#the white bear and the folding sword

[msmorningstaarr]

let me fill you up | Jaime Lannister x F!Targaryen reader

ao3 | masterlist

Pairing: Jaime Lannister x F!Targaryen reader

Summary: You, a Targaryen princess were married into the Lannister fold to ensure the alliance between the two houses, ensuring your eldest brother’s claim to the Iron Throne. Now, Lord Jaime makes your days filled with happiness and makes you eager to present him babies.

Word Count: 2.3k

Warnings: rhaegar wins AU, no targcest, smuff, fluff, breeding kink, praising kink, a lot of pet names (sweet girl, princess, love), reader has no physical description besides the silvery white targaryen hair, creampie, oral (f receiving), a very devoted husband commited to your pleasure, smut, sex;

a/n: Happy new year! I had posted I wanted to write something like that and it's been a while since I want to write something other than holy and heathen because I must admit I'm not very satisfied with what I've been writing lately. Some validation kudos, comments and reblogs would be very important to me, seriously :') I’ve been thinking in turning this into a small series but I’m not so sure. Could you give me your thoughts on this too? please, enjoy your reading!

Taglist: @princessanglophile @hiroikegawa @hiraethrhapsody

You are sitting surrounded by your maids and children on a breezy night, covered with a fur coat and a crimson silk dress under it. Attentively, you go stitch by stitch and slowly form a lion, sigil of your husband’s house. Ever since Robert’s Rebellion ended and your brother, King Rhaegar Targaryen won, you became promised to the former knight of the Kingsguard, now Lord Jaime Lannister. Life in the lion’s den was not difficult, once Lord Tywin treated her with the most kindness and Jaime was still coming out of his shell. At first, he was your sworn sword in King’s Landing and spent plenty of time together in an unbalanced relationship. Now, you two are sharing a bed after a tumultuous year of war and destruction, as equals. In the beginning, you were sceptical about marrying into the Lannister household, but as the months went by, you found yourself drowned at him. Jaime is careful, gentle and kind. He brings you a small dandelion every morning once he knows it reminds you of home.

His only quirk was the strange attachment to his sister, Lady Cersei. But after being sent to Dorne to marry Prince Oberyn of House Martell and getting distant from each other, your relationship with your husband seemed to finally thrive.

“It appears to be beautiful, my lady.” Said one of her maids, taking care of your youngest son, a small silvery blonde figure of two years of age.

“A bright lion handkerchief for Jaime to carry with him.” You reply, admiring your piece of work. “Do you believe your father will like it, sweetling?” You then ask your eldest daughter, an adorable child of four. Your daughter eagerly nods her head and wraps her hands around one of your fingers to pull the fabric closer to her eyes.

“Dada will love it, mama!” The little one exclaimed, spinning around with the kerchief on her tiny hands.

“What will I love, if I’m allowed to ask?” A tall, blonde figure shows up in your private bedchambers, wearing a classic Westerland attire with a crimson fabric and intricate strings of gold shaped into the sleeves and collar. You smile sweetly to Jaime as he approaches you and grabs your middle child to hold in his arms.

“Papa!” The blonde little girl runs towards her father to embrace his legs and your maids stand up to bow to their lord.

“Have you missed me, dear?” Jaime asked and the fussy children eagerly nodded at him, embracing their father even more. Sometimes, seeing Jaime being so loving and kind towards your children simply melted your heart. You felt the urgency to kiss him and dig your fingers onto his bright hair, begging him for another child. Your cunt ached in pleasure to the thought of Jaime pumping his seed inside of you. You were still young and could bear many more children.

“Mm-rrhm…” You scoffed. “I have missed you too, husband.”

The three children giggled and the child on his arms hid his face on the crook of Jaime’s neck. The eldest covered her laugh with her tiny hands and the youngest beamed along their siblings. Jaime came closer to you and caressed your cheeks with his free hand. Then, a single and gentle kiss he places over your forehead, making your heart flutters with love and passion.

“I have missed you too, my love.” Jaime said, passing his fingertips on your chin and smiling at you.

Your maids quickly stood up and bowed at their overlord as a sign of respect. “Excuse me, my lord, my lady,” Said the servant girl. “Let us take the children so you can rest.”

“But I want to stay with papa!” Said the elder daughter, pouting and crossing her arms. The other two children whined and complained along, but you lowered into their level whilst Jaime talked to the youngest on his arm.

“Sweetlings,” She said, caressing their cheeks. “Your father is rather tired after riding for so long. Go with her, I promise you, your siblings, me and your father will have plenty of time together on the morrow. Is that understood, my loves?”

“I can take you to ride a horse tomorrow and even let you eat lemon cakes before super. What do you think?” Jaime asked, delivering the fussy child from his arms to the other maid. In unison, the three infants agreed and left disappointed. Once you and your husband were alone in your bedchambers, Jaime smiled at you gallantly. You embrace him intimately and are finally able to feel the warmth of his muscular body and feel the softness of his golden hair. His lips reach yours and in a whirlwind of sensations, your cunt is already dripping in anticipation just by a simple touch coming from him. Once he breaks the kiss, he keeps holding you by your waist and gazing at you with admiration.

“You have been gone for too long, love.” You say, passing your fingertips on his lips. He smiles and gives you a peck on the lips before speaking.

“I had duties with your brother, Our Grace King Rhaegar, sweet girl.” Jaime replies, pulling her out gently and grabbing the fabric she embroidered for him.

“I hope you like it, I made it just for you.” You point out, joining your hands to follow him. He keeps smiling as he observes attentively the intricate work you did.

“I shall cherish it and take it wherever I go, dragon princess.” He replied, folding and putting the kerchief in one of his pockets. You giggle as you hear him calling you ‘dragon princess’, a custom he chose to never abandon as a form to remember the late days of their relationship “I wish I had more time to be around and play with the children, I have been missing them and you.”

“They made drawings every day and left it on your desk at your office.” You reply, walking to the window and being followed by him.

“I will make sure to have them guarded in our chambers. Safe as our gold.” He says, hugging you from behind and kissing your neck lightly. You beam in ecstasy feeling his body smother you into a comforting embrace and full missing him.

“Sometimes I still cannot believe we are wedded to each other. You were my sworn shield in King’s Landing!” You exclaim as his hand caresses your empty belly and it tingles by his touch. He grins at your words and says.

“Most people are not so lucky to know your spouse before the wedding day. I consider myself the most lucky man in the world because I could be in your acquaintance from so long ago.” He replies, falling his head on the crook of your neck.

You turn around to be face to face with Jaime, feeling the cold breeze of the rock hitting your back and giving you small shocks as Jaime caresses your back, making you experience a thermal shock and shudder to his touch.

“I feel very lucky to be your wife, Jaime. Most women are not so fortunate to have such a kind, loving and handsome husband.” You mutter as he strokes your hair, in awe with your beauty.

“I guess we are fortunate to be together after so many troubles in war. We even brought new lives into this world to paint a new, brightful history.” He replies, caressing your womb. You stare at his fingers passing up and down your belly and glances at him with a sweet smile.

“And we could have more, love. I must admit I feel empty for so long and I want to give you more children… I know I can give you an entire army of your own. Half lion, half dragon. Unstoppable creatures.”

“You feel empty, love?” He asks, smirking and you eagerly agree with him. “Then allow me to fill you up…” Jaime finished, slowly undoing the intricate laces of your dress to reveal your bare skin under the crimson fabric. In response, you open his attire slowly and little by little his white tunic appears to her eyes.

By this point, your cunt is already sore in anticipation for the moment about to happen and clenches around nothing once he pushes the last section of string holding your garment, releasing you from the pressure tightening your upper body. Jaime pushes down your dress and your underwear is now on display for him, which makes him bite his lip and eagerly take down your white camisole to show him your bare body. You moan as he squeezes your breast and pinches your nipples whilst kissing you. You quickly take off his own undershirt to show off his chest.

“So eager is my dragon princess.” He playfully says, leading you to bed and carefully laying you down. With devotion, he starts to kiss your feet, legs and knees, his hands roaming through your thighs and hips. “Spread your legs for me, little dragon.”

You part your legs, obeying his soft command. “So wet… I can see you truly missed me, my love.” He says, kissing your inner thighs as your body squirms in pleasure before he reaches your intimacy.

“Oh… I have missed you so much, my lion.” You moan your words as he kisses your groyne and passes his fingers lightly over your clit, making your womb tremble and convulse to his touch.

“I can see that, just as I missed you, my dragon princess. Do I have permission to give you a lord’s kiss?” He asks and you only nod in response, making Jaime wet his lips with his own saliva before diving into your dripping core and you to scream involuntarily as his tongue and lips eat you up with full desire. Jaime circles his tongue around your clit and roam around your entire intimacy, making your hips bounce onto his direction. It was his costume to make you come every time before he would be inside of you, now could not be different.

You feel your body explode as if someone threw you into dragon fire as Jaime relentlessly pleases you, making magic with his tongue. Skillfully, he explores your intimate area inch by inch with eagerness, making you dig your fingers on his golden curls, pulling him closer to your cunt and you contorses your body urging for more. Tears of pleasure fall off as you feel goosebumps once you realise you are close to your climax.

As the intensity builds, Jaime's movements become more deliberate, pushing you closer to the edge of bliss. Your breath hitches, and your fingers entwine in his golden locks, urging him on. The world narrows down to the pleasure he provides, the connection between you deepening with every passing moment.

When the climax finally crashes over you, Jaime doesn't relent. He continues to caress your sensitive core with his tongue, prolonging the sweet release. Your body shudders with pleasure, and you feel the bond between you and Jaime reaching new heights.

“Husband…” You try to stop him and give yourself some time to take a breath, but Jaime does not back off and part your legs once more, holding it as he keeps licking, kissing and sucking your pussy.

“No no, wife… let me please you and bring you to climax once more…” He cuts your words and gently goes back, but now he plays with his fingers on your clit, with far less pressure and slowly draws circles around it, taking soft moans from you. Jaime rises to hover over you, a wicked glint in his eyes. His fingers trace patterns on your flushed skin as he leans in for a heated kiss, allowing you to taste the remnants of your own pleasure on his lips. “Taste yourself, love.”

And not so long after, you scream his name as you feel waves of pleasure hitting your body as a lightning bolt hits the ground in a storm. Your body is trembling and your legs seem to be two wooden sticks, barely able to stand.

“Please… inside of me, Jaime… I need you…” You plead with him, pulling his body to be on top of yours.

“Your wish is my command, princess.” He replies, kissing you passionately once more and positioning between your legs. Jaime's eyes meet yours, filled with a mixture of desire and adoration. The anticipation was hanging heavy in the air, your bodies aligned perfectly, and as he slowly entered you, a shared moan escaped both of your lips.

The sensation is electrifying, the culmination of the pleasure he bestowed upon you and the intimate connection between your bodies. Jaime moves with a rhythmic precision, each thrust deepening the bond that exists only between you two.

“My perfect princess takes me so well…” He grows as thrusts into you going back and forth nonstop. You lock him by involving your legs around his waist and feeling his hard cock entering your cunt in full force, reaching your cervix and making you beg for more in his ear.

The room echoes with the sounds of your shared ecstasy, a symphony of pleasure that reverberates through the stone walls. The flickering candlelight casts shadows that dance across your entwined bodies, creating a tapestry of love and passion.

“Put another babe on my belly Ser, please…” You beg him as moans leave your mouth and the sound of crashing bodies fill the room quickly.

“With pleasure, love…” He says once more. Jaime moves with a rhythmic precision, each thrust deeper inside of your pussy in farfetched positions. He missed you too much after months away from you and it shows by the way he kisses you as he moves desperately to have more of mounting his dragon. The room echoes with the sounds of your shared passion, a symphony of pleasure that reverberates through the stone walls. The flickering candlelight casts shadows that dance across your entwined bodies. As Jaime's movements become faster, the pleasure intensifies, and you find yourself on the verge of another climax. The pleasure is overwhelming, and your bodies move in perfect harmony.

With a final, fervent thrust, Jaime succumbs to the ecstasy and releases his seed deep inside of your womb, growling and grunting with relief and utter bliss. You hit your own orgasm as you feel the warm jets of his seed invading your walls and your body squirm and you scream his name, crying out.

Your bodies tremble in the aftermath, and he collapses beside you, pulling you into his arms. The room is filled with a comforting silence as you both catch your breath. Jaime's fingers gently trace patterns on your skin as you bask in the warmth of the afterglow. “Do you think we created one more life for our household, love?” You ask him, laying your head on his chest. The world outside your chambers seems distant, and for a moment, it's just the two of you, lost in the serenity of each other's embrace.

“Depending on your fertile womb, my love, I have no doubts you are.” He replies, caressing your silvery white hair. “But we must endure in our pursuit on a daily routine. Just to make sure our fourth babe is on the way.” He playfully replies, smirking at you, who mischievously smiles back at him and kisses his lips, wiping some strings of sweat from his face.

Jaime presses a tender kiss to your forehead, his voice a soothing murmur, "I love you, my dragon princess."

And you, wrapped in the arms of the man you love, whisper back, "And I love you, my lion shield."

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Burn with Me

Pairing: Viserys III Targaryen (Game of Thrones) x f!reader Warnings: Smut, imbalanced power dynamics, abuse of power. Word count: ~2k

Summary: Viserys shares a piece of his ancestry with his concubine.

Author's note: Day one of Smuffmas - candlelight and collaring. No tag list. Follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications.

She steps into the tent that has been erected to serve as Viserys’ personal bathhouse and is immediately enveloped in humidity that clings to her skin like a shroud, as the opening falls closed behind her. True to his Targaryen nature, he favours the heat and, as such, always demands that the water be scalding before it fills the wooden tub, with as many candles lit as the surrounding space will allow, to ensure that it retains its heat.

The atmosphere within the canvas walls is one of resplendence; the rounded tub that sits in the far corner wafts viscous steam up into the air. The water’s surface reflects the vibrant orange glow of more candles than she can possibly count, all casting flickering shadows that dance upon the ceiling. The heady fragrance of Myrish oils lingers in the air, a potent aroma of cinnamon and ginger. Viserys refuses the use of Dothraki spiceflower in his bathwater, despite it being in abundance, and far less costly than oils and spices from the Free Cities.

“It is insult enough that I must exist among these savages,” he had once told her, “I will not smell like them too. See that my command is heeded, or you shall wake the dragon.”

He stands beside the bathtub, spine rigid and eyes narrowed in annoyance. She had come to him the moment she was summoned, yet she can tell from the subtle flare of his nostrils that he is impatient already.

Despite the gossamer fabric of the dress that drapes over her body, she can feel sweat prickling the back of her neck, dampening the hairs that rest at the base of it. She knows this is due to the stifling heat of the bathing tent, but the fearful hammering of her heart as Viserys eyes her in displeasure only serves to exacerbate it.

“About time,” he snaps irritably, beckoning her closer with a restive click of his fingers.

“Your grace,” she greets courteously, before he has the chance to scold her further, “allow me to help you.”

She steps in front of him, deft fingers moving over the forest green wool of the tunic that covers his lithe frame. It is a wildly impractical choice of fabric, considering the climate of Vaes Dothrak, but Viserys shuns more traditional garb in favour of wool and silk. One by one she pulls open the clasps, revealing the creamy, white flesh beneath.

During her time in the pleasure houses of Lys, she had lain with many men and grown accustomed to the sight of skin marred by battle scars and hardened by the ravages of hard labour. Viserys bears no such afflictions. He is thin, an unfortunate consequence of a life lived in squalor, but he has never known battle, he is soft and smooth, unblemished by conflict. She has silently wondered on many occasions how he could possibly ever hope to rule as king of Westeros if he is not competent with a sword, a musing she will never give voice to, lest she pay with her life for it. She has no doubt he will take no issue in wetting his blade with her blood, if provoked into doing so.

Despite his rakish appearance and short temper, she cannot help the appreciative gaze she casts upon him as she strips him of the remnants of his clothing. For all his flaws, Viserys is a handsome man; soft, silver waves of hair frame the hard lines of his face, a strong nose and chin accentuate the pierce of his gaze. His eyes carry madness within them, enticing with dangerous allure.

“Careful with that,” he commands, nodding to the tunic which she has picked back up to fold, “what’s in the pocket is worth at least five times more than what I paid for you.”

“Of course, your grace,” she replies simply, noticing the subtle weight the garment has to it that isn’t usually there.

“Bring it here,” he says to her, stepping into the tub and sitting down. The motion causes steamy water to slop over the sides, soaking into the clay coloured earth of the ground below, as he leans back, resting his elbows behind him on the edge.

“Not the tunic, stupid girl,” he spits, scowling as she steps forward with it, “just what’s in the pocket.”

She blinks rapidly, bowing her head, a fruitless attempt to will away the humiliation that burns hotly at her skin. Reaching into the pocket, she wraps her fingers around something hard, that feels cold against her skin despite the heat that hangs heavy in the air.

Pulling it free, she can see that it is a steel choker. Thick silver plates inlaid with large rubies make up the bulk of it, with a dainty chain that fastens it at the back. She has never held anything so valuable in her hands before, the very weight of it feels representative of its significance.

“I don’t suppose you have ever seen such opulence before,” Viserys tells her, drawing her attention back to him, to where he reclines in the bath, a smug smirk upon his face as he regards her pridefully.

She places the choker in his upturned, waiting palm. “Won’t it rust if you get it wet?”

Viserys grins, the gesture lighting up his face in a way that seems almost unnatural, as the ever present madness dances within the lilac of his eyes. “It is Valyrian steel, forged in dragon fire, it won’t rust, it can’t. Now disrobe and join me.”

He plays idly with the choker, running the chain through his fingers and holding the rubies up to the candlelight as she undresses, though it does not take her long. The near translucent dress is the only item of clothing that he will allow her to wear when tending to him, and it is rare that it stays on for long.

She hisses quietly at the burn of the water against her flesh as she climbs into the tub, the all encompassing heat making her legs tingle. She does not understand how Viserys can stand it, but then there is blood of the dragon coursing through his veins, so she supposes he barely notices it.

“Turn around,” he instructs, and she does as she’s told, presenting her back to him as she faces away. She can hear the splash of the water as he advances upon her within the small space, feel the water moving with him.

Dampened hands scoop her hair away from her neck, before he places the choker around it, carefully fastening it. It chills her skin, a strange juxtaposition to the clamminess that their surroundings elicit. It feels heavy and tight around her throat, more like a collar than a necklace, and as Viserys turns her roughly to face him, sending yet more water cascading over the sides of the bath, she can see that that was precisely his intent.

His eyes are wild as he appraises her, lips slightly parted. “This is hundreds of years old, it would have been worn by a Targaryen princess from the days of Old Valyria,” he tells her, his voice lowering, taking on the seductive timbre that he affects only when aroused. He hooks two fingers beneath the centre ruby, giving it a tug. “How does it make you feel?”

She swallows thickly, considering her answer, wanting to offer words that will please him. “It makes me feel…fortunate…to have the opportunity to wear something of such significance.”

He hums, clearly satisfied with her answer, giving a slight nod as he grasps her hips beneath the water and manhandles her into his lap. She can feel his hardened cock prodding insistently at her most intimate area as she settles into the position of straddling him, winding her arms around his neck, as his hands keep a firm grip of her.

“Ser Jorah came by this on his travels,” he tells her, eyes fixated upon her throat, “he was going to give it as a gift to my sister, but I have taken it for myself. I do not see why she should lay claim to such a valuable piece of our shared ancestry, just for spreading her legs and siring a whelp for that savage, Drogo.”

The tone of his voice drips with jealousy, and it makes her uncomfortable to be faced with his arousal, not for the first time, while he speaks of Daenerys. She knows that the Targaryens existed on a foundation of bloodline purity, however, those customs are queer to her and to be faced with the reality of their incestuous nature makes her stomach churn.

All thoughts leave her mind, however, as he tugs her downwards to meet his upward thrust, spearing her open on his cock with a grunt elicited through gritted teeth. She moans at the exquisite stretch, nuzzling into the crook of his neck as she clings tightly to him, her breaths hot against his wet skin.

Viserys keeps his hands upon her hips, helping to guide her movements as she rolls her pelvis against his, bouncing herself upon his aching length. Though he is often cruel to her, when he holds her close like this, and it is just the sounds of their mingling pants for breath and the slap of their skin, it is easy for her to forget that she was purchased for his pleasure, a means to distract him from the want to defile his sister.

When he holds her close, his harsh features contorted in ecstasy, the madness that dances within his eyes conveying only lust, she can allow herself to believe that she is special, that he chose her alone to travel with him and warm his bed because he wanted only her, not because the Beggar King could not afford more than one concubine. 

In her own foolish heart, she has allowed gratitude to be misplaced for love. The fondness she feels towards him for him having taken her from the pleasure houses of Lys, and rescuing her from the life of a common whore, in her mind, is romantic. 

So when he takes one of the stiffened peaks of her nipples between thumb and forefinger and pinches harshly, she mewls wantonly as the sensation causes her sensitive walls to clench around him, wanting him to know just how good he makes her feel, how eager she is to please him.

If he did not return her affection, why else would he allow her to wear the choker that currently sits snug against her throat?

She speeds up her movements, the bathwater undulating around them with more intensity. The head of his cock bullies relentlessly at a spot inside of her that, coupled with the lightheadedness she feels from the heat of the water, makes her forget herself entirely. Before she can stop them, the words tumble carelessly from her lips.

“I love you.”

He halts all movements, and she freezes, her heart hammering wildly against her ribcage as she realises what she has just said. She opens her mouth, wanting to apologise, to take it back, to beg for forgiveness, but before she can he’s grasping her jaw, forcing her to meet the intensity of his stare.

“Say it again,” he orders quietly, leaving no room for argument.

She is hesitant at first, but he tangles his fingers into the back of her hair, not allowing her to look away, so she relents. “I–I love you.”

He snarls, tugging harshly at her hair as he resumes his brutal thrusts up into her. “That’s right, you fucking do.”

For the briefest of moments, she had allowed herself to believe he might say it back, and is not even given the respite to experience disappointment, as he chases his release within her. Her confession of love having been enough to stroke his ego to the point of climax, evidenced by the insistent pulsating of his member as he pumps it in and out of her with renewed vigour.

He holds her tightly against himself, pushing himself as far up into her as he can go as he peaks, spilling inside of her with a shameless groan, before settling back down, her body pliant against his as they both catch their breath.

“I’m finished with you for tonight. Leave me,” he says despondently, as his rapidly softening cock slips free of her.

She offers a curt nod, disentangling herself from him and climbing on shaky legs from the tub, bathwater and Viserys’ seed both dripping down her thighs, as she reaches for her dress, clutching it to herself to protect what little remains of her modesty.

“Wait,” he snaps, and for a moment she believes he will tell her he has changed his mind, that he longs for her company. Instead he snaps his fingers, gesturing to her neck. “The necklace.”

Her heart sinks, but she forces her expression to remain stoic, unclasping it and depositing it back into his outstretched palm. Her neck feels immediately lighter, having been freed from the weight of it. However, as she walks from the tent, it is replaced with a heaviness upon her heart that reminds her irrevocably of her place - or lack thereof - in the world of Viserys Targaryen.

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[hallowed-harpy]

'Legacy, Opposition, Lightbringer'

An analytical framework for the birth of Dany's dragons and the forging of Lightbringer.

(Analysis by Hallowed-Harpy)

Strap in, this is going to be a LONG one...

What follows is an analysis of the sacrificial machinations at play in the miraculous births of Viserion, Rhaegal, and Drogon, culminating in the forging of Lightbringer and rebirth of Azor Ahai.

"'It was a time when darkness lay heavy on the world. To oppose it, the hero must have a hero’s blade, oh, like none that had ever been. And so for thirty days and thirty nights Azor Ahai labored sleepless in the temple, forging a blade in the sacred fires. Heat and hammer and fold, heat and hammer and fold, oh, yes, until the sword was done. Yet when he plunged it into water to temper the steel, it burst asunder…the second time it took him fifty days and fifty nights, and this sword seemed even finer than the first. Azor Ahai captured a lion, to temper the blade by plunging it through the beast’s red heart, but once more the steel shattered and split…a hundred days and a hundred nights he labored on the third blade, and as it glowed white-hot in the sacred fires, he summoned his wife. 'Nissa Nissa' he said to her, for that was her name ‘bare your breast, and know that I love you best of all that is in this world’...she did this thing, why I cannot say, and Azor Ahai thrust the smoking sword through her living heart…her cry of anguish and ecstasy left a crack across the moon, but her blood and her soul and her strength and her courage all went into the steel. Such is the tale of the forging of Lightbringer, the Red Sword of Heroes.' - Davos I, ACoK

This passage describes the hero's journey to understanding. It follows a series of trial-and-error as Azor Ahai attempts to identify the elements necessary to forge an otherworldly weapon of light and hope, capable of combating the darkness. First, he learns that sacred fire alone is inadequate. Even the combination of sacred fire and blood proves insufficient. It is not until sacred fire, blood, and willing self-sacrifice are combined that Lightbringer is successfully forged.

The dragon (Lightbringer) has three heads.

It is Nissa Nissa's willing self-sacrifice that is rewarded. She came 'bearing her breast' - willingly - in truly selfless sacrifice. It is her strength, courage, and blood that merge with the 'blade' (dragon) to forge Lightbringer.

Through her sacrifice Nissa Nissa becomes a dragon - a flaming sword across the world - and as she 'wakes the dragon,' her 'cry of anguish and ecstasy' leaves a 'crack across the moon'...

“'A trader from Qarth once told me that dragons came from the moon,' blond Doreah said... Dany turned her head, curious. 'The moon?' 'He told me the moon was an egg, Khaleesi,' the Lysene girl said. 'Once there were two moons in the sky, but one wandered too close to the sun and cracked from the heat. A thousand thousand dragons poured forth, and drank the fire of the sun. That is why dragons breathe flame. One day the other moon will kiss the sun too, and then it will crack and the dragons will return.'" - Dany III, aGoT

The mythos of the forging of Lightbringer is the same mythos as the origin of dragons, and the 'Azor Ahai' returned prophecy is the same prophecy as the 'return of the dragons' - the difference is that one version is told through the cultural lens of Asshai, while the other is told through the cultural lens of Qarth. The reason that Azor Ahai is prophesized to 'wake dragons from stone,' is because Lightbringer was always a dragon, never a literal sword.

