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helioooss · 2 months ago

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i. when i close my eyes, you replace him

synopsis: after a rare drunken night, y/n wakes up in bed next to the most untouchable girl at yonsei: karina. she’s immediately thrown into a mess she never wanted, torn between her own moral compass and the undeniable pull of something she doesn’t understand. some lines, once crossed, can never be undone.

w/c: 5k+

warnings: heavy cheating, implied sex, alcohol, smoking, just normal uni stuff, swearingggg, slow burn

a/n: hi, had to separate it into multiple parts. hope u all enjoy this one even though its been awhile. ps. i don’t condone cheating lmaooo + the song below really sets the tone

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

vanilla, maybe a little jasmine.

something expensive, like the kind of perfume you would smell in those fancy department stores where the sales assistants look at you like they know you can’t afford anything.

it lingers in the sheets, in the air, in your skin.

a slow, relentless throb sits at the base of your skull and your mouth is dry. you blink against the dim morning light filtering through your blinds, the remnants of last night still a haze in your mind.

and then it hits you.

your body is bare under the sheets. no clothes. nothing. but someone is warm against you.

long, dark hair sprawls across the pillow next to you, silky strands cascading over an exposed shoulder. her skin is pale, smooth, untouched by the morning light yet glowing like it holds its own. your breath catches. her back is turned to you, slow, steady breaths rising and falling beneath the sheets. peaceful.

completely unaware that your entire world is about to collapse.

your first thought: who the fuck is this?

your second (in denial) thought: why the fuck are you naked?

your brain is too fogged over to piece together what happened, probably mushed from all the alcohol you had last night.

you swallow, slowly — very, very slowly, propping yourself up on one elbow. your hands shake as you pull the blanket up over your chest, as if that’ll somehow make this situation better.

carefully, cautiously, like you’re disarming a bomb, you lean forward to get a look at the stranger’s face.

and then your stomach drops straight to hell.

karina.

karina?!

you don’t even need a second look. you’ve spent enough time at yonsei university hearing about her, seeing her, watching her float through campus like she’s too good for the ground everyone else walks on.

you slam back against the mattress like you’ve been shot.

she’s untouchable. too cool. too pretty. and currently in your bed. naked.

she looks impossibly pretty even in sleep, long lashes resting against her skin, lips slightly parted, collarbones peeking from beneath the covers. your heart lurches into your throat.

what the fuck.

this is it. this is how you die.

your breath is stuck in your throat as you practically fling yourself out of bed, scrambling for any piece of clothing within reach. you don’t even check if they’re yours — you just yank them on, hopping on one foot as you try to shove your legs into something, anything, all while keeping an eye on her sleeping form like she might wake up and smite you on the spot.

somehow, by some miracle, she doesn’t stir.

you do not have time to ask yourself why she is here, nor do you have the time to remember that she has a boyfriend who could break you in half with his bare hands.

all you know is you need to get the fuck out.

without a second glance, you dart out of your room, sprinting down the stairs so fast you nearly trip over yourself.

the first thing you see is giselle standing by the stove, flipping bacon with the ease of someone who’s used to cleaning up after her drunk friends.

the second thing your eyes fall upon are yunjin and ryujin sitting at the table, looking like they’ve personally been dragged through the depths of hell.

“i hate the smell of eggs,” ryujin grumbles, forehead resting on the table. “why couldn’t you make pancakes?”

giselle barely spares her a glance. “because i’m not your mother and you’re lucky i’m even feeding you.”

before ryujin can argue, you come to a screeching halt in the middle of the kitchen, eyes wild, hair a mess, voice a strangled whisper-yell: “chat, what the fuck.”

yunjin peeks up from where her face is buried in her arms, squinting at you like you’ve personally offended her. “what now? turn that volume down, please.”

“i’m fucking whispering, you idiot!” you grumble, staring at her, breathless. then just point — frantic, shaking towards your room upstairs.

giselle pauses mid-bacon flip. “okay, that’s terrifying…i see we’re not using words anymore. what exactly happened?”

“how about i ask the questions: what happened last night?” you demand, voice breaking slightly. “tell me, now.”

ryujin lets out a long, dramatic groan. “can you not? my head is killing me.”

“i’m serious,” you hiss, eyes darting between them. “i don’t remember anything, but i woke up and —” you lower your voice to a whisper. “just fucking tell me.”

“no clue,” ryujin mutters, rubbing her temples. “this is why we don’t let her drink because she fucking tweaks like she’s in philadelphia the morning after.”

“you were drinking,” yunjin says, ignoring the comments from ryujin. “like, a lot. i think you even beat the devil in shots, which is insane because she has a liver made of steel.”

“but —”

giselle suddenly chimes in, flipping a piece of bacon with a little too much force. “oh, wait. i did see you. weirdly enough, you were with karina.”

your blood runs cold.

“what?”

she just shrugs. “yeah, i was talking to minjeong and ningning when you guys walked past us. both of you were drunk as fuck. she said you were gonna show her a guitar collection or something?”

you stare at her, horrified.

“i don’t own a guitar collection,” you whisper. “i can’t even play the guitar!”

“yeah, i know,” giselle raises a brow, arms crossed. “so…?”

yunjin, still groggy, suddenly gasps, eyes going wide as she claps a hand over her mouth. “no fucking way.”

giselle follows her gaze — to your neck.

“oh my god,” she breathes, staring at the faint red marks trailing down your skin.

ryujin tries to stifle her giggle with a cough, failing miserably.

“not funny,” you snap, panic rising in your throat. “jaewook is going to kill me.”

yunjin’s jaw drops open so fast you’re worried it might unhinge like a snake. “is it really karina?” she repeats, eyes wide.

“karina,” you confirm, still whispering like the walls might have ears.

“as in the karina?” giselle asks slowly, voice laced with disbelief. “my friend karina?”

“no, as in some other random karina — yes, the karina. her boyfriend is gonna bury me in that damn field!”

“okay, let’s not be dramatic,” yunjin adds, but there’s clear amusement in her voice.

“not dramatic? not dramatic?” you echo, voice bordering on hysteria. “jennifer, i woke up naked next to karina, who has a psycho boyfriend twice my size, and i don’t even remember how i got there!”

“…well, when you put it like that.”

“oh my god,” you whisper, gripping your head. “i’m actually going to die.”

there’s silence for a hot minute, minds reeling in escape routes, until giselle, ever the problem solver, crosses her arms. “we lie.”

you blink. “excuse me?”

“we lie,” she repeats. “when she wakes up, we pretend you were never in that bed. you slept on the couch. she passed out alone. nothing happened.”

you stare at her like she’s just suggested setting yourself on fire. “that’s your plan?”

“do you have a better one?”

you press your lips together as you run your hand over your face.

“exactly,” giselle says in that tone, clapping her hands together. “so, when karina wakes up, she never saw you in that bed. you were never there. simple.”

this is the worst morning of your entire life.

as you throw yourself onto the couch like a corpse with your arms folded over your chest, your angel of a dorm mate pulls a blanket up to your chin.

“see, like clockwork,” giselle adds with a sly smirk.

your mind is a tangled mess of panic, regret, and complete and utter confusion. you close your eyes, willing yourself to relax — to sell this whole i slept on the couch act but your heart is hammering so loudly in your ears that it’s impossible to focus on anything else.

your brain refuses to shut up, a million thoughts crashing into each other at once, all from the absolute catastrophe that was waking up naked next to yonsei university’s golden girl with no recollection of how or why.

you are not the kind of person this happens to. you are top of your law class, notoriously composed, the one who actually plans things, the one who does not let emotions — or tequila —cloud her judgment.

point of the matter is…you don’t do stupid, reckless, irreversible things.

this was supposed to be a quiet weekend.

but no. because yunjin and ryujin can’t go one saturday without throwing a party, and because you are unfortunately their dormmate, you had no choice but to exist in the war zone that was your shared space. you should have locked yourself in your room, noise-canceling headphones on, ignoring the chaos.

but then ryujin had come along with just one tequila shot, which probably turned into just three, which turned into a complete and total blackout.

your eye twitches.

this is her fault.

and now, here you are. pretending to be asleep, willing the universe to undo the last twelve hours.

you almost laugh. not because it’s funny, but because it’s so fucking absurd that you don’t know what else to do.

karina, the karina, the closest thing yonsei university has to a deity. the kind of girl who walked through campus like the world existed for her entertainment, who made everything look effortless, who made people stupid just by looking at them. she was untouchable, unreachable, unattainable. and yet —

somehow…

she had ended up naked in your bed.

you grip the blanket tighter, your stomach churning.

and jaewook.

god, jaewook.

if karina was a deity, jaewook was her devoted disciple. if she so much as sneezed, he would probably donate a lung.

they were that couple, the one that made people gag from how perfect they seemed. and he was loyal. so loyal that it made you sick sometimes, the way he looked at her like she was the only person in the world.

what the fuck happened last night?

your brain tries to piece it together, but there’s nothing. no flashes of memory or drunken conversations replaying in your head, not a moment where you could have possibly imagined this happening.

the couch dips suddenly, and you nearly jump out of your skin.

your muscles go rigid.

no. no, no, no —

“dude.”

oh, for fuck’s sake.

“go away, ryujin,” you mutter, eyes still squeezed shut.

“no, no, no,” she whispers, and you don’t even need to look at her to know she has the most punchable grin on her face. “i need you to open your eyes and look at me so i can personally watch your soul leave your body.”

“not happening.”

“you —” she pauses for dramatic effect. “hooked up with karina.”

your jaw clenches. “shut the fuck up.”

“no, because, you hooked up with karina.”

“i swear to god, ryujin —”

“you —”

you slap a hand over her mouth, cutting her off before she can cause any more psychic damage. “if you say it out loud, it becomes real, and i am not ready for that kind of responsibility.”

she peels your hand off, grinning so hard it physically hurts to look at. “i cannot believe this. you, of all people.”

“what the fuck does that mean?”

“it means,” she waves a hand, “you’re, like, the most socially unavailable person i’ve ever met. you voluntarily do your readings before class. you say no to, like, everything. you have a permanent ‘do not disturb’ sign on your face. and yet —”

“stop.”

“— you managed to bag karina.”

you groan, pulling the blanket over your face. “go. away.”

“so, like, was she good?”

“what the actual fuck is wrong with you?”

before she can push any further, the sound of soft footsteps echoes from the stairs.

the dorm goes silent.

your heart stops.

you and ryujin lock eyes. hers are wide with excitement. yours are filled with sheer panic.

giselle’s voice comes first, casual, like this is just another normal morning. “morning, hottie.”

then, the one voice you really didn’t want to hear right now — soft, smooth, effortlessly composed. “good morning.”

your pulse nearly explodes out of your chest when you hear giselle moving around the kitchen, probably pouring herself coffee like this isn’t the biggest crisis of your life. “did you sleep okay?”

karina hums. “yeah. i think? i don’t really remember how i got where i was, though.”

your stomach turns.

ryujin is staring at you, holding back a laugh.

giselle, the absolute hero, keeps it cool. “oh, you were super drunk. you passed out on y/n’s bed. that’s why she’s on the couch.”

a pause.

a long one.

you swear you can hear karina thinking. “right,” she finally says, but it’s hesitant. something in her voice tells you she doesn’t completely buy it.

“hey,” she continues. “did minjeong and ningning get home safe?”

“yeah,” yunjin jumps in, voice faltering. “giselle got them an uber last night.”

“oh, good,” she exhales. “thanks for the hospitality. and tell y/n thanks for letting me sleep on her bed. i have to rush out and check on the girls. promise i’ll make it all up to you later on!”

oh, fuck off.

you squeeze your eyes shut harder, willing yourself to look as asleep as humanly possible.

you stop breathing.

she still thinks you’re asleep, still thinks you’re innocent.

you can almost hear giselle smile. “of course. anytime, love. message me when you get home.”

there’s movement, the rustling of fabric, the faint click of a phone being picked up. she is finally leaving.

the front door opens, then clicks shut.

one.

two.

three.

“holy fucking shit!” ryujin yells as slaps your arm so hard you nearly fall off the couch.

“ouch! what the fuck,” you hiss, rubbing your arm as you glare at her.

“you got away with it,” she grins, like she’s proud of you.

“got away with what? i don’t even know what happened!”

yunjin strolls over, sipping a glass of water like this is so entertaining for her. “guys, she knows something is off.”

you groan, shoving your face into the pillow because she definitely did. “do not say that.”

“she totally does,” she insists. “she hesitated. did you hear that? the pause? she knows.”

“she doesn’t know know,” giselle corrects her. “and that’s what matters.”

ryujin flops dramatically onto the floor, still grinning like a maniac. “you. and karina. i’m never getting over this.”

“i don’t even know what ‘this’ is!” you exclaim. “i blacked out.”

yunjin smirks. “so romantic.”

“maybe you guys had, like, a deep emotional connection before passing out,” ryujin says. “soulmates typa shit.”

“oh my god, i will murder all of you.”

“you already tried last night,” giselle says. “you nearly threw up on my shoes.”

you groan, throwing your arm over your face. “this is the worst day of my life.”

“yeah, okay,” ryujin grins. “until karina walks through that door next weekend again.”

you go completely still. oh, fuck. this is far from over.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

the rest of the weekend is hell. before this, your life had been simple. structured. predictable.

you were y/n, top of your law class, the human embodiment of do not disturb, an over-caffeinated, emotionally unavailable machine built for academic success.

there was a system in place: study, work, sleep, repeat. everything in its place, nothing left to chance. you weren’t the type to get involved in drama.

and yet here you are.

ryujin, yunjin and giselle have turned your dorm into a psychological battlefield, launching attacks when you least expect it.

a whistle when you pass by. a ‘hmm’ when they look at your neck. giggles when you so much as breathe in their direction.

but the worst part?

the comments.

“y/n, i think you need a turtleneck collection. just a thought.”

“she really got you, huh? didn’t take karina as the possessive type, but here we are.”

“you’re one step away from being branded. guys, should we get her a collar, or?”

“oh, c’mon,” ryujin sighs dramatically, “at least own it. let the world know karina claimed you as hers.”

you nearly threw a shoe at her for that one.

but you don’t give them the satisfaction of reacting. you shut down, as you always do when life throws something stupid at you. you focus on your assignments, make your coffee extra strong and ignore the laughter that follows you through the dorm like an inescapable curse.

so when your phone buzzes on sunday with a text from your “coworker” (he owns the place), taehyung, you see your chance for freedom.

from taehyung:

bro im sick can u cover my shift

sent 1:04 PM

you scoff. sick. right. you saw him last night at the party, downing soju like it was a hydration challenge.

to taehyung

hangover ≠ sick

but sure

anything to get away from this dorm.

sent 1:05 PM

you grab your hoodie, sliding into your shoes as you make a beeline for the door. predictably, ryujin and yunjin notice.

“where are you going?” yunjin asks, sprawled on the couch like a queen surveying her kingdom.

“away from you.”

ryujin snorts. “so dramatic.”

you ignore her, then frown. “where’s giselle?”

“oh,” she grins. “you know, at karina’s dorm like almost always.”

you freeze for half a second. “why?”

“to see minjeong and ningning and karina,” yunjin says, yawning. “those girls never get hangovers after our weekends. it’s unfair.”

you swallow down the inexplicable discomfort that sentence gives you, then mutter, “good for them.”

“did you put your collar on?” ryujin asks, bursting into a fit of laughter with yunjin as they push each other.

“fuck off!” you yell out, slamming the door shut before they can make another claiming joke.

your job at the vintage clothing store is normally a blessing.

it’s tucked away on a quiet street, away from the chaos of campus, filled with racks of old designer pieces, shelves of worn-in leather boots and stacks of vinyl records no one under 30 knows how to use. it smells like aged fabric, dust and the occasional whiff of espresso from the café next door.

most times, you get to be alone with your thoughts.

unfortunately, your thoughts are the last thing you want to be alone with today.

you spend the first half-hour making small talk with taehyung who dragged himself in just to swap shifts with you and give you a mini-handover (he insisted), despite looking like death warmed him.

“so,” he groans, leaning against the counter as you check inventory, “what did i miss last night?”

you barely glance at him. “you were at the party. how would i know?”

“yeah, but i blacked out before midnight. you seem alive, so i’m guessing you didn’t go that hard.”

“you know i don’t go hard at those parties,” you stare at the register, gripping the pen in your hand a little too tightly. “but yeah, sure, something like that.”

“huh,” he yawns, stretching his arms out. “any gossip?”

“no.”

he eyes you. “you’re lying.”

“i’m working.”

“so am i.”

“you’re standing there doing nothing.”

“it called assisting,” he points out, crossing his arms. “i’m technically your boss so you i can just stand here.”

you sigh. “just go home, taehyung.”

he salutes lazily, finally giving up on trying to get information out of you as he dragged himself out of the store, and finally, you’re alone.

but time moves painfully slow when you’re avoiding your own thoughts.

you try to make it pass by putting together outfits, pulling pieces from different racks, layering coats over sweaters, setting aside things you think might sell well. you tell yourself you’re being productive, but the truth is, you’re distracting yourself.

because no matter what you do, she lingers in your mind. bits and pieces of the night are starting to return. flashes of moments, like someone slowly restoring a corrupted file.

karina approaching you in the balcony, taking a shot with you and ryujin, her lips curling around the rim of the glass.

you grip a hanger a little too tightly.

what the fuck were you two even talking about? why did she even approach you?

your stomach twists, but before you can spiral any further — the bell above the door jingles.

you glance up, prepared to do the usual “welcome, let me know if you need anything,” but then, your soul leaves your body.

because walking into the store, looking like they just stepped out of a perfectly curated instagram post, are the last people you want to see.

minjeong. ningning. giselle.

and —

karina.

“oh,” ningning grins, like she already knows she’s about to have the time of her life. “look who it is.”

“y/n!” giselle beams, like she wasn’t just at your dorm this morning, cackling at your misery. “what a coincidence. i thought you had the day off?”

karina just looks at you, eyes sharp with some unreadable emotion and you swear you forget how to breathe. your throat is so dry.

“what are you doing here?” you ask, voice slightly higher than usual because you sure as hell know ryujin and yunjin called her. “i took a shift from taehyung.”

“y/n, we’re shopping,” minjeong says innocently, scanning the store. “this is a store, right?”

you clear your throat. “yeah but —“

“aw,” ningning coos, “is someone grumpy? hungover? woke up on the couch?”

“i’m working,” you say through gritted teeth, feeling heat rise to your cheeks. they definitely know something.

“sure you are,” giselle smirks. “totally wasn’t just staring off into space before we came in.”

you force yourself to inhale. exhale. normal. be normal. but you can feel karina’s gaze burning into you, like she’s waiting for something.

you shift awkwardly. “…do you guys need help finding anything?”

ningning grins. “yeah, actually, i think we need a very high-necked sweater. maybe a scarf. or, ooh, maybe a better concealer.”

“whatever yizhuo, it’s a fucking rash,” you huff out, sit at the front desk, fingers hovering over the laptop keyboard, trying to look as busy as humanly possible.

but it’s impossible to focus when, just a few metres away, they are giggling.

little snickers, hushed whispers, the kind of laughter that’s definitely about you. you don’t even have to look up to know it’s happening. every few minutes, you feel their gazes flicker in your direction, lingering just long enough to make your ears burn.

and it’s killing you.

because you are trying to reply to customer enquiries, you really are. but how is anyone supposed to focus when the four most dangerous people in your life are shopping in your store like they own the place?

the worst part is how casual they’re being.

“does this scream rich housewife or rich housewife going through a scandal?” ningning muses, throwing an expensive-looking fur coat over her shoulders.

“scandal,” minjeong replies without looking up from a rack of leather jackets. “definitely scandal.”

“perfect,” ningning hums. “that’s the goal.”

they giggle. you type absolute nonsense into the enquiry form. you cannot do this. you cannot sit here and pretend that your entire world isn’t crashing down around you.

and so, you endure about ten more minutes before you completely snap.

“giselle,” you hiss, standing up so abruptly that your chair screeches against the floor. “outside, please.”

the pink-haired girl, who had been flicking through a stack of vinyl records, looks up, blinking innocently. “me?”

“yes, you,” you grit out. “now, thank you.”

the other two (god knows where karina is) immediately burst into laughter as she follows you outside, smirking like she just won the lottery.

the cold air is a slap to your overheated face. your skin is burning, your pulse is erratic and you’re so stressed that your left eye is twitching.

“alright,” she begins, crossing her arms, clearly enjoying herself. “to what do i owe the honour?”

you glare at her. “why are you guys even here? you’re such a shit-stirrer, bet this was ryujin and yunjin’s idea.”

she gasps dramatically, pressing a hand to her chest. “wow. y/n, this is the hottest vintage shop in town! we’re just a bunch of girls supporting a small business. why are you being a hater?”

“aeri,” you shake your head, squeezing the bridge of your nose.

“what?” she says, feigning innocence. “can’t a girl shop without being interrogated by the y/n police?”

“giselle,” you repeat, voice dangerously low. “don’t do this.”

“do what?” she blinks at you, all wide-eyed amusement.

you clench your jaw; knowing all too well that she does things sometimes just to fuck with you. “don’t act like you don’t know exactly why i’m asking.”

“oh, come on,” she groans, rolling her eyes. “is it really that bad? who cares about jaewook? he hasn’t even scored a goal for over a year.”

his name alone makes you shiver. “aeri, he’s a goalkeeper!” you sighed because…she can be unbelievably dense sometimes.

she clicks her tongue, looking at her pink nails. “like i said, don’t care.”

you run a hand through your hair, exhaling sharply as you steal a glance at the other two. “did you tell them?”

“tell who what?”

“giselle.”

“okay, okay,” she grins while shaking her head. she’s enjoying this. “no, i didn’t tell minjeong and ningning anything, never said a word.”

relief immediately floods your chest. “oh, thank god —”

“but they did.”

your stomach drops. “what?”

“what do you mean, what?” giselle tilts her head, smirking. “they live with karina. have been, for years. of course they know. she tells us everything.”

“but —” you blink rapidly, brain completely short-circuiting. “but you said —”

“i said i didn’t tell anyone,” giselle shrugs. “i never said they didn’t know.”

“giselle,” you whisper, gripping her by the shoulders. “do you want me to die? he’s going to kill me.”

“a little,” she admits. “but you’re making it so fun to watch.”

you let go of her like she burned you, staring at her in complete disbelief. “so minjeong and ningning…”

“knew the whole time?” giselle finishes your sentence, nodding. “yep — but relax, they hate jaewook anyways. you have nothing to be worried about!”

your entire life flashes before your eyes. oh god. this is worse than you thought. before you can start digging your own grave right there on the sidewalk, the shop door swings open.

“sorry to interrupt your little lover’s quarrel,” ningning says sweetly, poking her head outside. “but karina needs help with sizing.”

you go completely still. “what? why me?”

“sizing,” ningning repeats, blinking. “you do work here, don’t you?”

giselle claps a hand on your back. “go on, employee of the month.”

you turn back to ningning, feeling your entire body betray you as your face grows hotter. “can’t she get —”

“oh, she specifically asked for you,” ningning confirms, smiling like the devil. “so, you know. chop-chop.”

you are going to pass out.

giselle is practically shaking with laughter when you cast another glance at her and then back at ningning, who just raises an eyebrow, waiting.

your fate is sealed as you drag your feet just outside of the fitting room; heart pounding in your ears.

this is ridiculous — you have defended mock trial cases against the most cutthroat professors in the department. you have stared down intimidating judges with a straight face and delivered speeches in front of an entire lecture hall without breaking a sweat.

and yet —

you cannot bring yourself to knock on a fitting room door. pathetic. then, another memory slams into you, so vivid it almost knocks the air out of your lungs.

karina. in your room. the door clicking shut. “touch me, y/n.”

you barely had a second to process before she was on you, pressing you against the door, lips finding yours with such certainty, like she had been waiting all night.

you remember the warmth of her hands against your skin, the way her perfume; that expensive, sweet scent that still lingers on your sheets and clouding your senses, made your head spin in a way alcohol never could.

you remember your fingers tangling in her hair, her breath against your jaw, the way she —

“y/n?”

you jump, startled.

her voice is soft, muffled through the fitting room door, but hearing your name come out of her mouth — so natural, so casual — sends a violent shudder down your spine.

she just said your name. not some generic ‘hey’ or ‘excuse me’.

you swallow thickly, clenching your fists, forcing yourself to remember that you are at work and that you have a job to do.

before you can respond, the door swings open. and there she is.

karina stands in the small fitting room, looking up at you with mild curiosity, one hand resting on her hip. she’s wearing a white baby tee, cropped just above her waist, too tight for comfort.

you swallow.

the fabric clings to her, the neckline dipping just enough to reveal the sharp lines of her collarbones. her dark hair falls in soft waves over her shoulders, framing her face in a way that makes her look almost too perfect, like she walked straight out of a glossy magazine and into your workplace.

she tugs at the hem of the shirt, frowning slightly. “do you guys have this in a bigger size? i like it, but i think i look terrible in this one.”

your brain is not functioning. there is a slight ringing in your ears. your vision is blurry. you are physically incapable of forming a coherent thought.

“uh,” you manage to croak out, voice embarrassingly weak. “we…we don’t keep stock in the back. everything we have is already on the floor.”

she sighs, glancing at her reflection in the mirror. “that’s too bad, it’s making me look terrible.”

this is your chance. this is the moment where you say let me know if you need anything else and walk away like a normal person.

except…

“you look hot,” you say it before you can stop yourself.

she turns to you, one perfectly arched eyebrow lifting slightly, a ghost of a smirk playing on her lips. “yeah?”

your stomach fucking plummets straight into the ground beneath you.

hot?!

why the fuck did you say that? why would you do that to yourself?

but now she’s looking at you, actually looking, and you can’t back out, can’t take it back, can’t pretend you didn’t just blurt out the world’s most unprofessional sentence.

“yeah,” you say again, somehow making it worse.

her lips curl slightly at the edges, and for a split second, you think she might actually tease you for it, but then her gaze flickers downward.

your blood turns to ice because she’s looking at your neck.

panic slams into you at full force. you knew your cover-up job was bad, but you didn’t think it was that bad.

apparently, you were wrong.

you yank the collar of your sweater up, heart slamming against your ribs. “do you need anything else?”

karina doesn’t answer right away.

instead, she tilts her head, studying you like she’s trying to figure something out. her expression is unreadable, but there’s something in her eyes…something sharp, something knowing.

then, finally, she says, “about last night —”

your breath catches. this is it. she’s going to order a hitman so no one else can know your secret. the pounding in your ears is louder than ever; it’s embarrassing.

she is standing in front of you, in that impossibly tight baby tee, looking at you like she’s waiting for something. her lips curl slightly, a ghost of amusement playing at the corners of her mouth.

“thanks for looking after me,” she continues, voice softer than you expect. “and for being so considerate.”

you freeze, completely unprepared for the gratitude. you don’t know what you expected…maybe indifference or some teasing remark, or even just an outright dismissal of what happened last night.

but this? this sincerity? it throws you completely off balance.

“it’s nothing,” you clear your throat, forcing yourself to smile, but it feels unnatural, like your body hasn’t caught up with your brain yet. “i mean, it was…yeah. no worries.”

karina keeps looking at you and the weight of her gaze makes your skin prickle. and now that you’re really seeing her, it’s impossible to ignore just how stupidly pretty she is.

her features are sharp, carved to perfection: high cheekbones, delicate nose, lips that look like they belong in an art gallery. her dark hair falls effortlessly over her shoulders, strands framing her face in a way that seems unintentional but is devastating nonetheless.

but it’s her eyes that undo you.

dark, observant, laced with something that makes you feel completely exposed. like she sees right through you, past the mask of composure you’ve spent years perfecting.

you are so fucked.

“i’m finally glad to meet you, you know,” she adds with a beaming smile, tilting her head slightly.

your brain short-circuits. “what?”

“giselle always says good things about you,” she explains, shrugging. “but you’re always busy. i swear, i thought you were a myth for a while…then i saw you in campus laughing with her a couple of weeks ago.”

your mouth opens, then closes. giselle, the spawn of satan whose mission is to annoy you, has said good things about you? that’s a surprise.

you clear your throat once. “yeah, well…law isn’t exactly a relaxed degree.”

karina’s expression shifts, something like intrigue flickering in her eyes. “is it really that bad?”

you nod. “yeah, final year.”

“makes sense,” she hums.

you frown. “what does that mean?”

“you have that…lawyer energy.”

“lawyer energy?” you repeat, deadpan.

“yeah,” she lifts a hand, gesturing vaguely. “like, you’re very put together. very serious. like you could argue your way out of anything.”

and finally, you smile as you shake your head. “that does not sound like a compliment.”

she grins. “it’s a little impressive. kind of scary, but impressive.”

you don’t know whether to take that as an insult or a compliment, but either way, you’re definitely not equipped to keep having this conversation. your brain is already struggling to process the fact that you’re standing here, talking to karina like it’s normal.

like last night didn’t completely obliterate your moral compass.

and then, just when you think this interaction can’t get any more dangerous —“

“i want to make it up to you,” karina offers. “for looking after me last night.”

your world crumbles. “you don’t have to —”

“let me buy you lunch sometime,” she interrupts, eyes locked onto yours. “between classes.”

this is a horrible idea.

this is the worst idea.

you cannot be seen having lunch with karina, not when — not when she —

“oh,” you stammer, scrambling for an escape route, “i’m actually…only ever free on wednesday nights. but only for a short time, so —“

“perfect,” she cuts in smoothly, clapping her hands together. “dinner on wednesday, after our classes.”

you blink. “i —”

“i’ll pick you up.”

you have been cornered.

karina cheated on jaewook with you and now she wants to take you to dinner? is she even aware of what happened last night? does she care?

your moral compass is begging you to say no. to stop this before it becomes something you can’t walk away from. but she is looking at you like she already knows what your answer is going to be.

and that’s what makes it worse.

