#Fic: Soil and Ashes

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

When The World Is Crashing Down [Chapter 1: Am I More Than You Bargained For Yet]

Series summary: Your family is House Celtigar, one of Rhaenyra's wealthiest allies. In the aftermath of Rook's Rest, Aemond unknowingly conscripts you to save his brother's life. Now you are in the lair of the enemy, but your loyalties are quickly shifting...

Chapter warnings: Language, warfare, violence, serious injury, a brief history of burn treatments, alcoholism/addiction, references to sexual content (18+), a wild Sunfyre appears, catching feelings for literally the single most inappropriate man on the planet.

Series title is a lyric from: "7 Minutes in Heaven" by Fall Out Boy.

Chapter title is a lyric from: "Sugar, We're Goin' Down" by Fall Out Boy.

Word count: 5.3k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

💜 I’m going to tag like a bazillion people since this is the first chapter of a new fic, but I WILL NOT TAG YOU AGAIN unless you ask me to. I hope you are all doing well, wherever you are in the world! 💜

@doingfondue @catalina-howard @randomdragonfires @myspotofcraziness @arcielee @fan-goddess @talesofoldandnew @marvelescvpe @tinykryptonitewerewolf @mariahossain @chainsawsangel @darkenchantress @not-a-glad-gladiator @gemini-mama @trifoliumviridi @herfantasyworldd @babyblue711 @namelesslosers @thelittleswanao3 @daenysx @moonlightfoxx @libroparaiso @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @mizfortuna @florent1s @heimtathurs @bhanclegane @poohxlove @narwhal-swimmingintheocean @heavenly1927 @echos-muses @padfooteyes @minttea07 @queenofshinigamis @juliavilu1 @amiraisgoingthruit @lauraneedstochill @wintrr13 @r0segard3n @seabasscevans @tsujifreya @helaenaluvr @hiraethrhapsody @backyardfolklore

Let me know if you’d like to be tagged in future chapters! 

You scream when he grabs you, this lightning strike of a man with a grip like an animal trap that splits bones. He pulls you away from the soldier you’re soothing—a young dark-haired Norcross, disoriented, doomed, his intestines spilling out onto the grass and blood on his lips—and through the forest of smoke and corpses and pine trees. Your eyes sting and water, your boots snag on gnarled roots. When you yelp and stumble to the earth, the man drags you upright again. You struggle like a beast with a blade at its throat, cold, serrated, pressure on the jugular. You shove and scratch at him, trying to plant your boots in soil strewn with gore and glowing embers.

“Stop, stop it, you’re hurting me!”

“Hurry up.”

“You’re going to break my wrist—!”

He wrenches you around to look you full in the face, and only now do you know who he is. A gasp hisses through your teeth; the acrid air in your lungs vanishes. Every muscle and tendon and ligament of you is taut with horror, tight enough to snap. It’s like meeting one of the Seven, the Warrior or Stranger or Smith, a shade you know only from myths and nightmares. It’s like being led to the executioner’s scaffold. His long silver braid hangs over one shoulder. His eyepatch conceals the childhood maiming that left him half-blind. There’s blood and ash on his scarred face, a ruthless breed of fear in his remaining eye, icy blue, creek-shallow, soulless. The man clasping your wrist is Prince Aemond Targaryen. “I’ll break your neck if you don’t come with me now.”

He does not wait for your protest or acquiescence. You couldn’t give it anyway. Your muddied boots move numbly as he tugs you forward, this man they call Aemond One-Eye, a monster, a murderer, a kinslayer. The earth is littered with carnage from the battle, charred ribcages and disemboweled horses, scattered armor and severed limbs. Ashes fall from the smoldering treetops like dark snow.

What does he want from me?

Rape seems unlikely; everyone knows Prince Aemond’s deviancies do not run in that direction. He is cold, hateful, dispassionate, made of stone. He does not lust for anything but power and retribution, fire and blood.

To kill me?

But why not do it here, now? There is a sword hanging from his belt, a dagger in one fist. There is no reason to wait.

To take me prisoner? To feed me to his dragon? To torture me for information?

Surely there are more knowledgeable people around to torture. What use could you be, a healer, a woman? Unless…

Unless he knows who my father is.

You glance down at the fabric band looped around the upper half of your right arm, the only mark you wear of your house, stark white banner, skittering red crabs. It is soaked through with blood. It is unreadable.

Someone is shrieking, but not like a dying man. He has too much fight in him for that, too much glass-clear agony, unwanted blistering consciousness. He screams like someone being flayed, gutted, burned alive. You’ve only ever heard this sound once before. You choke on the greasy, putrid, metallic sweetness of scorched human flesh as it sears down your throat, not knowing if it is real or remembered.

There is a tent in the midst of the pine trees, fluttering canvas that’s green like emeralds or jade. The wind is picking up; you will need to evacuate soon. The cinders will spread and the forest will blaze. Somewhere a dragon is roaring, wounded and mournful like the cry of a lost child. The screams of the man grow louder; they fill your skull like a fever, scalding and senseless and red. Aemond yanks the tent flap aside and pulls you in. And when you breathe it is nothing but the sickening miasma of burnt flesh, coppery blood, suffering, sweat, ruin.

He’s writhing on a wooden table, the man the Greens call king. It has to be him: white-blond hair down to his shoulders, blue eyes and fine aristocratic bones. Two ancient, shaky-handed maesters—hastily commandeered from the defeated House Staunton, you assume—confer nearby, clutching glass bottles of milk of the poppy. A man in armor is cutting tatters of clothing from the so-called king. When he lifts the fabric away, skin sloughs off with it. Aegon wails, struggles, begs him to stop. Aemond goes to his brother and carves away scraps of melted leather and charred cotton with the swift blade of his dagger.

“Shh, shh, don’t fight us, we’re trying to help—”

“Aemond, let me die,” the burned man rasps. He is trembling violently, he is half-mad with pain. Meleys’ flames claimed a swath of his right cheek, his neck and chest and back, his arms down to his wrists, his belly to the crests of his hip bones. “Please. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want it to hurt anymore. Don’t try to help me. Just let me die.”

Aemond looks back at you. “Can you treat this?”

He thinks I’m a Green, you realize with panic, with relief, with terror. And of course he would: you had wandered into the Greens’ side of the battlefield and therefore did not surrender or flee or die with the other Blacks, you were tending to a Green soldier when he found you. Aemond the Kinslayer would not comprehend the notion of service to humankind without a line drawn down the middle of it, of uncategorical compassion.