"...A true sword of fire, now, that would be a wonder to behold. Yet at such a cost…when he thought of Nissa Nissa, it was his own Marya he pictured…the best woman in the world. He tried to picture himself driving a sword through her, and shuddered. I am not made of the stuff of heroes, he decided. If that was the price of a magic sword, it was more than he cared to pay...” - Davos I, ACoK

These themes of fire, blood, sacrifice and 'paying the price' guide the following analysis of the rituals and sacrifices leading to the birth of the dragons, forging of Lightbringer, and rebirth of Azor Ahai.

Beginning with Dany VIII, AGoT -

“'There is a spell.' Her voice was quiet, scarcely more than a whisper. 'But it is hard, lady, and dark. Some would say that death is cleaner. I learned the way in Asshai, and paid dear for the lesson. My teacher was a bloodmage from the Shadow Lands.' "Dany went cold all over. 'Then you truly are a maegi...' 'Am I?' Mirri Maz Duur smiled. 'Only a maegi can save your rider now, Silver Lady.' 'Is there no other way?' 'No other.' Khal Drogo gave a shuddering gasp. 'Do it,' Dany blurted. She must not be afraid; she was the blood of the dragon. 'Save him.' 'There is a price,' the godswife warned her. 'You’ll have gold, horses, whatever you like.' 'It is not a matter of gold or horses. This is bloodmagic, lady. Only death may pay for life.' 'Death?' Dany wrapped her arms around herself protectively, rocked back and forth on her heels. 'My death?' She told herself she would die for him, if she must. She was the blood of the dragon, she would not be afraid… 'No,' Mirri Maz Duur promised. 'Not your death, Khaleesi.' Dany trembled with relief. 'Do it.' The maegi nodded solemnly. 'As you speak, so it shall be done. Call your servants.' Khal Drogo writhed feebly as Rakharo and Quaro lowered him into the bath. 'No,' he muttered, 'no. Must ride.' Once in the water, all the strength seemed to leak out of him. 'Bring his horse,' Mirri Maz Duur commanded, and so it was done."

Mirri Maz Duur is a maegi - a spell caster - words are her weapon. She chooses what she says (or doesn't say) with great intention and care. It is up to Daenerys (and the reader) to hear what Mirri is (or isn't) saying. Mirri relies heavily on omission, and does not volunteer many details, instead putting the onus on Daenerys to ask the right questions, while also relying on Dany's naivety, trust, and panic to cloud her understanding of the gravity of the 'cost.'

Mirri begins by offering Daenerys a warning and anecdote, explicitly stating this is dark magic that she learned at great personal cost. Despite being vague, the implication is that the cost was something significant. Yet Dany tells her, 'You can have gold, horses, whatever you like,' to which Mirri states that this is 'not a matter of horses - only death may pay for life.'

Daenerys asks for clarification here, and while Mirri cedes that the price is not Dany's own life, she intentionally omits further explanation of the sacrifice that is required - and Dany does not inquire any further. At this juncture of their agreement, Mirri has not so much as mentioned Drogo's horse, so Dany has no reason to yet believe the price to be paid is the life of the stallion. Instead, she agrees to make a seemingly unidentified sacrifice.

However, that she is described as wrapping her arms around herself protectively, is a subtle tell that she may, at least subconsciously, suspect the sacrifice to be Rhaego.

"She stood to answer. 'He shall be called Rhaego,' she said, using the words that Jhiqui had taught her. Her hands touched the swell beneath her breasts protectively as a roar went up from the Dothraki. 'Rhaego,' they screamed. 'Rhaego, Rhaego, Rhaego!' - Dany V, AGoT

"'I want what I came for...he can keep his bloody foal. I'll cut the bastard out and leave it for him.' The sword point pushed through her silks and pricked at her navel. Viserys was weeping she saw... Viserys began to scream the high wordless scream of the coward facing death...'Turn away, my princess, I beg you.' 'No.' She folded her arms across the swell of her belly. protectively." - Dany V, AGoT

"'My brother?' Her sob was half a laugh. 'He does not know yet, does he? The Usurper owes Drogo a lordship.' This time her laugh was half a sob. She hugged herself protectively. 'And me, you said only me?' 'You and the child,' Ser Jorah said, grim. 'No. He cannot have my son.'" - Dany VI, AGoT

This subconscious awareness is then explicitly discussed between Dany and Mirri after Daenerys wakes from her labor:

"'You warned me that only death could pay for life. I thought you meant the horse.' 'No,' Mirri Maz Duur said. 'That was a lie you told yourself. You knew the price.' Had she? Had she? If I look back I am lost." - Dany VIII, AGoT

"If I look back I am lost," is ultimately Daenerys' admission, as well as her acceptance that she cannot undo what is done -- she can only move forward in survival.

"Khal Drogo writhed feebly as Rakharo and Quaro lowered him into the bath. 'No,' he muttered, 'no. Must ride.' Once in the water, all the strength seemed to leak out of him. 'Bring his horse,' Mirri Maz Duur commanded, and so it was done. Jhogo led the great red stallion into the tent... 'What do you mean to do?' Dany asked her. 'We need the blood,' Mirri answered. 'That is the way.'... 'This is bloodmagic,' he said. 'It is forbidden.' 'I am khaleesi, and I say it is not forbidden. In Vaes Dothrak, Khal Drogo slew a stallion and I ate his heart, to give our son strength and courage. This is the same. The same.'" "'Strength of the mount go into the rider,' Mirri sang as horse blood swirled into the waters of Drogo's bath. 'Strength of the beast, go into the man.'" - Dany VIII, AGoT

It is not until Drogo's 'strength' leaks out of him that Mirri calls for the blood of his horse. The blood, not the life. This language is intentionally misleading - while the blood bath is preparation for the sacrifice, it is not the sacrifice itself.

Later in Dany X, Mirri reiterates:

“'It is not enough to kill a horse,' she told Dany. 'By itself, the blood is nothing.'

Dany likens this blood exchange to eating the stallion's heart to give Rhaego 'strength,' after which Mirri explicitly directs the stallion's 'strength' into Drogo. The purpose of blood bathing in-world is explained through an anecdote from Samwell in Jon IV, AGoT:

'"...two men came to the castle, warlocks from Qarth with white skin and blue lips. They slaughtered a bull aurochs and made me bathe in the hot blood, but it didn't make me brave like they promised...'"

Ultimately, the blood bath is for show. Mirri is leaning into this misdirect in order to lull Daenerys into a false sense of security: that the sacrifice is a horse rather than her unborn child.

It is a flimsy sense of security, especially when Dany herself reflects:

"Only a horse, Dany thought. If she could buy Drogo's life with the death of a horse, she would pay a thousand times over." - Dany VIII, AGoT

This reflection should trigger alarm bells for Dany - how meaningful can a sacrifice be if it is one you would willingly 'pay a thousand times over'? It also contradicts Mirri's earlier revelation of having 'paid dearly' for the lesson. Still, Dany clings to the misdirect as a means of survival. If I look back I am lost.

"She sent her handmaids away. 'Go with them, Silver Lady,' Mirri Maz Duur told her. 'I will stay,' Dany said. 'The man took me under the stars and gave life to the child inside me. I will not leave him.' - Dany VIII, AGoT

(Note the sting of hindsight tragedy in Dany saying that Drogo gave life to the child inside her - only for her to surrender that life back to him.)

"'You must. Once I begin to sing, no one must enter this tent. My song will wake powers old and dark. The dead will dance here this night. No living man must look upon them.' Dany bowed her head, helpless. 'No one will enter.' She bent over the tub, over Drogo in his bath of blood, and kissed him lightly on the brow. 'Bring him back to me,' she whispered to Mirri Maz Duur before she fled." - Dany VIII, AGoT

Mirri explicitly establishes that the ritual starts when she begins to sing. Her song is her invocation. Her invitation to death to administer the sacrifice.

"Mirri Maz Duur's voice rose to a high ululating wail that sent a shiver down Dany's back. Some of the Dothraki began to mutter and back away. The tent aglow with the light of braziers within. Through the blood-spattered sandsilk, she glimpsed shadows moving. Mirri Maz Duur was dancing, and not alone." - Dany VIII, AGoT

As Mirri begins to sing, kicking off the ritualistic sacrifice of Rhaego within Daenerys' womb, Dany experiences an immediate and palpable physical response - a response that grows in intensity as Mirri's song builds:

"Inside Dany's womb, her son kicked wildly...Dany felt a sharp pain in her belly, a wetness on her thighs...The Dothraki were shouting, Mirri Maz Duur wailing inside the tent like nothing human...Dany cried out for help, but no one heard...'no, please, stop it, it's too high, the price is too high.'...she tried to rise, and agony seized her and squeezed her like a giant's fist. The breath went out of her; it was all she could do to gasp. The sound of Mirri Maz Duur's voice was like a funeral dirge. Inside the tent, shadows whirled...She convulsed in his arms as the pain took her again...another pain grasped her, and Dany bit back a scream. It felt as if her son had a knife in each hand, as if he were hacking at her to cut his way out...when she opened her mouth a great wail of pain escaped, and the sweat broke over her skin. What was wrong with them? Couldn't they see? Inside the tent the shapes were dancing, circling the brazier and the bloody bath, dark against the sandsilk, and some did not look human. She glimpsed the shadow of a great wolf, and another like a man wreathed in flames...the sound of Mirri Maz Duur's voice grew louder, until it filled the world. The shapes! she screamed. The dancers!" - Dany VIII, AGoT

While the fandom largely accepts this passage as Dany experiencing a trauma-induced early labor, I do not.

Dany's pain builds and evolves alongside Mirri's song. 'The sound of Mirri Maz Duur's voice was like a funeral dirge...another pain grasped her...as if her son had a knife in each hand, as if he were hacking at her to cut his way out.' Mirri's song is a funeral dirge - calling out for Rhaego's death - and Rhaego violently responds. This is more than labor - this is death reaching inside Dany's womb to take the life within her. It is also the reason why Daenerys is able to see death's shadows - she is, in this particular moment, one with death.

The passage culminates with Mirri's song filling the world - as Rhaego succumbs to sacrifice.

"'You knew,' Dany said when they were gone. She ached, inside and out, but her fury gave her strength. 'You knew what I was buying, and you knew the price, and yet you let me pay it.' 'It was wrong of them to burn my temple,' the heavy, flat-nosed woman said placidly. 'That angered the Great Shepherd.' 'This is no god's work,' Dany said coldly. If I look back I am lost. 'You cheated me. You murdered my child within me.' 'The stallion who mounts the world will burn no cities now. His khalasar shall trample no nations into dust.'" - Dany IX, AGoT

When confronted, Mirri reveals her intent: to prevent the fulfilment of the Stallion Who Mounts the World prophecy. She sacrificed Rhaego knowing that the sacrifice would be insufficient to fully restore Drogo, eliminating the possibility of Rhaego being the stallion, as well as the potential for Drogo to father another child of prophecy. I will take this a step further by postulating that Mirri also intentionally sterilized Dany to prevent her from ever carrying another potential 'stallion.' In sterilizing Daenerys during a blood-sacrifice ritual, Mirri made an unintentional sacrifice of Dany's fertility to Viserion. (More on this later).

Of course, the great irony in all of Mirri's prophecy-prevention scheming is that her actions serve as the catalyst for Daenerys herself becoming the prophesized Stallion (aka Azor Ahai, aka The Promised Prince).

It is the loss of Rhaego and Mirri's lesson - 'only death may pay for life' - in conjunction with her earlier dragon dreams, which ultimately allow Daenerys to decipher the elements needed to birth her dragons and forge Lightbringer.

"A word and Dany could have her head off...yet then what would she have? A head? If life was worthless, what was death?" - Dany IX, AGoT

With this lesson in mind, Dany resolves to prepare her first sacrifice - Drogo.

"They led Khal Drogo back to her tent, and Dany commanded them to fill a tub, and this time there was no blood in the water. She bathed him herself... ...The memory of her first ride was with her when she led him out into the darkness, for the Dothraki believed that all things of importance in a man's life must be done beneath the open sky. She told herself that there were powers stronger than hatred, and spells older and truer than any the maegi had learned in Asshai. The night was black and moonless, but overhead a million stars burned bright. She took that for an omen... ...and when the bleak dawn broke over an empty horizon, Dany knew that he was truly lost to her. 'When the sun rises in the west and sets in the east,' she said sadly. 'When the seas go dry and mountains blow in the wind like leaves. When my womb quickens again, and I bear a living child. Then you will return, my sun-and-stars, and not before.' Never, the darkness cried, never never never. Inside the tent Dany found a cushion of soft silk stuffed with feathers. She clutched it to her breasts as she walked back out to Drogo, to her sun-and-stars. If I look back I am lost. It hurt to even walk, and she wanted to sleep, to sleep and not to dream. She knelt, kissed Drogo on the lips, and pressed the cushion down upon his face." - Dany IX, AGoT

This passage (and chapter) ends with the Dany, moon-of-my-life, kissing Drogo, sun-and-my-stars, thus initiating the prophesized return of the dragons - 'One day the other moon will kiss the sun too, and then it will crack and the dragons will return.'

Having begun her ritual and made her first sacrifice, Dany moves to constructing her sacred fire - Drogo's funeral pyre.

"Over the carcass of the horse, they built a platform of hewn logs...they laid the wood east to west, from sunrise to sunset. On the platform they piled Khal Drogo's treasures...another layer of brush was piled about the khal's treasures, and bundles of dried grass scattered over them... ...The third level of the platform was woven of branches no thicker than a finger, and covered with dry leaves and twigs. They laid the north to south, from ice to fire, and piled them high with soft cushions and sleeping silks." - Dany X, AGoT

While a pyre, by definition, is already sacred, this imagery of 'east to west, sunrise to sunset' and 'north to south, ice to fire' creates an invocation of sacred geometry often seen in ritualistic magic. Dany is building the first element required to birth dragons and forge Lightbringer: sacred fire.

It's also interesting that this language seemingly foreshadows a prophecy from Quaithe:

"'To go north you must journey south (north to south). To reach the west, you must go east (east to west)...'" - Dany III, ACoK

While the pyre is being built, Daenerys and Jorah have words:

"'You are my queen, my sword is yours, but do not ask me to stand aside as you climb on Drogo's pyre. I will not watch you burn.' 'Is that what you fear?' Dany kissed him lightly on his broad forehead. 'I am not such a child as that, sweet ser.' 'You do not mean to die with him? You swear it, my queen?' 'I swear it,' she said in the Common Tongue of the Seven Kingdoms that by rights were hers." - Dany X, AGoT

Here, Dany is demonstrating a clear understanding that surrendering herself to the flames will not end with her death, but instead with her rebirth.

She then thinks to herself:

"Forgive me, sun of my life, she thought. Forgive me for all I have done and must do. I paid the price, my star, but it was too high, too high..." - Dany X, AGoT

Bringing to mind the Davos passage referenced earlier:

"...A true sword of fire, now, that would be a wonder to behold. Yet at such a cost…when he thought of Nissa Nissa, it was his own Marya he pictured…the best woman in the world. He tried to picture himself driving a sword through her, and shuddered. I am not made of the stuff of heroes, he decided. If that was the price of a magic sword, it was more than he cared to pay.” - Davos I, ACoK

The next step in Dany's ritual is to place the dragon's eggs on the pyre:

"'They were not given to me to sell,' Dany told him. She climbed the pyre herself to place the eggs around her sun-and-stars. The black beside his heart, under his arm. The green beside his head, his braid coiled around it. The cream-and-gold down between his legs." - Dany X, AGoT

The placement and color of the eggs are the first indicators of the future themes and narrative roles associated with each of the dragons: Legacy, Opposition, Lightbringer.

Drogon's egg is placed next to Drogo's heart, under his arm. The heart is associated with courage and destiny, which is thematically similar to the mythos of the forging of Lightbringer, wherein Nissa Nissa is stabbed through the heart, and her courage and strength merge with the 'steel.' That the egg is tucked under Drogo's arm speaks to Drogon, as Lightbringer, being Dany's support, propping her up in the fight for the dawn.

Drogon's egg is black and red - black being associated with protection, power, and death; red being associated with action, strength, and passion. Themes which also align with the mythos and role of Lightbringer - of the heart and destiny.

Rhaegal's egg is placed next to Drogo's head, with his braid coiled around it. The head is associated with cognition, lessons, and wisdom, and it is a notably common theme for the head (Rhaegal) and the heart (Drogon) to be in opposition of one another. Drogo's braid, a symbol of his violence and prowess in battle, being coiled around Rhaegal's egg also feels significant.

Rhaegal's egg is green and bronze - green being associated with both greed and envy, as well as growth (lessons) and healing. Bronze, an alloy of copper, tin, and silver, is a metal whose components are symbolically oppositional. This is because copper is associated with fire and the sun, while tin and silver are associated with water and the moon.

Furthermore, in looking at Drogon, who is black, and Rhaegal, who is green, there is a potential callback to the factions of the Dance of the Dragons - team black and team green. This may further foreshadow opposition between Drogon (the heart) and Rhaegal (the head).

Consider this excerpt from Dany I, ASoS:

"As his sharp black teeth snapped shut around it, Rhaegal's head darted close, as if to steal the prize from his brother's jaws, but Drogon swallowed and screamed, and the smaller green dragon could only hiss in frustration... 'Stop that, Rhaegal,' Dany said in annoyance, giving his head a swat. 'You had the last one. I'll have no greedy dragons.'

Finally, Viserion's egg is placed between Drogo's legs - in his groin. The groin is associated with virility, passion, fertility, and reproduction - legacy. This symbolism is particularly poignant in the context of my earlier assertion - that Mirri intentionally sterilized Daenerys and in doing so, inadvertently made a sacrifice of Dany's fertility to none other than Viserion.

Viserion's egg is cream and gold - cream, or white, being associated with purity and innocence, and gold being associated with prestige, prosperity, abundance, and light. Purity and innocence align with the theme of fertility, while gold aligns with the theme of a New Dawn - legacy.

It is my belief that, since the days of Old Valyria, in order for a dragon to produce a fertilized clutch of eggs, they must be bonded with a Valyrian women. Meaning it is the bond itself that quickens the eggs. This fertility reliance allowed the Valyrians to monopolize dragons through reproduction. That Rhaenyra and Daenerys gave birth to dragon-human hybrid infants seemingly confirms a fertility connection between Valyrian women and dragons.

While I believe that Mirri intentionally sterilized Dany as she sacrificed Rhaego, I do not believe she had any awareness beforehand that a) Rhaego was a hybrid dragon baby, and b) there is a complex magical connection between Dany's fertility and dragons. Lacking this knowledge, and performing sterilization during a blood sacrifice, Mirri unknowingly and unintentionally made a sacrifice of Dany's fertility.

During Daenerys' fevered dragon dream she experiences:

"...a terrible burning in her womb. Her son was tall and proud, with Drogo's copper skin and her own silver-gold hair, violet eyes shaped like almonds. He smiled for her and began to lift his hand toward hers, but when he opened his mouth the fire poured out. She saw his heart burning through his chest, and in an instant he was gone, consumed like a moth by a candle, turned to ash." - Dany IX, AGoT

The terrible burning in her womb is the moment in which Mirri sacrifices Dany's fertility. The burning is immediately followed by a vision of Rhaego, breathing fire, then disappearing - Dany's only future children, her truest legacy, will be her dragons.

Mirri all but confirms Dany's sterilization when she flippantly and cruelly tells her that Drogo will return as he was when 'her womb quickens again, and she bears a living child.' Mirri knows this cannot happen because she herself ensured it.

Upon waking from the sacrifice of both Rhaego and her fertility, it is Viserion's egg that she clings to:

"When she woke a third time, a shaft of golden sunlight was pouring through the smoke hole of the tent, and her arms were wrapped around a dragon's egg. It was the pale one, its scales the color of buttercream, veined with whorls of gold and bronze, and Dany could feel the heat of it. Beneath her bedsilks, a fine sheen of perspiration covered her bare skin. Dragondew, she thought. Her fingers trailed lightly across the surface of the shell, tracing wisps of gold, and deep in the stone she felt something twist and stretch in response. It did not frighten her. All her fear was gone, burned away." - Dany IX, AGoT

It is Viserion who stretches in response to Dany's touch after the sacrifice of her fertility. And while she notes that Drogon and Rhaegal's eggs feel warm, she makes no mention of them stretching or stirring:

"Ser Jorah and Mirri Maz Duur entered a few moments later, and found Dany standing over the other dragon's eggs, the two still in their chest. It seemed to her that they felt as hot as the one she had slept with, which was passing strange." - Dany IX, AGoT

The eggs being warm is not a wholly new experience for Daenerys. She has been attuning herself to the kinetic life trapped in stone throughout her arc in AGoT, alongside her dragon dreams. She feels heat, and even sees visual auras, but she has never felt them move:

"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." - Dany III, AGoT

"As she let the door flap close behind her, Dany saw a finger of dusty red light reach out to touch her dragon's eggs across the tent. For an instant a thousand droplets of scarlet flame swam before her eyes. She blinked, and they were gone. Stone, she told herself. They are only stone, even Illyrio said so, the dragons are all dead. She put her palm against the black egg, fingers spread gently across the curve of the shell. The stone was warm. Almost hot. 'The sun,' Dany whispered. 'The sun warmed them as they rode.'" - Dany III, AGoT

"Irri fetched the egg with the deep green shell, bronze flecks shining amid its scales as she turned it in her small hands...She liked to hold them. They were so beautiful, and sometimes just being close to them made her feel stronger, braver, as if somehow she were drawing strength from the stone dragons locked inside." - Dany IV, AGoT

Daenerys could sense kinetic life within her eggs because they had been fertilized before turning to stone - by the bond between Rhaena and Dreamfyre. Assuming that Dany's eggs are the same eggs Elissa Farman stole from Dragonstone, then they would have been fertilized by the bond between Dreamfyre and Rhaena. However, having been taken so far from Dragonstone, Dreamfyre, and Rhaena, the eggs fossilized rather than hatched, trapping the dragons inside. Had the eggs not been fertilized, there would not have been any kinetic life for Daenerys to tap into - no stone dragons to wake.

Assuming then that Viserion stirs because Dany's fertility was sacrificed alongside Rhaego, the significance of Rhaego being a dragon-human hybrid cannot be overstated. The sacrifice of Dany's fertility, and by proxy, the sacrifice of Rhaego, freeing Viserion of the fertility reliance unites the dragon-woman fertility exploitation in liberation. Meaning that from her hatching, Viserion is born free of a fertility reliance - she does not require a human bond in order to produce fertilized eggs. In this way, Viserion is a beacon of dragon-liberation...

"Viserion had shattered one chain and melted the others, she clung to the roof of the pit like some huge white bat, her claws dug deep into the burnt and crumbling bricks... ...When she flapped her wings, a cloud of grey ash filled the air. Broken chains clanked and clattered about her legs." - ADwD, Dany VIII

And again, in the Dragontamer chapter of ADwD:

"'I thought there were two?' Viserion. Yes. Where is Viserion? The prince lowered his torch to throw some light into the gloom below...Shattered links were strewn across the floor of the pit amongst the blackened bones - twists of metal, partly melted. Rhaegal was chained to the wall and the floor the last time I was here, the prince recalled, but Viserion hung from the ceiling. Quentyn stepped back, lifted the torch, craned his neck back... ...Viserion launched herself from the ceiling, pale leather wings unfolding, spreading wide. The broken chain dangling from her neck swung wildly...the dragon turned back toward the Windblown and lurched for the door..."

Liberatory imagery aside, ADwD supports the sacrifice of Dany's fertility to Viserion in two ways - while Dany is having a miscarriage in the Dothraki Sea, Viserion is back in Meereen showing signs of nesting:

"For a moment he saw only the blackened arches of the bricks above, scorched by dragonflame. A trickle of ash caught his eye, betraying movement. Something pale, half-hidden, stirring. She's made herself a cave, the prince realized. A burrow in the brick...Viserion had dug herself a hole in the walls with flame and claw, a hole big enough to sleep in. - Dragontamer, ADwD

A burrow large enough to nest in.

Meanwhile, Daenerys is in the Dothraki Sea showing signs of miscarriage:

"When she woke, gasping, her thighs were slick with blood. For a moment she did not realize what it was. The world had just begun to lighten, and the tall grass rustled softly in the wind. No, please, let me sleep more. I'm so tired. She tried to burrow back beneath the pile of grass she had torn up when she went to sleep. Some of the stalks felt wet. Had it rained again? She sat up, afraid that she had soiled herself as she slept. When she brought her fingers to her face, she could smell the blood on them. Am I dying? Then she saw the pale crescent moon, floating high above the grass and it came to her that this was no more than her moon blood. If she had not been so sick and scared, that might have come as a relief. Instead she began to shiver violently. She rubbed her fingers through the dirt, and grabbed a handful of grass to wipe between her legs. The dragon does not weep. She was bleeding, but it was only woman's blood. The moon is still a crescent, though. How can that be? She tried to remember the last time she had bled. The last full moon? The one before? The one before that? No, it cannot have been so long as that.... ...it seemed to her that the cramping had grown worse...She saw fresh blood on her thighs. The ragged hem of her undertunic was stained with it. The sight of so much blood frightened her. Moon blood, it's only my moon blood, but she did not remember ever having such a heavy flow." - Dany X, ADwD

That both Viserion and Daenerys are described in these passages as 'burrowing,' which is synonymous with nesting, feels very significant.