“okay,” you hear yourself say, completely betraying every rational part of your brain. “wednesday night.”

she smiles. “good.”

and then, like she hasn’t just set your entire life on fire, she turns back to the mirror, adjusting the hem of her top. “i’ll take this, by the way.”

you bite your lip, still recovering. “the one you said looked terrible on you?”

she meets your gaze in the mirror, lips curving. “well,” she begins, “you said i looked great in it.”

the way your heart stops should be considered a medical emergency but before you can even process that, the rest of the girls are making their way to the register, all far too smug for your liking.

“great,” you tell karina. “i’ll meet you over there.”

ningning hands over a pair of sunglasses, minjeong has a leather jacket draped over her arm, and giselle just watches you, her grin nothing short of pure evil.

“how’s law treating you, y/n?” minjeong asks, casual, too casual as she leans against the counter.

“it’s fine,” you say stiffly, scanning her items, refusing to look up.

“just fine?” ningning teases. “we hear your name all over campus, you know, like how you won us another mock trial against korea university.”

“yeah,” giselle chimes in, “so impressive. such a role model.”

they are all provoking your end and they all know you can’t do anything about it. “lovely, hope i see you all again soon. not.”

minjeong smirks at you before putting the jacket she just paid for on. “trust that you’ll see us at your dorm next weekend.”

karina is the last to pay. she steps forward, handing over her card, and as you process the transaction, you can feel her eyes on you.

watching. waiting.

you don’t look up.

then, as she grabs her bag and heads for the door, she pauses. she turns slightly, glancing over her shoulder, one hand holding the door open.

“i can’t wait for wednesday,” she yells out, and then she’s gone.

the door swings shut behind her, and you just stand there, gripping the counter like it’s the only thing keeping you upright.

you are so unbelievably fucked.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

monday morning rolls around and you’re clinging to your law student routine like a life raft in the middle of the ocean. nothing steadies the mind quite like dense constitutional law readings and back-to-back lectures.

the weekend, with all its chaos, is firmly behind you. at least, that’s what you tell yourself.

but as you stand in the dorm’s small kitchen, flipping an egg with robotic precision, you’re reminded that nothing is ever truly behind you when ryujin and yunjin exist in your life.

“so,” ryujin starts, leaning against the counter, arms crossed. “a turtleneck, huh?”

you don’t respond.

“interesting choice,” yunjin adds from the table, her chin propped up on her palm, watching you like a hawk. “didn’t know it was suddenly winter.”

you exhale sharply. “i swear to god —”

“no, no, we’re just admiring the effort,” ryujin interrupts, smirking. “like, it’s a bold move. but hey, i get it,” she gestures vaguely toward your neck. “you’d want to cover all that up before your date tonight.”

the egg you just flipped lands slightly off-center. you slowly turn around to the pink-haired girl already halfway through her breakfast. “giselle.”

yunjin is beaming, practically vibrating with excitement. “apparently, someone asked you out to dinner.”

your so-called friend shrugs from the corner of the kitchen, sipping her coffee, completely unbothered. “what? it was funny.”

“no, it’s not,” you snap, pointing your spatula at her. “none of this is funny.”

but ryujin and yunjin seem to disagree because they’re laughing their asses off, practically doubling over the counter.

“she wants to wine and dine you?” yunjin gasps, wiping a tear from her eye. “this is huge.”

“nah, buddy,” ryujin says between her laughs. “jaewook’s really coming after you now.”

your stomach twists at the reminder.

“exactly,” you mutter, turning back to your eggs, suddenly losing your appetite. “she has a boyfriend. this isn’t funny. it’s…it’s messed up.”

giselle sighs, finally looking a little guilty. “i know, i get it. it’s just…none of us expected this. you didn’t expect this.”

you clench your jaw. “because it shouldn’t have happened.”

silence, except for the sound of eggs frying.

yunjin speaks first. “look, if you don’t wanna go, don’t. no one’s forcing you. but…doesn’t it make you wonder?”

you don’t answer. because it does.

why you? why now? why, after years of only ever exchanging passing glances, did karina suddenly want to know you?

ryujin leans against the counter, watching you carefully. then, with a smirk, she mutters, “maybe she’s realised she likes them a little nerdy, a little feisty.”

you throw a piece of toast at her head.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

by the time your first lecture rolls around, the teasing is still ringing in your ears, but you force yourself to push it aside. you slide into your usual seat in, staring blankly at the lecture slides, trying your best to absorb the information — but your mind keeps drifting.

professor choi is droning on about the evolution of human rights treaties and while normally you would be engaged, today, you’re just grateful to be anywhere but your dorm.

the teasing from your friends were relentless. at least here, surrounded by other law students drowning in coursework, you could pretend none of it ever happened.

beside you, irene adjusts her blaze, a classic, pressed navy number before glancing over to you. “so, how was the party?”

if anyone embodied sophistication, it was her. she was effortlessly composed, always put together and somehow managed to balance a social life while remaining at the top of the class. unlike you.

you exhale, rubbing your temple. “messy.”

she clicks her tongue. “ugh, i knew it. i was going to go, but i’m already behind in this class. stayed in and revised instead.”

you glance at her pristine notebook, filled with neat, elegant handwriting and huff a quiet laugh. “yeah, i can see that.”

she smirks. “so? anything exciting happen?”

your grip tightens around your pen. “define exciting.”

she raises a brow. “anything that would make me regret not going.”

“then, no,” you take a sip of your coffee, staring at the projector screen as if it can shield you from this conversation. “just the usual chaos, but i’m impressed that you skipped a party for this.”

“i’m serious,” she says, sighing dramatically. “choi’s exams are a nightmare. i have to be prepared.”

the lecture goes by in a blur of legal precedents and treaties. when it finally ends, you’re gathering your things when she turns to you. “we have time before the next one. brunch?”

you nod. “sure. same place?”

she smiles, nudging your arm lightly. “obviously.”

it’s routine by now, a well-practiced tradition between the two of you whenever there’s a big gap between your classes. navigating through the crowded hallways of yonsei is always a battle, but today feels especially suffocating. students are rushing between buildings, groups gathered in corners, debating over case studies or gossiping about the latest scandal.

the two of you head out, weaving through the sea of students in the hallway. as you make your way towards the café, some guy, clearly distracted by his phone, nearly collides with irene.

wrong move.

she stops in her tracks, turns sharply and levels him with a look so icy it could freeze hell over.

“watch where you’re fucking going,” she says, voice deceptively calm but laced with authority.

the guy…some poor unsuspecting sophomore, immediately looks like he wants to crawl into a hole. he stammers out an apology, but she has already dismissed him with a flick of her gaze.

you chuckle, shaking your head. “you really have a talent for terrifying men.”

irene flips her hair over her shoulder, completely unbothered. “it’s not my fault most of them are weak-willed.”

thankfully, the café is tucked away in a quieter part of campus, nestled between tall ginkgo trees. it’s the kind of place where professors come to sip espresso and students pretend to study while people-watching.

you order a black coffee — strong, no nonsense. irene gets her usual iced americano, claiming it’s the only thing keeping her sane these days as the two of you find a table under the shade, the bustle of campus life continuing around you.

and the conversation starts off with something far more welcome than whatever the hell your dorm mates have been tormenting you about.

“so,” irene starts, elegantly cutting into her toast. “what’s the plan after graduation? not too long till we’re in the real world now.”

you wrap your hands around your coffee cup, letting the warmth seep into your skin. “probably a master’s. i want to specialise in something. maybe corporate law, maybe international.”

she hums in approval. “solid choices. not as exciting as criminal law, though.”

you snort. “i like my sanity intact, thanks.”

“makes sense. i’m thinking of taking a gap year, then go into firm work, though. i don’t have the patience for more studying.”

you smirk. “shocking, considering you’re basically law royalty.”

“shut up,” she smiles, rolling her eyes. “but seriously, you’d do well in a masters program. you actually like all the heavy theory.”

“so, where’s the next destination?” you lean back against your chair, exhaling and crossing your arms.

“i want to see more of northern europe,” she admits. “my dad wants me at his firm right after but i’d rather start somewhere else, build my own reputation first. i just don’t see myself working at one place for too long, either.”

“smart,” you hum in approval. “nothing worse than people thinking you only got in because of family connections.”

she smirks. “exactly.”

irene’s the kind of person who never stays in one place for too long, always chasing something beyond the next horizon.

while everyone else planned their careers within the safe confines of seoul, she was already looking at the world. she’s always been that way, even in the way she speaks — already one step ahead, like her mind is filled with things you haven’t even thought to consider yet.

and you’ve always admired that about her.

you’re mid-sentence, talking about potential universities for your master’s, when she suddenly interrupts you.

“she’s really pretty, isn’t she?”

you’re confused. “who?”

she subtly gestures with her cup. you follow her gaze and your stomach twists into knots.

of course.

there she is.

walking past with jaewook, his arm draped over hers in that effortless, this-is-mine way. karina’s dressed in a navy blue blazer and jeans, simple yet elegant, her hair cascading in soft waves. even in casual clothes, she looks like she belongs on a magazine cover.

but it’s not just that…it’s the way she moves, so effortlessly confident, so sure of herself.

and then, as if she can feel your stare, she turns her head.

she smiles.

it’s small, subtle — almost unreadable. but it’s there. you don’t smile back.

instead, you look away, taking a sip of your coffee like nothing happened. irene immediately nudges you. “what was that for?”

you snap your gaze away. “what?”

“you just ignored her — she smiled at you.”

“no, i didn’t.”

“yes, you did.”

you groan, rubbing your temple. “can we not do this?”

irene smirks, clearly entertained. “so you have met her; was this at the party?”

you glance back once more, but karina and jaewook are already disappearing into the crowd. your stomach churns.

“i’ll take that as a yes,” she watches you, amused. “you need more friends outside of your dorm mates and me, you know.”

“this is my final year,” you tell her flatly. “i might as well keep the system that way.”

irene hums, taking a slow sip of her drink. “i just hope somebody crashes it.”

you scoff. “not happening.”

sometimes, when irene talks about leaving, about how she doesn’t want to stay in one place forever, you wonder if that’s why she’s never let herself get too close to people.

or maybe that’s just your excuse. because in a way, you and irene are similar.

you don’t let people in, either.

which is why, right now, as she sips her smoothie and casually talks about karina, you feel like the ground beneath you is shifting because irene knows you.

she sees you.

and if she ever realises what’s actually happening — if she ever connects the dots…you don’t know if you would be able to handle her thoughts about it.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

part 2 — wearing no disguise, you erase him

#kpop x reader #kpop gg #aespa x reader #aespa imagines #karina #karina imagines #kpop imagines #angst #aespa #heliooosss #karina x reader

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hisfavegirl · 5 months ago

Text

Our Fate - Aegon Targaryen x Sister!Reader

Summary : Your marriage with Aegon has a good influence on you both, Aegon changes his character to be better and you also feel the changes in him day by day.

Alicent’s screams echoed through the castle, filling the air with pain and tension. Inside her private chambers, the maester and midwives worked desperately to calm her, holding her trembling hands gently, trying to ease her pain so she could remain calm and bring her second child into the world safely.

“Calm down, Your Grace,” the maester said in a low, steady voice, though his eyes were filled with concern. “Take deep breaths. Your child will be born soon.”

Despite the comforting words, Alicent’s face betrayed the agony she was enduring. She bit her lip, stifling every scream, unwilling to show weakness in front of those around her. Yet, her body was betraying her, the pain growing more intense with every passing moment.

The midwives hurried to prepare everything needed, working as swiftly as possible to ensure the birth would go smoothly. They knew all too well, from past experience, how dangerous childbirth could be. No one could predict what might happen, especially with so much pressure surrounding the birth.

Alicent shivered, her eyes filled with anxiety—not just for herself, but for the child she carried. “I… I can’t,” her voice broke, barely a whisper. “What if something goes wrong? What if I lose this child?”

One of the midwives gently took her hand, offering reassurance. “Your Grace, you’ve been strong up until now. We will make sure everything goes well. Trust us.”

Yet, despite their reassuring words, fear still gripped Alicent’s heart. What if this was the end of it all?

The midwife checked on Alicent once more, her face focused and serious. “The baby is ready,” she said, her voice steady. "Your Grace, you need to push now. With all your strength.”

Alicent, her body trembling from the exertion and pain, nodded, gripping the sheets tightly as she gathered every ounce of strength left in her. She cried out as she pushed, her breath coming in quick, shallow gasps. The pain was unbearable, yet she forced herself to endure, driven by the knowledge that her child was so close to being born.

Moments later, the midwife’s voice rang out with relief, “A healthy girl, Your Grace. Your daughter is born safe and sound.”

Alicent let out a shaky breath, a sense of overwhelming relief flooding through her. The pain was still there, but the weight of it felt lighter now. She could hear the soft cries of her newborn, and for a moment, she felt like the world had lifted off her shoulders.

But then, to her shock, the midwife’s voice grew more urgent. “Wait… there’s more. Another one is coming.”

Alicent’s eyes widened with disbelief, her heart racing as the pain returned, even more intense than before. She hadn’t expected this. A second child? Another girl?

The midwives worked quickly, helping her to push once more, and soon, another baby girl was born. The room was filled with the cries of two healthy daughters, and Alicent was left in stunned silence, her body exhausted but filled with awe.

Two daughters. Twins.

She couldn’t help but feel overwhelmed. The pain that had nearly broken her moments ago was now replaced with a mix of emotions—relief, joy, and a profound sense of love for these two little girls who had come into the world against all odds. But even as her heart swelled with love, the reality set in: she was the mother of two newborn daughters now, and life as she knew it had just changed forever.

You walk through the garden with your ladies-in-waiting by your side. The gentle rustling of leaves and the soft chirping of birds fill the air, creating a peaceful melody that makes the moment feel serene. The sun filters through the canopy of trees, casting dappled patterns of light and shadow on the path ahead.

Your hand rests on your growing belly, your fingers moving in slow, thoughtful circles. Every now and then, you glance down, a small smile tugging at the corners of your lips. There’s a quiet contentment in moments like this — when the world feels slower, calmer.

Your ladies-in-waiting walk close by, their light chatter filling the air. Occasionally, you join the conversation, sharing a laugh or offering a kind remark. You enjoy their company, especially on days like this when Aegon is away, training with Aemond on the practice field. The clang of steel on steel is distant, muffled by the trees and the gentle hum of the garden, but you know they’re there, locked in their familiar dance of blades and pride.

The scent of blooming flowers drifts past on the breeze, sweet and fresh. You pause for a moment to take it in, letting the soft fragrance fill your senses. The warmth of the sun on your skin, the steady movement of life within you, and the simple joy of being surrounded by beauty — it’s in moments like these that you feel at peace.

One of your ladies comments on the beauty of a nearby rose bush, its crimson petals so vivid they almost seem unreal. You nod in agreement, reaching out to gently touch a velvety petal. “It’s strong,” you muse softly, your eyes lingering on the bloom. “Even with thorns, it still flourishes.”

Your gaze shifts to your belly, your hand still resting protectively over it. You walk on, the sound of footsteps crunching softly on the path behind you. No matter the burdens that come with war, court politics, or the pressures of family, moments like these remind you of your own strength. For like the roses, you endure, you grow — and you will bloom in your own time.

You turn your head and see your mother, Queen Alicent, walking toward you with your twin sister, Helaena, by her side. The sight of them fills you with warmth, and a bright smile lights up your face. Without hesitation, you step forward to greet them.

“Mother,” you say fondly as you embrace her. Her arms wrap around you with the firm but gentle hold only a mother can give. For a moment, you feel like a child again, safe and secure in her embrace.

She pulls back slightly to look at you, her gaze immediately dropping to your growing belly. Concern flickers in her eyes as she brushes a strand of hair from your face. “Are you feeling tired, my sweet girl?” she asks, her voice laced with both worry and affection.

You smile softly, shaking your head. “No, Mother, I’m well. The walk does me good,” you reply, resting a hand on your belly. “The babe is calm today, too.”

Alicent’s eyes soften with relief, and a small smile tugs at her lips. “Good,” she says, glancing down at your belly with quiet reverence. “Still, you mustn’t overexert yourself. Rest is just as important as strength.”

Helaena steps closer, her gaze distant but kind as she looks at you and then at your belly. “Dreams of wings and warmth,” she says softly, tilting her head as if listening to something only she can hear. Her words are strange, but they do not unsettle you. You’ve grown used to her cryptic musings, and sometimes, they carry truths no one else sees.

“Perhaps the little one dreams, too,” you say gently, and Helaena smiles, as if you’ve understood something important.

The three of you continue to walk together, side by side, surrounded by the soft hum of the garden. With each step, you feel lighter, knowing that, no matter the trials to come, you have the love of your family to steady you.

You sip your tea, savoring its warmth as you listen to your mother, Alicent, speak. Her voice is steady, carrying the calm authority of someone who has spent a lifetime navigating courts and crowns. Her knitting needles continue their soft, rhythmic clacking, each stitch carefully crafted with love for your unborn child.

Beside you, Helaena sits on the grass, her gaze distant yet filled with quiet wonder. Her hands are outstretched, her fingers delicate as a butterfly perches lightly on them. She tilts her head, watching it closely, her lips curling into a soft smile. The creature’s wings flutter slowly, catching the golden light of the sun, and for a moment, it seems as though the world around her has stilled to match her calm.

You watch her quietly, your eyes filled with affection and a touch of curiosity. Your twin sister has always seemed connected to things others could not see or understand. It’s no surprise to see her at peace with something as fleeting as a butterfly.

Your gaze lingers on her a little longer, thoughtful. It hasn’t been long since she was wed to Aemond, and the idea fills you with a quiet hope. Perhaps soon she, too, will have a child of her own. The thought of your children growing up together — cousins but also as close as siblings — warms your heart.

“She’s always been gentle with them,” Alicent says softly, following your gaze to Helaena. “Butterflies. Insects. Small, fragile things. She understands them in a way that most people don’t.” Her tone is wistful, almost proud.

“She’ll be a good mother,” you say with certainty, your eyes never leaving Helaena. She turns her head slightly as if hearing you, her gaze meeting yours for a moment. She smiles, soft but knowing, as if she’s already seen the future and agrees with you.

“And so will you,” Alicent adds, her voice warm but firm. She gives you a look filled with quiet pride and reassurance. Her hands never stop knitting, her fingers working with steady precision. “Both of you will be wonderful mothers. I have no doubt.”

You glance down at your belly, feeling the gentle, familiar shift of life inside you. The future is uncertain, filled with so many unknowns, but here in the warmth of the sun, with your mother’s love and your sister’s quiet magic, you feel a rare sense of peace.

For a little while longer, you stay there together, letting the world outside the garden fade away. It is enough to simply be here, surrounded by love, hope, and the promise of new life.

You hear a familiar voice calling your name, firm yet tinged with warmth. Your heart lifts instinctively, and you turn toward the sound. There, walking toward you, is Aegon. Beside him is Aemond, his steps measured and precise as always, his face a mask of quiet intensity.

Aegon’s silver hair catches the sunlight, still damp from washing away the sweat of training. It clings in loose strands around his face and neck, giving him a more relaxed, almost boyish appearance. His tunic is slightly wrinkled from exertion, and there’s a hint of lingering energy in his movements, the kind that comes after the thrill of combat.

He grins as he sees you, his violet eyes locked on yours with unmistakable fondness. “There you are,” he says, his voice lighter than usual, as if just seeing you has eased something in him. His gaze flickers briefly to your belly, and his grin softens into something more tender.

Aemond walks at his side, his expression calm but watchful as his single eye takes in the scene. His hair is still perfectly in place, not a strand out of line, though there’s a sheen of effort on his skin. His gaze shifts briefly to Helaena, who is still watching her butterfly with quiet fascination. His face remains impassive, but there’s a certain softness in the way he watches her.

Aegon closes the distance between you with easy strides, his eyes never leaving yours. When he finally reaches you, he crouches slightly, his hand moving instinctively to rest on your belly. His palm is warm through the fabric of your gown, and you feel the familiar comfort of his presence. “Did they give you any trouble today?” he asks playfully, as if the baby inside could somehow be mischievous already.

You chuckle softly, your hand covering his. “Not at all,” you reply, tilting your head to meet his gaze. “Unlike you, I’m sure, causing trouble with your brother.”

Aegon raises a brow, pretending to look offended. “Training isn’t trouble,” he says with mock seriousness. “It’s noble work.”

“Is that what you call it?” you tease, your smile widening.

Aemond lets out a quiet huff that might be a laugh, though he quickly schools his features into calm indifference. His gaze shifts to Alicent, offering her a small nod of respect before his eye drifts back to Helaena.

Aegon’s attention returns fully to you, his grin fading into something softer, more genuine. His thumb traces a gentle circle over your belly before his eyes flick back to yours. “You look beautiful,” he says quietly, so only you can hear. His words are simple, but they linger in the air between you, warming you more than the sun ever could.

You press your hand over his, holding it there for a moment longer. “And you look like you just wrestled a dragon,” you reply, raising a brow.

He laughs, the sound rich and familiar, like the sound of home. “If I did, I’d still win,” he quips, puffing out his chest slightly in jest.

“Of course you would,” you say, humoring him. “You’re Aegon the Conqueror reborn, are you not?”

“Don’t you forget it,” he replies with a wink, leaning in to press a quick, playful kiss to your temple before straightening up again.

The afternoon sun filters through the trees, casting golden light on all of you — Alicent with her knitting, Helaena with her butterfly, Aemond with his quiet watchfulness, and Aegon standing at your side, his hand still resting protectively over your growing belly. For a moment, it feels like the whole world is right here, bound together by love, family, and the quiet certainty that, no matter what lies ahead, you will face it together.

You sit comfortably on the edge of the bed, the soft glow of the afternoon sun streaming through the window, casting a warm light across the room. Aegon kneels before you, his face level with your growing belly. His silver hair falls loosely around his face, still slightly damp from his earlier training.

His hands rest gently on either side of your belly, his thumbs moving in small, absentminded circles. But it’s his voice that draws your attention. He’s speaking softly to the baby, his tone playful yet filled with a quiet tenderness that you rarely see in him.

“Are you being good for your mother?” he murmurs, his violet eyes focused entirely on the curve of your stomach. “No kicks today? Hm? You’re being kind, aren’t you? That’s good. Keep it that way.” He tilts his head, as if waiting for a response, his expression one of mock seriousness. “But if you’re anything like me, you’ll be causing trouble soon enough.”

You can’t help but smile at the sight of him like this — brought to his knees by something so small and unseen. His love is unmistakable in the way he gazes at your belly, in the way his voice softens just for the child he has yet to meet.

Your fingers move through his silver hair, slow and gentle. His hair is soft beneath your touch, and you brush it back from his face, letting your fingertips linger for a moment. He leans into the gesture, his eyes fluttering closed like a cat basking in warmth.

“You’ll spoil them before they’re even born,” you say softly, your voice full of quiet affection.

Aegon opens one eye, glancing up at you with a lopsided grin. “That’s my right as a father,” he replies, turning his face slightly so his cheek rests against your belly. He closes his eyes fully now, letting out a breath as if finally at peace. “Besides, they deserve it.”

You feel the warmth of his cheek through the fabric of your gown, and for a moment, everything else fades away. The weight of the crown, the whispers of court, the distant echoes of war — none of it matters here. It’s just the three of you. You, Aegon, and the life growing between you.

Your hand continues its slow, soothing motion through his hair, your heart full of love so strong it nearly aches. “Yes,” you whisper, your eyes soft with quiet joy. “They do.”

You glance down at Aegon, his head still resting against your belly, and you smile softly. “Come sit with me,” you say gently, your voice quiet but certain.

He lifts his head, his eyes meeting yours with a hint of curiosity before he nods. Rising to his feet, he moves onto the bed, sinking into the mattress beside you with a contented sigh. His presence is warm and steady, and the shift in the bed as he settles feels as familiar as the rise and fall of your own breath.

You lean into him, resting your head on his chest. His arm moves naturally around you, holding you close. His other hand settles instinctively on your belly from behind, his palm resting firmly but gently over the curve of it. His fingers move in slow, soothing strokes, tracing soft circles over the fabric of your gown. The motion is so tender, so careful, that it feels like a lullaby made of touch.

Your eyes flutter closed, your body relaxing fully against him. The rhythm of his breathing is steady beneath you, the strong, reliable thud of his heartbeat in your ear. His warmth surrounds you, and with every slow caress of his hand on your belly, you feel the weight of the day begin to melt away.

“You’re tired,” he murmurs quietly, his lips close to your temple. His voice is lower now, quieter, as though speaking too loudly might disturb the peace you’ve found together.

“Not anymore,” you reply softly, your eyes still closed, letting yourself sink further into the comfort of him. “Not like this.”

His chest rises beneath your cheek with a slow, deep breath. “Good,” he says, his hand never ceasing its gentle movement. “You should rest while you can. Soon, we’ll have another little troublemaker to chase after.”

You hum in response, too relaxed to argue, too content to think of anything but the warmth of him, the safety of this moment, and the quiet love that surrounds you. His hand remains on your belly, his touch steady, protective, and full of love.

For now, there is peace. And that is enough.

You lie on the bed with Aegon, your body nestled comfortably against his. His warmth surrounds you, a protective cocoon that makes you feel safer than any fortress ever could. His arm is draped over you, his hand resting on your belly with familiar ease. His fingers move slowly, tracing soft, rhythmic circles, as if he’s already trying to soothe the child within.

From behind you, you hear the quiet hum of a melody. It’s not a song you fully recognize — perhaps something from childhood or a tune he’s made up on the spot. It’s low and unpolished, but there’s a gentleness to it that makes your heart ache with love. His breath is warm against the back of your neck, his voice a quiet vibration that seems to lull not just you, but the baby as well.

You place your hand over his, your fingers threading through his, stilling his movements for a moment. Your thumb brushes over his knuckles slowly, feeling every ridge and line as if to remind yourself that he is real, that this is real.

“I’m happy,” you whisper, your voice soft but firm, as if speaking a truth that must be heard. Your eyes remain closed, your face relaxed in a rare moment of peace. “I’m happy that fate wasn’t so cruel to us.”

There’s a pause, a stillness in the air that follows your words. For a moment, you think he might not respond. But then, he squeezes your hand, his fingers curling tightly around yours.

“Fate is always cruel,” Aegon says softly, his voice close to your ear, rough but honest. “But even fate can be kind sometimes.” His hand moves again, resuming its slow, soothing strokes over your belly. “Maybe this is our kindness,” he adds, his voice quieter now, as though he’s speaking only to you and the little life growing between you.

You press his hand a little closer to your belly, letting him feel the quiet stillness there. “If it is, then I’ll cherish it,” you murmur, your voice filled with quiet conviction. “I’ll hold on to it, no matter what comes.”

He doesn’t say anything else, but the weight of his silence is as full as any vow. His hand never leaves your belly, and his melody continues, hummed low and soft like a promise only the three of you can hear.

The next day, the sun is gentle in the sky, its warmth softened by a cool breeze that rustles the leaves. You walk side by side with your sister, Helaena, along the stone path that winds through the garden. The scent of blooming flowers fills the air, and the distant hum of bees creates a soft, steady rhythm around you.

Helaena walks with her usual quiet grace, her eyes flitting from one flower to the next, as if each one holds a secret only she can hear. Her fingers brush lightly against the petals as she passes, her touch as delicate as a butterfly’s wing. You glance at her with a fond smile, your hands resting lightly on the curve of your belly.

She’s talking, her voice light and dreamy as she recounts a story about her “little friends” — her name for the insects and creatures she seems to understand better than anyone else.

“The spiders were weaving again last night,” she says softly, her gaze far away but her tone certain. “They made a pattern this time — not like the others. It looked like a wheel, turning slowly.” Her eyes flick toward you, clear and bright, as if to see if you understand. “Maybe it’s a sign of something coming.”

You raise a brow, tilting your head slightly. “A wheel, you say? Perhaps it’s a sign that time is always turning,” you suggest playfully, though you know Helaena’s words often have more weight than they first appear to.

She hums thoughtfully, gazing up at the sky as if seeking an answer among the clouds. “Wheels turn, but they also crush,” she murmurs quietly, her gaze distant again. Then, as if pulled back to the present, she looks at you with a small smile. “But not all of them. Some are just for spinning thread.”

You laugh softly, shaking your head at her musings. Her words often carry a weight you don’t fully understand, but you love them all the same. “Well, I prefer the ones that spin thread,” you say with a grin. “Less danger, more warmth.”

She giggles at that, her smile growing brighter. You both walk a little further, your steps slow and unhurried. You feel calm, at ease, like the world is smaller here in this garden, and only the two of you exist within it.

