of you say nothing, only staring at each other with unending affection. Elvis's voice fades into a lovely classical number and Spencer turns on his side and props himself up on his elbow. He was leaning over you now, his eyes flickering back and forth from your lips to your eyes and back again.

You were frozen to the spot, unable to move for fear of disrupting the very real feeling daydream. But the warmth of Spencer as he leaned in ever so slowly- as if he were giving you time to pull away- reminded you that this was reality and not a figment of your imagination.

"Is this okay?" He whispers, lips a hair's breadth from your awaiting lips.

Instead of responding with words, you grab the collar of his shirt with shaky hands and pull him to you. His lips were as soft and inviting as you imagined them to be. Spencer was still for a second, the two of you not moving an inch, but after the brief surprise bled into excitement, he wrapped a hand around your waist and pulled you closer.

He angled his head to the side, allowing his lips to slot against yours like they were made for each other. Your hands found solace on his shoulders, gripping them for dear life as the two of you part for air.

Spencer leaned his forehead against yours, breath erratic as he let out a disbelieving chuckle. You drew your hand up, tracing his shoulder and neck until you were cradling his cheek. You couldn't find the words to express how you felt in that moment, too caught up in everything that was Spencer.

You pull him back to you, wrapping your arms around him and tangling your fingers in his hair. Spencer let out a soft groan, meeting your lips with equal fervor. You were pressed tighter against him, like Spencer couldn't get close enough to you.

It felt like you were floating, your body weightless and heavy all at the same time. Your skin was burning from where he touched you, blazing trails drawing patterns across your waist and back. Every time one of you pulled back, the other only allowed a breath or two before you were joined again.

"I can't believe this..." Spencer murmured against your lips like he was too afraid to part for even a second.

"Believe what?" Just so you could pull air into your lungs, you parted and pressed your forehead against his.

"That you like me back."

"How could I not like you back?"

Spencer's eyes went from firey and passionate to vulnerable in a split second. You hated that he had such low self-esteem when it came to love and attraction. Instead of allowing him to stew on whatever ridiculous reasons his harsh brain could come up with, you lean in and kiss his worries away.

[tobiosbbyghorl]

small things | psh

snippets of moments she cherished most from “the things i never said.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The Poke Wars

It started as an accident.

I had reached for something on the table, and my shirt rode up slightly, revealing a sliver of skin. That was all the opportunity Sunghoon needed.

Without hesitation, he poked my side.

I yelped, nearly dropping my pen. “Sunghoon!”

He just grinned, clearly entertained. “You’re so jumpy.”

From then on, he made it a habit. Whenever he caught even the smallest patch of exposed skin—my waist, my arm—he’d poke me with a mischievous smirk.

So I decided to get back at him.

I discovered his weakness one day—his nape.

The first time I lightly poked it, he jolted so hard he nearly knocked over his drink. “Yah—what the hell?!”

I smirked. “Ticklish?”

“No.”

I poked again. He flinched.

“You so are.”

And that was the start of our little war.

The Window Seat Rule.

Whenever we traveled together—whether by bus, train, or even just a short ride—Sunghoon always took the window seat.

Always.

At first, I thought it was just a preference. But then I noticed something.

The moment the ride got long, his body would start tilting… and the next thing I knew, his head was on my shoulder.

Every. Single. Time.

At first, I used to nudge him awake, but he’d just mumble sleepily, “Five more minutes,” and lean in closer.

So eventually, I stopped waking him.

Instead, I let him rest against me, staring out the window while pretending my heart wasn’t racing.

Our Coconut Juice Tradition

Every time we went to the mall, no matter what, we always got coconut juice.

It wasn’t planned—it just became a thing.

The moment we spotted the familiar stall, Sunghoon would nudge me. “You know the rule.”

I’d roll my eyes but head toward it anyway.

One time, as I took my first sip, I hummed in satisfaction. “Still the best.”

Sunghoon watched me for a second before smiling. “Yeah,” he said, taking a sip of his own. “It really is.”

It was stupid, really—just coconut juice. But somehow, it became ours.

His Human Alarm Clock

Sunghoon was the worst at waking up early.

Which is why, whenever he needed to study at dawn, he always made me his personal alarm clock.

“Wake me up at 4 AM,” he’d say.

I’d groan. “I sleep at like, 2 AM. That gives me two hours.” He’d grin. “Exactly. You’re already awake.”

And so, even when I lacked sleep, even when I could barely keep my eyes open, I’d send him a call at 4 AM sharp.

“Wake up,” I mumbled groggily.

“Five more minutes,” he slurred.

“Sunghoon, get up before I come over and pour water on you.”

Silence.

“You’re so annoying,” he mumbled, voice still thick with sleep.

I smiled. “And yet you always make me do this.”

He let out a tired chuckle. “Because I know you will.”

And he was right. I always would.

His Human Pillow

The library was supposed to be for studying, but for Sunghoon, it was just another place to nap—and for some reason, I was always his chosen human pillow.

Whenever we lounged in the cushioned seats at the back of the library, he’d slowly inch closer, stretching his arms behind his head. Then, without warning flop.

His head landed on my lap.

“Seriously?” I sighed, looking down at him.

He peeked one eye open, smirking. “You’re comfortable.”

“I’m not a pillow, Sunghoon.”

“Shh.” He closed his eyes again, completely unbothered. “Wake me up in thirty.”

And just like always, I let him stay.

Hotspot & Passwords

Sunghoon never had his own mobile data. Or maybe he just never bothered because he knew he had mine.

Without asking, he grabbed my phone from my desk, unlocked it effortlessly, and turned on the hotspot for himself.

I blinked. “Did you just—”

“You should change your password,” he said, scrolling through his own phone like nothing happened.

I huffed. “Maybe I will.”

“Yeah?” He smirked. “Then why haven’t you?”

I had no answer to that.

Because I knew, deep down, I never would.

Water Requests

Sunghoon had this habit of always asking for my water, even when he had his own.

“Pass me your bottle,” he’d say mid-conversation.

I’d glance at his own unopened one sitting next to him. “Yours is literally right there.”

He shrugged. “Yours tastes better.”

I rolled my eyes but handed it to him anyway.

And without a second thought, he took a sip—like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like he didn’t even consider that sharing a bottle meant something to me.

The Handkerchief

The first time I cried in front of Sunghoon, I expected him to tease me. I expected him to laugh, to make some stupid comment to lighten the mood.

Instead, he said nothing.

Without a word, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his favorite handkerchief the one he always carried but never let anyone borrow.

He held it out to me.

I stared at it, then at him. “Sunghoon, you—”

“Just take it,” he said, not meeting my eyes.

I did. And for some reason, that small gesture made me want to cry even more.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

It was all the small things that made me feel like I was special to him.

And maybe, for a while, I let myself believe I was.

© tobiosbbyghorl - all rights reserved

a/n: i hope you like the first part and this one!! part two would be up by friday! ily!🩵

[dragon-kazansky]

Bridgerton shade of blue

Benedict Bridgerton x Female Reader

Benedict bumps into you, quite literally, at a ball while trying to escape his mother's attempts to find him a partner. You decide to humour him with a dance, not realising just how entwined you would become with him. It seems the universe will find every excuse to push you and Benedict together, no matter how much you fight it.

{Masterlist}

{Previous Chapter} - {Next Chapter}

Warnings: Sexual themes at the Granville studio. Nothing explicit.

Season one

Chapter Eleven - Ruse to ruse

♡♡♡

Colin had brought you here, so he saw to it that he saw you home, though Benedict was a little reluctant. He kind of wanted to do it himself, but there wasn't time to argue and dawdle.

Anthony and Benedict would see Daphne home, Colin would take you, and Simon would need to go home and prepare himself for his future with Daphne.

Colin was good at riding. He handled the horse with perfection. You were home before your mother was even properly awake. He helped you off the horse, and you thanked him quickly, going around the back of the house knowing the servants would be up already.

Colin rode away before he was seen.

You dodged some maids as you returned to your room and quickly dressed down to make it look like you had been in bed the entire time.

You were lucky to get back when you did. A mere ten or fifteen minutes passed before your maid came into the room to wake you. You stretched and rose from the bed, relying on your acting to fool the poor girl into believing you hadn't been awake since before dawn.

She seems none the wiser as she tells you breakfast will be ready shortly and that your mother was awake.

Once you're up and dressed, you can act naturally. Everything that happens now is just the course of things. Daphne and Simon shall marry, she'll become a duchess, and Violet can set her sights on her next daughter, Eloise.

You enter the dining hall and see your mother already there, starting her breakfast. You join her with a smile.

"Good morning, dear."

"Good morning."

She seems none the wiser as to what you had been doing earlier that morning. For that, you are thankful. You tuck into your breakfast and pretend nothing had happened.

You've barely eaten when the butler comes in and announces you have a guest. You glance up at your mother with confusion. However, she looks thrilled.

"A caller?"

You don't even get to answer before she's up and heading toward the door to see who it was. You stand, too. Your mother returns moments later being followed by Benedict.

You look at him in confusion this time.

"Mr. Bridgerton, how delighted we are for your visit," your mother coos.

"An innocent visit, I assure you," he replies.

Your mother looks at you and tilts her head in his direction.

"What brings you to our door?" You ask, looking at Benedict.

"I thought I'd share the news. Daphne is engaged to the duke. She told mother this morning." He speaks slightly strained. Of course you already knew this information.

"How wonderful!" Your mother cheers.

"Yes. Very. Is she happy?" You ask, playing along.

"I'm sure they both will be." You catch the change of tone in his voice.

Silence settles between you both.

"Don't mind me," your mother says, returning to her seat at the table.

You sigh softly and turn to Benedict. "I'll show you out."

Your mother calls your name and then says, "so soon?"

"I'm sure Mr. Bridgerton was just delivering the good news in person. After all, they are my friends, mother."

You didn't give her time to answer before leading him out of the dining room. Benedict followed you to the door.

"What are you doing here?" You ask.

"I had to make sure you got home alright," he says softly.

"Colin brought me home."

"I know..."

You sigh softly and look up at him. "How is your mother coping?"

"She is pleased Daphne is marrying the duke. However, it would seem that Cressida Cowper may have seen them in the garden that night." He explains.

"Oh dear..."

"I'm sure all will be well, but we must keep our wits about us for now."

"Then why did you come here?"

"I told you. To make sure you got home."

"Do you not trust your brother?" You ask.

"Of course I do," he replies quickly. "I just wanted to see you."

You smile and then chuckle. "You worry too much. You should go home and be there for Daphne. She will need all the support she can get right now."

He sighs softly and nods. Benedict does leave immediately. He just looks at you. You're unable to read the expression on his face as you stare back at him in confusion.

He soon snaps out of his daze and takes his leave. You watch him go.

When you return to the dining room, your mother looks at you. "Why did you show him out so soon?"

"Mother..."

"He could have come with good intentions."

"He just came to tell me of Daphne's news," you say, sitting down once again.

"He may want to court you."

"Mother, I can assure you that my future husband will not be a Bridgerton. That will never happen."

Your mother grumbles. "You never know."

You look down into your tea cup and see your reflection in the hot liquid. "No, mother. I do know."

♡♡♡

Daphne was to be married within the week, so you hear from her when you visit her family the day after the duel.

Violet was all a buzz with the news, truly believing her daughter was marrying for love, but everything you looked to the eldest Bridgerton daughter, you could only see the anxiety on her face.

Poor Violet would never know what really happened.

Eloise excused herself from all things wedding related, so you accompanied where you could. Daphne was grateful to have a hand to hold when her emotions became too much sometimes.

When she was fitted for her wedding dress, you held her hand. When her mother went through gloves and veils, you were stood there beside her, your arm hooked with hers. When they discussed nightdresses, you stood beside her and kept her company.

Daphne was glad you were there. She surely would have lost her patience had you not been.

When you returned to their home later that day only to find out from Anthony, the special license had been denied, Daphne reached for your hand again.

The conversation was cut short when Violet entered the room to greet Lady Danbury.

"Now, this is far too grim a mood for the celebration I was counting on," Lady Danbury said, looking at everyone. "What on earth is the matter?"

"Anthony?" Violet looks at her son.

"We have been denied our request for a special license," he tells them.

"What?"

"The archbishop did not see a need." The duke added.

"It is not the archbishop," Lady Danbury says. "It is the queen. Perhaps she has taken your rejection of her nephew to heart, or perhaps she is simply bored. Either way, it does not bode well for your daughter's social future, nor any of the Bridgertons for that matter."

You feel Daphne squeeze your hand.

"Surely we must be able to do something?" Violet asks.

"Give her what she wants. Attention. Appear before her yourselves and make a personal appeal. But she will not respond to begging, and she can sniff out even the faintest whiff of insincerity, so do not lay it on thick. Tell her you are in love, plain and simple and true."

Daphne and Simon look at each other. Daphne looks like she could cry.

"You can do that, can you not?" Lady Danbury asks them.

Daphne nods her head. Then Simon gives one firm nod also.

"Good. Now, where is the dinner I was promised?"

Violet chuckles and leads the way.

You let go of Daphne's hand and follow her mother. Anthony accompanies you, and the happy couple follow.

♡♡♡

Benedict returns to the studio of Mr. Granville. He has chosen to sit out dinner with his family, not knowing you were there.

Henry answers the door.

"Bridgerton! I am so glad you came."

"I dare not miss it," Benedict answered.

"Please, come in."

The two of them head inside.

"Make yourself at home. I would show you around, but host duty calls." Henry smiles and walks on ahead.

The studio is much more lively tonight. There are people everywhere. Benedict walks down the hall a little bit and peers into one of the open doorways. The room is full of pretty women dressed in as little possible dancing around. He keeps on walking and peers into another room. There are people sketching in this one.

"What are you doing here?"

Benedict turns around to find a woman looking at him.

"Apologies. Have we met?" He asks.

"We need not to have met," she says. "You are a Bridgerton, yes?"

Benedict, of course, would not recognise the seamstress.

"I see my reputation precedes me."

"Not exactly a virtue."

"Anything that gets me your attention is a good thing, I rather think."

"You should go, home to your brother, perhaps."

Benedict scoffs. "But I'm receiving far too warm a welcome here."

They later find themselves on the stairs enjoying each other. His lips on her neck and collarbone as his large, warm hands explore every curve of her body.

She takes his hand and leads him down the stairs and through the crowds. He hurries forward to find them a room, opening a door only to find Henry Granville and another gentleman enjoying each other up against the wall.

Henry's eyes land on Benedict as he stands there, watching them. Slowly, Benedict steps out of the room, closing the door behind him.

"Bridgerton," Genevieve whispers.

She's sat with a young woman nearby. She uses her finger to gesture him over. He walks over immediately, sitting between them and kissing the young lady. He then turns and kisses Genevieve, too.

He enjoys his evening with the pair of them.

It was safe to say, this man had no intention of settling down any time soon.

♡♡♡

The dinner passes by rather quietly. There is a slight tension between Simon and Daphne. Violet and Lady Danbury carry most of the conversation, and you join in when possible.

The only other Bridgerton's at the table were Anthony and Eloise, though the latter made it clear she would rather be anywhere else.

You find yourself a little disappointed at the lack of Benedict. Anthony just told you his brother had gone out. He knew not where. You didn't bother digging if he didn't know.

"What about you? Are there any prospects this season for you?" Lady Danbury asks, gesturing to you with her wine glass.

You look uo and find yourself a little stunned at the question. "Oh, um. I had some callers. Though not many. Very few came back a second time." You look down at your dinner.

"Worry not. You're still young. Your time to shine will come," she winks at you.

Violet looks at Anthony, who furrows his brow at her. When she nods her head at you, he shakes his head with wide eyes. Violet gives him a firmer look.

You look up, and she quickly smiles at you.

Anthony sighs and turns his head toward you. He keeps his voice low. "Whatever my mother says, do not buy into it."

"Hm?" You look at him with confusion.

"Anthony," Violet calls. Both of you look up at her. "Why not keep her company tomorrow?"

"Mother..."

"It would surely make her happy." Violet smiles brightly.

"Lady Bridgerton, there is no need," you try and steer her away from setting her up with one of her sons.

"I'm sure he won't mind."

"You're busy, no?" You ask quickly, turning to the young Viscount. "You mentioned some ledgers or something."