Even more telling is that in this same passage, there are themes of legacy and liberation:

'I am blood of the dragon,' she told the grass, aloud. Once, the grass whispered back, until you chained your dragons in the dark. ...'I will never have a little girl. I was the Mother of Dragons.' Aye, the grass said, but you turned against your children." - Dany X, ADwD

The irony here is palpable - Viserion is Dany's little 'girl' - the liberatory beacon of Daenerys' legacy.

Returning to the pyre ritual in Dany X, AGoT:

"The godswife did not cry out as they dragged her to Khal Drogo's pyre and staked her down amidst his treasures. Dany poured the oil over the woman's head herself. 'I thank you, Mirri Maz Duur,' she said, 'for the lessons you have taught me.' 'You will not hear me scream,' Mirri responded as the oil dripped from her hair and soaked her clothing. 'I will,' Dany said, 'but it is not your screams I want, only your life. I remember what you told me. Only death can pay for life.' Mirri Maz Duur opened her mouth but made no reply. As she stepped away, Dany saw that the contempt was gone from the maegi's flat black eyes; in its place was something that might have been fear. Then there was nothing to be done but watch the sun and look for the first star. - Dany X, AGoT

Here Daenerys begins her second sacrifice - that of Mirri Maz Duur. It is essential that Daenerys 'poured the oil' herself; this is her ritual, and it needs to be backed up with her intent.

Dany repeatedly associates Mirri with 'lessons,' which, as discussed earlier, is a theme associated with Rhaegal both in terms of the placement of his egg (the head), and his coloring (green).

This is also the moment that Mirri realizes that Daenerys does know what she is doing with this ritual...it is the first time Mirri doubts herself for the choices she has made. It is not that she fears death - it is that she fears she has accelerated the very prophecy she meant to halt.

"Jhogo spied it first. 'There,' he said in a hushed voice. Dany looked and saw it, low in the east. The first star was a comet, burning red. Bloodred; fire red; the dragon's tail. She could not have asked for a stronger sign. Dany took the torch from Aggo's hand and thrust it between the logs. The oil took the fire at once, the brush and dried grass a heartbeat later..." - Dany X, AGoT

Again, it is essential that Daenerys herself lit the pyre - her ritual, her intent. None of this is happenstance. Daenerys is making intentional and active choices as she performs her ritual.

"Dany's lips parted and she found herself holding her breath. Part of her wanted to go to him and Ser Jorah had feared, to rush into the flames to beg for his forgiveness and take him inside her one last time, the fire melting the flesh from their bones until they were one, forever." - Dany X, AGoT

This clearly demonstrates Dany's understanding that there is a specific moment in which she needs to walk into the pyre: after the second hatching, because she herself is the third and final sacrifice.

"She had sensed the truth of it long ago, Dany thought as she took a step closer to the conflagration, but the brazier had not been hot enough. The flames writhed before her like the women who had danced at her wedding, whirling and singing and spinning their yellow and orange and crimson veils, fearsome to behold, yet lovely, so lovely, alive with heat. Dany opened her arms to them, her skin flushed and glowing. This is a wedding, too, she thought. Mirri Maz Duur had fallen silent. The godswife thought her a child, but children grow, and children learn." - Dany X, AGoT

Like Azor Ahai, Daenerys learns, through trial and error, that sacred fire alone is not sufficient to forge Lightbringer (or hatch dragons).

Her conceptualizing the pyre as a wedding (Bride of Fire) adds to the sanctity of the pyre.

And again - Mirri, like Rhaegal, is thematically associated with growth and lessons.

"Another step and Dany could feel the heat of the sand on the soles of her feet, even through her sandals...the flames were so beautiful, the loveliest things she had ever seen...She saw a horse, a great grey stallion limned in smoke, it's flowing mane a nimbus of blue flame. Yes, my love, my sun-and-stars, yes, mount now, ride now... ...Now, she thought, now. And for an instant she glimpsed Khal Drogo before her, mounted on his smoky stallion, a flaming lash in his hand. He smiled, and the whip snaked down at the pyre, hissing. She heard a crack, the sound of shattering stone. The platform of wood and brush and grass began to shift and collapse in upon itself. Bits of burning wood slid down at her, and Dany was showered with ash and cinders. And something else came crashing down, bouncing and rolling, to land at her feet; a chunk of curved rock, pale and veined with gold, broken and smoking." - Dany X, AGoT

This passage explicitly connects Drogo's sacrifice to the hatching of Viserion. This establishes that the first hatching is associated with Dany's first sacrifice - meaning that there is an identifiable order and process to the outcome of this ritual.

Drogo's sacrifice was one that Daenerys made out of love and mercy, but it is not one that had consent - it was not a willing sacrifice. While sacred fire and blood sacrifice were sufficient to birth a dragon - only death can pay for life - they were insufficient to forge Lightbringer. Thus, Viserion is the first 'failed' forging of Lightbringer.

That Viserion goes on to be Dany's most affectionate child speaks to her having been born of Daenerys' mercy. Her hatching was born of love, and this is reflected in her personality.

There is immense bittersweet poetry in Viserion being brought forth through the sacrifice of Drogo(/Rhaego) and Dany's own fertility, to then become the literal Mother of Dragons - the lasting legacy of Daenerys Targaryen, the Lady of Light. Viserion will have the children that Daenerys (and Drogo) could not.

Similarly, Viserion will do what Viserys, her namesake, could not - carry on the Dragon's legacy.

"'The cream and gold I call Viserion. Viserys was cruel and weak and frightened, yet he was my brother still. His dragon will do what he could not.'" - Dany I, ACoK

Furthermore, 'Viserys,' is the masculine 'Visenya.' Had it not been for male primogeniture, Visenya would have been ruling queen over Aegon - she was the eldest. Viserion is also the eldest of the dragons, she hatched first. Her becoming the 'queen' of a New Dawn of liberated dragons course-corrects the wrongs of male primogeniture down the Targaryen line.

"Her vest had begun to smolder, so Dany shrugged it off and let it fall to the ground. The painted leather burst into sudden flame as she skipped closer to the fire, her breasts bare to the blaze, streams of milk flowing from her red and swollen nipples." - Dany X, AGoT

Here Daenerys recreates Nissa Nissa 'bearing her breast' in willing self-sacrifice.

Then:

"The roaring filled the world, yet dimly through the firefall Dany heard women shriek and children cry out in wonder." - Dany X, AGoT

Invoking an earlier Davos excerpt:

"...A true sword of fire, now, that would be a wonder to behold." - Davos I, ACoK

The dragons are repeatedly referred to as 'wonders' throughout the series.

“'Beware…of all. They shall come day and night to see the wonder that has been born again into the world...'” - Dany II, aCoK

“In all the world there were but three living dragons, and those were hers; they were a wonder, and a terror, and beyond price.” - Dany I, aSoS

“'…sailors back from the Jade Sea report that a three-headed dragon has hatched in Qarth, and is the wonder of that city.'” - Tyrion III, aSoS

“'When your dragons were small, they were a wonder.'” - Dany III, aDwD

“'Dragons and darker things…the grey sheep have closed their eyes, but the mastiff sees the truth. Old powers waken. Shadows stir. An age of wonder and terror will soon be upon us, an age for gods and heroes.'” - Prologue, aFfC

“'Once a man has seen a dragon in flight, let him stay at home and tend his garden in content…for this wide world has no greater wonder.'” - Tyrion IV, aDwD

“'We’ll see these dragons and all the wonders of the world.'” - Davos II, aDwD

That Lightbringer is described as a 'wonder to behold' is not coincidental.

Returning to the pyre:

"Only death can pay for life. And there came a second crack, loud and sharp as thunder, and the smoke stirred and whirled around her and the pyre shifted, the logs exploding as the fire touched their secret hearts." - Dany X, AGoT

Here we get Dany reflecting on Mirri's lesson - only death can pay for life - followed immediately by the second hatching. Just as the first sacrifice correlated with the first hatching, the second sacrifice - Mirri - correlates with the second hatching - Rhaegal.

We later receive explicit textual confirmation that Mirri was a sacrifice for a dragon in the House of the Undying visions:

"...Mirri Maz Duur shrieked in the flames, a dragon bursting from her brow..." - Dany IV, ACoK

Both Mirri and Rhaegal are thematically associated with lessons, but also themes of healing or healers - green being associated with healing, where Mirri herself is a healer.

Again, while sacred fire and blood sacrifice were sufficient to bring forth a living dragon, Rhaegal's hatching lacks the element of willing self-sacrifice - making him the second failed attempt to forge Lightbringer.

Where Drogo was sacrificed of Dany's mercy, Mirri is sacrificed of Dany's vengeance. While Viserion, born of mercy, is affectionate and loving, Rhaegal, born of retribution, is more aggressive and temperamental, seemingly attuned to Dany's anger. I believe that this pretext primes Rhaegal to be oppositional toward Daenerys. Not because he 'hates' her, but because he, like Mirri, exists narratively to teach her (painful) lessons - a dragon should not be chained, tamed, or otherwise enslaved, not even to their mothers. I see him doing this by choosing his own rider, likely one with enmity toward Daenerys.

Recall that this conflict is further reinforced by egg placement - with Drogon, the heart, being at odds with Rhaegal, the head, as well as Rhaegal's bronze coloring being symbolically conflicted.

There is also a bit of foreshadowing in the text:

"I have the dragons. The dragons are all the difference. She stroked Rhaegal. The green dragon closed his teeth around the meat of her finger and nipped hard." - Dany III, ACoK

Dany thinks 'I have the dragons' and Rhaegal seems to say, 'are you sure?'

Rhaegal's priming for disconnect and opposition toward Dany is reinforced in his namesake, Rhaegar, being the only one of the three namesakes that Daenerys did not personally know. It also creates a thematic connection between Rhaegal and Young Griff, the supposed son of Rhaegar - the Mummer's Dragon. A mummer 'gives the hero something to fight' - in this case, the hero being Daenerys (and Drogon).

A connection between Rhaegal and Young Griff brings us back to the black and green color symbolism between Drogon and Rhaegal - a potential second Dance of Dragons. Drogon and Daenerys being 'the blacks,' where Rhaegal and Young Griff are 'the greens.'

Should something of this nature unfold, I could see a tragic callback to Vermithor and Silverwing between Rhaegal and Viserion, who I very much believe to be a bonded pair. According to Fire and Blood, the singers say that after Vermithor had been slain, Silverwing descended from the sky at nightfall to lay beside him. Songs tell of her attempting to lift Vermithor's wings three times with her snout, as if to make him fly again. At sunrise, Silverwing took 'listlessly' to the skies, ultimately retiring to a small island in the Red Lake. In the case of Rhaegal and Viserion, I see this being the catalyst for Viserion retreating to the Mother of Mountains (which is where I believe she will retire for nesting and reproduction by the end of the series).

"She heard the screams of frightened horses, and the voices of the Dothraki raised in shouts of fear and terror, and Ser Jorah calling her name and cursing. No, she wanted to shout to him, no, my good knight, do not fear for me. The fire is mine. I am Daenerys Stormborn, daughter of dragons, bride of dragons, mother of dragons, don't you see? Don't you SEE? With a belch of flame and smoke that reached thirty feet into the sky, the pyre collapsed and came down around her. Unafraid, Dany stepped forward into the firestorm, calling to her children. The third crack was as loud and sharp as the breaking of the world." - Dany X, AGoT

'Do not fear for me,' demonstrates Dany's knowledge that this is the precise moment in which she must step forward in self-sacrifice and rebirth. She is the third sacrifice, the third forging. In this moment, she is Nissa Nissa, breasts bared for sacrifice. The crack in response to Dany's sacrifice is described as the 'breaking of the world,' where Nissa Nissa's sacrifice is said to have 'cracked the moon.'

She is 'unafraid' because her dragon dreams have already shown her what will happen:

"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." - Dany III, AGoT

She dreams of Drogon, specifically, covered in her blood. Born of her self-sacrifice. The Red Sword of Heroes:

"'...her blood and her soul and her strength and her courage all went into the steel...such is the tale of the forging of Lightbringer, the Red Sword of Heroes.'" - Davos I, ACoK

Then she dreams:

"A great knife of pain ripped down her back, and she felt her skin tear open and smelled the stench of burning blood and saw the shadow of wings. And Daenerys Targaryen flew. '...wake the dragon...'" - Dany IX, AGoT

These dreams demonstrate Daenerys functioning in three specific capacities - Nissa Nissa, Lightbringer, and Azor Ahai. Child of Three.

First, Drogon is covered in her blood - her sacrifice. She then 'opens her arms to the fire,' embracing it - in parallel to Nissa Nissa embracing the sword.

She dreams of 'waking the dragon' - becoming the dragon. When she walks into the pyre, what was Daenerys Targaryen is sacrificed to the flames, merging with Drogon, to forge an otherworldly weapon of light and hope - Lightbringer.

She is then reborn - 'strong and new and fierce' - as Azor Ahai.

"'The frightened child who sheltered at my manse died on the Dothraki Sea and was reborn in blood and fire.'" - Tyrion, ADwD

Daenerys and Drogon are one, connected at a soul level.

"Dany and Drogon screamed as one." - Dany IX, ADwD

They scream as one, despite not yet being bonded as dragon-rider. Something else connects them. Something deeper, stronger, and more magical.

"In the smoldering red pits of Drogon's eyes, Dany saw her own reflection. How small she looked, how weak and frail and scared." - Dany IX, ADwD

Here Dany is quite literally seeing the part of herself that was sacrificed to Drogon.

After she bonds with Drogon as his rider, she thinks:

"On Drogon's back she felt whole." - Dany X, ADwD

Similar to how Viserion will do what Viserys could not, Drogon will accomplish what Drogo never could have - guiding and protecting Daenerys on the path to her greater destiny as the 'Lady of Light and Hope.' The herald of a New Dawn and the restoration of balance between the seasons. Drogo would have deterred Dany from her greater purpose. The farthest he would have carried her would have been the Iron Throne, the ultimate red herring of the series.

"When the fire died at last and the ground became cool enough to walk upon, Ser Jorah Mormont found her amidst the ashes, surrounded by blackened logs and bit of glowing ember and the burnt bones of man woman and stallion. She was naked, covered with soot, her clothes turned to ash, her beautiful hair all crisped away...yet she was unhurt." - Dany X, AGoT

She is as naked and bald as the day she was first born. Amidst the smoke of the pyre, and the salt of Dany's tears as they turned to steam, Azor Ahai is born again.

"The cream and gold dragon was suckling at her left breast, the green and bronze at her right. Her arms cradled them close. The black and scarlet beast was draped across her shoulders, its long sinuous neck coiled under her chin... ...As Daenerys Targaryen rose to her feet, her black hissed, pale smoke venting from its mouth and nostrils. The other two pulled away from her breasts and added their voices to the call, translucent wings unfolding and stirring the air, and for the first time in hundreds of years, the night came alive with the music of dragons." - Dany X, AGoT

The placement of the dragons in this scene supports the order in which they hatched. Viserion and Rhaegal hatched before Daenerys walked into the pyre - she calls to them as she steps forward. Their placement suggests that they came when called and took to nursing, during which Drogon, having hatched last, landed on her shoulder.

IN SUM:

Daenerys recreates the conditions required to forge Lightbringer - sacred fire, blood, and willing self-sacrifice - in her ritual to birth the dragons

She is the Child of Three - functioning as Nissa Nissa, Lightbringer, and Azor Ahai

Viserion and Rhaegal are the failed forgings of Lightbringer

Viserion is Legacy: born of mercy (and fertility). She will live on to be the literal Mother of Dragons - the Ivory Empress of the New Dawn, nesting atop the Mother of Mountains. Her children will be born free of bloodmagic and fertility bonds, to maintain the necessary magical homeostasis between ice and fire

Rhaegal is Opposition: born of vengeance and painful lessons, Rhaegal is primed to take an oppositional stance in Dany's story

Drogon is Lightbringer: born of willing self-sacrifice, Drogon will guide and protect Daenerys as she fulfills her greater purpose

Collectively, these three - Legacy, Opposition, Lightbringer (LOL) - form the three-headed dragon, the Lady of Light (LOL) - Daenerys Targaryen ('Dae' is Korean for 'shining one' or 'great one,' while 'Nerys' is Welsh for 'Lady' - The Shining Lady, the Lady of Light)

[onakomiyaki]

"Shit shit shit–" Oscar cursed as he struggling to wear his pants as he walk out of the bedroom, almost forgot to wear his–now wrinkly–white t-shirt.

After successfully zipping up his jeans and wearing his tee to hide his bare chest, he frantically searching for his backpack and phone in the living room. But he stop midway, eyes wide, and cold sweat run down his back.

"Morning Oscar," Jenson said calmly, stirring his morning coffee–not even looking up from his newspaper.

"S-sir," Oscar manage to say as he stand straighter, frozen in place as his boyfriend's bestfriend's "father" turn the newspaper with smile on his face.

Oscar however couldn't bring himself to smile as the color on his face slowly drained away from him. This is really is the last thing he needs, meeting Jenson the-first-ever-driver-to-press-the-DRS Button as he prepare to do a walk-of-shame out of his apartment is just like a perfect cherry on top.

"Did you kids have fun?" Jenson asked, "The whole living room is a mess but don't worry I've cleaned it up 2 hours ago," he cheekly continue as he fold his newspaper neatly, while Oscar felt a sword had just stabbed directly to his heart.

"We–I'm–I was just leaving. I'm sorry," the young Aussie said after he manage to find his voice.

Jenson giggled as he finally looking at Oscar messy appereance. Jenson knew a walk-of-shame when he see one, he'd been there long before he adopted Logan.

"Nothing to apologize for, don't worry. You both are young adult, I won't be angry." Jenson speak as he bring his empty cup to the sink.

Oscar let out a shuddered breath but of course he just froze there, somehow more statue-like than a statue when you see one. Jenson–bless him and his beautiful smile–turn his body to face the young Aussie.

"From the state of Logan's apartment, especially the living room, you guys had a blast last night." He asked while wiping his wet hands with a small towel.

"Rough race I must say, it's just one of those days, right?"

Oscar nod his head weakly as his eyes trained to the floor, unable to make eye contact with Jenson. Vegas GP was shit. Very much so that he had to bail out from Max's party and call Logan to pick him up.

When Logan worriedly answer his phone call, Oscar lost it. But of course him being as nonchalant he is never admit anything wrong. He simply said that he missed him. Logan never question him, he never was and will never do that.

"Sorry sir, I was just about to leave–"

"When will your next flight be?"

"Tomorrow morning, sir."

"Ah, that's good! We still have time for breakfast then. I'll make us some tea-"

The bedroom door creak loudly as a very tired-VERY NAKED Logan Sargeant emerged from the bedroom, hair sticking to all over places. He let out a yawn as he rub his eyes weakly.

"Oscar? Where are you going-OH SHIT-PAPA?!?"

Jenson wave at his adoptive son happily as Logan scramble to hide his naked lower region. Oscar facepalming as he trying his best to hide his embarassement.

"Hi Logie bear, papa's here to check on you. You know while I'm in town" Jenson smile innocently.

Logan quickly ran back to his room before emerging shortly after, this time wearing his brief. His whole face turned as red as tomato and he hurriedly walk toward Jenson.

"WHY DON'T YOU CALL?"

"Why should I call? I want to visit my son, that's it."

"YEA BUT-"

Oscar cleared his throat, hoping to make a reminder to both of men that he is here as well. He just awkwardly stand there, staring at the two blondes.

[rhynestonez]

The Winter Knight

Knight! Bucky X Princess! Reader

Heres a small snippet of a piece I’m working on :)

The morning sun poured in through the tall, arched windows, gilding the chamber in soft gold. The silken curtains of the canopy bed stirred faintly with the breeze, whispering secrets of the waking world. All within the room was still — perfectly arranged, unmarred by chaos or haste. A chamber fit for a crown, yet touched with a gentle quietness that felt wholly yours.

With a low, sleepy sigh, you stirred beneath the embroidered coverlet, warm and drowsy. The linen sheets, scented with rose and chamomile, clung gently to your skin as you yawned, stretching your arms above your head. Hair tousled from sleep, you sat up slowly, the fabric rustling softly around you.

The light kissed your face, soft and honeyed, and you tilted your head toward it — eyes fluttering shut for a moment. You breathed in the calm of morning: the hush of stone corridors beyond your chamber door, the distant rustle of birds in the garden, the faint trickle of the marble fountain below.

“It’s a fine day, surely.” you whispered to no one, your voice still heavy with dreams.

Slipping from the bed, your bare feet touched the plush rug with a soundless grace. You crossed the room with the ease of one who had walked it a thousand times, your nightgown brushing the polished floor behind you.

At the vanity — an ornate piece carved from white oak, inlaid with silver filigree — you sat upon the velvet-cushioned stool. The mirror, round and framed in delicate vines of carved ivy, reflected a vision both soft and royal. Sleep still clung to the corners of your eyes, and your hair fell in loose waves about your shoulders, catching the morning light like spun gold.

Alayna entered without a word, as she always did, her arms full of silks, ribbons, and a basin of warm water.

“You rise early, milady.” she murmured with a small smile as she set the basin down.

You returned her smile in the mirror. “I could not sleep past the sun. She beckons too sweetly.”

Alayna chuckled softly, then took to her gentle work — brushing your hair with care, the strokes long and even. You let your mind wander as she plaited and twisted, pinning delicate strands behind your ears. At her prompting, you dipped your fingers into the water and cleansed your face, the steam lifting the last of sleep from your skin.

Your gaze shifted, just briefly, to the window again — beyond which, the world was already beginning to stir.

Today was the day.

The day your father’s newest knight would be welcomed into court. The one spoken of in hushed tones and firelit gossip. Sir James of Barnes, a man cloaked in mystery, with a sword that had seen too much, and eyes — they said — that had forgotten what peace looked like.

You had not yet seen him. Not yet heard his voice.

But you would.

And the thought of that unknown brushed against your mind like a chill beneath the sun.

Still, your expression remained serene. You reached for the small jar of rose salve and dabbed it to your lips. Powder followed, then a hint of color at your cheeks, though you wore no heavy paint. You didn’t need it. You were royal not just in name, but in bearing.

“A gown of pale blue, perhaps?” Alayna offered, holding it up. “Simple, yet stately. Fitting for the occasion.”

You nodded. “Let it be so. I shall not appear as though I seek his approval… but I will not appear unaware, either.”

And as she helped you into the gown — fastening clasps, smoothing the folds — you found yourself wondering: What kind of man rides into a kingdom and earns a king’s trust without earning his people’s first?

What kind of man would soon share these very halls?

You didn’t yet know his face, nor the sound of his step.

But you would.

And that knowing… felt strangely inevitable.

—

The garden lay still in the hush of morning, cloaked in gentle sun and the perfume of early blooms. Pale light spilled over the petals — lilies, irises, and roses just beginning to stir — their colors soft as watercolors. You wandered slowly through the winding paths, your gown brushing along the stone, hands trailing over the tall green stems as you passed.

The air was warm, but not yet heavy. The breeze carried the scent of earth and jasmine, and with each step, you breathed it in like a balm to your thoughts.

He is within these walls now.

Sir James of Barnes.

You had not seen him. Not yet. But he had arrived — that much you knew. You had heard the sound of new hooves upon the courtyard stone. The murmurs in the servants’ hall. The way the guards spoke with stiff-backed respect, voices low as if his presence commanded silence even in absence.

You paused beside a cluster of early roses, their buds tight, trembling on the cusp of bloom. Your fingers hovered just above them — close enough to feel their coolness, but not to touch.

He was a mystery carved in steel and smoke. A man summoned from the edge of war to stand at your father’s side. To protect him. To protect you, perhaps. And yet…

Why do I think of him so?

You did not know him. You had no reason to dwell upon his name — and yet it lingered. A shadow that curved into your thoughts unbidden.

There was a rustle behind you — soft, familiar.

You didn’t turn right away. You didn’t need to.

“Mother,” you said quietly.

She came to stand beside you without a word, her presence as calm and comforting as the garden itself. Her gown, a flowing silver-grey, trailed behind her like mist clinging to morning grass. For a long while, neither of you spoke. You merely stood together, breathing in the stillness, watching the light play upon the fountain’s surface.

At last, she broke the silence. “You think of him.”

It was not a question.

You lowered your gaze, a small smile touching the corner of your mouth. “I know naught of him. Only what others say. Whispers, mostly.”

“And still,” she said gently, “his name does linger upon your thoughts.”

You exhaled slowly. “There is something about it. About him. Though I know not what. As if- the very castle breathes differently now.”

Your mother looked at you then, truly looked. There was no judgment in her eyes, only the soft understanding that came from a heart tempered by time.

“Be not ashamed of curiosity, child,” she said, her voice as smooth as still water. “It is the beginning of knowing. And sometimes… the first path to something more.”

You turned to face her, searching her gaze for something you couldn’t name. “But I do not even know his face.”

Her smile was wistful. “Not yet.”

You nodded, slow and thoughtful. Your fingers once more hovered near the blooming rose, but still you did not touch it. Some things, you knew, were best left unopened until they chose to bloom on their own.

And so, the two of you stood together in the garden, in the silence between one breath and the next — between one life and the one about to unfold.

—

The halls of the palace were still, safe for the soft echo of your steps on the stone. Sunlight streamed in through the tall windows, lighting the corridor in shifting gold, dancing over the tapestries that lined the walls — stories stitched in thread, kings long passed, battles fought, glories remembered. The air smelled faintly of lavender and beeswax, freshly polished wood beneath your fingertips as they brushed the carved paneling.

Your skirts swayed with each step, slow and measured. Composed. Regal.

But your heart…

Your heart beat as though it knew the court watched from behind closed doors, even now.

Ahead, the great doors of the throne room stood open — wide and waiting — and at the far end, just beyond the line of sight, your chair sat slightly to the left of the throne. Empty. Expectant.

You were not late. Not yet. But neither were you early. This walk was not just passage. It was procession. And the farther you walked, the more you could feel it — the weight of a hundred glances you would soon endure.

Your pulse thrummed low in your throat.