“I like spending time with you,” you admit after a while, turning to her with a gentle smile. “It feels… peaceful.”

Helaena looks at you with that same soft, knowing smile she always wears when she’s gazing at her butterflies. “Peace is rare,” she says quietly, almost to herself. “So we should hold it tight when it finds us."

Her words linger in the air like the scent of flowers, and you nod, letting her wisdom settle in your heart. The two of you continue your walk, side by side, two sisters sharing the quiet beauty of the garden and the rare, fleeting peace it brings.

Your shared laughter with Helaena is suddenly interrupted by the sound of someone clearing their throat. You turn your head and see them — Aegon and Aemond — standing just at the edge of the garden path. Aegon’s expression is playful, a lopsided grin tugging at the corner of his lips, while Aemond remains his usual composed self, his hands clasped neatly behind his back, his face calm but watchful.

They begin to walk toward you, each with his own distinct stride. Aegon moves with an easy, relaxed confidence, like a man who owns every space he walks into. His eyes are on you, filled with warmth and mischief, his grin growing wider with every step. Aemond’s pace is slower, more deliberate, his gaze flickering briefly to Helaena before returning to you and Aegon. Where Aegon moves with ease, Aemond moves with purpose.

You can’t help but smile at the sight of them. They are as different as night and day, but somehow, in this moment, they both seem so familiar, so perfectly them.

Aegon reaches you first. Without hesitation, he kneels before you, his violet eyes gazing up at you with unspoken affection. He doesn’t say a word, doesn’t need to. His hands gently press against your sides, his touch firm but tender, and then he leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your belly.

You feel the warmth of his lips through the fabric of your gown, and your heart swells with love so deep it feels like it could burst. Your fingers move to his hair, gently combing through the soft silver strands, and he tilts his head slightly, leaning into your touch like it’s the only thing grounding him.

“Good morning to you too,” you say softly, your eyes shining with affection.

“Morning to both of you,” Aegon replies, his voice half-teasing, half-sincere as he presses another kiss to your belly. “And you,” he adds, speaking directly to the child inside, his tone playful. “I hope you weren’t giving your mother too much trouble today.”

Helaena giggles beside you, covering her mouth with her hand, while you simply shake your head in quiet amusement. “They’ve been kind,” you reply, resting your other hand on top of his. “Unlike their father.”

Aegon gasps in mock offense, looking up at you with wide eyes. “I am nothing if not kind,” he insists, his grin betraying his words.

“Kind, perhaps,” you say, raising an eyebrow, “but certainly not quiet.”

Aemond approaches at last, his gaze flickering between you, Aegon, and Helaena. His single eye lingers on Helaena for a moment longer, and though his face remains stoic, there is a subtle shift in his expression — something softer, gentler. He stands beside her, his hands still neatly behind his back, his posture as rigid as ever.

“Are we interrupting something?” Aemond asks, his voice smooth and even, though there’s a hint of dry humor in it. His gaze shifts to Aegon, who is still on his knees, shamelessly clinging to you like a lovesick fool.

“Only my moment of peace,” you reply, casting a playful glance at Aemond. “But I suppose I can forgive you both this time.”

Aegon rises slowly, still grinning, his hand slipping into yours. “Peace is overrated,” he says with a wink, tugging you gently closer to him. “But I’ll give you something better.”

He presses a kiss to your cheek, his lips lingering just a moment longer than necessary. You roll your eyes, but you don’t pull away. Instead, you squeeze his hand, your smile soft and full of love.

“Better be good, then,” you reply, leaning your head briefly against his shoulder.

Helaena’s gaze shifts between all of you, her eyes distant but bright, as though she’s seeing something far beyond the present moment. “The wheel spins,” she says softly, her voice almost sing-song. “But for now, it’s at rest.”

Aemond glances at her, his brow furrowing just slightly, but he says nothing. Instead, he moves to stand beside her, his hands finally leaving their place behind his back to brush lightly against her arm. She doesn’t flinch, only glances at him with a small, knowing smile.

You close your eyes for a brief moment, breathing in the fresh air of the garden, the warmth of Aegon at your side, and the steady, grounding presence of family all around you. For now, the wheel is at rest, and you allow yourself to believe, just for a moment, that peace like this might last forever.

The four of you walk together along the garden path, the late morning sun filtering through the trees, casting dappled light across the ground. The air smells of fresh blooms and the faint, sweet scent of wildflowers carried by the breeze. Helaena walks ahead, her attention on a butterfly that flits just out of reach. Her gaze is full of quiet wonder, and Aemond stays close by her side, his single eye watchful as always. His steps are slow and measured, as if he’s guarding her every move without her even noticing.

You walk beside Aegon, his hand loosely clasping yours. Every so often, his thumb rubs circles over your knuckles, a silent gesture of affection. His other hand occasionally hovers near your waist, ready to catch you if you stumble, though you haven’t. You’re steady, even as the weight of your growing belly pulls at your balance.

It’s Aemond who breaks the quiet, his voice cutting through the soft hum of the garden. “Are you not tired?” he asks, glancing your way with that sharp, calculating gaze of his. “Walking this much while carrying all that weight can’t be easy.”

His words are blunt, but there’s no malice in them — only quiet concern, the kind of care he rarely shows to anyone but Helaena. His eyes shift briefly to your belly before returning to your face, his expression cool but attentive.

You raise a brow, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Are you calling me heavy, brother?” you tease lightly, glancing at him with playful eyes. “Careful, or I might think you’ve grown bold.”

Aegon lets out a short laugh, his grin wide and mischievous. “Careful, brother,” he says with mock seriousness, his voice full of amusement. “A pregnant woman’s wrath is no small thing.”

Helaena giggles softly ahead of you, her fingers brushing against the petals of a nearby flower. She doesn’t look back, but you can tell she’s listening. “He only says it because he cares,” she says in her usual dreamy tone, glancing toward Aemond with a small, knowing smile. “He’s gentler than he seems.”

Aemond’s gaze flickers to Helaena, his face softening just slightly, though his lips remain in a firm, straight line. He doesn’t deny it, nor does he look away from her. It’s rare to see him so unguarded, but with Helaena, he always seems to allow himself a little more room to be human.

You glance between them, warmth blooming in your chest. “I’m fine, Aemond,” you say softly, your voice more sincere this time. “A little weight is nothing I can’t bear.” Your hand comes to rest on your belly, your fingers gently stroking it. “Besides, I’m not alone in carrying it, am I?”

Aegon squeezes your hand, tilting his head toward you with a grin that’s a little softer than usual. “No, you’re not,” he says simply, his eyes filled with quiet affection.

Aemond watches the exchange in silence, his gaze sharp but thoughtful. He says nothing more, but his attention lingers on you for a moment longer than usual before he looks ahead once more. Perhaps it’s his way of showing he cares — not with words, but with watchful eyes and quiet presence.

The four of you continue walking together, the steady rhythm of your steps blending with the rustle of the leaves and the distant hum of insects. You feel safe here, surrounded by family. Even Aemond, with all his sharp edges, feels like a shield at your side.

“Tell me if you need to rest,” Aemond says quietly, his voice softer now, just loud enough for you to hear. He doesn’t look at you when he says it, his eyes fixed on the path ahead. But you understand him well enough to know that this, too, is his version of kindness.

“I will,” you reply just as softly, your heart warm with quiet gratitude.

You walk a little slower after that, but no one says a word about it. Aemond walks close enough now that his shadow overlaps yours, a silent promise that he will remain by your side, steady as ever.

From a distance, you spot your mother, Alicent, standing at the end of the corridor leading into the garden. Her figure is framed by the soft glow of the sun behind her, her green gown catching the light in a way that makes her seem almost ethereal. Her gaze is fixed on all of you, her eyes warm with quiet affection. There is a softness in her expression — not the queen, but simply a mother watching her children.

As she walks toward you, her steps are slow and measured, her presence calm but commanding as always. Her gaze moves over each of you in turn, taking in Helaena’s soft smile, Aemond’s ever-watchful stare, Aegon’s relaxed posture, and you — her child carrying another life within them. Her eyes linger on you just a moment longer, a gentle, almost wistful look crossing her face.

When she reaches you, she says nothing at first. Instead, she steps closer and places a hand on your belly, her palm warm and firm. Her fingers move in a slow, tender caress, her eyes following the motion as if she can feel the life stirring within you. Her lips curve into a soft smile, her love clear in the gesture.

“You’re doing well,” she says quietly, lifting her gaze to meet yours. Her voice is gentle, the kind of voice only a mother can have when speaking to her child. “You’re strong.”

Her words wrap around you like a cloak of warmth, and you nod, unable to do much else but smile back at her. “I learned from you,” you reply softly, and the look she gives you in return is one of pride, tinged with a hint of sadness.

Alicent turns next to Helaena, cupping her face in both hands with such care, as if afraid she might break. She presses a light kiss to her cheek, lingering just a moment longer than usual. Helaena leans into the touch with a soft hum, her eyes fluttering closed like a butterfly resting on a petal.

“My sweet girl,” Alicent whispers, brushing a strand of silver hair away from Helaena’s face. “I hope you are well today.”

“The butterflies are quiet today,” Helaena replies dreamily, her gaze distant but serene. “They’re just watching.”

Alicent smiles, her brow softening. “Then perhaps they’re giving you a moment of peace,” she says, her hands still resting lightly on Helaena’s cheeks before she finally lets her go.

Her eyes shift to her sons next. She steps forward, her gaze flicking between Aegon and Aemond with that familiar blend of love, exasperation, and expectation that only a mother can manage.

Her eyes settle on Aegon first. She tilts her head, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “You’ve cleaned yourself up, at least,” she says, her tone bordering on teasing but still firm enough to make her point.

Aegon rolls his eyes but grins at her, rubbing the back of his neck. “Can’t have you worrying about me every moment of the day, Mother,” he replies, his voice light and easy.

Her gaze softens, but she raises a brow at him, clearly unconvinced. “I will worry about you for as long as I live, Aegon,” she says simply, her voice unwavering. “That is a mother’s burden.”

He doesn’t reply, but you notice the slight shift in his stance, his smile faltering just a little as he lowers his gaze for a moment. His fingers tighten briefly around yours, a silent acknowledgment of her words.

Then Alicent turns to Aemond, her gaze settling on him with the same care but perhaps a touch more scrutiny. She looks him over carefully, her eyes tracing the sharp lines of his face, the patch over his missing eye, and the stiff posture of his shoulders. She steps closer, tilting her head as if to study him more closely.

“You’re too tense,” she says softly, her eyes filled with quiet concern. “You carry too much on your shoulders, my son.” Her hand reaches up to rest on his arm, and though his posture doesn’t change, you see the subtle shift in his gaze. His eye flickers to her, his lips pressing into a firm line.

“I carry what I must,” he replies, his tone firm but not cold.

Alicent gazes at him for a long moment, her fingers still on his arm. “Even the strongest swords can break,” she says softly. Her words hang in the air, heavy with meaning.

Aemond doesn’t reply, but he doesn’t pull away either. His gaze lowers slightly, his jaw tightening, but he allows her to keep her hand where it is. It’s a small thing, but for Aemond, it means everything.

The moment lingers before Alicent finally steps back, her gaze sweeping over all four of you once more. Her face is calm, but there is a depth of love in her eyes that she does not speak aloud. She clasps her hands in front of her, looking at all of you as if trying to commit the image to memory.

“Stay together,” she says softly, her gaze steady and filled with quiet strength. “If nothing else, promise me you will stay together.”

Her words settle over all of you like a veil of quiet understanding. No one speaks right away, but you feel Aegon’s hand tighten around yours, a silent promise made without words. Helaena gazes at the sky, her lips moving in quiet repetition of something only she can hear. Aemond remains still, his eyes sharp but distant, as if her words have struck a place deep within him.

“We will, Mother,” you say, your voice steady and certain. You glance at each of them in turn — Helaena, Aemond, and Aegon. “We will.”

Alicent nods, her face softening with quiet relief. “Good,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “That is all I ask.”

Your mother, glances at you and Helaena with a soft smile, her eyes filled with quiet affection. “Come,” she says gently, reaching out a hand to each of you. “Join me for tea in my chambers. You’ve been walking long enough, and it will do you both good to rest for a while.”

Helaena tilts her head as if considering the offer, then nods with a small, content smile. “Tea sounds lovely,” she says softly, her gaze following a butterfly as it flutters past. “The butterflies are quiet today. Perhaps they’ll join us too.”

You smile at her, your heart warmed by the innocence of her words. Then you glance at Aegon and Aemond, who are exchanging glances with each other, clearly with different plans in mind.

Aegon tilts his head toward Aemond, his grin sly and full of mischief. “Shall we?” he asks, already turning on his heel.

Aemond raises a brow but doesn’t argue. His gaze shifts to you, observing you carefully before speaking. “We’ll visit the dragons,” he says, his tone even and calm, but there’s a certain edge of excitement there, the same glint in his eye that always appears when he’s thinking of Vhagar. “We won’t be long.”

You narrow your eyes at them both, already sensing the trouble they might stir. Placing a hand on your hip, you glance from Aegon to Aemond with mock seriousness. “Don’t do anything reckless,” you say firmly, your voice carrying the weight of a warning only a wife and sister can give. “I mean it. No wild tricks, no flying too high, and no testing each other’s patience in the air.”

Aegon turns to you with an exaggerated look of shock, his hand pressed to his chest as if you’d wounded him. “Reckless? Me? I’m the picture of caution, love,” he says with a grin so wide it’s clear he’s lying. “I’ll be as gentle as a breeze.”

You raise an unimpressed brow. “A storm breeze, perhaps.”

Aemond says nothing, but you catch the subtle flicker of amusement in his eye. He glances at Helaena for a moment, his face softening just slightly before his gaze shifts back to you. “We’ll be careful,” he says simply, his tone steady but sincere. “I give you my word.”

His promise reassures you far more than Aegon’s theatrics ever could. You nod, letting out a small breath of relief. “Good,” you reply, glancing at both of them. “See that you keep it.”

Aegon chuckles, already backing away toward the path that leads to the dragonpit. “We’ll return in one piece,” he says with a wink, eyes twinkling with mischief. “And maybe, if you’re lucky, I’ll bring you back something pretty.”

You give him a pointed look but say nothing more. Your gaze follows them as they walk away, Aegon’s strides loose and confident while Aemond’s are precise and deliberate. It’s always been like that with them — wildness and control, fire and steel. You shake your head, fondness and exasperation blending in your heart.

“Men and their dragons,” Helaena says softly beside you, her gaze faraway but her words sharp with understanding. “They think they control them, but it is always the other way around.”

You glance at her, surprised by the clarity in her words, but before you can say anything, your mother places a gentle hand on your arm. “Come, my loves,” Alicent says, her voice as soft as silk. “Let them chase their dragons. We have warmth, tea, and quiet waiting for us.”

With a nod, you take your mother’s hand, and together with Helaena, you follow her toward her chambers. The sun filters through the hall’s stained-glass windows, casting hues of green and gold on the stone floors. It feels peaceful here, far from the weight of thrones, dragons, and the burdens of duty.

As you walk, you glance over your shoulder one last time, watching the distant figures of Aegon and Aemond disappear toward the dragonpit. You sigh softly, hoping they’ll remember your words — but knowing them both, you suspect you’ll be hearing wild tales of their “careful” flight soon enough.

With your mother’s steady hand guiding you, you lower yourself carefully into the cushioned chair. Your belly makes the task more cumbersome than it once was, and you exhale deeply as you finally settle into the seat. The soft fabric cradles your back, and you lean into it with a sigh of relief, letting the weight ease from your body.

Your eyes close for a moment, savoring the comfort. The strain in your back lessens, and for the first time in what feels like hours, you allow yourself a moment of stillness. The quiet hum of the room, the distant chirping of birds outside the window, and the familiar scent of lavender all combine to create a perfect, peaceful atmosphere.

A soft laugh breaks that peace, but it’s not unwelcome. You open one eye to see your mother, Alicent, covering her mouth with delicate fingers, her gaze warm and amused. Helaena sits nearby, her own soft giggles bubbling up like a gentle stream. Her eyes are bright with mirth as she tilts her head, watching you with that quiet, knowing gaze she always seems to have.

“You look as though you’ve just conquered a battle,” Alicent says with a fond smile, her eyes crinkling at the corners.

You tilt your head toward her, too tired to do more than give a wry smile. “It feels like I have,” you reply, letting out another long breath. “The weight of victory sits heavily on me.” Your hand rests on your belly, giving it a small, affectionate rub.

Helaena’s giggles grow louder, her fingers tapping lightly on the armrest of her chair. “Victory grows with each day,” she says dreamily, her gaze shifting toward your belly as if she’s watching something only she can see. “Soon, it will shout its arrival to the world, and all will hear it.

Alicent raises her brows at her daughter’s words, though she doesn’t question them. Instead, she steps closer, her gaze softening as she reaches out to brush a lock of hair from your face. Her touch is gentle, her fingers cool against your warm skin.

“You’ve done well to carry them this far,” she says quietly, her voice full of pride and affection. “But you mustn’t bear everything alone. Let others ease the burden when you can.”

You nod, leaning your head back against the chair with a small, content smile. “I know, Mother,” you murmur, your eyes closing once more. “But it’s hard to let go when it feels like it’s mine alone to carry.”

Alicent sighs softly, her hand resting on your shoulder. “It is yours, but that doesn’t mean you must carry it without help,” she says, her voice steady, firm in the way only a mother’s voice can be. “Even queens have hands to hold them up.”

Her words settle into your heart, heavy but warm. You feel the weight of them, just as you feel the weight of your child growing within you. It is a burden, yes, but it is also a blessing. Perhaps, you think, those two things are often one and the same.

Silence falls over the room once more, broken only by the soft rustle of fabric as Helaena shifts in her seat, her fingers tracing invisible patterns in the air. You peek at her from beneath your lashes, watching her lost in her own world. The sunlight catches on her silver hair, making her look almost otherworldly.

“Rest,” Alicent says softly, giving your shoulder a light squeeze. “For as long as you can.”

You hum in agreement, letting your eyes fall shut again. Surrounded by your mother’s warmth and your sister’s quiet presence, you feel safe. You feel loved. And for a while, you let yourself simply exist in that moment of peace.

You open your eyes slowly, gazing at your mother. Her face is serene but lined with quiet worry, a look you have come to recognize as her mask of strength. Her fingers are busy smoothing the fabric of her gown, a habit she’s never been able to break when her thoughts are heavy.

“Mother,” you say softly, your voice low but clear. Her eyes shift to meet yours, and you hesitate for a moment before asking, “How is Father?"

For a brief second, something flickers in her eyes — sorrow, perhaps, or something close to it. She exhales slowly, her gaze dropping to her hands. Her fingers still, clasping together tightly as she sits straighter in her chair.

“His health worsens by the day,” she admits quietly, her voice measured but undeniably tinged with sadness. “He remains in his bedchamber, too weak to rise. The maesters do what they can, but…” She trails off, shaking her head slowly, her lips pressing into a thin line.

You feel a tightness form in your chest, an ache that isn’t unfamiliar but still unwelcome. Your fingers curl gently over your belly, grounding yourself in the feeling of life growing within you.

“He was never… present,” you say, your voice softer now, thoughtful. Your eyes drift toward the window, where the sun filters in, golden and warm. “Not like you were, not like Grandfather.” You pause, letting the quiet between you fill with the unspoken truth. “But he is still my father.”

Alicent lifts her gaze to you then, her eyes glimmering with something you can’t quite name. There is no denial in her face, no attempt to correct your words. She knows them to be true, as you do.

“Yes,” she says softly, her voice carrying a weight of acceptance. “He is still your father.” Her gaze turns distant, her eyes focused on something far away. “He is a good man, though burdened by things beyond his control. He loves in his own way — not always as he should, but he does.”

You look down, running your thumb across the curve of your belly. The thought of Viserys lying in his bed, frail and silent, tugs at you in a way you did not expect. Memories flash in your mind — moments where he was there but distant, moments when his attention was elsewhere, moments when you wondered if he truly saw you at all. And yet, you still care. Because he is still your father.

“Will he… will he meet them?” you ask, your eyes shifting back to Alicent. Your hand presses more firmly against your belly, a silent hope stirring within you. “When they’re born?”

Alicent’s face softens with a tenderness that breaks past the mask of a queen. Her eyes meet yours with quiet understanding, her gaze lingering on your belly with the look of a mother who has carried this same hope before. She leans forward, placing her hand over yours, the warmth of her touch steady and grounding.

“I hope so,” she says, her voice as soft as silk but as strong as steel. “He would want to. If he is able, I will see to it.”

Her promise is gentle but firm, a vow made with the strength of a mother who has borne too much but still finds a way to bear more. You nod slowly, feeling a mixture of comfort and unease. Time is not a kindness, and you both know it.

The silence returns, but it is no longer so heavy. It is a shared understanding, a quiet acceptance of what is and what may be. Alicent’s hand remains over yours, her presence steady and constant, just as it always has been.

You glance at her, offering a small, grateful smile. “Thank you, Mother.”

Her eyes soften as she smiles back, her gaze filled with love. “Always, my dear,” she says, her voice a quiet promise. “Always.”

The warm atmosphere of the room is filled with the soft clinking of teacups and the gentle murmur of conversation. You sit comfortably, leaning back just enough to ease the strain on your back, a hand resting protectively over your growing belly. Helaena sits across from you, quietly humming a tune under her breath, her eyes tracking the slow, drifting flight of a butterfly just outside the window. Alicent sits beside you, her eyes focused on the delicate stitches of her embroidery.

You lift your teacup, the warmth of it seeping into your fingers as you continue to speak, telling your mother and Helaena a story from the gardens earlier in the week. You smile, eyes bright with fondness, your voice carrying the light cheerfulness that often fills moments like this.

But suddenly, it happens.

A sharp, tight pain grips your belly, sudden and fierce, like a cord being pulled too tightly around you. Your breath catches in your throat, the air suddenly too thick to draw in. The pain doesn’t release immediately, instead it lingers, pressing down on you with an unyielding weight.

Your words cut off mid-sentence, your voice faltering into silence. For a moment, no one notices. Helaena is still gazing at the butterfly, her fingers tapping lightly against her teacup. Alicent is focused on the delicate pattern she is stitching, her brow furrowed in concentration.

But then, the porcelain slips from your fingers.

The cup falls from your hand, hitting the edge of the table before shattering against the stone floor below. The sharp crack of the porcelain shattering echoes through the room, cutting through the gentle quiet like a sword through silk.

“Darling?” Alicent’s voice is sharp, urgent. Her embroidery is forgotten as her eyes snap to you, wide with concern. Her chair scrapes against the floor as she moves to your side.

You barely hear her. Your breath comes in shallow pants as your hands fly to your belly, fingers pressing against the fabric of your gown as if trying to soothe the sharp ache beneath. Your heart pounds in your chest, faster than it should, and for a moment, fear coils tightly in your mind.

“Something’s wrong,” you breathe, your voice strained and quiet. Your eyes dart to Alicent, wide and uncertain. “Mother, something’s—”

Alicent is already at your side, her hands firm but gentle as she grips your shoulders, grounding you with her presence. “Breathe, sweet girl,” she says firmly, though her eyes are wide with worry. “Look at me. Breathe. Slowly now.”

Helaena rises from her chair, her movements slower but no less filled with purpose. Her eyes aren’t filled with panic like your mother’s — no, hers are distant but aware. She steps forward, tilting her head slightly, her gaze falling on your belly. Her fingers twitch at her sides, and she murmurs, so softly it’s almost to herself, “The storm presses before the dawn… but it will pass.”

Her words do little to calm the growing thrum of worry in your chest. Your breathing is shallow as you press a hand harder against your belly, hoping, praying, that the pain will fade. Your heart races as the ache slowly begins to ease, but it leaves you shaken. Your breaths come quicker than before, and Alicent kneels before you, her hands cupping your face to make you look at her.

“Is it still there?” she asks, her eyes searching yours with the precision of a mother who has lived through this before. “The pain — is it still there?”

You shake your head slowly, swallowing hard before you answer. “No,” you whisper, voice still tight with lingering fear. “It’s… it’s easing now.” Your breath shudders as you exhale, tears threatening to rise in your eyes. “But it was strong, Mother. It was so strong.”

Alicent’s lips press into a firm line, her eyes scanning your face as her hand moves down to your belly. Her fingers press gently against it, her movements careful but thorough. Her gaze sharpens with quiet focus, and for a moment, she is not simply your mother but the queen, the one who must remain calm when others falter.

“Likely a cramp,” she says softly but firmly, glancing up at you. “It can happen as you grow heavier, especially with how far along you are.” She squeezes your hand, her eyes steady as she adds, “But we won’t take risks. I’ll send for the maester.”

Helaena kneels beside you, her eyes still faraway but her hands gentle as she takes yours into her own. Her fingers are cool to the touch, her presence a soothing balm to the fear still lingering in your heart. She tilts her head, her gaze distant but kind.

“Safe,” she says softly, her gaze flickering to your belly before rising to meet your eyes. “You are safe, and so are they.”

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, a mix of relief and exhaustion washing over you. You nod slowly, leaning back into the chair once more, letting the tension leave your body with every slow breath you take.

“Yes,” you whisper, more to yourself than to them. “Safe.”

But as Alicent calls for the maester and Helaena stays close by your side, you can’t help but feel the weight of uncertainty pressing on you. The ache may have passed, but the memory of it still lingers, a shadow at the edge of your mind. You press a hand to your belly again, feeling the warmth of life beneath your palm.

“Stay with me,” you whisper quietly to the child growing within you. “Please… stay with me.”

The pain returns with a vengeance, sharper and more relentless than before. It claws its way through your belly, pulling a scream from your lips that echoes through the room. Your body tenses as if every muscle is fighting against the force bearing down on you. Your breaths come in short, frantic gasps, and panic surges in your chest like a rising tide.

“Mother!” you cry out, your voice cracking with the weight of your fear and pain. Your hands clutch your belly, fingers curling tightly into the fabric of your gown. Sweat beads on your brow, rolling down your temples as heat floods your body. “Mother, please!”

Alicent is already at your side. Her hands are steady as she cups your face, her eyes sharp with focus but filled with unwavering love. “I’m here, I’m here,” she says firmly, her voice cutting through the fog of pain like a guiding light. Her hand moves to your back, supporting you as she leans in close. “Breathe, sweet girl. Look at me. Breathe.”

Her words anchor you, but it’s so hard to focus on anything but the searing ache that grips you. You try to follow her command, gasping in short, uneven breaths before forcing a deeper one. The air feels thick and heavy in your lungs, but you manage to draw it in, then out. In. Out. Just as she says.

Footsteps echo down the corridor, fast and urgent. The door swings open, and the maester enters with two midwives at his side. Their expressions are grim but purposeful. They’ve seen this before. They know what to do.

“Lay her down,” the maester commands, his voice calm but firm. The midwives move quickly, clearing space on the large bed. Alicent and Helaena help you rise from the chair, their hands steady and sure. Your legs feel like they might give out, but they don’t let you fall.

The moment you lie back on the bed, the pain crashes down again. Another scream tears from your throat as you grip the sheets beneath you, your body arching as the pressure builds. Your heart races, panic mixing with the overwhelming pain, but Alicent is there. Her hands grip yours tightly, her gaze locked onto yours.

“Look at me,” she says, her voice unwavering even as her eyes shine with worry. “You’re strong. You can do this. Breathe, darling. Just breathe.”

Tears prick your eyes as you try to listen to her, nodding weakly through the haze of agony. The maester presses a hand gently to your belly, his eyes narrowing with practiced precision.

“It is time,” he says, his gaze flicking to Alicent before returning to you. “The child is coming now. We must act quickly.”

“No,” you whisper, your voice hoarse with strain. “No, it’s too soon—”

“It’s happening now, my lady,” the maester says firmly but not unkindly. “There is no stopping it. You must be brave.”

Terror wells up in your chest, but Alicent grips your face gently, her eyes filled with fierce determination. “You are brave,” she tells you, her voice like steel wrapped in silk. “You were born to do this. I’m right here. I will not leave you.”

Helaena kneels by your other side, her distant, dreamlike gaze now clearer than before. Her eyes settle on you with surprising clarity. “A new song,” she murmurs, brushing a cool hand over your sweat-dampened brow. “It will be loud, but it will be beautiful.”

Her words bring you a small, flickering spark of calm, but it’s brief. The next contraction pulls a broken sob from your chest as you twist in pain. Your world narrows to nothing but the ache, the weight, and the unyielding pressure that refuses to ease.

“Push when you feel it,” the maester instructs. His voice is steady but insistent. “When the pain crests, you push. Do you understand?”

You nod weakly, your breath coming fast and shallow. Alicent’s fingers intertwine with yours, grounding you in the present. Her grip is strong, firm, and unwavering.

“You can do this,” she whispers, her voice close to your ear. “Push, my love. Push with everything you have."

The next wave of pain crashes over you, fiercer than anything you’ve ever known. You grit your teeth, crying out as you bear down with every ounce of strength left in you. Your whole body trembles from the effort, your breaths ragged and wild, but you push. You push because there is no other choice. You push because life demands it.