Anthony nods quickly. "Yes. Exactly. Those ledgers."

Violet sinks in her seat a little. Disappointed in her son. She can't help thinking you'd make a wonderful daughter-in-law. You would suit the Bridgerton name quite well, she is certain.

When dinner is over, Simon is very quick to leave. He speaks very little to Daphne as he exits the house.

Anthony sees you out.

"Shame Benedict wasn't present," you say absentmindedly.

"You seem rather close to my brother."

"We are friends. Fret not." You smile at him.

"I have no idea where he wanders off to so late at night. Nor do I care to ask."

"What you men do in your free time is your own business," you say.

"What could you possibly know what men get up to?" He asks, looking at you.

You just give him a sly smile, one Anthony simultaneously hates and loves. You're a cheeky one.

"Goodnight, Mr. Bridgerton."

"Goodnight."

He waits until you're in the carriage and then heads back inside his house. He walks starlight past his mother, who is gearing up to talk him into courting you, he is sure.

Violet watches him disappear upstairs.

♡♡♡

The next day, Daphne and Simon appear before the queen. You know not what is said in that room, but you are to gather later that Simon Basset made the most romantic speech known to man.

He declared his love Daphne in front of everyone in that room.

The queen gave them her blessing.

It worked.

♡♡♡

@callmemana - @lilscast - @imgondeletedis - @benedictbridgertonss - @clownsdiehard - @wxnterwidow333

@sillynilly27 - @autumn-slaves - @ben-has-arrived - @ajdelilah - @aadu2173

@booknerdlife - @tamlinrose - @sarahskywalker-amidala - @cheryyluv - @louschan - @lou-la-lou - @cultish-corner

@hopshusushi - @katherinejess - @nannabug - @afunkyfreshblog - @f0x33 - @dd122004dd

@jupitervenusearthmars - @orchiidflwer - @bespinnn - @captainlunaxmen - @winchestersimpalababy - @acupnoodle

@ms-fandomgirl - @fablesrose - @anyaisinyourcloset - @meowzerzstuff - @orchiidflwer - @bespinnn - @crazymar15

@cosmixstar - @bree3parchen - @berrnuu - @luckily123345 - @charmainemaclendon

[blueberrypancakesworld]

Door.3 ~ Cold Temple ~

Caracalla x wife!reader

warning : comfort, kissing, cuddling

Summary : Rome, the city of the mighty Holy Roman Empire, has been plagued by the cold winter for several weeks. Nature covers the city in white and everything huddles around the warm fire, all but one, Caracalla, disappears into the temple of spring and his wife finds her confused lover praying for more than just spring and a warmer time.

info : The third day and of course Caracalla should also get a day, I love the gif so cute, have fun reading ;)

masterlist ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A winter that froze the harvests, froze the population and left the rest to stand by the warming fire that burned everywhere in Rome's public spaces.

So too in the temple of the imperial brothers and Caracalla's wife, who wrapped the bright mink cloak tighter around her, the fur warm but the howling of the wind outside worrying her.

,,If the gods continue to be so angry, we will slowly run out of food with the next full moon,” she heard Getas complain, pulling back from the window and letting the heavy fabric fall shut again in front of it.

Her brother-in-law had ordered rationing and even if riots threatened, the winter seemed to hold out against the resisting ones.

Turning away from the fire she already missed the warmth and took her goblet again, ,,Drink something, at least it warms your mind...do you know where my husband is?” she asked after pressing a goblet into his hand.

But the older man just shook his head, since winter had set in Caracalla had become suspiciously quiet, too quiet for her own good and one thing that bothered her was that he was losing his amusement.

The warning words of Geta, who didn't want her to go out alone, ,,Send for me at dawn but I have to save my Rome” threw her back before she left the palace with another cloak and saddled her horse. Geta and her were had hands full it was only a few hours but they seemed to have been enough for Caracalla to sneak out into a blizzard that could have meant death.

On her horse she was safer from the masses of snow on the ground but the wind raged around her ears, the hood of her cloak barely held and she had been riding through the town for an hour without a trace. Until her shouts almost blew away in the wind and she glanced at the Temple of Spring as she spurred her horse in that direction.

From a distance she saw that a single light was still burning inside and she rode up to the stairs, clutching her husband's cloak tightly she ran up the stairs into the temple and found him.

Huddled in front of the flame were a few small stunted flowers and the blond seemed to have been praying here for hours, ,,Thank the gods you're alive!” she shouted and immediately wrapped him in the cloak, hugging and kissing him, trying to give him her warmth.

His smile, even now still radiant, when his love, his goddess appeared. But his hand on her belly, the knowledge of what he meant to us moved her. It was still small, the spark of life within her, it seemed to heal his madness and that was all that mattered.

Even through the make-up she could see the bluish lips and the trembling, ,,I-I wanted spring back...for us,” he admitted, holding on to her as she helped him up to get back to the temple, even though his courage moved her, her concern for him was more.

Feeling his hand grasp hers faintly tighter, she placed more kisses on his head, feeling as this might calm him, as she helped him onto the horse, ,,The gods will let you live, then they will bring spring back for us too,” she assured him before sitting down behind him.

Wrapping her arms around him, he snuggled up to her, ,,I love you,” he said before wrapping himself completely in the cloak, murmuring words of love and gratitude as they rode back through the snowstorm, making it to the temple and being met by a concerned Geta.

Perhaps it was love, the two lovers sitting snuggled together in front of the fire, or the will of the gods as a few hours later the snow stopped falling and the sun broke through the sky.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

@potatoesenpaii , @cottoncandiescupcakes , @k-yurieee , @sigiismunda , @somepallings

[jozor-johai]

The Red Comet appears exactly 400 years after the Doom of Valyria. Doesn’t that seem significant?

Because round numbers like that make me want to look twice here… and in doing so, there’s something very interesting in the timeline that GRRM has made efforts to keep slightly veiled.

The Red Comet appears a year before the turn of the century in ASOIAF—that is to say, 299 AC. The Doom occurs in 102 BC. The non-existent year zero of this kind of timekeeping makes it look wrong, but that’s exactly 400 years.

I always thought it was interesting that the Doom of Valyria happened in 102 BC—it’s so close to being a round number, but it’s just off. Just enough off, though, that the Red Comet in 299 AC lines up.

Round numbers feel meaningful, and that’s even true for the characters within the world of ASOIAF:

Joffrey and Margaery shall marry on the first day of the new year, which as it happens is also the first day of the new century. The ceremony will herald the dawn of a new era. (ASOS Tyrion I)

The new century, of course, is 300 years since Aegon’s Conquest:

It’s a new century, my lady. The three hundredth year since Aegon’s Conquest. (ASOS Sansa IV)

It’s almost dissatisfying that all this talk of the new century doesn’t line up with the Doom and doesn’t line up with the Red Coment.

So do we have Aegon to blame for making these numbers not line up? Actually, no—Aegon invaded Westeros in 2BC, exactly 100 years after the Doom of Valyria.

It was then that he crowned himself… but that’s not the date that Westeros counts years from; Westeros counts the years from his coronation in Oldtown. This is a detail apparently so interesting (and perhaps important) that it’s described twice in The World of Ice and Fire. For example:

Only a handful of lords had been present for Aegon’s first coronation at the mouth of the Blackwater, but hundreds were on hand to witness his second, and tens of thousands cheered him afterward in the streets of Oldtown as he rode through the city on Balerion’s back. Amongst those at Aegon’s second coronation were the maesters and archmaesters of the Citadel. Perhaps for that reason, it was this coronation, rather than the Aegonfort crowning or the day of Aegon’s Landing, that became fixed as the start of Aegon’s reign.

If Westeros counted years from the year Aegon crowned himself, rather than from the year Aegon was crowned by the Citadel, then the year that the Red Comet appeared in the sky would be 300AC, and that would be exactly 400 years after the Doom. Seen that way, everything lines up curiously well…

So much happens when the Red Comet arrives—the revival of dragons and the return of magic in the world, whatever the relationship between those things is. Those events, and that year, feels much more like the “dawn of a new era.”

Additionally, seeing it all line up so well raises some eyebrows. Seeing all the dates like this make it seem significant that Aegon invaded exactly 100 years later, and makes room for interpreting the Red Comet as potentially having some kind of relationship to the Doom, because 400 years feels just too regular. Why does the comet appear exactly 300 years after Aegon’s invasion, exactly 400 years after the Doom?

At the least, there’s a sense of fate involved that Dany’s dragons wake exactly 400 years after the Doom—or do the revival of magic and the return of dragons both relate to some unknown third factor?

[frannyzooey]

Short Days, Long Nights: 18

Joel Miller x f!reader

Rating: extremely soft

A/N: An epilogue to end our story, I'll reblog later with all of my thank yous. For now, this final chapter is dedicated to @mrsmando ❤ and her big giant heart, for whom this story wouldn't exist without.

Series Masterlist

-

FIVE YEARS LATER 

“Honey?”

Placing his keys on the table in the entryway, Joel tilts his head to the side and listens. Silence greets him instead, but it’s a warm one. Peaceful.  

Sunlight streams through the open windows in the living room, and he walks through the beams of soft light towards the back of the house, passing through a scene of domestic disarray: a blanket tossed over the couch, toys scattered on the living room floor, small shoes that he bartered for last week kicked off and tossed on the stairs. Bending down to scoop them up with a sigh, he carries them into the kitchen. Placing them on the table, he looks around for any sight of you. 

The backdoor ajar, he heads into the backyard. 

“Honey?”

“Yea?”

Calling to him from the middle of the garden, he spots you with a smile – right as a small body crashes through the bushes with a shriek. Running straight for him, Joel automatically holds his hands out to catch June, but she looks behind her and screams, dodging his reach instead. Another child comes through and then another; a game of tag that’s crossed borders between the houses. 

“Hey! Stop runnin’ through! Just go around em’!”

You stand from your place in the garden, picking your way carefully through the sprouting plants. Your face and shoulders come into view first, and then your stomach – the soft swell only just beginning to show. At the sight of it, he visibly softens and comes over to help you, lending you his hand. 

“You sound just like a cranky old man,” you tease, brushing the dirt from your knees. Looking up at him with a squint against the sun, you grin and mime shaking a fist. “Stay off my lawn!”

“Well I am an old man,” he says wryly, defending himself. “Besides, all I need is for a kid to get hurt bustin’ through those bushes like that.”

He looks over his shoulder and surveys the damage for a moment; the squall of children slightly muted from the front yard. Bringing his eyes back to you, he steps closer and reaches for your bump, splaying his touch over it. 

“How we feelin’ today?”

“Oh god,” you answer with a sigh. “Tired.” 

Letting your head drop forward, you rest it on his shoulder. His hands glide smoothly from your stomach to your hips, encouraging you to lean into him and you do, pressing your cheek against his chest. Warmth radiates through the material of his shirt, and you close your eyes and breathe him in. Sunshine, sweat, the faint smell of the stables and the horse he rode today while on patrol lingers in the fabric, and your body relaxes against his. 

“How was your day?” you murmur. 

“Good. Tommy n’ Maria wanna know if we can come over for dinner this week. Guess she’s been askin’ for that dessert you made last time, wants to know if you can bring it over again. What was it called?”

“Brown sugar pie.” You burrow even closer against him, and his arms slip around your back in an embrace. 

“That’s the one.”

“I think I have everything I need for it. I can do that.”

“I told him I would let em’ know tomorrow. Got patrol with him again at dawn.”

You look up at him with a pout. “So early again?”

He says nothing, bending to press his mouth to your forehead. 

“I miss you in bed when you leave so early in the morning.”

His kiss drops lower, catching your nose.  

“You know I like curling up next to you. You’re like a human furnace.”

The edge of his mouth lifts. “I know, I like it too. But duty calls and all that.”

Presenting your lips for a kiss, he grants a lingering, full press of his mouth to yours and then pulls back. 

“You need me to carry anything into the house?”

“I don’t need that kind of help just yet,” you reply. 

He puts his hands up in defense with a smirk, taking a step back. “Just askin’”.

You wave him away, turning back towards the garden and he turns to head into the house, calling over his shoulder. 

“I’m gonna take a shower. Is he sleepin’ inside?”

“Yes,” you call back. “Try to be quiet when you go in. He kept me up most of the night, so I know he’s tired too.”

Nodding, he catches the screen door before it smacks the frame behind him and quietly heads upstairs.  

The bedroom is scattered with the same lived-in mess that downstairs is: the quilt thrown back over rumpled sheets, his sweats on the floor, a scatter of items on the dresser. Reaching over his head, he tugs his shirt off in a smooth motion, and tosses it on the bed before sitting down with a soft groan, bending forward to unlace his boots. 

His bare back is littered with long ago healed scars, one of them pulling tight across his flank. Sitting up with a stretch, he rubs at it with his hand, the muscle underneath sore from so much time spent in the saddle. Heading into the bathroom, he tosses the rest of his clothes into the laundry basket and steps into the shower, letting the water beat down on his lower back.

Four years in, and he still lets out a sigh of appreciation every time. 

Done and dressed in fresh clothes, he pads around the bedroom in bare feet gathering the rest of the laundry. A mix of his and yours, a threadbare blankie that needs washing, a sleeper on the dresser. Tossing it all into the basket, he goes into June’s room to do the same. 

Picking up the small guitar she plays with while he practices on his own, he places it carefully against the corner of the wall and gathers the laundry she’s left at the foot of the bed. The room reflects the girl herself: purple walls, drawings taped up on every surface, a butterfly suncatcher that hangs in her window scattering rainbows over the floor. 

Hearing muted babbles from the next room over, Joel grabs a shirt off the floor before heading over to the closed door. Opening it, he’s greeted with a grin. 

“Hey big guy," he says lowly, setting the basket on the floor, peering over the side of the crib. Built by Joel shortly after you arrived in Jackson, he thumbs at the mending it needs on the corner, thinking about how it’ll need to be moved into the bedroom in about five months. 

Still puffy with sleep, the boy’s face resembles yours so much that Joel’s eyes crinkle with affection. “You ready to get up?”

One hand holding the basket and the other one dangling to let his son grasp it, they slowly navigate the stairs together, entering the kitchen just as June comes through the back door with you right behind her. 

“Someone woke up, I see,” you coo, scooping the toddler into your arms. 

“You done playin’ tag, June Bug?” Joel asks, squeezing her shoulder. 

“Yea. The other kids had to go home for lunch. Can you make me something to eat, Daddy?”

Routine takes over, the afternoon sliding into the evening, twilight descending around the house. The picture window in the front is a beacon of light; figures moving around inside. Dinner, playtime, bathtime. A freshly bathed June and Henry – Hank, for Hank Williams – in Joel’s lap on the couch while he reads them a book, the gentle clink of dishes being washed sounding from the kitchen.

After the kids are tucked in for the night, you find him on the porch. Pulling his flannel tight around your torso, you take a seat next to him and he wordlessly drapes his arm across your shoulders, tucking you close. Handing him a well worn mug with an owl on it, he hums with approval when he discovers the whiskey inside. 

“I saw the midwife today,” you say, spreading your fingers over your bump. “She said everything looks good so far, and gave me something for the heartburn.”

“Is it still real bad?” he asks, and you nod. 

“She says that it’s a sign it’s gonna be a girl,” you smile at him, shrugging. “I don’t remember having it too bad with June though, so who knows.”

Watching your fingers smooth your shirt over the small bump with a rub, the action moves in time with the slow rocking of the bench. Another sip of whiskey, and Joel thinks about how much has changed between then and now: a fleeting image of your younger face, a picture of a river, a cabin just beyond.

The comfortable silence between the two of you lets his mind continue to roam, the memories coming in flashes: the trek across the country, the simultaneous relief and on-edge anxiety he felt when the walls surrounding Jackson first came into view. A familiar voice calling through the fog, one he thought he’d never hear again. Favoring his left side due to a deep gash still healing from an encounter with raiders, warmth slipped from his eyes as he clutched his brother tight, unwilling to let go. 

The same brother he saw just this morning, and who he’ll see again tomorrow. 

“You’re so different than the guy I left all those years ago,” his brother said later on, and Joel had said nothing, just lacing his fingers with yours. 

He is different. 

The years have softened him around the edges, or maybe the kids have. Or maybe it’s you.  

Relaxing into him, his cheek comes to rest on the top of your head.