“Can you help him or not?!” Aemond shouts; and you know that he is not just afraid but shattering, spider-leg cracks inching across a window or a mirror. Perhaps the Greens have souls after all.

You shed your paralysis like daylight erases the stars and approach to examine the so-called king. You do not touch him; still, he whimpers, sobs, quakes like waves in a storm. “He needs more milk of the poppy. A lot more of it.”

“Yes,” Aegon agrees immediately. His streaming eyes—a bleak, murky blue like the sea off Claw Isle—list to you, agonized and grateful.

The maesters gape. “More could kill him,” one says. And they are petrified of being blamed for it. They are plagued by visions of Aemond hacking off their heads and displaying them on spikes above the stone walls of captured Rook’s Rest.

“No drawbacks at all then?” Aegon manages between moans.

“If his pain does not abate, he will die of shock,” you say. “He must be unconscious.”

“Knock me out,” Aegon pleads, pawing at Aemond. “Tell them, tell them.”

Aemond looks to the man in armor: dark-haired, olive-skinned, Dornish. Sir Criston Cole, you realize. The Hand of the King. The Kingmaker. After a moment, Criston nods. “Do it now,” Aemond orders the maesters.

Grimacing, grim, they pour the opalescent liquid into Aegon’s mouth. He gulps it down as quickly as he can. “Enough,” you tell the maesters. Instinctively, you reach out to comfort Aegon: a palm rested lightly on his forehead, fingers threaded through silvery hair that’s filthy with soot and blood. You should hate him, but you don’t. When you look at the Greens’ broken king, you cannot see a murderer, a usurper, a depraved hedonist, a consumer of innocence. You can only see a man worn threadbare by ill-advised bravery.

“Hello, angel,” Aegon murmurs as he gazes up at you, a ghost of a smile on his lips. His eyes really do remind you of home: ocean currents like iron, fog like flint. “Welcome to the end of the world.” And then he’s out, extinguished, eclipsed.

Servants bustle into the tent carrying heavy buckets. “What is that?” you ask.

“Pork lard,” one of the maesters says. “For his wounds.”

“No, no, no, some of these burns are nearly down to the muscle. They’re too deep, too fresh. Lard is for later, to help with scarring, although olive oil or rose oil would be better. He needs to be cleaned with vinegar diluted with water. Or red wine, if that’s all that can be found.”

“Vinegar?!” one of the maesters exclaims.

“It helps prevent infection. Nobody knows why.”

The same maester turns to Aemond, imploring him. “My prince, I can assure you, the Citadel recommends pork lard or cow dung as topical cures, or both used alternatingly. There are also reports of cases where frogs have been helpful, warmed in oil and then rubbed on the affected area.”

Criston blinks. “I’m sorry, you do what with the frogs…?!”

They’re going to kill him, you think. Not with malice, but with stupidity. A wasted life, a wasted death. You demand of the maester: “When was the last time you treated burns this severe?”

He glowers at you, sharp dark eyes like flecks of onyx in a nest of wrinkles. And you know you’ve won when he replies: “When have you?”

“My brother was burned in a housefire started by an upturned lantern. It was five years ago, but I remember the direness his injuries. And what was done to save him.”

Silence in this tent the color of summer: green grass, unsinged trees. Aemond waits for the maesters to produce some astute rebuttal. When they cannot, he orders the servants: “Vinegar, water, rags. Now.” They dash off to oblige him, wide-eyed and quivering like small dogs. Then Aemond looks to you. “What next?”

“His wounds should be treated with honey and then bandaged. The dressings must be changed frequently, at least once per day. He must be repositioned so the scar tissue does not immobilize his joints. He will suffer, it cannot be avoided, but he should suffer as little as possible. Listen to him when he says the pain is too much. Let him sleep. When he is awake, he must drink plenty of fluids. He is losing water through his burns, and it must be replaced. Milk is preferable. Tea and fruit juices are good as well. Some wine is acceptable if that’s what he likes best.”

“And it certainly is,” Criston mutters. You’ve heard the same: that the Greens’ king is a drunk, an adulterer, a coward, a ghoul. You cannot speak to any of this. You know him only as someone who is horrifically pained and sick to death of fighting. Again, without thinking, you comb your fingertips distractedly through his hair as he lies unconscious on the table, bleeding from everywhere. He’s so young, so breakable, so unlike the monster you’ve been led to believe he is.

“Get honey and bandages,” Aemond tells the maesters. They depart, casting each other incredulous glances: Are these our new overlords? Men who heed the wisdom of impetuous young women filthy with blood and earth?

“I’ve heard salt can be helpful for wounds,” Aemond says. “They used it on me when…” He gestures to his eyepatch, to his scar. Lucerys Velaryon took that part of him in self-defense; at least, that is what you have always been told. But you’ve read enough to know that for every event, there are at least two stories. Whatever the truth is, Luke paid for that eye. He paid, Rhaenyra paid, the world continues to pay the price over and over again.

“Because it dries. It absorbs moisture.” You skim your palm over Aegon’s forehead, without lines of fear or anguish as he sleeps. There is a ring on his left hand, a gold dragon with glinting dots of jade for eyes. You twist off the ring so it will not hinder circulation as his fingers swell and give it to Aemond. “But burns weep as they heal. They need to be wet. If they get too dry, they will crack open and fester.”

“Is that what happened to your brother?” Aemond asks.

“Where we did not pay enough attention. The backs of his knees, the soles of his feet.”

“But he survived.”

“Yes,” you tell Aemond; and you can see how desperately he is searching for hope in your face, your words. “He did.”

The servants return with buckets of water, handfuls of rags, glass bottles of vinegar that is cloudy and rust-colored.

“What’s it made from?” you say.

“Fermented a-a-apples, my lady,” one of the boys sputters. He watches Aemond out of the corner of his eye like sheep look for the shadows of wolves. He shivers, he sweats. This boy, who last night was fetching meat and mead for Lord Staunton, has heard the same stories you have: the degenerate king, his murderous brother.

