#tree marlow | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

shesjustanothergeek · 11 months ago

Text

The Gods We Can Touch Chapter Four: Before the Storm

|Aemond Targaryen x Strong!Reader|

Masterlist of Series

Summary: The older twin of Prince Jacaerys Velaryon, you were a picture of the maiden, untouched and untainted by man's sins. At least, that was what Alicent Hightower believed when she held you in her arms moments after her old friend's labors. You were her shining light, her dream. Though you were never hers, she believed you were meant to be.

What will become of you as time passes and the Queen's shining light grows within the blackened darkness? Will her eldest son's morbid fascination with the light burn the realm? Or will her second son's obsession with the only daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen change the course of the Seven Kingdoms as we know it?

Author's Note: Hello everyone! How are we doing after the last chapter? I went on a vacay and enjoyed some time with my family and dog, but now we're back to business. I wanted to say that I'm not a literary genius. Later in this chapter Helaena says some lines from a piece of work by Hélène Cixous called Love of the Wolf. I'm not taking credit for her work by any means, but I couldn't help myself not to add it. It was just too perfect. Well, anyways, thank you for reading!

Chapter Warnings: mentions of childhood SA and trauma related to it, sexism, bullying.

Birdsong accompanied you in your daily lessons with Septa Marlow, her parchment-thin flesh wrapped over her shaking bones as she pointed to the large map of what you assumed was Westeros. It wasn’t that you couldn’t identify the outline of your own country. You didn’t care. The tiny sparrow that decided to make its nest on the branch of an oak tree outside the tutor room window was far more interesting.

You could hear the sounds of swords clashing outside over the creature’s call, an added instrument into the melody of the Red Keep. There was no doubt your brothers and uncles were practicing their swordplay, Ser Criston teaching the pairs of children. How you longed to be out there with them, with your family, with your twin, learning of things much more exciting than what region of the country produced the most red wine.

You only wanted to see them and to be entertained. It wasn’t that you wanted to learn the sword, though you wouldn’t say no should someone ask.

But this resulted from the actions from the previous day when you disobeyed the Dragonkeeper’s commands. It surprised you when your mother failed to mention how your brothers and Aegon gave Aemond a pig, but you weren’t planning to go out of your way to tell on yourself and receive any more repercussions. You were already confined to the castle walls and forbidden from seeing your dragon for the next sennight. You couldn’t imagine what your mother would have done in response if she knew.

“Princess, pay attention,” the old crone’s wavering voice commanded, causing you to jolt.

You attempted to follow her instructions, rattling off the names of Houses and their most profitable exports, but metal clanging stole you from your duties once more. Why couldn’t you be with your brothers and uncles? You understood that today’s extra lessons were a punishment, but why couldn’t you join them? You and Jace were the same age, though you were a few moments older, and Luke was younger.

You could comprehend the importance of learning such knowledge, but your brothers were able to understand this and swordsmanship. Why could you not? Seeing as your mother had not learned it, you did not believe it was a skill you needed. This was the only thing that separated you from Jace, and you hated it.

Suddenly, everything went silent. The birds, the clang of steel, your mind halted into a noiseless silence, leaving the only sound of Septa Marlow’s droning, shaky voice. Screams you knew belonged to Aegon and the shrieks of your younger brother, Jace, briefly sounded, causing your feet to twitch in the direction of the sound. You knew your brother. That was not a noise of happiness but one of determination and fear, but once again, it plummeted into silence.

Then, it erupted. Shouts and thick, repeated thumps of what could only be skin on skin replaced the dull thudding of swords, only this time, it was of grown men.

Disregarding your Septa’s scolds of disobedience, you stood, rushing from the creaky wooden desk and chair with a soft wince from the pain between your legs. You ran to the window, face pressed against the glass, to see the situation unfold.

Ser Harwin kneeled over a man in polished armor you couldn’t see as he drove punch after punch into the man’s face. It was a member of the Kingsguard, judging by his attire as onlookers gathered around the two of them, attempting to remove Harwin from his victim.

Why would Ser Harwin be attacking a Kingsguard?

You pressed your face closer to the glass, fogging it with your breath. Soon, your mother’s protector was thrown off, revealing a bloodied, smug Ser Criston Cole, a proud smirk on his tan face as he spat viscous scarlet liquid. Ser Harwin spewed words of anger you couldn’t hear as you observed with wide eyes from above.

“Princess!” Marlow shouted, stomping her slippered foot in exasperation. “Return to your seat at once.”

“Ser Harwin is attacking Ser Criston!” you countered with a whine as you disregarded her demands. Without thinking of the consequences, you ran for the exit only to be met with the face of your sworn shield, halting you from seeing the commotion.

You were stuck. These were the repercussions of your actions, and now you had to sit in dull solitude with a Septa so old that your mother had her as wild possibilities ran through your head as to why Ser Harwin Strong attacked Ser Criston Cole.

Finding where your uncle Aemond spent most of his time was effortless. He was unlike the rest of you, who loved to be outside in the dirt, running about the gardens as you and your brothers played any game you could think of. Aegon and the trio of you teased Aemond for the fact that he was different in this way, your eldest uncle impressing the idea that his brother’s likes of science, math, history, and philosophy were weird for a child. You also enjoyed subjects similar to your uncle’s, thirsting for knowledge of everything related to herbs, flowers, and other plants, but you never brought it up. Aegon would undoubtedly tease you for it if he knew.

Aemond’s interests weren’t typical, but you didn’t see it as something to look down on him for. But since Aegon did, you had no choice but to agree.

The library in the Red Keep was a lonely and shadowy place, rarely visited by anyone, not even the servants. The absence of lit candles or a crackling fire contributed to the eerie atmosphere, creating a sensation of fear that seemed to grip your very core as you stepped inside, as though you were venturing into an endless void of darkness. Despite the unsettling ambiance, you summoned your bravery, clutching your cherished collection of fairy tales for comfort, and gained the strength to push open the library doors. The sound of metal clanging echoed in the silence.

Motes of dust swirled in the beams of light pouring through the windows as you combed through the towering wooden bookcases. Your search was targeted and honed on a particular individual who, besides Lord Lyonel Strong and the rest of the council members, was known to make regular visits to this room. It was just a matter of time before you laid eyes on him.

After the sixth tall hickory bookshelf, you found Aemond resting on a window seat filled with lush fabric cushions, the sunbeams casting him in a yellow glow. You took a step forward, hesitating as you thought about how your uncle would react to your goodwill gesture. Despite anticipating his initial skepticism and harsh words, you held onto hope that persistence and authenticity would eventually make him see you for who you are.

You wished for it to be true.

“Have you come to mock me again, niece?” Aemond asked, interrupting your indecision with his nose still in the pages.

You swallowed as your mouth became dry, stepping out to reveal yourself fully. “No, Aemond. I came to read,” you replied, taking a gasp of air and summoning courage, “with you.”

Your uncle’s attempt to mask his surprise was unsuccessful as his eyes widened in astonishment. He quickly glanced at you and returned to his book, hoping to conceal his reaction.

His usual scowl deepened, pulling down at his freckled cheeks as he interrogated. “Why?”

A lopsided grin scrunched your plump cheeks upwards to crinkle your eyes as you shrugged. “Because I want to.”

Aemond flipped onto the next page with a skeptical face, yet his violet orbs never moved from the same spot. You had his attention. Hiding a victorious grin, you stepped towards him before he could protest, plopping onto the pillows beside Aemond. He quickly recoiled in exaggerated disgust, as if you were no more than an annoying fly that landed on his arm as he slammed the tome shut and briskly left.

This was an expected outcome, and you hurriedly chased after him, your shorter legs struggling to keep up with your uncle’s pace as he fled around a corner from your attempted act of bonding. You understood this was not a simple task and already built the mental stamina to outlast Aemond’s antics as he jumped down the stone steps of the Keep two at a time.

Eventually, he managed to escape you, his notable mane of blonde hair disappearing before a crowd of courtiers in the courtyard.

You huffed a sigh as you observed the sea of people, sweat stinging your privy part, but you ignored it, standing on the tips of your toes to peer over the wall of the pale redstone landing above the yard.

Suddenly, you spotted him at the far end as he caught your gaze, violet eyes widening in horror as if he saw one of the monsters from your stories. He turned away. His confident walk soon turned to a worried jog as you ran as fast as your limbs could carry you, shoving your way through the throng of people. You were used to playing chase with your brothers. Doing it with your uncle was the same, if not more manageable, with the help of his iconic hair and green garbs.

As you reached the area where you spotted your uncle, he was nowhere to be found, and you turned, looking across the vast meadow of the court that ebbed and flowed like the swaying of a wheat field, focused on their afternoon destinations. None of them paid any attention to the two dragon royals, both more than a head shorter and too self-absorbed to care.

With a sharp yelp, you fell to the ground, soiling your gown and dropping your book on the packed dirt as you caught yourself with your palms. They ached at the impact, tiny rocks embedding into your soft skin as you swiftly turned to the person who shoved you and saw no other than your uncle Aemond staring over you with rose-dusted cheeks. His arms securely bound his book to his chest as he looked down upon you with his nose, catching his breath and taking three paces back before you righted yourself.

“Why are you following me?” your uncle shouted down at you as he attempted to make his voice sound like a grown man.

You huffed as you swiped the dirt from your turquoise dress, gritting your teeth to control your frustration. This was one of your nice ones! Of course, Aemond would ruin it. Your mother would surely scold you when she found out.

“I told you I only wanted to read!” you screeched with a stomp of your foot as your arms flew into the air, flailing wildly. “And now you’ve ruined my favorite collection! The spine is loose and the pages are dirty!”

Aemond said nothing as you studied the now-tattered book before you. Every night, Ser Harwin or your father read a short story from this as you sat atop their laps, drifting off into a restful sleep filled with dreams of nymphs playing in a forest creek. Your book, too, was ruined—another consequence of wanting to be kind to your uncle.

“What’s it about?” he suddenly asked, prompting your watery eyes to move to him. The blush that covered Aemond’s face deepened, now traveling to his ears and throat as he dug his nails into the leatherback of his tome. He looked almost pained to inquire about anything that had to do with you.

Your first instinct was to bite with sharpened fangs of hurt, but you stopped, remembering your goal as you batted your watery lashes in disregard. “It was a volume of different stories,” you sighed with disappointment, afraid that if you showed any other emotions, you would revert to your old ways.

“I see.”

You stared at Aemond expectantly, waiting longer than what was proper for him to continue any sentence or explanation. Still, he did not, only observing you with a calculating expression. The low murmur of bustling court members filled the long silence, the occasional gust of wind and rattling metal low in the background. When your uncle refused to proceed with the conversation, you opened your mouth to do it for him, but much to your chagrin, he turned away before you could, not speaking a word as he kicked pebbles with his boots.

You scoffed in response, stunned and appalled by his actions. For a brief moment, one that didn’t last longer than a blink, Aemond showed kindness to you. You felt like an idiot for believing in that small part that thought last night changed your standing with Aemond, yet a ray of hope still lingered in your chest like the flame of a burnt wick on a dwindling candle.

You sighed in frustration as you looked over the worn and tattered pages of the stories. The determination you once had dwindled, and you couldn’t shake off the feeling that you deserved this. Memories of mocking Aemond’s odd behavior of the pig and making fun of him with your brothers and Aegon weighed heavily on you, intensifying the shame. A soft sigh of defeat escaped your lips as you reflected on your actions.

Ser Harwin was leaving you. After his fight with Ser Criston in the training yard, he was stripped of his title as Commander of the City Watch and was sent back to Harrenhal the next day. You were devastated, fat tears running down your hot cheeks as he said farewell to you, Jace, Luke, and Joffrey before sleep.

Harwin had been with you since before you were born. He was there to help sort out quarrels between you and your brothers whenever one stole toys and refused to share. Harwin accompanied you to your lessons when your brothers were learning the art of swords or hunting. He taught you how to ride a horse when your father was out at sea with your grandfather Corlys and dried your tears whenever Aegon and Aemond were harsh. Ser Harwin was family as far as you were concerned, and returning to the Riverlands was akin to losing a member because Ser Criston claimed he cared too much about you and your brothers only to be a sworn protector.

You weren’t blind to the rumors surrounding your parentage and the resemblance to the Commander of the City Watch. It was all your uncles could do not to bring it up each moment they laid their Valyrian eyes on you. The word bastard haunted the now four of you wherever you went, a cloak of shame that threatened to devour your girlish body whole.

Jace often raised concerns about who your birth father was, but he was never brave enough to ask your mother about it. It was an open question of uncertainty that never seemed to find the correct answer, yet, no matter what, you knew that even if you were not of Laenor Velaryon’s blood, they could never deny that you were your mother’s. You were a Targaryen, just like your aunt and uncles, and that was something that could never change.

“Be good to your mother. I’ll visit when I can,” Ser Harwin said tenderly, kneeling before you, Jace, and Luke as your mother cradled Joffrey. He stood with a grunt as he observed the four of you, a misty look in his eyes that you could mistake for tears. “But that may be some time.”