Today he will be there.

Sir James. The knight cloaked in rumor. You had not seen him yet — not even a glimpse. But you would. You would walk into that room, lift your chin with practiced grace, and take your place beside your father. And he would see you.

And I shall see him.

The thought curled like smoke in your chest — curious, bittersweet, impossible to ignore. You were not some foolish girl, swooning over a name. You were a princess, born of line and law, raised to be watched, to be judged, to be nothing less than sovereign even before you bore the crown.

But still… a part of you fluttered. A part that did not wear duty like armor. A part that still felt.

Will he look upon me with cold eyes, as the others do? Or will there be something different in his gaze?

You remembered the way the knights had looked at you before — some with hunger thinly veiled, others with indifference wrapped in steel. And always, always with calculation. You had long since learned how to look back with silence sharp enough to be its own blade.

But this one… the way they spoke of him — it was not like the others. Not gilded in flattery or laced with lust. They spoke as if they feared him, but also trusted him.

Your fingers brushed the fabric of your gown, smoothing it, though there were no creases.

I wonder if he’s thinking of this moment too. Wondering what I will be.

You reached the tall archway just before the entrance to the court, where two guards stood at silent attention. Neither spoke as you passed them, but they bowed, heads lowered. A gesture you barely registered.

Your breath caught in your throat.

And for just one moment — one suspended heartbeat — you stood at the threshold.

The hum of voices floated from the great hall beyond, the low murmur of court in session, of decisions being made, of eyes that would soon turn toward you the moment you stepped through.

You lifted your head.

I am my mother’s daughter. I am not here to be seen. I am here to be remembered.

Then, with that single breath drawn in — you stepped forward.

The light within the throne room was brighter than in the hall. It spilled through tall stained-glass windows in jewel tones, painting the marble floors in crimson, sapphire, and emerald. The courtiers stood in clusters, dressed in their finery, their heads turning even before you entered fully.

The guards at the great door announced you, their voices clear and loud, and you felt all eyes turn.

Let them look.

Your gaze swept the room, calm, serene — and still your thoughts raced like wild horses.

You saw your father at the throne- commanding, his presence unmoved - and beside it, your chair. Empty. Waiting. You began to walk toward it, each step a performance you’d mastered since you were a child.

You sank softly into your seat beside the throne-a carved chair of rich mahogany and velvet, delicate but commanding in its own right. Your fingers rested lightly on its arms, every gesture measured, practiced, though the rhythm of your heart was no longer quite so calm.

With a slight tilt of your head, you looked to the guard beside you — a knight stationed for your protection, steadfast and familiar — and gave him a gentle nod. Silent instruction.

He bowed with respect, then stepped away without a word, returning to the line that flanked the court. The space beside you grew still ��� quieter, somehow.

You glanced toward the great doors.

They remained open.

Odd.

That door, so often closed once the king was seated and the court assembled, now stood wide — as though awaiting someone. The light from the hall beyond cast long shadows on the marble, the air thick with expectation. Even the courtiers, long used to spectacle, seemed hushed now. Their eyes were drawn, as yours were, to the passage ahead.

Your gaze returned to your father.

He sat tall upon the throne, robes of deep crimson pooling around him like blood made silk, his crown a dark golden weight atop his brow. There was a gleam in his eyes — the look of a man about to summon a storm and claim it as his own.

Then his voice rang out, loud and firm, echoing through the chamber like the toll of iron upon stone.

“Bring forth Sir James of Barnes — knight of the northern reach, sworn blade of House Pendryn. Let him stand before his king.”

Your breath caught.

The sound of footsteps followed. Not hurried. Not timid. But sure. Heavy with purpose. The rhythm of them echoed, slow and deliberate, until he emerged from the golden light of the hallway.

He stepped into the court with a presence that seemed to pull the very air toward him.

Sir James.

He wore no shining silver like the ornamental knights of court. No, his armor was darker — a burnished black steel with edges of worn silver, nicked and marked with stories untold. A long dark cloak flowed behind him, fastened at the shoulder with a sigil you did not recognize. His hair was long, tied back with a leather cord, and his jaw bore the rough shadow of travel.

He did not smile. He did not need to.

And when his eyes — those cold, storm-forged eyes — swept the room, it was not with arrogance. It was awareness. Sharp, unrelenting, as though he measured every soul in the chamber and found them all… irrelevant.

Until he reached the stairs to the throne.

There, he paused.

Then, with a fluid grace that should not have belonged to a man of such strength, he knelt. One knee to the ground, head bowed, one hand fisted over his heart.

“Your Majesty.”

His voice was deep — gravel and velvet.

You found yourself staring.

Not because of his stature, though he was tall and formidable. Not because of the way his cloak pooled like shadows around him, or the faint glint of steel at his hip. But because something about him felt true. Real in a way most men in this room could only pretend to be.

And he bowed. Not to charm. Not to flatter. But in reverence. And in silence that said more than flattery ever could.

Your heart ached. In surprise. In wonder.

So this is him.

Your father spoke again, but the words passed by like a distant wind. Something about honor. Loyalty. Blood and steel. The ceremony of the court went on — yet you scarcely heard it. Your eyes remained fixed on the knight kneeling before the throne.

And then… he looked up.

Not at your father. Not at the courtiers.

At you.

Just for a breath.

And in that moment — that single, stolen second — the world stilled.

His gaze did not search you. It did not drink you in like a prize. He saw you — not the crown, not the duty, not the name. You. And you felt it like a hand against your ribs, pressing against something too long silent.

Your breath stilled.

Then he lowered his eyes again.

And the moment passed.

But something had shifted.

Within you. Within the room.

Your father leaned back upon his throne, and though his posture relaxed, his eyes gleamed with something fierce — a pride reserved only for victories, and men made of iron.

“Rise, Sir James.” he said, voice still ringing with command, but tinged with satisfaction. “Let your loyalty now be seen not in word, but in action.”

The knight obeyed — rising smoothly, without rustle or flourish, like a shadow lifting from the earth. He stood tall once more, and the light from the stained-glass window struck the side of his face, catching in the steel of his pauldron.

Your father studied him for a moment longer, then spoke — loud and certain. “This court is not unfamiliar with false oaths and borrowed swords. But thee I have called not for politics nor pageantry. Nay — thy reputation precedes thee like thunder before the storm.”

He stood now, robes settling heavily around him as he descended the steps of the dais, coming to stand level with the knight.

Your heart beat harder.

You knew your father. He did nothing without reason. And this moment — this performance — meant something.

The room fell into a reverent hush.

“I give thee now thy first charge,” the king continued, lifting his chin. “Not to the field. Not to war. But to something far more sacred to me.”

You blinked, confused. Your fingers curled slightly against the velvet of your chair.

“Thou shalt guard my daughter.” he declared, voice like stone on steel. “Her safety, her steps, her peace — they are thine to keep. She is thy commandment, thy creed, thy burden and thy bond.”

The words hit you like a sudden blow.

What…?

You turned your head, barely concealing the sharp inhale. The chamber remained still, but your thoughts churned like a sea beneath your skin.

Guard you?

You?

Your father continued, not noticing — or not caring — about your silence.

“She is not to leave thy sight, nor come to harm whilst thou drawest breath. In war or peace, night or day, storm or silence — she is to thee as thy swordhand.”

Your gaze snapped back to Sir James. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t question. He simply bowed his head once, his voice low but clear:

“As my king commands, so shall it be.”

You were on your feet before you realized you’d moved. The words broke from your lips like a spark from flint — unplanned, unchecked.

“But Father—!”

The moment your voice rose, the court stilled as though the air itself had frozen. A hush fell heavy and immediate, and every head in the room turned toward you in wide-eyed silence.

You never interrupted him. Not here. Not in court.

Your father’s gaze shifted to you slowly.

You had seen that look before — the stillness before a storm breaks. Not rage. Not scolding. But power. Command. The weight of the crown worn so long it had become part of his very blood.

His expression was not unkind. It didn’t need to be.

That look alone was enough.

It pierced through your chest like a quiet blade — not meant to wound, only to remind.

You stood there, breath caught mid-protest, lips still parted. You could feel your heart pounding in your throat, your hands trembling faintly at your sides.

Why can he not ask me? you wanted to cry.

Why must I always be assigned?

But the words withered on your tongue beneath the iron of his stare.

Your father did not speak. He did not shout.

He simply waited.

And so, defeated by the silence alone, you sat.

Slowly.

Like a curtain drawing closed on a scene you had not finished playing.

Your head bowed for a moment, and the weight of it felt unbearable. A dozen thoughts clawed at you, hot and tangled — anger, embarrassment, helplessness. Your jaw clenched tightly as you forced your expression into stillness, though behind your eyes, fury burned like coals.

You had always been strong-willed — your tutors said it with disapproval, your mother with quiet pride. But here, in the court, strength meant nothing if it did not serve.

And this decision… it was final.

Your gaze flicked sideways, unwilling but drawn like tide to moon.

It made your heart ache. Ache in ways you did not expect. Not for sweetness. Not for sentiment. But for the sheer finality of it.

He did not protest. Did not question the burden laid upon him.

And yet — why should he?

He didn’t know you. You were just another royal burden. Another charge to keep safe.

You straightened in your seat, jaw tightening.

I am not some jewel to be carried about in a box, you thought bitterly. Nor some helpless doe to be tucked behind a blade.

Your fingers gripped the arm of your chair, nails faintly indenting the velvet. You felt the urge rise like fire beneath your skin — the need to speak. To stand. To tell your father that you needed no one, least of all some grim-eyed knight sworn by command alone.

But you said nothing.

Not here. Not yet.

Instead, you sat tall, spine iron-straight, chin high, the way your mother had taught you — the way you were born to.

You felt his eyes again. The knight.

And when your gaze met his, it was like the first clash of blade on blade.

Not heat. Not fury. But resistance.

He did not smirk. He did not avert his gaze. He only looked — steady, unreadable. And in his eyes was no pity. No indulgence. No patronizing calm.

Only readiness.

He did not see you as a thing to guard. He saw you as someone to stand beside.

And for a moment…

You did not hate that.

Still, your heart sank beneath the weight of the words spoken. Not because you feared him. But because you feared what might come next.

What it would mean to be watched. To be known. To be followed, not by spies or servants, but by a man you could not predict. A man who answered to your father but whose silence said he answered mostly to himself.

You were not a girl prone to dreams. But suddenly, you felt as though one had been spun around you — one you never asked for.

And worst of all…

You could not look away.

Sir James of Barnes remained as he was — still, composed. He hadn’t looked at you when you cried out. He hadn’t moved when you rose. He had kept his eyes on the king, unwavering.

Only now did he glance your way.

And his look… it wasn’t smug.

It wasn’t victorious.

It was measured.

As if he’d expected this.

As if he understood.

And that — more than anything — made you burn inside.

You didn’t want his understanding.

You didn’t want his sympathy.

You wanted your choice.

But choices, for princesses, were often illusions dressed as privilege. And today, yours had been stripped away with a few solemn words and a bowed head.

The king spoke again, his voice returning like the tolling of a bell, sealing the command.

“Let it be known throughout the realm-“ he declared, “that Sir James shall serve as the princess’s sworn protector, from this day forward, until such time as I release him or death takes him.”

The courtiers bowed low.

The hall filled with the murmurs of assent.

And you… you sat stiff in your chair, your spine aching from tension, your hands curled into fists in your lap.

Trapped in silk and gold.

Burning beneath it.

And beside the throne, the knight who now belonged to you — and to whom, in turn, you belonged.

You are to him as he is to you, your father had said.

But what that truly meant, you had yet to understand.

Only that it had begun.

—

The weight of the king’s command still hung heavy in the air, though the court had moved on. Petitions were brought forth, grievances aired, names recited with formality and fanfare. Yet you heard none of it.

Your gaze kept slipping sideways.

To him.

Sir James stood precisely where your father had motioned — just a pace behind and to your right, near enough that his shadow brushed the hem of your gown. He was motionless, like a statue carved from stone, hands clasped behind his back, eyes forward.

Of course, you thought bitterly, crossing one leg over the other, he’s perfectly at ease. The gallant warhound on a leash of duty.

You didn’t like being watched. And worse still — you didn’t like being ignored.

Your spine straightened. A plan formed. Small. Petty. Entirely yours.

You cleared your throat softly.

Nothing.

You tried again, louder. “Ahem.”

Still nothing.

You turned slightly in your seat, glancing over your shoulder — just enough to catch the edge of his armor in your sight. “Art thou… mute?” you said, dryly.

No response.

Your lips pressed into a thin line. The court droned on, some noble whining about grain tithes. You leaned back in your chair, voice low enough to be beneath the court’s notice, but not low enough to be mistaken.

“Or is it that thou only speaketh when spoken to… by men?”

His gaze flicked down to you — just briefly. A flicker. Like a shadow cast by a candle. Then it returned to its forward post.

You blinked. “Oh. He does hear.”

Still nothing.

You pursed your lips and sat upright, speaking louder now — overly formal, like a child mimicking a tutor. “Sir Knight. I am parched. Might a man so solemn fetch me water, or must I perish in full view of the realm?”

No reply.

You squinted at him. “Or mayhap thy tongue is buried in that breastplate. Shall I send for a smith to unearth it?”

A pause.

Then—

The barest twitch. The corner of his mouth. Gone again before you could name it.

You gaped, pointing at him. “Was that a smirk?”

No answer.

You sat back again, crossing your arms with great exaggeration. “Stubborn mule of a man.” you muttered under your breath. “Tighter-lipped than a nun at confession.”

“I heard that.” came the low reply.

Your heart gave a ridiculous leap at the sound of his voice — rougher than you expected, quiet but unshakably firm.

You turned your head so fast you nearly caught your circlet. “You can talk!”

His eyes slid toward you — just enough to confirm the fact without granting victory. “When necessary.”

“Oh?” You leaned in slightly, eyes narrowed. “And was my thirst not deemed a crisis most dire?”

“ Did you ask for water?”

You blinked. “I—” You floundered. “Well, it was implied.”

He said nothing.

You huffed and turned forward again, muttering under your breath. “Knight of few words, and fewer manners.”

You didn’t see it — but those nearby did. The second twitch of his mouth. Subtle. Infinitesimal. But it was there.

And though the rest of the court continued on, the petitions heard, the proclamations made — a different kind of game had begun.

One between a princess who refused to be caged quietly…

And a knight who refused to be baited easily.

The first threads had been pulled. And you were already tangled.

Part 1/???

[serene-faerie]

Doriathrim (plus Beren and Túrin) as Aesthetics

Thingol— towering pine trees, fireflies, a sharp jawline, stern yet gentle eyes, baroque architecture, glittering caves, majestic stags, hands as strong and firm as stone, sweet pomegranates, red wine and roasted meat, neat handwriting, the smell of pine, a melodic baritone voice, kohl-lined eyes that make them sharper, a raised eyebrow to convey displeasure and anger, silver jewelry, neatly-combed hair, diamonds, hunting boots, hugs that linger, well-loved books with folded pages, loving one’s family, autumn leaves, wolves howling at night, tall grass, a great waterfall, graceful postures, roasted game meat, white horses, flowing robes, piercing gazes, soft humming, classical music, unyielding morals, the color of the sky at dusk.

Melian— clear night skies, knowing smiles, the silver light of a waxing moon, braided dark hair, a clear and crystalline voice, elegant harp music, deep-pink jewels, soft hands, flowing gowns, loving gazes, kisses on the forehead, motherly hugs, laughter that sounds like music, white wine, moonflowers, the smell of earth after rain, forest walks, bird watching, dark eyes filled with ancient wisdom, a gentle spring breeze, the pink skies of dawn, romantic paintings, lavender flowers, always knowing what to say, birds in the trees, a flowing river, a graceful doe, blackberries, whispered singing, eyes crinkling with joy, ever present sorrow.

Beren— golden sunlight, forest bathing, leather boots, sword-calloused hands that touch gently, long, tousled brown hair, hardened yet sorrowful eyes, smiles as warm as summer, green cloaks, the smell of amber and cloves, sleeping beneath trees, hearty laughter, falling in love at first sight, a courageous spirit, a rough but warm voice, promising to protect those he loves, loving despite losing everyone dear, patching up injuries, lingering touches, dancing among the flowers, wild berries, fiery sunsets, warm hugs, brown bears, scarred muscles, hand kisses, vows to protect, the coming of summer, forest meadows, reverent whispers of love, admiring gazes, sweet wine, campfires.

Lúthien— starry skies, soft skin, long and loose dark hair, flower crowns, carefree smiles, eyes full of starlight, a voice like crystal, laughter as warm as summer nights, blue gowns, bare feet, ballet dancing, rosy lips, nightingales in the trees, shimmering purple eyeshadow, loving with one’s whole heart, jasmine flowers, red cherries, the smell of lilacs, the loving warmth of spring, sparkling jewels, meadows in the springtime, gentle hand-holding, butterfly kisses, elderflower cordial, sleeping amidst flowers, breaking out of the shell, soft singing, summer storms, april showers, a light in the darkness, a courageous heart, the pale blue morning skies.

Dior— dark, tousled hair, bright eyes, sparkly jewelry, a rugged elegance, a young fawn, mischievous smiles, blue jays, close bonds with family, witty comebacks, blueberries, sharp teeth dripping with blood, righteous fury, defending one’s home to the death, childhood lullabies, swimming in rivers, stargazing, crackling fires, the smell of musk, challenging death head-on, gleaming swords, blood moons, silver rings on each finger, collecting rain in cupped palms, raspberry tea, cicadas buzzing at dusk, the warm caress of a late spring breeze, thunderstorms, flashes of lightning, violent winds.

Nimloth— flushed cheeks, long silver hair, eyes with a gleam both faint and fierce, cunning smiles, loving fiercely, flower garlands, green gowns, careful hands, the new moon, emerald jewelry, golden earrings, bathing in forest rivers, protecting family with one’s life, sharp blades, a mother bear, white flowers, floral tea, strawberries, thrushes, holly leaves, blood upon one’s cheeks, torn dresses, the cool air of dawn, honey cakes, killing one’s enemy at the cost of one’s life, embroidered sheets, cherry-red lipstick, no regrets, victory in death, dying with a smile upon one’s face.

Elwing— white seagulls, wavy dark hair, eyes that are hardened by grief and pain, glowing gems, blue ocean waves, collecting seashells, waters glittering with starlight, a quiet, firm voice, hands that tremble ever so slightly, thick blankets, a gentle sea breeze, gazing out at the sea, warm honey tea, bread and apricot jam, candlelight by the bed, fingertips stained with ink, counting the stars, a worn plush toy, white feathers, a heart burdened with sorrow, finding joy in the smallest things, whispered lullabies to oneself, the pale blue dawn, the smell of the sea, jewelry of silver and pearls, beachside walks with one’s family.

Daeron— wooden flutes, bookshelves with worn books, cursive handwriting, candlelight upon desks, quiet ambient music, a light, clear voice, quiet humming to oneself, a cool autumn breeze, falling asleep at a desk, a crown of leaves, seasonal poetry, flowing rivers, soft hair, lush green grass, pining silently, wandering the earth, living in solitude, the passing of spring, songwriting, warm tea with spices, trying to do what is right, loving one’s home, loyalty to one’s lord, eloquent fingers, singing at parties, knowing exactly what to say at the right time, midsummer nights.

Beleg— hair in a ponytail, feather-tipped arrows, fingerless gloves, keen eyes, silent footsteps, kind smiles, brotherly hugs, deer hunting, sleeping under trees, silver bracelets, cherishing the bonds of friendship, frost upon tree branches, the chill of winter, brown owls, icicles from rooftops, morning mist in the trees, roasted game meat, thick scarves, falling snow, frozen waters, rainy nights, thunderclouds, forgiving, tragic poetry, suppressing one’s emotions, polished hunting boots, bird calls, carvings in tree trunks, loving someone for their flaws, kisses on hands, goodbye kisses, lips stained with blood.

Mablung— sharpened knives, a silent hunter, worn leather boots, even-tempered, always trying to keep a level head, a calming voice, sad smiles, making tea for others, late night hunting trips, strong hands, caverns that echo, light-footedness, elegant yet broken spears, always being the bearer of bad news, giving advice that is never listened to, windswept hair, the smell of bergamot and ginger, a heart weighed by sadness, bittersweet farewells, the thick morning fog, black ravens, mud upon one's cheeks, riverside walks, horse riding through forests, respect and love for one's superiors, fighting to defend one's home.

Túrin— long dark hair, turbulent scowls, sharp eyes full of righteous anger and pain, alcohol, poor decisions, black tea, bedtime stories, tiny smiles, laughter that is scarcely heard, carving wooden animals with a knife, clothes stained with blood, heart racing with adrenaline, lightning, the rumbling of thunder, a hoarse and deep voice, solitude, abandoned cities, shattered mirrors, unyielding stubbornness and pride, words that can cut deep, quick to anger, loving deeply, passionate about justice, running barefoot across the grass, wilted flowers, withered trees, lucid dreaming, dark colors, restlessness, heavy boots, hooded capes, gleaming black swords, tears of anger and bitterness, cloudy skies.

Nellas— robins, three-leafed clovers, tall grass, sleeping in the trees, daisies, red apples, messy braids, short and loose dresses, walking barefoot, freckled cheeks, eyes as warm as the sun, feeding the squirrels, uncaring of anyone's opinions, loving the woodland creatures, the countryside, herds of deer, clusters of poppies, playing hide-and-seek in the forest, folklore stories of animals that speak, dirt under fingernails, crisp air, muddy feet, stargazing from the tallest trees, shy smiles, red foxes, red maple trees, rosy cheeks, a cute button nose, quiet observation, dried leaves in tangled hair, hushed whispers, secret giggles.

Oropher— tall oak trees, loose silver hair, a heart full of unending grief, glittering deep green robes, memorial shrines carved in stone, rosemary and heather, climbing vines, the smell of incense, loves the forest, anger that quietly simmers, a piercing glare to silence unwanted chatter, firm but gentle hands, the sound of rushing rivers, only trusting those who have earned it, quills dipped in ink, leather-bound journals, a compelling voice, silvery light, vast, old-growth forests, black bears, always keeping promises, grey-blue eyes, a mind haunted by memory, reluctant alliances, firm and unwavering principles, late night reading, being slow to forgive, tales of the past, bitter nostalgia, night skies fading into dawn.

Thranduil— a crown of oak leaves and woodland flowers, sweet and fruity wine, tall and dark forests, the crisp chill of early winter, high ceilings, a gleaming sword with a golden hilt, a silver necklace with white jewels, autumn berries, family hunting trips, joyous feasts late into the night, loving the forest through all the seasons, rings of silver and gold, silver eyeshadow, sharp eyeliner that enhances one's eyes, pale straight hair, a heart weighed with bittersweet melancholy, gently rocking a baby's cradle, long hours in the library, a marvellous deer, shimmering eyeshadow, disdain shown through raised eyebrows, the smell of autumn leaves, silk robes, stories about the forests and the stars, befriending the woodland creatures, loving those who are lost.

[yuesya]

Xiao straightens, and flicks his spear.

The downed form of the man-shaped demon before him fades slowly, crumbling motes of darkness drifting up and gradually vanishing in the air. It’s not dissimilar to the demons of Liyue that he’s familiar with –the demons that Xiao has spent so many centuries hunting and slaying in an endless, eternal cycle– but at the same time, he is able to discern the difference.

This demon was not one born of the restless grudges of fallen gods that refused to accept their own deaths. If anything, its origins seemed more… but no… no, that was preposterous. Surely it couldn’t be–

A monstrous roar sounds behind him; Xiao whirls around. There’s another demon left, struggling futilely in a pool of its own blood. The signature of its energy is far weaker than the one that he’d just fought, and all four of its limbs have been broken… and yet it’s still alive, and struggling to crawl forward on its belly.

Xiao exhales, raising his spear–

–and pauses.

There’s a pale hand that rests upon the bladed edge in a clear gesture for Stop. Xiao looks up sharply.

“You intend to let it live?” The girl –yet there is no doubt that this is no mere mortal girl– doesn’t say anything, but presses insistently upon his weapon. Please stand down, is her unmistakable, unspoken request.

The only reason why Xiao doesn’t point his spear at her in turn is because he knows that she actively fought the demons long prior to his arrival. It’s the only reason why there are humans who managed to escape this catastrophe.

Her appearance… Xiao does not recognize her. He admits that she looks similar to the snow women yokai of Inazuma, white hair and pale skin and clothed in Inazuman dress as she is. But she does not bear any powers of ice nor snow. If anything, the way the sword in her hand cuts through every obstacle without pause reminds him of the whispers of kunado-no-kami. But to his knowledge the last of them had died along with the Watatsumi Omikami that they served.

Regardless, Xiao does not intend to allow the current situation to go unanswered. If she was present here, fighting those strange demons that were decidedly not of Liyuan origin, then surely she knew how this incident came about in the first place.

“Explain,” Xiao says. He banishes his weapon, allowing it to dissipate into motes of golden light. “How did this situation come to be? Has the war in Inazuma worsened to such a state that it’s no longer able to contain malicious spirits within its own borders?”

The girl opens her mouth–

Oh.

Xiao blinks, genuinely surprised and caught off-guard. Her words…

“That’s a dialect I haven’t heard for quite some time.” He doesn’t have a perfect understanding of what she’s saying, especially given that the last time he’d heard this was… during the time of the Archon War, perhaps?

Xiao tilts his head. Is he looking at a survivor of the kunado-no-kami? … So far from the shores of Inazuma?

I apologize. I don’t understand what you’re saying.

Luckily for them both, Xiao is also old enough to know of the dead language that she speaks and discern the general meaning of her words, if not the precise details. Although Xiao is a Liyuan adeptus who has never once left the land in the thousands of years he’d lived, he has encountered gods of other lands, so he is not unfamiliar with other tongues.