“That’s fine then.” You haul over one of the water buckets and Criston helps you lift it up onto the table. You empty half a bottle of vinegar into the water, mix it by wobbling the bucket back and forth, and then soak a rag in the pungent liquid. “You can help,” you tell Aemond and Criston. “Dip a rag in the bucket, wring it out, then press it to his wounds. Remove any dirt or scraps of fabric. But don’t rub. Try not to damage the skin he has left.” You demonstrate: dabbing at flesh that is torn and bloody and blistered, a black-and-ruby wasteland that at best will leave him irreparably scarred and at worst will swallow his life like ships sink in storms.

Tentatively—with hands at ease with killing but not tenderness—Aemond and Criston join you, studying your movements and imitating them with great care. There is a sniffle, a teardrop that falls onto Aegon’s filthy but unburned left hand and glistens there like a splinter of glass; you are alarmed to see that the Kingmaker is weeping.

“Criston,” Aemond says gently. “We are doing everything we can for him.”

“Since the day he was born, I promised…”

“I know.”

“Your mother…”

“I know,” Aemond says again, and you think: The Greens aren’t demons, they aren’t savages. They’re just patchworks of memory and flesh and suffering, the same as any of us. “He will live. And his sacrifice won us a victory today.”

As you tended to wounded men caked with blood and pine needles, you saw them tangled above in the overcast sky, scales of scarlet and gold and an ancient muddy viridescence. There were flames and shouts, and then all three dragons hurdled towards the earth and out of view. “The Red Queen?” you ask Aemond, mindful to keep your voice perfectly level.

“Dead,” he says: dark satisfaction, fearsome pride. “And so is her rider.”

“The gods are good.” You are amazed at how easily it slips out, a reflex of self-preservation while your mind is elsewhere. Does my father know yet? Does Rhaenyra, does Daemon, does Corlys? People will be searching for you soon. If you do not appear from the smoke and chaos of the battlefield, your eldest brother Clement will come looking with his sword in hand. Everett, scarred and unagile but clever, will be pouring over maps to see where you might have ended up.

There is no suspicion in Aemond’s face when he glances over at you. He is gingerly cleaning soot and charred strips of ruined skin from Aegon’s chest, which rises and falls in deep, slow breaths. “Which family is yours?”

House Celtigar, but you can’t tell him that. You scramble for a noble family of the Crownlands whose accent you share, whose history you have been taught, whose men fight for the Greens but are not so distinguished that Aemond will know them well. “House Thorne.”

He nods. “Are you one of Sir Rickard’s sisters?”

You startle. Perhaps you have chosen the wrong disguise. “Far less illustrious than that. Just a cousin.”

The two maesters return, their archaic hands piled high with linen bandages and glass jars of honey, a fiery gold like sunset. “Set them down over there,” Aemond orders, pointing. He has a presence, it cannot be denied. He is tall, fierce, swift yet calculated. He moves like a man who has killed once, twice, again until it is no longer something that keeps him awake at night. It is something that has become a part of him like arteries or bones. “Prepare a room in the castle.”

“For Prince Aegon?” one of the maesters says, then quickly corrects himself. “I mean, for the king?”

“For until we decide what to do with him.” Aemond stares at Criston. Criston stares back, his dark eyes huge and shiny. There is a war to be waged, but Aegon will not be able to help them. Not for months, at least. Not ever, if he dies. The maesters disappear again, grumbling to each other. Unwelcome tasks, unwelcome guests.

Rhaenys is dead, you think as you work. It doesn’t feel real. Meleys is dead. Hundreds of Black soldiers are dead. Rook’s Rest is the Greens’ greatest victory yet, and one they desperately needed. This war is nowhere near over. And the betting odds keep changing.

You say to Aemond and Criston: “Help me turn him. We must clean the burns on his back as well.”

They listen, they obey, they help you because helping you means helping Aegon. When he is washed as well as he can be, you spread a thin sheen of shimmering honey over his wounds—an amber river that will trap moisture and discourage inflammation—and wrap him in bandages. The only burn you leave uncovered is the one on his right cheek. It creeps up over his pale face like red tentacles, curling and grasping, hungry, insatiable. They match now, you think. Two brothers, two scars.

Criston assembles a group of Green soldiers and Aegon is carried in a litter to the castle that serves as the seat of House Staunton, once allies of Rhaenyra, now traitors, now dead men walking. Outside rain has begun to fall, putting out flames born from dragonfire. The pine forest is saved; wounded men lie in the dirt with their mouths open hoping to quench their thirst. By the time Aegon is placed in an opulent bedroom with a view of Blackwater Bay, he has already bled through his bandages. You clean him again, bandage him, dribble milk of the poppy down his throat when he begins to stir and whimper. Aemond gives you command of a makeshift fleet of caretakers: the two requisitioned maesters, three maids, servants to bring food, drink, bandages, wood for the crackling fireplace.

My family is searching for me, you know as you battle to save their enemy’s life, this maybe-king with silver hair and eyes like deep water.And then: I cannot leave him. Not now, not yet.

In the night, as cool rain patters against the ocean and Aemond and Criston are slaughtering House Staunton men down in the castle courtyard, you dose Aegon with milk of the poppy every few hours. The maesters refuse to take responsibility for it; if the king is poisoned, it will be you who swings from a rope for it. You hold cloths dripping with cold water to his forehead. You feed him nibbles of bread and venison when he is conscious enough to eat, cinnamon tea, pomegranate juice, goat milk. You inspect him for any signs of infection. You braid a small lock of his hair before you’ve stopped to consider why you’re doing it.