Sobs stained the white cotton sleeves of your nightgown gray, sniffling as you wiped away more snot and salty water. You would miss Ser Harwin terribly, and he knew that, but that did not make this any less painful as you clung to Jace’s side and he, your mother.

“I will return. I promise,” Harwin expressed with a gravelly voice as he tenderly brushed loose strands of your hair that hid your wet eyes. You listened to the same voice as you sat on his lap, resting your head upon his chest as he read you and your brother’s fairy tales before bed.

Harwin would tell no more stories in that deep, rumbling tone that soothed your soul beyond measure, and you felt your heart crack more at the thought.

Harwin moved to say his final farewell to Joffrey and your mother, kissing the babe’s forehead as you buried your face in your brother’s neck. “You will be a stranger when we meet again,” he said to the bundle of fabric that cooed in your mother’s arms.

And that was true, not just for Joffrey, but for all of you.

Ser Harwin bid goodbye to your mother with a simple “princess” as they shared a long, meaningful glance with layers of emotion and scores of history behind them. He said no more and gathered his sword, swinging it over his shoulder as you released a cry, running to the comforting embrace of your mother’s bed. You could no longer watch Harwin as he left your life, a new wave of sobs taking over as you shoved your face into her feather pillows. It smelled of her, home, and happiness—fresh lavender and sage on expensive cotton sheets.

Despite your mother’s reassurance that you would see Ser Harwin again someday, you could not help but feel like this was a death sentence. As if you stood in front of his coffin and buried him beneath the dirt and worms yourself. He would no longer be the sworn shield he was when he left at this very moment, as you heard the sound of hurried footfalls exiting the room.

Luke followed you to the wide bed, tucking himself into your side and resting his temple on your chest as you both cried in an agonizing yet loving embrace. You could hear Jace talking to your mother outside the doorway, little Joffrey babbling as she softly bounced him in her arms. Whether it was to comfort your babe brother or her, you did not know.

“Is Harwin Strong my father? Am I a bastard?” you heard Jace ask. His fierce and unwavering inquiry only made you sadder. On instinct, you covered Luke’s ears as he hiccuped into your chest. He did not need to have doubt burrow into his mind at such a young age.

Your mother was silent. The only sounds coming were from you, the soft crackles of the fire in the hearth, and your little brother’s heaving breaths as you struggled to cope with the loss.

“You are a Targaryen. That is all that matters,” she finally answered, tone strong. Her words were rehearsed and practiced, and they did not quell the thirst for the truth in either you or Jace.

Your barely younger brother returned to the room. His thin lips downturned, and his head hung low as he sat on one of the plush settees littering the area. You could tell he was unsatisfied with your mother’s response, as were you, but he understood he would get the same reply should he push the matter. Your mother followed in soon after, observing the three of you with tired yet loving eyes.

The same question was on your lips, threatening to break free at any moment, lilac orbs landing on your brown ones as she stared at you with your newest brother still in her arms. She was not inclined to answer, and yet you knew. It was written plainly in the fine lines of her face, the slope of her nose, and how tears lined her lashes as your mother inhaled a fierce, shuddering breath. Much like her, you refused to say the words aloud, electing to bask in the grief-stricken sadness that enveloped your family.

The hour of the owl was upon you before you finally went to your chambers, unable to find rest in your kin’s arms. Your brothers choose to stay with your mother inside hers as their tiny bodies pressed against each other after the tears have long dried.

The halls and corridors of the Red Keep were noiseless as you trekked through them with keen eyes. The portraits of your ancestors you passed daily seemed to follow you with their purple gazes, their accusing stares boring shame into your soul and setting your hair alight.

Alicent’s warning rang through your head as the squeak of a rat sounded, her rich voice echoing inside until it was all you could hear. The end could not come fast enough as you shut the large wooden doors to your, Jace’s, and Luke’s shared quarters, swiftly hiding under your blue bed sheets, heart hammering in your chest.

Your bed was cold and safe, and your pulse calmed steadily. Now, more than ever, the uncertainty behind your birth was thrust before you.

It was always easier to deny the fact that you were most likely a bastard than it was to accept it. Those who accused you did not understand that they weren’t only saying your blood was not Laenor Velaryon but that you and your brothers were a sin, your very existence an insult to House Velaryon, the king, and to all those who dutifully suffered unkind marriages.

Bastards were not heirs. They were creations purely out of selfish lust and desire.

It called into question all four of your legitimacy of inheritance. None of you had claims to the thrones or titles you were set to receive upon the death of your parents, and no prospects would want to wed a bastard should you accept it.

You understood why your mother did not admit the words allowed in the confidence of the now four of you. If you spoke them into existence, it would only make them real. It left you no choice but to deny, deny, deny until your tongue withered and lips fell off. Living a life of refusal of admittance would be difficult. Still, it was the only way to ensure you and your brother’s places would be secured until the Stranger decided to take another companion.

The empty well of tears soon filled once more as you sighed deeply in surrender to the turbulent path ahead, tucking your hand underneath your pillow for the relief of rest, but unfortunately, it did not find you.

Your vanity mirror shined like a beacon in the darkness, reminding you of that night. You still needed to move it back to its original place and give your maids the excuse that you wanted to see what it would look like there. It was a lie.

The idea that Aegon knew of a passage into your rooms haunted you when you set foot into the space. You were scared, anxious, no… terrified that your eldest uncle would waltz into your bed chamber at any moment. The unknown was what frightened you—of what he would do. The notion that he could enter pushed you to rise from bed, planting the soles of your feet onto a maroon Myrish rug as you grabbed the legs of the vanity and pulled it back into place. You would have to think of another lie to tell your maids.

“Why is Uncle Aemond unkind to us?” a timid voice rang out into the once private space.

Nearly jumping out of your skin, you turned to see Luke with a wooden toy dragon curled into his tiny fist. It looked as if he had just awoken from sleep minutes ago, which you assumed was the case judging by his messy hair and crusted eyes. As you caught your breath, clutching the skirt of your pale gray nightgown, you disregarded any questions about why he was here instead of your mother’s room.

“I’m sure he doesn’t mean to be,” you answered as your racing heart calmed. “Why do you ask?”

“I saw him push you over in the courtyard,” he ardently explained, his dark brows rising against his pale skin. It reminded you of your father when he tried to speak earnestly with the three of you, yet Luke’s boyish voice had no similarities to his.

You sighed, recalling the now ruined book you hid in your trunk alongside your tattered dress. “He was angry.”

You did not want to tell Luke about Aemond’s rejection, as the embarrassment was still fresh. He would no doubt try to tell you how you were wrong for attempting to befriend him after the mean things he’d said to you all your life.

“He’s always angry, but we haven’t done anything,” Luke countered with a frown on his small lips, fiddling with his fingers at his sides.

You paused for a long moment, unsure of what to say. The three of you were not nearly as cruel to Aemond as Aegon was. Your mother raised you to be kind to your uncles and aunt no matter what they did to you, and while you were not perfect, any jokes or rude remarks were not made with the intent to hurt him. With a great sigh, you lead Luke in front of the gated fireplace, where a collection of your toys rests in the orange glow. He picked up a polished wooden horse, running his tiny thumbs over the varnish as you spoke.

“I think he believes we don’t belong here,” you said. The explanation was vague, and it irked you beyond measure. The truth of your words threatened to surface like an apple thrown into a barrel full of water.

“We live here. This is our family,” he replied in confusion, dark eyes so wide you could see the entire white. He wasn’t wrong, yet the truth of the matter clawed at your throat to become free.

“We don’t look like Targaryens. You must have noticed.” You could not stop the words from being said. You were such a good liar. Why was it impossible to lie about this?

“You mean our hair?” Luke questioned with a tilt of his head, scratching his scalp in confusion with one of the wooden toys.

You didn’t want to tell him and put the burden of knowledge onto your younger brother that you and Jace were cursed with, but it was something you understood would follow the now four of you for the rest of your lives.

Luke was still younger than you, yet his simple statement of your hair tested your last bit of resolve. “Our hair, eyes, and everything!” you exclaimed exasperated.

“But I have a crooked little finger like Mama,” he reasoned with the raise of his hand, showing his small digit. You deflated, sighing a drawn-out breath to calm your temper as you picked up one of your rag dolls from the pile.

“A crooked little finger isn’t enough,” you decided to say as you stroked the button eyes on your toy. Why couldn’t he comprehend that no matter how many similarities you had to your mother, the fact of who your father was remained uncertain?

“Well, if we aren’t Targaryens, where did we come from?” The sap inside the fire popped, startling you and your brother as you stared into the flames.

You were Targaryens. That much was obvious. You cannot fake exiting your mother’s womb. It was the matter of your father that sparked rumors, but you did not want to give Luke any more thoughts over the subject, coming to accept that he was not old enough to understand what your uncle was being mean about.

“We were born here. Mama is our mother, but there’s something else and Aemond knows it,” you answered obscurely, clutching your dolly into your chest as the night air howled outside the glass windows.

It felt like the Keep was listening to your conversation, the walls groaning in response to your words. The very castle you lived in understood the truth, and the pressure of it weighed heavily on your soul. Just like the paintings of your ancestors, the Red Keep knew of your shame.

“I do not wish to be different,” Luke confessed with dejection, too sad for your liking, as he stopped playing with the toys.

You didn’t want to cause anyone’s sadness, let alone your brother’s, and you frowned, taking Luke’s hand in yours and scooting across the floor to hug his side.

You loved your family more than words could describe as you held your younger brother closer. Jace, Luke, and now Joffrey did not deserve the torment they would face for the rest of their lives at the hands of your uncles and the court. As the eldest, it was your responsibility to protect them from things your parents could not, to take care of them and dry their tears, not to burden your mother or father, but this was something you understood you could not fix, yet it did not deter you from trying.

“Nor do I,” you finally spoke, holding Luke close to your heart and kissing him on his cherubic cheek. “So let us be good children and please those who love us so they may forget what we lack. Come. It’s time for bed.” Your mother would say that as you took your brother by the hand and led him to your bed.

If you couldn’t change what people said, you could at least change the contents they discussed.

You would excel in your place as the unspoken heir and accept your duties no matter what with your shoulders back and your chin held high. You would learn the history of your ancestors, the politics of your country, and whatever else you believed was dutiful to prepare yourself for the responsibility you would inherit after your mother. Not feeling the same fear you did earlier, now with your younger brother at your side, you pulled the covers over both of you as Luke snuggled into your side’s comforting embrace.

Aemond felt he lacked something compared to his siblings, niece, and nephews. Some of him believed that if a dragon hatched from his egg, or he claimed a living one, things would be different from how they were now. He would not be the subject of people’s taunts nor feel the prominent sensation of inadequacy that weighed on his soul, but it seemed as if Aemond was destined to suffer within the shadows of his family’s success no matter how hard he tried to step out of it.

His older brother possessed the skills of conversation and humor he didn’t have and constantly teased him for it, though Aegon was not without faults. His brother would tell him to stop being a “twat,” to get his nose out of books, and that he was dull, sullen, and far too severe for his age.

Because of this, Aegon preferred to spend time with Jace, Luke, and his niece, but it didn’t help that they were much easier company. His half-sister’s children seemed to have a bond closer than his siblings, each with dragons, which was the one thing he didn’t possess. Aemond would never admit he was jealous of his niece and nephews, for that would mean that he saw them as equals of comparison, which was something they weren’t. They were beings of lesser standing, though they thought themselves on par, as they had been raised with the same extravagance he was.

Aemond knew you would be looking for him the next day as he watched you skip to the library the following morning, your smile so bright on your face that it made him sick. Seeing how the joy fell from your face when you saw he was not there gave him a deep sense of satisfaction.

Did you think him stupid?

He could see the telltale signs of tears welling in your eyes as you realized your hidden plans of ridicule were foiled: the scrunch of your dark brows, rapid blinking to get the droplets at bay, and then the pursing of your lips. This time, you held firm and refused to let your emotions guide you. At least, that was what Aemond believed as he observed you exiting the library deep in thought.

He knew you would not give up so easily, and instead of taking solace in his usual places of inhabitant and risking you finding him, he chose to watch you. You could not see him if he was three steps ahead. Aemond was glad that you weren’t nearly as bright as you believed, and as long as he stayed out of sight, he could be sure you wouldn’t bother him. The irony of the situation that he would now be following you to avoid you didn’t matter, and he certainly wasn’t concerned about your well-being after what Aegon did, either.

You were as foreign to one another as Old Valyria; there was no reason for him to care. Aemond would do this every day for the rest of his life if it meant he would never have to spend a moment with you again.

“Brother, what are you doing?”

Helaena’s voice drifted through the halls like summer wind through tree leaves, startling Aemond as he watched his niece’s dark head disappear around a corner. Her fair blonde locks, a copy of her brother’s, were braided around the crown of her head, a tiny metal cage in her lithe fingers, and a curious expression on her visage directed towards him.

“You’re avoiding her,” Helaena declared with a resolute lilt to her tone, taking the insect out of its confines. “After what has been stolen.”

Aemond stared at his sister with perplexed eyes, quickly looking to ensure you had not heard the conversation and came to investigate.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Aemond said distractedly, wringing his hands at the pit of unease in his stomach.