That she is apparently unfamiliar with the language that is spoken in the present…

“Thank you for your assistance,” the kami bows. Polite, graceful. Xiao folds his arms across his chest and waits for her to explain. “… I’m afraid that this also came as an unexpected situation to me. I didn’t think that there would be a long-distance transportation array, and the barrier should’ve… no, I suppose that’s unimportant.”

She shakes her head.

“I was investigating a matter that was entrusted to me by my cousin, and ended up being ambushed by cursed spirits. Four total, the last of which you just slew,” she nods towards the fallen demon beneath him. “There was also a curse user, but he doesn’t seem to have been transported along with us. Ah, he would be the one responsible for teleporting us here. He needs to die.”

The words are spoken calmly, serenely. Xiao is aware of the dissonance here, but it’s not as if he disagrees. The regrettable casualties and wanton destruction around their current surroundings speak for themselves.

“And the demon you wish to spare?”

“Demon?” The kami blinks, then instantly understands what he’s referring to. “Ah, Muta-san? I’m afraid I can’t allow him to die yet, he’s the one I’m supposed to investigate. Although, given his current state I’m not sure how much I’ll be able to interrogate out of him…”

“I cannot allow such threats to remain within these lands.” It is his contract, and the duty that he must uphold as one of Rex Lapis’ adepti and his last yaksha.

“I understand,” she nods. “We will depart as soon as possible. If I may ask a question of you, where… are we?”

“You are within Dihua Marsh,” Xiao answers. Pauses, upon the uncomprehending way she looks at him, and elaborates, “Located upon the Bishui Plains.”

“… Did Not-Geto teleport us to China?” the kami mutters. “An entirely different country?”

Xiao stares at her. “This is the country of Liyue.”

The kami falls silent. Then, proceeds to take out a small pouch from her sleeve, and procures a strange device from it –a rectangular piece of metal that lights up with an artificial glow when she taps at it. There’s a small frown on her face, before she wipes the expression from her face with a long sigh.

“By any chance, do you have a name for this continent?”

Continent?

“… If you mean this world, it is named Teyvat,” Xiao says slowly.

Going by these questions… this is very likely not a kami of Inazuma who stands in front of him.

[podstolnihanako]

One day, I had a dream...

I once had an amazing dream… I remember it as clearly as if it had just happened… So much so that all the details of this dream remain in my memory…

I remember a blizzard that night. It was the day I defeated the Dragon of the North and the Dragon of the South, freeing the Cocoa, Coffee, Liquorice and Milk tribes from their tyranny. A regular, very young biscuit from the Cacao tribe - sounds like a fairy tale for children. But it was true. The people of all the tribes proclaimed me king, and an unknown force bestowed upon me a stone that called itself the Soul Will Jam. It was a medium sized purple coloured pebble that immediately attached itself to my sword… quite curious. I couldn't sleep for a long time. The realisation of what had happened still lingered in my mind. I lay on my futon, replaying the events in my head, from defeating the dragons to getting that stone. — Young man… a hero should be sleeping soundly at a time like this,— Jem of Souls said suddenly, making me wince. It was unusual to hear the interlocutor in my head.

— I can't… my thoughts are in the way, — I said clearly, even though I knew Jem Dushi knew what I was thinking. I heard a heavy sigh in response.

— Do you still see the faces of those biscuits? I see… I've seen that once before, — the voice said, and it piqued my curiosity. I got up from the futon and, hands on my knees, sank to the floor in front of the sword. He kept talking about the past and then immediately changing the subject! I was sick of it.

— What are you doing up? Go to bed! You need sleep at all! — I squinted my eyes and stared at the faintly glowing stone.

— You keep talking about the past, but you don't tell me! Spit it out! — I exclaimed in a half-whisper so as not to wake the others in the house. But Jem Souls started backing off again, saying that I was supposedly ‘not old enough to know about such things’. And that hurt… But he gave in under my threats to let Creamwolf ‘play with the sword,’ which, by the way, always works.

— All right, all right! You got it, young man! — The voice grumbled, and I lay down again, pleased with myself. Perhaps under the influence of that voice, I began to slowly drift off to sleep, feeling like I was on a cloud. I felt like I was wrapped in something soft and light, even though I was under a blanket. At some point, I heard a voice and smelled something floury. The voice was female, and it sang a soft but beautiful melody. When I opened my eyes, I saw green mountains with occasional trees bearing pink fruit on their tops. Looking around, I noticed a small clearing with an equally small garden. In the garden, there was a go table with a plate of strange buns on it. But what attracted me most wasn't the beauty of the landscape, the go table, or the food. I saw a girl sitting on the side of the white chips, leaning her elbow on the table and singing softly. Her white qixiong ruqun perfectly complemented the golden pibo that surrounded her. The girl's hair was divided into two braids with gold ornaments at the ends. And on his forehead, like a crown, was an ornament that looked like an ear of wheat with a medium white stone. Around her neck was a gold necklace with three stones. Unfortunately, I couldn't see her face because of the fabric that was the same color as her clothes, with a small decoration in the form of wheat ears. But the only thing I knew was that it had something to do with Soul Jam. I took a step toward her, then stopped, startled when she looked my way. I felt goosebumps run down my spine and a lump formed in my throat. I couldn't say anything but stare at the girl in a daze. And she, in turn, got up from the pillow, carefully approached me with her hands folded in front of her on her stomach. That's when I caught myself thinking.why am I even reacting like this? After all, she's just like me...sort of.

— Greetings, guest of my humble abode. I'm glad you got here. — she said and apparently smiled happily, covering her face with her sleeve. I, on the other hand, didn't know what to say and just stood there like a fool.

— May I ask the name of my guest?" So what brings you here?" — while she was asking me questions, I didn't even notice that she was getting even closer to me. The smell of freshly ground flour and some pleasant incense immediately hit my nose. — Dark Cacao...that's my name. — I said, moving a little away from the state I was in. I blinked and looked again at the stranger, who looked like she was waiting for an answer to her second question. After taking a breath in and out, I continued:

— I ... wanted to know about the past of a stone called Soul Jam. And he said he would show me the past. — I could feel the trembling that had appeared from excitement gradually subsided and became a little easier. The girl, in turn, put her hand to her face and chuckled thoughtfully.

— I'll tell you, but first. — it was heard that a smile stretched on her face, and she turned back and went to the go table. Then she adjusted the pillow she was sitting on and landed on it.

— Will you play go with me? — If you win, I'll tell you about the past. If not, then you will already tell us about yourself. All right?" Adjusting her sleeve with her pale hand, she pointed to the chips and the seat across from her. Win in go, from an unknown girl from your dream to find out the past? Very suspicious... but still, there was no such choice, so I agreed. When I got to the table, I sat down on the side of the black chips and concentrated on the game itself. I made the first move, according to the rules of the game without a handicap. It seems to be a simple principle of the game: take on your side, more territory. But in fact, it turned out to be quite difficult. It must have been 10 minutes, and half the board was already filled with white chips. I swallowed hard and looked at the girl. And damn that cloth on her face! Because of her, I couldn't understand her train of thought!

"You're thinking too much of other things, my friend," she said suddenly, laying down the chip on my side, then folding her arms into her sleeves. When I looked down, I was horrified: the whole board was covered in white chips, and there were five black chips left. It was immediately clear that I had lost.

— You should focus not on winning, but on how exactly to achieve it. — the girl continued and raised her head slightly in my direction. I could feel people looking at me with regret, which made me even more ashamed. Exhaling, the girl got up and walked over to me, then sat down to my right.

— We could play some more games with you, but it's time for you to go back." I hope we can play again. She said as she patted my shoulder, causing me to look at her in a daze, and instead of a white cloth...I saw the ceiling of my room. I sat up and tried to digest what I'd seen… Was it a dream...or was it not? I wasn't sure about that…

[needfantasticstories]

Chapter 9: A Rescue

Summary:

Legend tries to escape the Yiga hideout. He finds a friend.

Legend rushed onward, but hardly made it to the next room before he had to stop and collect himself, both his breath and his tumbling thoughts.

What in the Sacred Realm just happened? Time slowing down, the Teacher letting him walk away? This wasn’t how dungeons worked. Nothing was adding up. 

He leaned on the wall and assessed the room. 

Practice dummies lined one wall, weapons on the other. Each dummy had a devilish sketch pinned to the face—a face with distinctive blond hair.

The veteran stumbled over to it, snatched the paper free, and laughed. These were somehow worse than his old wanted posters! Wild had to see it. By Din’s dance, he’d make it out of here just to shove this in Wild’s face. The others would never let him live it down. Nor, of course, would he.

His prize safely stowed away, the veteran lit up the now-faceless dummy to mark his path, but didn’t ignite the rest of the room: they might need to come back this way, and after the inferno he created earlier, he should probably reserve at least enough oxygen for the journey out. 

He moved on, and found the last hall in this wing. Peering around the corner, Legend came face-to-face with a stark white mask. 

The footsoldier raised a hand to whistle an alarm. Legend swung his blade faster. 

He wiped his sword clean, checked the map, then followed the switchbacking halls. These led to mirrored rows of tiny rooms on the bottom edge of the map. A prison, most likely. Not an ideal place to find Hyrule, but a likely one. 

Ahead in the next hall, two burly guards paced. 

Memories of his first adventure bubbled to the surface. If only Hyrule had Zelda’s telepathy.

Legend’s boots made no sound, and then no guards remained. He ran, and the floor sloped ever downward. His steps, quiet as they were, still echoed. This felt more like a dungeon than anything he’d seen so far.

Passing through one last stone archway, he found the hall lined with cave-like cells. He checked through the bars of each one. All gaped back at him, empty, until the fourth. From the dark, red eyes glared back at him. Legend lit up his firerod and peered closer. A Yiga soldier glared back at him, still in uniform but unmasked, his face heavily scarred by what looked like bear claws. He was bound, and the ropes were tagged with the inverse design of the many papers stuck around the caves. Sheikah magic, musty as moss, but mingled with something wrong, something heavy as tar. It must be some spell to prevent teleporting, he guessed.  

 The brawny Yiga man stared at him, incredulous, then bellowed, “Guards!” Apparently he was still loyal to his clan, despite whatever crimes he’d committed. Legend knew they would not answer.

Legend moved on to the next cell, knowing the guards would not be coming. In the next cell, a slight figure stepped forward into the dim glow of the torchlights. Gold eyes looked back at him surrounded by a faint shimmer of fairy-magic.

Rulie!  

No, too small. 

A little girl approached the bars, folding her arms as she scrutinized him, her nose held high. It was as long as the Old Man’s. Bold red hair, pulled in a high ponytail, curled at the end like a piglet’s tail. 

A Gerudo child? 

Bright, ornate flower patterns covered her thin slippers and silk clothes. Stranger still, they glimmered with hints of fairy magic, identical to Wild’s tunic, but dimmer. He’d encountered magic clothing before, but the fluid, nectar-sweet fairy magic was distinct from the sharp, clean bite of Hytopian magic, or the chilling, weightlessness and mystic glow of Lorulean weaves. He resolved to finally buckle down and ask Wild about his tunic as soon as he got the chance. Fairy blessed clothing was exceptionally rare in his own era, but here apparently even little kids wore it.  

 The girl watched him closely, her stare intense as a beamos, while he quickly checked the last two cells. 

Empty. 

Legend tamped down his disappointment, and with a voice hoarse with ash and smoke, asked, “Either of you see a brown-haired boy with gold eyes? Wears a green tunic?”

The little girl shook her head, earrings tinkling, but her eyes widened in surprise. “You’re a voe !” 

“A what?” Legend asked, but she only scowled. He shrugged, too tired to puzzle out what that meant. 

The maskless Yiga soldier gaped at Legend. “What?” He hissed, “Then… you don’t have him either?” He gave a dark, mirthless laugh, shaking his head as his smirk dissolved into a snarl. “Oh, I knew it was that demon! Sooga warned us! That monster won’t be controlled, no matter what it promises! It can’t be trusted!” He lunged at the bars, shoved his face as far as he could between them, and bellowed toward the very-dead guards, “It was the sword! It wasn’t my fault!” 

Legend’s knees threatened to give out, and  he leaned against the bars of an empty cell. This all made less and less sense. Hyrule hadn’t escaped… he’d never arrived in the first place? He was never here ! The veteran shook his head, his vision swimming from exhaustion, both magical and physical.  

Another red potion. He dropped the empty glass in his bag, then wiped sweat and ash from his face with a shaky hand.   

“Right.” He turned to the child, collecting himself, plastering a friendly mask over his frustrations. “Want out?” He regretted the disappointment still heavy in his voice.   

“Of course,” The girl sniped, still eyeing him suspiciously. Whatever “voes” were, she didn’t seem to trust them. 

The scapegoated Yiga soldier yelled for the guards again, loud and desperately as he glared at both of them. Legend wanted to scream back at him, to throw fire into the cell. He’d already spent so much time in this cursed place and his brother wasn’t even here ! 

Din’s teeth. Hyrule! Where are you?

 But he also felt a spark of pity for the idiot who took the fall for something he didn’t actually do. 

Instead, Legend braced himself for one last fight, one last rescue to complete, before leaving this whole place behind. There were no other leads to chase here.

This girl looked strong for her age, but she was still small, barely up to his elbow, and too young to help much in the escape. He’d need to do this on his own. 

“Alright. Stand back!” Legend shouted to her. He aimed his fire rod, about to torch the wood beams that served as bars, and the talismans, and use his shield to barrel through when they were weak enough, but the girl scoffed and pointed behind him. 

A rope and pulley system. One designed to open cell doors. 

Legend grumbled. If she wasn’t a young kid in need, he might have stuck with the fire rod plan. 

He needed to slow down, to think. Legend put the weapon away and yanked the fifth lever. Arms crossed, she came out and stared him up and down again . She had gold eyes like ‘Rulie’s, but red hair as bright as hibiscus, just like—

“Can you actually get us out of here?” she demanded. “How old are you, voe? You don’t look like a grown up, and voe like you aren't even…well…”  

Oh, this was going to be a nuisance. “Aren’t what?” Legend stared her down. 

“Tough?” she said, throwing out a hand, eyebrows raised, as if this was common knowledge and he was an idiot. 

Oh Sweet Nayru’s blessings... “First, I don’t know what a voe is. Second, whoever said it is probably wrong about them, generalizations are never good. Third, we need to go. Now.”

She scowled. “How did you get in here? How do I know you’re not one of them ? They looked just like my aunts when they took me. You could be a Yiga in disguise.”

Okay, fair . But every second here was a second wasted. “Would they bother pretending to be someone else inside their own base?”

She chewed her lip and seemed to mull it over. 

“You’re staying here, then?” Come on, kid!  

“I… no,” she admitted, uncrossing her arms, “but they said they’d kill me if I tried to escape again. I can’t get caught.” 

“They always say stuff like that. They’re idiots. Can you ride on my back? We’ll move faster if you let me carry you.” He held out a winged pegasus boot. Maybe she was familiar with other magic clothes. She only nodded and climbed quickly onto his back. 

The girl muffled her squeal of surprise into Legend’s shoulder as he dashed back the way he’d come, breezing through passages and skidding around corners, until they entered a new hall. 

“Do you even know where you’re going?” the girl hissed when he slowed down and silently checked the passage ahead. It was clear. Oddly clear. 

“Yes!” he shot back.

“I’m just asking! How do you know?” She demanded. 

Legend checked his tone this time and took a centering breath. “Because I checked the map.”

“How come you’re dressed like a vai?”

Zelda, Hilda, and even Ravio were never this annoying when sneaking through dungeons. “What is a… listen, kid, just… hush.” 

Legend stopped at the end of the hall. A sense of danger opened like a pit in his stomach. He fidgeted, shifted the girl more securely, and crept slowly up to the next turn to listen. Something felt off. 

At first, he heard nothing but the girl breathing too loudly over his shoulder. But no… it wasn’t just her. He could hear the soft brush of feet on sand, the creaking dry of leather, and small sniffs and grunts beyond. 

Soldiers ahead. They were waiting. Another ambush. 

Legend slid the girl off and signaled her for silence. Slipping on his red cape once more, he poured his magic into it and peered around the corner.

It was a cavernous room he’d passed earlier, scorched remains of a storage tower bearing witness. The cave was tall, long, and rather narrow and winding. Short walls, fences, and steps divided it into three parts. 

Scattered wall to wall, dozens of foot soldiers crouched in readiness to attack anything that entered from the lowest room. It was the path he’d taken to the skulltulas. Legend suppressed a grin. Perhaps the Teacher hadn’t told anyone he’d reentered another way? 

That chilly canyon door would take them north into freezing mesas, away from the desert this girl surely came from. And that shrine was useless without Wild’s slate. They had to risk the desert exit to get her home, no matter what men or monsters stood in their path.

His current hiding spot—a narrow hall deep in the shadows—led to the middle portion of the room and the burnt remains, the stink of charred wood and burnt bananas still thick in the air. 

He looked left, and found exactly what he needed: at that end, the entrance to stone stairs, cut from the caves, like every other structure in the hideout. They led around and up to a bridge that spanned over the stairs’s entrance and to an open doorway that led to their final destination, according to the map: a round room, one with many doors tucked inside narrow alcoves. One of them led outside, to freedom. Legend could even see the faintest yellow glow of sunlight overpowering dim torchlight, peeking through the distant arch.

“I know you are there, Hero of Legend.” A deep, hypnotic voice echoed through the cavern like a spell. 

Legend jerked back behind the corner, yanked the girl up, and wrapped the cape over them both. The girl moved stiff as a log, and he hardly blamed her when her nails dug into his skin. This man’s voice was unsettling, crawling over his skin like insects, blurring the line between sounds in the room and sounds in his own head.

Was this the mage, at last? The one with the stench of rot, who hopefully didn’t know about Legend’s pilfering? He couldn’t see through the cloak’s magic, could he? 

The intoxicating voice spoke again. “Don’t you wish to find him?” 

Legend ignored him as he stepped out of the hall, watching for a reaction from the masked soldiers. None of them turned his way. Good . They had to risk it, while the old man yapped. Their sound would cover their footsteps if they were lucky. 

The voice surrounded them again, masking its origin. “You and I know he is fated to die. But what comes after? I can show you how to bring him back from death. That's all any of us want, for the dead to return to us,” echoed the voice in the stone ceiling above.  

Legend knew fate was, in fact, rather flexible. Going back in time and meeting his own ancestor, Sir Raven, had changed many things in his Hyrule. The sorceress Veran had nearly erased Legend when she tried to execute Sir Raven, and wreak havoc in an ancient time that should have been secure and unchangeable in the warp and weft of fate, if such a thing existed. Clearly, it did not.  

With these memories, Legend steeled his mind against the words. He was rather picky about which disembodied voices to trust anyway. 

As he fully entered the room, he searched for the source, stepping softly forward but not activating the pegasus boots. He needed every drop of magic for the cape to keep them both hidden, and his magic was draining fast. 

Legend padded forward on his toes, balancing the girl and himself in careful silence with every step, weaving breathlessly between dozens of footsoldiers toward the stairs. One soldier spun a spear, bored and restless, and the veteran carefully timed his run past it. 

He ducked under a Blademaster’s sword, held in fidgeting hands. Ignoring the pit of anxiety building in his gut, Legend continued to maneuver between soldiers and their whispered grumbles of where is that stupid kid , and let’s just storm the hall already . He squeezed between them at a lull in their conversation when they turned to other neighbors to quietly continue to grouse. 

They all still faced the lowest level, clearly expecting him to come from that way. Let them waste their efforts, the idiots . 

He danced between two more blademasters, both of which stood a head taller than Time, nearly Teacher’s height. It was harder to notice short interlopers like him from their vantage point, and at last Legend’s chest relaxed at the knowledge that they were close, at last, to the stairs, and to escape. 

But the girl began to tremble. She tried to hide it, flexing and relaxing her fingers, but still he felt her whole body shivering. 

Not far ahead now, just beyond a group of yawning scythe-wielders, the stairs waited. The first steps were blocked by three assassins.

“ Walk faster ,” the girl whispered. 

Legend dared not answer, or move faster. 

“ Hurry !” she begged in an ever louder whisper, digging her fingers tighter into the shoulder of his tunic.

Legend shook his head, watching the guards around them for any clue that they’d heard the girl’s plea. 

She barely breathed, but kept shifting, the swish of fabric far too loud, as she looked back and forth at the soldiers surrounding them.  

She’s panicking!

Legend moved closer to the left wall and slid along it where the rows of soldiers ended, leaving just enough room for the toteming pair to turn at the corner and slip behind them, parallel to the bridge. They just had to reach the stairs, only a few feet away. 

The voice filled the cavern and his mind again. “He will die, hero. Fate and the gods have willed it so.” Fear wrapped him with every word, wrapping like coils around him.  

Fuck fate , he scoffed in his head, and the fear loosened, but still followed him. 

“I can teach you a spell that will weave him back together.”

Legend stopped and swallowed hard, heart thundering in his chest as the fear caught up to him. 

It’s a lie. And yet, he struggled to take another step. Why do they keep saying that? A spark of anxious hope flared at the words. Is it possible? If Hyrule were to die, somehow, or any of them, is there a way to bring them back? Stop! They don’t have Hyrule , and it’s probably dark magic, he reminded himself. They don’t even know where the demon is . 

Legend scanned the way forward, and found the voice’s source. Above him on the bridge stood a man in purple robes. Four soldiers guarded him, two on either side. For a brief moment, Legend’s heart raced at the folds of purple fabric. But no, these robes were dull, dark, and the draped hood bore no silly, familiar ears. Instead, a withered face stared across the room, amber eyes nearly glowing from the hood. 

“Believe it or not, we want the same thing.” The mage droned on, the buzzing on Legend’s skin growing stronger as he spoke. He longed to itch everywhere, but resisted. The girl did not.  

Legend grimaced at the words, the false familiarity it established between them, and the paralyzing spell of fear. Din, this same shit again? It sounded no different from the weird old Teacher, and the demon’s nonsense about the red thread of fate. Whale it stung to turn his mind away from Hyrule– not abandoning him! Not giving up! —he thought about the girl trembling on his back. Right now, she needed him. That’s all that mattered. 

“Hero…think about your friend. He will need your help.”

Hyrule’s blood. Hyrule’s death . That’s what these people wanted. 

He would not offer himself as a pawn in their plot.  

Regardless, the stairs were too crowded to continue.

Legend was stuck. 

“Reveal yourself, and we will talk. I promise no harm will come to you. But you will help, either way. For I have seen it. Fate will not be thwarted.”

He crouched and quietly bent enough to set the girl on her feet, and dug in his pouch.

“ Don’t you dare leave me here! ” she hissed, clinging to him. 

He shook his head slightly, and she slowly let go of his shoulder but held tight to his belt. Hands free, he downed another potion, tart and dry on his tongue but washing his body wholeness . He’d need it all for what he was about to do.

The girl slipped off his back. He tried not to panic, but she left one arm on him and climbed back up a moment later.

Her arm snaked down his, her fist over his hand, and something spilling out. He opened his palm. She dropped sand and pebbles into it.

What? 

“ A distraction. ”

Oh.

Dirt could work, but he could do better. Legend drew out a boomerang, an old one with no magic. He hated to lose it, but it had a purpose now. From the shadow of the bridge, he threw it. It was easy to mistake for a keese in the dim light, but the clatter it made on the far side of the cavern sent a shockwave among the soldiers. Dozens of them rushed to the sound.

The Yiga on the stairs disappeared to investigate. 

Legend hauled the girl up the stairs, his foot slipping a little on the sand as he climbed. 

At the top was another cell, oddly separated from the dungeon. He checked inside.

Empty.

But there, midway across the bridge, stood the mage, framed in the faint hint of daylight beyond, blocking it. 

The bridge was too narrow to sneak across, not with four blademasters and a dark-magic wielding mage between them and the way out.

“He’s here,” the old mage whispered to the guard on his right. “I feel the old magic. Have them move about. He may be hiding.”

One step ahead of you . But now Legend needed more than a simple distraction, especially if the mage could sense his magic. He dared not lead them to the Gerudo girl, but how to get her past them? 

Legend’s eyes lit up with an idea. He fished in his pouch, and grabbed a ring–a magic ring–and slipped it onto her thumb. In the quietest whisper he could manage, he spoke over his shoulder. “Wait until I clear the way, then run through there and follow the sunlight.” 

He slid her down, and crouched as he turned to face her, careful to keep the cloak over them both. He swept his sweaty bangs aside to watch her response. She searched his face for more answers. He had none to give. Before she could object, the veteran ducked out of the cape.  

He took the first blademaster by surprise, striking his back so hard the man plummeted off the high bridge.  

The mage backed away between the far pair of guards as the second blademaster approached. Legend unleashed a spin attack, four strikes, and he dropped the clansman with a lethal strike to his collar.  

The mage seethed. “Enough! You have something that does not belong to you! Not unless you stay and learn the way.” He raised a finger, eyes glittering red in the torchlight, cold and hard. “The book is missing half the spell! Only I can teach it.”

Legend lunged with his fire rod and sword. The mage dissipated the flames, while one guard swung his blade, and a sharp wind knocked Legend to the edge of the bridge, and over the bridge. The Mage gasped and rounded on the guard with a furious shout “STOP!”

Empty air gaped below him, but Legend was not called the veteran lightly. He fetched two items at once, kept together for just such an occasion: a feather, and a bulky hookshot. Holding the roc’s feather, he leapt high on the open air as if leaping from flat, solid ground. He jumped again, arcing high once more, his stomach in his ribs, soaring far out of easy reach, and as he dropped he aimed the hookshot at the fourth guard. It burst forward and latched on to the stunned guard’s bicep, and with a sickening jolt they swapped places. The blademaster shouted as he lurched and plummeted, and Legend stood face to face with the mage on the bridge once more. 

To his surprise, the last guard toppled over the edge, a sickle appearing, already buried in his side. 

The mage spun aside and raised his hands toward the place the weapon had appeared, dark magic gathering around him, acidic and rank with rot. Legend rushed forward and bodily yanked the Mage’s arm, away from what must be the Gerudo girl. With all the force he could muster from his exhausted body, he spun the mage and shoved him off the bridge. 