And when no one else is watching, you untie the bloodstained armband of your own house and burn it to ashes in the fire.

~~~~~~~~~~

Someone is jostling you, grabbing at you. You fell into an exhausted, sporadic sleep in the next room long after midnight. It’s morning now; warm sunlight blooms like flowers on your face, yellow roses and buttercups and daffodils. When your eyes open, they are sore and unfocused. Aemond is a blur of white hair and black leather. He is tugging on you again, his lithe fingers like a vice around your forearm.

“Stop it, get off me!” You shove him away. He waits, bemused. “You can’t keep dragging me around like this!”

“Why not?”

Because my father is one of the wealthiest men in the Seven Kingdoms. Because I may not have silver hair or a dragon, but if you cut me open the blood of Old Valyria would spill out like red waves. Because the man I am pledged to marry is good at killing, very good at killing, maybe even better than you. “Because I’m a noblewoman. I’m a lady.”

“You don’t act like one,” Aemond counters. “Ladies flee from blood and gore. Ladies are nowhere to be found on battlefields.”

“I like being useful.”

“Then I have brought you a gift. You are needed now. Aegon is asking for you.” And then, when you hurry out of bed, finding your footing on chilly wood floors: “Well, that certainly got you moving quickly.”

“He’s in pain?”

“Not especially, from what I can tell. I think he just wants you.” Aemond glides out of the bedroom. You follow him to Aegon’s chamber. The Greens’ king is propped up in bed on a great mass of pillows, bandaged, limp, eyes glazed and barely open. There are men huddled around him. You recognize Criston, though not the other ones, some old and some young and all in armor. You hope that none of them are Sir Rickard Thorne.

You feel Aegon’s forehead for fever. To your relief, he is no more than modestly warm. He catches your hand, holds it tightly, doesn’t let go. After a moment’s hesitation, you sit down beside him on the edge of the bed. There is a curl of his lips, just a whisper of a smile, just a phantom of one. Aemond glances at you and Aegon with mild interest, then turns his attention to Criston.

“Aegon,” Criston informs the king, patiently, like a good father would. “We have to move you back to King’s Landing.”

“No,” Aegon says. His voice is so low and weak that he’s difficult to hear.

“Your recovery will be long and arduous,” Criston explains. “Aemond and I will be needed in combat. We cannot stay to guard you. The Blacks may try to retake Rook’s Rest. You staying here is not an option. King’s Landing is safer. It is well-supplied, it is protected. And we have our own maesters there who will help tend to you.”

“Can’t leave,” Aegon croaks. “Sunfyre.”

“Aegon—”

“I can’t leave without Sunfyre,” he forces out with immense effort. Then he gasps and moans, tears pooling in his eyes. You offer him milk of the poppy; he guzzles as much as you’ll allow him to have.

Criston sighs. “You can’t stay. And Sunfyre can’t leave. One of his wings was nearly ripped off, he’ll never fly again. We have no way to transport him, he’s too heavy.”

One of the armored men mutters: “And that’s assuming he wouldn’t incinerate anyone who ventured close enough to try.”

“Where is he now?” Aemond asks the man.

“Down on the beach, my prince. Eating dead soldiers.”

Criston shudders. Working in close proximity to dragons has not given him a liking for them.

“Can’t leave him here,” Aegon whispers, shaking his head.

“You must,” Aemond says.

“What if it was Vhagar?”

“I’d leave her. I’d have no choice.”

Aegon frowns, squeezing his eyes shut. It’s all too much for him. “Not the same.”

No, perhaps not; Aemond’s dragon may be the largest and most lethal in the world, but Aegon’s bond with Sunfyre is said to be what legends are built of, words written in ink and stone. You watch the agonized confliction on Aegon’s drawn face: can’t leave, can’t stay, can’t fight, can’t run. You say softly: “Could Sunfyre be assigned a detachment of guards?”

Aemond looks at you as if just remembering you’re here. “What?”

“Men could be tasked with ensuring the dragon is secure and fed. From a safe distance, of course. They could report on his health. Then perhaps when he is stronger, he can be reunited with the king.” The king. Again, it stuns you how easily the treason rolls out, like waves bubbling over rocks and sand.

Aemond turns to Criston. “Could it be done?”

“I don’t foresee many men volunteering for the task. But it could be done, yes. Sure.”

Aemond asks his brother: “Would that make a difference?”

Aegon’s eyes drift to you. They are churning with sluggish, clunky thoughts, heavy burdens to bear on raw shoulders. The braid that you wove absentmindedly into his hair is still there. “Alright,” Aegon agrees at last. “I’ll go.”

“Good,” Aemond says. “We leave at dawn tomorrow.” Then he looks to you. “You will come south with us.” His tone invites no argument. He doesn’t even conceive of it as a possibility. Why would you refuse? Why would you, a purportedly devout Green, shy away from the opportunity to nurse your king back to health? You bow your head in compliance. You wonder what is being discussed in the Black Council; you wonder what your father is thinking, what Everett believes happened to you.

“But I have to see him first,” Aegon says.

Aemond does not understand. “See who?”

“Sunfyre.”

“But you can’t walk to the beach,” Criston says. “You can’t walk anywhere.”

Aegon grins, showing his teeth. His dazed, deep blue eyes glitter mischieviously. His hand has not disentangled itself from yours. “Then carry me.”

The deal is struck, like a face minted onto a coin or a bolt of lightning meeting the earth. Soldiers transport Aegon down to the stony, mist-sopped shoreline. Blade-sharp agony is flooding back into his face, but he refuses more milk of the poppy. He wants to be awake when he gets there. He wants to be himself.

The soldiers cannot get too close to Sunfyre; no one besides Aegon can. He is helped off the litter and then tries to amble across the wet, grey sand. After a few steps he collapses. You rush to him, dodging Aemond and Criston’s grasps as they try to stop you.

“No,” Aegon says when you attempt to help him to his feet. He is panting from the pain, his face flushed with torment and exertion. His white-blond hair whips in the wind. “Do not follow me. Not even if I pass out, not even if I’m dead. I don’t know what Sunfyre would do to you.” And then he crawls forward alone on his hands and knees.

Waves crash, spraying saltwater into the air. Crabs scuttle over rocks. Gulls swoop low to claim mouthfuls of flesh from bloated corpses in worthless uniforms. The dragon known as Sunfyre the Golden is curled up on the beach. Many of his metallic scales are singed; the pink membranes of his wings are tattered like lace. His right wing hangs at a ruinously odd angle. You would know how to set that if he was a human. And you could do it without the threat of being reduced to ash and history.

Sunfyre unravels as Aegon nears him, long angular face rising, frayed wings settling by his sides. You have seen dragons before, of course—Syrax, Caraxes, Arrax, Vermax, Meleys—though never from this close. They horrify you. You cannot look at them without thinking of the devastation they sow like a plague, of how they so unmistakably no longer belong in this world.

Sunfyre’s head stretches out towards his rider, a half-dead man kneeling in wet sand and wearing only bandages and loose cotton trousers. Beside you, Sir Criston Cole sucks in a noisy, nervous breath. Aemond watches Aegon, his face like stone. His hair hangs in long, damp waves.

Aegon embraces Sunfyre, clinging to him, resting his face against the dragon’s. They stay like that for what feels like a very long time. Then Aegon crawls back to you, sobbing with pain by the time he is lifted into the litter. You give him milk of the poppy and he accepts it eagerly. He is unconscious again within seconds. Down the beach, Sunfyre looses a soft desolate cry like a plea: Don’t go. Don’t leave me. You might never come back.