“You tired, honey?”

“Yea.” The word slips out, the edges rounded. “But keep rocking me?”

Fireflies spark and dance in the air, the wisps of a song caught on the wind from the neighbor playing their radio next door. Your profile is highlighted with the softened light from inside, your cheeks plump with health and happiness and enough food, the frown lines from ever present anxiety smoothed away years ago. He gently collects the soft hair at your temple with a soothing stroke and your eyes flutter shut. 

His boot pushing off the wooden floorboards of the porch, he rocks and presses a kiss to the crown of your hair, letting the gratefulness pass through him. 

The old life feels like a dream, or maybe this is the dream – with a wife sitting safe and sound beside him, on the porch of a home filled with his children. 

Everything possible because you imagined it possible. Everything here because of you.

“Come on. Let’s go to bed,” he murmurs, and you nod, not moving. 

The edge of his mouth lifting in a smile, he tucks you in closer and rocks.

THE END

[donnadiddadog]

the reaper pt 1

Summary: Y/N is a member of the Inner Circle, and there is a decision to have a suicide mission that would help win the war against Hybern - and Y/N has to take charge of it. Azriel cannot let Y/N go just like that.

Word Count: 1.9K ish

Warnings: Mentions of death and soldiers being harmed in war, slight cursing (if any tbh i don't think so). If anything is left out, let me know below!

a/n:��First Person (but I use Y/N as a character, not an OC), I am going to convert this into a series cuz I have an idea (this is going to be slightly based on Nesta’s whole spiral in ACOSF in the next few parts). All credit for the prompt and the inspiration of the first half (loosely based on the story part 1) to “Farewell my love” (written by @allthehopesforlove) - you should check it out, too. It's pretty well written (sending you much love @allthehopesforlove<3). Also, the concept of the Eight is based on Manon from the TOG series! I' 'll upload the next few parts by Jan end (I have finals in two days what am I doing here????)

14th Jan 2025, Writing 3

There is no way that the war can be won without this move. That was the consensus as we stood around the replica of the battleground - Rhys was motionless as he assessed the situation and Cassian kept pacing around the tent that swayed with the wind. Mor was leaning against the chair, her injuries preventing her from standing up straight. I looked at Azriel as he stared at the map and tried to figure out.

The move was simple - a 300 soldiers in a formation that would cleave the Hybern army at the centre, at the weakest point. With the seperation of the army into fragments, the Spring, Autumn and Day Court Armies could take over the upper flank and the Winter and Dawn Court Armies taking over the lower flank; the Night Court attacks from the back to prevent anyone else from escaping. The Summer Court would join the 300 soldiers after they had seperated the army and prevent them from joining again which would turn the tide of the war against Prythian.

All 300 would most likely die. A 95% chance according to me, Cassian agreed with that figure, if not implying that the danger was higher. Feyre was watching her mate, I think she was just scared that he would choose to be the one to lead the soldiers now nicknamed the Regiment 300. The final stand.

There were arguments made in favour and against, Rhys and Cassian at each others throats, Azriel trying to calm the whole situation down. I stood there watching them all fight and try to figure it out while the clock ticked. Hybern would not stop their planning, their tactics just because we couldnt get our shit together. The other High Lords were aware of this plan, it was Beron who had assigned the final duty of choosing the Regiment 300 from the Night Court rather than any other Court. He deemed it fair - that it was us who had to shed the final blood. Meant it as an insult but it was right.

I dont remember much because it was a blur. I had slammed my fists into the table, looked them dead in the eye and explained why it couldnt be any of them. How if Morrigan rode out, she wouldnt make it ten steps before falling dead from her horse. How Feyre could not go to war because she was not trained enough yet. How Rhysand cannot go to war because he is the High Lord and his death would mean a constitutional crisis. How Cassian and Azriel cannot go to war because they had to lead the Night Courts attack with Feyre assisting. How Amren was not going to since she had to figure out the Cauldron’s final secrets. And that only left me.

I wasn't exactly a military person, like Cassian was. I was a strategist, I knew the military tactics but nothing more. I wasn't interested in the training part of it. But I was a damn good leader, people listened to me and I could hold my weight for a while in battle if it came down to it. I could do it, I had to do it. It was the only option left and I knew that I would have to do it. If only to see my family, the Inner Circle, see the sunrise day after tomorrow.

Azriel spoke almost as a whisper, “You cannot possible think that I would allow you to go and do that. To go and kill yourself.” Before Rhys could agree with him and argue with me, I looked Azriel dead in the eye and asked him to find another individual to sacrifice then. And he had stopped breathing, his mind turning. But he wouldnt accept it, his eyes betryaed that he would have rather tied me down than let me go. That is the male I know, the one who cannot bear to accept my demise. Oh Azriel, if only you knew how much I hate this decision of mine. Sweetheart, we were supposed to have a lifetime together.

Further arguments were made but I turned to Rhys and spoke to him mind to mind. He turned to me, face to face, man to man. And I reminded him of that phrase that all good monarchs were supposed to live by. I bent the knee, bowed my head and waited for him. He took a sharp breath in and spoke in his regal voice, “Y/N, you have been given command of the Regiment 300. Ride in the name of the High Lord of the Night Court and make your last stand. Defend Prythian and may the Mother be with you.” I rose and bowed to my High Lord as I turned.

I left the tent before Azriel could grab my hand, before he could see the tears drop. Cassian held him against his will and I could hear Azriel bellowing out my name, cursing the gods for letting this happen, attempting to hurt Cassian to reach me in any way, in any form. Feyre held Mor as she mumbled about this not being fair.

The decision was made, I would lead the Regiment 300 tomorrow at dawn. I had summoned the Eight - my military advisors but more than that my closest friends, we had grown up together, seen each other do things that we thought weren't possible, reaching positions and training to higher levels. My most trusted souls. Pieces of my heart each of them. They were going to join me in the suicide mission and I had to see them all one last time before dawn.

I went to my tent to prepare my armor and set my affairs in order. I told my sentry to prepare my horse and get the men together, I would address them as Commander about their suicide mission. That I would join them in their deaths would be my greatest honor. The last stand would be made. And we would win.

I remember the taste of blood in my mouth, the feeling of sweat dripping, the tightening of my hands on the spear. I remember the feeling of my horse running forward, looking to my right and my left to see my friends, my chosen few, surging forward through the mud. I remember it all.

And I remember waking up in that godforsaken tent with that male looking at me with hazel eyes full of concern and I knew what had happened. I had forsaken my soldiers, the regiment had been abandoned. I led them into war and I deserted them to die.

Slapping his arms away and throwing it off me, I ran out of the tent. Running to see that the sun was almost setting. We had set out at sunrise, it was now sunset. No, this cannot be true. Where are they? Please don't let it be true. I gasped at the sudden pain in my side, noticing that I had an injury to my left flank. The arrow hit me when we first made contact with the army.'

The battleground was barely half a kilometer away, clutching my side to prevent any bandages from falling, I ran the distance trying to see what had happened. I heard Azriel calling out to Rhys and the rest. They were alive but I didn't care about that right now, I had to check on the Eight, my regiment. It was mostly a downhill journey, with a few slips due to loose rocks. I kept my head down to not see what was ahead, I didn't want to lose hope, and I didn't want to accept what had surely happened.

I smelt it before I saw it. I didn't hear it because they were all dead with spears and arrows jutting out of their bodies. No, that is a lie - I did hear it. I listened to the vultures and crows in the sky and on the ground. Feasting. I reached the base of the slope and I looked up at the battleground. A crematorium. A graveyard. The site of my greatest failure.

And I tried catching my breath, looking at the bodies, at the mangled flesh and bone, at the blood that soaked the mud as my bare feet made contact with it, at the horses whose legs had been twisted and intestines hanging out, at the soldiers with cracked skulls, one with his leg blown off, and another completely impaled on a spear.

I couldn't feel anything, my face was numb, and my hands were numb. I was numb. I trudged along because I had found my entire regiment dead but I had to check on the Eight. I had to see their dead eyes so I could tell them that I would join them soon. That is my punishment, that is the price for this mistake. Blood will appease blood.

So I walked to the start of the bloodshed, the site where the regiment hit the Hybern army for the first time. Where I was supposed to lay dead and broken. I was the leader of that regiment, the commander who had told them that this was our last stand. Yet I was alive and they were dead. I stepped on something and I heard a crunching noise. I took a second, hyperventilating before I looked down and saw it. I saw her.

I had found what I was looking for - the Eight lay together in a small circle, almost as if they were trying to hold each other’s hands in their last moments. It seemed that they had tried to create a triangle to penetrate the defense. It had worked but it worked because they fought to the death. The rest of the regiment must have gone through breaking the army from the inside out and the move worked. The Summer Court must have shortly followed. And they didn't stop until they had won the war.

I fell onto my knees, into the mud, and I was shaking, with grief, loss, and despair. And I picked up her body to try to bring it close to mine, to try and hold her one last time. She was long gone but it seemed as if this would help, somehow reduce her pain and make it easier for her to go. I can only imagine what it was like when she had to go, how alone she felt, how betrayed and disgusted she felt that the Commander had been saved, not them.

If I could I would have saved you, I am sorry, it should have been me, I should have died. I don't deserve to live, I will join you.

I screamed those words into the air as I held her and crawled to the rest, begging for them to wake up, to not forgive me but to punish me, telling them that I would join them. That I was the betrayer, the reason for their deaths. That they should never forgive me.

I cried into the mud with their bodies next to me. My wound had already been bleeding profusely and I thought it to be poetic justice that I, too die next to them from a wound I received at the battle that they died in. Except they would die a warrior’s death and I would die a coward’s death. Right next to them.

This is what I deserve. And there was only one person to blame for this.

Azriel.

[lynzishell]

Prev // Next

Transcript below the cut:

Dawn: How’s it going? Have you decided the grass isn’t greener yet? Realized you belong in San My after all? [Atlas: No, we uh, just put an offer in on a house.] Dawn: Already?

Atlas: We had to, Dawn, it’s perfect. It has everything we want, it’s in our price range, in a great neighborhood. It’s like it was built for us. [Dawn: So, this is really happening?] Atlas: Afraid so.

Atlas: How are things in Chestnut Ridge? [Dawn: Oh my god, you’ll never guess what I did yesterday.] Atlas: What? [Dawn: I rode a horse!] Atlas: Oh yeah? How was that?

Dawn: It was… exhilarating! I mean, it was like nothing I’d ever experienced. I miss that feeling, y’know. [Atlas: What feeling?]

Dawn: Just the excitement and the adrenaline. I haven’t done anything that’s made me feel that way in a long time. It’s like, since having Aspen, my whole identity has been reduced to being a mom. Not that I don’t love being a mom, I do. It’s just that I used to be so much more, and yesterday felt like reconnecting with a part of myself.

Atlas: So, what, you want to get a horse now? Not sure how that will work in the city. [Dawn: [laughs] No, of course not. But I do want more. I want my career back. I want to start climbing again. I want to see new places and try new things.] Atlas: And you should. As long as San Sequoia is at the top of your list of new places to see.

[Dawn: Of course it is.] Atlas: Good. Listen, let’s talk more about this when we’re back in the city. I gotta run. We haven’t eaten all day, and I think Ash is ready to leave without me.

Dawn: Okay, I’ll see you soon. [Atlas: Bye.]

Dawn: How are you doing? Phoenix: I don’t know. Am I a terrible person for being angry at a ten-year-old? Dawn: Depends on why you’re angry.

Phoenix: It’s hard not to resent the fact that he gets these moments with him. He gets the childhood I always wished I had. The one I should’ve had. Dawn: You’re allowed to be angry, but maybe it’s not fair to be angry at him. I mean, he has to grow up without his mom, and you had that. So, maybe call it even. Phoenix: Right. See, I am a terrible person. Dawn: You’re not. We both know Danny’s not the one you’re angry at.

Dawn: I know this is hard. Your dad made a lot of mistakes. He missed your whole life. You’ll never get those years back, and that sucks. But he’s here now, and so are you. And no one knows how many years we have left. So, how do you want to spend them? Why did we come here?

Phoenix: I don’t want to be angry anymore. Dawn: Then, what are you waiting for? Get over there.

Joseph: You ready? Phoenix: I don’t know. Joseph: C’mon.

Phoenix: Are you sure this is a good idea? Joseph: You’ll be fine. Just put your foot in the stirrup and pull yourself up, nice and easy. Phoenix: …

Joseph: Phoenix. Phoenix: What? Joseph: Trust me.

Phoenix: … okay.

Joseph: There ya go! Not so hard, was it? Phoenix: No. Joseph: Now, let’s walk. Phoenix: Do what now?

Joseph: You alright? Phoenix: Yep. I’m good.

Joseph: We’re just going across the lot, you can relax. Phoenix: I am relaxed. Joseph: [laughs] Okay.

[novaursa]

The Golden Oath (to decide)

- Summary: The lion falls in love with the daughter of the Mad King, which starts a domino effect that eventually collapses the realm onto itself.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Jaime Lannister

- Note: This story doesn't have a place in my schedule, as it's still being written. But, I may continue to drop a new chapter here and there unexpectedly. Thank you everybody for your support. ❤️

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: to take a chance

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @howtodisappearcompletely3 @joyfulyouthlover @viyannaiya @mortallyblueninja @nestvrn @wuluhwuhmaster @loafersrs @annoyinginfp-t @simpsonsam @barnes70stark @angel6776 @mrsnms @butterfl1ies @lordofthunderthr @idenyimimdenial @jsprien213

The road narrowed as the procession climbed the last hill, the sun now high above them, its light muted beneath a veil of thin cloud. Dust rose from the hooves of their horses, and beyond the crest of the hill, the ruins of Summerhall slowly came into view—a broken crown of stone and ash, half-swallowed by creeping vines and the passage of time.

Jaime had heard the tales, of course—whispers passed between pages and knights of the court, stories of fire and madness and the fall of a dream long dead. But no telling had prepared him for the solemn quiet that blanketed the ruins like a shroud. Even the birds had stilled their songs, and the air held a heaviness that pressed into the lungs, as if it remembered everything that had happened here.

He rode close to Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Barristan Selmy as they descended the last slope, the guard fanning out behind them. Crumbled columns reached skyward like fingers of a dead god, scorched stone blackened from old flames. What had once been a great hall now lay in splintered ruin—arches collapsed, hearths hollow and cold, no roof to shelter what remained.

Jaime said nothing as they dismounted, the leather reins firm in his grip. His gaze swept over the shattered remnants of the palace, noting where the fire had burned deepest—walls half-fallen in on themselves, the marble tiles cracked and blackened beneath moss and decay.

Ahead of them, Rhaegar and Y/N walked side by side, the prince’s hand light on her back as they passed through what had once been the grand entrance. There was no ceremony in the way they moved, no announcement of their intention to separate from the group. They simply passed beyond the threshold of the ruins, the pale folds of her cloak disappearing behind the stone arch with graceful finality.

Jaime’s brows drew together as he watched them go. He remained where he stood for a long moment, eyes lingering on the dark space where they had vanished.

He shifted slightly, then turned to Ser Barristan, who was tightening the strap of his vambrace, his expression unbothered as if this had been expected.

"Shouldn’t someone follow them?" Jaime asked, his voice low but firm. "It’s not safe. These ruins—"

"They will be fine on their own," Barristan said, cutting him off gently but with the steady weight of authority. He didn’t look at Jaime as he spoke, merely adjusting the leather binding with practiced ease. "They’ve come here before, and they come for their own reasons. We are here only to ensure they return."

Jaime frowned, glancing toward Ser Arthur, who stood beside a jagged pillar with one hand resting casually on the hilt of Dawn. The Sword of the Morning gave Jaime a glance, then nodded faintly.

"Summerhall is sacred to the prince," Arthur said. "And to her."

Jaime’s jaw clenched. "And what is it to you?"

Arthur tilted his head slightly, as if considering the question. "A ruin. A reminder. Nothing more."

But Barristan, older and less inclined to philosophical detachment, gave Jaime a longer look, his eyes unreadable beneath the line of his brow.

"You care for her," he said quietly.

It wasn’t a question.

Jaime’s breath caught, just for a heartbeat, before he set his jaw and looked away. "I respect her," he said simply.

Barristan’s mouth twitched, just faintly, before he turned his attention back to the guards dispersing among the trees.