There was no possibility that she knew what occurred during the night. Aegon would never willingly admit something like this, and you would undoubtedly keep what happened a secret, seeing as you refused to tell your mother in fear of punishment.

Helaena was silent as she observed the olive-and-brown grasshopper in her palm, petting it with her index finger before it tried to jump away. She held the open metal cage in the bug’s intended direction, and it landed inside, swiftly flicking the door shut before it could attempt to escape again.

“Tis our fate, I think, to crave what is given to another. If one possesses a thing, the other will take it away,” Helaena declared with the furrow of her blonde eyebrows, the insect thumping against the metal bars as she looked at her younger brother.

Her words were cryptic, and Aemond felt a bead of sweat run down his spine as he observed his older sister. He didn’t understand what she meant. She intensely focused on it, so he assumed it was about the grasshopper. Aemond wordlessly shrugged, disregarding his older sister’s vague observation as he peered anxiously at where he last spotted you.

“Tis not difficult for the ewe to love the lamb. But for the wolf?” Helaena began again, standing beside her brother with a soft swish of her satin skirt. “The wolf’s love for the lamb is such a renunciation, it’s the wolf’s sacrifice—it’s a love that could never be requited. This wolf that sacrifices its very definition for the lamb, this wolf that doesn’t eat the lamb, is it a wolf? Is it still a wolf?”

Aemond paid no attention to her now as Helaena spouted what he felt was nonsense and decided to push forward in search of you, ensuring with noiseless strides you would not see him once he got close.

Helaena was someone he felt was misunderstood like him, but now was not the time to go on with poetry and riddles.

“But sometimes it’s the wolf that falls into the jaws of the lamb. Out of love, the wolf falls backward into the circle of fire. It goes around fast. It so happens that the lamb catches the wolf,” Helaena continued, her voice soft like morning spring rain as she followed her vexed younger brother. She was inside her world, purposely or ignorant of her brother’s frustration.

“There is no greater love than the love the wolf feels for the lamb it doesn’t eat.”

Aemond groaned, losing his temper, which he rarely did in the presence of his sister. His niece had irked him, causing his heartbeat to quicken and his lungs pant.

“Helaena, will you please stop with this nonsense? I have important matters to tend to,” Aemond barked hushedly as a servant passed by, blocking the sun from the windows.

Any other day, he would allow his sister to speak for however long and about whatever she wanted, but this was not one of those times. You could happen upon him at any moment, and the prince did not want to risk the chance of a repeat encounter.

Helaena refused to listen to him as her musings became louder and sharper as if she was trying to convey a point without the proper words, no doubt alerting you and everyone else in the Keep to where he was. Aemond felt the blanket of defeat shroud his figure as the sound of light hurried footfalls sounded in the hall.

“The lamb loves its wolf. The wolf turns white and starts quivering out of love for the lamb. The lamb loves the wolf’s fragility, and the wolf loves the frail one’s force. The wolf is now the lamb’s lamb and the lamb has tamed the wolf,” his sister concluded, violet-eyed with an understanding she attempted to impart onto Aemond with the harsh squeeze of her digits on his arm.

He gasped, his brows arched in pain from Helaena’s sharp nails piercing through his tunic, and tried to wretch his arm free with a panicked grunt, but to no avail. Before he could blink, your pitched voice pierced Aemond’s ears, and he felt like they would burst.

“Uncle! There you are. I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” The loose strands of your neatly styled hair bounced with every step as you approached Aemond with a broad grin on your lips. “I was hoping we could read today. I chose a book I think you would like. I know you don’t enjoy fairytales.”

“Love blackens the lamb, leaving fire and blood to light their way,” Helaena whispered, her violet gaze directed towards the tall window as a bird flew past. She released Aemond’s arm as if she suddenly realized she still had it. She looked back to her grasshopper, wordlessly displaying it for you to see.

“Oh, is that a new one Helaena?” you asked with a bright curiosity in your tone. Aemond didn’t believe you truly cared about his sister and her bugs, curling his lip in disgust at what he thought were false niceties. “Where did you find it? We’ll have to go there sometime to see if there are more!”

You didn’t care about Helaena and her hobbies. You were more like Aegon and made fun of her for the bugs she collected. At least, that was what he had in his mind. Aemond felt conflicted as he watched his sister nod in agreement, asking when your punishment was over so you could spend time together again.

When he noticed Helaena’s faint smile as she left, grasshopper in tow, a warmth blossomed inside his heart. His sister only showed happiness when she truly felt it, not to be polite like most, and it caused Aemond to turn to you, his face pale. You were his annoying, spoiled, bastard niece who got anything she wanted, so why were you not acting like it?

It felt like butterflies were inside your stomach as you took another step toward Aemond, a book clutched to your chest like before. Aemond watched as his sister left the two of you alone without a word, like she was in a world of her own. He wanted to reach out to her to be not alone with his dreadful niece, but Helaena was gone as quickly as she emerged, leaving her younger brother with the girl he hated most in the world.

“I have a book I think we both would like today, uncle. It’s one about the warrior Queen Nymeria and her journey to Dorne,” you announced, a slight sway in your step as you tried to quell your anxiety.

Aemond huffed as he looked for a way out of this and sighed in defeat when he found none, clenching his thumbs inside his palms to control the ire that swelled in response. Your uncle didn’t want your pity or your friendship. He knew you were only spending time with him since you didn’t wish to Aegon and could not be with your brothers because they were in their lessons. You would have never done this if his eldest brother could control his impulses. It made him feel like a second choice, another painful reminder that he was always second to his kin, yet not good enough to be a spare.

Walking away in surrender, he led you back to the library, where no one would see the pair of you, and the sun provided the only light. He knew Aegon would tease him beyond what he could take if he saw you together, and after that night, Aemond did not want to see him anyway.

You set the book of Queen Nymeria’s adventures on a dusty wooden table and giggled as you fanned the air. Aemond was not amused, sulking in the chair beside you as he opened the leather back of the book. You sat next to him, shoulders touching, ignoring his reaction. He mockingly covered his mouth as if he smelled something terrible when he inhaled the citrus scent on your skin. This made you feel a bit upset, but you tried to hide it by tugging at your dark hair and avoiding his gaze.

You read the first page together silently. It stated how the queen looked, how beautiful she was with long, flowing, swarthy hair cascading down her waist with sturdy hips, her skin a smooth, youthful complexion with brown eyes to match. Yet still, she was a fierce warrior with an indomitable spirit who led her men into battle and took no cowards. You imagined you would be like her when you grew up, a beautiful warrior queen who ruled her kingdom with an unwavering though gentle and cunning fist, who people loved and respected her rule.

“Can I turn it?” Aemond asked dispassionately, cutting through the silence. You hadn’t realized you had been so lost in your daydreams that you had not retained a single word written on the page, but to not make your uncle perceive you lower than he already did, you nodded.

You leaned closer to the pages before you decorated them in elaborate colors of blue and red, studying the new page and picture. Aemond glanced at you out of the corner of his eye, unnoticed by you as you were lost in the vast expanse of your mind, your cheek right next to his.

He was surprised at how different you were, apart from the apparent fact of age and sex. His eyelashes were almost white and translucent, while yours were black, long, surrounding dark eyes that glistened with natural wetness that threatened to suck him into their depths if he stared for too long. Aemond’s skin was pale and dusted with sun kisses, yet yours was plain, flushed, and full of life, your lips more defined and moist than his. You possessed a pug nose matching that of your brothers rather than his aquiline one, a softer, more plump face than his, as Aemond’s was more defined even for his age. His hair, the color of Targaryen’s, the white you didn’t have a hint of and mocked you for, was visible proof of who your father was.

Though Aemond immensely enjoyed pointing out the idea that you were a bastard, he reluctantly realized that you weren’t unattractive, at least by Westerosie standards.

“I will be like Nymeria when I am queen,” you announced to Aemond, breaking the silence. He gave you a sidelong glance and sighed. It wouldn’t hurt if there were some conversation between you. It didn’t seem like you would be mean to him, and he supposed you were indebted to him after all.

At your hopeful expression, your uncle didn’t have the heart to tell you that neither you nor your mother would rule the Seven Kingdoms. Women were not fit to rule and carry such a burden. They were too gentle of creatures to make the harsh decisions that ruling required.

“Are you certain you’ll be a good ruler? You can barely get your brothers to listen to you. What makes you think the Lords of the realm will?” Aemond questioned with a trace of bitterness you couldn’t understand the cause of.

Turning to him with a face painted with a serious expression, your brows scrunched together and lips tight in a severe line as you took his hand. “Just as Nymeria burned her ships to prevent any cowardly men from fleeing, I will burn all those who try to hurt my family and oppose my reign.”

You stated the words with such a decisive coldness that it caused Aemond to shiver. He was shocked and in awe at your declaration, stunned into silence filled with momentary admiration. Aemond never imagined that would come out of your mouth. He always pictured you as soft-hearted when it came to violence, having seen you cower when Aegon would hit your brothers too hard when training.

“What would you do if they didn’t allow your mother to be queen? You wouldn’t have the power to do that,” your uncle reasoned, giving you a devoted attention he never gave before. It made you pause.

“Perhaps I was a bit rash,” you reasoned with the gentle tug of your hair, letting go of Aemond’s hand in nervousness. He swiftly snatched it back before you could think, a surge of excitement rolling in the pit of your stomach with the action. “It wouldn’t only be me, though. I would have Jace, Luke, and Joffrey when he becomes a rider. We would help our mother if anyone tried to prevent her, and I would have my husband, too. He would be my Mors Martell and help me conquer all of Dorne!”

You looked at Aemond with uncertain eyes as your gaze flicked from him to the open book the two of you barely read.

“You mean Aegon. Someone with a dragon,” he countered snidely, turning his flushed cheeks away from you.

“No,” you snapped quicker than you could have imagined. “I don’t want Aegon to be my husband.”

Aemond needn’t ask why.

You hadn’t heard your eldest uncle’s name since that night, and hearing it made something within you break. You despised Aegon for his actions. Did he feel entitled to mistreat you because of the betrothal plan? It filled you with blackened fury. You took a quick breath to calm yourself and looked to Aemond, who appeared remorseful.

“You don’t need a dragon to be powerful,” you explained with a gentle tone, but Aemond only scoffed.

“That’s easy for you to say when you have one,” he bit, causing the tips of his ears to grow pink in anger.

You attempted to hide your huff of annoyance at his sulking but failed, rolling your dark eyes as you answered him honestly. “I do believe you’ll have a dragon one day. There are too many around for you not to. You just need to find the right one, but even if you don’t, there are other ways to have power. You could ride with me and Gaeli, too, if you like? If you never claimed one.”

It was an offering of peace, of goodwill, telling your uncle without the words that you were sorry for having played all the jokes you did on him for not having a mount. You wanted him to know he was welcomed into the world of dragons without one, that you would still see him as an equal, if not better than you in some aspects. He was already showing prospects of being a fine warrior.

“Really?” Aemond perked, violet eyes setting alight with happiness you had never seen him show. He felt childish, but he couldn't help it. You offered for him to ride a dragon!

You giggled, unable to hold your joy back as you bobbed eagerly. “Of course, Aemond! As soon as Gaelithox is large enough to ride you will be with me. We can learn together for when you finally mount one!”

It was the first time you saw your uncle smile with genuine, untainted mirth, displaying a set of dimples you didn’t know he had. The pair of you fell into a deep conversation long into the late evening, causing your mother to pace with nerves until you returned, discussing thoughts of the future, of what dragons Aemond could claim, and how, if he never bonded with one, you would make him feel as if he was a dragon rider like the rest of your family.

The following days, Aemond rose with the sun, a sensation he had never felt before in the pit of his stomach as his servant dressed him in traditional green garbs.

Excitement.

He was filled with eager anticipation for the days ahead now that he had something positive to look forward to. It was something only he had now. In a way, though Aemond would never admit it, for it was such a horrendous thought that brought him great shame, he was glad that Aegon raped his niece. If he hadn’t, Aemond would never have gained one of the two things Aegon had that he didn’t.

First, he took the companionship of the only person who steadfastly supported his old brother. Next, all Aemond had to do was acquire a dragon, and finally, he would be equal to Aegon, if not better.

As Aemond traveled the halls, understanding full well that he could read within the privacy of his chamber, he went to the library to read ever since he and his niece shared words of the future. He met you in the same place in the library after your lessons, whether to read, chat, or enjoy the peace of the other’s company.

Though Aemond was proud that he took something from Aegon, he was afraid that his brother would see you together one day, but Aegon never ventured into the noiselessness of the library. The eldest son had never been much of a student.

You typically sparked conversations, and Aemond would answer back in kind. It made him feel better about himself—more of a man to have someone solely seek his attention and knowledge in a way no one else had before. Aemond always ended the day with a pleasant flutter in his heart and tingling in his fingers for what tomorrow would bring.

One night, as Aemond lay fast asleep with visions of the sun blinding his eyes, green scales, and a head of dark hair that flew in the wind, he woke with a start to the sound of his chamber doors opening. He feared it was Aegon and his nephews who were once again trying to make a mockery of him.