~~~~~~~~~~

The drivers have been instructed to proceed slowly and with caution; still, the carriage pitches and jolts as you traverse the Rosby Road towards King’s Landing. In addition to the caravan’s most precious cargo—the Greens’ fragile and intermittently sentient king—it transports also two severed heads: Lord Simon Staunton’s in a basket, and Meleys’ in the bed of a mule-drawn wagon. High above in slate-grey clouds, Aemond and Vhagar are safeguarding your progress. Criston rides on a monstrous warhorse just outside the carriage. You are leafing through a book that you found in the castle library at Rook’s Rest: anatomy, surgery, sicknesses and cures. Aegon is bandaged and heavily medicated in the cushioned seat across from you. While servants flit in and out frequently, you are the only passengers in the carriage at the moment. You do not know that Aegon is awake until he speaks.

“Sinful,” he says. His voice is groggy, only half-here. He is gazing blearily at the illustration on the open pages of your book: a quite detailed naked man, his arteries and veins mapped like the roads of Westeros, his cock bare and sizeable.

“It’s informative,” you reply in your own defense, smiling.

“My father would have hit me for looking at something like that. If he’d noticed.” Aegon smirks, resting his head against the back of his velvet seat. His hair has been scrubbed and rinsed by servants, the braid you made for him undone. “He probably wouldn’t have noticed.”

“Mine has a great love for all books.” Bartimos Celtigar is eternally turning pages: computations, records, revenue. He does not just sit on Rhaenyra’s council. He is her Master of Coin. He funds her war effort, he fuels her like wood to a fire. “Besides, I have seen naked men in person. No book can scandalize me now.”

A little twitch of his silvery eyebrows: fascination, amusement. “He does not lose sleep over your spent innocence?”

“He has other things on his mind presently.”

“Like what?”

Like helping Rhaenyra win the war. You find a different truth to tell him. “Some men consider one daughter to be too many. My father has four. His attention is thoroughly divided.”

“He doesn’t like you?”

“He likes me plenty. He just doesn’t need me.”

Aegon nods. His eyes travel over you slowly and meditatively, not leering but learning, memorizing slopes and angles, taking you in like he’s never been able to before. He is in the brief lull between doses of milk of the poppy: lucid enough to speak but not so much that he can feel the full extent of his injuries. “Are you married?”

This is a bit of a fraught subject. “I am betrothed.”

“Oh,” he says, with what might be disappointment. “And he wouldn’t rather have you home right now? Putting all that knowledge of male anatomy to good use? That’s difficult to believe.”

You peer evasively down at your book. “He has a role to play in the war. I’ve been given permission to serve in my own way until it is over.”

“Permission,” Aegon echoes. He finds this interesting. He studies you for a while before he asks, his voice gentle: “What’s wrong with him?”

“Nothing. He’s honorable, he’s brave. He’s marvelously formidable. He could carry you around like a sack of potatoes.”

Aegon chuckles, a slow reflective laugh, curiosity, intrigue, something to think about besides the fact that he’s missing half his skin. “Do you fear marriage?”

What is the answer to that question? Do you even know yourself? “I fear being possessed. And having no remedy if the circumstances are not to my liking.”

“You can’t get one of your three superfluous sisters to marry him instead?”

You smile faintly. “No, we’ve met. He chose me, he favored me. I’m not sure why.”

“Probably because you’ve read all there is to know about cocks.” Aegon grins, drowsy and crooked and playful. “Who is he?”

“Just a man,” you say. You can’t tell Aegon more than that. It would give your Black affiliations away.

You are betrothed to the Warden of the North, Lord Cregan Stark.

[its-actually-minicika]

The Harshest Winters (18+)

I - II - III - IV - V;

Pairing(s): Jacaerys x Reader x bookcanon!Aemond;

Warnings: We all know what to expect by now - sexual themes, obsessive and possessive behaviour, bookcanon Aemond, angst (there is no light at the end of the tunnel ♡), semi-spoilers (but not really) for Fire&Blood;

Word Count: 23k+ (yes. yes indeed.)

Author's Note: AND I HATH RETURNED!!

Only 3 more instalments to go - this feels surreal. As always, I would like to thank all of you from the bottom of my heart for still following Lady Tully's adventures, and for being so patient with my updating schedule (or lack thereof). Without further ado, please enjoy ♡

♡♡♡ Drop me a comment if you would like to be added to the taglist! And don't forget to reblog your favourite fic writers ♡♡♡

Paths that used to interwoven thread themselves with great uncertainty. When you're free to roam again, which road will you choose to take?

When Aemond beckoned his return, Harrenhal was basked in smoke. Vhagar shuddered low beneath him, letting out enraged, rogue roars. His guts hung low inside his midriff, his heart ached hard inside his chest… his one lone thought was of his Lady – of what became of her, of them.

"Ah – My apologies, Your Grace!" The muted hues of her blue dress obscured across his measured view. Thus Aemond hummed, dissatisfied, and merely moved his gawp ahead. His eye transfixed her for a moment, yet bore through her slighter frame. Nought of what he noticed then deterred him to even bow. To even offer her the courtesy that a highborn lady would receive. He had left their clash at that – with not a singular lax word exchanged, and not a singular exultant glance. He spared no reaction. No compact feeling. And the deep courtesy she offered him was met with deplorable impassiveness. Whether or not she had felt slighted, or passed across as less compelling, was of nought of his concerns. He heard her steps, although unwilling, move fast across the vacant halls – the mousy girl with straight long locks ergo dissolved through the thin air; and as if made of feeble matter, as if diffused whole by the soil, she shed herself briskly afore. Perhaps, he thought but for a moment, the paling shade suited her well. And as she skipped her trail all proper, through the obtrusive and abstaining lanes, her gown outcast a pleasant echo – the rattled bite of a spirited woman, a proof of presence, of fair existence. He made his strides long and decided, reaching towards the damp courtyard. And as he trained, breaking his stupor, the man had thought of her quick struts. Perplexed and quite unparalleled, he deemed the dress had worn her nicely. The girl was far from an alluring beauty, standing small and slight in stature. Still the brief sweep of her garment reached for the goal it had then bared – for the Prince thought of it, admired it, and thoroughly remained somewhat impressed.