The room fills with the sounds of your labor — the grunts, the cries, the gasps for air. Alicent’s voice never wavers, her steady encouragement a thread that guides you through the storm. Helaena hums softly beside you, her quiet, lilting melody oddly soothing in the chaos.

Time becomes meaningless. Minutes, hours — you can’t tell the difference. All you know is the pain, the push, the desperate need to bring life into the world. Sweat drips from your brow, your body shaking with exhaustion. You feel like you have nothing left to give. But then—

“I see the head,” the maester says suddenly, his tone sharp with urgency. “Just one more push, my lady. One more, and they will be here.”

Your heart leaps, tears streaming down your face. You feel Alicent squeeze your hand tighter, her face inches from yours, her eyes fierce with pride.

“One more,” she says, her voice trembling with emotion. “Just one more. You can do this. You will do this.”

You nod, teeth clenched, every muscle in your body coiling like a spring. And with a guttural cry that shakes the very air around you, you give one final, desperate push. It feels like you are being torn apart, but then—

A sound.

A cry.

A sharp, piercing wail fills the room, cutting through the air like the first song of dawn. It’s high and loud, strong and alive. For a moment, all the pain fades into nothing. Your whole world stops, your breath catching in your chest. Tears fall freely down your face as you hear it.

The baby is crying.

“Well done, my lady,” the maester says softly, his hands cradling the tiny, wriggling child. “It’s a boy.”

Your chest shudders with a sob of relief, of joy, of exhaustion. You slump back against the pillows, your whole body weak and trembling. Your heart is so full it feels like it might burst.

The baby’s cry continues, strong and insistent, and moments later, he is placed in your arms. He is so small, so warm, his silver hair damp from the effort of entering the world. His eyes are squeezed shut as he wails, his tiny fists curling and uncurling in the air.

You gaze down at him, tears spilling from your eyes as you press a kiss to his forehead. “Hello, my love,” you whisper, your voice cracking with emotion. “You’re here. You’re finally here.”

Alicent presses a kiss to the top of your head, her eyes shining with tears. “You did it,” she says, pride and love pouring from every word. “You did it, my darling girl.”

Helaena smiles softly, her gaze faraway once more. “His song is bright,” she murmurs, her voice quiet but certain. “A light in the storm.”

The maester remains close, his hands still working, his voice calling for the midwives to be ready for the afterbirth. But none of it matters. Not right now.

All you can see is your son. His tiny face scrunched in a cry, his little fingers curling toward you like he already knows you. Your heart swells with love so fierce it nearly undoes you. You press another kiss to his head, breathing him in, memorizing every inch of him.

“You’re safe,” you whisper, your voice thick with love. “You’re safe, little one. I’m here. I’m here.”

And for a moment, everything is still. The pain is gone. The world outside doesn’t exist. It’s just you and him.

Your son.

The moment of peace is shattered as the pain returns, sharper and more intense than before. It steals the breath from your lungs, and your body tenses involuntarily. Your arms tighten around your newborn son, but the pain is too much — too sudden, too strong. You let out a choked gasp, your eyes wide with panic.

“Mother,” you rasp, your voice laced with both fear and disbelief. “Mother, it’s happening again—”

Alicent’s eyes snap to you, her face shifting from joy to alarm in an instant. She moves swiftly, her hands reaching for you. “Give him to me,” she says urgently but gently, her eyes locked on yours. “Give him to me, sweet girl. You need your strength.”

With shaking hands, you lift your son toward her, tears spilling down your cheeks. You press a kiss to his soft head before letting him go. The moment her arms take him, you feel the weight shift, but the pain does not ease.

“Maester!” Alicent calls sharply, her voice commanding and fierce. She cradles the baby close to her chest, swaying ever so slightly to soothe his cries. Her eyes are wild with concern as she looks from you to the maester.

The maester is already at your side, his face grim as he presses a hand against your belly. His eyes narrow in concentration, his mouth set in a firm line. His hands move with experienced precision, and for a heartbeat, the room falls silent save for the soft, fretful cries of your newborn son.

“You are carrying twins, my lady,” the maester says, his voice low but clear. His gaze meets yours, calm but firm. “There is another child yet to be born.”

The world spins. Your heart lurches in your chest as you stare at him, wide-eyed with shock. “What?” you breathe, the word barely more than a whisper. “No… no, I would have known.”

“It is rare, but it happens,” the maester says steadily. “But the child is coming now, and there is no time to waste.”

Tears blur your vision as a sob rises in your throat. Another child. Another child is coming. Your breath comes in short, sharp gasps, and you shake your head as if denying it will make it untrue. “No, no, no,” you cry, your hands clutching at the sheets beneath you. “Aegon. I need Aegon. Please — I need him here!”

Your gaze snaps to your mother, desperate and pleading. “Bring him back, Mother. Please.” Your voice cracks with the weight of it, raw with pain and fear. “I need him here. Please bring him back.”

Alicent’s face crumples with anguish. She hands the baby to one of the midwives with quick, careful hands, then rushes to your side. She kneels by you, cupping your face with both hands, her eyes swimming with emotion.

“I know, my sweet girl. I know,” she says, her voice trembling with barely contained sorrow. Her fingers stroke your damp hair away from your face, her forehead nearly pressed to yours. “But he’s still in the skies, riding Sunfyre. I sent a messenger, but he may not hear the call in time.”

Your heart twists in your chest, grief and fear mingling with the agony that wracks your body. You can barely think through the haze of pain. You feel as though you are being pulled apart from the inside, your body no longer your own.

“I need him,” you sob, your voice broken, raw, and filled with longing. “I need him here, Mother.”

Alicent presses her forehead to yours, tears slipping silently down her cheeks. Her grip on you tightens, her hands steady despite the trembling of her breath.

“You have me,” she whispers fiercely, her voice filled with the same strength she used when you were a child frightened by the storm. “You have me, and I will not leave you. You hear me? You are not alone. I’m here. I’m right here.”

Her voice cuts through the fog of fear, grounding you in the present. The next wave of pain strikes, and you cry out, your hands gripping Alicent’s arms with all the strength you can muster. She doesn’t flinch, holding you as steady as stone. Her presence is unyielding, a wall against the storm.

“Push, sweet girl,” she urges you, her voice low but firm. “You’ve done this once already. You can do it again. Push, and you will hold them both in your arms.”

Her words are a lifeline. You nod weakly, tears still streaming down your face. Your heart still aches for Aegon — for the warmth of his voice, his hand on yours, his whispered promises. But he is not here. Not now. And so you grip your mother’s arms like a lifeline and face the storm alone.

“Push,” the maester commands from below, his hands ready once more. “With the next pain, my lady, push as you did before.

You nod again, your breaths sharp and shallow. Alicent’s voice comes close to your ear, soft but unyielding.

“You are my daughter,” she says, her voice filled with fire and love. “You are stronger than you know. You will bring them into this world, and I will be here every step of the way.”

With a cry of pain and raw determination, you push.

Your body feels like it has been wrung dry of every last ounce of strength. Your breaths come in shallow, uneven gasps, each one a battle to draw in air. Every muscle aches, and your limbs feel heavier than stone. Your vision blurs with exhaustion and tears, but through it all, you hear it — the sound that makes it all worth it.

A cry. Sharp, loud, and strong.

The moment you hear it, a sob bursts from your chest, your body shaking as relief washes over you like a crashing wave. Tears stream down your face, mingling with the sweat on your brow. It’s over. It’s finally over.

“She’s here,” the maester says, his voice filled with quiet triumph. “A girl, my lady. A strong, healthy girl.”

Alicent releases a shaky breath beside you, her face crumpling with overwhelming relief. Her hands, still holding yours, squeeze tightly, her fingers trembling against your skin. She lets out a soft, broken laugh, her eyes filled with pride and love.

“You did it,” she whispers, her voice choked with emotion. “You did it, my brave girl.”

Your head lolls to the side, your body so heavy you can hardly move. You blink slowly, trying to clear your vision, trying to see her — your daughter. The maester wraps the small, squirming bundle in soft cloth before placing her in Alicent’s waiting arms.

Alicent gazes down at the child with wonder, her face soft and radiant in the glow of the moment. She sways gently, rocking the baby as she steps closer to you. Her eyes, still brimming with tears, turn to you with a look of such deep pride that it nearly undoes you.

“Look at her,” she says softly, her voice trembling with awe. She kneels beside the bed and holds the baby out to you. “Look at your daughter, my love.

With the last remnants of your strength, you lift your arms, hands shaking with exhaustion. Alicent carefully places the baby in your arms, adjusting the blankets to keep her warm. The moment you feel her weight against your chest, your heart swells so fiercely it feels like it might break.

She’s so small. Her tiny face is flushed pink, her eyes shut tight as she lets out a wailing cry. Her silver hair, damp and soft, clings to her head, a perfect mirror of your own Targaryen heritage. Her little fists wave in the air, so full of life, so full of fight.

Tears blur your vision once more as you stare down at her, overwhelmed by a love so powerful it feels like it could break you. Your fingers brush over her cheek, and her skin is so soft, so warm. She hiccups mid-cry, her tiny lips quivering before settling into quiet whimpers. Her whole body fits against you like she was always meant to be there.

“Hello, sweet girl,” you whisper, your voice raw but filled with so much love it aches. You press your lips to her soft head, inhaling the delicate, sweet scent of new life. “You’re here. You’re finally here.”

Your tears drip onto her blanket, and you don’t bother to wipe them away. They’re tears of relief. Of joy. Of love. Your heart, already so full from your son’s birth, somehow makes room for her as well. It feels as though it might burst from how much you love them both.

Alicent’s hand rests on your head, her fingers threading gently through your damp hair. She leans down and presses a kiss to your forehead, her lips warm and soft. Her breath is warm against your skin as she whispers, “You’ve done something extraordinary, my sweet girl. You are a mother twice over now.”

Her words wash over you like sunlight after a storm. You close your eyes, letting the warmth of them fill you from head to toe. Her fingers trail down to brush against your cheek, gentle as a breeze.

“You are so strong,” Alicent says, her voice thick with emotion. “Stronger than I ever was.”

You let out a soft, broken laugh, too exhausted to do more. Your head rests against the pillow, your eyes fluttering closed for just a moment. The warmth of your daughter against your chest, the gentle weight of her, is the only thing keeping you anchored to the present.

“She’s perfect,” you whisper, your voice no more than a breath. “They’re both perfect.”

“Yes, they are,” Alicent replies, her voice full of love and pride. She smooths a hand over your hair again, her fingers cool against your burning skin. “Rest now, sweet girl. You’ve done enough. Rest.”

You nod weakly, still gazing down at your daughter. Her tiny eyes peek open for the briefest moment, and you see them — a soft shade of violet, clear and bright like amethysts. You press another kiss to her forehead, letting your lips linger there.

“Welcome to the world, little one,” you whisper, your voice heavy with love. “I will love you for all my days.”

The weight of exhaustion pulls at you, your body too spent to fight it. Your eyes grow heavy, and slowly, slowly, they close. You can still hear the gentle coos of your daughter and the soft hum of your mother’s voice as she soothes you both.

The world fades into warmth, love, and the knowledge that you have brought two lives into it. And as you slip into the quiet, you know that, somehow, everything will be alright.

The heavy thud of hurried footsteps echoes through the chamber. The door swings open with a force that makes it shudder against the wall. Aegon stands there, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his silver hair disheveled from flight, still damp with sweat from the heat of Sunfyre’s back. His violet eyes are wild, darting around the room in search of you.

“Aegon,” Alicent says softly, turning her head toward him. She stands by your bedside, her arms cradling your newborn son against her chest. Her expression is one of quiet relief as she sees him. “You’re here.”

His gaze locks onto you, and his eyes soften with something raw and unspoken. Without a word, he strides forward, his steps quick but careful. His eyes scan every inch of you, taking in the sight of you lying on the bed, your face pale, your hair damp with sweat, your chest rising and falling slowly as you sleep. The exhaustion is clear on your face, but there is peace too.

He stops at the side of the bed, his breath still uneven from the rush to get here. His hand reaches out, fingers trembling slightly as he brushes your cheek. The warmth of his touch pulls you from the edge of sleep. Slowly, your eyes flutter open. For a moment, it takes you a second to realize who it is, but when you do, a soft smile pulls at your lips.

“Aegon,” you murmur, your voice weak but filled with so much love it makes his throat tighten.

“I’m here,” he says, his voice low and hoarse. His thumb strokes your cheek, his gaze never leaving yours. “I’m here now.”

Tears shimmer in his eyes, but he blinks them away, his jaw tightening as he tries to steady himself. His gaze shifts for a moment to the small bundle in Alicent’s arms. Slowly, he looks back at you, confusion and wonder mingling on his face.

“Twins?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper, as if saying it too loud will break the fragile magic of the moment.

You nod slowly, still gazing at him, your eyes filled with exhaustion but also pride. “A boy and a girl,” you whisper, tilting your head just enough to glance toward the small crib beside the bed where your daughter lies peacefully, swaddled in soft blankets.

Aegon follows your gaze. His eyes land on the tiny, sleeping form of his daughter. His breath catches in his throat, and for a moment, he doesn’t move. He stares as if the world has stopped, as if nothing else exists but that little girl lying there. His face shifts — shock, awe, disbelief, and then something far deeper.

He steps away from you, moving toward the crib with slow, cautious steps. His eyes are wide, unblinking, as if he’s afraid she’ll disappear if he looks away. When he reaches the crib, he leans down, his breath shallow as he stares at her face. Her tiny mouth opens in a soft yawn, her little hands curling against the blankets.

“She’s so small,” he murmurs, his voice cracking. His fingers hover over her head, hesitant to touch, as if he fears he might hurt her. But slowly, carefully, he brushes a single finger against her cheek. She’s warm, so warm, and soft like nothing he’s ever felt before.

His breath shudders, and he presses his lips into a thin line to keep his emotions in check. But his shoulders shake once, and he releases a breath that sounds suspiciously like a sob. He presses a hand over his mouth, his eyes red-rimmed as he stares at her, overcome with something too big to name.

“She’s perfect,” he whispers, his voice filled with reverence. “She’s… she’s perfect.”

He stays there for a moment longer, just gazing at her as though he could memorize every inch of her face in that instant. Then, he pulls himself away, turning back to you. His eyes are glassy, his cheeks damp, but he doesn’t care. His gaze shifts to the small bundle in Alicent’s arms. His son. His heir.

Alicent’s face softens as she looks at him. Her eyes are filled with understanding and love as she steps forward, tilting the child in her arms so Aegon can see him fully. His face is red with the aftershock of crying, his small fists waving in the air as if trying to fight off the world itself. His silver hair is messy atop his head, so much like Aegon’s own when he was born.

“Your son,” Alicent says gently, her voice thick with pride. She steps closer, lifting him toward Aegon. “Hold him, Aegon.”

He freezes for a moment, his eyes darting from his mother’s face to his son’s, panic flickering behind his gaze. “I— I don’t know if I can,” he says, his voice rough, barely more than a whisper. His hands flex nervously at his sides. “He’s so small. I—”

“You can,” Alicent cuts in softly but firmly, her eyes meeting his with all the quiet strength of a mother who has done this before. “You must.”

Aegon’s throat bobs as he swallows thickly. Slowly, he reaches out his arms. Alicent carefully places the baby into his hands, guiding him until the small bundle is secure in his arms. The moment Aegon feels that little weight against his chest, everything else falls away. The panic, the doubt, the fear — it all vanishes.

His son shifts, letting out a small, sleepy sigh as he nuzzles into Aegon’s chest. Aegon lets out a shaky breath, his arms tightening just a little as he cradles him closer. His heart thuds painfully in his chest, so full it feels like it might burst.

“Hey, little one,” Aegon whispers, his voice barely more than a breath. His lips curl into a trembling smile, his eyes locked on the baby’s face. “It’s me. I’m your father.”

The words feel strange and sacred on his tongue. Father. He’s a father. He lets out a soft, breathy laugh, his forehead pressing against the baby’s head, breathing him in. “I’m here now,” he whispers, closing his eyes for a moment. “I’m here, and I’ll never leave.”

He turns his head slowly, looking at you. His gaze is soft, his face raw with every emotion he’s ever tried to hide. There’s no mask now. No armor. Just him — just Aegon, looking at you like you’ve hung the stars in the sky.

“Thank you,” he says, his voice barely holding steady. He looks at you like you’ve given him the whole world. “Thank you for them. For… for everything.”

Tears well up in your eyes again, but you laugh softly, too tired to speak much. “Don’t thank me,” you say, your voice weak but full of love. “They’re yours too, Aegon.”

He stares at you for a moment longer, then sits on the edge of the bed, his son still cradled in his arms. He shifts closer, close enough to press a kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering there for a long, quiet moment.

“Rest,” he whispers against your skin, his voice so gentle it almost breaks you. “I’ll stay with you. I’m not going anywhere.”

You nod, eyes closing once more, the warmth of his presence grounding you. You hear him humming softly, a quiet, soothing melody that lulls you into rest.

The last thing you feel is the warmth of his body pressed close to yours, the soft weight of your daughter at your side, and the steady rhythm of Aegon’s quiet song filling the air.

And for the first time in what feels like forever, you feel safe. Truly safe.

The soft creak of the door opening pulls you from the haze of sleep. Your eyes flutter open slowly, your body still heavy with exhaustion but your mind already attuned to the sounds of the room. The quiet murmur of voices reaches your ears, familiar voices filled with warmth and curiosity.

You blink a few times, adjusting to the dim glow of the chamber. The sight that greets you makes your heart swell. Aegon is seated beside you on the bed, his back resting against the headboard, his gaze fixed intently on the two small bundles resting in his arms. His face is softer than you’ve ever seen it — calm, content, and utterly unguarded. The flickering firelight dances across his silver hair, and his violet eyes are filled with a tenderness that he so rarely shows.

He notices you stirring and glances down at you, a grin tugging at the corners of his lips. “Look who’s finally awake,” he says softly, his voice full of affection.

Before you can reply, more movement draws your attention to the door. Helaena and Aemond step into the room, followed closely by your mother, Alicent. Helaena’s face lights up with a smile the moment she sees you, her eyes wide with excitement. She clasps her hands together, eyes flicking to the bundles in Aegon’s arms.

“You’re awake!” Helaena says brightly as she approaches. Her gaze is filled with wonder as she peeks over Aegon’s shoulder to get a better look at the twins. “Oh, they’re so tiny,” she whispers, her eyes filled with awe. She crouches slightly, tilting her head as if to get a better view. “They’re perfect.”

Aemond walks in with his usual measured grace, his eye cool but attentive as he surveys the scene. His gaze lands on you for a moment, his expression unreadable, but his lips twitch in the faintest hint of a smile. His eye shifts to the children in Aegon’s arms, and he tilts his head, his gaze thoughtful.

“They’re strong,” he says simply, his voice low but firm. “They’ll grow to be fierce.”

Your mother steps forward, her eyes soft with maternal pride and love. She kneels at your bedside, her hand immediately reaching out to smooth the damp hair from your face. Her eyes, so filled with love, meet yours.

“How are you feeling, my love?” Alicent asks quietly, her voice full of concern. “You were so strong through it all.”

“I’m tired,” you admit, giving her a small smile, “but happy.” Your gaze shifts to Aegon, who is still staring at your children like they are the only things that matter in this world.

Alicent glances over her shoulder at them, her face filled with the same quiet joy. Her eyes flick back to you, a knowing look in her gaze. “Have you chosen names for them yet?” she asks, tilting her head in curiosity.

Helaena perks up at the question, leaning forward with an eager smile. “Yes, yes! Have you? I’ve been wondering what names you would give them.”

Aegon glances at you, and you can see the unspoken question in his eyes. This was a decision the two of you had discussed before but never finalized. But now, in this moment, it feels clear. The names feel right, as if they had been waiting all along for this moment.

You glance at him, nodding slowly, and he mirrors your smile.

“Our son will be named Jaehaerys,” you say softly, your eyes flicking to the boy cradled in Aegon’s right arm. His little face is scrunched in sleep, his silver hair sticking up in messy tufts. “For strength and wisdom.

Aegon nods, his lips twitching with approval. His gaze shifts to his daughter, his eyes warm with a quiet reverence. “And our daughter will be Jaehaera,” he says, his voice thick with affection. He glances at you, his gaze unwavering. “For her grace and fire.”

Helaena gasps softly, her eyes bright with joy. “Jaehaerys and Jaehaera,” she repeats, her smile wide. “They sound like they belong in a song. Such strong names for such precious children.” She leans closer to the crib where Jaehaera sleeps peacefully. “She will be a dreamer, I think,” Helana says softly, her eyes distant but full of certainty. “Yes, a dreamer.”

Aemond raises a brow at that but says nothing. His gaze remains on the twins, his eyes sharp as if trying to read something in their faces.

Alicent breathes out a soft sigh, her smile growing wider. “They are beautiful names,” she says, brushing her hand over your hair once more. “Names worthy of them.” She looks up at Aegon, pride shining in her gaze. “You have a fine family, my son.”

Aegon shifts his gaze to his mother, his lips pressing into a firm line as he nods once. “Yes,” he says quietly, his eyes returning to the two small faces in his arms. His voice grows even softer. “I do.”

His eyes flick back to you, and he leans forward, his brow resting gently against yours. For a moment, it is just the two of you, breathing the same air, sharing the same quiet, overwhelming love for the family you’ve built together.

“Jaehaerys and Jaehaera,” he whispers, his voice filled with quiet reverence. “Our little dragons.”

Tag list : @danytar @julessworldd @yazzzmints @hangmanscoming @giirlinblack

#aegon ii targaryen #hotd imagine #hotd aemond #prince aegon targaryen #aemond targaryen #hotd one shot #aegon ii fanfic #hotd x reader #aegon x reader #hotd #aegon fanfic #aegon targaryen x you #aegon targaryen x reader #prince aemond #heleana targaryen #hotd alicent #hotd fanfic

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christopher-bangnaldoskzz · 4 months ago

Text

PDA

Pairing: Chan x female Reader

Word Count: 3k

Warning; 18 + MDNI, Fingering, Swearing there is a tone of adult content in this fic please be cautious

READ WITH CAUTION !!!

Summary: Loving Chan was supposed to be the easier thing, but living with him has proven to be anything but easy. When losing you becomes too much, he takes drastic action to keep you as close as possible.

The sound of the front door creaking open jolts you from your swirling thoughts. You glance at the clock on the wall, and a frown forms on your lips; he’s an hour late, and the little hands of fate seem to conspire against you. As you meticulously fasten your shimmering earrings, you catch a glimpse of your reflection in the mirror, the frustration evident in your eyes. With an exasperated roll of your eyes, you instinctively tug at the hem of your dress, wishing you’d chosen something more comfortable after such a long wait.

“Baby are you ready?” he calls out from the living room, his voice cheerful and carefree, as if he has been lounging there all along. His casual tone ignites a spark of annoyance within you. How dare he ask such a simple question after leaving you to wait? You take a deep breath, steeling yourself for the exchange that is bound to follow. The nerve of him to act as if nothing is amiss while you’ve been left in a whirlwind of anticipation and irritation.

“I’ve been ready for an hour,” you call back, your voice echoing softly in the spacious room, filled with the rich scent of lavender from a nearby candle. You can feel his gaze lingering on you, an intense warmth that sends a delightful shiver down your spine. As he strides into the bedroom, his confident presence dominates the space, making the air feel charged with excitement. He leans casually against the doorframe, the muscles in his arms subtly flexing, and a playful smirk curls at the corners of his lips, hinting at something unspoken. The late evening moon filters through the sheer curtains, bathing the room in a soft glow that highlights the details of your outfit—a delicate fabric that drapes elegantly across your figure. You catch his eyes as they roam over you, lingering on every detail with a mix of admiration and intrigue, and a rush of anticipation floods through you, leaving you breathless.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you say, your voice sharp as you pivot away from him. Feeling the fabric of your dress cling to your skin, you slip into your heels. Hearing the satisfying click of the shoes against the polished floor, reverberating in the stillness of the room like a warning bell, you slip into your heels.

“Like what?” he counters, amusement flickering in his eyes as a chuckle escapes his lips. Yet, beneath that light-hearted tone, there’s an unmistakable note of confusion, as if he’s struggling to understand the unspoken tension building between you.

“Don’t even try to deflect,” you say, your frustration bubbling. The intensity of your tone cuts through the light atmosphere, and you feel your heart race with anger. “I’m really mad at you. It’s been a whole month, Chris.”

As your words linger in the air, heavy with unspoken emotions, you watch his expression shift. The playful glimmer that usually dances in his eyes begins to fade, replaced by a look of realisation that deepens the tension between you. It’s as if the jovial mask he wore so quickly has slipped away, revealing the seriousness of the moment. He seems to understand the weight of your disappointment, and the change in his demeanour only fuels your frustration further.

You watch as he draws in a deep, shuddering breath, his throat constricting slightly as he swallows hard, the action clearly challenging him as he fights to keep his emotions in check. His eyes now shimmer with a poignant blend of regret and steadfast resolve. When he finally finds his voice, it is tinged with vulnerability. “I’m so sorry,” he begins, the sincerity in his tone slicing through the tension in the air. “I realise I’ve been working so many hours lately… it’s completely consumed me.” He pauses, his brow furrowing slightly as he searches for the right words. “But I want you to know that I’m here with you now.” There’s a moment of silence as he steadies his voice, which wavers just enough to hint at the emotional burden he’s carrying. It’s clear that, beneath his earnest words, he is battling to regain the focus and presence required to truly connect in this moment, putting aside everything else that has been weighing on him.

“Let’s just go and get this over with,” you assert with a firm resolve, your voice steady despite the swirling emotions inside you. As you gently brush past him, you stride confidently into the living room, where the heavy air feels almost suffocating with unspoken tension. Your mind races, but you strive to maintain your focus on what needs to be addressed.

His hand finds its way to the small of your back, a subtle yet intimate gesture that sends an unexpected shiver down your spine. It’s a touch that speaks volumes, stirring a mix of feelings within you that you can hardly articulate.

“My love, please,” he murmurs softly, his breath warm and intimate against your ear as he leans in closer, creating a bubble of warmth around the two of you. The familiar scent of his cologne wraps around you like a comforting embrace, mingling with the coolness of the evening air. The gentle lilt of his voice adds an almost soothing quality, contrasting sharply with the charged atmosphere that crackles between you.

“Can we just have a date night? I don’t want to fight with you tonight,” he pleads, his eyes holding a depth of sincerity that draws you in. His earnest gaze captures your attention fully, and for a fleeting moment, you notice the fatigue etched in his features—a tiredness that hints at deeper struggles. A longing flickers in his eyes like a fragile candle flame, illuminating his silent plea for connection and intimacy amid the storm of emotions swirling around you, as if he’s reaching out, hoping to bridge the gap that has formed between you.

“Let’s just go,” you reply, your voice steady yet soft, a sense of determination underlying your words. As you pick up your bag from the polished kitchen bench, the cool, smooth surface feels refreshing against your fingertips, a stark contrast to the warmth of the moment.

His gaze lingers on you, and he smiles slightly. “I must say, your dress is absolutely stunning tonight,” he remarks, his voice low and appreciative. As his hand glides along your back, the gentle brush of his fingers ignites a rush of warmth that travels like electricity down your spine. The fabric of your dress shimmers softly under the kitchen lights, reflecting a myriad of colours that harmonise with the energy of the evening.

It was no mere coincidence that you selected the enchanting black Chanel dress for the evening. The deep V neckline elegantly drew the eye along the delicate curve of your back, gracefully highlighting the gentle arch that culminated at the small of your waist. The carefully crafted silhouette balanced a sense of audacity with refined sophistication, embodying a captivating allure that you wore with confidence.

As you stepped out of your shared apartment building, the cool night air enveloped you like a whispered promise, brushing softly against your skin. Chan rested his warm hand gently on the small of your back, a gesture both reassuring and grounding amid the vibrant hustle of the city nightlife. His presence radiated calmness, a striking contrast to the excitement bustling around you.

With a charming smile that lit up his face, he made his way around to the passenger side of his car, his movements deliberate and graceful. He paused, taking a moment to appreciate the way the fabric of your dress caught the fading light. As he opened the door for you, his eyes flickered with admiration. He leaned in slightly, expertly tucking in the hem of your Chanel dress with a tender touch, ensuring that it cascaded down perfectly and that every detail was immaculate.

With a soft click, he closed the door, sealing you inside the comfort of the leather interior, where the inviting aroma of aged, tanned leather mingled with a hint of his cologne, creating an intimate cocoon against the lively backdrop of the city. The world outside buzzed with energy, but inside this moment, there was a serene connection between you and Chan, an unspoken understanding that tonight was special.

As you navigate the vibrant streets of Seoul, the neon lights flicker and dance off the sleek glass buildings that tower above, casting a warm glow on the bustling city below. A sense of belonging washes over you as if the city’s essence resonates with your soul. Beside you, Chan occasionally sneaks a glance your way, a soft smile on his lips. His hand rests gently on your thigh, reassuring as he expertly steers through the lively traffic, the city’s rhythm pulsing in sync with your heart.

As you finally arrive at the restaurant, the valet swings open your car door, offering a courteous gesture. Taking a deep breath, you step out and see Chan waiting just a few paces away. He extends his hand toward you, a hopeful look on his face. Still, the anger inside you overrides any desire for civility. With a determined stride, you bypass him completely, ignoring the outstretched hand, and push open the heavy wooden door of the restaurant, your heart racing with frustration.