He rose within the lush emerald bedsheets, terrified, as the torchlight shone from the hallway, outlining the figure in the door frame. The person stepped forward with a loud creak of the metal hinges.

“Aemond?”

He heard the quiet mumble, the voice softer than that of the feather pillows he lay his head on at night. Aemond could barely see your silhouette in the darkness, squinting with sleep-clouded eyes to ensure it was you. He could hear your soft sniffles and quick breaths as concern hastened his heart.

“Can I sleep with you?”

You could hear your uncle shift on his bed, mind still reeling from being woken up from a deep slumber. The silence stretched long between you and Aemond, and you feared he might refuse your plea for comfort.

“What? Why?” he hissed with venom. There was no privacy from Aegon here. At any moment, his older brother could walk into his room and see you conversing. He didn’t need another excuse to be ridiculed. You had to leave now.

Your hiccups were loud at his rejection as you wiped at your tears, unable to form coherent sentences as sobs racked your lungs. “I…I had a dream. Ae-gon came… back. He hurt me again, and I… I couldn’t…” You cried, palms scratching at your scalp as you tried to speak.

“Go sleep with Jace,” he retorted, ready to return to bed. Spending time together privately was one thing, but this was invading his space, his place of solitude without siblings or nieces.

“I can’t! He and Luke have been sleeping with Mama since Ser Harwin left,” you babbled in despair, glancing over your shoulder as if the monster called Aegon would emerge from the shadows and devour you whole.

Your desperation stung Aemond's heart, and sympathy clouded his sense that the fear you felt was something he, too, experienced. After a long pause, your uncle shifted to the side, noiselessly lifting his sheets and making room beside him.

Breathing a loud sigh of relief that reminded him of a fish gasping for air, you closed the door, running to Aemond’s bed and immediately clinging to his side. He knew you to be affectionate, but he still carried concern in his mind. Yet how you trembled like a frightened fawn, told him this was not a rouse. You were sincerely terrified that your eldest uncle would return and no one would stop him this time.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I know you don’t like me,” you sobbed into your uncle’s green nightshirt, gripping the fabric so tight that Aemond worried it would rip. “Please, please, please don’t let him hurt me again, uncle. I can still feel it between my legs.”

Aemond froze at the sudden burst of intimacy, slowly wrapping his arms around your quivering body. Despite the context of the situation, having you so close sent a pleasant tingling down the base of his spine. He tried to focus on your breathing, waiting for it to calm down before he spoke again.

Though he was beginning to tolerate your presence, having you within his bed chambers was not something he wanted.

Aemond recalled the last time you experienced panic like this, a type too intense for your body to manage, ripping your hair straight from the root in response. He hated to realize he didn’t want you to suffer like that again, and unconsciously, he began to stroke the crown of your head.

It felt good to be needed, so desperately wanted by someone that they tried to crawl inside him, seeking protection, and Aemond felt an overwhelming urge to protect you how a wolf does its pup. He would shelter you from all monsters and people that sought you harm so long as you returned to him with the same wet eyes and arms full of love.

When you finally relaxed, no longer shaking like a leaf in the autumn wind, he spoke, praying that your exhausted mind would forget his confession in the morning.

“When I have a dragon he will not hurt you so long as you’re with me.”

Masterlist of Series

Spotify Playlist

Oh, sweet prophetic girl. You know so much yet can do so little. Cursed with the knowledge of what will come and what has yet to be. Let's all pour one out for Helaena, besties.

I hope this chapter makes up for how sad the last one was. I love writing for angsty young Aemond. As always, thank you for reading!

Tagged Peeps: @millies0bsimp , @britt-mf , @marvelescvpe , @haikyuusboringassmanager , @discofairysworld , @lottiemsgf , @nessjo , @fiction-fanfic-reader , @qvnthesia , @hotvillianapologist

232 notes · View notes

abbysimsfun · 3 months ago

Text

Sims In Bloom: Generation 2 Pt. 168 (Time to Have a Baby!)

Heather and Conrad left the kids with her mother and sister before they headed to the local hospital for the birth. Doctors greeted them with ducky scrubs for Heather, and she changed before they headed inside.

Heather called her family when they were situated, disappointed to lose the last few hours with her eldest son before he was taken back to the Landgraabs in the city, but their second son demanded her full attention.

She grimaced at another contraction as Conrad entered the room. He helped her into bed, dabbing her forehead with a damp towel. "This will be over soon, and then he'll be here."

"I want all our kids here," she lamented. "What if a judge tries to take this one, too?"

"Stop. The Landgraabs will never touch him. I know Ash should be with us, but for today, we've got each other. We've just got to focus on this one for right now."

"I know, but...I can't stop thinking about the Landgraabs and the biometric time travel research. What are they thinking? We should tell Judge Marlow about this. Maybe she could rush another hearing."

"We've got to be careful," Conrad said gently. "Judges oversee a lot of cases, and they don't always like to be pushed to change their minds. She gave us a year, so she expects to see us in a year unless Ash's life is in danger."

"What if we can never get him back?"

"Don't even think it. We're going to figure it out."

They swayed through another contraction, and Heather laboured late into the night.

In the birthing room, they were surprised to see Dr. Jamar Scott, Heather's childhood friend (and the husband of Everett Pancakes' twin sister, Malia). "I haven't seen you since Ash was born!" Heather cried. "What are you doing in Brindleton Bay?"

"Covering for a colleague of mine. We met at a GP conference not long ago, and he's off travelling in al-Simhara. Asked me to cover his cases, but you weren't supposed to give birth for another two weeks."

"It's earlier than expected, but not too early, I hope." Conrad looked at the doc with concern.

"Babies born at 38 weeks are usually quite healthy," Jamar assured them, and soon Heather was going through the familiar pains of childbirth.

Conrad was by her side for every laboured breath, and their son was born, healthy and wailing, just before midnight. A wave of love washed over them - just as strong as the love they felt for Ash and Lavender. As Heather cradled their tiny son in her arms, she leaned in close to breath him in.

"He's finally here." Exhaustion peppered Heather's voice as Conrad kissed her forehead.

"He's perfect."

While Heather rested, Conrad kept their son company near his bassinet.

"Hey there, little man. I'm your Dad. It's great to finally meet you, kid."

The infant blinked through fatigue as he spoke, focusing curiously on the sound of his voice. Conrad glanced at him in awe, then at Heather as she walked into the room.

"Is he hungry?" she asked, rubbing her swollen breast as she looked over their son.

"I don't think so. He's happy as a clam. Aren't you, buddy?"

"I guess it's time to name him. We can't call him Baby Spider anymore."

"I like all the names you like," he said. "I just wanted the middle name."

Heather smiled, sitting at a nearby stool to fill out the birth certificate. "Roan Benjamin Gordon, it is."

They smiled at the son whose name honoured the old lighthouse keeper, Conrad's 4x great-uncle, Ben Gordon. Roan's first name followed a tradition of colour names found in nature - Ash, like the tree, floral Lavender, and now Roan, whose name was drawn from the reddish-grey coat of horses and other animals. A perfect name for the son of a dedicated vet committed to sticking to the colour wheel for all her kids' names.

By the time they returned home with their son, Ash had already gone home and Lavender was in bed. Daisy and Holly stayed up late to await their return, and they gathered excitedly in the bedroom to coo over their new grandson and nephew while Heather fed him.

Glancing at her son, a wave of contentment washed over her. Life lately hadn't been easy, but tiny Roan filled Heather with a burst of hope for the future. ->

<- Previous Chapter | Gen 2 Start | Gen 2.1 Summary

Gen 1 Start | Gen 1 Summary

NOTE: Roan rhymes with phone, just one syllable, for anyone inclined to pronounce it like Rowan. It's effectively the same name (same origin and meaning) but rowan is not the horse-coat colour, roan is. To stick with nature, and in this case, a naturally occurring colour that is only found in animal fur, the name has to be Roan, not Rowan!

NOTE 2: Heather's ducky scrubs were auto-generated but I loved them, and I picked a different doctor who literally disappeared while Heather was in labour. Dr. Scott wasn't on the hospital lot (the generic one in game) when she first arrived, but he did show up later, and after the other doc went MIA, I said screw it and just decided both Heather's sons would be delivered by the same doctor, ten years apart. Jamar and Malia are also the parents of Jaden, one of the boys on the camping trip when the guys built the treehouse.

#sims 4 #sims 4 gameplay #sims 4 screenshots #sims 4 legacy #sims in bloom #ts4 #ts4 gameplay #ts4 legacy #ts4 screenshots #sims 4 story #ts4 story #legacy challenge #sims legacy #ts4 legacy challenge #gen 2 #brindleton bay

80 notes · View notes

be-ready-when-i-say-go · 16 days ago

Text

Heart of the Matter--Chapter 6: Florescence

Joe meets his rather elusive football icon, Trey Dominic, and worries he might barely be able to get a sentence out. But what waits for him is so much bigger than one singular first impression.

With matters of the heart on the line, every play will count.

Black F!OC (Marlowe) x Joe Burrow.

Series Masterlist | Series Playlist | Joe Burrow Masterlist | Main Masterlist

_________________________________

The air sweats with the thick moisture just like Joe’s armpits in the dress shirt.

He promised Marlowe to clean up more than he usually does for the banquet. Yet, Marlowe failed to mention that June in Virginia would be this unforgiving. Joe’s not totally forgotten how the Southern heat swaddles differently around the skin. How it coats the body like a heavy winter coat. Virginia has nothing on Louisiana, yet, somehow he’s still not prepared for how much his black dress shirt is clinging to him. The white undershirt only adds to the trapping heat.

Joe reaches up to his neck and undoes the first two buttons. He hopes the gods won’t tell Marlowe and if they do, Joe’s hoping he can get sympathy because he is dying as he stands in the shades of the trees. There’s a slight haze in the distance, letting him know it’s hot as hell. The main event occurred inside. All the speeches and dinner were served inside. But now there’s mingling: football legends past and present, local community politicians, and several pastors too. Joe’s not sure how they all are surviving in the full suits as they stand around the tables outside. Joe spoke as he passed, making a beeline for the tree he’s huddled up, praying for another breeze. It comes sparingly and Joe’s going to need it.

Especially now that Joe spies Trey striding over to him.

Joe’s not had to look up at many people since his growth spurts in middle and high school. He’s always managed to have at least a few inches over everyone. Not that it seems that way on the football field now—there are people right at his eye line or just a hair over it. Height doesn’t save Joe though as he watches the steady steps of Trey.

On paper Joe edges Trey out. It’s unusual for running backs to be as tall as Trey is. The position demands someone with a smaller stature, harder to pick out, someone easy to blend in and break through the gap. And even though Joe knows he’s a relatively tall guy, he feels like he’s no match for Trey. As if the decades Trey’s been off the fields have only been days, given that he’s still kept up his physique. As if the two and a half inches Joe has on Trey don’t exist in the first place.

It’s hotter now under the slight gap in the collar from the undone buttons and even with the breeze. Because there’s no way for this not to come to fruition. Nowhere to hide. Joe knows that stare, the assessing gaze. Joe attempting to date Marlowe is only an added layer of heat on the otherwise unseasonably warm June Sunday. Trey is stopped along his way, pulled into a couple conversations off to the side, the anticipation pooling and dripping over Joe’s palm.

Staying calm under pressure is an art form and must be practiced religiously. But staying calm in the presence of the father of what’s hopefully soon to be a full on romantic partner is a craft Joe’s not yet perfected. He’s good, but he’s no match for the tease, the words that fall out of Trey’s mouth, “I’m shocked you still showed up.”

“I like to keep true to my word,” Joe returns, taking the outstretched hand in a firm handshake.

Trey grins, shows all his teeth with the action. “I like that. Black was definitely a choice. Not one I would’ve assumed you’d make.”

“I hadn’t anticipated it being this hot.” There’s something in Trey’s smile, the quick shake of his head—it all dances in amusement, and it’s clear to Joe he’s missed something. Tiny. A small detail. Something buried. It’s going to haunt him, will keep him up tonight while he attempts to sleep before his flight back. But Joe can't get distracted now so he tacks on, “Thank you for the invitation. I’m grateful to be here.”

“I meant what I said about keeping in touch. I appreciate you coming. I know it’s the last few weeks of the off season for you so I appreciate it.”

Joe ducked in occasionally during the optional period to the facility. Nothing crazy, but just enough to keep his face around for the new guys as they got drafted. Most of his off season obligations have been filled by now. Though, Joe’s still making an effort for himself to keep some time open. At least for now, he’s been able to ease back into his on season routines. “So you keep up?” Joe questions.

“I keep up,” Trey’s answer comes slowly with a nod. Trey’s gaze falls away from Joe but only for a moment. It reminds Joe of how Trey answered about being in Ohio, that his family was happy so that meant he was happy, but it was clear that more was raging beneath the surface of those words.

“Miss it?”

Two words, that’s all it is. Joe shouldn’t be having this conversation. How could he not though? It’d happen eventually, perhaps. He likes to imagine it’s an inevitability because that door keeps creaking open with every conversation Joe and Trey share. Besides, it’ll be good for Joe to start seeing Trey not just as the football god Joe dreamed Trey up to be, but just a man. A man who had hopes and dreams. A man who put everything he had into a sport--one that still has love for him. But a man who now, Joe thinks, is just as fragile as anyone.