He’d been a foolish boy back then, though he remained so as a man. A roguish Prince of one and twenty, far too absorbed by pain and ire to even care about the keep. Alys’ heed had been ignored, his lungs had been filled up with ash. His headlong steps urged through the hallways, desperate to reach for the one door that served so long as their shared chamber. He screamed her name from the base of his throat, so wildly torn and fraught forlorn, that his shrieks of anguish reached for the ears of the few maids and wenches left rooted in place, all hoarded outside and taken aback by his despondent outraged display.

But that wouldn't be the last he'd see her – and the chain of humdrum meetings would thereon constantly happen. They were both quite early risers, insatiable to the seductive waves of glaring rays of humid sunsets, and devotees of the peace and quiet brought across by the luminescence. Still the synopsis would repeat – he, far too preoccupied with the handling of putrid sticks; she, far too absorbed by her dashing knight of golden armour; the Waters brute, as they so styled him, who seemed to be rooted abreast her, eternally waiting for some command which rested readily atop her lips. Though she wasn’t one of his sister’s ladies – the smirking vixens with a lacking sense of pride –, she served as a ward under Lyman Beesbury, the old Master of Coin of his father’s late Small Council. Not the particularly quiet or specifically reserved young maiden, she failed to strike up the attention of any callow man at Court. She wasn’t one for idle chatter, or flamboyant dances at Soirees. Yet he would hear her voice each morning, as she bowed low to him and slithered away.

‘Good morrow, Your Grace.’

‘Greetings, Your Grace.’

‘Good day, Your Grace.’

His hands balled up to aching fists, as the grave callouses inside his palm slid across the piece of silk. Several slices of burnt meat adorned the ground he stood atop. The mess that was made of the bed they had once slept on and the tapestries behind the grate all but pointed towards one thing – that she had made her brash escape, and effectively deceived them all. The Crown Prince sucked in a breath, and turned his head towards a rattled and alerted Alys. What was expected was for him to scream. Trash about, around the room, until his blood would cease to boil. She was ready for that. On all accounts, she had prepared for that. What was most unexpected was the lacing calmness of his evened tone.

“I don’t suppose she morphed outside, waiting submissively by the guards.” Within the first half of a drawn-out breath, the older woman shook her head. “No, my Prince.” He nodded slowly, and expelled a weighty laugh, “She started a fire and ran away.”

“Yes, my Prince.”

“Did she take a horse, as well?”

“... I don’t kn–”

“Every man, woman and child in this stronghold knows by now. Did she take a horse, as well?”

“No, my Prince. I swear she didn’t.”

“How much of this was of your doing?”

Two years she stayed inside the Keep. Two years of residence, of life, of growth. Two years of incandescent worth, during which he could have acted.

Notice her.

Court her.

Marry her.

Cruel Fate had all but laughed at him – for two years she had lived below him, right within his steady grasp. In those two years he could’ve bedded her, he could have won her horrid heart. He could have fathered her her freckled children, he could have owned her House’s flags. He could have dressed her in the finest dresses, and ripped them off her every night. He could have seen her cross stark naked – then it would have been his right. He could have kissed her, touched her, fucked her… he could have made her love him back.

A fantasy. A bitter laugh. A pang of pain, and guilt, and wrath.

The Gods spoke of their directed favour – when the Whore of Dragonstone came forth home with her misbegotten son. When his bastard nephew set his eyes on her, on the nameday of his eldest brother. When he sullied her with his abhorrent probe, and when he danced with her throughout the night. The night of which he finally saw her, twirling in her auburn dress.

“My Prince, I’ve helped you find her before – I shall help you find her again…!” Her delicate fingers entwined together in a tightened and reluctant hold, which morphed the pose of a covetous and tattered statue; a ready vision of the Maiden, praying to absolve all sin. Her slit eyes widened to two round specs of emerald sheen, and Alys opened her mouth again, only to be stopped by Aemond. “‘Tis not your barren promises I want – rather, I demand something more palpable.” She quirked her head low to the side, and almost caught herself relax her shoulders; Endless thoughts surged through her head, each more humiliating than the next. If it was her body he desired, she would promptly let him take her – disputes of the flesh she’d handle, and face proudly with a stiffened lip. His wife was gone, and though lamentable, she could still surge him back in. Shake and wake the stifled feelings that he’d once relished her into, win his favour and his grace, save her and her unborn son.

But two blind steps he took towards her, and Alys finally understood.

“You watched your home burn to its core." Aemond's tone was light and leveled, "You must have gazed into the fires.”

It had been a truth universally assumed, that he wouldn’t even look upon her. Though a first daughter, she presented as a mere third child. Loved among her Lords, ‘twas true, but with a trivial, worthless last name, who’d be of little to no use to him, and honour him no less or more than a lease daughter of Pike or Ambrose. He’d scoffed back then, under his breath, as the two conversed so freely. The graceless children of low descent, so shamelessly engrossed in the raptures of the other’s company.

If only he had loved her then. For Jace wouldn't have walked away from Aegon's nameday scrape unharmed. How many things would have played differently, if only he asked her first to dance? ... But a lowbred with a bastard was a common sight to see. Aemond thus stood at his table, playing harsh tunes with his slim fingers, whilst knocking on the table’s wood.

His hand enwrapped at the base of her throat, moving languidly over the nape of her neck, and thwarting her forward with an exponential pull. The dying logs inside the fireplace still cracked with their dispersive strokes, impelling the air with charred ashes, and softened groans of sizzled smoke. Her cheek had touched a snapping flame – the arch of her enticing lip almost pressed firmly against it. The low sputtering of her ragged breath, the agonizing scream she’d let out, the fear that seeped within her bones; they deterred her to choke out worried, terror-stricken by his dwelling words. “My Prince, please, I’m begging you –” His silk-smooth baritone came out sullen by perpetually placid waves. A clementful element to the fear and trepidation swarming about the narrow place.

“I’m merely helping you reach a conclusion.”

Her body contorted in a desperate attempt to flee him, and her hands pushed instinctively into the fires, as if to cast aside their perpetual danger, and better protect her face from the raptures of the growing heat. Fellen sobs escaped her lips, rolling down and off her cheeks, hearthing right in the blaze. “Please, please, please–”

“Well?” He sighed, calm and taciturn inside her ear, sparing her no lessened hold. And she failed once more to answer him, opting instead to let out another shrill of strangled moans. Her vision blurred throughout with horror – her gaze cast forth the lingering effect of fear, and her body stiffened in anticipation.