"You’re not the first."

Jaime blinked, caught off-guard. "What?"

The older knight’s tone remained neutral. "To see her. To want her. To wonder if what you see in her eyes is meant for you."

Jaime stared at him, something unsettled curling low in his chest.

"But you must understand something," Barristan continued. "She is the king’s daughter, yes. But more than that—she is his."

He didn’t say the prince’s name. He didn’t have to.

Jaime looked once more toward the ruins, now silent and still beneath the rising sun. He could almost imagine their voices echoing within the blackened halls—hers low and warm, his soft and distant like a harp played in an empty chamber.

And suddenly, Jaime felt as though he were standing outside something he had never truly been invited into.

He said nothing more, only stood there beside the stones, waiting for a glimpse of silver and violet to return from the ruin of dreams.

The light dimmed as you stepped beneath what remained of the old stone arch, the world outside muffled the moment you and Rhaegar entered the hollow shell of what had once been a palace built for joy. Vines crept along the broken walls, their green fingers winding through cracks left by fire and time, and shattered marble tiles crunched under your boots as you moved further inward. The air here smelled of ash and earth, of something old and buried, something that clung to the bones of Summerhall like a final breath that refused to leave.

Rhaegar walked just ahead, his footsteps slow and careful, not out of fear, but reverence. He did not speak at first, and neither did you. This place had always demanded silence when you came together, silence not out of respect, but of understanding. It was as though the stones themselves remembered the cries that had risen here the night it burned—Aegon’s last dream, kindled in fire and ended in smoke.

You followed him through the collapsed doorway that once led to the hall of the fountain, or what remained of it. The basin was cracked and blackened, half-swallowed by moss, and the marble dragons that once spiraled around its rim had lost their heads to time and heat. You stepped beside him, your cloak brushing the crumbling stone, and you looked not at the ruin, but at Rhaegar.

His expression was distant, his eyes tracing the outlines of what had once been. His hands, usually so steady, hung at his sides, his fingers twitching now and again like a man playing invisible strings. The silence had stretched too long, so you broke it first, your voice soft.

“You’ve grown quieter here.”

His gaze didn’t shift. “It’s quieter here,” he answered, though it wasn’t truly an explanation.

You glanced around, the ruins swallowing you both in shadow and memory. “You used to say this was where you felt closest to what came before.”

Rhaegar nodded slowly. “I still do.”

You watched him for a long moment. His face looked older today. Not from time, but from weight. From thought. You could see it in the lines that hadn’t been there last year, the deepening shadows beneath his eyes. He looked like a man who had already lived through the prophecy he was meant to fulfill.

He finally looked at you. His eyes were strange in this light—flickering between indigo and stormcloud. “Do you believe in destiny?” he asked you, quietly, as though afraid the ruins might answer for you.

You drew in a breath, letting it settle before answering. “I believe we shape it,” you said. “Even when it’s written.”

He turned from you again, his jaw tight, the tension spreading through his shoulders. “Mine is already written. In scrolls, in books, in flames.” He shook his head slowly. “And every step I take, I feel it binding tighter around me.”

You moved closer, your voice barely above a whisper. “But not alone.”

Rhaegar went still, and for a moment you thought he might close off again like he always did when the subject crept too close to his heart. But instead, he turned toward you fully, his eyes burning now—not with rage, but with something deeper. Fear.

“I’m afraid,” he said. “Not of what I must do. Not of what I will become. I’m afraid I’ll have to walk it without you.”

His words hung there, suspended between ruin and memory. You had heard his fears before, but never so plainly. Never so bare.

You reached for him, your hand settling gently against his chest, where his heartbeat pulsed like the soft rhythm of a distant drum. “You won’t.”

He swallowed, and for the first time, his posture seemed to break. “The future takes things,” he said, voice hoarse. “Even when they’re not ready to be taken.”

You let your forehead rest against his shoulder, your fingers curling into the fabric of his tunic. “Then we will make the future yield.”

He exhaled shakily, his arms coming around you slowly, as though afraid you might vanish if he moved too fast. He held you against him, and you could feel it now—the quiet tremble beneath his stillness. Rhaegar, the silver prince, the one who carried songs and sorrow alike, was simply a man here. A brother. Yours.

“Don’t let go,” he whispered.

“I never have,” you answered.

And in the stillness of Summerhall, surrounded by what had burned, you held onto one another like the last unbroken thing.

The sun had crept higher into the sky, tracing shadows across the broken stone and brittle grass of Summerhall. The ruins lay still, undisturbed save for the occasional gust of wind that whispered through the hollowed walls and stirred the remnants of a palace long dead. Jaime stood near the edge of the old courtyard, arms crossed, his eyes fixed on the scorched archway where the prince and princess had disappeared nearly an hour ago.

He was growing restless.

His horse had long since cooled beneath the shade of a tree. The guards lounged or kept idle watch. Ser Arthur, patient as ever, sat with his back to a blackened pillar, his head tipped downward as he thumbed through a small leather-bound book, utterly unbothered by the passage of time. But Jaime… Jaime was coiled tight.

He didn’t realize he was scowling until a voice beside him stirred him from his brooding.

“Patience is a virtue for knights,” Ser Barristan said lightly, walking toward him with his helm tucked beneath one arm. His hair was tousled slightly from removing it, but his eyes were focused and clear beneath the weight of years. “Though I find fewer and fewer of the young possess it.”

Jaime didn’t look at him at first. His eyes remained fixed on the ruins. “It’s been too long,” he said flatly.

“They’ve been here before,” Barristan replied, as if that answered anything. “And they’ve always returned.”

Jaime shifted his stance, fingers drumming against his arm. “She’s not just some wandering lady from the Reach,” he said. “She’s the king’s daughter.”

Barristan raised a brow. “And you think the prince would let harm come to her?”

Jaime glanced at him then, just briefly. “I don’t think anything. That’s the problem.”

For a time, they stood in silence, the breeze rustling the scorched grass around them. Then Barristan spoke again, this time more carefully.

“You train like a knight. You fight like one. But your thoughts, Jaime…” He paused. “They’ve drifted elsewhere, haven’t they?”

Jaime didn’t respond.

“You asked me once,” Barristan continued, “what it felt like to wear the white. To take the vows. You were only twelve, and you looked at me as though I’d been made of stories.” A faint smile ghosted his lips. “But now you hardly speak of it at all.”

Jaime turned to him, slowly. His jaw was tight. “I haven’t stopped thinking about it.”

“But not the same way,” Barristan said quietly.

Jaime exhaled through his nose, staring at the blackened stones beneath his boots. “I never wanted Casterly Rock. That was meant for Kevan’s son. Even when I was a boy, I knew my father would see me as a sword first and heir second.” He glanced up at the sky, his voice lower now. “But I never imagined I’d want anything else.” He looked toward the archway again, his gaze distant. “Now I do.”

Barristan regarded him, his expression unreadable. “You would give up the Kingsguard. Give up your name. Your legacy. For her?”

Jaime didn’t hesitate. “For her, I’d try.”

The old knight was quiet for a long time. Then, he stepped closer, his voice dropping.

“I have seen many men fall in love with dragons,” he said. “Some from afar. Some from within. It rarely ends well for any of them—especially the ones without wings.”

Jaime turned to him, meeting his gaze evenly. “I don’t care.”

“You should.”

“I don’t.”

Barristan sighed, the weight of experience settling in his shoulders. “Then pray, for both your sakes, that this fire does not burn you alive.”

Jaime said nothing. His eyes drifted once more to the ruins.

And still, you did not return.

The solar in Maegor’s Holdfast was stifling despite the breeze that whispered through the high windows. The red and black tapestries, embroidered with dragons in flight and fire, hung heavy on the walls, absorbing the heat and amplifying the sense of confinement within the chamber. The air smelled of warmed parchment and perfumed oils, a rich, cloying mixture that clung to the skin. But it was not the heat or the scent that unsettled Tywin Lannister—it was the man seated on the carved wooden chair beneath the Targaryen crest, idly turning a jeweled ring around his finger, his violet eyes glittering with something between amusement and disdain.

Aerys Targaryen had not yet descended fully into the madness that would one day consume him, but the change had begun. It was there in the long silences between his words, the sudden flickers of suspicion behind his gaze, the way his mouth twisted when he smiled, as if the act required effort. And yet, he was still shrewd. Still cunning. Still dangerous.

“My king,” Tywin began again, his voice measured, every word deliberate. “You’ve made your views clear regarding my daughter. If you will not entertain the match between Prince Rhaegar and Cersei, then I ask you to consider—”

“You ask,” Aerys interrupted abruptly, his tone light but edged like a blade. “You, Tywin Lannister, who once served as Hand of the King, who now returns with gifts and golden children in tow, asking for my blood to be mixed with yours.”

Tywin didn’t flinch. “It would strengthen both houses.”

Aerys’s laugh was brittle, too loud for the small room. “Ah, yes, strength. That is always your language, isn’t it? Not honor, not duty—strength. Power. Gold.”

Tywin’s jaw tightened. “Jaime is a capable boy. More than capable. And he is your daughter’s equal in birth, if not in name. I merely ask that you consider the benefit of promising her to him.”

The king’s fingers stilled against the ring. His gaze narrowed, lips curling slightly. “Your son is a squire, not a prince. And she is not yours to have.”

“She is the daughter of the dragon,” Tywin reminded him calmly. “And Westeros is watching. It would do your House good to remind the realm that alliances can be made outside the bloodline.”

“Outside?” Aerys repeated, his tone suddenly biting. “You would dilute the blood of the dragon with lion’s blood. Do you think me a fool?”

Tywin met his gaze without blinking. “I think you a king who must preserve more than his name. Isolation breeds weakness. The other Great Houses grow in power with each generation. Your own family grows thinner.”

Aerys stood then, his movements sudden, graceful despite the long folds of his black and red robes. He moved to the window, his back turned, his posture tense.

“They speak of me in whispers,” he said, voice low, almost musing. “They say I’ve grown strange. That I fear shadows and keep to myself. That I hoard wildfire between the walls.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Do you believe these things, Tywin?”

“I believe your enemies want others to believe them.”

The king turned slowly, his expression twisting into something smug. “Let them believe what they will. Let them fear. They have always feared Targaryen fire. That is how we keep the throne. Not with Lannister gold.”

Tywin remained silent, letting the pause settle between them before stepping forward.

“And what of your children?” he asked softly. “What of the girl? Will you have her remain unwed while the world speculates? Or will you—” he stopped short, letting the weight of his next words hang unspoken.

Aerys’s eyes narrowed. “Speak plainly.”

“You mean to wed them,” Tywin said. “Your son and daughter. That is why you refuse all other matches. You’ve planned this.”

The king’s silence was answer enough.

Tywin’s mouth tightened. “You would close the Targaryen circle again.”

“As it has always been,” Aerys said, chin lifting. “As it must be.”

“You will isolate your House,” Tywin warned, voice low. “Already the smallfolk whisper that your line is touched by madness. You think to silence them by marrying your children? You will only make it worse.”

Aerys smiled slowly. “Let them whisper. So long as they kneel.”

Tywin’s eyes hardened, but he said no more. The game had been revealed. The king had made his choice—years ago, it seemed—and now he merely waited for others to fall into place, like pieces on a board whose moves only he could see.

But Tywin Lannister had not come this far to play someone else’s game.

He bowed stiffly. “As you wish, Your Grace.”

And with that, he turned and left the solar, his steps echoing through the stone hall, the cold realization settling in his chest like a knife: he had brought his son here hoping for a crown.

And found a dragon’s den instead.

The sun had long since set below the hills, and the pale orange glow that had lingered in the sky gave way to the violet hush of evening. Summerhall, in twilight, seemed quieter still—its broken walls softened by the dark, its jagged lines blurred into silhouette. The stars stretched wide above the ruin, scattered like shards of glass across a velvet dome, and the moon had begun to rise, thin like the edge of a blade.

You lay beside Rhaegar in what remained of the old courtyard, your cloak spread beneath you to keep the cold of the earth at bay. The moss beneath your fingers was damp and fragrant, tinged with the scent of ash that never seemed to leave this place. Beside you, Rhaegar lay silent, one hand behind his head, the other resting lightly between you both. His silver hair spilled across the ground like a halo of light, his profile illuminated by moonlight that caught the delicate line of his jaw, the quiet slope of his brow.

You watched the stars in silence for some time. Here, without the press of court or the ever-watching eyes of nobles and lords, the world felt still. The only sounds were the rustling of the wind through crumbling stone and the occasional call of a nightbird far off in the trees. It reminded you of your childhood—of stolen moments in the city when your brother played his harp and you sat cross-legged at his side, dreaming of nothing but the sound of his music and the warmth of his voice.

Now his voice came again, softer than the breeze. “They’ve been speaking of Dorne again,” Rhaegar said.

You turned your head toward him. “The council?”

He nodded slowly. “I heard Lord Mooton speaking with Grand Maester Pycelle before we departed. They believe Elia Martell would be a suitable match. That Dorne’s alliance could stabilize the southern houses.”

Your chest tightened. For a moment, you said nothing, listening to the distant sigh of the wind moving through the hollow halls. Then you reached over, gently brushing your fingertips against his sleeve.

“They speak,” you said quietly, “but they do not decide. Father does.”

Rhaegar did not look at you. His eyes were fixed upward, toward the stars. “And what if they begin to turn Father against himself? You’ve seen it too. The way they whisper about his temper, about his judgments. They speak as though his mind is already slipping.” A pause. “They will try to take the choice from him.”

You sat up slightly, leaning your weight on your elbow as you looked at him fully. “Rhaegar. He will never allow them to dictate your match.” You touched his hand. “And he will never give me to another. He’s made that much clear.”

He turned to face you now, his indigo eyes shining faintly in the starlight. “Sometimes I fear that Father’s devotion to us is the very thing they resent most.”

You didn’t deny it. You knew well how the lords of the realm watched you both—how they saw your father’s favoritism not as love, but as danger. But you also knew that no one could pull the reins from Aerys Targaryen’s hands—not yet, not while fire still clung to his voice and his will remained unbroken.

“He may be many things,” you said, gently, “but no one tells him what to do. No lord in Westeros, no whispering maester, no cautious courtier. Not even Tywin Lannister.” You smiled faintly. “Especially not him.”

Rhaegar exhaled through his nose, something like amusement breaking the tension in his brow. “Tywin would flay himself before bending to Father’s whims. And yet he still came to court with two golden offerings.”

You laid back down, folding your hands over your stomach, your voice thoughtful. “He must be desperate, to think you’d marry Cersei.”

“She speaks with all the charm of her father,” Rhaegar muttered.

You laughed softly, your breath a cloud in the air above you. “And Jaime?”

He was quiet for a moment. “He watches you too closely.”

You said nothing, though your smile lingered. Then you reached for his hand, threading your fingers through his, the pressure light but warm.

“Let them speak,” you said. “Let them scheme and guess. At the end of it all, it is you and me. And it has always been.”

He turned to you again, his gaze softening. “And you’ll stay with me, even when the road darkens?”

You nodded without hesitation. “Always.”

A moment passed. Then Rhaegar sat up slowly, brushing dust from his sleeve. “We should return,” he said. “They’ll be wondering.”

You rose with him, adjusting your cloak against the chill. “Barristan will pretend not to be concerned. Arthur will say nothing at all. But Jaime…” You looked to him sidelong. “Jaime might have been counting every minute.”

Rhaegar offered no response, but his eyes narrowed faintly in the dark.

Together, you turned from the courtyard, walking side by side through the broken halls of Summerhall, leaving the ashes of dreams behind you.

Night had fully claimed Summerhall by the time you and Rhaegar returned to the camp. The ruins behind you seemed to sink deeper into shadow, their scorched stones swallowed by darkness, leaving behind only the cold scent of ash and old earth on the air. The clearing where the retinue had made their camp was quiet, lit by low-burning fires ringed with coals, their flickering light casting soft amber hues across the edges of the tents and the faint glint of polished armor.

You walked beside your brother in silence, your cloak drawn close around you, the night wind tugging softly at your pale hair. The firelight caught in his profile as you stepped into camp—the quiet set of his mouth, the unfocused distance in his eyes. Yet there was a stillness in him now, a quiet centering that had not been there when you arrived. Whatever had weighed upon him earlier in the day had eased, if only slightly.