“You could say that,” Trey answers with a nod. Slow again. Like he’s trying to keep something back behind his teeth.

Joe doesn’t think about football too much in his offseason. He is obsessed, dedicated, and devoted to always getting better. But there’s moments where Joe wants a break himself. Yet, whenever a conversation is brought up about football and it’s not about Joe, Trey’s name is weaseled into the conversation. Commenters still wonder what Trey does, why he hasn’t come back to the sports world. Perhaps the answer’s always been hiding in plain sight. Maybe if Joe took more to think about what he’d do after such a devastating injury, he wonders if he’d disappear too.

“Do you miss playing?” Joe tries again. A correction. It’s Joe feeling for what he shouldn’t be again. Trying to unlock the door that was barred away for a reason undoubtedly. But Trey’s just a man, like Joe is.

The nod is near immediate—one singular motion, one pump to Trey’s head, and nothing else. Joe can only stare for a moment, feeling the quiet understanding creeping up his spine. A chill cutting through the heat.

Trey Dominic is a man that loves playing football. And now he can’t.

“But,” Trey starts with an exhale that follows--drawn out and heavy as the forced out air comes. “I think you’d appreciate some AC more than anything. I can see you sweating. Follow me.”

And Joe does, as they pass around tables and Trey’s stopped a couple more times, Joe’s just a half a step or so behind, nodding at the new face. The blast of the AC ices Joe’s skin, makes him shiver slightly but it’s so needed. He exhales heavily, sneakers silent over the tile floors. The plains go on for miles around them. Bright grass and well maintained florals in the distance as it peers back in on them from the glass windows acting almost entirely as walls.

“How are Marlowe and Korey?” Trey asks, still leading the way back towards the indoor tables, holding various finger foods.

Caught red fucking handed. If Joe doesn’t answer, he looks like a fool. If he does answer, he might be dead in the water.

“Last I heard they were both okay.” Diplomatic. Posed. Like Joe’s learned how to do, nothing that suggests that he saw them both Thursday. Hopefully nothing that suggests he’d called again on Friday too, stressed about what to pack for the banquet.

“Korey seems to adore the sunflower she was given.”

Trey’s slow as he picks up the plate, takes the spoon for the meatballs and places a heap onto the tiny plate. Joe’s heart thunders in his chest. It’s too soon for Joe to get the shovel talk. He hadn’t even gotten Marlowe to agree to date him. Though, Joe wasn’t going to disappear just because she needed more time. He wouldn’t force it. He would simply just be around. Courting—even though the word and phrase feels terribly dated and makes Joe want to gag, it is what he’s doing. He is courting. Intentionally. Specifically for Marlowe. But that’s not information Joe assumed Trey would get. Joe’s tongue goes thick in his mouth, now needing water more than anything. He’s trying to find the right thing to say.

But Trey beats him to the punch. “Want anything?”

“Oh, I’m-I’m okay. Full.” Shit—now he sounds like a bumbling idiot. Not how Joe imagined this conversation going.

“You’re not in trouble, kid,” Trey laughs. “Relax. Just like making you sweat.”

“A sick sense of humor,” Joe offers, tutting out his laughter too.

“Someone has to have it. Sure you don’t want anything?” Trey questions again.

“I’m sure.”

“Anything else planned before the season starts?”

Joe’s done more jet setting than he usually cares to do. It made the time go by faster than usual. A fact that worries Joe that somehow he’s not actually let himself relax. “I hope not. I’m a little tired on the whole traveling for events circuit right now.” There is a secret hope, of course, that prior to the season starting Joe can make progress and waves with Marlowe. But that’s information no one else needs.

“It seems to be a lot more…involved than when I was around.”

“Not all bad. I live off the endorsement money. So, it’s work at the end of the day.”

“And the salary?”

“Most of it is invested or helps pay other’s salaries.”

Trey’s work over the meatball is slow. They’re good meatballs. Joe went for seconds to get more earlier. There’s something in the sauce that’s just sweet enough to cut some of the acidity of the barbecue sauce. Joe wasn’t able to place what it was. Though, now, from his peripheral he spots the place card and spies Welch’s Grape Jelly when he ducks his eyes under the still gaze of Trey.

“Smart to do so,” Trey relents finally.

Joe exhales, chest relieved to have a solid chance at another inhale rather than the held breath. It’s not the shovel talk Joe thought he was going to get. Though Joe’s well aware of the delicate position he’s in with Trey.

“I try,” Joe returns in a bit of a whisper. The silence settles for a moment and Joe has an itch to fill it--an unusual fact for himself. It’s less about not wanting to let the moment pass with Trey and more about wanting to build a solid relationship. It’s not lost on Joe that he’s still a little star struck, still giddy at having this opportunity to have the space where he could get to know Trey better. “You know, when I started playing as a little kid I really wanted to be a running back.”

Trey snorts at the confession, polishing off the last of his meatballs. “Is that an attempt at flattery?”

“Truth. I really just wanted the ball,” Joe laughs.

“And then what happened?”

Joe shrugs, slipping his hands into his pants pockets. “Fate. I was a coach’s kid, so I’m pretty sure it was that.”

“Should’ve stuck with flattery.”

There’s a dry edge to Trey’s quip. But he’s still smiling, a tiny grin that if Joe wasn’t paying attention he’d swear wasn’t there. It reminds Joe of Marlowe’s sense of humor, the sarcasm that’s subtle but still clear.

“I’ll know better for next time,” Joe laughs.

“Next time? Bold assumption there.”

Joe’s digging his own grave. He knows that, and he figures perhaps an extra foot wouldn’t actually kill him. “I prefer the term cautious optimism.”

“Well, bad news for that cautious optimism: I love to be the bearer of bad news.” Joe’s not sure what the quip means until Trey continues on with, “I have to tell Marlowe about the faux pas.”

“Faux pas?” Joe questions. His brows knit together in the confusion. What had Joe done wrong? This was going well. Or at least Joe thought. Was it the buttons? He peers down at them but it’s not that many undone buttons.

Trey points down to Joe’s feet. Joe stares down at the sneakers. They’re clean, he made sure of that. And like the question had been uttered, Trey answers, “It’s a banquet, Joe.”

“What about your shoes?” Marlowe asked.

Her phone was resting further away from her on the kitchen counter, it looked from Joe’s perspective. Joe watched her take the comb to Korey’s scalp, splitting the section of hair into a thinner row. Marlowe worked the teeth of the comb over the split a couple times, pulling at almost invisible strands of Korey’s hair. Korey sat relatively still, occasionally shifting as she worked on the goldfish Marlowe poured out for her earlier. Korey was feeling better, but she still sounded sick, and her fever didn’t break until the middle morning.

“Oh, I feel pretty good on that front,” Joe replied.

He looked down at his closet floor where he’d pulled out a few options. His Jay’s were still clean. He had a couple other dressier sneaker options. Joe eyed his loafer. Hated the way they rubbed at the back of heel, but he needed to at least consider them. Additionally, if Joe couldn’t make a decision now, he could back them all and make a choice day of.

Joe sighs, dropping his head on his neck to stare up at the high white ceilings as the memory settles behind his eyes. The ceiling almost looks like they could go on forever, but Joe knows they come to an end. They have a point where the ceiling stops and the floor above them starts.

Joe manages to keep a good poker face, does not smile at how softly Marlowe made sure she wasn’t braiding Korey’s hair too tight, her voice a coo of, “Too tight?” and Korey’s bubbly responses—Joe asked later what she was doing. All he could see was the repeated tuck under and pull, tuck under, and pull of her fingers, flatting the strands of Korey’s puffy hair down to the scalp. He wasn’t sure if they were three strands she was working with or just two. That part Joe has to keep to himself.

“I packed loafers too and when I realized it was indoor and outdoor, I opted last second for these,” Joe explains, “for my knee and calf.”

The second the words are done, Joe drops his gaze to Trey’s feet. The dust and dirt cling to the otherwise shiny black of the dress shoes. The tsk falls from Trey’s lips in a hiss. “Hate to break it to you, kid, you’re not the only one with a knee surgery under his belt.”

Trey never says kid like he’s demeaning Joe, considering the two and a half decades between Joe and Trey. The term always falls with tenderness, reminding Joe of his own father’s various nicknames. It’s familial, the kind of utterance might as well be Joe’s name. It’s true, Joe’s not the only one with injuries that they’re constantly coaxing. And though it’s still in the back of Joe’s mind about what it means for Trey, for someone who loves to play the game and not be able to because of said injuries to his knee, it feels like a good sign that there’s levity to Trey’s words.

Joe laughs, shoulder shaking before he looks back to the rest of the attendees outside the glass walls. A few have resorted to using their napkins as makeshift fans. “I hate dress shoes,” Joe confesses as he turns his head back towards Trey. It may not earn him sympathy, but it is the truth.

“We all hate dress shoes.”

“Do you have to tell her?” Joe’s not going to bribe Trey per say. But if he’s got wiggle room, he will take it.

Trey’s grin is devious over his face. His tut of laughter is dark and deep. “Think about it like this: Next time, you’ll know better.”

He’s hoping Marlowe’s gentler. If he has to be crucified for a shoe choice, Joe’s praying there is pity for him at least on Marlowe’s end. Yet, Trey’s jest is all too easy to return back to him. “Someone said it was a bold assumption,” Joe quips.

Trey tips his head to the side, face pulling into exaggerated confusion. “I thought the phrase was cautious optimism.”

_________________________________________

June melts into itself, slow and thick all the same, twisted in the kind of way that Marlowe finds time to crawl and speeds by simultaneously. One moment she’s on FaceTime with Joe cornrowing Korey’s hair, the next she’s in meetings, at her studio, covered in the dust of setting powder and eyeshadow. The next she’s hurriedly throwing bikinis into her suitcase, pausing with brief wonder: Would he like the way I look in this color?

Not that it truly matters, because she’s not even sure if it’s worth it. If she could date anyone. Marlowe doesn’t let herself fully ask, or sink into the question, if she wants to date Joe too terrified of the answer, a thing she keeps trying to bury deeper and deeper down. Joe agreed to give her time. She’d take it. But the way she grins at her phone makes Marlowe wonder if she truly needs the time or if she’s using it as an excuse.

Please don’t fall off the boat this weekend. I do not want to test how strong of a swimmer I am.

Marlowe grins at the text from Joe just as the alarm on her phone for the dryer goes off in her hands. My parents made sure I learned how to swim. I would not need a savior if I went overboard. But Q might.

Don’t forget the arm floaties for him then. Please tell him I said Happy Birthday.

I will let him know.

It’s only a weekend away. Just one. Marlowe isn’t a fool to think that she only needed this one weekend of a breather. Yet, these are the cards she’s dealt herself. This is the last ‘break’ she’s scheduled for a while. November and December will be quiet and slow for her, so she’s preparing in some ways for the storm of the slow season, needing to have a stash of income set aside for the crawl back up. Better to be ragged now than stretched thin financially later.

At least, that’s what Marlowe keeps telling herself.

She passes by Korey’s play room, the laundry basket tucked up under her arm—the last round of laundry she needs to do before she leaves later this evening— and there’s the soft whisper of a tug. A lurch in Marlowe’s gut. Enough to make her pause. Just long enough to feel the grasp, the cold spindly fingers tightening at the back of her neck. There’s a thunderous sound around her, Korey barreling from deeper in the house. Her laughter high and breathy as Marlowe’s mother comes shuffling behind the little girl.

“Too fast for me to keep up with,” Regina laughs.

Marlowe wants to see what Korey gets up to in the next two years, the next five. But damn it if for a moment Marlowe doesn’t wish it was Malia to see it. If it had to be one of them, it could’ve at least been Korey’s mother who made it. The sting settles, the ice cold ghost touch searing her spinal column. Once June is gone, July will come and July will go. And Marlowe cannot stand August. But it’s not August yet. It’s still only June. Late June. Teetering on the edge of July, but still June with laundry to be folded. With a boat to be on. With Q to celebrate.

There’s still fucking time. Because it’s still fucking June.

So Marlowe turns, tells herself like she does all the other times, today’s not the day to give in. Today’s not the day to sulk. Today’s not the day to settle. Today’s not the day to fall. She focuses instead on the laundry, on packing the last pieces of what she needs for the weekend--ensuring she has all the necessities.

Do not give in.

Do not give in. A prayer that Marlowe can’t put her voice behind, just repeats it over and over in her head while she tucks, and rolls.

Do not give in.

The horn honk is unnecessary as Remi eases into a park in front of the house. Marlowe’s been perched on the front steps for the last ten minutes, since Remi’s on the way text dinged her phone. But it's a ritual for the two of them to honk no matter if the other person is waiting inside or outside.

Q slips through the opened passenger seat window. “Get in! Stop being slow, girl!”

Marlowe slips the sunglasses up onto her face--the chunky cat eye cut of the shades nearly swallowing her face. “Have fun, Auntie Marlowe!” Korey calls from Trey’s arms.

The sound of her voice is just enough for Marlowe. She’ll do her best to have fun. That was the plan after all. One last weekend to forget worries, to leave behind everything that plagued her. That much she could do.