As you enter the dimly lit restaurant, the waiter approaches with a warm smile, ready to escort you to your table. Just then, you feel the familiar warmth of Chan’s hand resting gently on your back, a subtle yet electric gesture that sends a thrill through you. He leans in closer, his breath brushing against your ear as he murmurs, “Two can play this game, y/n,” his voice laced with playful challenge. The waiter turns to lead you toward your private room.

The waiter gracefully approached your table, gently pulling out your chair and tucking you in courteously as you settled into the cushioned seat. A moment later, Chan slid into the chair beside you, offering a nod of acknowledgment to the waiter. “Please take your time to get comfortable, sir,” he said invitingly, gesturing toward an elegant ashtray resting on the polished surface. “It’s available should you or your wife decide to indulge.” He exited the room quietly, leaving you in a cosy, relaxed ambience.

“Wife?” you ask, glancing at Chan, who has leaned in closer, his gaze sweeping over your body. There’s a hunger in his eyes, a primal desire that makes you feel like the main course laid out before him, tantalising and irresistible.

With a playful grin, he replies, “Hopefully… one day,” before casually retrieving a packet of cigarettes from his pocket. The smooth motion of his hand draws your attention, and you can’t help but notice the confidence in his demeanour.

“Did you want one, baby?” he offers, extending the packet toward you as if presenting a gift. It’s a gesture that annoys and charms you; he always seems to know just the right thing to say, even when you’re wrapped in a whirlwind of anger towards him. The sweetness of his tone feels like a double-edged sword, cutting through your frustration while simultaneously intensifying it. You wonder how he can remain unruffled when you’re fuming inside, and it gets under your skin.

“We need to talk,” you say, taking a deep breath as you turn to face him. Chan takes a moment to light his cigarette, the soft flicker of the flame illuminating his face for just a second before he finally meets your gaze.

“I know I’ve messed up, Y/n…” His voice is laced with regret as he runs a hand through his hair, his eyes searching yours. “I’ve been so absorbed in my work that we haven’t even seen each other in a month.” He places his hand on your thigh, his touch warm yet failing to offer the comfort you desperately crave.

“Chris, we live in the same house and sleep in the same bed,” you respond, your voice trembling with frustration and hurt. “If I had known that moving in with you would feel like this, I would have never sold my apartment. I was happier living alone; I felt less lonely, at least then.” The words spill from your lips, each a heavy reminder of the isolation wrapped around you like a suffocating blanket. “Do you understand just how lonely this has become for me?” You finally exhale, the weight of your confession hanging between you.

“I’m truly sorry; I should have been right here with you,” he murmured, his tone filled with sincerity. “Nothing else should have come between us.” His hand brushed against your thigh, a warm and tantalising touch that sent a shiver racing through your body, stirring something deep within.

You reached out, taking the cigarette from his fingers, the tension crackling between you. Drawing in the smoke, you leaned in closer, your lips almost brushing against his. As you exhaled the smoke into his mouth, it felt like a moment suspended in time, the closest you’d been to him in what felt like an eternity.

With a gentle urgency, your lips meet his in a tantalising kiss that ignites a spark of desire, leaving you yearning for even more. Suddenly, the waiter steps into the room, breaking the moment and prompting Chan to pull away. “Could you give us about ten minutes, please?” he asks, glancing meaningfully at the waiter. The waiter nods in understanding and quietly closes the door behind him, enveloping the two of you in a sweet, charged silence.

Chan gently slides his chair back, his warm smile inviting you closer. He reaches out, intertwining his fingers with yours, his touch soft yet reassuring. “Come sit,” he encourages, his eyes sparkling with a playful light as he gestures for you to settle onto his lap, creating an intimate space for you.

You rise from your seat, your heart racing wildly, each thump echoing the intense craving deep within you that can only be quenched by his presence. As you move closer, he grips the soft fabric of your thighs, his fingers trailing leisurely up your back, guiding you to settle onto his lap. The warmth of his body radiates against yours, igniting every nerve in your being. You wrap your arms around the back of his neck, feeling his strength and warmth as you tilt your chin upwards, allowing your eyes to lock onto his. The world around you fades, leaving only the electric connection that pulses in the air between you.

“We have 10 minutes before he comes back”, Chan smirks as your rest your core against his hard member; you place another kiss on his lips as his hands slide down your body, resting on your ass and pulling you closer to him.

“You really want to do this here?” you ask, your breath coming in quick, uneven gasps. Your forehead rests against his, the warmth of his skin mingling with yours as the air around you feels charged with tension. Your eyes lock, searching for a hint of hesitation, your heart racing in the silence that surrounds you.

He brushes your lips once more before pulling away. “I will always take care of you,” his thumb brushing against your ass before squeezing. “Anywhere”, his lip brushed against your neck. “Anytime”, he licks up your neck, kissing along your jawline.

A small moan escapes your lips as you open your neck up to him; he begins to kiss down your collarbone, moving down to between your breasts. Slowly licking upwards before placing a kiss on each breast.

With an earnest expression, he gazes up at you, his eyes searching for affirmation. “We can go ahead and sort this out here… or I can drive you home,” he pleads, the weight of his words hanging in the air as he waits for your decision.

Leaning down, you capture his mouth with yours, opening your mouth just enough, allowing Chan’s tongue to slip inside; another moan escapes your lips as Chan’s hand wanders down, slowly sliding up your dress. His fingertips brush against your smooth, soft skin as he attempts to keep himself from exploring more. Slowly, he uses his middle finger to draw circles along your inner thigh, causing your body to heat up with the anticipation of his touch.

“Here it is,” he breathes softly, his words barely more than a whisper. You can feel the rapid thump of his heart against his ribcage as if it’s trying to break free from the confines of his chest.

His hand glides further up your leg, his fingers teasing the line of your panties. You gasp as his middle finger begins to trace and tease your entrance.

“Fuck”, your breathing begins to pick up as the pleasure rises inside your body.

You moan as Chan’s finger pushes into your core “God” you begin to grind as his thumb begins to work your clit.

“Shhhh, baby. We only have 5 minutes. How about I finish you off here, and then we can continue once we get home?” His grin takes over, and you nod your head in agreement.

“I have a month’s worth of orgasms to give you” he silences your moans with his lips as his thumb works on circling your clit.

“Oh please”, you call, trying your hardest to muffle your moans. The orgasm ripples through your body, causing your body to jolt from pure pent-up pleasure.

“Good girl”, Chan praises as his watch alarm begins to sing.

“Times up”, he growls as his finger slides out from your core, causing an overwhelming sense of emptiness.

A moment later, there was a polite knock at the door that hinted at anticipation. “Just a second!” Chan called out, his voice echoing slightly in the quiet room as he rushed you to get off his lap.

As you settle back into your chair, Chan delicately adjusts the fabric of your dress, smoothing out any wrinkles with careful precision. Just at that moment, the waiter glides into the room, carrying a tray with an air of professionalism, catching you off guard as you take your seat.

“Are you ready to place your order?” the waiter asks with a warm smile, his eyes sparkling with enthusiasm as he stands at the edge of the table, ready to capture your choices for the evening. The soft glow of the restaurant’s ambient lighting reflects off his neatly pressed shirt, adding to the inviting atmosphere.

Taglist: @daceydeath @krishastumblernow @armystay89 @bakedlilgoonie @cakeracha

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damneddamsy · 6 months ago

Text

second sight | cregan stark x oc (part x)

a/n: I'm bawling on today's last official episode of Stark-fluff. legit bawling as I type this. you spoiled shits are getting babies and so much love. I love these two so much, here is their much-deserved happy ending :)

The dawn stretched thin fingers across Winterfell’s courtyard, filtering through the smoky haze that lingered from battle. Survival hung in the air—fierce, unbreakable, and filling the early light with a kind of stubborn hope.

Claere paused just outside the doorway, her hand hovering against the wood. She let the silence settle over her, breathing in the mingling scents of herbs, iron, and smoke that still clung to the walls. Relief settled in first, grounding her, but it was quickly edged with something unexpected—an almost reverent pride. She’d heard the soldiers talk of Cregan’s perseverance in the fight, how he had defended Winterfell like he’d been forged for it, and now, here he was, alone in their chamber, mending himself as if he’d done it a thousand times.

Her heart swelled as she took in the scene. He sat half-lit by the dim morning light, his shoulders tensed as he worked the needle and thread, pulling a gash closed with painstaking focus. Bruises darkened his skin, raw reminders of the battle, while the wound stretched and tugged with each attempt. The basin of water at his feet and the bloodied rag tossed aside told her he’d even dismissed the maester. Typical.

As though sensing her, he looked up, catching her watching from the doorway. The frustration melted from his face, replaced by that familiar glint of warmth in his eyes.

“Come to check on the fool who stitches himself, have you?” he murmured, setting the needle aside with a wince as his hands reached for her, his gaze softening as it fell on her bare, bruised wrists.

“I didn’t want them fussing over me like a babe,” he muttered, his thumb brushing over the marks left by Luna’s reins, handling her injuries as if they mattered more than the blood drying on his own skin.

“What was the damage?” she asked, her voice soft as his fingers hovered over her wrists.

“A few Norrey men. Closest to the fire,” he replied, still focused on her hands.

She met his gaze, lifting a brow. “I meant you.”

His mouth tugged into a rueful smirk. “A scratch or two,” he replied, though the tension around his eyes betrayed him. He chucked her chin lightly. “Only you’re allowed to coddle me.”

With a gentle hold, he lifted her hand, his thumb tracing the bruises on her wrist. For a moment, the battle’s toll fell away, leaving just the two of them, here, safe.

“You held those reins like a vice,” he muttered.

“And you,” she countered, “should be tending to your own wounds, not mine.”

She allowed him to keep hold of her hand, taking in the bruises and scrapes, and feeling a swell of gratitude as he continued his inspection despite his obvious pain.

With a quiet chuckle, he flinched as it jarred his ribs, then shook his head. “Can’t have you bruised for the whole of Winterfell to see, can I?”

She took in every scrape and bruise, tracing the mottled shades of blue and red with her gaze before gesturing to the chair behind him. “Sit. Let me help before you stitch yourself to ribbons.”

Though he grumbled, he did as she asked, sinking back into the chair with a sigh. Claere knelt by his legs, gently taking his arm to examine the wound he’d been trying to stitch. The axe had cut him clean, the edges already darkening around the gash.

“It’ll scar,” she said softly.

“Good,” he replied with a glint of pride. “When anyone asks, I’ll tell them it was from fighting for my lady.”

A faint smile crossed her lips as she dipped her fingers into the balm. With practised ease, she settled onto his thigh, feeling him tense as her hands pressed over the raw flesh of his ribs, tracing the edges of the wound with delicate care.

Cregan stiffened beneath her, a wry smile tugging at his lips despite the wince the movement sent through him.

“Steady now, my lady,” he murmured, capturing her wrist. “You sit this close while I’m in this state… we may soon find ourselves in a different sort of position.”

She lifted a cool, unimpressed brow, gently freeing her wrist from his grasp as she leaned in and continued her work, dabbing balm with the same cool precision. His words fell away, met with her customary indifference. She didn’t even spare him a glance, though his smirk grew as her fingers worked down his bruised arms with her unfailing calm.

Unfazed, he tilted forward, brushing his battered lips against her cheek, trailing a line down to her neck, his roughened breath warm against her skin. She allowed the light pressure of his lips on her jawline, not so much as flinching as he pressed a lingering kiss there. Her focus stayed on his bruised forearms, ignoring the warmth he radiated as if her heart hadn’t leapt a little at his touch. Her hands kept on, gently covering each bruise, each scrape—unmoved by his insistence.

But suddenly, her hands paused. Her gaze drifted down to his calloused hands, her fingers stilling over his. “I’ve granted the wildlings a place on our land,” she said, her tone even, the words carrying a weight they both felt.

Cregan pulled back slightly, meeting her eyes with a mix of surprise and pride. He didn’t hesitate, though—just nodded with calm conviction. “Alright.”

Claere blinked, studying his face, taken aback by his immediate acceptance. “Alright?” she echoed.

His mouth softened into a smile, one so warm and knowing it reached his eyes, and he brushed a stray wisp of her hair back. “Aye, my love. You’ve spoken as Winterfell’s lady, as the shield and keeper of its walls. If this is your will, then it’s thought through, and it’s wise.”

There was pride in his gaze, as unshakable as the stone of Winterfell’s walls. Her breath caught, seeing herself reflected in his eyes not as a Targaryen but as a woman who held the North’s fate in her hands, and it struck her to the core. His approval wasn’t mere agreement; it was reverence, the kind a lord offers his queen.

Cregan’s fingers trailed slowly up her back, and he drew her close, resting his forehead against hers. “You know,” he murmured, his voice dipping low, “I think I’m a little in awe of you.”

“You're the first.”

A soft huff of laughter escaped her, though her gaze softened as Cregan’s fingers brushed slowly up her back, his touch warm and steady even as his voice took on a more serious edge.

“What if I hadn’t come back?” he asked quietly, words heavy in the space between them. “If Sylas had struck true, had plunged his axe into my throat… what then, Claere?”

She stilled, meeting his gaze, but he didn’t look away, didn’t let the question rest unanswered. “Would you go back south? Mourn alone?” he pressed, his voice soft and deadly serious. “There’d be no more Starks here, no other bonds tying you to Winterfell.”

For a moment, there was nothing but the crackle of the distant hearth, and the faint hum of the waking castle outside. Then Claere’s voice slipped through the silence, quiet and resolute.

“Then I would rule in your name.” She held his gaze with power as tireless as his own. “I'd live out my days as a Stark til my end, no matter what your people say.”

The crypts of Winterfell were cloaked in shadow, their familiar chill hanging heavy in the air. Tyrion’s torchlight flickered against the ancient stone, casting wavering shadows over rows of solemn, worn statues—the Stark dead, silent witnesses in the depths.

They paused before a statue near the end of the line, where Cregan Stark stood in sombre effigy, a likeness of power and steely will carved in the weathered stone. At his side, in an uncustomary break from Stark tradition, was another statue—a woman whose regal features were captured with remarkable care: Claere Stark. Or perhaps more fittingly, Claere Velaryon. Though she had not been of the North, her statue rested beside Cregan’s as if by some ancient right.

Tyrion’s gaze lingered on Claere’s statue, marvelling how the sculptor had chiselled his devotion for her, as though she held a silent mystery even in stone. There she stood, not just beside Cregan, but as if guarding him in death as fiercely as she had in life. It struck him that Claere wasn’t even a Stark by birth, yet here she was, given the rarest honour.

"The fire of Old Valyria and the Winter's Queen,” Tyrion murmured, almost to himself, a small, wry smile tugging at his lips.

The stories of her life unfurled in his mind. He’d read about her and pored over accounts that painted her as a legend—a woman of fire and ice, Targaryen and yet something new. And her mighty dragon, the White Dread—Luna. The beast with scales like frost and flame, so fearsome in its majesty that even Northerners had spoken of it in whispers. Claere had been the first rider to take her dragon beyond the Wall, to ride over that barren, haunted wilderness with nothing but Luna’s wings carrying her, blazing trails through skies no other dragon had ever dared to reach.

"Have you heard of her, Lord Tyrion?”

Tyrion steadied himself, recovering from Sansa’s unexpected question with a small laugh, his eyes drifting back to Claere’s statue.

“Claere Stark,” he said, “I'd be a fool not to know her tale.”

The hall at Winterfell brimmed with the scent of roasted game and the crackling warmth of hearthfires. Spiced wine flowed as freely as water, and clashing tankards rose in steady cadence to songs sung in the old Northern tongue. The tables were heavy with bread, venison, and thick stews, a reminder that victory lay upon death. Meat fat glistened on plates as Cregan’s men devoured their food, their laughter spilling over one another’s voices. Wildling bodies were still burning in the woods beyond the walls, but here, their voices rose in songs for their Lord and Lady, even as the night grew late.

Oh, howl for the wolf, howl strong and bold!

His fangs to guard the keep!

But Cregan's smile was worn thin, forced. The seat beside him remained empty, the absence of Claere more palpable than any wound he bore.

“They celebrate the deaths by my hand,” she had told him when he had invited her to join the feast in the hall. “That is no celebration at all.”

They hailed Cregan, lifting their tankards to the “King in the North.” Then, with fervour, they cheered for the “Winter’s Queen,” their voices rising in earnest. She, who had taken to the skies with fire in her veins, commanded their respect now. All around him, he heard fragments of praise murmured to Claere, a reverence that they had been slow to bestow on her Targaryen blood.

“She was born to this,” a stout lord from the Barrowlands muttered to his neighbour. “She held her own like the Starks before her.”

Cregan took a slow drink of his ale, his eyes darkening as he listened. Now they speak of her as though she is their kin, he thought. Only days before, these same men had muttered of Claere’s “Southron blood,” questioning her loyalty, her fire. Now that they had witnessed her force, they bent their knee as if her worth had suddenly doubled. It was as though they’d forgotten their suspicion, bowing as if she had been born among them as if she was a Stark of old. Hypocrites, he thought with a simmering, silent disdain.

With another courteous grimace, he pushed back from the table. He’d had enough of these men’s fleeting gratitude. Let them toast and sing all they wished; he had no patience for it.

As Cregan limped toward his bedchambers, he barely registered the ache of his broken ribs or the gash that had opened anew beneath his shirt. He only wanted to be away from the empty revelry, the shallow praise ringing out for a battle that had nearly cost them dearly.

Footsteps pattered behind him, quick and hesitant. A young Norrey squire—a lad scarcely sixteen, bruises still smeared across his cheeks like war paint—caught up to him, eyes wide with worry. In his trembling hands was a sealed parchment, its edges marked by the red emblem.

“My lord, this—” the boy hesitated, glancing at the missive. “A letter, from King’s Landing. For Lady Stark.”

Cregan took it, his fingers brushing over the mark of the three-headed dragon, one that he recognized instantly.

The boy watched him expectantly, lingering for any acknowledgement, any glimpse of what lay within. Cregan met his eyes, his tone low. “Get yourself back to the hall, lad. Take a drink or three. You’ve earned it tonight.”

The squire opened his mouth as if to protest, his curiosity plainly written on his face, but one look from Cregan silenced him. The boy nodded, then darted back down the corridor, leaving Cregan alone with the sealed letter and his doubts.

Once the boy’s footsteps faded, he turned the letter over, studying the heavy wax. He knew he shouldn’t, knew it wasn’t meant for his eyes—yet the words of her mother, the queen, were not something he could ignore.

His fingers found the seal, and with a sharp snap, he broke it, unfolding the parchment to reveal the message inside. His eyes scanned the words, tightening with each line.

My dearest Claere,

I wish to speak plainly to you, daughter—I miss you. I admit that, though our time together has felt like an echo from the past, we have not shared sentiments often. I ask not for forgiveness, but for some more time. The hours drift heavily here, and your absence weighs more than I’d like to confess. Not a day goes by without Joff wishing to fly North to see you. Luke yearns to hear your harp when sleep evades him. These rumours of northern threats beyond the Wall trouble me deeply; I pray you are well-shielded. I trust in your lord husband's prowess and familiarity in dealing with such a crisis. Be that as it may, the White Dread was chosen for my little girl, and I expect Luna to guard you as fiercely as I would. If only I could be there. If only you were here. If only you would return... King's Landing is silent without your music. Be safe, always. Please come home when you can.

All my love, Mummy.

Cregan scanned the short letter, his brow knitting at the unfamiliar, graceful hand, and then he saw the name at the end: Mummy. It was a simple word, yet it carried the weight of something far larger—a reminder that Claere, fierce and untouchable as she seemed, belonged to more than Winterfell, that her blood tied her to a family who loved her and feared for her in ways he could never fully understand.

The words were plain, unadorned by politics or courtly flourishes. A mother missed her daughter deeply, openly. It was a rare, raw honesty—one that cut through the cold air and slipped like a dagger into his own misgivings. They would always want her back, wouldn’t they?

Cregan’s mouth softened into a quiet smile, one not often seen on him, as the unguarded sentiment of the letter eased something unspoken within him. He could see her, the Queen, imagining Claere’s presence in King’s Landing as though it were sunlight that could return to warm her halls.

And then, wordlessly, Cregan folded the letter back over itself, his fingers lingering on the delicate, foreign script. He looked into the flame of the nearest candle, watching it flicker and dance with a steady hunger.

He brought the letter closer, not out of spite, nor from any possessiveness. She was his wife, the Lady of Winterfell now. She belonged here, to the people of this North they’d pledged to protect together. No one, not even the Queen, could call her back south as though she were some visiting sparrow, blown north on the wind.

Without another thought, he fed the letter to the flame, watching the edges curl and blacken until the words vanished in the embers. The sentiment would remain, but it needn’t haunt her. If Claere wished to write to her mother, she would. But he would see to it that no one willed her away from her place here.

As the North endured its second endless winter, Claere had become a constant warmth within Winterfell’s ancient stone walls. Under her touch, even the frosty Glass Gardens thrived, their flowers and hardy herbs reaching toward the faintest glimmers of sunlight that pierced through the thick, grey clouds. Those who had once eyed her “Valyrian witch-ness” now found themselves drawn to the quiet strength that seemed to emanate from her, as enduring as the snows. It wasn’t just her presence that had transformed Winterfell—it was the way she softened its cold edges, threading warmth and peace through a place of ancient, unyielding stone.

On this particular morning, a group of young women and children gathered around her as she knelt beside a plot of hardy winter herbs. They were bundled in thick wool and furs, their cheeks ruddy from the cold that lingered in the air despite the shelter. Her hands worked deftly, and with a few murmured instructions, the ladies and children followed suit, gingerly reaching to touch the silvery-green leaves and rich soil beneath.

“Careful with that one,” Claere murmured, glancing up at a wide-eyed girl who had eagerly plucked too hard at a sprig of sage. “It bruises easy. Think of it like… well, like a kitten,” she said, her expression gentle. “You don’t hold a kitten like a sword, do you?”

The girl giggled, her hands softening at once, and a ripple of laughter ran through the group.

One of the older women—a stout, spirited lady from Wintertown—leaned closer, her eyes twinkling. “And here I thought you only knew how to keep dragons,” she teased, holding up a plucked stem with exaggerated delicacy. “I don’t suppose there’s a dragon-sized watering can hidden here, is there?”

Claere’s lips quirked, a faint smile breaking through her usual composed expression. “A dragon can be a bit impatient for that,” she said, glancing out toward the sky as if she could glimpse Luna hovering above. “I think the herbs would have much to fear if Luna were here to tend to them.”

Her joke, dry as it was, sparked laughter around the little circle, and the ladies exchanged knowing glances. They hadn’t seen this side of her often—a hint of playfulness, a softening of her typically solemn gaze. That was carefully tucked away for her husband. It was as though Winterfell had unlocked something within her, a part of her that even she hadn’t known could flourish here in the frozen North.

One of the children tugged at her sleeve, peering up at her with wide eyes. “Lady Claere, does Luna like sage too?” he asked, half-believing that her dragon might sneak into the gardens for a nibble.

Claere looked down, arching a delicate brow as if pondering the question with great seriousness.

“Oh, she does,” she said at last, with a solemn nod. “But only on special occasions. Perhaps if you listen very closely next time, you’ll hear her roaring approval.”

The children’s laughter rang out as they exchanged delighted glances, enchanted by the thought. “Luna the Herb Dragon!”

Winter might reign outside, bitter and endless, but within these walls, Claere had brought a touch of spring. As she returned to her work, she noticed how the women and children moved around her with gentleness and reverence, as though something sacred lived within the soil of these gardens.

Yet, as much as Winterfell had warmed to her, Claere remained just a little apart from the world around her. Hiding in plain sight. Her rhythms were her own; she moved in the night, a lone figure tracing the silent halls or slipping through the gardens as though she communed with the very roots of the castle. Her soft, unearthly songs drifted through the corridors like a balm, weaving into the silence, and at times it felt as though the stones themselves listened, her voice soothing the ancient shadows within them. At first, her night wanderings had unsettled the Northmen—they had seen her as strange, perhaps even touched by some kind of magic. But in time, her strangeness became familiar, her presence like an old, comforting tale whispered through Winterfell.

Cregan knew her better than anyone. He lay awake on those nights, waiting for the familiar sound of her steps, the soft murmur of her voice drifting through the dark. Her habits delighted him now, even as they stirred a strange, gentle ache in his heart. To him, she was always a marvel, something fragile and fierce, woven from both ice and flame. When he heard her moving through their chambers one winter’s night, he felt the faintest tug of worry—she wasn’t sleeping again, even on a night as bone-deep cold as this.

Rising from bed, he watched her for a moment, noting the faraway look in her eyes as she slipped toward the door, muttering faintly about the cold. It was as if some part of her was still dreaming, lost in a place only she could see.

He reached out, catching her gently by the arm. “Where are you going, love, hm?”

She blinked, looking up at him with hazy, half-lidded eyes, but said nothing, only murmured something soft, half to herself. “They're waiting in the Godswood. They're waiting for him.”

“Well, you can't be late,” he played along.

A sleepy smile tugged at the corner of his mouth; she was barely aware of him. He could have insisted she go back to bed and pulled her close, but he knew her too well. This was Claere—the woman who found solace in the moonlight and sang lullabies to the night itself.

He knelt before her, his hands steady as he reached for her bare feet. The chill in her skin made his brows knit, a fleeting twinge of worry threading through his affection. Still, he said nothing, only holding her ankle as he slipped on one of her shoes, then the other, his touch lingering a moment too long, feeling the frailness of her bones beneath his fingers.

“There. Now you can wander all you want,” he murmured, his voice soft with tenderness, a faint smile breaking through his concern. He brushed a thumb against her ankle, gently, as if to tether her to him before he let her go.

He rose to his feet, letting his hand linger on her shoulder as she drifted past him, her gaze already turning away. He stayed by the door, watching her until her figure melted into the shadows, her voice carrying through the silence, low and unhurried.

“Dreamy girl,” he muttered.

His heart swelled with a fierce, helpless love that no words could ever name. Claere—who was more like a dream than anyone he had ever known. Claere, who had brought him laughter, warmth, and mystery in equal measure.

As he returned to bed, he laughed quietly to himself. Settling back under the furs, he closed his eyes, a soft smile playing on his lips. This winter might be full of long, dark nights, but Claere’s warmth, her fire, was his own light in the cold.

What Cregan had not anticipated was how the stillness would settle over him that second winter. Two years. Nearly two years, and still, Claere’s belly remained unchanged, her slender form untouched by the promise of new life, her beauty as unmarred as the fresh snows in Winterfell’s courtyard each dawn.

Every night he held her, careful and considerate, as if she were made of something rare and breakable. But no amount of care or reverence had yielded the result he craved. His mind circled back on itself, questioning, doubting. Had he not proven himself worthy of her? Was he lacking in some way? He kept her well-fed, saw to her health, and watched as she grew stronger, more radiant—but that was not enough. Could it be him?

Swallowing his pride, he had sought counsel from the maester. The old man, wise and accustomed to all manner of concerns, had looked at him with a wry glint in his eye, perhaps a touch amused by Cregan’s uncharacteristic hesitancy.

“Take heart, my lord,” Maester Kennet had said, adjusting the weight of his maester’s chain. “There are herbs—strong ones, mind you. Wild roots from the Neck, saffron to be steeped in strongwine for three days. I’ve known it to aid many an anxious lord.”

The maester cleared his throat and went on, raising an eyebrow with an air of scholarly detachment. “And, if I may suggest… there are other... techniques, shall we say? Old wisdom passed down amongst the Southerners. Positioning makes a difference, particularly if the woman lies with her legs raised afterwards. It is believed to… encourage the seed to settle.”

Cregan pinched the bridge of his nose, torn between horror and bemusement. “You’re telling me to stand the poor girl on her head?”

The maester’s mouth quirked in the faintest smile. “Then it is also said that lavender oil rubbed on the skin under a new moon has coaxed many a reluctant heir into the world.”

“Lavender oil,” Cregan had muttered with a dour smile, caught between laughing at the absurdity of it all and throwing the list of remedies to the fire. “I’d wager Claere has plenty lying about. Have you noticed?”

The maester gave him a bemused look, raising a brow. “My lord?”

“Her scent—” Cregan paused, feeling strangely self-conscious but pressing on, his tone gruff. “Nothing like it grows in the Seven Kingdoms.”

The maester’s eyes twinkled with a faint, knowing smile. “Ah,” he said, “that would be spiceflower. A rare herb from the shores of Essos. Few use it; fewer still wear it. Quite the exotic choice.”

Cregan frowned, leaning back as he took this in. “Spiceflower…” he echoed, before shaking his head with a reticent chuckle. “And here I am, a lusty fool—yet still lacking in heirs.”

The maester chuckled, not unkindly. “Indeed, my lord. It’s a wonder you and Lady Stark had such trouble, considering. But, if I may say so, love often demands patience of the heart, even from those who burn like wildfire. Give it time. Try a few of the, ah… suggestions. And rest assured, the gods often surprise us in their timing.”

“Patience,” Cregan grumbled, scratching his jaw. “I’ll add that to the list, then.”