The mage fell, but coils of dark power slowed his descent. Red flashed in his eyes as he glared up at Legend. 

Smoke choked the air around him, but Legend reached into the fog to where the girl must have been. Shaking, invisible fingers grasped his. The unseen girl climbed onto his back. Both her and the cape settled over the veteran as he rushed in the direction of the narrow hall as the smoke cleared, bowling over soldiers as they appeared, chasing the faint glow of sunlight. 

They streaked into a round room like he’d seen, but instead of doors he saw statues, except one bright alcove. He passed through it in a blur. 

Sunlight! Legend chased it outside into the hot desert air, heavy with grit. The sky blinded him, but ran forwards all the same. Soon, shapes appeared through the white haze: reddish canyon cliffs, sparkling sand sloping downward, and a ribbon of pale blue sky. 

And those damned puffs of spoke. They appeared atop the cliffs and scattered on the path ahead. Dozens of bows aimed their way, their bodies invisible but their footprints in the sand were not . 

The girl screamed as she clawed his shoulders, “Your shield! Surf!” 

Oh! Wild had shown them shield surfing before. He’d thought it a waste, seeing how much it damaged Wild’s already flimsy shields, but right now he saw the appeal. The cape gave them cover, powered by the ring, as Legend fumbled in his pouch, rifling through rings and canes and empty glass bottles until at last he felt the smooth, long curve of uncle’s soldier's shield. But their footprints must have given them away, as arrows rained down. He tossed the shield ahead, and with a leap hooked one foot into the strap. The other foot he planted on the back edge, and with the momentum of his run they sped off, rushing down the hot sand, gaining momentum, exhilarating and fresh.

The girl on his back laughed. 

 They surfed for half a minute before the ring’s magic petered out. Legend stuffed the cape away. He’d have to rely on himself now, on his ability to dodge and weave.

A skill he excelled at. 

He quickly found how to move his feet just so to aim his descent, and he charted a breakneck, unpredictable course downward, sometimes lurching left or right, or kicking on the back of the shield to leap over boulders instead of swerving around them, arrows chasing them. The girl clung on and tried to shrink against him, and he mentally apologized for the seasickness she must be feeling. 

Red bodysuits and white smoke littered with paper still appeared all around, though Legend dodged them with ease. A squeeze and shout from the child made him worry she’d lost her grip as he took a particularly sharp right curve, but she clawed him tighter than ever and held firmly, and they sped onward. 

A dozen pops of white flashed in a cluster less than a hundred yards ahead. Barreling at  such a speed, Legend could barely hear the girl’s shout of alarm, but he’d already seen them and  angled for one gap before quickly shifting to pass through another while the Yiga scrambled toward the first. 

Lithe soldiers appeared once again, much further ahead than the first group and forming a tighter line. Their sickles flashed in the sun.  Perhaps they wanted to give him time to slow to a stop, to surrender. Legend smirked and eyed a sloped ridge nearby. It was perfect. He swerved sharply left. It was difficult balancing two people on the shield as he steered, but he’d seen it done once before in a small, snowy canyon. Thanks again, Wild, he thought as he aimed for the stone ramp, grated over the edge, and soared high above the heads of the Yiga. The white masks tracked him as he soared overhead. 

Legend’s stomach twisted as he dropped, but he clutched the roc’s feather and gave a shout of triumph as they bounced once in the air halfway down, then again closer to the ground, and finally hit the sand in a spray, mercifully staying upright at the impact and hurtling forwards. They left a cloud of dust in their wake big enough to obscure the assassins. The girl shrieked, and Legend couldn’t tell if it was fear or the thrill. 

At last, at long last, The canyon ahead stayed clear. They rode it in tense silence, Legend no longer dodging and weaving, simply feeling the rush of air cool the sweat completely coating him. His rabbit-quick heart finally began to slow down. 

They soared onward, riding the solid wave of glittering sand as the canyon curved left and opened onto the vast, sea-like desert.

Legend slowed as it spilled over the flat expanse and leveled out. He stopped just before reaching a path through ruins. A town shimmered into sight through the desert haze, only a few miles away.

Legend jumped off the shield and bent to let the girl down. She slid slowly, and he felt her wobble but seemed to catch her feet. He stared at the distant town and drank. The relatively cool stamina potion felt like heaven in his throat, the heat sapping his strength even as he stood still. 

“Is that your home?” he asked between gulps, searching the ruins for signs of monsters or places to rest safely all the while. 

“Ye-yes,” the girl whispered. Legend turned as the girl dropped to one knee, her face pale as paper. 

Legend cursed. Two arrow fletches peeked over her shoulder, rising and falling with her labored breaths: one in the back of her upper arm and one in her shoulder. Droplets fell and shone like rubies in the sand behind her, swiftly swallowed by the earth. 

Din dammit! He should have stopped to give her an extra shield for her back! Or anything to protect herself! He was used to treating wounds on himself, but removing arrowheads on a child? One that already barely trusted him? This was Warrior's area of expertise. He needed help.

“Hey, kid, I’m going to get you some help. You’re going to be okay. Just… just stay awake, okay? You need to tell me if I’m going the right way. Got it?” Goddesses what am I doing? What am I supposed to say?

Legend stowed his shield, downed another magic potion, chiding himself to conserve them better, and carefully lifted her onto his back again. 

She cried out, and her arms lay limp now, but he tied the cape around her back, kicked his heels, and ran. 

They’d certainly have all she needed in that town ahead, beyond the ruins.

[skyholly]

The best kept secret

Summary: What if Moiraine had a baby daughter she and Siuan were forced to leave to Anvaere to raise as her own?

moiraine/siuan

Chapter 1 here!

Chapter 2 here!

****************

Chapter 3. Guinevere

Guinevere let the box slip from her hands with an indifferent motion, the sound of its contents clattering echoed through the room as it hit the floor. She wistfully glanced around the sombre chambers that belonged to her aunt, struggling to get a hold of her thoughts. She’s here. What is she doing in Cairhien after all these years? She’s mean and rude to my mother. She can’t bear to look at my face and ignores me. She’s left again. Why is she so cold and unapproachable? She’s leaving again and she’s carrying a sword. She can’t channel. 

She can’t touch the Source. 

It made so much sense. Why she couldn’t feel her, why she couldn’t reach to her with the One Power. 

She’s been stilled. 

Guinevere dropped into the mattress, closing her eyes in the process. What in the Creator’s name is going on here? The young girl pressed her hands over her forehead, frustrated, trying to put the pieces together, organising her thoughts, folding files of information in drawers within her mind.

Moiraine has been looking for the Dragon Reborn all these years. 

Moiraine entered the White Tower with five potential dragons. 

Moiraine was exiled from the Tower. 

Moiraine left for the Eye of the World, and everyone came back except for one, a male channeler. The Dragon Reborn, presumed dead, at least by Egwene. 

Moiraine went missing for months. 

Moiraine has been stilled. 

Now Moiraine is in Cairhien, searching for something, or someone, she believes to be in danger.

What will the Tower do about it? 

Guinevere shot back up at such thought, her heart pounding in her chest, and started to anxiously pace around the room, clicking her fingers in the process. The Amyrlin. She’d completely forgotten about the woman’s request. “If you hear from Moiraine, let me know”. Guinevere was intruded by a thought upon remembering her words: the older women ought to have known something. 

Could the Amyrlin suspect of Moiraine’s doings? No, that’s unlikely, her fate would have been worse than exile. Unless… they were in it together. Were Siuan aware of Moiraine’s endeavours, it wouldn’t be the first time she’d heard such rumours of the two women; everyone at the Tower knew they used to be friends as Novices. But why, why was Moiraine hiding from the Amyrlin then? What was she hiding? Maybe she’s gone rogue. 

And what was she doing in Cairhien? Why did she leave in the middle of the night with a sword on her back? It was too big a puzzle and Guinevere had nothing but vague pieces, she needed more information, but there was no one she could go to willing to provide her some answers. 

That night, she had an intriguing dream that bore an uncanny resemblance to a memory, stirring an unsettling sense of familiarity within her.

She couldn’t have been more than five years old, and she was crying, scared and confused about all the screaming around her, people pulling on her little body, demanding to take her away. Her father was there, staring with pleading eyes at the woman holding her, Anvaere by his side, extending her arms towards her, and Guinevere wanted to get to her more than anything in the world. To reach her mama. And then, suddenly, her screaming turned into soft whimpers, as she was being carried around her home in her mother’s arms. Only it wasn’t her mother, it was her Aunt Moiraine. “Shh, it’s alright, my dear Winnie. Everything’s alright,” she soothed her, stroking her hair and whispering comforting words as she walked into what must have been her nursery as a toddler. “Shh,” the woman kept on whispering, lovingly caressing her back, “it’s alright, I’m here, your mother is here.” 

Guinevere leaped up from her bed, gasping for air, her mind trying to make meaning of the dream, but she couldn’t possibly come up with an answer. Her chest heaved as she tried to steady her breathing, the dream lingering in her mind like a stubborn mist. It had felt so… unnatural. As if her mind had been constantly fighting an intruder who unrelentingly kept on pushing the images onto her brain. Almost as if… no, that was impossible. The Forsaken are gone. No one alive has been successful at Tel’aran’rhiod… that you know of. 

Guinevere slumped into bed once again, pressing the palms of her hands against her eyes, hard enough that it began to hurt. I’m losing my mind. For how long she remained in such a position, she didn’t know, but at some point a knock on her door drove her out of her slumber. She removed her hands from her face, and slowly opened her eyes. At first, she couldn’t see anything but dots and spots of brightness, her eyes adjusting to the light. 

“Winnie?” Her mother peeked through the door. “Oh good, you’re awake,” she said, entering the room, “you should get ready. The royal wedding tasting is in an hour, and Barthanes wants you to come.” 

“Alright,” Guinevere responded, stretching, “I’ll start getting ready then.”

“Perfect, darling.” Anvaere said, turning around. 

“Wait!” The young girl stopped her mother before she could leave the room. “Did… did Aunt Moiraine come home last night?”

Anvaere and hesitated for a second, holding onto the door frame. “She has not come back, dearest,” she said, sending a pitiful look towards her, “but you shouldn’t worry, your aunt is more than capable of taking care of herself.” 

Is she?

“Mmh,” Guinevere hummed, as she nibbled on a piece of pastry, “I think I liked the raspberries one better.” 

“So do I.” Barthanes agreed, as he winked an eye to her. 

Their mother sighed, delicately putting a napkin over Guinevere’s skirt. “Lemon will suit everyone’s palette better,” she explained, “and besides, raspberries are too messy. Look at your mouth, Gwen. You wouldn’t want your guests to look like that, Barthanes.” 

“What’s wrong with my mouth?” The girl asked, quickly reaching for a napkin to clean the edges of her mouth. 

“They won’t,” the man laughed, “because they actually know how to eat. Unlike my dear little sister who has the daintiness of a lumber man.” 

“Barthaness!” Anvaere scolded him, but she was too late, as he was already throwing a piece of cake towards the young girl, messing up her dress. 

“You wool-headed fool!” Guinevere grinned, as she grabbed on a piece of pudding to toss towards her brother, but her mother was faster. She seized her wrist and forced it back to the table. “That’ll be enough foolishness for today.” She declared, sternly, before turning towards the cook, who bore an uncomfortable smile on his face. “I believe you were about to present these delicious looking canapes, were you not?”

The man was preparing yet another platter for them to taste, when the doors to the kitchen opened abruptly, Moiraine rushing through the steps towards them, a tall man following her. A man she knew. Rand. It took Guinevere a few seconds to recognise him, her house being the last place she’d ever expected to run into him, and with Moiraine. She felt the air get caught up in her throat, and then left out a shaky exhale, the boy always had that effect on her for some reason. As if she were holding her breath every time he wasn’t around. 

She saw the redheaded studying the room, before his eyes set on her, opening them in surprise. I guess this is the last place he expected to see me as well. He raised his eyebrows, directing a suspicious look her way, one she eagerly returned. You are the one barging into my home, and with my aunt out of all people. 

“Oh good, you’re back.” Anvaere commented, rather uninterested, shoving Guinevere out of her stupor. “And you’ve brought back a friend.”

“Aunt Moiraine!” Barthanes chuckled, as he earnestly stood up, clearly over the moon about seeing the woman after so long. “I-I could hardly believe it when my sister said you were here. It’s… it’s been fifteen years.” 

Guinevere looked at her aunt, and realised she’d been staring at her. The older woman hurriedly drew her gaze away, focusing on her nephew, and awkwardly smiled. “I think you were as high as this table last time I saw you.” She replied. 

Barthanes tried reaching for her hands, but their aunt uncomfortably placed them over her stomach, avoiding his touch. “You… you… well, you look almost exactly the same.” The young man added, smiling, trying to soften the unpleasant mood that her aunt’s restraint had caused.

“If somewhat bedraggled.” Anvare intervened, with a grin. Her mother’s words brought Guinevere to her feet, as she finally settled her eyes on the pair’s clothing. They were both covered in dirt, and blood. What does Moiraine have to do with Rand?  “I’m imagining you didn’t come back for the royal wedding tasting?”

“Come on, Mother.” Barthanes laughed. “She’s got better things to do than pretend she can taste the difference between raspberries and thimbleberries. You must be my aunt’s Warder.” He added, pointing at Rand. 

The boy shifted uncomfortably in his place, looking at Moiraine for help. “I’m not a Warder.” 

“This is… Rand.” Moiraine hesitated for a second.

“A pleasure, Rand. I’m, uh, Barthanes Damodred,” her brother introduced himself, “and these are my—

“We’ve met.” Anvaere and Guinevere said, in unison. Her aunt lifted her eyebrows at that, staggered, but swiftly regained her expression under control, a blank mien taking over her face.

“We need horses, two. Coursers if you have them.”

“I’ll have them brought to the house. We have a whole stable of the very best. A gift from the Queen.” Anvaere flaunted.

“And you must come to the wedding.” Barthanes rushed to say, fearing their aunt was leaving again. “It’s just a few weeks away. Can you believe that I will be marrying Queen Galdrian?” He commented, in disbelief. And then added, in a silly tone: “now that makes me your King. So I shall expect full subservience.”

Moiraine chuckled. “It’s a happy match, I hope.” She said, with a genuine smile. Guinevere couldn’t help but to feel jealous. Why was she so kind to her brother? 

“The name Damodred is held in high esteem. That is happiness enough.” Her mother said, in a serious tone. 

“Well…”Moiraine looked around, “I shall go and wash upstairs. Perhaps a meal for Rand, in the meantime. And then some fresh clothes before we leave?”

“Yes, of course. We’ll find him something fitting from my wardrobe.” Barthanes assured. 

“Thank you.” Moiraine said, as she started making her way towards the stairs.

“Is that… blood?” Her brother commented, pointing towards Moiraine’s clothes, but she interrupted him. 

“It truly has been good to see you, nephew. Or… should I say, My Liege.” She smiled, awkwardly bowing to him, her smile an amusing grin. There it was again. That green monster creeping through her guts. Guinevere shoved it away. 

The young girl waited until her aunt had left. “I believe I should help Rand find some new clothes,” she said, as she stood up, intensely staring at the red headed boy, “come with me.” 

Rand hesitantly followed her into the hallways, after respectfully nodding his head towards the girl’s mother and brother. “Jhonas,” Guinevere said, upon running into the older man on their way, “could you ask one of the servants to bring some fresh clothes from my brother’s closet for our guest? We’ll be in the room in the east wing.” 

“Of course, little lady.” The old man bowed, and left. 

Guinevere and Rand remained quiet for the rest of the way, while sharing confused looks with each other. The girl opened the door to the guest room, hastily forced Rand in by pushing him on his back, and made sure there was no one in the hallway before delicately shutting it close. 

“You know my Aunt Moiraine?!”, “You are Moiraine’s niece?!” They both said, at the same time. “Why didn’t you tell me?!”

“How was I supposed to know you knew my aunt?” Guinevere frowned. 

“Well how was I supposed to know I knew you were her niece?” Rand replied, mirroring her expression. 

“I look remarkably similar to her, for starters? My last name being Damodred, just like her?” She put on a sceptical look, while crossing her arms over her chest. “What’s your excuse?” She asked, fixing her eyes on his. 

Rand huffed, annoyed. “That I arrived with her to Tár Valon? Where we first saw each other? Surely that’s the only thing Aes Sedai at the Tower were talking about, why else would they have exiled her?” He clasped his hands against his hips, an incredulous look on his face. 

“Well I didn’t know you’d arrived with my aunt—

Guinevere went suddenly quiet, voice gone dry. Her muscles went stiff, as realisation fell upon her like a stone dropped into still water. How have I been so oblivious? Rand. He was the missing piece of the puzzle. The files on her mind started organising itselves. 

Moiraine arrived at Tár Valon with him, one of the five potential dragons. 

Moiraine travelled with him and the others to the Eye of the World, where one of the boys had died (or at least Egwene seemed to believe as much ). And then, Rand didn’t return to the Two Rivers, instead, he escaped to Cairhien, telling no one (she presumed, due to his elusiveness) about it. 

Moiraine didn’t inform anyone at the White Tower about her mission, about her success at it (or failure? If everything turned out the way she expected, why didn’t she inform the Amyrlin?)

Moiraine returned home to look for Rand, who Guinevere guessed was the one Egwene presumed dead; had it been Perrin, the Novice surely would’ve told her as much. 

Rand is the boy who went to the Eye of the World and didn’t make it. 

Rand is the Dragon Reborn. 

“Aren’t you going to get that?” The redheaded boy said, taking her out of her stupor. 

“Huh?” She asked, raising her head, meeting his eyes. Those blue, kind, familiar eyes that had wrinkled at her jokes so many times, eyes that always softened whenever they set on her. How is it even possible? How didn’t I realise? 

“The door.” The boy urged her, as he brushed past her, and opened it to let a servant in. 

“My Lord, my Lady,” the young man bowed, “here are the clothes you requested. Shall I leave them in the bed for you?”

“Y-yes,” Guinevere stuttered, still in shock, “thank you.” 

She waited until the boy left, and turned around to look at Rand. To actually look at him. She couldn’t help but to see him through different lenses. The Dragon Reborn. Her kind, funny, sweet friend… potentially the most dangerous man in the world. He who would be their salvation, or he who could be their damnation. 

“What’s wrong?” He asked, eyebrows folding in confusion.

“N-nothing,” she rushed to say, unsure of how to act under such revelations, “you should probably go clean yourself up,” she added, pointing towards a door on the back of the room, “there’s a tub and some fresh cloths and a bowl with warm water, I’ll wait for you here.” 

“Alright,” he replied, grabbing her brother’s clothes, and walked towards the room, sending one last inquisitive look her way. 

Guinevere dropped into the mattress of the bed as soon as the door closed behind him. She didn’t know what to do. Should she confront him? Was she putting her family at risk by doing so? No, Rand wouldn’t hurt anyone. But wouldn’t he? Dragon or not, he was a man that could channel, and that was dangerous enough. The madness… but he seems so normal. Should she notify the Amyrlin about it? The ring on her finger, fitting impossibly tight at the moment, made her feel compelled to do so. But the Reds would gentle him. Did she ought to inform the Tower about him anyway? Wasn’t it her obligation? I’ve made a vow. Guinevere knew that was the sensible thing to do, the correct thing to do, but she couldn’t help but wonder. Something was shifting, she had been able to sense the Wheel pulling on its strings for some time, my dreams… and then she realised it was because of him. The Dragon had been born once again, the Pattern weaved around him. The Last Battle was coming, and Guinevere sensed there were more players at the game that she could even think of. And there was only one person that could give her the answers: Moiraine. 

Guinevere realised she didn’t have one reason to trust the Aes Sedai, but she felt unable not to do so. She was finally able to think about her aunt from another perspective. She’s sacrificed so much. She’s travelled for most of her life, turned away friends and family, walked into the Eye of the World ready to die in the hopes she was securing everyone’s future but hers, she was stilled… all because of the boy with a shy smile that was but feet away from her. Her mother’s words echoed in her mind, the same words she uttered everytime Guinevere had come to her for advice: “There are two things my sister understands better than anyone. The difference between right and wrong, and how much harder it is sometimes to do what is right.”

Guinevere didn’t know much, but she was certain of one thing: whatever it was Moiraine was doing, it was the right thing to do. She felt embarrassment taint her cheeks, she was an Aes Sedai of the Yellow Ajah, she was a servant to everyone, it was about time she put her childish resentment behind, and found a way to help Moiraine. She needed to talk to her. 

The door to the bathroom creaked open, and Rand emerged, looking slightly more refreshed but still carrying an air of tension. His eyes, piercing and yet familiar, locked onto Guinevere. “You look troubled,” he remarked, breaking the silence.

Guinevere faked a smile, masking the whirlwind of thoughts inside her. "Just... a lot on my mind," she replied, trying to steady her voice. "It’s not every day my aunt returns after fifteen years with such a mysterious guest in tow." She added, forcing a grin on her mien. 

Rand chuckled, as if he understood more than he let on. "I suppose not," he said, his voice careful. "I’m sorry if my presence has caused any trouble. I didn’t mean to disrupt anything."

She shook her head quickly. "No, it’s not that. It’s just... you know how families can be." She laughed nervously, as she stood up. “You should go to the kitchens, a meal will be served for you. Unless of course you’d rather get some sleep before leaving.” 

“I-I can’t sleep.”

“If you have trouble sleeping I can help with that.” 

“Gwen… I can’t explain much, only that it’d be dangerous for me to fall asleep right now.” Yet something else I can’t figure out. 

“I see.”

“Thank you, anyway, I appreciate your offer.”

Guinevere pursed her lips, as a thought came to her. “Would you like me to take your tiredness away? It’d take a second.” 

Rand observed her, and opened his mouth in approval, silently scolding himself for not thinking about it before. “I would like that, thank you.” 

Guinevere focused her mind, her hands hovering just inches from Rand's temples. She closed her eyes and felt the familiar warmth of the One Power flowing through her, a comforting rush of energy that steadied her nerves. She directed the Power towards Rand, gently easing his fatigue, and there it was. She sensed it, his power. It was so different from Saidar. It felt so unlike healing Egwene, whose power felt warm, and so easily embraced hers. Rand’s, on the other hand, felt rigid, reluctant to her own, but somehow so familiar. She pushed a bit more, and she felt as if she were colliding against a brick wall. She’d never felt such immense power. Guinevere slowly opened her eyes, and exhaled, trying to mask her apprehension. He really is the Dragon Reborn. 

She found Rand staring at her, exhaustion slowly draining from his eyes, filling hers instead, but she didn’t mind. She was used to it. Healing caused exhaustion to all sisters, but it tired her the most out of all, for some reason. Her sisters said it was because she was too young, that she wasn’t as powerful. Guinevere believed that was probably true. 

“Better?” She asked, clearing her throat. 

Rand’s expression softened, his eyes brightening. "Thank you, Gwen. I do feel better.” He paused, his gaze searching her face, as his hands reached for hers. “You didn't have to do that.”

Guinevere squeezed palms, already used to that electric buzz she felt every time she touched him. How didn’t I realise? 

“It's the least I can do,” she replied, her voice tinged with sincerity. “You should probably go join my brother now, and have something to eat.” 

“Okay.” Rand carefully caressed the back of her hand, and turned towards the door. 

Guinevere waited until Rand had left, and then rushed towards her aunt’s bedroom, just as her mother was leaving the place. She spotted the young girl, and her preoccupied frown turned into a soft smile. She slightly grabbed on her daughter’s shoulder, and left a kiss on her cheek. “Do help her, please.” Anvaere whispered in her ear, before turning away. 

The young girl’s forehead creased in confusion, but her mother’s request became evident the second she entered the room. Moiraine had dark circles under her eyes, her skin looked pale and dull, her body almost limping under fatigue, all of it concealed under an almost perfect vigorous facade. 

“Do help her, please.” Her mother had begged, but Guinevere couldn’t stand sensing the older woman with the One Power. She’d tried doing so the night before, and it had left her feeling nauseated. Being from the Yellow Ajah, she’d seen terrible things, but nothing like that. Reaching for her had felt as if she were grasping a maimed, bloody limb with its skin ripped, soulless and cold to the touch. Guinevere’s heart clenched when thinking about how the older woman must’ve been feeling, the thoughts that must’ve been racing through her head at all times. How hasn’t she killed herself yet? 

Guinevere swiftly intercepted Moiraine’s path, as she was making her way out of the room. The older woman glared at her, eyes meeting hers. They always evaded her, as if she were afraid her eyes would talk for her. 

“Guinevere, I don’t have time for whatever this is,” she sighed, “I’ve got to—

“I know, Aunt Moiraine.” She somehow managed to say, her voice almost breaking. Why? Why do you resent me so much? Why do you treat Barthanes so kindly? How is he any different? But she couldn’t dwell on such thoughts. She stood firm on his choice of helping her, and once Guinevere had set her mind on something, it became impossible for her to drift off course. “I know everything. About your mission, about Rand…”

Moiraine stopped abruptly in her tracks, and turned around in an almost lethargic manner. For the first time, she saw cracks in her aunt’s stoic masquerade, fear and uncertainty slipping through them. “H-How… could you…”

“Egwene. She’s a novice in the White Tower now, and we crossed paths.”

“Mmh, no,” Moiraine shook her head, placing a hand over her forehead, “Egwene wouldn’t have told you,” she said, finally looking in her direction, studying her, “she wouldn’t have told anyone. She knows, better than anyone, what’s at risk.” 

Guinevere remained quiet, perplexed at her aunt’s agitation, an almost imperceptible smug smile claiming her lips, as she couldn’t help but feel arrogance flow through her veins. Finally, she had the upper hand. “Let’s just say I’m used to getting people to do as I please.” 