“Be good for PopPop and Gma, bug,” Marlowe grins up at her niece, pressing several sticky lip gloss kisses to the little girl’s chubby cheek.

“I will. Promise!” Korey in return presses a kiss to Marlowe’s cheek. “Bring me back seashells pwease!”

“Seashells. Got it.”

She’d have to ensure to do that first, before the drinks and before Q dragged her into the dancing. But Marlowe would not forget it. She’d make sure of it. Then Marlowe’s off, sliding the tiny suitcase--meant to fit under the seat on an airplane--over the concrete at her side and a tiny backpack thrown over her shoulder. Marlowe’s learned how to pack it light and pack it tight over the years.

The bass rattles Marlowe’s teeth when she settles into the back passenger seat, next to Chase. All friends from college. Q’s fingers waited for the SUV to be free from the neighborhood on the dial before he turned the music up. The bass carries them all the way to the airport--their voices poorly echoing back the blast of beats, from Megan the Stallion to Beyoncé, from Beyoncé to GloRilla. Around and around they shout, singing, laughing on and off key.

Nestled into the chairs of the gate, all six eyes turn to Marlowe. A coordinated effort, like children pressed up against the counter looking at all the ice cream options. Marlowe can feel the hot gazes from her friends as she drafts the simple, Waiting at the gate now, text.

“I bet it’s Joe,” Q mutters, daring to be the first.

She tries not to smile, tries to roll her lips back over her teeth. It’s no use. Her phone shakes again and Chase leans over, dramatically into her shoulder, leaving Marlowe unable to hide her screen. “Joe says, ‘Glad you made it safely. Please let me know when you land and get to the house.’”

“So sweet it makes my teeth hurt,” Remi scoffs.

“And you’re not dating this man?” Q questions.

Marlowe shakes her head, heart pounding against her ribs. This has been the latest round of conversation over the last couple weeks. The thing that Marlowe wishes Q would drop, but he’s not the type.

“It probably wouldn’t last long,” Marlowe answers with a shrug.

“What you mean to say is that you two are dating,” Remi corrects.

“We’re not,” Marlowe urges. She had time. She had fucking time. But god, hearing it back, hearing it said with such finality makes Marlowe wonder if she was being foolish.

“You’ve gone to dinner and a movie together,” she counts, holding up her finger. “He planned a second date that fell through because Korey got sick.” Remi pulls up a second finger. “However, he still went through on said picnic part of the date and showed up with medicine and snacks for Korey and flowers.” Remi holds up her ring finger. “You two call and text constantly. He watched your favorite childhood movie that’s not available on streaming. It has to be rented. I checked.”

“Sounds like dating to me,” Chase interjects.

“I have time,” Marlowe states. She can admit, now and only now, that it does sounds insane. Because they’re not dating. Joe agreed to give her time, to let her decide if or when this would change. If Marlowe could handle the concept.

“Time?” Q questions, brows furrowing and lips pursed.

Marlowe nods. “He likes me. And I-I like him. But I need time.”

“Need time for what?” Q hollers. It bounces off the thinly carpeted floors. The entire terminal seems to echo with the incredulous shout.

Marlowe sighs, slipping down into her seat under Q’s hot and confused face. She needs time, knows what the summer and fall bring for her. Joe needs to see that. Needs to bear witness to what’s really left behind. Because that will change his mind. If the schedule doesn’t, if living at home didn’t, if Korey didn’t change his mind, that surely would. She’s waiting out the inevitable, really. Even if she’d like to say it was more, she couldn’t risk it yet.

“You said it yourself you spotted him at his charity event,” Q clarifies. “You just said you like him.”

Marlowe did say that and Marlowe did watch him. When she slipped her dad the plate of food, she eyed Joe then, took in the rather subtle outfit—wide fit black cargo pants, the soft white tucked in t-shirt. He wore sneakers, yet of course, and completed the affair with a diamond chain around his neck. He looked put together and casual. The grin on his face was bright as he talked to her dad. She wanted to stick around but Korey huffed about needing to use the bathroom. By the time she got back to the table, Joe was gone.

When she spotted him again, he was in the midst of several rounds of photographs and she wasn’t going to disturb him. It was clear, too, that the second the cameras were done flashing Joe was too. His smile dropped and his face settled not into a frown, but a sheet of exhaustion. Marlowe didn’t have courage to say anything else. Afraid that she’d be yet another depletion of his already clearly thin social battery. It wasn’t helped that Joe was pulled into conversations with some other people too immediately after the photos. He seemed polite, just tired. So she left it well alone.

Until he passed along that dessert at her birthday dinner.

Marlowe spotted Joe one table over after they’d been sat. Her heart ached with how rapidly it beat. But Marlowe was sure he didn’t recognize her. So she focused instead on Remi, Q, and Chase. She focused instead on her menu and actually enjoying her birthday dinner—the one thing she actually wanted to do. She did indulge Q when he asked if she wanted to go out to one bar later on. But she had one drink at the one bar, danced with Remi and then promptly settled back at home by 11PM. Joe and his friends weren’t loud next to them, not overly so. It was in fact the bouts of silence that made Marlowe notice them more than the bursts of laughter.

Even with her intrigued sparked all those months ago back in January, the fact remains: Marlowe’s not the same. An ache in her bones that she can’t get rid of. Pieces of herself she can’t reclaim buried. Talking to Joe brings back something—relief mixed with a sense of thrill—but everytime they talk Marlowe wishes she could crawl into Malia’s bed afterwards, giggling and laughing at the exchanges. Marlowe wishes she could call Malia, ask her for advice. And Malia’s not there. Would never actually be anymore.

“I just need time,” Marlowe snips. It’s sharp and fast but she can feel the sting of tears behind her eyes. Joe will leave and she’ll be alone. Again. Like she’s meant to be.

“Malia would want you to be happy,” Chase counters, arm slithering over Marlowe’s shoulders. “She was all about happiness, and joy, and enjoying life. No matter how big or small it was.”

But there’s no joy left. It is fleeting. Every second Marlowe spends crawling closer to August is a second she’s crawling closer to the reality left in her hands.

She is so utterly alone. Like she’s meant to be.

Because why would the world take her sister if not to leave Marlowe behind, if not to curse her? Why would death be so fucking cruel to her, to Korey, to their parents?

But Marlowe doesn’t really want to be alone. Not if she can help it. Not when there’s Joe. Who calls just to hear her voice. Asks if she’d had enough water that day. Wants to know about her world—makeup she’s doing, movies she’s watched, the tiniest of tiny things.

Marlowe thought the grief would get smaller the more she worked, and the more she looked after Korey, but it feels way too big. August took Malia from Marlowe two weeks shy of Malia’s 33rd birthday. And Marlowe will never forgive the month, the dates, the cosmos for being so utterly cruel to them.

And it’s not even August yet. It looms, though, around them, thick and heavy, and haunting. She still had time to enjoy herself. To celebrate Q. To enjoy the few weeks she has left with Joe before it goes still. It hurts to know that right now some of this is pretend. Fake it till you make it is what she tells herself. Marlowe’s just not sure she’ll actually make it through the fog of fall.

Marlowe clutches her phone even with the tears burning at her eyes, torn between wanting and aching. Wanting to tell Joe. Wanting his voice to help ease the ache even if it’s only temporarily. And aching for the fact that she can’t do itself, can’t dig herself out of the fucking hole she’s in, like the world’s up above her to leave her under crumbling dirt. It’s not like this all the time, but lately, as August pushes closer and closer Marlowe finds herself deeper and deeper into that hole. Torn between desire and hate. Desiring stillness, calmness and hating that Marlowe can’t seem to get a grip.

She’d heard about the stages of grief—sat across from a therapist for six short weeks and could parrot back all the right words on it in the right order, right cadence to make it seem like she understood—but still Marlowe’s not learned the lesson on how grief oscillates. How she’s looking for linear progress but grief isn’t linear at all. It loops, stumbles, accelerates, converges, melts, solidifies, echoes in ways Marlowe doesn’t know how to hold.

There are ups, and then there are downs. And one doesn’t negate the other. Marlowe’s just tired of the down, of the hole she keeps failing to climb out of. Every scramble throws dirt down her throat. Everything’s failing.

Q, Remi, and Chase aren’t wrong. Joe and her were practically dating. They were further away from friends than she cared to admit. Marlowe’s just not sure why moving on, living life, feels so much like losing her sister again. As if somehow if Marlowe leaves this place she’ll leave Malia behind. As if death wasn’t permanent enough of a loss to begin with.

“We’re supposed to be partying,” Marlowe returns, sniffling back the tears. Her inhales are shaky but as she inhales, holds, exhales, on repeat, they get steadier.

Q’s eyes are direct, tight as they take her in. “You can’t avoid this forever, Marlowe. You deserve to live your life.”

Whether it’s avoidance or just letting the natural progress of things take their course, Marlowe’s not going to argue. She instead stares back at Q. Inhales for a few seconds. Then holds before she exhales for the same measured beats. “It’s your birthday.”

“And I want you to flirt and tease the ever loving shit out of your boyfriend on my birthday,” Q offers. It’s softer, though his annoyance is clear behind his eyes.

“He’s not my—”

“Not yet. But at this point, I’m calling it like I see it. So I hope you’ve packed your skimpiest bikinis because we’re giving him a heart attack. And you can play this little game pretending like you two aren’t dating yet or whatever. But when you wake the fuck up, find me. Because that man is practically kissing the ground you walk on. Don’t get so holier than thou and masochistic on him that you lose him. I will not give you grace. This is me saying: I told you so.”

It’s tough love and Marlowe knows better than to argue with Q. So she nods, the stroke of Chase’s palm over her shoulder grounding her again to the airport’s gate, the hard seat she’s settled into. “I have a red one. Barely counts as a bathing suit.”

Q grins, a slow mischief quirk of his lips like the Cheshire Cat. He laughs just as the gate agent begins announcing their flight. “Perfect.”

Miami is hot. Not that it’s expected to be anything less. But the warmth is welcome, blossoming over their skin as the group of them wait at the curb for their Uber. The streets are packed, a fact that doesn’t surprise any of them. The first evening they spend in Miami is slow—acquiring food, laughing. But the ease of their first night is not enough to keep Q at bay. He slinks over to Marlowe while she’s on the couch of the house.

“Time?” she asks, peering up just as Q falls into the cushion.

“For?”

“Raiding my bathing suits.”

His laughter is spacey and bubbly but he nods. “Yes. And to say that I do love you.”

Marlowe knows that. Q wouldn’t be hard on her if not for love. He takes life by the reins himself. He’s active in a way that Marlowe adores. She wants to settle into the warmth of his radiance. Q has a vibrancy to life that when it settles onto her skin reminds Marlowe there’s things worth staying alive for.

“I love you too.”

“Tomorrow, you’re going to throw ass. And we’re going to take photos. And Joe’s going to lose his ever lasting mind and I know it’s hard since Malia died. And Lady Day, but I want you to live, Marlowe. You will live. Even if I have to ensure it with you kicking and screaming.”

Marlowe’s not sure if it’s a promise or a threat. With Q, it’s also a wildcard on how it falls. But she nods at the words all the same. “I like kicking and screaming.”

“Trust me. I know you do.” His voice drips with the annoyance, but he settles his head into the crook of her shoulder and neck.

Marlowe hopes that she doesn’t like kicking and screaming too much.

#joe burrow #joe burrow x black oc #joe burrow fanfic #joe burrow fic #joe burrow series #h writes #joe burrow x oc #joe burrow imagine #joe burrow fluff

36 notes · View notes

simswoon · 9 months ago

Text

˗ˏˋ navigation ˎˊ˗

wcif friendly :3 | about me | resources | socials

˗ˏˋ gameplays ˎˊ˗

struck by love: beginning | latest | family tree | extras

gen 1 - lillian marlowe: beginning - latest gen 2 - lennon marlowe: beginning - latest gen 3 - jude marlowe:

˗ˏˋ extras ˎˊ˗

simmies | builds/interiors | wcif | asks | reblogs

#hihi :3 #navigation

79 notes · View notes

cdragons · 1 year ago

Text

Bound by Embroidered Chains - Aemond Targaryen x Seamstress!OC x Jacaerys Velaryon - Chapter Two

Previous Chapter

Summary: Dragons have a habit in hoarding the prettiest of jewels, and pearls are of no exceptions.

Warnings- MDNI 18+ Obsessive Behavior (we all knew this was coming), tiny!Jace is delulu, tiny!Aemond is kind of a jerk in this one, Dark Themes, shit is going down, not betaread we burn like Harrenhal, etc. Also, translations for Valyrian will be added at the bottom! Also, I used an online translator for the High Valyrian, so it may not be great 🫠

Author's Note: I'M BACKKKKKK! I am so sorry for leaving this story alone for so long! I have been getting into other fandoms and making new stories because of those fandoms. But the two new trailers for HOTD season 2 brought me back! I swear I will be better at updating this story! But on the bright side, I made this chapter over 5k word length! I own only the plot and OCs of this story, please do not repost without my permission.