But the remedies had only deepened his frustration, leaving him feeling like a man grasping at shadows. None had yielded anything but silence, each attempt an echo lost to the biting chill of Winterfell. He wanted to give Claere this gift, this proof of their love—a legacy to carry forth into a new generation. Yet each passing month left him feeling more hollow, his hope thinning like frost in the morning sun, only to harden again when the day grew cold.

That night, as he lay beneath the furs, his hopes and fears pressed down upon him unrelentingly. Each failed attempt played through his mind like a song, one that had grown weary and out of tune. He had taken every herb, every supposed cure, had prayed to every god he could think of, but the same aching quiet remained.

Beside him, Claere lay in her own peaceful silence, her head resting on his chest, her fair hair spilling over his skin like silken snow. Her eyes, a deep, unwavering violet, watched him with a gentleness that felt almost mystical, and at that moment, he felt his turmoil ebb, if only for a heartbeat. She seemed so serene, untouched by the storm that raged within him. He envied her calm, even as he knew she might not share the same fierce desire for an heir that he did.

But her presence was a balm all its own. His hand came up almost absently to stroke her hair, his fingers tangling in those soft, pale locks as he held her to him, drawing comfort from her touch. Yet even that could not dispel the worry that gnawed at him—a worry that, unspoken, loomed between them like the darkness that lay just beyond the hearth’s glow.

“What troubles you?” she murmured, her voice breaking through the quiet like a peaceful thaw.

He exhaled, reluctant to confess the depth of his worries, but knowing that they’d continue to haunt him if he kept silent. “It’s been nearly two years, Claere,” he said, voice hushed and tinged with sorrow. “Even summer draws close, yet still…”

She raised her brow, her expression puzzled. “Still…?”

He paused, his fingers brushing absently through her hair. “Some might think our marriage has… gone cold. They may say that I’ve been unable to…” He trailed off, cursing his own pride for the thousandth time.

Her eyes softened as if she didn’t fully understand the meaning his words bore. But then she asked, in that quiet way of hers, “How many do you want, then?”

Her question caught him off guard, and he let out a short, surprised laugh. “How many?”

“Yes,” she replied with a small smile, tilting her head. “How many babes?”

He sighed, gazing up at the ceiling as he thought. “Five,” he murmured, his voice barely a whisper. “Maybe… six?”

She gasped, eyes wide in mock horror, laughter hidden in their depths. “Six! If you want six, Cregan, you’ll be carrying some of them yourself.”

He laughed, the sound rough and warm, as some of his tension dissolved. “Aye. I wish I could, I'd carry them all,” he admitted, a smile tugging at his lips. “You and I—we’d make fine parents. I’m certain of it.”

She watched him, her gaze as steady as ever. “Then perhaps I should speak to Maester Kennet tomorrow,” she said as if it were the simplest solution in the world.

He shook his head, chuckling softly. “I already have. He gave me more herbs than I know what to do with. And more ideas than any man could rightly attempt in a lifetime. Saffron, lavender oil, wild roots… I fear I may a grow a Glass Garden within my skin.”

A small laugh escaped her, easing her features and stirring a wildness within him. “And what other… techniques did he mention, hm?”

He rolled her over with a sudden, playful surge of energy, a breathless gasp slipping from her as he moved above her, his mouth brushing her neck, his voice low and teasing.

“Oh, there were a few obscene ones, my love. Even I flushed at some,” he murmured, his breath hot against her skin. “And I intend to try every last one of them, with your leave.”

She laughed, her rare and sweet sound filling the dark room, and his heart pounded as he held her close. He pushed a soft trail of kisses down her neck, the length of her collarbone, between her breasts, all the way to the curve of her navel. Her back arched off the bed, eyes rolling back into her head, a moan filling the silence.

“Ah,” he hummed into the seam of her legs, hefting them over his shoulder, “they're working already.”

For a time, the weight of his worries faded, leaving only her laughter and warmth, and the shared comfort of their embrace.

Claere sat alone by the low fire in Winterfell’s solar, her fingers drifting absently over the curve of her belly. Her gaze fell softly to the flame, her eyes half-lidded as though seeing something—or someone—beyond the walls of the castle, beyond the falling snow, stretching out all the way to Dragonstone.

In the flickering warmth, she began to murmur, her words barely above a whisper, yet steady, each one filled with quiet conviction. She’d imagined this conversation many times in her heart, but tonight it felt real, as if the distance between her and her mother, Rhaenyra, had fallen away, leaving only the intimacy of a daughter’s voice.

"Mother,” she began, a wistful smile playing on her lips, “I write this at a time when your presence is much missed here. I know you’d ask me of Winterfell, of life so far from what I was raised to know. And you’d wonder if I feel lost here if this place could ever be called home.” The words hung in the air, half question, half answer.

She took a deep breath, her hand resting gently on the small swell of her belly. “There’s a peace here, a rootedness,” she said, her gaze softening. "I have found love here—no less fierce than what I saw you hold for my brothers, what you taught us to dream of. Cregan is not a man who bends easily to others, nor would he take kindly to this North being called ‘strange’ or ‘harsh,’ for he loves it as truly as any man loves a woman. And through him, I have learned to love it too. To find warmth in these stones and shelter in the cold air."

The fire crackled, sending a flicker of shadow over her face, and her hand lingered on her belly with a tenderness that almost surprised her. She felt the life within her stir, a promise she hadn’t realized she’d waited her whole life to fulfil.

“I am with child, Mummy,” she murmured as if confessing to a dream. "And I know it in my very bones—she is a girl. A bright, wild soul, even now. She has your courage, your spirit, I feel it already."

Her gaze lifted, as though her mother could see her from across the ages.

“She is to be named Rhaenyra, to carry your legacy in this faraway land. She will be raised a Stark, she'll be who her father was, and have all the strength you gave me.”

Her voice softened, almost breaking. “I am so happy here. I am so far from you, and yet so close in my heart.”

As the fire’s light dimmed and the night grew quiet, Claere closed her eyes, feeling a warmth settle in her chest. She leaned back in her chair, as though her mother was present in the room with her, holding her in an unbreakable embrace across the many miles and years.

Sansa’s voice softened, echoing faintly off the stone walls of the crypts. She kept her gaze steady on the statues of Cregan and Claere, her eyes tracing the faint details carved into the faces that seemed so solemn, so eternal.

“Did you know, Tyrion,” she began, her voice low and measured, “they lost their firstborn? A daughter.”

Tyrion’s surprise flickered across his face. He’d thought he knew every corner of their story, but this was new—a shadow hidden even from the pages of history. “A daughter?” he murmured, almost to himself.

Sansa’s gaze didn’t shift, fixed on the cold, unyielding faces of the statues. “Claere had her labours too soon,” she continued, each word an echo of some deeper grief as if she could feel the loss herself. “They say she came in the sixth moon. Cregan had been away to the Wall then. The midwives refused to speak of her to him, and those who did wished they hadn’t.”

Tyrion tilted his head, watching Sansa as if trying to read some forgotten history from her expression. “Why?” he asked, voice hushed, as if afraid to disturb the old shadows around them.

“They said she was a beast—unlike anything seen in these lands,” Sansa replied, her voice barely above a whisper. “Old Nan told Bran once, that babe had scales as a dragon might, a hole where the heart was, but there was a wildness too—fur at her ears, horns at her brow.” Her hand drifted unconsciously to her own temple. “She was a creature of fire and ice.”

Tyrion’s face was hard to read, the curiosity in his eyes mixed with sorrow. “What happened to the baby?”

Sansa’s lips parted, the sadness settling deeper into her voice. “The White Dread cremated her.” She paused, her eyes on the statue of Claere, whose gaze seemed cast into some unseen distance. “They say her flames burned hotter than any fire the North had ever known until nothing remained of the child but ash in the wind.”

The silence that followed was thick, weighted with memories that did not belong to them. Tyrion stared at the statues, feeling the chill of the crypt press into his skin.

“Said it was a curse,” Sansa continued, her voice as steady as the stones surrounding them. “Some called it retribution for Claere’s dragon blood mingling with that of the wolf's. Others believed it was Winterfell’s vengeance for the foreign blood she brought to this house.”

“Curses… superstitions. Idiocy,” Tyrion muttered, though the words felt hollow in his mouth. He searched the statues’ faces as though they might offer some defiance, some challenge to the grim fate that had haunted them.

Sansa nodded slowly, her eyes never leaving Cregan and Claere’s statues. “Oh, how wrong they all were.”

The grief preyed on Cregan like a huntsman, aimed and unrelenting. He hadn’t been there when his daughter took her first—and only—breath. He hadn’t seen her small, twisted form, hadn’t held her lifeless body, hadn’t even seen the ash left in the pyre after Luna’s flames claimed her. All he had were the fractured whispers, the midwives' hushed tales of scales and horns, monstrous whispers that haunted him as he lay awake. They told him the babe was a creature—a child neither fully beast nor fully human, a twisted relic of a bloodline cursed.

And Claere… she had flown, disappeared across the bleak Northern sky on the back of her dragon. It had been a week of silence, of endless, hollow waiting. Every day he’d woken with a sliver of hope that she’d return, that she hadn’t simply left him behind to grieve alone. But each night she didn’t return felt like losing her all over again, as though the world had claimed not one but both of his girls. Perhaps she had gone back to her kin, her Targaryen blood too thick to weather Winterfell’s shadows. He was simply too removed into his head to send word.

When she did return, landing under the cold light of dawn, Cregan could scarcely face her. He felt his eyes torch in his head when he saw her, haggard and dirtied, travelling gods know where.

What could he say? How could he look into those fierce violet eyes, knowing she had borne their grief alone, toiling for two days to bring their daughter into a world that had torn her away before she’d even lived? He could feel the shame curling in his stomach like a sickness—he had left her to the darkest of agonies.

But Claere approached him with a stillness he hadn’t expected, a haunted calm in her eyes as she knelt at his feet, hands on her knees, her head bowing low.

“Forgive me, Cregan,” she said, her voice a hollow murmur, barely more than a breath against the cold. She kept her gaze lowered, refusing to meet his eyes. “The cost has been paid. For the lives I claimed, this was… the price. I've always known. I knew it would come. This burden should only be mine to bear.”

He looked down, stunned into silence. Her words echoed in the room, colder than the stone walls around them, more cutting than any blade. He could feel a sharp ache twisting in his chest as he understood her meaning—understood that in her mind, the world had claimed their child as retribution for the men she’d burned, for the blood she had spilt.

“And for that,” she continued, her voice steady but edged with sorrow, “I am yours to punish, in any way you see fit. If you’d have me return to my brother, I’ll leave. If you’d have my life… it’s yours to take.”

Cregan’s gaze snapped to her, raw anger surging up from the depths of his grief. He wanted to scream, to rage, to tear down the walls around them in his fury. But the sight of her—so proud, yet kneeling before him with her shoulders bent under the weight of guilt—left him hollow. He watched her as she knelt, holding back tears with an unyielding resolve, the faintest tremor betraying the walls she had raised around herself. For once, her impassive mask was cracking, and he could see the sorrow underneath, the grief she had borne alone in silence.

He reached out, his rough fingers brushing her chin as he tilted her face upward, meeting her eyes at last. Tears brimmed there, held back with stubborn defiance, but as she looked at him, something within her broke. Her features twisted, and in a raw, heart-wrenching sob, she let her grief fall free.

“I deserve this. I did this,” she whimpered.

It devastated him. Every ounce of anger he had felt, every bitter thought and word he’d held onto, melted away as he pulled her into his arms. Held her close until her breaths became his.

“No,” he said roughly, “please don't, Claere.”

She sobbed against his chest, her tears soaking into the rough fabric of his tunic, her frame trembling with each wrenching gasp. And as he held her, he, too, felt their shared sorrow, a grief so deep it felt like the cold itself had seeped into his bones.

Cregan let out a shattered sob, pressing his face into her hair, his hand running along her back in a desperate attempt to soothe her.

“I love you,” he promised, his rough voice broken with feeling. “And I would kill another thousand men before you blame yourself for this tragedy.”

“Forgive me,” she wept softly.

“No, hush, love. I have you, I don't want anyone else.”

They clung to each other, their sorrow woven together, a single thread in a tapestry of loss and love. And as the dawn light began to creep into the chamber, illuminating the room with a pale, ghostly glow, they mourned not just for the daughter they had lost, but for the life they had dreamed of—a life now gone, scattered like ashes in the wind.

Tyrion turned to Sansa, brow creased in confusion as he took in the significant words of her story. "They had children, did they not? Of their own?"

Sansa’s lips curved into a gentle smile, a glimmer of pride and sorrow mingling in her eyes. "They did," she replied, her voice quiet, almost reverent, as though speaking of something sacred.

“Four pups," she said. "Their eldest, they called the White Wolf."

Her gaze drifted to a tall statue a little ways from where Cregan and Claere’s likenesses stood. “That’s him, Brandon Stark," she explained. "Even in stone, you can see it in him. Brandon didn't get to rule until his twenty-ninth nameday.”

Tyrion's brow furrowed again, curiosity mingling with amusement. "And did Brandon have a dragon, then?" he mused. "Strange that I don’t recall any Stark children riding one."

Sansa gave a small, enigmatic shrug. “None of their cradle eggs hatched," she replied, her voice touched by a hint of irony. "Maybe our blood is too rooted in the ground, too determined for such Valyrian magic.”

Her words hung in the cold air, and for a moment, neither spoke. Tyrion could almost picture it—a line of Northern children, each with an unhatched egg at their bedside, bound by tradition and yet untouched by it. The eggs must have been exquisite: shimmering, dormant things, packed into chests or set aside in the Godswood. And there they lay, silent reminders of a legacy Claere had hoped to pass on but that Winterfell had quietly refused.

He looked over at Sansa, who was gazing at her ancestors with a rare softness. “Perhaps it’s for the best,” she murmured, almost to herself. “They needed no fire when they had the North.”

Claere stood behind Cregan, a faint smirk pulling at her lips as she tugged at a single strand of white hair stubbornly sprouting from his crown. Cregan winced, catching her gaze in the mirror with a halfhearted glare, though a small smile betrayed him. She leaned closer, brushing a lock of her own silver hair over her shoulder, its colour unchanged despite the years.

He turned to look up at her, taking in the gentle pride in her eyes, the warmth that had softened the cool distance she’d carried with her from King’s Landing. She had become the heart of Winterfell as surely as he was its spine; they had grown into each other, their love deepening with each new season. And now, they shared a life that seemed less of battle and duty, and more of small, cherished moments like this one.

"Careful," she teased, her fingers gently releasing the strand. "You’ve finally been touched by winter itself. White hair suits you, Lord Stark."

He gave a huff, rolling his eyes as he rubbed at his scalp where she’d tugged. “A Targaryen would think so. Means something different here in the North.”

“I think you look rather handsome,” she murmured.

Cregan raised an eyebrow, catching her gaze in the mirror. “Is that so?”

Claere smiled softly, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to his cheek, letting it linger. “That is so.”

He was about to pull her in by her waist when, soon enough, Brandon’s mop of silver curls and wide grey eyes peeked over the door, and he strolled straight over and hauled himself up to sit on the dresser, swinging his legs and looking for all the world like he’d earned his spot.

The Stark children of Winterfell were a sight to behold, each one as distinct as the seasons that marked the North, yet bound together by the fierce blood that ran in their veins. Brandon Stark, the eldest, was born to an inheritance of heavy expectation and watchful eyes, his white hair gleaming starkly against the dark winters of his home. His labour marked the end of Claere and Cregan's grieving for their daughter, a silver lining that shone so bright after a two-year dark night. Though he bore his father’s strong frame and presence, his colouring made him seem almost unnatural, a blend of Stark and Targaryen that whispered of magic and legend. Brandon wore his status quietly, already showing a sombre diligence that mirrored his father’s. He was a boy who thought twice before speaking and thrice before acting—much to the exasperation of his younger siblings.

"Where’s your sister?” Cregan asked, quirking an eyebrow as he studied his eleven-year-old son, who’d already snuck his hands around the hilt of the longsword that leaned against the dresser.

Brandon grinned, mischief dancing in his eyes. “With Ed and Rickon. They said they’re going to try and mount Luna again.”

Cregan sighed, feeling the weight of fatherhood settle on him as solidly as the cloak over his shoulders. “I ought to tie all their feet together and hang them from that damned beast. I told you, Claere, to not feed the children with this madness.”

Claere chuckled, her fingers deftly weaving a section of his hair as if considering another silver culprit. “Luna wouldn't hurt what is mine. She's harmless.”

Cregan’s brow furrowed, but before he could retort, Claere gave another tug at a hidden strand, and he winced, swatting her hand away with a grumble.

“Have mercy, my love.”

Brandon’s eyes narrowed, fixing on his mother’s hand as she toyed with the strand, and he frowned. “Why are you doing that to Father?”

Claere’s smile softened as she looked from her husband to her son. “Because your father needs reminding now and then,” she murmured, her fingers finding his shoulders, “that even the strongest oak grows older with time.” She paused, ruffling Brandon’s hair with a gentle hand. “But don’t you worry. Your father is just as fierce as he was before.”

“She secretly loves it,” Cregan stage-whispered to his son, winking.

Brandon tilted his head thoughtfully, then gave a firm nod. “Father’s the strongest, even with grey hair.”

Cregan smirked, giving his son a warm, prideful glance. “Is that so? And what would you know about it, hm?”

Brandon shrugged, his small fingers still dancing around the hilt of Cregan’s sword. “Just… know it,” he said, nodding to himself as if his future strength were already assured. His gaze never left the blade, drawn to the legacy it carried. “One day, I’ll be as strong as you. I'll hold up Ice with a single fist.”

Cregan’s hand settled over his son’s, a gentle, knowing grasp that made Brandon look up, wide-eyed. “Strength’s more than what you hold in your hands, little wolf. It’s in here.” He tapped a finger against Brandon’s chest. “And in here.” A finger to his forehead. “Takes both to be worthy of a sword.”

Brandon looked between them, his brow furrowing slightly as if contemplating a great secret he wasn’t yet old enough to understand. He nodded solemnly, absorbing his father’s words with the gravity only a boy on the brink of his first ambitions could muster.

But before Cregan could say more, the door burst open, slamming into the wall, sending a gust of laughter and hurried footsteps echoing through the room. Rickon came barreling in, his face flushed with a wild grin, with Edric hot on his heels, a look of determined fury in his eyes. Rickon glanced back, cackling in delight, his feet carrying him just out of his younger brother’s reach.

Rickon, only seven, was a restless fire. He was the second-born son, wild and spirited, already proving to be as headstrong as he was loyal. He bore no outward trace of his mother’s Valyrian heritage—no silver in his hair, no unnatural glint to his grey eyes. Rickon was a Stark, through and through, with a fierce heart that sometimes got him into trouble. He had none of Brandon’s careful restraint; instead, he charged into life with the boundless energy of a wolf pup, bringing both chaos and laughter to Winterfell’s quiet halls. And he was adored for it, a boy who could lighten the darkest day with his mischief.

“Tell him, Bran! Tell our baby brother he's a big bonehead!” Rickon called, flashing a triumphant smirk over his shoulder.

“You're dead, Rickon!” Edric, face red and eyes alight with indignation, launched himself forward, intent on tackling Rickon.

The twins, Eddric and Luce, were only five but already made their mark. Eddric, the quietest of the brood, had a stillness about him that spoke of an inner strength. People said he was his father’s mirror in his younger years, with a steady gaze and a quietness that hid the steady turn of thought. He followed Brandon with a silent loyalty, never complaining, always watching. Although, his second brother always loved to keep him on his toes.

Brandon, ever the mediator, hopped off the vanity, stepping in front of his brothers, raising his small hands in a peaceable gesture that was years beyond his age.

Behind them, little Lucelle slipped quietly into the room, trailing her brothers with a gentler, watchful presence. Without a word, she gravitated toward her mother, slipping her small hand into Claere’s skirt folds, her delicate fingers clutching fabric as though it held all the comfort of the world. Claere smiled down at her daughter, brushing a gentle hand over Luce’s pale braid and planting a light kiss on her head.

Luce, by contrast to her brothers, was as loud as she was small, a tempest wrapped in a child’s form. Though she bore her father’s colouring, she had her mother’s violet eyes—bright, sharp, and entirely too knowing. Even at five, she held herself with fierce pride and a pearl of uncanny wisdom, and when she spoke, she did so with the quiet authority of someone far older.

“How was Luna today?” Claere asked her softly.

Luce leaned into her mother’s touch, her thumb idly rubbing the soft fabric, an unspoken bond of safety. “We barely even got to her before Ed and Rick started fighting. Idiots.”

“You cannot call your brothers that,” Claere hushed her, muffling the smile that cracked into her stern voice.

“Bran calls them that,” she opposed.

“Rickon told me I’m the spare!” Edric’s voice broke through the laughter, his hurt undeniable, despite the fire in his glare as he fixed it on Rickon. “He told me Mum only wanted Luce, and I was extra!”

Brandon sighed, glancing at Rickon with a slight shake of his head. “Rick…”

Rickon crossed his arms, his smirk deepening. “He is. It’s not like Mum has a choice with you.”

With a fierce growl, Edric launched himself at his older brother again, fists ready, but before he could strike, a strong arm reached down, lifting him clean off the ground. Cregan held him firmly, his son’s small body squirming in his grasp, and Edric’s indignation filled the room like thunderclouds gathering.

“Let me go, Da! I’ll pound him to dust!” Edric howled, kicking his legs in protest, though Cregan’s arms held fast.

“Oh, I don’t doubt it,” Cregan said, his tone dry, though there was a glimmer of warmth in his eyes as he held Edric up at arm’s length. “And what will that solve, lad? Leave a wily little fox like you to guard Winterfell alone? The walls themselves would flee.”

Edric scowled, struggling a bit as he dangled, though a faint smirk touched his lips. “I'm a wolf like you, Da,” he grumbled, still glaring at Rickon. “One day, I’ll be older, and I’ll pin him to the wall myself.”

Rickon, with a shrug and a careless smirk, crossed his arms. “When pigs fly, little brother,” he teased, the mischief in his voice unshakable.

Brandon, standing nearby with his arms folded, smacked the back of Rickon’s head lightly. “Why can't you pick on someone your own size?”

Rickon grinned at his older brother, shrugging off the swat as though it were nothing. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Cregan finally set Edric down, though his hand lingered on the boy’s shoulder to steady him. “Enough, all of you,” he said, his tone slipping into the low authority of a lord. “If you waste your energy fighting each other, we’re no better than hounds snarling over scraps.”

Edric pouted, but a look of consideration passed over his face. He mumbled under his breath, glancing at Rickon. “One day, though, I will be stronger.”

Rickon rolled his eyes, though a grin tugged at his lips as he tousled Edric’s hair. “And I’ll still be faster, so good luck with that.”

Brandon sighed, sounding far older than his ten years, and levelled a stern look at his younger brothers. “Don't make me knock your heads together.”

Edric scowled, scratching his jaw—his father's habit—glancing down before muttering, “I won't punch you, Rickon… I guess.”

Rickon, ever the little rogue, didn’t miss a beat. With a quick, sidelong glance at his younger brother, he gave his little brother's bottom a playful smack.

“There—apology accepted,” he laughed, darting out of reach.

Edric’s eyes went wide, and without another word, he took off after his brother, his face red again. “I’m going to kill you, you rat!”

Rickon only laughed harder, his steps light and quick as he ducked between the furniture and made for the door. The sound of their laughter and footsteps filled the room, echoing off the stone walls with a warmth that could thaw even Winterfell’s chill.

Claere looked back to Cregan, the glint of amusement unmistakable in her gaze. She rested a hand on his shoulder, her voice low but carrying a hint of shared mischief.

“Maybe we ought to tie all of their feet together,” she mused, a spark dancing in her eye.

Cregan chuckled, shaking his head as he watched the boys tumble after each other. He kissed the top of her head. “No need, love. They’re bound already.”

Claere’s smile muffled as Cregan’s gaze drifted to their daughter, his expression melting into one of pure adoration. He opened his arms, and Luce scurried over and nestled into him with a giggle. He swept her up, dirty skirts and all, cuddling her to his chest.

"C’mere, Luce. My little queen. Sweetling. Sunshine." he murmured, punctuating every endearment with a kiss. He pressed a flurry of kisses to her cheeks, each one met with a small, shy smile as she clung to his tunic, basking in his affection.

“Oh, your brothers are a handful, but I’ve got you, haven’t I?” he murmured into her hair, his voice a low, affectionate rumble.

Luce nodded, her tiny fingers curling around his collar as if to hold him close. “I'll tie them onto Luna for you, Da,” she said, her voice just loud enough for him to hear.

Cregan laughed, glancing up at Claere, who watched them, almost in pride. “She’ll keep this family in line,” he joked, his eyes dancing as he gave Claere a knowing look. “Someone’s got to.”

Claere smirked, brushing a stray lock of Luce’s hair back with a gentle hand. “It seems she’s the only one who can keep even you in line.”

Just then, a thump and a crash from the hallway sent a ripple of laughter through them as Rickon, Bran, and Edric clattered into view, wrestling in an entangled heap of elbows, snarls and shouts.

Cregan shook his head, still holding Luce close. “I’ll give them ten minutes before they’re back, claiming mortal wounds over a scraped knee or bruised pride.”

Claere laughed, her fingers trailing over Luce’s shoulder as she murmured, “So long as they keep coming back… let them bruise as they will.”

For the people of Winterfell, the Stark children were a fascinating sight. They were a blend of old and new, Northern ice and dragon fire, and their presence seemed to promise something powerful and strange. The household had watched them grow with almost reverent awe, and whispers ran through the kitchens and courtyards, soft as the snow: They are of both wolf and dragon, and who knows what their futures hold?

Claere and Cregan raised their children as both wolves and dragons, with love as fierce as winter and discipline as sharp as steel. Each child bore the marks of their parents' contrasting worlds, shaped by the ice of the North and the fire of Claere’s bloodline. Claere had come to Winterfell as a stranger, her Targaryen heritage making her an enigma to the Northern folk, but she carved out her place there with quiet strength. In her children, she found a bridge between past and future, each one a blend of her Valyrian roots and Cregan’s Stark blood.

She mothered them with a firm hand, fiercely protective yet unwilling to shelter them from the hard truths of their world. With Brandon, her eldest, she stoked a sense of duty and honour, guiding him to read the land and the people, to notice what others missed, and to understand that strength was often quiet. He was the heir, the White Wolf, and she reminded him that he held both fire and ice within him. Rickon, wild and reckless as a storm, needed her balance to hold his nature in check. Eddric, the watchful one, often content to linger at the edge, was Cregan's shadow. She knew his quiet was more than shyness; it was the start of wisdom, a Stark-born stillness that watched and weighed.

Cregan, in turn, forged his children in the Northern way, teaching them to endure hardship, to feel the weight of a sword and the pull of a bow, to know that their lives were tied to the land, as old as the wolves carved into the walls of Winterfell. All his boys learned the ways of a leader and his army—the honour in command and the weight of responsibility. Cregan had him stand watch on the battlements, and learn the lay of the North as if it was etched into his veins.

But it was with Luce that both Cregan and Claere softened. She had her father’s face, all Stark and strong-boned, but her mother’s spirit—a quiet ferocity, a softness she wore like armour. Cregan was gentler with her, the daughter who clung to his arm and had him wrapped around her small finger. She was her father’s pride, her mother’s wisdom, and though he would never say it aloud, Cregan often looked at her with the same bemused wonder he’d had for Claere since the day she entered his life.

And so, Winterfell saw the children grow under their parents' steady hand. They were loved fiercely, disciplined with purpose, and shaped by the ancient pillars and endless snow.

One night, Claere sat alone in the dim, quiet room, absently stroking Luce’s hair as she slept on her lap, singing lowly under her breath. It had been a long day, and she found herself missing Cregan’s company with an ache she hadn’t expected. Since the loss of their firstborn, he’d been reluctant to leave her side, especially when his duties called him to the Wall, yet he’d had no choice. The distance unsettled her more than she would admit, and she wondered if he, too, felt the hollow space she sensed at her back.

So sleep, dear starling, the night is long, with fire in heart and ice in song...

The soft creak of the door brought her from her thoughts, Claere looked up, her gaze softening as she saw Brandon standing there, silhouetted by the hallway’s faint light. He looked as though he’d come by mistake, and was ready to turn back—but Claere beckoned him with a gentle smile, patting the bed beside her.

"Come," she whispered.

Brandon’s shoulders relaxed as he slipped into the room, padding quietly across the floor before climbing onto the bed. He settled beside her, leaning his head against her shoulder, breathing in the faint scent of herbs and warmth that always seemed to cling to her. It reminded him of home, of safety—of the softness he didn’t find anywhere else. Claere’s hand continued to pat Luce’s back, but her arm extended to draw him close, letting him sink into her side.

For a while, they sat in silence, Luce’s breathing a lull in the quiet. Then Brandon shifted, and in a low, begrudging whisper, he said, “Why must I share a room with those two?” His tone was layered with exasperation, that distinct note of long-suffering only a brother of younger siblings could manage.

“What have they done now?” Claere’s voice held a hint of amusement.

Brandon sighed as if forced to recount a tale of unending woe. “They broke each other’s noses. Again.”