Moiraine fixed her gaze on her, her eyes squinting in scepticism. She held  her breath for a second, and then slowly, but firmly let it out. She was looking at Guinevere as if it were the first time she’d ever seen her. “You have the Talent for Compulsion.” The girl didn’t respond, which was an answer itself. 

“There’s something else you should know, Aunt Moiraine,” Guinevere added, walking a few steps towards her, “before leaving for Cairhien, the Amyrlin asked to see me,” Moiraine eyes brightened at the mention of the Aes Sedai, but the young girl didn’t comment on it. So they are working together. Or were, at least. 

“And?” Moiraine asked, tilting her head. 

“She asked me to inform her, should I get news from you.”

“Did you make an oath? Did she make you swear it?” Moiraine inquired her, expectantly. 

Guinevere waited a handful of seconds before replying, amused by seeing apprehension creep under her aunt’s indifferent disguise. Arrogance is a dangerous thing. “No.”

Moiraine nodded. “She trusts you, then.”

“She does,” Guinevere agreed, “but she shouldn’t. I’m here to help you, aunt Moiraine. I don’t understand what’s going on, not fully, but I trust you’re doing what’s right. Tell me what to do and I’ll do as much.”

“You’d betray The Amyrlin?” Moiraine asked, putting on a guarded stance. She doesn’t believe me. 

“I would, Moiraine. I know Rand, and I’m on his side. I’m on your side.” Guinevere exhaled, as she mustered enough bravery to reach for the woman’s hands, squeezing them tightly. 

The woman went stiff at her touch at first, but then eased into it, gripping on Guinevere’s hands even harder. She looked at her, tears she would not let fall accumulating in her eyes. She nodded. “Let’s go find Rand, then.” 

Moiraine updated her as they walked towards the kitchen, briefing her about the events in the Eye of the World, Ishamael, and how now Lanfear was their biggest threat at the moment.

“Except she isn’t,” Guinevere puzzled out, as she came to a halt next to the kitchen’s door, “he’s told me about a woman that has been in his life lately, if she wanted him dead, she would’ve done so already.”

“Exactly.” Moiraine said, as she pushed on the door. 

The pair of them stood on the upper floor, glancing down at the two men playing cards at the table. 

“Time to go?” Rand asked, looking up towards the older woman, surprised to see Guinevere by her side. 

“No, actually,” Moiraine replied, leaning against the rail, “we’re staying.”

Moiraine gestured to the boy to follow her, which the redheaded man did quickly, staring with incertitude at Guinevere, who steadily followed their steps. “By Moiraine, why is she—

“Shh,” the older woman scolded him, “wait until we’re alone.” 

They continued their walk in silence towards the guest room that had been assigned to Rand, and as soon as they closed the door behind them Guinevere started moving her hands in intricate motions, pulling on weaves Rand could not see. 

“That’ll do it.” She said, turning around with her hands on her hips. “No one from the outside will be able to hear us. Or shouldn’t, theoretically, I’m not that good at anything else but Healing, I’m afraid.” 

“What is she doing here?” Rand asked, putting on a cautious stance, looking at her with evident worry in his eyes. 

“She knows, Rand,” Moiraine said, and added before he could intervene, “you can trust her.”

“Yes, I know I can trust her,” he replied, lips laced with anger, “that’s why I don’t want her to have anything to do with this.”

“How—

“You’ll get hurt, eventually!” He yelled at her. 

Guinevere took a deep breath, feeling sympathy for the boy, but also feeling quite frustrated. “I’m a fully capable and trained Aes Sedai, Rand.” She remarked, keeping her temper at bay. “I can take better care of myself than you, and I believe I get a saying on what I believe I ought to fight for. And that’s you.” 

He stared at her, just as firm on his choice as she was on hers, but realised fighting wouldn’t lead to anything. Guinevere was just as, if not more, stubborn as Egwene. 

“Alright…” he reluctantly conceded, “so what’s the plan now?” He asked, glancing around the room, following Moiraine’s gaze towards the bed. “You said I can’t sleep or she’ll find me.”

“Yes,” Moiraine agreed, “she will.”

“You want her too.” Rand affirmed, looking appalled. 

“She’s been with you what, two, three months now? If she wanted to hurt you, she’s had ample opportunity. But she hasn’t. What does she want?”

“I don’t know.” Rand sighed. “If you’d asked me a few days ago, I would’ve said she wanted me. To be with me.” Guinevere felt something in her stomach, something she couldn’t —and wouldn’t— put a name to, and did her best to keep a straight face.

“Stories from before the Breaking are vague, because so much has been lost.” Moiraine explained. “But every single one that mentions Lanfear agrees that she loved the Dragon Reborn. And that he loved her, before he met his wife.”

“But she was a Darkfriend.” Rand muttered, disbelief in his eyes. 

“Only after he broke his heart. She swore her oaths to the Dark to try and get him back.”

“And what, you want me to make her think she had?” He asked, anger seeping from his voice, as he swiftly glanced at Guinevere. “You want me to pretend to be in love with a Forsaken?”

“Lanfear is working with Ishamael.” Moiraine insisted. “This could be our only chance to find out what he wants.”

“She’ll see right through it—

“Maybe,” Moiraine interrupted him, exasperated by the boy’s refusal to cooperate, “maybe, she might.”

Rand stared at her, and lazily shook his head. “I don’t know,” he whispered, “whatever she is, I don’t think everything between us was a lie.” He admitted, avoiding meeting Guinevere’s eyes, there was so much guilt on his face it seemed it would swallow him whole. She herself felt her cheeks burn at his statement, but if any of them noticed, they didn’t comment on it. 

“It’s your choice Rand,” Moiraine said, truthfully, “I mean it this time.”

Rand hesitated for a second, shifting on his feet, before walking towards the bed, standing before it while putting on a brave expression, but Guinevere could tell the fear that hunched over his shoulders, could feel his heart racing. “I don’t think I can fall asleep now,” he cleared his voice, “Gwen helped me out moments ago.”

“I can get you back to sleep.” She replied, in a thin voice. 

“We’ll stay here,” the older woman interjected, “if it seems as if she’s hurting you… I’ll wake you.”

“And if you fall asleep?” 

“I won’t let her.” Guinevere assured. “And I won’t let anything happen to you, Rand. I can put you to sleep just as easily as I can wake you. Trust me.”

“I do.” He said, and then he dropped onto the bed. Guinevere sat beside him, and grabbed his arm. “I’m going to… manipulate your heart rate, make it low enough that you go into slumber. It won’t hurt, I promise.”

“I believe you.”

“Alright… just, try not to freak out. It can feel… uncomfortable, or at least that’s what I’ve been told.” She admitted, as she tightened her grip on his arm, slowly and precisely turning it around, immersing herself in him. It was risky, slowing someone’s heart, her own pounding for dear life against her chest, but years of experience had taught her well. She steadied her breath, focusing on his heart rhythm, and nothing else. For some reason, she always imagined a flame in a void to help her concentrate. She didn’t remember whether an older Aes Sedai had taught her that, or if she had dreamt of it, but it always worked like a charm. And soon enough, Rand had closed his eyes, his breath even, mouth slightly opened. He’d fallen asleep. “I guess we have to wait now.” She commented, gently dropping the boy’s hand, turning her head towards her aunt. 

“Now we wait.” She agreed, locking her eyes into hers. “Is that another one of your Talents? Cardiac Arrest?” Moiraine asked, as she walked towards the armchair next to the fireplace. 

“Not quite,” Guinevere responded, taking a seat in front of her. Her aunt, the comfort of the chair, the warm fire burning next to them… the scene felt eerily familiar. “I mean I can stop someone’s heart fully if I wanted, but mostly I can just change them, up and down. It’s very useful in the infirmary.” 

“Mmh.” The woman smiled, a rare sight on her. “Any other Talents I should know about?” 

“I don’t think so,” Guinevere chuckled, “Healing, Cardiac Arrest… Compulsion.” She added, in a whisper. She’d always felt ashamed of it. 

Moiraine opened her mouth, and then closed it again, as if she feared regretting what she was about to ask. “How many times have you used it?”

“Not the amount you’re thinking about.” The girl replied. Moiraine lifted her eyebrows. She could tell when someone was purposely avoiding a direct answer. “I’ve barely used it, it makes me feel so guilty…” Stained. She admitted. “The last time being with Egwene.” 

“Yes, how did you even know what to ask her?” Moiraine asked, sitting straighter, her elbows against the arms of the chair. “I’m curious, how did you know who she was?”

“I healed her,” Guinevere explained, “and the boy, Perrin, when they arrived at Tár Valon. She told me they were searching for you. At the time I didn’t care much about it, you were in the Tower… but after news came that you were exiled, that you’d travelled to Shayol Ghul and then went missing… when I saw Egwene at the Tower months later, I’m afraid I couldn’t help but to ambush her, and ask.”

“About the Dragon Reborn?”

“About you.” Guinevere drew a shaky exhale in, lowering her gaze. “I was worried…” That wasn’t exactly true. I was angry. I was resentful. I wanted answers. “...worried that I’d missed you at the Tower, and then would never have the chance of seeing you again. The whole… Dragon Reborn thing came as a total surprise to me. But it helped me understand… understand you. Your absence from the Tower.” From my life. 

Guinevere looked up towards her aunt, and was surprised to see she was holding back tears. The woman shakily reached for the girl’s arm, softly caressing her forearm with her thumb. “Guinevere, I’m sure you have questions—

But they were interrupted by a loud exhale, abruptly standing up from their places as Rand incorporated from the bed. Guinevere noticed Moiraine raising her hands, shyly searching for weaves, only to seconds later let them fall weary against her waist. How hollow must she feel. 

“Rand…?” Guinevere asked, cautiously, feeling the boy’s heart racing out of his chest, hers matching his in the process, while his expression drowned in rage. 

“What did she say?” Moiraine asked. 

“I have to go.” He said, shaking his head, heading for the door. 

“Where? Did she tell you where?” Moiraine pried. 

“No!” Rand exclaimed, turning around. “Away from you, that was her condition. If she sees us together again she’ll kill you. Both of you.” He added, his gaze whirling towards Guinevere, and then back to Moiraine again. “Logain,” he muttered, “you moved him to Cairhien, didn’t you? So that I’d come here?”

“Yes, of course.” Moiraine rushed to admit, as if she were trying to prove she hadn’t been caught in a lie. “Away from the White Tower, where you’d never be able to see him, where he’d never be able to teach you.” 

“And you,” he whimpered, looking at Guinevere, “what you did to Egwene…” He started shaking his head, as Guinevere closed the steps between them, reaching for his hands. “What did she say to you?” She questioned him. 

He raised his head, locking his eyes with hers, and Guinevere’s heart broke at the sight. He hates me. “You used the One Power on her.”

“I-I did,” the girl admitted, “but Rand, it’s not what you think—

“Can you truthfully tell me you didn’t use the One Power to force her into giving you information?”

Guinevere’s lips turned into a pout, tears threatening to fall from her eyes.“I-I can’t…” she confessed, “but it’s not like that, I didn’t hurt her!”

“Like hell you didn’t!” He replied, snatching his arm away from her grip, in a motion that hurted her more than she was willing to admit. 

“Do you really believe I would hurt her?” Guinevere asked, offended. “That I’d hurt anyone?”

“I don’t know what I can believe anymore.” He sighed, lifting his arms. “I’ve stayed too long already.” He muttered, and left in a hurry. 

“She’s a Forsaken, Rand. You cannot listen to her!” Moiraine insisted, yelling at his back, but Guinevere couldn’t do anything else but to watch him disappear behind a corner, heart shattered to pieces, tears falling onto her cheeks imbued with sadness, anger, and confusion, as she found herself unable to justify such intense emotions for a boy she’d met not long ago. Why does he matter so much to me? Why does it hurt me so much?

*********

Note:

Hello! I'm sorry this took so long, I'm in the middle of finals ahah. My mind has been all over the place lately, so I apologise if there are incoherences between the first chapters and this one, I'll focus this weekend on proofreading and editing, in the meantime, feel free to comment on what you think it's hard to follow, and where the inconsistencies are. Also, I know I said this would be a Siuan POV, but I'm trying to follow with the timeline of the TV series, and I can't fit a Siuan POV just yet. Next one will be a Moiraine's one, but the following one is Siuan's, I promise! Well, I hope you enjoy the story!

Chapter 4 here!

[mirrorpriest]

Creator Reader dropped into Mondstadt

[the description of mondstadt’s wilderness doesn’t fit what’s in game but shhh i’m working from imagination here, POV also gets a little fucky in here bc i started with key scenes i wanted to hit in the story and then started writing for reader immersion]

The waterfall does little to wash away the buildup of oil and grime in your hair, hardly budging the dirt caked to your skin. It’s so different from the warm showers and fragrant soaps you are used to. The cool of the water at least feels good in your mouth, washing down the berries you had been desperately scavenging for the last few days. They were sweet and sour at first, a refreshing treat when you could find them, but the more you ate the more upset your stomach became. You can hardly bear the thought of another handful, but you haven’t seen another person in so long. Only the occasional white bird or wild boar kept you company. You are left to wonder how far from civilization you are. Will anyone find you before you waste away?

Perhaps it’s fortunate, then, that you will die in such a beautiful place. You had never taken the chance to appreciate nature so thoroughly, but the weather in this strange land is cool and temperate, the breeze always carrying the scent of something fresh and light you can’t quite place your finger on. Your head is clear, for once, of any trivial worries like catching the train or when your next shift will be; how much money you’ll be able to make or who at the drug store finds you unattractive. But that’s only because now you are worried about what you’ll catch from drinking the pond water, when you’ll be able to find your next meal, if you’ll ever see your loved ones again. What you wouldn’t give to be able to listen to your mother retell the same stories from her youth you’ve heard a million times. One day, you had simply woken up here. And, perhaps one day, sooner than you would hope, you will fall asleep here for the last time.

So lost in your thoughts, you don’t notice the creatures watching you from the trees until their bodies break through the brush, dark and furry against the green, green foliage. They emerge as one, ambling forward with graceless movements. Your eyes, once upturned to the rushing water, cautiously watch them approach. They stand on two legs, but look nothing like any person you’ve ever seen. Like any beast you’ve ever seen. Your arms fold into your chest, body shrinking at their attention. If not for the matching masks upon their faces, they would be staring unabashedly.

But they are the first sentient beings with the ability to help that you have seen in days, the first thing to find you amidst the thick of the forest, and you smell the burn of a campfire on their fur and tattered clothes as they draw closer. They don’t shy away as you move through the water, waiting at the water’s edge to meet you. The closest one, indistinguishable from the others, steps closer on clawed feet that distort under the clear water. The closer you move, the more monstrous their features seem. Fur covering their bodies, clawed fingers, pointed ears that fold back as you approach, but they make no move to attack. Heads folded down solemnly.

You reach out a cautious hand, finger outstretched to trace the paint across this strange creature’s mask. It stays eerily still, leaning forward for your touch, when the silence is broken by a loud, guttural cry. The furry creatures spring into action, scrambling to turn towards the distant cry, when a large sword comes from the brush and knocks them all back into the water. You startle into the pond, stumbling backwards into the waist-deep water.

There is the swing of metal and the strange cries of the masked creatures, a man in black knocking them all back with little effort. This man speaks in a language you don’t recognize, but you can tell his tone is stern and unyielding. It’s so sudden in the calm of the forest, the first voice you’ve heard in so long, that it rings in your ears. The creatures hardly have the chance to fight back, some raising flimsy, hand-crafted weapons, before their bodies are scattered along the ground. The loud clomping of a heavy creature comes up behind the man, you turn away from the carnage then. The sound of a heavy body taking blows and disgruntled screaming follows, it forces your hands up to cover your ears. Suddenly you long for the worry of finding berries and cleaning away dirt over the worry of who will be merciful towards you in the end. You can’t tell which creature you were close to touching, now among the indistinguishable bodies that litter the bank of the pond. The area falls silent once again. The strange man, who felled the beasts you hadn’t even the chance to meet, stands among the falling clouds of dirt, his brow pinched and mouth open around his heaving breath. His eyes watch you like a hawk, searching your face for… Something. You feel yourself, once again, shrink away at his gaze. His chest is broad, rising and falling in great puffs, and his large hands still clasp the claymore in their grip.

He speaks words you don’t understand, his great weapon vanishing in a shudder of light, as he takes a tentative step closer to you. He’s remarkably pale, made even moreso against the dark clothing he wears. But you know you have no choice but to meet this man halfway, reaching out a hand to be pulled from the water.

To see the water cascading down your skin, glimmering like the brightest gem. Shining and unblemished, the sun reflecting all around you in a way he hadn’t ever allowed himself to imagine. It would be blasphemy to imagine your skin so bare. Flesh like smooth, tumbled stone. This red-haired stranger coaxes for you, a hand reaching towards you, upturned. Contrary to the brutish way he dealt with those strange creatures, he gently wades into the water to take your hand, swinging his long coat around your shoulders. Up close you can see the flush across his cheeks that rivals the red of his hair. You allow this man to lead you from the water up onto the bank so you can retrieve your sullied clothes. You try to ask him where you are, but, again, his brow pinches: this time in confusion. He mutters something low to himself, instead offering his elbow to you. At least this gesture you understand.

You don’t know how long he leads you, keeping his pace measured to your own, before the tree line breaks and you come upon what looks like a farm. The dense forest gives way to grapevines stretching as far as you can see, all carefully line up like dominos, bursting with bright red fruits that make your stomach curl uncomfortably. You’re so desperately hungry for something other than fruit, but above that you are so desperately hungry. You realize what a privilege it is to be picky about what you have to put in your mouth.

The red-haired stranger allows you time to marvel over the rows of grapes, gently coaxing you towards the large manor in the whole big center of it all. It’s only when you’ve moved closer to the large estate that you realize there are other people here, they mill around comfortably and content to live a slow life of vineyard labor. Completely unaware and unknowing to a stranger almost starving to death in the forest they reside.

There are many young women rushing around when the man leads you up the manor steps, but they all stop to dutifully bow their heads at him. They speak the same strange language, quickly snapping to attention when their eyes fall on you. Suddenly you realize how utterly drowned and dirty you look among these perfectly prim maids with their pressed white aprons. You bashfully lower your gaze to avoid their eyes, missing the recognition and, ultimately, the reverence there. The man speaks in a stern voice, almost startling you with how firm his voice suddenly is, gesturing towards a maid who stands above the rest. She is lovely and pleasant, curled brown hair and a practiced smile on her lips. She nods at his words, motioning to take your arm from around his. You sheepishly allow her to lead you into the large manor, fingers folded around the clean black sleeve of her uniform like a child.

She carefully and slowly leads you through the manor and up the steps, unaware of the overstimulated rush to your brain as you try to grasp all that you are seeing and smelling and hearing. Your attention tries to focus entirely on the satisfying click of her polished heels, your aching feet climbing step by step with her’s to a certain door among all the others. Behind it is a lavish bedroom, a bed so tempting you almost move to collapse on it. She cooes soothingly to you, words you don’t recognize but can distinguish as motherly reassurance. You decide to trust her, if only because her brown eyes are warm and clear.

This maid leads you to the bath of the lavish room, instantly removing her arm from your grasp to bustle about. You don’t recognize any of the concoctions or bottles she grasps, focus wandering to your own disheveled appearance in the mirror, until she turns the tap of the large bathtub and there’s a rush of water that quickly steams the glass. It makes your heart leap happily against your ribs, even if you are still quite embarrassed, to think you will finally be getting a warm wash after so long. So ashamed of your own dirty appearance you can’t bring yourself to mind as she helps you remove your soiled clothing, your own skin cleaner than the outfit you wear.

Her hand is steady as she helps you into the bath, lowering you into the steaming water that quickly reddens your skin. But your muscles ache for relief, your sense of self aches for cleanliness. You expect her to leave, but the diligent maid sets to work immediately as you relax. She kneels upon the fluffy cushion beside the bathtub to pour a creamy, fragrant mixture into her palm, thoroughly warming it with her hands before smoothing it along your scalp. She carefully works the mixture and her fingertips through your hairline, massaging the muscles at the base of your head and working up. She presses with measured strength, nails wearing away the build up of skin and sebum from your follicles. You allow your head to loll back into her reliable hands, comforted into complacency.

Adelinde washes at your scalp with a firm touch, the suds dribbling down your strands to fall into the bath water. Her attention is drawn by the slight hairs trailing from the base of your hairline and disappearing down the nape of your unblemished neck, soft and intimate. Her fingers move diligently in a practiced and familiar way, as a carpenter would refine his millionth wooden chair, clearing away all the oil and dirt that had gotten trapped along your scalp and behind your ears. The weight of trying to survive for days in the woods comes crashing down, worked away by this caring maid and her sure hands. Her touch is lighter than ever with you, careful to not tug or nails to scrape along your skin. You are, after all, especially precious company. She brings a pitcher of clear water up to rinse away the soap, her other hand gently tipping back your forehead to avoid your eyes. When she’s satisfied you’re clean, Adelinde works a thicker mixture into your hair, trailing her hands down to the ends where she wicks them of excess water. The conditioner smooths down all the roughness of the accumulated days, soothing your stressed strands back into their natural position.

You don’t notice the other two maids that have arrived until Adelinde helps you out of the tub, standing at the ready for orders to tend to you. One of them has long dark locks held appropriately back by her uniform headpiece. The other is distinguishable by the gemstone on her collar, it shines unnaturally bright. So obvious among the standard outfit of all the maids you’ve seen. Adelinde turns her head just the slightest away from you to address one of the young ladies, who immediately springs away to somewhere past the bathroom door. The other moves around you as Adelinde leads you to sit on the stool before the bathroom mirror, this young lady twitching hesitantly and unsure under the careful watch of the head maid. This new maid seems unsure whether she’s allowed to touch you, hands folded carefully upon her apron. If only you had the means to reassure her.

The maid with the gemstone collar weaves her fingers through your hair, a powerful breeze moved by her fingers and caressing each strand. She moves delicately, careful not to tug too harshly on your scalp. The smell of fresh dandelions and open fields moved by her very will. You want to startle away, look for whatever blowdryer you’re sure she has to be using, but your body still aches and hunger claws away your stomach and reason. You tilt your head back into her touch, the fidgeting of her nervous fingers soothed at your pleased hum.

It's an hour, maybe two, before your hair is dry. The minutes weave together as you blink back sleep, eyelids heavy under the gentle, warm breeze that blows across the skin of your scalp and neck. When you glance in the mirror to look back at the young maid, she catches your eye and gives you a bashful smile, power from her fingers petering out until the breeze has left nothing but a tingle across your nerves. Only when Adelinde orders the maid away and moves to take your hand do you remember she's there.

She leads you, careful and sure, back into the bedroom where you assume you'll finally get some rest, but instead you find clothes laid across the bed. The idea of getting dressed and doing anything else already makes your aching muscles feel weary, but you don't bother to protest lest their hospitality withers away. Not that she would be able to understand you, anyway. You should feel bashful as she dresses you, would if the situation were different, but this maid's touch feels sterile. Like she's dressing a marble statue instead of your body. All your humanity swept away with the dirty water. There's a gentleness to her touch, barely grazing her knuckles across your skin as she buttons the pressed shirt, that borders on cautious. The careful way these maids, even the strange man, have handled you almost puts you on edge. You've never been cared for so tenderly even by those that love you. Surely... Surely, this isn't just because you're a guest. You wish you had the means to ask why they are acting so attentively.

When you step out into the hall together a heavenly scent floods your nose, an impatient rumble coming from your stomach. You can't hurry down the stairs fast enough, trying to restrain yourself to the polite pace Adelinde takes. You're led into a lavish dining room, perfectly fit and furnished for the stately manor, where the red-haired man waits. He's standing, at attention the moment he sees you enter, waiting politely for you to take your seat. As if you were a most important guest. You shuffle on your feet, in borrowed clothes and covered in borrowed scents bestowed by his borrowed maids, hastily sitting when the waiting butler pulls out your seat.

Now... Well, now you wish you hadn't sat down. You are served by the polite and practiced staff, while the red-haired man watches you with what you feel to be an undeserved respect. Plates are set before the both of you, filled to the brim with the most beautiful food you've ever seen. A generosity of choices, from buttered vegetables to succulent meats. You've never seen food so worthy of being called art. Though you two can't converse, he seems content to simply watch you. It makes you slow your eating despite the painful twist of hunger in your stomach, sitting up straighter to appear more worthy of such effort. This man has been so strange since he first laid eyes on you.

You hope he's just altruistically generous when it comes to people in crisis, but you can't help feeling there's something you're missing.

[prehnite-soul]

aaaaaaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

gggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh i need to write a story about this. nnnnnnnnnnhhhhhhhhhhh

It's under the cut

[[ @valrayne-faeu by @antlered-knight & @owl-bones ]]

Snowfur OneShot

Soul huffed out a breath as she ducked under a branch. Oh dear. Her falcon had to have been caught MILES out, poor boy.

"I should have brought along a ride." Nightmare growled. Right. Soul lowered her head. Why was he here? She didn't want to go alone, and Nightmare still had a favor open for her. So she used that one.

She gave him an apologetic smile. "I was not aware of how far the way would be. I apologize for that."

"Mpfh." Ooookay then. Soul bit her tongue and continued walking.

It was silent in the forest. The cold snow hung heavy on the branches of the trees. The thick layer of snow on the ground made it hard to walk- Soul knew Nightmare would rather they fly, but she was quite unskilled in it.

Her wings twitched as she grasped the pendant of her necklace tighter. The pull that dragged her towards her falcon Blizzard was getting stronger the closer she got.

Soul looked up to the night sky. The lantern that floated by her shoulder gave off a warm, orange glow. She glanced at Nightmare who had his wings spread to avoid dragging his wing-tails trough the snow. It... was rather unsuccesful.

"... humans have a wonderful word for this: It's-" "Save it." Soul frowned. Well that was just rude.

A growl sounded through the forest. The female fae stopped. "... what-" "Down." She linked at Nightmare who'd raised his hand, a teal flicker announcing him preparing his magic. Soul ducked, grasped the bag with food that they'd taken along.