Despite living in the Red Keep for nearly your entire life, you still felt hopelessly lost as you walked down the corridors beside the prince. Like you and Aemond, the sight of you walking side by side with the heir of the Iron Throne’s firstborn son made for an unusual sight for the courtiers of the Royal Family. But this was not the case with the serving staff, which comprised smallfolk. Your mother was a favored companion by Queen Alicent and Princess Rhaenyra. Despite coming from such humble beginnings, Doreah of Essos became a highly regarded member of the serving staff belonging to the House of Targaryen. All the maids respected your mother, while most stewards who served under knights idolized your father. And as your mother’s daughter, they were very used to the vision of one of their humble sewists’ children playing with the Royal children.

As a result, no one so much as batted an eye when they saw you walking down the halls directly beside Prince Jacaerys. It would have made a much more unusual sight if your presence was absent by either his or his uncle’s side. The older staff bowed their heads in respect to the prince while also flashing a small but kind smile at you. The younger serving girls were still too new in the ways of the court and beamed with broad smiles at the sight of you before acknowledging Jace. You grinned back as you inwardly beamed at the knowledge that Head Septa Marlow was with you.

She would have scolded those girls fiercely if she had caught them greeting an apprentice seamstress before the prince.

You turned your head to glance at your childhood friend, who happened to be second in line for the Iron Throne, as you both made your way to his mother’s chambers. Your eyebrows furrowed as you took in the troubled expression on his face. Just a few minutes ago, he was practically bouncing on his feet as the two of you left Aemond alone in the Godswood. But now it felt as if he was a thousand miles away from you despite being so close. Having been by his side since his birth, you always felt a sense of protectiveness toward the young prince. No matter his station, you were a month past your third name-day when he was brought into this world. It was natural that you were perspective to his shifting moods.

“Jace?” you softly called out to him. You were relieved to have brought him out of his thoughts. “Are you alright?”

Jacaerys stopped in the middle of the stone corridor. Staring at you with those large brown eyes, he looked much older than his actual age. When someone as happy and bright as Jace became somber, it was always a reason to worry. Was Rhaenyra all right? Had he been listening to those awful rumors of his true birth?

“Ashi’,” he began, “what were you and Aemond discussing in the Godswoods’ Heart Tree?”

Ah, so that’s what this is about.

You inwardly grimaced as you realized how foolish you were to worry. With Aemond and Jace, it was always something one did to the other. And almost every time, it was up to you to stop their squabbling by being forced into the middle. You were not as blind as everyone in the castle liked to believe you were. You knew that both boys had an unhealthy attachment to you for whatever reason they conjured in their minds. Reasons that were only encouraged by their mothers.

You were still cross when they interrupted you and your mother’s reunion with your father. The matter was really very stupid. Jace had made fun of Aemond for not having a dragon during their family supper with the King. However, Jace only did so because Aemond and Aegon were snickering to themselves about how fat Princess Rhaenyra had grown due to her third pregnancy.

It didn’t make any difference to you, in all honesty. All you remembered from that time was that your time with your beloved father was forcibly cut short. To make matters worse, the two boys’ outbursts startled your mother, and the stress was so terrible that it nearly caused her to faint.

As a result, you decided not to speak to either boy for nearly two weeks. It had grown to the point where Queen Alicent and Princess Rhaenyra practically begged you to forgive their sons—but even a royal command would not budge you. It did not matter how many blueberry tarts or honey cakes they gave for your forgiveness. You made it very clear that you would resolve never to speak to either boy unless they sincerely apologized to your mother for the awful fright they gave her. You finally resumed your friendship with them after your mother asked you herself to forgive them after Aemond gifted her a lovely bouquet of blue and purple hyacinths, and Jace gifted her a basket full of her favorite honey lemon cakes.

“Jace,” you groaned, “you cannot be serious.”

“Ashi’, you’ve been spending so much time with him lately. I feel like I don’t ever get to see you anymore.”

Rolling your eyes, you walked away from him as you sped up your pace to reach their destination. You only made it a few meters from where you were earlier before Jacaerys caught up to you and firmly grasped your wrist to keep you in place.

“I’m serious, Ashi’!” he insisted. “Unless it’s for fittings or when the Maester seeks your help teaching us High Valyrian, I rarely ever see you anymore!” His eyes had a wet sheen in the light, and his lip quivered slightly. “I miss you. Luke misses you. And so does Mother and Father!”

If the pitiful sight was enough to fill you with guilt, his next question nearly broke your heart.

“Do you – do you still consider me your friend?”

“Oh, Jace-” you pulled your younger friend into your arms “- of course I do. I’ve been so busy with my duties and my mother’s health. She and Princess Rhaenys have been so concerned over Lady Laena’s pregnancy and are trying to convince Prince Daemon to travel to Driftmark for the baby’s arrival.”

Jacaerys wrapped his arms around you, eager to feel your warmth. If the gods were kind, time would stop, and he and you would stay like this forever. But he became sad at the mention of his Aunt Laena. He had heard his father recount hundreds of stories of their time together at Driftmark in their youth. Jace knew his father missed his sister terribly, and he was sure she missed him the same.

You noticed your friend’s change in behavior. You looked at him with concerned eyes, and his heart began to race at your care for him.

“Oh, Jace,” you whispered, “have I upset you somehow? I did not mean to!”

Jace frantically shook his head. “No, Ashi’! I just wondered…do you think I’ll ever meet my Aunt Laena?” he softly asked. “Do you think she’ll like me? Can you tell me more about my cousins?”

You rolled your eyes at his request. He had yet to do so despite your advice for Jace to send a raven or two to his cousins. You hadn’t seen the twins for many years, but the three of you wrote to each other so often that it felt like you would recognize them by how they spoke alone.

“I’m sure she and your cousins will adore you, Jace. Baela is excited about her new sibling. She says she’s close to riding Moondancer! Once she gets big enough, she hopes to ride her with Rhaena!”

Jace wondered how you’d react if you knew he didn’t write to his cousins because he was scared they wouldn’t like him. To be honest, he didn’t really care about them at all. He only cared about the way you smiled at him, and only him, when he asked.

“Mother!”

Still seated at her dark-stained ebony-wood desk, Princess Rhaenyra of House Targaryen scribbled away with her black swan’s feather quill, nearly hidden behind stacks of dusty tomes and piles of scrolls from across the Seven Kingdoms and, despite being heavy with child, remained to be one of the most exquisite beauties across the realm. Hearing her eldest son’s voice, she looked up from her papers and smiled at the two children standing in her chambers' doorway.

“Jace! You made it and brought our little Lady Ashirri with you.”

You looked down at your feet as your cheeks slightly pinkened at the attention brought to you. Princess Rhaenyra was one of your mother’s closest friends and one of the few belonging to the noble houses that approved of your father’s rise in status. But his title was only in name, and so many in the keep look down on him with ill-hidden disdain. And as a result, many in the keep looked down on you with the same contempt and disgust.

The image of Lord Otto Hightower’s cold and judging eyes gazing down at you with arrogance came to mind before you could block it out.

You lifted your skirts and bowed in a deep curtsy in respect for Princess Rhaenyra. “Yes, my princess. Prince Jacaerys told me that you required my assistance with something?”

Princess Rhaenyra warmly smiled and laughed. “Yes. My husband seems at a crossroads in deciding which fabrics best suit his sister. Although, as you can see, he is being unnecessarily picky about it all.”

Her husband, Prince Consort Laenor of House Velaryon, stood beside your mother with his arms spread wide apart. On each arm were textiles of luxurious materials and superb stitching patterns. His close friend and confidant, Ser Qarl Correy, stood close behind him. The crown princess spoke truthfully as the entire room was filled with dozens of fabric bolts, from brilliant orange-marigold Dornish satin to iridescent light-azure Yi Tish silk. Your eyes were filled with excitement and wonder at the magnificent sight. You raced to touch the imported textiles.

“Is this silk truly from Yi Ti?” you softly whispered while carefully stroking the surface with one finger. “It looks almost too pretty to be real. This color would beautifully complement Lady Laena’s complexion and silver curls.”

Your mother and Prince Laenor smiled in agreement. It was softer than anything you’ve ever touched. Yi Tish silk was famous for its textile quality. One bolt was worth double your mother’s monthly wage at the Red Keep. The color alone was mastery at its finest. You knew from personal experience that blue was an incredibly tricky dye to handle. Although it was a primary color, it was rare in nature. You had to devote hours, if not days, to find the correct materials to yield the desired tone and shade properly. But that work is useless if the dye ends up damaging the fabric. Dark blue was one matter – it was still stunning, and many nobles would pay a hefty amount of coin for it. But to own such beauty, you wouldn’t dare imagine the price for a few yards, let alone an entire bolt.

“Fine eye as always, little lady,” Laenor jovially laughed. “Yes, I’m sure at least one of these fabrics will make a suitable dress for my sister before she gifts me another niece or nephew. I’m afraid your mother is very cross with me at the moment. Any delay in choosing the fabric will result in her being unable to finish the dress before the baby is born.”

“Lady Laena will need it to be loose and not so tight around her waist,” you spoke matter-of-factly. “Muña says that most pregnant women have rashes and inflammations after giving birth, so the dress must be made of a fabric that won’t cause irritation. Let’s see…excuse me for a moment?”

You took out the small leather-bound journal Kepa gave you as a gift from one of his many voyages with Lord Corlys that you kept in your dress pocket, along with a small stick of charcoal. You drew out the image as quickly as possible whenever inspiration struck, regardless of the time or place. It was a habit that could lead to horrible misunderstandings, but being scolded and berated mattered little to you if it meant you could train yourself to be half as talented a seamstress as your mother.

After flipping past all your previous ideas, you finally spotted a blank page. Racing to your mother’s side for help, you excitedly shoved the journal in her face.

You thought aloud and drew out the concept simultaneously. “I think it should be blue. Even if Lady Laena married Prince Daemon, she is still a Velaryon by birth! Maybe if we chose a material that looks like water, it would make her feel closer to Driftmark and Lady Rhaenys!”

Doreah beamed from ear to ear as she crouched down and took you in a tight embrace. It filled her with such joy to know her daughter had developed such a tender and compassionate heart. You were a deeply empathetic girl who always considered the needs of others before your own. Her little pearl had a heart of gold that shone through the darkest storms. She planted a loud kiss on your cheek before letting you go.

“That sounds like a wonderful idea, my little pearl,” her eyes twinkled as she cupped your cheeks. “I have just the fabric in mind for it.”

Lady Doreah Pyke pulled out a large bolt of shimmering azure blue silk velvet. The rippled pattern and texture matched the transcendent and melancholy shores that surrounded High Tide. You gasped in delight at the sight of it. It was exactly the color you imagined! You gently caressed the hand-pleated panels, expecting it to feel crinkly and cheap despite its luster. But the fabric sheen and its soft, velvety texture made you want to wrap yourself with it like a warm blanket.

Your mother thoughtfully inspected the fabric. “Yes, this will be perfect. However, I think instead of a dress, it may be better to be used as a cloak. If the result is as beautiful as my little pearl envisions it to be, it would be a shame to be a dress for one lady. If it is a cloak, it can be passed down from mother to daughter.”

“An heirloom cloak…” you murmured in excitement. Your mother was a genius. “It sounds so romantic…the waves should be hand-painted and glass beads strung and stitched into the fabric. Oh, Lady Laena will look like a sea goddess! Would she like it enough to pass it down to Ladies Baela or Rhaena?”

Doreah chuckled at your delight and booped your nose. “She will love it, my darling – especially because you will be helping me make it.”

“A wonderful idea!” exclaimed Laenor. “Who better than our lovely Doreah and her little pearl to complete the task?”

“Really?” you gasped. To work beside your mother on such a prestigious project…was like a dream too good to be true. “Mother, do you…do you truly think I am ready?”

Jace jumped to his friend’s side to hug her. “Ashirri! This is wonderful! You and Lady Pyke will make the most beautiful cloak in the Seven Kingdoms - I know it!”

Rhaenyra and Laenor glanced knowingly at their son’s support for his dearest childhood companion. Everyone in the Red Keep knew of Jacaerys Velaryon's infatuation with Ashirri Pyke. If only the gods had allowed their stations to be so different. It seemed cruel to let two young souls meet and grow beside one another without the hope or possibility of love being borne.

You beamed at Jace with a brilliant smile that shone with so much radiance that looking at you felt nothing less than sin. You took his hand in yours as you squeezed his hand in silent thanks and appreciation for his words. In the young prince’s eyes, you were more heavenly than the Maiden herself. He hopes to be seen as strong as the Warrior in yours one day.

“Kirimvose, jorrāelagon raqiros,” you said in your mother’s native tongue, softly stroking your thumb on his skin as a rosy hue bloomed on Jace’s cheeks. “Muña, īlon līs jiōragon naejot mirre rȳ istin! Nyke jāhor sagon going ēlī!”

You were about to leave before stopping and tracing back your steps to bow to Princess Rhaenyra and Prince Consort Laenor quickly. Your cheeks were bright red from embarrassment from forgetting such basic etiquette.

“My princess, my prince, forgive me for not remembering to thank you for granting me this opportunity and forgetting to leave before you dismissed me. I was too caught up in my excitement. But, I swear that I will not let you down.”