The guards took notice of your return without fanfare. They moved as soldiers often did—observing everything, commenting on nothing. But as you approached the central fire where Ser Barristan stood speaking quietly with Ser Arthur Dayne, the old knight lifted his head, and the conversation stilled.

“My prince,” Barristan said with a slight bow of the head. “Shall we begin preparations to ride at first light?”

Rhaegar gave a small nod, pulling his gloves tighter. “Yes. We return to the capital tomorrow.”

“Very good,” Barristan replied, his gaze flickering toward you for the briefest moment, his eyes unreadable. “The men will be ready.”

You inclined your head to them both and turned to step toward your own tent, the warmth of the fire briefly brushing against your skin as you passed it. But you could feel it—a gaze lingering—not from Rhaegar or the knights, but from the edge of the firelight.

Jaime.

He was crouched beside his tent, working a leather strap between his gloved fingers, pretending to busy himself with tying down the flaps, though they had long since been secured. His brow was furrowed, a deep crease between his eyes that suggested concentration, but his posture betrayed him—too still, too tense, his head lifting slightly with every soft step you took.

You paused by the water basin outside your tent, letting your fingers brush the cool metal rim, and for a moment, neither of you moved. You didn’t look directly at him, but you felt the shift of his gaze—the flicker of green eyes that never strayed far from where you stood.

He had barely spoken since you and Rhaegar left, but the weight of his silence was louder than words.

Behind you, the camp settled further into quiet. The guards rotated shifts, and Ser Arthur began checking over the horses tethered nearby. You heard soft conversation in Dorne-accented Low Valyrian between two of Rhaegar’s retainers, muffled by distance and night.

You turned slightly toward your tent’s entrance, then paused and glanced back—Jaime was still watching.

Not openly. Not boldly. But in that careful, cautious way of a young man who wasn’t sure if what he felt was allowed to become anything at all.

And you—you were no stranger to being watched.

But something about the way he looked at you was different. Not hungry, not proud, not with the entitlement so many lords’ sons carried when they gazed upon a princess.

His gaze held wonder.

And perhaps, quietly, a question.

You turned your head and disappeared into the dark canvas folds of your tent, saying nothing.

But even then, behind your closed eyes and the rustle of your cloak as you unfastened it, you could still feel him watching.

The canvas walls of Jaime’s tent creaked softly in the night wind, the faint rustle of fabric barely louder than the rhythm of his breath. He lay flat on the modest cot, boots pulled off but the rest of his clothes still clinging to him, his cloak bundled beneath his head in place of a proper pillow. The air was cold against his skin, and despite the small brazier burning low in the corner, the warmth did little to reach him. He stared at the sloped ceiling, its folds of cloth illuminated faintly by the dying glow of the coals. Outside, the camp was quiet—sleep had claimed most of the men, the guards walked their rounds in silence, and the sounds of the forest beyond Summerhall’s broken stones whispered with night creatures.

But Jaime could not sleep.

Not for the cold. Not for the discomfort. But because of you.

Every time he shut his eyes, he saw you standing in the starlight—your hair pale and soft, trailing like light down your back as you passed beneath the old archway with Rhaegar. He saw the way you looked when you returned: calm, but distant, as if your mind had not yet followed you back from the place the two of you had gone. You hadn’t spoken a word to him. You hadn’t needed to. Your silence had done more than any conversation might have.

And yet he couldn’t shake the image of you standing near the water basin, pausing just long enough to let him see that you knew. That you had always known.

He shifted onto his side, drawing the cloak closer to his neck, staring at the shadowed flap of the tent’s entrance. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could bear keeping his thoughts caged. Rhaegar had claimed your time, your attention, your closeness, but Jaime couldn’t allow himself to be silent forever. He didn’t know if what he felt was foolish. He didn’t know if it was dangerous. All he knew was that it was real.

And that he wanted more.

Tomorrow, they would leave Summerhall. Return to King’s Landing, return to the games of court and whispered alliances, and you would vanish back into the castle’s halls, where you moved like a ghost no one dared reach for. If he didn’t speak now—if he didn’t try—then he would lose whatever slender chance he had to be near you.

He sat up slowly, running a hand through his hair. The fire in the brazier cracked softly, casting long shadows against the canvas walls. He breathed in, the scent of smoke and dust heavy in his lungs, and exhaled through his nose.

“I’ll speak with her,” he said aloud, his voice low and certain in the darkness. “Before we ride.”

Even if it led nowhere. Even if it only confirmed that her thoughts lay with Rhaegar, as he feared. He had to know. He had to offer more than stolen glances and half-smiles over firelight. You were not a dream he could afford to let drift further away.

The wind picked up outside, tugging gently at the corner of the tent. Jaime lay back once more, closing his eyes not in sleep, but in resolve.

Tomorrow. Before the sun rose high and they turned their horses north. He would find you.

And he would speak.

The first whispers of dawn spilled pale across the landscape, turning the edges of Summerhall's ruined stones from charcoal to ashen gray. Mist still clung low to the ground, curling between the hooves of restless horses and coiling around the boots of squires hurrying to break down camp. The metallic clatter of buckles, the flapping of canvas, and the murmured commands of men folding their tents into neat piles filled the air with the quiet energy of morning.

You stood near your tent, your cloak drawn close against the chill that came before the sun. The ruins behind you were dark and still, but the sky above had begun to shift—faint streaks of rose and amber blossoming at the horizon. The fire had gone out some time ago, leaving only a cold ring of stones and scattered embers, but you hadn’t moved far from it. There was something peaceful in these last quiet moments before the ride began. Something final, too, as if Summerhall, in its silence, was saying farewell.

And then you heard footsteps behind you—deliberate, hesitant.

You turned your head slightly, and there he was.

Jaime Lannister approached with his cloak thrown loosely over one shoulder, his golden hair slightly tousled, his sword strapped at his hip. He wasn’t in armor yet—just the traveling leathers, scuffed and dusted with the ash and soil of yesterday’s ride—but somehow he still looked the part of a lord's son, every inch the lion trying not to stalk too loudly.

“Good morning,” he said, his voice softer than usual. Hesitant, but not unsure. “Did you sleep well?”

You offered him a faint smile. “As well as one can in a ruined palace.”

That drew a small chuckle from him, and he took a slow step closer, as if gauging how close he was permitted to stand. He looked out toward the morning haze with you, his eyes catching the first hints of yellow that filtered over the hills.

“This place,” he said after a moment, “it reminds me of somewhere else. Somewhere I haven’t thought about in years.” He glanced at you. “When I was a boy, I used to sneak out of Casterly Rock with Cersei. There was an old watchtower at the edge of the cliffs. Crumbling and forgotten, like this. We’d pretend we were dragonlords there—two brave warriors building a kingdom out of sea stone and wind.”

You looked at him, surprised by the honesty in his voice. “Did you take turns being the dragon?”

He smiled, sheepish. “No. Cersei was always the dragon. I was whatever she told me to be.” He laughed to himself, then rubbed the back of his neck. “But it was quiet there. And for once, no one expected anything of us. No father, no maesters, no banners. Just salt and air and... her laughter.”

He seemed to catch himself then, the softness in his tone drawing back slightly. His gaze returned to you, and something shifted behind his eyes—a vulnerability poorly hidden behind his usual ease.

“I never thought I’d come to like a place like this again,” he admitted. “But I do.”

You tilted your head gently. “Because it reminds you of home?”

Jaime hesitated, then shook his head. “Because of you.”

You felt the breath in your lungs pause, just slightly.

He cleared his throat, not looking at you now. “Forgive me, I’m… not particularly good at this sort of thing. I’ve never had to… speak this way. Not to anyone.” He glanced at you again, briefly, and then away. “I never had to try.”

Your brow arched faintly, amusement glimmering behind your eyes. “That sounds like something someone says when they’re used to being adored.”

He smiled, a little crooked now. “That’s just it. I’ve been flattered before. Admired. Not… seen.” He gestured vaguely toward the ruins, toward the day beginning around you. “Not like this. Not like here.”

You studied him, the way he stood half in shadow, half in light, fighting the urge to retreat into something easier. Something more familiar. But his voice was honest. His words clumsy, yes—but sincere.

“You don’t need to charm me, Ser Jaime,” you said gently. “You only need to be yourself.”

He met your eyes then, and for the first time since you’d known him, there was no trace of performance.

“I’m trying,” he said.

You nodded, then turned your gaze back to the horizon. “Then try walking with me. The day waits for no one.”

Jaime stepped beside you, falling into stride as you moved toward the others, the low light stretching long across the earth ahead.

And for the first time, you let him walk beside you.

The soft crunch of grass and soil beneath your boots was the only sound between you and Jaime as you walked back toward the center of the camp. The sky had begun to blossom with the full colors of morning—rose, amber, the faintest tinge of lilac streaked across the eastern horizon. The chill of night still lingered in the air, but there was movement all around now. Squires moved briskly with saddles and gear, guards were tightening straps, checking bridles, and shifting into the formation that would carry the procession back to the Red Keep. Horses stamped the earth impatiently, their breath curling in the morning light, and the scent of fresh leather mixed with the familiar tang of steel.

Your mare, Moonveil, was already saddled and waiting, her dappled coat gleaming with dew. She nickered softly at your approach, ears flicking toward you, and you reached out instinctively, brushing your fingers along her neck. Jaime’s stallion was tethered nearby, his chestnut coat well-brushed and gleaming, already restless under the weight of his light armor.

Rhaegar stood just ahead with Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Barristan, his back partially turned as he spoke quietly with the two Kingsguard. His hair caught the rising light and glimmered like frost, his profile calm as ever—still, poised, as if he belonged not to the world around him but to some dream yet unfolding.

As you and Jaime approached, his voice paused mid-sentence, and his gaze lifted—not to you, but to the young lion walking a step behind you.

Rhaegar’s eyes settled on Jaime for only the briefest of moments.

Not a glare. Not a challenge. Just a look—cool, unreadable, assessing.

And then he looked away, disinterested.

If Jaime noticed the dismissal, he didn’t show it. He stepped ahead and moved to his horse, checking the girth himself even though the stablehands had already seen to it, clearly needing something for his hands to do. His jaw tightened for only a moment, just enough for you to notice, before he composed himself and turned to mount.

Rhaegar’s voice drifted toward you a moment later, soft but audible.

“We’ll take the south road through Bramblebend,” he said to Ser Arthur, mounting with effortless grace. “It’s quieter. And I would not have my sister ride through the capital’s filth upon our return.”

Barristan nodded. “It will add time, but not much.”

You moved to mount Moonveil, and as you swung into the saddle, you felt Jaime’s eyes on you again—brief, searching. He said nothing as he settled onto his stallion beside you, but the silence that hung between you now was different than it had been days ago. It was not the quiet of uncertainty, but of something beginning to take shape, fragile and unnamed.

Rhaegar rode at the front of the procession as always, Ser Arthur flanking him at one side, Ser Barristan falling into position near the rear. You remained near the center, Jaime keeping close, though now with a careful distance—never too near, never too far.

The ruins of Summerhall receded behind you, swallowed slowly by the trees and the mist.

None of you looked back.

But you felt the shift beneath your ribs—that this ride home would not be the same as the ride here.

And the lion at your side was no longer watching you as an outsider might.

He rode with the intent of a man who had made a decision.

And was waiting for you to see it.

[marwyn]

do you think they'll be any subversion when it comes do dany being the third dany in the targaryen line (that we know of)

It seems likely! I’m sure I’m not the first to say as much, but Dany’s life already stands in contrast to those of the other two Daeneryses at several points and will probably continue to do so (and when I say “Dany” I’m referring specifically to the latest Daenerys, Daenerys Stormborn), and there are also some intriguing potential similarities between her and the others that extend beyond their names.

Daenerys, daughter of Jaehaerys and Alysanne (hereafter referred to as Daenerys1 to avoid confusion with the others, when applicable), was the eldest of her siblings to live past infancy and as such was Alysanne’s choice for heir to the throne, but Jaehaerys had their eldest son in mind instead and suggested that it made little difference since the two could one day wed:

Jaehaerys loved all three children fiercely, but from the moment Aemon was born, the king began to speak of him as his heir, to Queen Alysanne’s displeasure. “Daenerys is older,” she would remind His Grace. “She is first in line; she should be queen.” The king would never disagree, except to say, “She shall be queen, when she and Aemon marry. They will rule together, just as we have.” But Benifer could see that the king’s words did not entirely please the queen, as he noted in his letters.

(Jaehaerys and Alysanne—Their Triumphs and Tragedies)

It’s sadly unsurprising that Alysanne found this solution inadequate, seeing as she was living it herself. Dany has been both queen consort and queen regnant (albeit not of Westeros), but Daenerys1 was fated to become neither, as she fell victim to an epidemic and it occurred to her father too late that a bond with a dragon might save her:

Near dawn, Jaehaerys bolted to his feet shouting that a dragon was needed, that his daughter must have a dragon, and ravens took wing for Dragonstone, instructing the Dragonkeepers there to bring a hatchling to the Red Keep at once.

None of it mattered. A day and a half after she had woken her mother from sleep complaining of feeling cold, the little princess was dead. […] Jaehaerys […] flew to Dragonstone to tell them there was no need for the hatchling after all.

(The Long Reign—Jaehaerys and Alysanne: Policy, Progeny, and Pain)

He may have been correct in that this could have cured his daughter, as another major point of contrast between her and Dany is that Drogon was able to ameliorate Dany’s suicidal ideation and physical ailments alike in AGOT:

At first it had not come easy. The khalasar had broken camp the morning after her wedding, moving east toward Vaes Dothrak, and by the third day Dany thought she was going to die. Saddle sores opened on her bottom, hideous and bloody. Her thighs were chafed raw, her hands blistered from the reins, the muscles of her legs and back so wracked with pain that she could scarcely sit. By the time dusk fell, her handmaids would need to help her down from her mount.

Even the nights brought no relief. Khal Drogo ignored her when they rode, even as he had ignored her during their wedding, and spent his evenings drinking with his warriors and bloodriders, racing his prize horses, watching women dance and men die. Dany had no place in these parts of his life. She was left to sup alone, or with Ser Jorah and her brother, and afterward to cry herself to sleep. Yet every night, some time before the dawn, Drogo would come to her tent and wake her in the dark, to ride her as relentlessly as he rode his stallion. He always took her from behind, Dothraki fashion, for which Dany was grateful; that way her lord husband could not see the tears that wet her face, and she could use her pillow to muffle her cries of pain. When he was done, he would close his eyes and begin to snore softly and Dany would lie beside him, her body bruised and sore, hurting too much for sleep.

Day followed day, and night followed night, until Dany knew she could not endure a moment longer. She would kill herself rather than go on, she decided one night...

Yet when she slept that night, she dreamt the dragon dream again. Viserys was not in it this time. There was only her and the dragon. Its scales were black as night, wet and slick with blood. Her blood, Dany sensed. Its eyes were pools of molten magma, and when it opened its mouth, the flame came roaring out in a hot jet. She could hear it singing to her. She opened her arms to the fire, embraced it, let it swallow her whole, let it cleanse her and temper her and scour her clean. She could feel her flesh sear and blacken and slough away, could feel her blood boil and turn to steam, and yet there was no pain. She felt strong and new and fierce.

And the next day, strangely, she did not seem to hurt quite so much. It was as if the gods had heard her and taken pity. Even her handmaids noticed the change. “Khaleesi,” Jhiqui said, “what is wrong? Are you sick?”

“I was,” she answered, standing over the dragon's eggs that Illyrio had given her when she wed. She touched one, the largest of the three, running her hand lightly over the shell. Black-and-scarlet, she thought, like the dragon in my dream. The stone felt strangely warm beneath her fingers…or was she still dreaming? She pulled her hand back nervously.

From that hour onward, each day was easier than the one before it. Her legs grew stronger; her blisters burst and her hands grew callused; her soft thighs toughened, supple as leather.

(AGOT, Daenerys III)

As Drogon was still a fossil at the time, perhaps even an egg would have been sufficient for Daenerys1. F&B states that Jaehaerys and Alysanne had given their next eldest child an egg for his cradle, as their elder sister had done for them:

It was Princess Rhaena, legend says, who put a dragon’s egg in Princess Alysanne's cradle, just as she had for Prince Jaehaerys two years earlier.