“Perhaps you need more help, then.” His disquieted mutter churned her guts over with dread.

Her wails of anguish pierced through his heart – yet his grip didn't uncurl.

He’d be a liar to say he thought much back then of their light and foolish prancing. The shades of orange in her dress laced his eye with milky spots of irritation, and Jace’s laughter filled him with surfeited hatred. Thus he didn’t linger past the notion of a second, and when Daeron’s warm eyes met with his, he only hummed in discontent. “You ought to dance with someone tonight,” He reminded his elder brother through the musings of a quirked-up brow, “There’s plenty of handsome ladies here tonight.”

Strenuously he looked around, though at last settled his orb on the heaving and coveted form of the latter of Helaena’s ladies. Her very own shone bright with wonder as she listened to her nearby friend, which dispersed her hands about with adorning youthful bliss. She was laughing in good spirit, whispering her minor gossip; Still, when his gape was met with hers, her slight smile instantly falthered.

Five seconds it took for her to turn and flee into the crowd – and five more it took the Prince to work through the nearest cup, by fully draining it of wine, and allowing its sharpened sting to warm and breach his stiffened limbs. His deflation would be short-lived, and the ripe pierce of rejection heal itself in a moment’s heed.

“‘Tis not their looks I’m worried of.” He pensively added to his brother.

“She had a rather awkward smile.” The youngest tried to comfort him.

“Yet she still preferred to flee.” Though his tune carried no bitter candour, Aemond sharply turned around, “You’re wasting your time with me, brother. You fail to look where you’re supposed to.”

“Your Grace, I know – I know of another way!”

Confused by his elusive words, Daeron turned his head around. “Elanour Frey has all but thrown herself at you.” He clarified slightly amused, and when Daeron’s ears piqued through with red, the corners of his mouth quriked up. “Go take the fair cunt for a whirl. Enjoy her smiles and dulling company.”

“She’s a Lady, brother! It’s wrong of you to slight her so.” Despite the youth’s endless chastising, the boy still rose to kvetch an approach.

“The spell is not without its consequences.” She drew in through a shaky breath, “B-But I can make you see her by yourself. I know the Riverlands like the back of my hand. I’ll tell you where she’s headed.” It was a risky plan. Yet it had the potential to appease Aemond, and in the process, save her life. When his iron fist had loosened, she hastily convulsed away. Her words spoke of an old ritual, one she could avid perform – one that would show him his Lady, one that would reveal her whole. “I’ll need your blood – blood from the both of you. The fresher it is, the better for the enchantment.”

Aemond solely parted with the piece of cloth used for their wedding. When the notion of shared blood was uttered, he hastily dug for the sleeve, revealing the blotches which took the front of a maroon-brown colour. “It’s two days old.”

“It’ll work for her part. But I greatly urge you to spare fresher droplets from your own share.” Her heart beat frantically inside her chest. She prayed to her God to send her lease, to grant her mercy and forgiveness for that of which she would soon do. She nicked Aemond with the sharp end of a perusing tool. Drops of thick, red-bludgeon clot surged over her waiting hands, dripping in rapid slithers from his damaged shoulder. She forged a phoney incantation, muttering it slowly for the man to hear. She then waited, and waited, for the sphagnum moss to reach its peak. “Tonight is a half-crescent moon,” She explained brashly in a lulling tune, “I’ll throw the damp cloth into a fire and we’ll see where she is headed.” Why exactly she had lied to him, and continued to do just so, eluded Alys in her steep attempts to cast her spell. Perhaps it was due to her poignant state – as her condition would begin to show erelong, and Aemond had to be reminded of the care he held for her. Perhaps it was because she’d die if his wife of chestnut hair uttered to him that she’d helped with her escape. Perhaps it was because she’d learned to like the forlong and dismissive Lady, and saw within her the potential to prevail. Perhaps his loyalists had begun to matter – as she well knew the wrath and ruin that Aemond would bring upon the boys, were he to notice that they all survived the clashing flames, and not emerged with his sweet Lady. “... But we need to leave, Your Grace, and soon.” She ergo pleaded as she sewed him shut, “Daemon Targaryen reached the gables of Maidenpool. He’s to come for us, for all of us.”

“Yet another reason not to leave without my wife.”

Perhaps she’d seen enough of death, and felt the need to reach for safety – for the reclusion brought by Oldtown, and for the one she'd felt with Aemond. The lot of troubled knights be damned down to the Seven Hells and back. Criston Cole could meet the troops, take them to increase his numbers, and march on towards the Fields of Fire, to join forces with the Lannisters.

"There is a chance he's still unaware of your union. If that be the case, she’ll be safer without you taking her back right now.”

“Are you suggesting I leave her here? To be used by the Blacks as leverage?"

"– Twirled with two Princes in a night! Gods, and the most comely of the bunch, as well…"

"How lucky she must feel right now. Having two push for her hand."

"She's not that much of an exquisite beauty. And her sewing is quite crooked." With a loud huff to calm her nerves, the Lady dared to carry onward, " I wouldn't go as far as to proclaim something like that."

His wide step fathered on the course of the narrow and secluded hallway. The maidens’ voices washed over his form like whiplash, and Aemond stood hammered in place, whilst listening to their low chirping.

The latter lady of the two shrugged her shoulders in indifference, as she jabbed her slight companion right into her bottom ribs. Her painted lips sketched to a smirk, and her thin brows rose up in wonder. “Poor Dyenne,” She snickered briefly as she paused her idle gossip, “Imagine having the One-Eyed Prince glance at you with such a stare – reckon she’ll send out a raven and beg her father to return to Pyke?” The taller redhead looked around in grave and unmistaken panic, before setting her washed eyes on her giggling accomplice. Her hands wrapped around the shawl that she wore over her gown, and she sighed in discontent, as she weighed her words inside her. “Hush now, Talia!” She ended up conducting sharply, “You shouldn't dare to speak such words. Especially in the Red Keep!”

His hands formed into light fists, as the rousing sting of shame prickled across his pale-white skin. With his jaw now tightly set and a frown upon his face, the Prince cast his long gaze downwards – vexing himself for the impropriety of eavesdropping in the first place. He’d come to terms with his mien, well before he turned a man. With how he scared the finer ladies, with how they all deemed him a cripple. But to be such crass acknowledged as a ghastly and revolting monster, so coolly and without chargin, with such ease and nonchalance.... A bitter taste caught in his mouth, as aggravation dauntly surged him – for how dare those two low women speak so freely of his face?