The adults in the room shared amused expressions at your excitement. Ashirri Pyke’s transparent honesty and sweet nature were so refreshing to not only the Targaryen Princess and her prince consort husband but also the entire Royal Family. She was the perfect combination of her parents’ personalities. From Hotho, you adopted your father’s unwavering honesty and sense of justice. From Doreah, you were your mother’s copy in sweetness and purity. You were a highborn noble in all but birth and title.

Rhaenyra waved off your apology and nodded. “No need for apologies, little pearl. Run along. There is work that needs to be done, and your mother and I still have things to discuss between old friends.”

You pouted to hear that your mother would not be joining you. After all, this was a very important job, and you had hoped this would provide an opportunity to learn more of your mother’s secrets in her trade. But who were you to refuse a princess’ orders? You bowed once more before waving goodbye to Jace and everyone in the room before racing to your chambers. The disappointment you felt moments before was washed away by the jittering and buzz of your creativity rushing through your mind.

The waves would have to be hand-painted – that goes without saying. But should you paint silver instead of ivory for the sea foam? And did you have a steady enough hand to replicate each pattern perfectly? You were going to need a template to trace it.

You were going to need dozens if not hundreds, of beads ranging from violet to turquoise to teal. Were there any artisans in Kings Landing that could make such a large quantity? Were there any skilled enough to ensure the glass and crystals would yield such clarity and durability? You may need to ask Kepa if he made any glassmaker friends from Essos or the Free Cities.

Could you dip into your personal collection of sea crystals and pearls? Mother would be cross with you, but it would look so splendid against the fabric!

While racing down the many halls and past the flurry of chambermaids and squires, you came across Aemond. His trademark frown on his freckled face quickly turned to a kind smile.

“Ashirri! Mother wants to–”

But you did not have time to stop and quickly ran past him. You interrupted him with an apology.

“Usōven, Aemond! Yn issa muña se Dārilaros Laenor teptan mirros hen rōvēgrie import! Nyke emagon naejot jiōragon naejot mirre paktot qrīdrughagon!”

Aemond owlishly blinked before realizing you had spoken to him in High Valyrian. He took a few moments to mentally translate what you said before calling out your name and asking you to explain.

“Umbagon! Skoros gaomagon ao nūmāzma?”

But when he turned, you were nowhere in sight, and he was left alone in the middle of the stone corridor. His shoulders slumped in deep disappointment at seeing you running away from him. But he supposed that such a slight could be forgiven since you were his loveliest and dearest friend. On the plus side, he was gifted with the sight of how the sunshine rays peering through the windows darted your glossy locks and wrapped you in a warm halo that brought out even more of your natural charm and prettiness.

As soon as you reached your room, you shut the door and grabbed every colored charcoal stick you’ve been gifted since you began learning your letters. Grabbing your big sketchbook, you immediately began jotting down your vision. By the time your mother joined you, your entire floor was covered with pages filled with a kaleidoscope of blues, greens, violets, and silver. Doreah was ecstatic of the display of your budding talent and took you in her arms for a tight hug.

The next few weeks were the most thrilling of your young life. You would spend hours on end with your mother, going over and debating which colors would match the tone of the cloak. Your mother found out about your idea to incorporate your pearls in the stitching, and she gave you a lecture that put all her past scoldings to shame. Eventually, you relented. In truth, you were a tad reluctant to part with your pearls. Each pearl was a gift from your beloved kepa for each country he visited. He said it was his way of giving you a tiny part of the world to his little pearl.

Because you were so busy trimming and stitching, you barely had time to read with Aemond under the Heart Tree in the Godswood or watch Jace practice his sword fighting with Ser Harwin Strong. You and your mother could only be removed from the cloak when either Queen Alicent or Princess Rhaenyra ordered your presence. They often expressed their woes at your decreased presence in court. As a result, your mother would take small breaks to share tea with Queen Alicent to discuss your progress as a seamstress, or she would get called by Princess Rhaenyra to her chambers so that they may speak their most private thoughts and troubles in High Valyrian.

You would often escape their orders by spending time with Princess Helaena. She would sneak into your workspace to bring her own embroidery and ask for your guidance with the more intricate patterns. While most of the court found the second princess a bit…odd – you took to her presence like green to pink. The two of you greatly differed in personality, but that made your friendship with her all the more special. You always made sure to treat her with kind words and common courtesy.

The most rude you had been to her was when she showed you a massive spider in her hands, and you loudly shrieked before crawling under your bed as a reflex. It took a few minutes before you could rejoin her. When she asked if you liked to hold Gerald the Spider, you took your father’s thickest riding gloves before you went near the beast.

You only held Gerald in your palms a few moments before you cried and begged Helaena to remove him from your person. But despite the terrors you got from Gerald the Spider that night, it was worth it if Helaena could smile as happily as she had when you agreed. She was so pleased that she didn’t correct you when you called her by the nickname you made for her, ‘Hel.’ In fact, you were almost certain that the nickname made her happier than you holding the spider.

But despite the peace these past few weeks have brought you and your family, such joy was not granted to the rest of your friends. Trouble was brewing in the Red Keep for House Targaryen – a fact you were unaware of until much later. You were returning from the rookery after being notified of receiving a letter from Baela. She was so excited about the arrival of her new sibling. You were reading the letter until you heard soft cries in the library. Searching for the source, you were shocked to find Aemond crying in a secluded section of the Royal Library. Distressed at your friend’s tears, you immediately knelt and hugged him close to you.

Clinging to your arms like you were his anchor, you could only make out the words: ‘pig’ and ‘dread.’ When you voiced your confusion, Aemond explained once more.

“They gave me a pig!” he barked, wiping away the angry tears from his violet eyes. “They said they found a dragon for me, and it was a pig! The ‘Pink Dread’ they called it!”

You lowered his head to the crook of your shoulder. “Aemond, who’s ‘they’?” you softly asked.

“Aegon! Who else?” he exclaimed. Your simple linen frock muffled his yells. “My sister’s bastards were there, too!”

Your blood chilled. He couldn’t mean…Jace wasn’t…

“Aemond, you can’t say such things,” you warned. “It’s considered treason by your father’s laws.”

But Aemond wasn’t listening. “I hate those bastards. They shouldn’t carry the Targaryen name. Their last name should be ‘Waters.’ It’s the name that bastards born in the Crownlands carry. Northern bastards are called ‘Snow,’ ‘Sand’ for Dorne, ‘Flowers’ for the Reach–”

“‘Pyke’ for the Iron Islands,” you snapped and let him go. “Am I a bastard, Aemond? Am I what you hate? Do you hate my father?”

Aemond was shocked at your venomous tone. When he realized what he had done, he quickly tried to make amends.

He shook his head. “My pearl…no, no, no,” he said. “You aren’t a bastard. I wasn’t talking about you. I was talking about–”

You clenched your fists and stood on your feet. “I know who you were talking about! That does not make it right!”

Aemond was getting angry. Why weren’t you taking his side? Had his whore of a sister already poisoned you against him? Had Jace already dirtied you with his filthy, bastard blood? He stood up and stared you down with fury in those beautiful violet eyes that you once so adored. But all you saw was his grandfather.

“Your father is a bastard,” he stated matter-of-factly. “He was a bastard from the Iron Islands that Lord Greyjoy didn’t want! He wasn’t worthy of his noble father’s house name, so he is named ‘Pyke’!”

You shook your head. “There is more to family than names and blood. I am neither a Targaryen nor a Velaryon. I do not carry a speck of your noble house’s blood, but I consider you and Jace my dearest friends! To me, you are my brothers! You and him are my family because I love you, not because of blood! Does that count for anything?”

“I never thought of you as a sister,” he spat out. “Not once did I consider you family.”

Devastation overwhelms your broken heart as tears flood your and Aemond’s eyes. He reaches out to hold your hand, but you step back. Once more, he tries to keep you closer to him, but you turn around and run to the door. When you reach it, he calls out your name and begs you to let him explain. Once more, you turn to face him to see he has not moved an inch. You feel so small and insignificant underneath the massive stone framework, but you summoned the sea of hurt and rage crashing inside your heart.

“I used to wonder how a horrible and mean-spirited man like Otto Hightower could be the grandsire of such a sweet boy,” your voice trembled, but you continued to steel yourself. “I thought…you were smart enough not to listen to such horrible things. I thought you were my friend. But I was wrong. I was so horribly wrong. What your brother, Jace, and Luke had done to you was cruel and unfair. But Aemond…what you had become…I-I don’t even recognize you anymore.”

With that being the final word, you raced to your mother’s chambers. You cried into her skirts and told her what happened – of the Pink Dread, Aemond’s cruel transformation, and the ruin of your friendship with him. You sobbed out your wish to leave the Red Keep and never return.

Doreah Pyke immediately thought of what Princess Rhaenyra had informed her in the afternoon. ‘Nyra told her that she would be moving her family to Dragonstone. Each day since her failed attempt to match Jace with Helaena, the Red Keep feels less safe and more hostile to her and her children. Since Harwin assaulted Ser Cole, tensions between the princess and the queen have reached an all-time high.

“Come with me,” her princess begged Doreah. “Come with my family to Dragonstone.”

“Oh, ‘Nyra,” whispered Doreah, “I don’t know. Dragonstone is so far from King’s Landing. And Ali would never–”

“Alicent is becoming more like her father each day,” Rhaenyra interjected. “She wants to put her son on my father’s throne – both she and her father are conspiring against me.”

Rhaenyra clasped Doreah’s hands in her own. “I know you want to believe she is the same girl from our youth. But Otto Hightower has sunk his poisoned claws in her and will stop at nothing to crown Aegon when my father passes. I need people I can trust by my side. People like you, my sweet Dory, and your husband.”

“…But Ashirri, my pearl,” sighed Doreah. “She will be so devastated. She grew up running in these halls, playing in the Godswoods, exploring this castle’s corners and shadows. This is her home.”

“Your daughter will flourish wherever she goes,” insists Rhaenyra. “She will never be alone – not with Jace, Luke, and Joffery by her side. And forgive me for what I am about to say, my friend, but…King’s Landing no longer agrees with you as it used to.”

Doreah sighed and gazed out the window with slumped shoulders. What her princess said was true but hard to hear. As she grew older, she found the air and noise outside the Red Keep more sour and rancid. It made her miss the clean and fresh sea breeze in Essos. Rhaenyra was not the only one who had noticed Doreah’s melancholy. Hotho, her beloved Iron Knight, has remained in King’s Landing after learning of her despondence. Her husband implores her to care more for her health – if not for herself, but their daughter.

Doreah waved off their concerns, but perhaps…they had a point. Stroking your hair to calm you down, your mother asked if you would be open to the possibility of moving to Dragonstone. She reassured you that she and your father would be there with you and that you would still be around Jace, Luke, and Joffery if you ever felt lonely.

You agreed before she finished and immediately started packing. By the end of the month, you had not spoken another word to Aemond and left with Princess Rhaenyra and her family to Dragonstone. You did not look back. You wanted to leave King’s Landing and Aemond as soon as possible. You wanted to leave this wretched castle and have peace once more.

While others stared at the obsidian castle with trepidation, you felt hope. Unpacking your things from your trunk and knapsack, you were determined to leave behind all the political headaches and focus solely on stitching with your mother and sailing with your father.

If only life could be that simple.

Translations:

Muña - mother

Kepa - father

Kirimvose, jorrāelagon raqiros…Muña, īlon līs jiōragon naejot mirre rȳ istin! Nyke jāhor sagon going ēlī – “Thank you, dear friend…Mother, we must get to work at once! I will bet going first!”

Usōven, Aemond! Yn issa muña se Dārilaros Laenor teptan mirros hen rōvēgrie importance! Nyke emagon naejot jiōragon naejot mirre paktot qrīdrughagon! – “I am sorry, Aemond. But my mother and Prince Laenor gave me something of great importance! I have to get to work right away!”

Umbagon! Skoros gaomagon ao nūmāzma?” – “Wait! What do you mean?”

Tagging: @ethereal-athalia, @valeskafics, @faesspace, @aphroditesmoon, @dreaming-for-an-escape, @nellychick, @asa-do-your-thing, @arcielee, @bellamys-girl1, @immyowndefender, @xxlovingfandomsxx, @elinedjarin, @meg-egg-blog, @marvelescape, @mandiiblanche, @lokiofasgard12, @boxedpandas, @anewpersonthatexists, @toodlesxcuddles, @mckiquinn, @cvspians, @aemondslove, @bogbutteronmycroissant, @lady-ashfade , @axelsagewrites

Let me know in the comments if you want to be added to the taglist! Please like, comment, and/or reblog this story if you enjoyed reading it, and please share the link with anyone you think might enjoy it!

#house of the dragon #hotd #hotd au #house of the dragon x you #house of the dragon fic #house of the dragon x reader #house of the dragon x oc #jacaerys velaryon x reader #jacaerys velaryon x oc #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x oc #jacaerys x reader #jacaerys x oc #aemond x reader #aemond x oc #reader insert #a song of ice and fire #team black #team green

201 notes · View notes