(The Sons of the Dragon)

Jaehaerys named him Aemon. “Daenerys will be cross with me,” Alysanne said, as she put the princeling to her breast. “She was most insistent on wanting a sister.” Jaehaerys laughed at that and said, “Next time.” That night, at Alysanne’s suggestion, he placed a dragon’s egg in the prince’s cradle.

(Jaehaerys and Alysanne—Their Triumphs and Tragedies)

But for some reason there’s no indication they had done the same for Daenerys.

Despite this possible oversight (and her thematically linked relegation to future queen consort rather than queen regnant), she did have the benefit of a comfortable childhood and a good relationship with her brothers which Dany lacked. Dany is not as alone in the world as she thinks, however, and I do think she and Jon are likely to get along extremely well, even if there’s some initial conflict between them as there apparently was between Daenerys1 and her brother Aemon:

Princess Daenerys had finally warmed to her brother, Aemon, though she still wanted a little sister.

(Jaehaerys and Alysanne—Their Triumphs and Tragedies)

The young princes loved their sister to distraction, it was plain to see, and Daenerys delighted in the boys, “especially in telling them what to do.”

(Ibid.)

Moving on to Daenerys, daughter of Aegon IV and Naerys (hereafter referred to as Daenerys2 when applicable). Doran and Quentyn invoke her in light of the news about Dany’s dragons and their hopes for a marriage alliance, given the significance of Daenerys2’s marriage alliance with a ruling prince of Dorne:

“ […] The Water Gardens are my favorite place in this world, ser. One of my ancestors had them built to please his Targaryen bride and free her from the dust and heat of Sunspear. Daenerys was her name. She was sister to King Daeron the Good, and it was her marriage that made Dorne part of the Seven Kingdoms. The whole realm knew that the girl loved Daeron’s bastard brother Daemon Blackfyre, and was loved by him in turn, but the king was wise enough to see that the good of thousands must come before the desires of two, even if those two were dear to him. […]”

(ADWD, The Watcher)

The young prince swallowed. “I…I have the blood of the dragon in me as well, Your Grace. I can trace my lineage back to the first Daenerys, the Targaryen princess who was sister to King Daeron the Good and wife to the Prince of Dorne. He built the Water Gardens for her.”

(ADWD, Daenerys VIII)

The theme of love versus duty emerges once again, and according to The World of Ice & Fire, Daenerys2 was indeed dutiful:

Whether Daenerys loved Daemon, as those who rose for the Black Dragon later claimed, who could say? In the years afterward, Daenerys was never aught but a loyal wife to Prince Maron, and if she mourned Daemon Blackfyre, she left no record of it.

(TWOIAF, The Targaryen Kings—Daeron II)

Quentyn also explicitly frames his potential marriage to Dany as a duty he must carry out, and he tries to assure himself that she would do the same:

That was before Prince Doran had summoned him to the Water Gardens. And now the most beautiful woman in the world was waiting in Meereen, and he meant to do his duty and claim her for his bride. She will not refuse me. She will honor the agreement. Daenerys Targaryen would need Dorne to win the Seven Kingdoms, and that meant that she would need him. It does not mean that she will love me, though. She may not even like me.

(ADWD, The Merchant’s Man)

But Dany can’t be moved about the board as easily as Doran’s black dragon cyvasse piece. Her refusal is due in large part to the fact that she’s already agreed to a different marriage for the sake of duty, however:

“And if he does not fail? What will Your Grace do then?”

“Her duty.” The word felt cold upon her tongue. “You saw my brother Rhaegar wed. Tell me, did he wed for love or duty?”

The old knight hesitated. “Princess Elia was a good woman, Your Grace. She was kind and clever, with a gentle heart and a sweet wit. I know the prince was very fond of her.”

Fond, thought Dany. The word spoke volumes. I could become fond of Hizdahr zo Loraq, in time. Perhaps.

(ADWD, Daenerys IV)

I wouldn’t completely rule out a future alliance with Dorne on Dany’s own terms, though, because in asoiaf’s Wars of the Roses paradigm she bears many similarities to Henry Tudor, who allied with Wales (one of several clear inspirations for Dorne) and landed there at the start of his invasion, on account of his Welsh heritage (Dany’s most recent non-Targ ancestors besides Betha Blackwood are Dyanna Dayne and Myriah Martell). On the other hand it is possible that this role in the narrative is being fulfilled by Young Griff as he attempts to ally with Arianne in TWOW, as his (alleged) Dornish heritage is much more recent than Dany’s and he makes a much better black dragon cyvasse piece than she does.

Circling back to Daenerys2—her marriage to Maron Martell and Dany’s marriage to Drogo were both (ostensibly) in service of the brides’ brothers’ kingship concerns (it is significant however that Illyrio brokered the latter and made a lot of money in doing so). But Dany, unlike Daenerys2, has since had to take on her brother’s role as monarch and has already been married twice, and I am fairly confident that she will wed a third and final time and it’ll be for love, as the word shows up again and again as the last part of a triad in the House of the Undying and so does an apparent indication that her marriages will number three in total:

The whispers became a swirling song.…three fires must you light …one for life and one for death and one to love…Her own heart was beating in unison to the one that floated before her, blue and corrupt…three mounts must you ride…one to bed and one to dread and one to love…The voices were growing louder, she realized, and it seemed her heart was slowing, and even her breath.…three treasons will you know…once for blood and once for gold and once for love …

[…]

Her silver was trotting through the grass, to a darkling stream beneath a sea of stars. A corpse stood at the prow of a ship, eyes bright in his dead face, grey lips smiling sadly. A blue flower grew from a chink in a wall of ice, and filled the air with sweetness.…mother of dragons, bride of fire…

(ACOK, Daenerys IV)

Dany’s storyline also includes unusually direct references to real-world fairy tales:

“They call him frog,” she said, “and we have just learned why. In the Seven Kingdoms there are children's tales of frogs who turn into enchanted princes when kissed by their true love.” Smiling at the Dornish knights, she switched back to the Common Tongue. “Tell me, Prince Quentyn, are you enchanted?”

(ADWD, Daenerys VII)

which underlines her status as the third child in a fairy tale who succeeds where their siblings did not. Thus while I’m not certain of her ultimate endpoint she is undoubtedly a hopeful contrast to the fates of various historical and deceased Targs whom she evokes, the first two Daeneryses among them!

[softpascalito]

Dulcissima I Marcus Acacius x Vestal!Reader I Chapter XV - Beneventum

Summary: Set before and during Gladiator II. General Acacius finds himself entranced by a highly valued priestess of Rome – A Vestal Virgin. But you both have taken vows that make sure your paths may never cross. Until they do.

Aka a fix-it fanfic where Acacius survives the Colosseum.

Pairing: Marcus Acacius x Vestal Virgin Reader Rating: Explicit / MDNI Word count: 45k+ Tags: Secret Relationship, Vestal Virgins, Religious Guilt, Gladiator fights, Gladiator II compliant (more or less), Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Ancient Rome, Age Difference, Slow Burn (ish), Injury, Kissing, Historical Inaccuracy, (Attempted) Sexual Harassment, Smut, First Time, Oral Sex (f receiving), Vaginal Sex, Unprotected Sex, Slight Breeding Kink, Semi-Public Sex, More tags to be added

AO3 // Series Masterlist // Masterlist // Fic Playlist // Ko-Fi

notes: look who it is! hiii! sorry this chapter is a tad late, im afraid the rise of f*cism in my country and my current ear infection are to blame. oh, if i only had a strong roman general with big big forearms to save me … ♡

centurion - high-ranking army official

Chapter XV - Beneventum

You don’t plan to do it. You really don’t.

But when you have dressed and adjusted your veil in front of the small mirror that sits in the corner of the room and step down into the atrium, Acacius is nowhere to be seen. Instead, a servant greets you at the bottom of the stairs. “My lady Vestal, I have prepared a light meal for you if you would like some food?”

“Is there drink too?” You enquire gently and at the woman's nod, you follow her back to the dining room you remember from last night. “Has the General already taken his food?”

She generously pours you a cup of what looks like some kind of juice and shakes her head, smiling like the mere idea is a silly one to entertain. “Oh no, the General was up before dawn and rode off to see his soldiers. He should be down by the fields. Would you like me to have a message sent to him? It is not very far.”

“No,” you respond a bit too quickly. You hope to cover the slight blush that creeps onto your cheeks with your cup by bringing it to your mouth and drinking. The juice tastes of oranges along with other fruits and you nod in approval, giving the woman a faint smile before continuing. “I know the General is a very busy man. I was merely wondering whether or not to save him any of this.”

The woman seems to swallow the ruse because she laughs at that, once again shaking her head. “Oh no, my dear, this is all for you. But I promise you, when he returns, I will offer him the same and more. Neither of you shall go hungry in our house.”

“You are very kind.” You smile. Your appetite and your mood have exponentially increased at the unexpected news of Acacius’s absence. You busy yourself with your food, tasting a bit of everything that is offered up in front of you. But your mind is already out the front door. Because you really didn't plan to do it. But if Acacius is providing you with a perfect opportunity to slip through the bars of your cage, you will not be so stupid as to ask for his permission.

Stomach filled with bread and drink, you rush back upstairs to gather your coins and a coat. The sun makes the weather seem slightly less bleak, but the cold is still all around you and you aren’t sure how long you will be. You make it out of the villa and through the gardens without an issue. It is only when you reach the entrance gate that separates the grounds from the town that you run into a problem. A problem in the form of two guards that turn toward you as you step outside, their eyes flying over your form.

“My lady, may we help you?” The one to your right asks politely and you do your best to not let your anxiety show, even as your heart begins to beat faster and you absent-mindedly smooth down invisible wrinkles in your stola.

“I wish to head into town,” you say as if it is the most normal request in the world and step forward just to have the man on the left do the same, putting himself right into your path. But you can see the insecurity in his step, the wish to perform well in front of such high guests. And no one wishes to upset a priestess.

“There is not much to see in this town. I am sure Sir Orbilius would prefer to have you stay within the grounds.” He must be able to see that you are not in agreement because he adds; “A walk around the gardens this time of the day is quite beautiful.”

You stay quiet for a few moments, pondering your options. It will surely be a few hours until Acacius returns, possibly even nightfall. If you manage to be back by then, you doubt the soldiers would find it worthy to report of you ever leaving. Your eyes fly past the man in front of you, onto the streets behind him and the roofs further down the hill. And suddenly, an idea strikes you.

“I am sure the gardens are lovely. However, they will not serve for my duty. It is the Temple I aspire to visit.” You nod gracefully, gesturing toward the tallest of the buildings behind the soldier. He sends the other man a quick glance, swallowing nervously.

“Maybe you should wait for the General to return then, I am certain he would appreciate…”

You don’t even let him finish his attempt at keeping you inside the cage, your voice soft as satin as you step forward. “I can tell you are a loyal soldier. I thank you for keeping the people of Beneventum and the Roman lands safe. But you should learn to trust in the gods as I do.”

It is something no Roman citizen could argue with. And indeed, you can watch as the man sheds his resistance like a coat that has gotten too heavy and steps to the side, bowing his head as he lets you pass. “Of course, my lady. Forgive me my foolishness.”

You finally pass the gate but you don't respond to his request. Because it has just occured to you that you are exactly like Acacius, exactly like the man you are trying so hard to despise. That you are using your precious gods the way he did when he asked for your company for this trip.

You’re more than content to quickly put distance between yourself and the villa, like its mere presence makes you foul. A golden cage with lavish food to eat and gardens to roam and nothing, not a single truth around. It is the one lesson you have understood early in your life through your position in the Empire. A cage, no matter how comfortable and no matter how large, is still not freedom. No matter how good an imitation it is of the very thing it forbids.

For a few moments, you consider actually stopping by the temple and allowing yourself a moment of calm. You could say a few prayers, some of them the same ones you whisper to Vesta every night, of forgiveness and obedience and admitting your shortcomings in the recent months. But the sun is still out and with every step further into the heart of Beneventum, you feel lighter. Men, women and children fill the streets, running their errands or heading from one place to another, vendors push their carts and loudly praising their fresh ingredients to whoever will listen. There is no guard with you, neither Acacius nor any other man, despite being so far from Rome. And despite a sliver of fear that remains at that thought, you realize it feels good.

And then you suddenly hear them. Hooves that click on the stone pavement in a rhythm so strict it can only mean one thing: Soldiers.

You rush to the side, scrambling to hide behind one of the wooden carts loaden with vegetables and fruits, pretending to inspect some apples in detail. Through the red and green stacks, you watch anxiously as several soldiers ride past and you let out a small breath of relief when you can't spot Acacius among them. However, you do recognize one of the centurions that usually rides next to the General and you involuntarily hold your breath, wondering whether or not you should head back before any of them can report of your absence.

“Oh, yes, yes, we just had these delivered yesterday, still as fresh as they are in the fall–” The vendor behind whose cart you’re currently hiding has turned toward you and is animatedly gesturing toward the apples you are standing in front of. When he comes face to face with you, you can see the same reaction that Lady Orbilius had at your arrival. “Oh my, it is you! They spoke of a Vestal coming to our town but I did not believe it–” He stares at you for a few moments, like you are some precious piece of gold behind glass, made purely to be admired. Then, before you can think of a proper response, he reaches for a slightly worn bag and picks several of the fruits to place inside, paying extra attention to the apples. “Here, take this for your travels, please.”

You nod, glancing over your shoulder to check whether or not the soldiers are still there but they are nowhere to be seen. Slowly, you shake off the brief faint you felt. “Let me give you some gold at the very least.”

The man insists that the food is a present time and time again until you decide that it is a lost cause to keep arguing and after once again expressing your gratitude, you move on, secretly wondering if you may be able to slip a golden coin or two into his cart on your way back.

A group of children giggle as they follow you down the busy street, occasionally hiding behind tables or columns when you turn around. It warms your heart to see them playing out in the open, not hidden away in expensive villas or worse–send to work on the fields when their small bodies will barely allow them to carry a bag of flour.

Both the temple and the soldiers are forgotten when you reach the line of shops you passed in your carriage the day before; one display more beautiful than the other.

After days of staring out at a grey landscape, at trees with no leaves and fields with nothing to bloom on them, seeing fabrics in all colors you could imagine, some impossibly mixed, feels like spring has come early. You let your hands run over the linen and peek into several of the small stores, occasionally stopping to chat with the owners or folks who notice your veil and ask for a moment of your time. Some pose questions about the gods, others ask for your blessing or prayer, one man even falls to his knees and begins to weep.

You’ve never considered how distance would make people perceive you so differently, how to them you and your veil belong to a world they usually just hear about, to Rome with all its imposing temples and politics and the colosseum.

You find your way to a corner shop that carries beautifully woven scarves and jewelry of all kinds, a slight mist hanging in the air that reminds you of the smell of stone pines in the summer. The way the clothes are arranged feels a bit like Aquila’s shop back home and you feel a sense of comfort settling over you at the thought that some things are the same, no matter where in the Empire you are.

A woman, no older than thirty, beckons you inside, treading lightly beside you as you let your eyes wander over the displays. “These are beautiful,” you hum quietly when your eyes land on a set of earrings and a matching bracelet, both made from a light gold with green stones worked into them.

“You have a good eye,” the woman compliments, reaching for the gold bracelet and holding it up to the light for you. Her gaze briefly passes over your veil and a genuine smile decorates her face. “Though I am sure these stones are nothing compared to the kind you can buy in Rome.”

“No,” you mutter. “These are more beautiful than those in Rome. They’re …” You struggle to find the right word. “More natural. The fine lines in this one– I have not seen anything like this before. Like it was brought straight from the mines.”

A small laugh escapes the woman and she nods again. “I told you you have a good eye. These were made by the blacksmith in town. He purchases stones and metals from the merchants when they pass through town and creates fine jewelry for us to sell. Nowhere else would he have so many options.” A small glint sneaks into her eyes. “Many high ranking men pass through Beneventum and stay for a night or two. It is usually about a week before their return to Rome that they remember they need to bring their wives something.”

“So the men's forgetfulness keeps you in business?” You ask with a small laughter and she sends you a clandestine look.