Claere let out a quiet laugh, and Brandon felt the warmth of it in the vibration of her shoulder against his cheek. “And now, does Rickon still hug Ed in his sleep?” she asked a glimmer of humour in her voice.

Brandon rolled his eyes. “Like I said—idiots,” he muttered, but the faintest of smiles tugged at his lips.

Luce stirred and whined in her sleep, and Claere’s hand returned to gently patting her back, sending her back to slumber with a soft hum.

Brandon’s gaze lingered on his sister, feeling a pang in his chest that he couldn’t name. It was something knotted, tight, a jealousy that tasted bitter at the edges. He wanted to be held like this, to be smiled at so fondly, to be the one looked at so softly, so protectively. He wanted to be more than the heir, the firstborn whose hands were always busy with swords and lessons. He wanted to be his mother’s little one, just as Luce seemed to be.

“Why does she get to sleep here?” he asked, unable to keep the envy from his voice.

Claere paused, her hand stilling on Luce’s back. She looked down at Brandon, and her gaze held an understanding, a sadness that he didn’t entirely comprehend. Her fingers traced a gentle line along his cheek, brushing back a stray lock of his pale hair.

"Because, my son," she said softly, “she is my last child, my small light in the dark. But you…” She cupped his face, turning him to meet her eyes fully, grey and fierce. “You are my first. You taught me what it is to be a mother. The babe I dreamed of long before I ever saw you. I see myself in Luce, but I see my heart in you.”

Brandon’s throat tightened, but he swallowed, the words sinking deep.

She held his gaze, her expression turning serious, almost solemn. “You must promise to protect her, Bran. All of them. You are my strength in this world.”

Brandon nodded, his jaw set, the weight of her words settling on his small shoulders with a sense of duty he was still growing into. His mother’s fierce love, and her gentle guidance—these were the things that built him, a silent armour he wore just as much as his father’s teachings.

Settling his cheek back on her shoulder, he murmured, “Why did my egg never hatch?”

Claere paused, then hummed thoughtfully, her fingers stroking down his arm in a soothing rhythm. “Perhaps,” she replied with a faint smile, “you’re more like your father than me. All of you are, in different ways.”

Her hand came to rest on his head, patting it with an absent fondness. Brandon looked up at her, his young face etched with curiosity. “Could I claim Luna, then?”

“If she’ll have you,” she answered, a hint of amusement coloring her voice. “Though you’ll need more than will to ride her.”

Brandon fell silent, mulling over her words, before he ventured again, his tone almost timid. “Ma?”

Claere hummed, giving him her full attention.

“Could I squire in the South? At Dragonstone. With Uncle Jacaerys?” He looked at her, eyes wide, a trace of longing lingering in his expression.

Claere snickered softly. “Lord Stark will have some thoughts about this. And they won’t be gentle ones.”

“But I know nothing about Targaryen customs, about our family’s ways,” he insisted, his voice carrying an earnest edge. “The things they say—the language, the dreams, Aegon the Conqueror…”

Claere’s gaze softened, and she reached to smooth a lock of Brandon’s silver hair from his face, her fingers lingering in the unruly curls that were so much like her own. She knew the pull he felt, that ache to connect with the other half of himself—the part that carried the blood of dragons, with all its legends and haunted promises. But she also knew Cregan’s thoughts on the matter, thoughts forged not from prejudice but from a bone-deep protectiveness and the history they’d both lived through.

"Your father…” Claere began, choosing her words carefully, “… would rather see you grow as a Stark than a Targaryen.” She smiled softly, though there was a sadness there. “To him, your family—our family—holds too many ghosts.”

Brandon frowned, his young mind wrestling with something he couldn’t fully grasp. “Why does he hate them?” he whispered. “Hate us?”

Claere shook her head. “No, he does not hate you or me. But he’s seen the way Targaryens turn on each other, even on those they love.” Her voice grew quieter, shadows darkening her eyes as memories surfaced, painful ones. “He’s seen the scars they leave behind. He would never want that for you.”

Brandon opened his mouth to protest, but Claere held up a hand, a glimmer of her resolve flashing through. “When I left King’s Landing, I was traded away for powerplay. The heir to the Iron Throne, the daughter who left the dragons behind, the sister who stood apart. To your father, they failed me because they never tried to understand me.” She held his gaze, and there was a spark of fierceness. “Your father gave me what they never could—home, love, belonging. He would never let you go somewhere that could take that from you.”

Brandon looked away, the longing still clear in his face. “But how am I supposed to be both?” he asked, frustration leaking into his voice.

“You don’t have to be both,” Claere said, gently turning his chin so he’d meet her eyes again. “You’re a Stark. Winterfell is your home, and it’s more than enough.” She leaned in, lowering her voice. “And if you ever want to know what the dragons were, or what dreams they carry, you have me.”

She saw the hint of a question on his lips, and she met it with a steady gaze, letting him see the truth, the warmth, the strength she’d carried. "I will tell you all you need to know,” she whispered, brushing her fingers against his cheek. “Of the dreams, the language, the stories of old Valyria. Those are yours to know here, by my side.”

Brandon seemed to consider this, his expression softening, though the flicker of desire still lingered in his eyes. He gave her a slow, uncertain nod as if coming to terms with the truth he didn’t fully understand. He shifted closer to Claere, his gaze drifting to his sleeping sister. With a quiet sigh, his hand rested on Luce’s hair, fingers threading gently through the soft strands, his gaze fixed and calm as he watched his sister sleep. In that small, quiet moment, Claere saw her children—each bound to Winterfell, bound to one another, and bound to her, the blood and heart of her life here in the North.

She leaned down and pressed a lingering kiss to both their heads, the warmth of her touch settling over them like a shield. In them, she had forged a legacy as strong as stone, something beyond the name and blood that marked them. Her children would not walk the lonely paths of dreams and ancient fire; they would walk the halls of Winterfell, as Starks and Targaryens both, together, woven in the stark threads of love and loyalty.

“Rest now, my heart,” she whispered to Brandon, her voice soft as snowfall. “All that you are—one day, you’ll understand.”

As Brandon finally closed his eyes, nestled beside his sister, Claere let herself linger, watching over them. The shadows in the room softened, a quiet peace settling in with the deep, Northern night, and in that stillness, it felt as though Winterfell itself held its breath, honouring a family forged from ice and fire.

Tyrion lingered before the statues, his fingers tracing an idle path over the stone as he mused, “So, Claere went first.” He shook his head, voice touched with a faint, almost reluctant admiration. “And Cregan… he didn’t last much longer, did he?”

Sansa’s gaze softened, a distant, wistful look in her eyes. “No. It was as if losing her carved him hollow.” She let out a small, sombre breath. “They say he couldn’t bear the thought of life without her. Even his children offered him no solace. His strength faded quickly, and he let it.” Her lips curled with a faint, sad smile. “In the end, he had her bones laid to rest beside him. He’d rather share the crypts than a world without her.”

Tyrion tilted his head, smirking with a dry irony. “Northern sentimentality… burying your wife in your own tomb. Poetic, if a bit possessive.”

Sansa laughed, the sound a soft note in the stillness of the crypt. “It’s the Stark way—blunt and stubborn. But we’re loyal to the end, even in death.”

She let her gaze drift to the statues, her eyes clouding over as the distant sounds of the battle above seeped into the silence, chilling the air around them.

A moment passed before Tyrion’s voice lowered, a touch of dark humour edging his words. “Do you suppose she saw him when she flew past the Wall? The Night King? Did she foresee this—Jon, Daenerys, the dead—all of it?”

Sansa’s lips turned in a grim smile. “Maybe he’ll raise her tonight, and you can ask her yourself.”

Tyrion chuckled, though a touch of unease crept into his voice. “I’d be honoured—though I’d rather she stay silent in their tomb.”

As the rumbling above grew louder, Sansa reached within her cloak and drew out a single winter rose, its pale petals stark against the shadows. She stepped forward, resting it on Claere’s carved hands, nestled within the etched garland of roses across her stone form.

Tyrion watched as Sansa drew back, her gaze never leaving the rose. “A Stark gesture if I’ve ever seen one,” he muttered.

She turned to him, a ghost of a smile lingering. “Some things deserve to be remembered.”

The night was a vast, velvet black stretched over Winterfell, the stars scattered in dazzling points of light above them. Claere and Cregan lay side by side on the old, stone battlements, watching the sky. A soft, cool wind rustled her hair, silver in the moonlight, and she felt Cregan’s warmth beside her, steady and familiar, like the rhythm of her own heartbeat.

They had aged together, the sharp lines of youth softened, but neither seemed diminished. If anything, Cregan thought he had never loved her more. They had grown together—each trial they faced only drew them closer. He saw it in her laughter, lighter now, and the ease with which she leaned against him. He turned his gaze to her, taking in the curve of her cheek, and the glint of her eyes as they wandered the heavens above. They’d come so far together—crossing the years like an open field, hand in hand, step by step.

Suddenly, she gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. “I just saw a star fall!” Her eyes were wide with wonder, her face alight as she nudged him with her elbow.

“A what?” he replied, more amused than astonished, though her excitement tugged a smile from him.

“Look!” she whispered, pointing upwards, her voice laced with awe. “There’s another one.”

In a flash, a streak of silver split the night, fierce and blazing, trailing a tail of white fire that lingered before it vanished. The comet seemed to sweep across the heavens as though chasing some hidden destiny, filling the sky with a brief, impossible brightness.

For a moment, they were both silent, entranced by the spectacle. Cregan watched her as she looked up, her face soft in wonderment, captivated by something he could barely see. And then, with a slow smile, he rolled onto his shoulder, propping himself over her, so he could see the sky reflected in her eyes.

Claere shifted closer, tucking her head under his chin, and he wrapped an arm around her. He could feel her heartbeat, steady and strong against his chest, and he knew there was no place on earth he’d rather be.

Cregan’s gaze swept over her in the dim starlight, a quiet smile tugging at his mouth. “It’s a strange thing,” he murmured, eyes lingering on her, “to think how you looked that first night. Like some ghostly princess… Thought you might drift away before I could reach you.”

Claere tilted her head, a faint, amused smile gracing her lips. “And I thought you might send me back to King’s Landing on the next wheelhouse,” she replied, her tone dry.

Cregan chuckled, his voice soft with something deeper. “I think I’d have moved mountains to make you stay.”

She studied him, her eyes softening with an implicit fondness, one finger tracing the lines of his shoulder. “You always believed I’d fit here, even when I didn’t.” Her voice was almost a whisper, the words slipping out like a confession.

He turned, leaning in closer. “Guess I saw more than a stranger under all that Targaryen pride.” He smirked, kissing her nose. “Stubborn as a Stark, with a Northern heart.”

Claere gave a faint laugh, but her gaze lingered on him, her eyes reflecting the starlight. “You say that now,” she murmured, “but sometimes I still feel like I’ve brought winter itself to your door.”

His voice softened as he drew her nearer. “What about it?”

They fell silent, lost in each other’s eyes. Then, she gasped softly, her hand pressing to his chest as she looked up at the night.

“There it goes again!”

A streak of light tore across the sky, leaving a fiery trail as if some ancient power were tracing its path over the heavens. Her face lit up with childlike wonder, her smile reaching her eyes as she watched the comet blaze overhead.

Cregan chuckled, rolling to his side to get a better view of her expression. “A falling star,” he said, half to himself, “or some sign from the gods.” He leaned in closer, his gaze unwavering. “Doesn’t much matter to me, though. Because the way I see it, you’re all the gift I’ll ever need.”

Her smile softened, her hand finding his, their fingers intertwining as naturally as if they’d always fit that way. “Then make a wish,” she whispered, her voice barely audible against the wind.

“Already have, love,” he replied, brushing his lips against her brow. “And it came true.”

They lay there, wrapped in each other’s arms, as the comet burned on, lighting the sky above them. And though the years had weathered them, though battles had come and gone, in that quiet moment on Winterfell’s ancient stones, they knew that their love had endured all things, burning bright long after they were gone.

that marks the end of this series! thank you all so much for following along with Cregan and Claere, I am so proud of what I've accomplished in these past few weeks :D I am going to be opening my inbox to requests, and I'm going to post bonus scenes and one-shots of these two if anyone's ever interested!

[ taglist: @pearldaisy , @thatkindofgurl , @theadharablack , @cherryheairt , @beingalive1 , @oxymakestheworldgoround , @tigolebittiez , @cosmosnkaz , @lv7867 , @piper570 , @danikasthings , @acsc8 , @justdazzling ] -> thank you for your endless support everyone!

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isles-of-man · 12 days ago

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Erik adjusted the collar of his wool coat as he stepped into the warmth of the library, the soft murmur of pages turning and hushed conversations surrounding him. The afternoon light filtered through the tall windows, casting a gentle glow on the rows of books that stretched toward the high ceiling. The familiar scent of paper and wood filled the air, and for a moment, he felt a quiet sense of peace. But that calm was quickly replaced by the familiar flutter in his chest. He gripped the worn leather strap of his satchel a little too tightly, trying to steady his nerves. His eyes found Emily immediately, as they always did, tucked between the shelves, absorbed in her quiet world of books.

There was a tenderness in the way she fit into the library, a comfort he had come to cherish without ever truly acknowledging the ache it left in him. The dark black strands of her hair framed her face, making it hard to look away. She didn’t need to do anything for him to feel this way—just being in her presence was enough. He had spent so many years keeping his feelings in check, hiding behind the guise of friendship and professionalism, but today, the yearning in him felt too strong to ignore. It was a sweetness, really—this affection for her, this quiet ache that never seemed to fade.

And yet, despite the ache, it was something he never wanted to escape, as though his heart had finally found its true place. He stepped closer, clearing his throat softly to announce himself and smiled.

@gcddcsscs

#isles-of-man #emily x erik

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theambitiouswoman · 2 years ago

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Hygiene tips

Wash your hands thoroughly with soap and water for at least 20 seconds, especially before eating, after using the restroom, after coughing or sneezing, and after touching public surfaces.

Carry a hand sanitizer with you. Make sure the sanitizer contains at least 60% alcohol and rub it over your hands until dry.

When coughing or sneezing, cover your mouth and nose with a tissue or your elbow to prevent the spread of germs. Dispose of used tissues immediately.

Refrain from touching your eyes, nose, and mouth as much as possible, as these are entry points for germs into your body.

Take showers or baths regularly to keep your body clean and fresh. Use soap and water to thoroughly cleanse your body, paying attention to areas like armpits, feet, and groin.

Brush your teeth at least twice a day for two minutes each time, using fluoride toothpaste. Don't forget to clean your tongue, and replace your toothbrush every three to four months.

Keep your nails short and clean to prevent the buildup of dirt and bacteria. Use a nail brush to scrub under your nails regularly.

Regularly clean and disinfect frequently touched surfaces in your home, such as doorknobs, light switches, countertops, and electronics. Also, keep your living space well-ventilated.

Wash your clothes, bed linens, and towels regularly, following the manufacturer's instructions. Use the appropriate water temperature and detergent to ensure proper cleanliness.

Avoid sharing personal items like towels, razors, toothbrushes, or makeup.

Practice good food hygiene by washing fruits and vegetables thoroughly before consumption. Cook food to the appropriate temperature to kill harmful bacteria, and refrigerate leftovers promptly.

Keep your surroundings clean: Regularly clean and disinfect commonly touched surfaces such as doorknobs, light switches, phones, keyboards, and remote controls. This helps eliminate germs that may be present on these surfaces.

Maintain clean and healthy feet: Keep your feet clean and dry to prevent fungal infections. Wash your feet regularly, dry them thoroughly (especially between the toes), and wear clean socks and well-fitting shoes.

Ensure that the water you use for drinking, cooking, and personal hygiene is clean and safe. If necessary, use water filters or boil the water before use.

If possible, use a shower filter.

If you are sexually active, use barrier methods (such as condoms) to protect yourself from sexually transmitted infections. Get regular check-ups and screenings as recommended by healthcare professionals.

Take care of your mental well-being by managing stress, getting enough sleep, engaging in regular physical activity, and seeking support when needed. Good mental health is essential for overall well-being.

Sleep with aloe vera on your face to help with scars and acne.

Massage your body with oils and lotions after shower or before bed.

Eat greek yogurt to help fix PH balance, acne and odor in your private area.

Wear cotton based underwear.

Do not treat your body like a trashcan.

To smell good during the day:

Regular bathing helps remove sweat, dirt, and odor-causing bacteria from your body.

Apply antiperspirant or deodorant to clean, dry underarms to control sweat and odor.

You can also use baking soda and lemon to get rid of under arm odor.

Put on freshly laundered clothes each day. Clean clothing helps prevent the buildup of odor-causing bacteria and keeps you smelling fresh.

When choosing clothes, opt for natural fibers like cotton or linen, which allow air to circulate and help wick away moisture from your body. Avoid synthetic materials that can trap sweat and lead to unpleasant odors.

Brush your teeth at least twice a day, floss daily, and use mouthwash to maintain fresh breath. Don't forget to clean your tongue as well.

Apply a pleasant fragrance, such as perfume or cologne, sparingly. Avoid excessive application, as it can be overwhelming to others. Focus on pulse points like the wrists, neck, or behind the ears.

Keep your feet clean and dry to prevent foot odor. Wash your feet daily, dry them thoroughly (especially between the toes), and wear clean socks and well-ventilated shoes.

Regularly brush your tongue, as it can harbor bacteria and contribute to bad breath. Visit your dentist regularly for check-ups and cleanings.

Drink plenty of water throughout the day to flush out toxins from your body. Staying hydrated can help prevent the buildup of odors.

Certain foods, such as garlic, onions, and spicy dishes, can contribute to body odor. Pay attention to your diet and make choices that minimize strong odors if you are concerned about smelling good.

Keep a small travel-sized deodorant, wet wipes, or refreshing body spray with you to freshen up during the day, especially in hot or humid weather.

Ensure your clothes, towels, and bed linens are washed regularly. Use a detergent with a fresh scent to keep them smelling clean.

Spray perfume on your brush or use natural oils that are safe for your hair.

Wipe front to back to avoid infections. Use toilet paper then wipes.

moisturize your skin.

When washing your hair, make sure you are using products that clean your hair without drying it out.

Keep feminine wipes with you.

#hygiene tips #healthy living #health and wellness #womens health #womens health and fitness #personal hygiene #level up journey #levelupjourney #clean aesthetic #clean girl #glow up tips #glow up #high value woman #self care #beauty tips #health tips #healthy lifestyle

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ageingfangirl2 · 15 days ago

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Imagine Being Bonten's Receptionist (Bonten x F Reader) - Tokyo Revengers

PART 11: A NORMAL DAY AT THE OFFICE

ONE TWO THREE FOUR FIVE SIX SEVEN EIGHT NINE TEN TWELVE

The office was tranquil that morning. The usual tension in the air had been replaced with a calm hum of normal office work. The sun filtered softly through the windows, and the hum of computers and the occasional flipping of papers were the only sounds filling the space.

You were sitting behind the desk, sorting through some documents and checking your email. Your new kitten, Bonten, was napping in a small box beside you, claiming it as his throne. Now and then, you’d glance at him, his little paws twitching in his sleep, and it brought a tiny smile to your face.

Across the room, Mikey was leaning back in his chair, casually scrolling through his phone. He wasn’t usually one to be bogged down by paperwork, so today was a bit of a break for him. His feet were up on the desk, an unbothered look on his face as he occasionally glanced up at the others.

Sanzu had his feet propped up on the desk next to Mikey’s, chewing on the end of a pencil while watching you. His gaze lingered on you for a few moments before he finally spoke.

‘Hey, have you noticed how the office’s a lot more peaceful now that you’re around?’ he grinned mischievously, tapping the end of the pencil on his desk, though his tone was light.

You roll your eyes without even looking up, already knowing where this was going, ‘I’ve only been here a few weeks. Don’t get too used to it.’

Sanzu chuckled, ‘What, you mean you don’t want to become the office’s official peacekeeper?’ He leaned forward, trying to catch your eye, ‘I think you’re doing a great job. You haven’t even started pranking anyone yet.’

‘Don’t give me ideas,’ you grin, eyes twinkling mischievously as you pull a stapler out of your desk drawer, holding it up, ‘I might start with this. Don’t mess with my stuff.’

Sanzu raised his hands defensively, still smiling, ‘Alright, alright. I’ll keep it safe. But you can’t blame a guy for trying to stir up some fun around here.’

Across the room, Ran was leaning back in his chair, the perfect picture of laziness as he fiddled with his phone. He overheard the exchange and chimed in with his usual bored tone.

‘Pranks, huh? You’d better be careful. We’ve got a few members here who’ll take it too far, and then it’s game over.’

‘Like you?’ Rindou teased from the other side of the room, throwing a wadded-up piece of paper at his brother, ‘I saw you hide a whoopee cushion under Koko’s chair last week.’

Ran smirked, clearly unbothered, ‘It wasn’t that bad. He walked away with his pride, and I got a laugh. Win-win.’

Rindou rolled his eyes but couldn't help the smile tugging at his lips, ‘You’re insufferable.’

‘And proud of it,’ Ran shot back with a wink.

Over at the other side of the room, Kakucho was quietly typing away at his computer, handling something that seemed more official than the playful banter around him. Despite his normally reserved demeanour, he couldn’t help but glance up as Koko sauntered into the office, a takeaway coffee in hand.

‘I swear, if you keep drinking that stuff, you’ll be bouncing off the walls before lunch,’ Kakucho commented dryly, his fingers still tapping away on his keyboard.

Koko laughed and waved him off, taking a dramatic sip from his cup, ‘Please, I need it to survive this place. Can’t you see how thrilling it is here today?’ He gestured vaguely at the scene around him, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

Mikey looked up briefly, adding in with a casual smirk, ‘Yeah, the most thrilling thing today is who can finish their reports fastest. Should we make a bet?’

‘I’ll bet you can’t finish the stack of paperwork in the next 30 minutes,’ Koko challenged.

Mikey shot him a playful grin, then made a face of mock offence, ‘You think I can’t? What’s this, a challenge? Fine. I’ll make it fun for you.’ He grabbed the pile of papers off the desk and started skimming through them.

‘You’re so full of yourself,’ Koko muttered under his breath, but there was no mistaking the admiration in his voice. Mikey was good at everything — even something as dull as paperwork.

At the receptionist's desk, you watched the playful back-and-forth with a smile, enjoying the lighthearted moments they were all sharing. It wasn’t often that the world of Bonten slowed down like this. Normally, they were running from one crisis to another, dodging police, and handling the underworld's dirtier dealings. But today, it was just...normal. Just them.

‘You guys need to learn how to relax,’ you tease, watching Mikey stack the papers with a speed that seemed almost unfair.

‘We do,’ Sanzu added, still lounging in his chair, ‘But sometimes, the best way to relax is to mess with the people around you.’

‘Or drink coffee,’ Koko added, gesturing to his cup.

‘Or make bets,’ Ran chimed in, throwing his arm around his brother’s shoulders, ‘You know, standard office activities’

Everyone chuckled lightly, the camaraderie thick in the air. Even Kakucho, usually the serious one, allowed himself a brief smile as the atmosphere stayed light. There was no tension in the room, no immediate threat, just Bonten being Bonten — strange, chaotic, and full of personality.

As the day went on, you found yourself caught up in more small talk, with the occasional lighthearted prank. Sanzu tried to steal your stapler, Ran made fun of your paperwork organisation, and Koko tried to offer you his coffee again, despite her repeatedly turning him down.

But it felt nice. It was an ordinary day, one without danger or high stakes. And, for once, everyone got to just enjoy it.

‘Alright, alright,’ you say after a while, getting up from your desk, ‘I’ve got to get back to work. I’m not the one who started this coffee break.’

Mikey’s grin flashed once more, his eyes gleaming with amusement, ‘That’s because you’re the only one who works around here.’

‘Hey, don’t forget who’s handling all the paper pushing,’ you tease, holding up a folder full of documents.

With a wave, you returned to your desk, the playful chatter continuing as the rest of Bonten returned to their usual antics. Today, no one was talking about crime or business, just about how much they could get away with. It was just another day at Bonten.

Mochi enters the office, his expression as calm as always, though there's a subtle shift in his demeanour when he notices the playful atmosphere. The usual quiet hum of the office is replaced with easy chatter, teasing, and jokes. He barely reacts at first, though there's a quiet raise of his brow as he watches Sanzu half-heartedly make a mess of paperwork, Ran and Rindou laughing over some playful sibling banter, and Mikey lounging with his feet up, apparently unbothered by the chaos.

As he walks further into the room, he notices you sitting at your desk, a small smile on your face as you watch the antics unfold. You look up at him as he approaches, and he gives you a brief nod.

‘Nice to see you’re not getting caught in the madness,’ he says with his usual cool tone, but there's an underlying hint of amusement in his voice, ‘Not that I mind, but this office…it feels like a circus when I'm not around, doesn't it?’

You chuckle and glance around at the others, ‘You could say that. The mood’s a little more laid-back today.’

Mochi’s eyes flicker over to Mikey and Sanzu, both of whom seem far too comfortable with the chaos. ‘You sure about that?’ he asks with a small smirk, ‘Seems like there’s a bit too much playtime going on without us here to keep things in check.’

He doesn’t seem bothered by it, just a little bemused. Mochi is always so observant and never one to outwardly show much emotion, but his thoughts are clear. He’s not the type to be impressed by chaos, but he does notice the shift in the dynamics when he and Takeomi are absent. While everyone else is in a playful mood, he’s the steady, grounding force who isn’t easily swayed.

Before he takes his usual seat, he gives a small nod to Takeomi as he enters, subtly signalling his thoughts on the matter. They’d have a quiet, almost private conversation about how things seem to change when they’re not around.

Takeomi enters the office with his usual no-nonsense attitude, though it’s obvious he notices the lighthearted vibe almost immediately. He steps into the room, his sharp eyes scanning the situation — Mikey lounging, Ran and Rindou playfully arguing, Sanzu tossing papers around. Even Kakucho, typically reserved, is letting himself relax a little.

He stops just inside the door, looking around with a slight furrow of his brow, ‘What’s all this?’ he asks, his voice quiet but carrying that edge of irritation that comes from being the only one who seems to take things seriously, ‘Everyone’s so damn relaxed. Feels like I missed something.’

Mochi, already seated and half-smirking, glances at him and then back at the group, clearly amused but too collected to outwardly show much, ‘Seems like they’re having fun. Maybe you’re the one who’s missing out.’

Takeomi glares at him for a moment, though it’s not a serious look. He just doesn’t like how everyone’s so carefree when he’s not around. ‘No one’s taking their jobs seriously today. This is why I have to come in and keep everything together.’ His eyes flick to you, who’s trying to hide a smile behind your hand.

‘What, you think they wouldn’t start playing around if I weren’t here?’ He gestures to the rest of the group, his tone dripping with sarcasm, ‘Look at them. It’s like a daycare in here.’

Ran, overhearing him, grins widely, ‘What’s wrong, Takeomi? Getting a little jealous because we’re having fun without you?’

Rindou leans back in his chair, hands behind his head, ‘He’s just mad we’re not stressed out over nothing.’

Takeomi glares at them both, but his annoyance doesn’t last long. He leans against the wall and folds his arms, clearly not pleased with the lack of serious work being done.

‘Fine, whatever. You all are the ones who’ll end up behind. I’ll make sure to pick up the slack.’

Despite his irritation, Takeomi has a dry sense of humour, and even though he’s a little put off by the lack of focus, there’s a hint of understanding there. He knows it’s harmless fun — even if it annoys him. His gaze shifts to the receptionist again.

‘Guess someone has to get things back on track…’ he mutters to you, his tone less abrasive than it had been earlier. ‘If you’re free later, maybe you can help me organise the reports. We’ve got some real work to get to.’

You nod, trying to hide your smile, ‘You know I’ve got you covered, Takeomi.’

‘Good,’ he says, the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he finally relaxes a little, ‘Someone here has to be the responsible one.’

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icu-fetish · 2 months ago

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It becomes a part of me.

I don’t remember what happened to me. An oxygen mask was placed on my face – cold plastic pressed against my skin, air with a faint rubbery taste rushing into my lungs. On my neck medical collar, firm yet somehow comforting, holding my head still as if embracing it. I still don’t understand anything.

Are they taking me somewhere? The wheels of the stretcher squeak, the ceiling lights flicker overhead, blinding my eyes.

Now I’m lying on a different bed… is this a different room? The walls are gray, the air smells of antiseptic, and I hear the quiet beep of a monitor. They gave me an injection… or several? A needle pierces my arm, cold liquid flows through my veins, followed by a warmth spreading to my chest.

Have I woken up? Probably not, I can’t even open my eyes. I feel something… needles, tubes, and more… Did they insert a breathing tube? Am I intubated? Yes, probably—the mask is gone, replaced by something hard and foreign in my throat, air forced into my lungs in a mechanical rhythm. That sound… the sharp, monotonous hum of a ventilator. They’ve put a larger collar on my neck, wider and stiffer, pressing harder, locking every movement in place. Am I injured? What are they doing to me? Another injection… I’ll sleep again… I still can’t move or open my eyes. Nurses are beside their voices filter through the ventilator’s noise, muffled but distinct.

“We need to insert a urinary catheter,” says one, her voice low, slightly hoarse from fatigue.