A soft wave of teal magic ran from Nightmares raised hand, splitting the darkness like the waves of a sinking pebble on an otherwise calm water.

Soul could see his good eye narrowing. Before she could say anything, the man drew his sword.

She heard branches crack. What... was that? A griffin? A bear?

... only silence.

Just as she wanted to draw in a deep breath, the night sky covered her eyes, and a body slammed into hers-

Soul merely stumbled. Cat like claws scratched over her horns and her thick collar, and the thing clinging to her face was barely weighing more then Blizzard. Why did she only see stars? Had she been blinded?

Soul didn't even yelp as her back and wings hit the snow. She reached up, pulled the thing off her. Her fingers found... fur. Surprisingly easily, she dragged the creature off her.

...

"Oh my stars! Look at you!" Soul cheered. Nightmare growled.

A small, fuzzy dragon hung in Souls grasp. Its red tongue was hanging out, revealing sharp and long teeth within the eyeless snout. The dragon had no horns, but white, fuzzy fur on its back and legs, and it's claws, bellies and wings were mirrors of the night sky.

It's tail was wagging as it squirmed in Souls grasp- the dragon was barely longer then her arm, tail included.

What a threat, right, Nightmare?

"Put it down." The king scoffed as he sheathed his sword again. The dragon on the other hand let out a 'Yip! Yip!'. Soul was absolutely smitten.

"Ohh- look at him, Nightmare! He's so cute!" Soul got up carefully, letting the small dragon nuzzle against her. With a grin, Soul cradled the dragon like a baby, it's claws digging into her thick poncho.

"Put. It. Down." "But why?" Nightmare pinched the bridge of his nose.

"It's a dragon."

"I know!" She didn't see how Nightmares wings flapped in irritation. "Are you suicidal? Put it down! The mother must be around." He drew his sword again. Oh well.

His words had the opposite of the wanted effect on Soul. Her eyes brightened, widened, and she turned her gaze to him in adoration. "A BIG one??"

"Oh, no. No, absolutely not. Soul, you will not go to search for the dragon, interact with it, or do anything but return to me in case you see said dragon."

Her wings folded flat against her back, and her ears twitched. She slumped, and looked down onto the small dragon, who was still trying to paw at her. "... yes, my liege."

"Good. Now put it down. The mother will smell you anyways, but if we're lucky she won't come after us." Nightmare growled. The female fae sighed, running her hand through the fuzz of the dragon. She put the dragon down like a cat, careful. Soul didn't stop the dragon from rubbing against her hand- Nightmare had to grasp her collar and make her stand. He turned her around, staring into her eyes.

"Soul. Do you hear me?"

"Yes, Nightmare."

"Will you go after the dragon?"

"No, Nightmare."

The king nodded. "Good."

He swished some snow off his shoulder. "Now let us search for your falcon before I need to make use of my sword."

Soul looked back at the young dragon, which was digging through the snow.

"... of course, Nightmare."

ARGH this took me half an hour, did NOT spellcheck or re-read it whatsoever because I have swordfighting in like half an hour =).

There. Have it. I hope you enjoy =)

[meli-writes]

Boar and the Lamb - Ch. 03

(Read on AO3) /// (First) / (Previous)

As distant moonlight creeps between the shutters, pressed closed with their battens, Kori draws out an old boardgame from beneath the floorboards where it had been hidden between potted fruits and pickled fish.

“When did you know?” Kori asks, when the Princess is sitting in the armchair across from her — perched on the bed the Princess refused to sleep in — with the board between them.

She won’t even take the blanket back, and sits ramrod straight as both overlook neat, opposed arrangements of delicately-carved wooden soldiers; each soft and well-worn from its storied succession of variably-appreciative owners.

“That I’d be a consort?” she says, pressing her first piece forward. She’s taken the ‘Other’ side to Kori’s Humans. An exoticised, ahistorical amalgam of Elfs, Dwarfs, and anyone else Humans have felt entitled to swipe the land from under.

Kori nods, matches her move so Elf and Human piece stand face-to-face, sword-to-sword.

The Princess is too privileged to recognise how rare Kori’s set really is — to even know what a normal set looks like. She considers the bosomously-detailed Queen-piece in her hands: an ancient, irretractable statement of the intent upon her, “When I stopped pretending I was a prince.”

Kori flushes in embarrassment through a series of her-incompetence-meets-inexperienced moves that has her Siege Towers gracelessly wrapping the Queen in a curtain wall.

The Princess’ next idle, impatient move leaves it nowhere else to go.

“Ugh. Foolish mistake,” she adds emptily, like it was ever a choice. “And now my only use is in being unable to bear bastards. It could’ve been one of my sisters instead…”

Several temper-worsening losses later — despite Kori’s clumsy, stared-down attempts to self-handicap — the Princess has folded bodily into an impenetrable silence.

The Princess presses her thumb through a loop in the chain and squeezes till her hand turns white again, and, when she reaches to make her next move, the rest of the unwillingly-led chain trips over a carefully manoeuvred rank of Elfish Spearman-analogues. Kori looks at the leaf outfits and decides the wiser course is not to inquire about their accuracy and loses her chance to fuck up anyway when the Princess clears the rest of the board with a shriek that pushes through her teeth like wet fish through a garlic crusher.

One of the poor, unfortunate wooden soldiers bounces across a bare patch of floor into the hearth. Heedless to the bloody consequence, Kori lunges for it and it hurts. She tries again with a hastily-donned glove and still can’t bear the heat, retreating with a bitter, defeated hiss.

It’s not like she was allowed to take the set. Or should have it.

But it is hers.

Chains scrape and bump over the uneven floorboards, and scatter the other, miniature survivors in their wake. Before Kori can finish chewing a hole through her cheek in pain and indecision, the Princess reaches over her shoulder and plucks the wounded wood with a restrained sense of urgency. He’s a little charred; missing his spearpoint; but is safe.

The Princess, if she’s hurt at all for the act, doesn’t show it; settles back in what is starting to feel to Kori like the Princess’ own throne, and not her coach-looted armchair. The kind of thanks Kori thinks is best to show is the one where she quietly cleans it all up, and peeks through the shutter for the dozenth time knowing well the weather won’t have changed.

“Your magic. Can it… do stuff with nature?” Kori poses, when at last she’s settled down.

The Princess’s face contorts in several directions at once, but Kori would insist the question came from somewhere sensible in her head. She folds her brow low, and holds her thumb at its tip as she waits for no answer.

Until, “Yes.”

Kori blinks. “You know — would have a lot of use for that around here,” she says, eager in the way water is to leak out a bottomless bucket. Maybe Kori could grow more than her tubers, and her not-quite Highness could look a little less sullen for having grown them.

“No.”

“Yeah,” Kori concedes. “I know.”

Or maybe she couldn’t. It took Kori a while to. If she did at all.

---

It’s after another hour’s stare that the Princess-on-her-throne deigns to address the issue of their present, silent stand-off. She’s interpreted the question Kori has stuck in her throat, perhaps in a less charitable manner than Kori would ask.

“No. I’m not sleeping,” she answers.

Kori repeats herself in a doomed attempt to be soothing, “Hey now, no one’s gonna follow you while it’s this bad.”

The Princess rolls her eyes.

“I’m not sleeping,” she reiterates — and Kori knows exactly what she’s going to say, just that it’s a bad idea to presume it verbally: “because I don’t trust you.”

It seems easier to cut around the issue because Kori knows she can’t quite respond in kind. “How long has it been since you last slept?” she asks. Elfs are known for odd sleeping after all, at least as odd as the rest of their nature. Kori read that in a book.

“What did I just say about trust?” the Princess points out.

She’s more adept at this game than the one where they’re all made out of wood.

Not that Kori can’t be too sometimes. Even if the years alone have dulled her like her little spearman.

“Is it longer, or shorter, since you last ate?” 

…

“Longer.”

The conversation doesn’t continue past that but Kori hasn’t slept for long before the Princess follows, and in her slump off the chair lets her chains wash over the floor as a raucous sea of twisted metal.

It shakes Kori back awake, leaving her to stare at the chained, naked Princess, tipped over into the morass of her own bondage. She prods and gets no response, the Princess out cold as the snow — unable to weather her own inelfish exhaustion. Kori lifts her back into the armchair, and fetches a small, stuffed animal from her own bed: a soft-toothed sea-dog she won’t ever tell anyone again is called Phillip.

The Princess’ fingers curl around it with the same furious measure as her spoon, squeezing it to what Kori worries for a moment is bursting. She tucks the blanket around the Princess’ back and over her shoulders, then brushes the hair back over her ears, and goes back to bed herself.

---

(Masterpost) / (Next)

[bronzeandsage]

Way of the Blade

I am Fenrag.

Darkness is all I see. It is not due to blindness. Or a sense of my own blood betraying me. Now I see darkness by choice. The old cloth wrapped about my eyes for the last few days has long since dried from the initial dampness that my master had applied to it. My face is turned up toward the sky as I catch brief flashes in the darkness of red, white, and yellow. Is it the passing of the day? Or perhaps a flight of birds crossing my path? I remember well that moment of relief from the suns oppressive might on my homeland from a day ago. But it was fleeting and gone, perhaps that itself is part of the lesson.

I am unsure of where I sit, my body exposed to the elements naked to the winds, sun, and earth leaving me confused but unafraid as to my whereabouts. The only thing left to me has been my sword, encased within it’s battered wooden sheath it rests on my folded legs as I sit at attention. The final word that first morning having been in the harsh and low tone of my master, Ronakada, “Wait.”

The air always tastes dry, the sun is unending for hours, and the earth is dry and sparse beneath my naked body. Each day I awaken in the same place yearning for that damp linen of the first day as it’s coolness had keep the burning from growing to strong. Now it is day three. My tongue slides from my mouth and licks at my scarred upper lip, the bits of sweat all the nourishment I have had as I sit and meditate in the wilds. It is lacking and my body is growing weak.

How long must I wait? Why do I wait? I can get up and leave whenever I want to. I should get up and leave. This was a fools errand. Tear the cloth away and head back to Ogrimmar. Rejoin the army fully and go forth unto the world to defend and honor the Horde against the tyranny of my peoples former oppressors. There is honor and glory waiting if I just get up and take it!

But I sit. I wait. I am a warrior. No, I am beyond a warrior. I am Fenrag, one of the last of the Thunderlord blood. I will not betray my ancestors honor. I will not run from this challenge. I will be blademaster.

The fourth day rises. I am tired. My hands rest on the sword in my lap as I do my best to keep my head held high, but it has been a long night and soon to be a longer day. I am glad for the steel in my lap as it supports me in these long hours of wait. My right held tight to the oil and sweat worn hilt, my left holding just the same to the dry wood of my scabbard. Am I failing? I must be, and death is my punishment. But I will not leave this. If I am to die here, so be it. I will die with honor.

Night is falling on the fourth day, and my body is weary as I wish only for sleep but the sun falling behind my head brings coolness to my face of night. I have face the rising sun and slept as it sleeps. Sleep will be welc…

Twilight fills my blurry vision as I look out into the coming night, my shadow splayed across the ground before me with the dwindling heat of day behind me. My shadow is not alone, as the rage of my forefathers fills me with new determination and the training of my master springs me into action. My thick body rolls forward with a low growl rumbling in my chest, I tuck into my shoulder and turn on my knee in the dirt to face my new shadow. My thick hands have already shot about to bring my sword to bear though not drawn, as steel is only needed drawn when blood is ready to be drawn. The shadow is much like my own though leaner and longer thanks to the dying light of day.

“Arise, Fenrag son of Sevlaz. Arise. For your training is continued.” The orc before me is older, but not so that his topknot has grown grey with age or his beard. He is dressed sparsely, for travel and swiftness; resting across his back is a long thick blade of those of my heroes. His eyes are red like my own birthright, though I know he has seen in a haze I will thankfully never know. “I am Mankrik, and today we shall reap the Warchief’s will upon our enemies. Arise for the night is just begun.” He turns and starts down from the mountain. I blink a moment, rise and follow to find my destiny.

[abbythewritor]

Winter is Coming. Chapter One.

Description: Y/N Targaryen, the last true daughter of House Targaryen, bears the weight of her lineage on her broad shoulders. Young, fiercely determined, and often underestimated for her plus-size figure, she is forced into an unyielding marriage alliance with one of the most dangerous men across the seas: Crocodile, the ruthless warlord and cunning leader of Baroque Works. Torn from Westeros and thrust into the unpredictable waters of the Grand Line, Y/N must navigate the treacherous alliances, schemes, and monstrous forces that haunt her every step. As Crocodile’s bride, her life becomes a game of survival—earning his respect while enduring his cold indifference and manipulative tendencies. However, the fire in her blood will not be dimmed. With whispers of ancient dragons and visions of the Iron Throne calling her home, Y/N begins to embrace her Targaryen birthright, proving that dragons do not cower—they conquer.As war brews across the seas and in Westeros alike, Y/N’s journey will test her body, spirit, and mind. With Crocodile as both her captor and potential ally, she will rise through betrayal, blood, and fire to claim her destiny. Winter is coming, but fire and blood will follow.

Warnings: Explicit content, blood, Violence, Sexual content, you know Game of Thrones stuff.

Just to be clear: I do not own Game of Thrones or One Piece, they belong to the creators. I wrote this story on Chat GTP as to help with story structure and Spelling. Y/n in this story is overweight and plus size, as I rarely see Y/n's that are bigger in fanfiction at all, so I'd thought it will be different. THIS STORY IS NOT FOR CHILDREN!!! As like Game of Thrones, it will have a lot of explicit, and graphic scenes!! YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!!!!!!!!!

Anyways, enjoy the first chapter!!!

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The sound of cannon fire echoed faintly in the distance as the Marine base buzzed with its usual, chaotic rhythm. Shouts rang from the training grounds below, cadets barking orders to one another, boots slamming against the dirt, and the metallic clang of swords meeting in sparring duels carried on the sea breeze.

Within the tall white walls of the Marine headquarters, the air was less vibrant, heavy with the hum of bureaucracy and the quiet scrawling of pens on parchment. A world apart from the cries of training soldiers and roaring ships outside, Vice Admiral Garp sat slouched in his chair, boots propped lazily atop his broad wooden desk.

“Strength, honesty, and intelligence,” Garp said aloud, the words rumbling like stones in his chest. “Three simple things. Yet, why is it that so many men have two, but not the third?”

Across from him, Koby sat rigid in his chair. He looked as though his spine were cast in iron, hands folded neatly on his knees, his bright eyes fixed on Garp with a mixture of reverence and focus. He had already memorized every word the Vice Admiral said as if each syllable might carry him closer to greatness.

“Sir?” Koby said carefully.

Garp tilted his head back, staring at the high ceiling of his office. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, casting pale golden light on the room—an airy, almost peaceful space littered with old maps, rolled scrolls, and piles of half-organized documents.

“Strength makes you unstoppable,” Garp began, eyes narrowing as though seeing something far away. “A man with strength can plow through armies, lead men, conquer the seas. But strength without honesty?” He barked out a laugh, short and sharp. “That kind of man has a sword in his hand but no compass. A damn dangerous thing.”

Koby nodded, lips pressed together, clearly absorbing the lesson.

“And intelligence?” Garp waved a hand absently. “That’s the hardest to come by. Strength you can build, and honesty is a choice. But intelligence? You either have it, or you don’t. And without it…” He leaned forward, boots thudding to the floor, and jabbed a finger at Koby. “You’ll end up following someone who has all three—and trust me, that someone won’t be you.”

“Yes, sir!” Koby responded, his voice brimming with determination.

Garp leaned back with a satisfied grunt, pulling a bag of rice crackers from his drawer. “Good lad. I’ll knock it into you eventually. You’ve got the honesty down. Now you just need to toughen up and—”

A sharp knock at the door interrupted him.

Garp frowned mid-chew, crumbs scattering over the papers on his desk. He hadn’t been expecting anyone. “What is it?”

The door opened just enough for a young Marine to step inside, his hat too large for his head, face flushed as though he’d sprinted up three flights of stairs. “Vice Admiral Garp, sir,” the Marine said, panting. “There’s—there’s someone here to see you. An… unexpected visitor.”

Garp cocked an eyebrow, one cracker halfway to his mouth. “Unexpected? Who the hell is it?”

The Marine gulped, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously. “He didn’t give his name, sir. But… you might want to see for yourself.”

Garp exchanged a glance with Koby, who looked equally confused.

“Well?” Garp barked, rising to his full, imposing height. “Send him in!”

The Marine hesitated for a moment, then nodded and hurried back through the door. The silence that followed was thick, pressing down on the room like a weighted blanket. Garp straightened his coat, his eyes narrowing toward the entrance. He’d faced pirates, kings, and beasts who could tear apart mountains—there weren’t many who could unsettle him.

But when the door swung open, Garp’s brow furrowed deeply. He wasn’t unsettled, but he was surprised.

The man who stepped into his office was unlike anyone Garp had seen in years.

He wore no shining Marine coat, no grand cape or feathers, nor the garish clothes pirates often paraded in. His clothes were dark, the thick fur-lined cloak hanging heavy over his shoulders as though made for colder lands. Beneath it, a dark leather tunic clung to his broad frame, plain yet well-made, speaking of functionality rather than wealth. The longsword on his hip was the first thing Garp noticed—an ancient blade with a wolf’s head hilt, its steel shimmering faintly, as though it drank the sunlight.

But it was the man’s eyes that held him—the eyes of a fighter who had seen too much for his years. They were dark, brooding, and seemed to carry the weight of winter itself.

“Who the hell are you?” Garp said, his tone direct but not unkind.

The man took another step forward, his boots heavy against the polished wooden floor. He stood tall, his posture as unyielding as the blade at his side. When he spoke, his voice was low and steady, edged with a Northern accent that sounded foreign against the warm Alabastan air.

“My name is Jon Snow,” the man said simply, though his presence was anything but. “I’ve come a long way to speak with you.”

Garp crossed his arms, his grin replaced by something more serious as he studied the man before him. “Jon Snow, huh? Never heard of you. You’re not a pirate, that’s clear enough. A mercenary?”

Jon’s gaze didn’t waver. “No mercenary. I am a swordsman, Vice Admiral.”

“A swordsman?” Koby blurted out before shrinking under Garp’s sharp glance.

Jon turned his head slightly toward the young recruit, his expression softening. “Aye. One who’s learned to fight in a land where battles are won with steel and honor, not words.”

Something in the way Jon spoke made the room feel colder, the mention of his homeland painting stark images of snow-covered mountains and shadowed castles. Garp’s instincts told him this was no ordinary man.

“And what does a swordsman from far-off lands want with me?” Garp asked, sitting back down and gesturing loosely at the chair across from him. “I don’t have all day, Snow.”

Jon did not sit. He placed a hand lightly on the hilt of his sword, not as a threat but as if it were an extension of himself. “I’ve heard tales of this world—of men who claim the seas as their own, of treasures that could change kingdoms, and of pirates who bring war to lands untouched by their chaos. I’ve seen enough of war to know this: it never stops. If the seas rise, the waves will reach the Seven Nations.”

Garp frowned. “And you think I care about kingdoms I’ve never heard of?”

Jon’s jaw tightened. “No. But you care about justice.”

Garp stared at him for a long moment, the silence between them like a drawn bowstring. Finally, Garp sighed and rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

“You’re not here for justice, Snow,” Garp said, his tone softer now. “You’re here because you see the storm coming. And you want to be ready for it.”

Jon’s gaze met his, unflinching. “A storm unlike any this world has seen.”

Koby swallowed audibly, his fingers twisting nervously in his lap. The tension in the room was palpable, thick enough to choke on.

Garp let out a deep chuckle, though there was no humor in it. “A man of steel, honesty, and intelligence. You’re rare, Snow. But tell me this: what do you plan to do when this storm hits?”

Jon’s hand tightened around the hilt of his sword. “The same thing I’ve always done, Vice Admiral.” His voice was calm, but there was steel in it. “I’ll fight.”

For the first time in years, Garp felt something stir—an old fire in his chest, long buried beneath decades of war and duty. He leaned forward, a grin curling his lips once more.

“Well then, Jon Snow,” Garp said. “Let’s see if you’re as good as you claim.”

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Northern Alabasta.

The third day.

Time: Midday.

The northern Alabastan sun hung low in the sky, casting deep golden hues across the desert sands and turning the sandstone house into a jewel of pale gold and red. The vast estate was carved into the base of a rocky hill, its edges smooth and elegant, a fortress of luxury in a sea of desolation. The air was heavy with the heat of the day, though it carried a chill that whispered of dusk.

Y/N stood at the top of the stone staircase leading down to the courtyard, her eyes fixed on the horizon. She could see the dust rising far in the distance, growing closer with every second, signaling the arrival of her would-be husband. Behind her, the house’s sprawling walls loomed, their stark grandeur casting long shadows across the courtyard.

She wasn’t alone. Her cruel brother, resplendent in his finest silks and golden jewelry, stood beside her, his expression fixed into a cold, unreadable mask. He always dressed as though he were already king of something, though his kingdom amounted to little more than ruthlessness and ambition. Flanking him was the host of the house, a round-bellied nobleman with graying hair and rings stacked on every pudgy finger. He fidgeted nervously, dabbing at his sweat-slick forehead with a fine kerchief.

“Do not embarrass me,” her brother muttered, his voice low enough for only Y/N to hear.

The words were familiar, repeated to her like a mantra since childhood, yet they still cut deep, sinking into her ribs like hooks. Y/N said nothing in response. She had learned long ago that silence gave him less satisfaction.

The nobleman cleared his throat awkwardly, his gaze darting between the two siblings before returning to the approaching column of riders. The thunder of hooves grew louder now, shaking the earth beneath them as the dust cloud parted to reveal the figures at its center.

Crocodile had arrived.

He led the column of riders, seated atop a massive black horse that snorted and stamped with a power befitting its master. Crocodile’s presence was unmistakable, even at a distance. His broad shoulders were wrapped in a heavy coat that billowed slightly with the wind, the collar high and regal against his sharp jawline. A thick scar curled across his face, cruel and jagged, and in his gloved hand, the ever-present golden hook gleamed like a predator’s claw.

Behind him, an army of guards in dark desert armor rode in formation, their swords sheathed but ready, their eyes sharp beneath their veils. They moved as one—silent, disciplined, and dangerous, their presence turning the courtyard into something small and insignificant.

Crocodile brought his horse to a stop just short of the sandstone steps, the beast beneath him pawing at the ground impatiently. His single visible eye—cold and calculating—swept across the courtyard as though dissecting everything it touched. He did not dismount.

The host of the house descended a few steps, his arms spreading wide as he greeted Crocodile with loud, theatrical enthusiasm. “Ah! My lord, Crocodile!” he boomed, his voice slipping into a rich Middle English cadence. “Welcome to our humble home, mighty Warlord of the Sea!”

Crocodile didn’t respond, his brow twitching in mild irritation as the nobleman prattled on. The man’s words were a torrent of foreign sounds, ornate and archaic, flowing over Crocodile like water off rock. He caught some words—“welcome,” “home,” “lord”—but the rest of the nobleman’s theatrical greeting was lost on him. Crocodile’s eye narrowed.

What nonsense.

Behind him, his guards shifted in their saddles, their silence broken only by the occasional snort or stomp of a restless horse. Crocodile let the man talk, his face a mask of stoic disinterest, but as the nobleman gestured eagerly up the stairs, Crocodile’s attention shifted.

He glanced past the host of the house and saw her.

Y/N stood at the last step of the stone staircase, framed by the shadows of the house. Her form was heavy and solid, her presence undeniable even as her head dipped slightly to avoid his gaze. The crimson fabric of her gown spilled around her like blood, its golden embroidery catching the sunlight as though it were on fire. She was no waif, no porcelain doll sculpted for royal palaces—there was weight to her, warmth to her, something that felt strangely real against the opulent surroundings.

Crocodile’s gaze lingered for a moment longer than intended, his eye narrowing slightly as though assessing her—measuring her. A flicker of something sharp and amused ghosted across his lips.

And then, to her surprise, he smirked.

It was not a kind expression. It was a predator’s smile, sharp and confident, like a man who already knew the outcome of whatever game he had entered. It was fleeting, gone in an instant, but Y/N saw it. She felt it.

Before she could make sense of it, Crocodile turned his horse sharply. The beast reared slightly before pivoting toward the gates, hooves kicking up sand and dust as it moved.

The nobleman’s voice faltered as Crocodile’s back turned to him. “M-My lord?”

Crocodile said nothing. He spurred his horse forward, the column of guards falling into perfect formation behind him as they swept back toward the desert horizon. The thunder of their departure left a ringing silence in its wake.

Y/N remained at the last step, her expression unreadable as her brother’s face darkened with anger.

“What is the meaning of this?” her brother growled, whirling on the host of the house as though he were a hound about to tear out the man’s throat. “Why did he leave?”

The nobleman sputtered, his hands raising defensively as he stumbled over his words. “M-My lord, I do not know! I welcomed him warmly—I—I followed proper form, and yet—”

“Proper form?” her brother hissed, his voice dangerously low. “He doesn’t understand your prattling. He isn’t one of us, you fool.”

The nobleman’s face paled, sweat beading at his temples. “But… but I thought he—”

“I don’t care what you thought,” her brother snapped. His eyes flickered briefly toward Y/N, narrowing before turning away again. “This failure is your doing.”

The nobleman began to stammer something in reply, but Y/N tuned him out, her gaze drifting back to where Crocodile and his army had disappeared beyond the horizon.

Her brother’s anger, the nobleman’s groveling—none of it mattered. What mattered was that momentary look Crocodile had given her. That smirk. That calculating gaze.

What had he seen?

And more importantly—why had he left?

The sun sank lower in the sky, deepening the shadows across the estate as the wind carried away the dust Crocodile’s army had left behind. Y/N remained still at the last step of the stairs, her thoughts racing.

This was not over.

Not by a long shot.

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