“That and their bad conscience.” It doesn’t seem like a big deal to her, an off-hand mention of the fact that many of the noble and proper men find no fault in keeping more than one lover, especially during long and straining journeys. You nod distantly, your eyes fixing on the green stones as you silently wonder if Acacius does the same. You’ve been retiring early and despite your tents usually being erected near each other, it would not have been impossible for the General to have a woman or two enter his tent for … evening entertainment.

Clearly, that is what he hoped to get from you too. And you gave yourself so willingly, actually believing that he could be interested in anything beyond your forbidden body. The thought makes your stomach feel funny.

“My lady?” The woman asks, her laughter having died away, the smile now replaced with a frown. “Are you not feeling well?”

***

“General?”

Acacius lets out a small groan at the voice of another soldier entering the tent, letting his head hang down in defeat. He is towering above the table, both arms leaning onto the wooden surface that is almost entirely covered in maps and lists. He arrived to meet with his centurions at the break of dawn, secretly hoping to put an early end to their planning and head back up to the villa before sunset. But of course, things are more complicated than they would need to be. Caracalla and Geta have sent orders after him, some that clash with his initial ones and he could just barely contain his annoyance at the Emperor's non-existent decision-making.

“What now?” He groans quietly, closing his eyes for a short moment, sending a silent prayer to whatever gods are listening to just let his day end so he can go back to you, maybe even have another walk in the garden. He felt you tremble below his touch last night, saw the way the fabric hugged your curves and he already knows that the only thing he regrets more than starting this whole thing with you is ending it. He just wants–

“Forgive the disturbance, my General but Sir Orbilius wishes to send word. The Vestal has gone.”

His eyes shoot open and in one quick motion, he has straightened himself and turned toward the soldier who looks slightly alarmed at the sudden movement. “What?” He demands, his voice rough and full of impatience.

“The- The Vestal–” The young man chokes out and before he can repeat himself in full, Acacius has shoved himself past him and out of the entrance of the tent. He knows that he is being unprofessional, that while your safety has priority for the Roman Empire, he needs to appear calm and collected, the same way he always does.

But he can’t. Visions flash in front of his eyes. You could have been taken. He checked the perimeter every night when you were sleeping in the tents. Why the hell did he not think to check that of the house as well?

“The temple–” The young soldier is panting when he reaches Acacius swinging himself onto his horse.

“What? What temple?” He inquires, settling into the saddle as several of his Centurions do the same around him.

“The soldiers at the gates, they said she talked about visiting the temple,” he yaps out. The sentence is barely finished when Acacius spurs his white stallion on, the horse immediately falling into a gallop, rushing past soldiers that raise their heads and their gazes that follow him with growing confusion.

“I will check the town,” he calls over his shoulder, the other men riding behind him. “You close down the main roads in and out of the city. I want no one to pass through the gates while we are looking for her.” His men shout back in agreement and begin to split up, though none of them are quite as rushed as Acacius himself. He almost runs over some of the people passing through the main street, including an older man pushing his half-empty cart of fruits. Acacius doesnt even register the curses send his way, all his senses instead trained to spot even just a hint of you. Every moment, he half expects you to emerge from the crowd or to meet your eyes down one of the streets that lead off the main road, to see you struggling against men or monsters or both.

“Gods–” He whispers, half cursing them out for allowing this and half begging them to bring you back safe. His heart is racing when he jumps off his horse in front of the temple, not caring in the slightest that he is creating a scene. He pushes the large front doors open, stepping inside and letting his eyes fly through the room. Those who were praying a moment ago have turned around at the noises of his arrival and the crowd outside and he briefly passes every face with his eyes. You have to be here. You have to.

But you’re not. Which can only mean that something has happened. That you either never left the villa willingly or that something went wrong after you did, that someone has been biding their time and just waiting to strike at the right moment. A you presented them with a glorious opportunity.

He turns on his heel, marching through the crowd, his face hard like stone. Trying not to betray the way he feels inside.

The shops. You spoke of the shops last night. He is not going to stop looking for you until he has either found you well and alive or– he forces himself not to entertain the alternative. So he may as well start in the center of town.

His senses are still dialled up to eleven, ignoring the whispers and stares that he is attracting by marching through the middle of the street, his gaze passing through each of the storefronts. When he passes one that is decorated with colorful scarves and fabrics, he pauses. Voices drift to him from inside and through the entryway of the house he can spot what he has been looking for.

“Are you out of your mind?!” He half-yells as he storms into the small shop, the woman who was next to you a moment ago immediately stumbling back, her eyes widening at the sight of the General.

He watches your gaze change too and he can’t decide what upsets him more. The look on your face before you see him, so casual and nonchalant like you are just on a comfortable trip without a care in the world– or the one after you see him. Your eyebrows immediately knitting together, your lower lip pushed out ever so slightly in a way that makes it look like you want to cry.

“I was just…” You start but he shakes his head and to his own surprise, the noise he lets out almost sounds like a growl.

“We are going back.” He orders, not sparing the other woman one glance, his eyes only fixed on you. Like you’ll disappear the second he blinks. “Now,” Acacius adds impatiently and you nod obediently, handing back whatever you’d been holding and stepping over to him. His hand hovers above your waist for a few moments and he wants to grab you, wants to wrap himself so tightly around you that you’ll have no choice but to stay with him. But he has to remind himself that you are still in public. And despite the obvious anger at your choices, he cannot be seen touching a Vestal like that.

***

It feels like he has a grip on you without needing his hands. Acacius’s mere presence radiates the anger you see reflected in his face, his breathing heavy and his eyes dark.

You know you messed up. You half expect him to call for a carriage, to place you inside and send you straight back to Rome. That you’ve finally pushed him far enough for him to push back. You almost wish he would.

But he doesn’t. He steers both of you up the hill, ignoring the looks of the townsfolk and soldiers alike. He gives a nod to the guards at the gate when you pass them and you keep your head down, like you are a prisoner being led past a jury that has already settled on a verdict.

“Your guard will stay with you at all times,” Acacius mutters as you tread up the path to the villa. “No more sneaking off or going out– Nothing.” He leads you all the way upstairs to your room, holding the door open for you and– to your surprise– following you inside. You hear the wooden door close behind him and step toward the small window, waiting for him to speak.

He still sounds like he’s out of breath and you can hear him shift on his feet. “Do you even realize what kind of danger you put yourself in?”

The sigh slips past your lips before you can stop it and you shake your head, turning to face him. He’s all squared shoulders and crossed arms, his teeth grinding in anger. At least you believe it to be anger.

You have a list of things that you could argue with; that it was daylight, that Beneventum is a safe town, that you didn’t venture down any dark allies, that you were careful. But you already know they will do nothing to lessen Acacius’s upset. “Just let me be.”

Somehow, that also seems to be the wrong thing to say because he scoffs in disbelief, stepping closer to you, his eyes flashing dangerously. “Do you know what people would do to you? To a Vestal they have all to themselves, that has no defense with her?”

“Oh, let’s see–” You start, raising a brow as you too step closer, bringing you into reach of each other. “What would they do?” Your eyes fixate his. You’re certain you’ll see anger flash red in them in a moment. “That’s right, they would touch me, is that it? Not like you ever would, right?”

The anger never comes. Instead, Acacius’s eyelids flutter and he steps back, his entire body deflating like he’s been struck.

You immediately want to take it back. But you’re tired and frustrated and he is just so, so impossible and you don’t understand him.

“Get some sleep. We’re leaving early tomorrow morning,” Acacius chokes out, his eyes not meeting yours. Then, he turns and rushes out of the room.

You spend the rest of the evening wondering if you merely imagined the slight tremble in his hands.

notes: okay okay i know a lot of fighting but hear me out … things are happening. acacius realizing how easily he is terrified by dulcissima being in (supposed) trouble is not just really fun to write but also something that may be an important realization for him. just saying. see you very soon ♡

[bamsywrites]

Recompense: Prologue

Pairing: Adar x Reader

Words: 1.4k

Summary: There's a fire in your that Adar is not willing to extinguish

Tags: blood, wounds, being dragged by hair, mentions of death, mentions of slavery, orcs doing orc things.

Notes: this is more like a teaser, I guess, than a prologue, I just wanna gauge interest. Another part of And Comes Dawn will be up soon. Let me know what you think.

“Go! Go now with haste,” you hoisted the last of the small ones onto a horse. You tightened the satchel around the horse and made sure it was in place. In it was water and bread and dried food, just enough for a day's ride.

The fire from your village burning and the stars above were all the light that you had. Every horse from the stables had a rider. Most had two. It was the only hope the children had for survival. Child slaves would be no use for the labor the Orcs had planned once the people were marched to Mordor. Already, the ones who resisted were killed.

“Where should we go,” one of the older boys asked you. “What if they…”

“They will not. Dawn comes soon, and they can not travel in sunlight. Chase the sun. As fast as you can. Do not stray from that path. You will come to an elven city in a day's time. Now go!” You insisted, giving him a look that signaled he best not argue. You watched for a moment as they rode away, turning back to your village. You saw your home burning, the cruel laughs of the orcs as they rounded your people up. You had half a mind to run away, but your feet would only take you so far.

As if reading your mind, an enemy arrow sored through the sky and pierced your thigh, causing you to cry out in pain. The searing pain spread through your body like fire, and you could see spots in your vision. In moments, you were being dragged to the others by your arm, the orc grunting something to his companions in a language you didn't understand. Your teeth dug into your lips so hard that blood ran down your chin. The pain was unbearable, but you didn't need them to have the satisfaction of knowing the pain you were in.

You were shackled and chained to the others from your village, your eyes looking around for the familiar faces of your family and friends, feeling relieved that you could account for them all but anxiety gripped your chest as you realized where you would be going and what that meant for your people.

A lifetime of slavery.

For you, it was a death sentence unless you could get care for this wound.

The trek was grueling. Your leg getting weaker and weaker as you walked, you had broken off the long stem of the arrow as it was incredibly painful anytime it brushed against something, the dried blood from the wound caked and cracked on your skin. It would soon be infected if not treated quickly, which was an unlikely scenario.

You were starting to accept your fate. Maybe you'd be able to talk with the people you cared for one more time before dying. Perhaps death was better than slavery.

As you entered Mordor, the smoke filled your nose and choked your lungs. It took your eyes a while to adjust, the ash making them itch. There were pockets of men and women working, but you knew there were many more scattered amongst the southlands. They were just beginning. Soon, you were positive all of the Southlands would be here, toiling away until they were of no use to the orcs.

“Where are the children?” A rough voice bellowed from somewhere in the swarm of orcs. “Where are the fucking children?!”

Some of those around you flinched, and others eyed you, but your eyes stayed focused on the ground. The pain consuming your thoughts only lessened by the knowledge the little ones had got away. If they had not been found by now, they would have made it to safety. You could only hope.

“There were none,” answered one of the orcs.

“No children? I see men, I see women. Are you telling me not a single one of them fucked?”

Before there was an answer, the orc grabbed his brother by the throat and pushed him to the side. “You are useless.”

Red eyes scanned the crowd, a tense silence falling over it. Red eyes landed on the blacksmiths son. He was lanky and notoriously cowardly, altogether unpleasant. “You, where are they?”

Instantly, his eyes darted to you, and there were rough fingers digging into your cheeks and forcing you to look at him. “Tell me and tell me now.”

You looked the orc in his eyes, surely if you were going to die, why not make it fun? Besides, these creatures had stolen your home, your people, your freedom. You were tired of living under boots, tired of having no say, tired of being treated as lesser.

When you didn't speak quickly enough, the orc's fingers dug harder into your cheeks, “Speak, girl.”

“It is quite hard to gather one's thoughts when orcs smell so atrocious.”

In a flurry of movement, the orc had a knife blade pressed into your cheek and twisted it until blood poured down past your lips and onto your chin. “I would watch your words and tell me what I want if you wish to keep your tongue.”

“We take celibacy very seriously,” your voice was hoarse as you spoke. “Ever since the blacksmith had a son that was such an affront to basic decency, we have all sworn off intimacy as to not risk making more like him.”

The orc pressed his blade harder into your cheek until more blood poured, “You think you're so funny now, let us see what Adar has to say.”

He released your face, throwing you to the ground and grabbing your hair as he dragged you away. Your feet desperately tried to find footing underneath your body, but the pain from the arrow made it impossible, along with the muddy ground, causing your feet to slip. Rocks and branches nicked your skin as you were dragged along until your body was covered in bruises and scratches and blood mixed with mud on your skin. The time was achingly slow, filled with agony, but it only fueled the anger in your belly more.

Soon, you were taken into a tent and thrown across the floor. You tried to stand, but your leg gave out, your eyes darting around the tent. Many more orcs stood there and at the center was what looked like an elf but burns and scarring and the tone of his skin made your suspect he was something darker than an elf.

“What is this pathetic little thing?” The not elfs voice was low and deep as he eyed your form.

“A villager, Lord Father, there were no children with them, and she knows where they are. I feel she needs to be taught respect”

You looked up at the orc, “You brought me to your father for him to reprimand me for being unkind to you?”

The orcs darted from you, and then to Adar, you were intrigued by this display of restraint.

“She's got quite a tongue on her,” Adar spoke, his armor clacking as he made his way to you, “Perhaps we should remove it.”

He kneeled down before you, his fingers dancing over what was left off the arrow. Even the small movement caused immense pain to shoot through your body.

“Where are they?” He asked as he twisted the wood, causing you to cry out in pain.

“I will not tell you.”

Twist.

“Go fuck yourself.”

Twist.

You spit at his feet. “I will not allow the children of my village to butchered.”

Adar stopped, “You think us too cruel. Our interest is not for bloodshed. Small fingers make easy work for finding small ores for our armor.”

You stared at him with narrowed eyes, “Slavery is little better than death.”

“Is that why you taunt my children? You fear slavery more than death.”

You didn't speak, simply looking into his eyes with contempt. He looked back, contemplating you. It was as if he was looking into the eyes of someone he knew but had long forgotten, something he knew everything about yet nothing all at once.

“Leave us.” He stood, his attention turning towards his ‘children’, all of whom followed his command.

The room was quiet for a few moments before you broke the silence.”I suppose you are going to kill me now.”

“No, I'm going to heal you now.”

[daydreaming-nerd]

Shadows and Sins (Ruhn Danaan x Reader)

Takes place pre HOFAS

My masterlist

A/N: I’ve been sitting on this for so long and guess what I GAVE HIM A BIKE HAHA biketok girls we ride at dawn. 

Summary: All is fair in love and war… (enemies to lovers inspired by House of Balloons by The Weeknd) 

Warnings: SA, intoxication, banter

Word count: 3981

Prince, starborn, bad boy, party animal, loose cannon and playboy, those were the words typically used to describe Ruhn Danaan. 

Asshole, spoiled brat, antagonizing, vexing and unfortunately handsome…those were the words I used to describe my best friend's brother.

Ruhn came into my life about a year ago when I started working at the archives with his younger sister Bryce, who I became friends with almost instantly. He came in one day demanding to speak to Bryce and since I thought he was just some lovesick guy like all the others who came panting after the redhead I promptly told him off. It wasn’t until 30 minutes of fighting back and forth that Bryce returned from lunch with Hunt that I found out I was wrong, and the prince never let me live it down. 

Since then, we were like oil and water, order and chaos, and love and war. Though I suppose all was fair when it came to that. 

We fought whenever we saw one another, which was often since him and Bryce had become reacquainted. At first she hated our squabbling, but with Athalar’s calming presence in her life she had grown to use it as free entertainment. So when the bell over the door to archives rang and her laugh echoed subsequently I knew I was in for a fight… 

“Brought your wallet,” called the voice I dreaded to hear. “You gotta stop leaving it at my place.”

“Thanks Ruhn,” Bryce chirped, confirming the worst. 

Sure enough I turned around to find Ruhn Danaan waltzing in like he owned the place, which I sure he could if he wanted to, he was a prince after all not that you could ever tell. In all the fairytales I had read as a little girl the prince’s always wore fine tunics and rode on white horses. But Ruhn opted for a black t-shirt and a speed bike and unfortunately if he had been anyone but who he is I would’ve found that incredibly hot.

“I still don’t know why you insist upon hanging out with the rabble,” Ruhn said to Bryce leaning his forearms against the countertop. 