“Let’s do it now,” replies the other, her tone higher but calm.

I feel their hands on my body. The cold urinary catheter slides into my urethra uncomfortable, but I can’t even flinch, only sensing my muscles weakly clench. Then the sound of suction – sharp, wet – as they clear the breathing tube. Mucus leaves my throat, and breathing eases for a moment, though the tube still presses. Their fingers – gloved but warmly glide over my skin, adjusting catheters, checking the vein. One touch, on my thigh, lingers a little longer than necessary, and a faint jolt runs through me.

“She’ll wake up soon,” says the first nurse, her voice softening, tinged with curiosity.

“Definitely,” the second agrees. “But not yet. The fentanyl’s still working – breathing’s stable, saturation’s at 92. It’s better this way; she can’t move in her condition.”

Their hands linger on me – one adjusts the tube, the other strokes my shoulder, almost accidentally. The touch is warm, nearly tender, and I don’t know if it’s just my imagination or something more. But darkness pulls me under again, and I sink into sleep, where the ventilator’s hum blends with the echo of their voices.

The darkness recedes slowly, as if reluctant to let me go. The ventilator’s noise fades, and I realize I’m breathing on my own – air passes through my throat unevenly, with a faint whistle, but without mechanical force. The tube is gone from my throat, leaving only a slight irritation as a reminder. My lungs are weak, but independently. My eyelids tremble, and suddenly I open my eyes.

The light is soft and pleasant. The antiseptic smell is lighter here, mixed with something familiar – the aroma of coffee drifting from the corridor. The neck brace is still on – wide, rigid, with a faint scent of plastic and disinfectant. The urinary catheter remains, a subtle pressure low in my abdomen, cold plastic against warm skin. I wiggle my fingers – it works, though slowly.

Nurses are beside me. Their voices are familiar, but now I see their faces. The first has dark hair tied in a low ponytail, her eyes tired but attentive. The second is blonde, with soft features, her movements calm, almost graceful. They stand close, and the scent of their uniforms – starch with a hint of perfume – mingles with the air I breathe.

“She’s breathing on her own now,” says the first, her hoarse voice brightening. She holds a tablet, clicking a pen as she writes something down. Her gaze falls on me, and I see her eyebrows lift slightly – she notices I’m awake.

“The ventilator was disconnected an hour ago. Saturation’s at 95, pressure’s stable,” the second says, her high voice closer. She leans in, checking my pulse on my wrist. Her gloved fingers are cool, but I feel the warmth of her skin through the latex. Her touch lingers, her thumb softly sliding along the inside of my wrist, where the vein is thin and sensitive. My pulse quickens, and the monitor beeps faintly. Her blue eyes meet mine – a brief but piercing look.

“Pulse jumped,” the first says with a slight smile, stepping closer. Her hand touches my neck, checking the brace. Her fingers slip beneath it, cold and firm yet gentle.

“The neck brace is still necessary. Spinal stabilization isn’t a joke. But you’re with us now, aren’t you?”

“Yes, she’s responding,” the second says, squeezing my shoulder as if to reassure me. Her hand is warm, even though the glove, and I feel my muscles tense faintly under her touch.

“We’ll remove some of the tubes soon, but not all.”

The first leans in, adjusting the catheter in my vein. Her breath – warm, with a minty scent – brushes my skin as she murmurs, “Skin’s warm, circulation’s good.”

Her fingers slide over my palm, checking the tape, her motion slow, almost languid. Her gaze catches mine again, and something flickers in its curiosity or playfulness?

The second checks the urinary catheter. Her fingers – careful but confident – brush the inside of my thigh. The cold latex contrasts with the warmth of her hand, sending a faint shiver through me.

“All clear, no irritation,” she says, but her voice is lower, with a note I can’t quite place. Her hand lingers on my leg, and I notice her cheeks flush slightly – from effort or something else?

“You hear us, don’t you?” the first asks, her hoarse voice closer to my ear. Her fingers slip under the brace again, touching the hollow above my collarbone. It’s sensitive there, and my pulse betrays me, racing. She smiles – crooked but warm.

“She definitely hears,” the second says, lifting her hand from my thigh slowly, with a slight pause. Her gaze is soft, but there’s something watchful in it.

They step back, but their touches – warm, cold, casual yet not quite – linger with me. I breathe, I look, I feel. The neck brace still encircles my neck, its pressure is no longer foreign, it’s becoming part of me, a pulsing reminder that I’m here, that I’m alive. But one question swirls in my mind: what will they do with me next?"

Unbreak My Heart (Episodes 27 - 29)

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jandrichov · 4 days ago

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Further

Part I – The First Step

Something has changed in Devil’s Den. Not outwardly. But Henry and Hans now know their secret isn’t theirs alone. Or rather — it hasn’t been for a while. Fortunately, the one who’s been carrying it with them is Godwin.

And now, maybe, it’s time for a few quiet days. A ride. A shared mission. Not because of where they’re going — but because of who goes with you.

(A narrative-heavy chapter. Long. But the fire, the silence, and the touches remain.)

---

“What got into you, offering me up like that?” Henry turned toward Hans, his tone light—almost amused.

The mug Hans had been raising to his lips stopped halfway. He turned his head slowly, casting a long, thoughtful look at Henry, who sat beside him on the bench outside Devil’s Den.

It hadn’t been long since Zizka had brought it up. An abandoned property east of Haberkowitz, not far from Kuttenberg—someone had brought word it might still be usable.

“All it needs is someone to check it out,” Zizka had said, voice gruff. “But it’d be foolish to send too many. People notice. Two men, a few days. Ideally someone who knows how not to step wrong.”

A pause. No volunteers. Hans had leaned against a beam, arms folded.

“Henry could do it,” he said eventually, almost lazily. “He’s got a feel for these things.”

And before anyone could breathe in to speak, he added, “I’ll go with him. Change of air wouldn’t hurt me either.”

Godwin had looked up from his mug. “Sir Capon is right. Henry has a warrior’s instinct—and a blacksmith’s eye.”

Zizka narrowed his eyes, but only nodded. “All right. Pack tonight. You ride in the morning.”

Hans had turned to find Henry’s gaze, a faint smile on his face.

And now, Henry was still looking at him. “Should I take that as an honor,” Henry continued, looking at Hans, “or a punishment?”

Hans took a breath. “A privilege,” he said. “Very few people could stand to spend days with me.”

And then, in a softer voice, “I just thought maybe… we could have a few days. Just the two of us. Out there. Somewhere else. Just… together.”

Henry’s smile changed—it didn’t fade, but grew quiet. He gave a slow nod. And his hand lingered on his own knee, close—but not quite touching Hans’s.

---

It was late. Outside, footsteps faded. Somewhere beneath the floorboards, wood creaked.

A candle burned in their room. Small flame. Soft shadow on the wall.

They lay under the blanket, turned toward each other, but not too close. Not yet.

Henry had one hand tucked beneath his head. His eyes were open, watching the ceiling—but listening to Hans’s breath.

After a while, he spoke—quiet, warm. “You do realize we might be expected to actually work. That’s not exactly your favorite thing.”

Hans gave a small smile. “That’s true,” he nodded. “But after these last few days… it’s been a lot. Everything happening so fast.” A pause. “I just need… no. I want to be with you. Even for a little while.”

Henry smiled, gently. But said nothing.

Hans turned his gaze to him—tired eyes, but calm. “I know it won’t last. But if there’s a chance—even just for a few days… I want it. Just us. Not for the mission. For you.”

Henry reached out and touched his hand. Not a grip. Just fingertips, brushing the space between thumb and wrist.

Hans didn’t move. Just breathed.

Then Henry leaned in slightly, bowed his head, and kissed him. Softly, in the corner of his mouth. Like it wasn’t anything big. And like it was everything.

When he pulled back, he stayed close and murmured, “Sir Capon, Lord of Pirkstein… You’re a hopeless romantic.”

He smiled.

“That’s probably why I love you so damn much.”

Hans didn’t answer. But in the silence, between two breaths, he smiled. And his fingers slipped gently into Henry’s palm.

---

Morning came quietly. Not all at once—more like light slowly replacing darkness without any rush.

Muted sounds filtered in from the yard— boots on dirt, a pitchfork scraping, the clink of iron.

Hans woke first. He lay on his side, eyes open, palm resting lightly against Henry’s arm. He didn’t move. Just breathed, slow and silent, and watched him.

He was never the first to rise. Probably not even once. But today… he hadn’t been able to sleep. As if some tight, restless motion inside him had pulled him from bed before dawn.

So he lay there, simply looking. At the man beside him.

Henry in sleep was something else. No furrowed brow, no guarded tension. Just stillness. Hans watched him for a long time, quietly mesmerized by the strange tenderness sleep could give.

The body that wore armor and bore wounds now lay loose and open, breathing evenly, its face free of shadow. And in that stillest of moments, Hans saw again— the strength he knew, and the gentleness he loved.

Then, as if he’d felt it in a shift of breath, Henry opened his eyes.

They looked at each other. A few seconds. Nothing more.

“Is it time?” Henry whispered.

“Not quite. But soon.”

Henry gave a crooked smile. “So we’ve still got a little while, my lord…”

Before Hans could reply, Henry reached out, took him by the forearm, and pulled him close with comical solemnity. Hans gave a half-laugh—half protest, half already falling into his chest.

“Hal…” came the voice by his ear, “we’re supposed to be on our way.”

“In a minute,” Henry whispered. Then smiled, that not-so-innocent smile he wore too well.

“And for the next few hours, I get to stare at that beautiful arse of yours from the saddle.”

Hans rolled his eyes, but didn’t pull away. “I hate it when you talk like a stablehand.”

“You’re lying,” Henry murmured into his neck, and kissed him. Slow. Deep. Not hungry—just something to stay inside of.

Hans didn’t bother pretending he minded. No one would’ve believed it anyway.

He slid under the blanket—one leg brushing Henry’s calf, one hand trailing down his back, over the curve of his hip. And then he let himself go. Let himself be kissed. Be touched. Be held.

It wasn’t sex.

It was alive. Warm. Soft.

Their breath moved together. Their bodies curled toward each other. As if they’d found each other again after the night. And though they knew they’d be leaving soon— right now, they didn’t have to be anywhere.

Now they were just here.

---

They got up eventually. Dressed slowly, quietly. Daylight already stood firm over the yard.

Hans buckled his belt and wrestled with his coat, frowning like the fabric was punishing him for being an early riser. Henry checked his gear in calm routine—tightened the straps, tested the sword, fastened the buckles, adjusted the crossbow. They were both in armor—not heavy, but solid. The kind worn by someone who knows a quiet ride can turn the other way.

Pebbles stood ready, and so did Hans’s darker stallion. Hans checked the girth, silent as he worked.

The sword at his hip—Valentine’s sword. The one Henry had forged and given to him after Maleshov. He hadn’t worn any other since.

Henry slung his helmet to the saddle and took one last look through the bag. Then turned to Hans. “Ready?”

Hans gave him a stone-faced look. “For a few days in a crumbling ruin, wet floors, damp up to the ears, and only you for company? Of course not.”

A pause. Then he smiled. “So what are we waiting for?”

They mounted. The muddy road stretched ahead, opening into a calm morning.

---

They rode side by side. Not speaking. But the silence wasn’t empty. It was waiting.

The land still held a breath of dampness. The road was soft, dew clinging to the grass. Forest traded places with meadows and tilled fields.

Then Hans gave a sudden tug of the reins—sharp breath—and urged his horse forward. With a triumphant yell, he broke ahead:

“Audentes fortuna iuvat!”

His voice rang out across the landscape—bright and clear, like he needed the whole world to hear it. And maybe he did.

Henry didn’t hurry. He just watched him ride—tall in the saddle, muscles tense, eyes narrowed against the wind. Hair tossed, hood flying, body one with the horse.

In that moment, he was… unstoppable.

Henry smiled. A memory flickered—riding together toward Trosky, and what came after. He couldn’t help it.

Because even if that shout held something foolish— it also held beauty. And truth. And Henry knew one thing: he never wanted to lose this Hans.

So he let him go ahead, just for a while.

Hans crested a low ridge where the path opened between two meadows and eased his pace. The wind played with his hair; his horse moved steady beneath him, like even it understood there was no rush—only the pleasure of going.

Henry caught up without effort. For a while, they rode again side by side.

Then, still looking straight ahead, Henry said with a crooked grin: “Remember how it went the first time you tried to teach me audentes fortuna iuvat?”

A pause.

“I ended up with an arrow in my back. And you… a bucket of shit on your head.”

Hans snorted. “And you still love me.”

Henry gave a small laugh. “No argument there. But if I were smart, I’d always let you go first—just in case it’s a trap.”

Hans glanced at him, narrowing his eyes. “So I’m your noble shield now?”

“Exactly,” Henry said. “With a golden crest painted on the back.”

Hans didn’t answer. Just chuckled, nudged his horse forward again. Not much. Just enough to say the smile hadn’t ended.

Behind them, a third companion trotted along—Mutt. Tongue out, tail held high. He darted in wide loops around the horses, sometimes stopping to sniff at a stone or a clump of grass, but never straying far.

---

The road stretched on. Restless forest gave way to boggy ground, low ridges thick with wild rose. Old footbridges, half-rotted, spanned shallow streams. They kept a steady pace—slow but sure, most of the day.

They passed over a wooded rise and descended toward a place where the earth turned soft and the air cooled. Between tree roots, light shimmered on water.

A spring. Overgrown with fern, lined with stone. The water cold, clear.

They hadn’t expected it. But it came at just the right time.

Henry unbuckled the top of his armor, rolled his shoulders, and dismounted. Hans followed—groaning dramatically, but without meaning it.

The horses drank as much as they needed from the creek flowing out of the spring. Then wandered off into the shade.

Henry and Hans sat a little apart at first. Then Henry shifted closer and leaned back against a rock. Hans stayed as he was—legs crossed—but let himself settle against Henry’s side. Not as a gesture. More like a man sinking into something familiar.

They were hungry now. They unwrapped their food—bread, dried meat, a wedge of cheese in a linen cloth. Nothing fancy. But in the hush of the forest, it tasted like plenty.

Hans stretched out eventually, eyes half closed. “You know… I might get used to this kind of scouting.”

Henry gave a lazy smile. “Looking at horse arse all day and sleeping in the moss?”

“And you beside me,” Hans murmured, without opening his eyes. “Not that bad, really.”

Henry looked at him. And said nothing. Just let him lean in further.

---

The afternoon light broke apart between the branches. The woods weren’t hostile. But they weren’t friendly either. Just… quieter. Emptier. The kind of quiet that only shows itself once you start to slow down.

The path narrowed. Sometimes, only two worn lines of grass remained. Tree roots lifted the soil like old scars. A half-rotted beam lay in their way—maybe from a fence, maybe from some long-fallen house.

Hans was silent. Lips parted slightly, eyes half-closed. He looked calm. But the kind of calm that buzzes underneath.

The forest didn’t make a sound. As if the trees themselves held their breath.

Even Mutt moved differently now. No running. No sniffing. He trotted beside Henry’s horse, ears up, body alert.

And Henry felt it.

Not heard. Not seen. Just… known.

He slowed Pebbles with a nudge of his knee and raised a hand. Hans slowed immediately, glanced toward him, said nothing.

Henry dismounted. Slow. Quiet.

He set his hand on the sword, but didn’t draw yet. He stepped toward the edge of the road—where broken walls began to appear through the trees. Low, moss-covered. Crumbling. But still there.

He raised a hand again and pointed.

Then turned to Hans, who had also dismounted, tense now. “This is it.”

Hans nodded. But there was something in his eyes. Something that didn’t belong. Wariness. And beneath that… a flicker of knowing. That something could happen.

Henry turned back toward the ruin. And now, looking closely, he spotted a faint line in the grass.

A track.

He studied it. Careful. Hand still resting on the hilt. Didn’t draw yet. Followed the line—flattened grass leading toward a wall choked with elder bush. There, a low arch—maybe once a cellar door. Maybe a shed. Long ago.

He didn’t breathe too loud. The silence was too tight.

Three steps sideways. Then two more.

And then it happened.

From the right. From shadow.

A hiss of movement. A breath. The soft thud of boots.

The bandit came without warning—blade raised, fast, strong, all in. No words. Just steel.

Henry yanked his sword free at the last instant. First blow met in the air—metal on metal, sharp and loud. Then backstep. Dodge. Another swing.

The man fought dirty—but not stupid. He struck low, quick—two angled cuts, aiming for the legs. Henry blocked, turned, let the blade slide—but felt a burn at his left side. Quick gash. Enough to hurt. Not enough to stop him.

He blinked. Gritted his teeth.

Then struck. Not for the kill— but straight for the joint. Break the flow.

The man staggered. Wavered—

Henry crashed into him.

They grappled. Fell. Dirt. Fists. The enemy’s blade skittered away. Henry dropped to one knee—scraping rock. Brought his sword down. Once. Twice. Hard.

It had all happened in the span of a few heartbeats.

The man slumped forward, face first. Still breathing. For a moment. Then not.

Henry stood over him. Breathing hard. Knuckles white on the hilt.

And then—

Another shadow.

Left side. Running. Weight. A club raised overhead.

Henry turned. His sword was down. His body tired. He knew he wouldn’t make it in time.

But instead of a blow— came a sound.

The snap of a bowstring. The cut of air. The thud of impact.

The second attacker fell. Arrow in his forehead. No sound. Just dirt.

Henry froze.

He turned.

Hans stood some distance away, bow still drawn. His stance steady. Eyes locked.

And in the quiet, between two breaths, Henry lowered his head.

Hans lowered his arm.

Henry lowered his sword—slowly, without a word. He stepped to the first body, nudged it with his boot. Nothing.

He searched it briefly—no rush. A pouch with a few groschen, some ragged cloth strips in a torn satchel. He took them.

The second one had a knife, a handful of grime, and a stench that nearly made him recoil.

“Drifters,” Henry muttered. “Squatters hiding out here.”

Hans said nothing. But he wasn’t surprised. The forests had been full of them for months.

Mutt stood at a distance. Ears half-down. No growling. The woods had returned. But changed. As if watching now.

They walked the rest of the site—slow, cautious.

An old farmstead. Overgrown yard. Broken buildings. A collapsed kiln. A scrap of fence. No other people. No signs of more.

Hans leaned against a wall and took a long drink from the water skin. Only then did he really look at Henry.

And something twisted inside his chest.

“Shit…” he said softly. “You’re bleeding.”

Henry looked down. The back of his tunic, near the waist—dark stain. Small, but visible.

“It’s nothing,” he said, calm. “A scratch.”

Hans stepped closer, wordless. Henry tilted slightly away—a reflex more than anything else.

“Stand still,” Hans said. Not harsh. Just firm enough that there was no doubt.

He gently pulled at the layers of cloth. Lifted them. Looked.

And inhaled—sharp and quiet.

It wasn’t fatal. But deep enough. Close enough to the ribs. Enough to fester. To stay.

To stay in him.

Hans clenched his jaw.

“Why didn’t you say something?”

Henry gave a faint smile. Tired. “Because I knew you’d lose your mind.”

Hans didn’t answer. He just stood there. Then quietly said:

“Next time, say something. Even if it’s just a fucking blister.”

---

They searched the rest of the grounds more slowly now. No one else. Only stone walls, moss-covered and hollowed where beams once sat. The yard thick with overgrowth. Trees pushing through where coops and sheds used to be.

But it wasn’t just a ruin.

On the western edge, tucked among young trees, they found an old apple orchard. Wild. But alive. In the grass, faint rows of an ancient field—overtaken, but still visible.

A few crumbling hives on a stone ledge—deserted, or maybe not. Too far to tell without a closer look.

Near the main house—an old well. Covered, rimmed in moss. But still clean. A rope could lower a bucket. And the cool air rising from it said the water was still good.

Beside it, a stone opening—an underground cellar. Large. Arched. Still sound.

Long empty, but not caved in. Inside: signs of someone passing through. A blackened fire pit. Burned cloth. An empty bottle. Nothing valuable. But enough to know someone had been hiding here.

Then they moved toward the back of the property.

And there, they found it.

A corner still intact—likely once a drying shed or storage room. Three stone walls held firm. The fourth—the entrance—had fallen inward. Only fragments of the frame and a few beams remained. That was the way in. No other door.

The space was larger than expected. Not wide. But enough to move around, lay things out. Old shelves along the inner walls. Splintered poles. A board half torn from its hinges. A few barrels in one corner, half-rotted but still holding shape. The room was naturally divided, but not blocked.

Overhead—thick beams. Part of the roof still intact. The floor was dry. Once hard-packed, now layered with dust and pine needles.

Hans stepped in first. Turned around. Looked. Then nodded.

“Here.”

Henry stood in the ruined doorway. He didn’t speak. Just dropped the reins and came in.

They started settling in.

First—the horses. On the east side of the structure, part of the old stable still stood— stone shelter, overgrown but roofed.

They tied them there. Henry fetched water from the well—cold and clean, using an old bucket that still hung by the wall. Hans found scraps of hay by the stones. Dry and rough, but usable. He spread them in the corner. Let the horses eat.

Mutt circled the clearing. Quiet. No wandering. No leaping. He stayed close, sniffed the air, then sat near the entrance—watchful.

Then the two of them returned to their space.

---

It was already dim inside. Henry started a fire against the far wall. The flame caught quickly.

Hans, meanwhile, stacked two barrels and laid a board across—makeshift bench. Spread a blanket on the ground.

Not comfort. But enough.

They sat for a while without speaking. The fire cracked softly. Light danced against the stone.

Henry reached into the bag, pulled out the wine skin, opened it, and passed it to Hans without a word.

Hans drank. Passed it back.

And then saw the dark stain again—near Henry’s waist.

A breath caught in his throat. Not loud. But Henry noticed.

“Hey…” Hans said, voice low. “Show me.”

Henry didn’t move. Just looked off to the side—like the answer might be hiding in the dark.

“It’s nothing.”

Hans was already standing. He knelt beside him, placed a hand at his side.

“I said—show me.”

Henry slowly pulled off his tunic. Winced when the fabric stuck to the dried blood.

Hans helped. Said nothing. Just looked.

When the skin was bare—scraped, bruised, discolored— he drew in a soft breath. Like someone seeing more than he’d wanted.

The cut wasn’t deep. But it was wide. Torn. Ran across the ribs and back.

“Can you reach it yourself?” Hans asked, quiet.

Henry shook his head. “No. But I’ll tell you what to do. Grab the water skin, cloth, some brandy… and the bandage. Should be in the pack.”

Hans nodded. Went to the wall, gathered everything. Laid it out carefully. His hands were trembling a little.

When he returned, he looked at Henry again. And something inside him ached.

Not the wound. Henry’s back— tense, breathing, silent. That image hurt more than the blood.

Hans knelt behind him.

“Water first,” Henry said softly. “To clean it.”

Hans soaked the cloth and pressed it gently to the cut.

Henry didn’t flinch. But his jaw was locked.

“Now the brandy,” he whispered. “That one’s worse.”

Hans opened the flask, soaked another cloth. Hesitated for a moment. Then placed it.

Henry inhaled sharply through his nose. Didn’t hiss. Just tensed his shoulders.

Hans felt something tighten in him—not in his gut. In his throat. His hands.

Like he was touching his own skin.

“All right,” Henry muttered. “Now the bandage. Around the torso. Twice.”

Hans unfolded the linen, moved closer. He had to reach over Henry’s chest. Wrap it in a gesture that didn’t belong to war.

He did it slowly. Evenly. Around the back, under the arm, across the stomach. Pulled it snug. But not hard.

“Again?”

“Again.”

They did it.

Then Hans tied the end. Checked the pressure. Stayed there, on his knees, behind him.

Henry leaned forward slightly—elbows on his knees, head down.

Hans paused. Then laid a palm between his shoulder blades. Not to treat. Just to be there.

Henry let out a quiet laugh. Short. “You know what?”

Hans didn’t answer.

Henry turned a little. Side glance.

“I barely felt a thing,” he lied. Smiled.

Hans knew. But didn’t say so. Didn’t know what to say. So he ran his thumb lightly across Henry’s skin.

---

The fire crackled quietly. Henry sat half-reclined, back to the wall, hands resting on his thighs.

After a stretch of silence, he spoke. “We should bury them.”

He didn’t look at Hans. Just spoke into the flames.

“Whatever kind of men they were… they belong in the ground. Same as any Christian.” A pause. “And besides, we can’t leave two corpses lying around.”

He shifted like he might get up.

Hans stopped him before he moved—just reached out and laid a hand on his chest. “Stay sitting.”

Henry raised an eyebrow.

“Let me do it,” Hans said. “No arguments. I need at least one thing where you don’t tell me what to do.”

Mutt was already standing. Watching from the shadows, ears perked.

Hans turned to him. “You coming with me, then? At least someone who won’t give me advice.”

Mutt wagged his tail and padded after him.

Henry stayed where he was. Watched as Hans walked into the dusk. A shovel in his hand. Cloth over his shoulder. Hard shadow under his boots. Quiet dog at his side.

He wouldn’t have done it before.

Not out of disgust. Not out of pride. He just wouldn’t have thought of it. A nobleman. A son of a lord. A boy from a stone house.

And now… he didn’t ask why. Didn’t suggest someone else. He just did it.

Henry leaned his head back against the wall. Closed his eyes.

And realized— maybe he loved him more in that moment than he ever had before.

---

Hans came back a long while later.

Covered in dirt. Smelling like sweat and old soil. Mud up to his elbows. Dust on his shoulder. He looked like he’d been dragged out of a mine.

He stopped in the doorway, stood there a second, then said dryly, “So… if you were planning to kiss me anytime soon, I’d recommend waiting until the next rainfall.”

Henry smiled—drowsy, moved. “There’s a trough outside. Full of rainwater.” Then shook his head. “But even like this… you might be the most beautiful man in Bohemia.”

Hans stared at him for a second. Then let out a low laugh. “Well, I’ll go rinse off. Don’t want to tempt you like this.” He raised an eyebrow. “Unless, of course, you’ve got a thing for hardworking men.”

Henry didn’t blink. “Sorry. I’m in love with a nobleman.”

Hans turned as he walked off. “Well, your nobleman’s going to wash his arse.”

---

When he came back, they didn’t say much. Hans sat by the fire, pulled off his shirt, slipped into a cleaner tunic. Wet hair clung to his forehead.

Henry poured more wine into a wooden cup. Half-sat, half-curled in the blanket, legs stretched out, head resting back against the wall.

When Hans sat down beside him, Henry reached out and pulled him close. Quietly. Hans let himself be drawn in, slipped under Henry’s arm. They weren’t in an embrace. But they were folded into each other.

The wine smelled like dirt. Not grapes. But it tasted good.

“We should scout the area tomorrow,” Henry said when the wind stirred the flames. “See what’s really here. Check for running water. Maybe hunt something.”

Hans nodded, his forehead resting on Henry’s shoulder. “I’ll get you something. A squirrel. Maybe the neighbor’s goat.”

Henry snorted. “If there’s still a neighbor out here, I hope he brings us breakfast.”

Hans lifted his head, took a drink from the cup, handed it back. They sat a while, watching the fire. Then Henry, as if hearing himself say it, murmured:

“You saved my life today. Again.”

Hans didn’t reply right away. Just lowered his eyes. Not from embarrassment. More so Henry wouldn’t see what moved in him.

And then something came back to him.

That dark pond beneath Trosky. Dragging Henry’s limp body, the mind inside it fading fast. Blood down his back. Arms hooked under armpits. Shallow breaths. Delirious shouting.

The panic. The terrifying certainty—he was losing him.

He stared into the fire. But when he spoke, his voice came from somewhere else.

“By that pond… when I carried you— I must have already loved you then.”

He gave a small shrug. Almost apologetic.

“I just didn’t know it yet.”

Henry turned to look at him. Slowly.

He didn’t smile. Just held his gaze.

Then said simply: “I know.”

Hans drew a breath. Then laid a hand on Henry’s chest. “Today… I would’ve given my life for yours. If I had to,” he said softly.

Henry looked at him for a long moment. “Let’s both make sure we never have to choose,” he said. And kissed him.

---

The fire burned low. Smoke drifted upward, curling around the beams. Outside, only the rustle of leaves. A soft hoof tapping now and then in the stable.

Hans didn’t move. Neither did Henry. They sat against each other, hips touching, hands resting in their laps. They weren’t drinking anymore. Just breathing. Together.

After a while, Henry got up—slowly, as if his body had started to remember what the day had cost. Hans handed him a blanket.

“Lie down first,” he said gently.

Henry nodded. Curled up on his side, pulled one of the rolled cloth bundles under his head.

Hans extinguished the last embers—covered the coals with dust. Then lay down behind him.

He didn’t wrap around him right away. Just made contact—chest to back, knees to thighs, elbow to side.

Then he draped an arm across Henry’s middle. Careful. Not over the wound. Just enough to hold him. To have him.

He slid the other arm under Henry’s shoulder. Drew closer. Pressed his lips to his hair. A kiss soft as breath. Familiar.

Then he rested his cheek at Henry’s neck. Breathing quieter than the wind. Movement as gentle as sleep.

Henry said nothing.

But a smile had settled on his face. Like an answer to a question neither of them ever needed to ask again.

Above the forest, as silent witness, the moon had risen.

------

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