Bryce shoots her brother a look that begs him to behave himself for once in his life, and part of me thought I should be the bigger person and not fight back. But I wasn’t a bigger person-I was a petty bitch, and I’ll be damned if I let Ruhn Danaan come into my place of employment and talk smack to me. 

“It’s probably because she needs at least one acquaintance who doesn’t need someone to wipe his ass for him,” I said with a fake smile, continuing to polish the silver chalice in my hand.

Bryce snorts as she shoves her wallet into her purse. Both of us turn to her to find her trying to hide her giggle at my comment. 

I cross my arms over my chest giving Ruhn a self satisfied look and as usual he won’t let me win that easily. 

“Funny you should mention it. I've been looking for someone else who would wipe it for me. Interested? I’m sure you’d love the view,” he smirks that godsdammned lip ring making an appearance. 

“One of these days I’m going to rip that ring right out of your lip,” I growl bracing my arms on the counter like I might do it right now. 

“Oh the women of Crescent City would weep at the loss of my beloved lip ring, they do so love when it grazes their-” 

“That’s enough!” Bryce shouts pushing Ruhn towards the door. “I do not want to hear about your bedroom activities!” 

“Same here I just ate lunch!” I shout from behind the desk. 

“Please, you're begging for more images of me to get off to!” Ruhn shouts from the threshold of the door as Bryce continues to push him. 

“If I wanted to see mediocre fucking I’m sure there’s a website for it!” I holler as Bryce closes the door. 

I smirk and waggle my fingers at him as he bangs on the door. Once again I got the last word and oh boy did it feel good. 

Bryce didn’t walk away from the door until the revving of Ruhn’s bike could be heard taking off down the road. She turned to me with her arms crossed and a scowl on her face. My lip twitched up in amusement and her scorned look broke as both of us roared with laughter.

“Okay I have to admit the ass wiping bit was pretty good,” she chortled, coming around to help me polish again. 

“You like that one? I’ve been saving it.” I laugh remembering the look on his face when his own sister laughed at him. 

“I still hate that you two fight, but at least it’s like getting my own comedy show now,” she shakes her head. 

We finish our polishing in peace, talking over last night's episode of Fangs and Bangs, and our raucous plans for tonight. It was friday, which meant girls night was happening at The White Raven. It was honestly my favorite day of the week, I looked forward to it more than I cared to admit. Society called us vicious party girls, but how bad were we really? 

“So I’ll meet you there at 10?” Bryce asks, locking up the shop. 

“Yeah what are you wearing though?” I ask rummaging through my bag for the key to the lock on my scooter.

“I was going to wear that red silk dress, you know the one Hunt tried to tear off me,” she smirks, wiggling her eyebrows. 

“Ooo someones playing dirty trying to get laid tonight,” I muse, if Bryce did one thing well it was ruffle Hunt’s feathers everytime he had to pick her up after a girls night. 

“Like I even have to try that hard anymore,” she laughs tucking the keys into her bag. 

“Oh how I wish I had a man to carry me home from the bar and dick me down afterwards,” I sigh with fake longing, though we both know I was telling the truth.

“Prince Charming is out there and who knows you might meet him tonight,” she smiles as she begins to walk towards her apartment. “Wear the black and silver dress!” she calls back. 

I shake my head and continue walking towards the other side of town. I hadn’t planned to wear the black and silver dress tonight but Bryce was never wrong about fashion, so black and silver it was. 

The White Raven was alive and bouncing per usual. Couples coupling in dark corners, some drunk girls grinding on each other wearing bachelorette tiaras, men shouting at their friends to finish their beers. Among those rowdy men, Ruhn Danaan. 

He had kindly greeted Bryce and unkindly greeted me when he first arrived. Bryce promptly shooed him off letting him know that it was girls night and he said he’d rather chew glass than stick around. While he was across the bar it didn’t help with the awareness that he was there. 

Normally girls nights were carefree, Bryce and I might end up dancing on a bartop and of course they would call the Umbra Mortis to haul us over his shoulders. Sometimes we would kick Hunt out his own bed and force him to sleep on the couch so us girls could have a “sleep over”. 

Tonight was different. The last thing I needed was to commit some atrocious behavior that Ruhn could put in his arsenal of insults. I could already hear him jesting about how I made out with a lion shifter or fell over on the dancefloor. So Bryce and I stuck to sitting at the bar, sipping our drinks and talking shit like sophisticated women.  

Two drinks turned to four, and four turned to six. The colorful lights only made my head spin faster as I downed the rest of my drink. I looked to my right to find Bryce��s nearly untouched. Athalar had showed up about ten minutes ago after our bartender told him we were approaching being cut off. Of course the moment Bryce saw him all bet were off… she now stood with her tongue down his throat and he didn’t seem inclined to protest. Turns out she was right about that red dress. 

I roll my eyes and grab her martini and down it slamming it back on the bartop, not like she was going to need it.

“Bryce I’m heading out,” I say, putting my hand on her shoulder. 

She gave me a thumbs up as Hunt moved from her lips to her neck. I just shook my head and grabbed my purse. It wasn’t uncommon for me to go home alone, she had my location and we always kept tabs on one another.

The second I stood on my feet all the alcohol rushed to my head, and I had to close my eyes and take a deep breath to steady myself. I looked at my barstool and thought about sobering up, but the last thing I wanted to see was the mate makeout session, so I shook my head to try and clear my mind and sauntered out towards the door. 

The night air did little to sober me up, and my stilettos didn’t help with the wobbling. I pulled out my phone to try and find a ride home, but when the rideshare app quoted me $100 to go two miles I shoved my phone back in my purse with a huff and started walking towards my apartment. Like hell I was paying that for two miles.

My heels clicked on the pavement, echoing off the alley walls. Suddenly another pair of shoes echoed off the walls as well, not light and feminine steps, big clunky shoes. 

“Where are you going darling?” crooned a voice I didn’t recognize. 

I tried my best to pick up the pace, but the nature of my delicate shoes did little to give me any sort of advantage. My hands fumble with my purse trying to pull out the pepper spray Hunt got me for my birthday last year but those last two drinks were starting to catch up with me and my world was spinning. 

I feel a pair of hands grab my shoulders and slam me against the wall of the White Raven. My purse falls to the ground and I’m met with a pair of brown eyes. The guy had a backwards sunball hat and a blue shirt and he reeked of liquor. 

“Come on baby it’s not safe for pretty things like you to be out here,” he slurred, his body pressing closer to me. 

I cringe at the smell of his breath, “Get off of me creep!” I shout hoping that the alley isn’t that empty. 

My hands try to push him off but my intoxicated nature doesn't allow for much dexterity on my part.  

“Oh come on sweetheart don’t be that way,” he mumbled drunkenly, attaching his mouth to my neck. 

I try to push him off once more but I wobble, uneasy on my shoes. His hands fall from the small of my waist to the hem of my dress and I feel my blood run ice cold. 

“NO!” I shout scrumbling to get the sleeze off me. 

A hand grabs the back of the males collar and the sound of a fit making contact with his jaw reverberates through the alley as the male hits the ground. I stand shocked with my hands over my mouth as Ruhn Danaan shakes out the hand that delivered the punch and kicks the limp male. 

“You okay?” he asks nonchalantly, giving me a once over. 

I stand there still too stunned to speak, my eyes wandering from the male on the ground to Ruhn standing there with that damned black t-shirt clinging to his torso. 

He bends down to pick up my purse and shoves it into my arms. The gesture that finally breaks me out of shock. 

“T-thank you,” I mutter, still a little slow. 

“Where’s Bryce?” he asks looking around the alley, the sound of the club music inside still booming. 

I push myself off the wall stumbling a bit, “Inside sucking face with Athalar,” I slurr. 

“Thanks for the visual,” Ruhn purses his lips.

I straighten myself up and take a deep breath trying to act as sober as possible which probably was making me seem even more drunk, but I had to at least try. 

“Well thank you for uh…that,” I say gesturing towards the man still unconscious on the pavement. “I’ll see you around I guess.” 

I start wobbling down the alleyway once more, blinking my eyes rapidly to get my mind to clear and focus on walking home. 

“Where the hell do you think you’re going princess?” he croons. 

Princess. Gods that fucking nickname. Most people would use it as a compliment or a pet name, but Ruhn knew how it drove me insane. He claimed I was just a spoiled princess one time and when I freaked out and yelled at him about it he proceeded to make that his nickname for me.

“I’m going home,” I sneer, trying to walk as best I can. 

“Like hell you’re walking home alone,” he growls, gripping my arm.

My eyes fly too the tattooed hand on my arm, and then up to those violet blue eyes that sparked with rage. 

“I do it all the time I’m fine,” I growl trying to rip my arm out of his grasp but I only succeed in making myself stumble more. 

He steadies me before speaking again, “Stop I’ll give you a ride,” he says motioning to his blacked out R1 parked in the alley. 

“I am not getting on that death trap with you after you’ve been drinking,” I scoff. 

“I’m not drunk, I don’t get drunk in public, it’s bad for appearances,” he says, irritation flitting across his unfairly handsome features. 

“Then how do I know you’re not going to dump me into Istros?” I sneer and the muscle in his jaw ticks and I can tell it’s taking everything in him not to fire back at me. 

“Because Bryce and I are finally on good terms and I’m pretty sure she would never forgive me if something happened to her best friend,” he explained, his words cold as ice. 

Maybe I was stupid, maybe I was drunk, maybe I was just cold and wanted to go home, but I actually believed him.

“Fine, let's go,” I say, walking towards his bike. 

I had to admit I always wanted to ride a motorcycle. Now riding on the back of Ruhn’s while I was drunk wasn’t exactly the time I wanted to do it, but I suppose beggars couldn’t be choosers. The bike was large and completely blacked out, if the moon hadn’t illuminated it just right I wouldn’t have been able to see it. 

Ruhn approaches the bike and starts the engine, every movement is like second nature to him. He takes the helmet off the seat and goes to put it on himself but then stops, turns to me, and punks it down on my head. The darkness of the visor mixed with the late hour making it impossible to see. I huff and flip it up, giving him a pointed glare. 

“I don’t have both helmets so this will have to do,” he says studying the way it fits me a little big. 

Tattooed fingers brush under my chin, tilting it up so he can buckle the strap for me. I would protest and say I’m capable of doing it myself but in my drunken state I’m not so sure. When he clips the buckle it pinches my skin for a moment and I yip.

“Ouch you pinched me!” I yelp smacking him in the arm. 

“Well if you stopped squirming I wouldn’t have pinched you,” he smirks, throwing his leg over the bike. “Now swing your leg over the bike and put your feet on these pegs,” he instructs me. 

I do as I’m told, using his broad shoulders as support as standing on one leg, drunk, in stilettos was never a good idea. Once I’m seated I keep my hands on his shoulders lightly and my bum on the edge of the seat, putting as much distance away from each other as possible. 

“You gotta hold on or you’ll fall off sweetheart,” he laughs, somehow finding humor in the precarious situation we’re in. 

“Yeah fucking right, like I’m going to wrap my arms around you like a little lovesick puppy,” I huff. “Just drive.” 

He shakes his head and revs the engine making the bike jerk forward. The momentum has my bum moving further into the seat and my arms instinctively wrapping around his middle, like I was afraid to fall off.

“There we go much better,” he smirks before revving the engine a couple of times. “Hold on tight princess.” 

I’m not given another warning before he speeds out onto the streets. Thankfully there aren’t a lot of cars and people out this late at night, but it doesn’t stop the crown prince from weaving around traffic that is there. He goes so fast I feel compelled to hold onto him with a deathgrip. 

By the time we pull up to my apartment my stomach is queasy. I swing my leg off the bike and nearly fall over until Ruhn catches my arms and hauls me up. 

“Woah there princess, maybe we better keep the helmet on, you’re a walking liability.” he laughs clearly enjoying seeing me in a vulnerable moment. 

“Take it off,” I grumble as I stand up straight again. 

He repeats the motion from earlier, tilting up my chin to help me take the damned thing off instead this time he ruffles my hair when he’s done. 

“You did pretty good for your first time as a backpack,” he smirks as I glare at him. 

I go to walk up my front steps and slip on my damned heels again, the ones that were definitely going to the back of the closet after this outing. Arm wraps under my shoulders and I feel Ruhn helping me up the steps to my second floor apartment. 

“You don’t have to do that, I can make it,” I grumble. 

“Trying to stay in Bryce’s good graces remember,” he says as I fumble with my keys.

My apartment wasn’t the nicest. It wasn’t a dump by any means, I did my best to keep it homey and clean, but it also wasn’t as nice as Bryce’s. Well I suppose Bryce and Hunt’s apartment now. God she was definitely having a better night than me. 

I walk inside and go to close the door but that damned tattooed hand stops me. 

“Not going to invite me in? That’s not very friendly,” Ruhn tuts walking right past me.

I scoff at him, walking in like he owns the place. Part of me wants to drag him out by his ear, but the logical part of me bends over to get myself out of these death trap shoes. I throw them across the room as punishment for their crimes tonight. 

When I walk further into my apartment I find Ruhn has completely made himself at home by grabbing a beer out of my refrigerator and cracking it open. 

“Are you serious?” I scoff walking to the sink across from him and getting myself a glass of water. 

“Consider it payment for the free ride home, I’ll take my thanks at any time you know?” he says smugly, taking another sip.

“Thank you for the ride,” I sigh. “Now will you please go?” 

He furrows his brows, “And waste a freshly opened beer? I don’t think so.” he says. 

I lean against the counter adjacent to him and sip my water. I can’t help but roll my eyes at the male. This was just like Ruhn, finding simple ways to get under my skin. I hated the fact that I liked the way he looked in my kitchen, black t-shirt in jeans, hair tied to the nape of his neck. 

Ruhn’s eyes flicker with amusement and then he chuckles, “I really do get under that delicate skin of yours don’t I princess?” he croons. 

“I told you. Don’t. Call. Me. Princess.” I snap at him, oh god if looks could kill. 

He pushes himself off  the counter, “Then stop fucking acting like one,”  he says low prowling forward with every step. 

The closer he gets the taller he looms. I know this little scare tactic, him trying to invade my space and make me feel small. It’s not like I have much of a choice either, not with the way my back is pressed into the counter. 

I can’t tell if it’s the alcohol or the expensive cologne pouring off him but there’s something about the way he’s looking at me that is so damn arousing. A fucked up part of me wanted him to stick his tongue down my throat but I quickly threw that thought away. 

He was mere inches away from me when I started to think he would do just that. My pulse raced and my thighs clenched. But when his arm reached up brushing the shell of my ear it just kept reaching until it came to the top shelf of my cabinets and plucked the bag of chips off the shelf. 

My shoulders sag as I realize he was just reaching for a snack to go with his beer, and I mentally cursed myself for hoping it would be more. 

He chuckles, opening the bag of chips and popping one into his mouth, not moving from where he stood just inches away from me. He clearly was loving this little power trip he was on. 

“You look disappointed, princess,” he chuckles, fishing another chip from the bag. 

I roll my eyes and look to the side, unable to meet the predatory gaze that almost had me throwing my moral code out the window just minutes ago. 

His hand drifts under my chin pulling my gaze to his as he takes a step forward again. 

“Did you think I was going to kiss you?” he asks low, his thumb and forefinger pinching my chin so I can’t look away. 

I swallow the lump in my throat. My logic screams to shove him, my alcohol induced brain says to kiss him and my mouth can’t find the words to speak. 

Ruhn smiles, lowering his head to me, “Maybe I should kiss you, it would be good to shut you up,” he laughs, voice gravely. 

His lips are so close to mine I can feel the warmth of his breath, I swear the cool metal of that damn lip ring brushes my mouth. My body leans forward of its own accord but then he reaches his other hand up and pops another chip in his mouth thoroughly running the moment.

“No I don’t think I will kiss you, even though it’s clear that you want me to,” he smiles, that damn knee wobbling smile he gives every woman to bring them to their knees. 

I stand in a state of shock as he back up to his side of the kitchen again, he plucks his keys off the counter and twirls them in his hand as he walks towards the front door. 

“Have a good night, princess,” he says on the way out, putting an emphasis on the name that drives me crazy. 

I’m left standing alone in my kitchen, glass of water long since forgotten and mouth agape. Ruhn Danaan almost just kissed me, and the fucked up part of it was I wanted him to.

part 2 coming... Lmk if you want to be on the taglist for this little mini series.

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