The shorter girl huffed out expectantly, whilst her companion rained her chastation. Her face was hidden, protected onward by her loosened golden locks. But even so, by name alone, Aemond had apputed her; She was yet another one of Helaena’s hexing ladies. “Even if someone would hear me, certainly they'd feel the same!” With her nose held high and her back all straightened, the lassie added with a perfect diction, “I, for one, would never dance with such a brute. He could be the heir to the Iron Throne itself – I would still flinch at his touch. He is such a morbid freak.”

He could feel his cheeks catch on to a shade of putrid red. His probing and now heated leathers fell tightly on his heaving chest, leaving him appalled, constricted, and resigned in his dark space.

Black spots surged and filled his vision before he could extend his arm. Heinous pain stabbed through his heart, rushing through his mustered veins. The last he felt was of his shoulder, which throbbed in place with blazing heat.

***

“Aemond? Gods, Aemond, are you alright?”

The mere softness of her distant voice sent a pleasurable thrill within him. His lilac orb opened with stupor, gazing above him at the remnants of the littered candles, which flickered both across her face and at the sobriety of the dark room. His tenebrous brow rose in surprise, as her brilliant eyes met him with love, and her reddened lips broke to a smile.

“Thank the Gods you’re awake.” She whispered with a timbre of exhilaration, as her small hand came up to brush over the arch of his unfurrowed brows and against his tired face. Her touch was light and barely proded – and, for the first time since he’d truly seen her, a refulgent smile formed on her lips; caused by and bared out for him – in all its kind and gracious nature. His chest heaved once with every turn of his lungs’ deep and churning exhales, as her vivid and concisive image allowed for a heatwave of ardour to surge through his very being. The deep purple of his eye glimmered with abstained affection – the corners of his downward mouth all but quirked into a grin.

As if burnt by dragon fire, his body rose to a quick halt – propped upwards by his left forearm, and supported through the same. The wound that caused him ached discomfort all forgotten with the notion of her brightened and reclusive face. “But –” He began feverishly, whilst turning her head from side to side, “How,” He choked out with a desperate hiss, caressing her cheeks with his rough digits, “You left. You left me.”

A soft gasp lodged from her throat, as Aemond’s hands enwrapped her whole. Her own slim limbs entwined with his, running through his silver hair and over his unyielding jaw, resting on his raucous back and grazing over his resounding heart. The tension in his rigid shoulders eased with every gaudy touch. She wordlessly reached for his eyepatch, and yanked it off in a swift move. Her lips descended on his shoulder, moving upwards to peck lightly at his jugged and immersive scar, reaching for his poignant cheekbones, and pressing softly at his mouth’s high arch.

“How,” He whispered lowly once again, as her eyes met his with glee. "Foolish boy,” She kissed him slowly, whilst aligning her hips to his, “I came back for you. We’re man and wife now, you and I.” She added with a prompt elation, “I could never truly leave you.”

“Harrenhal, the Riverlands –” He grunted meekly as he insatiably chased her mouth. His wife bit over his lower lip, and swallowed down his grouchy growl. “Shh,” She subdued him back to calmness, “We are both in Oldtown now. All is well.” She nodded once to ease his nerves, “Your brother, Daeron, took care of everything.” Before the Prince could inquire anything less or more wanting, her leg prodded in between his thighs, widdling to pry them open. She moved her attentive focus to his red and swollen lips, and gently led his heated body back into a lying pose. The woman smirked at his perplexed submission, and flummeted a listless array of sensual and loving kisses down the curve of his adonis belt. Her knees plunged into the mattress that enwrapped him in a state of lust, straddling and guiding him as she considered at that time.

“Relax, my love,” She urged him gently, “I plan to take good care of you.” For but a moment, her movement stilled. And his wife rose up her head to kiss him in pleded benevolence. “I almost lost you. Never again.” She promised him with an elusive stare. The hardness in his hazy iris softened with her every word. His digits came to touch her own, and he entwined their hands together, taking her own to his mouth. Tenderly he kissed each finger, trailing the softness of her palms with the unquaint and possessed devotion of his flectuous and awaiting lips. She relaxed into his hold, and used her thumbs to graze his cheeks, rubbing faintly at the jarring redness that was forming on his skin. “I would burn the world to ashes if it meant possessing you,” He muttered lowly as he kissed her hands, “The Gods may curse me if they will it – but I would sooner kill a thousand men, and ravock against hundreds of armies, before I should see you leave again.”

Her giggle pierced his very soul, and that alone had been enough for him to free his damning urges. He pawed at her compressing bodice, and sucked with fevervour at the apex of her thighs and neck. “I am sick with the desire to have you. I am not a man to be tamed, my Lady; ‘tis with you and only you that I will submit willingly.” Poignant yet without a hurry, her fingers threaded through his silver hair, earning a salacious moan from the lips of the perturbed. Aemond’s eye was blown with lust, and a shallow but incessive pant ached within his naked chest. Desperate to hear her voice, and maddened by her ceaseless silence, the man drove on with upstrained force. “Tis only you who makes me whole,” He whispered as he shut his eye, “Your beauty is a curse that bound me since the first day that we met. No matter where I turn to look, I cannot escape your presence.”

“Say something – say anything. Tell me that I may – may I?” The desperate edge within his tone transpired over his extended hand. Tremulous and undecided, it touched the lacings of her back, itching to reveal her skin. “Please let me touch you. Please… I need you.” A reserved smile upturned her lips, and the woman trailed her hands over the appended width of his shuddering and throbbing chest. His every muscle tensed at the feeling of her cold and sanity hands – a downy sigh beleft his throat, followed by a swallowed whine. She leaned over to his ear, and trailed a long lick to his jaw. “I love you…” She subdued to his lax face, whilst letting out a brisk exhale. Her forehead came to touch his own, as she muttered once again, “I love you, Aemond.” The sluggish roll of her scant hips deterred the Prince to drone a curse. "Don't say that, my love," His breathing came to ragged pants, "I'm going to… spend… if you say that once more…" His hand came forth to grip her thigh, pausing slightly for a moment to ensure her disposition, before leading her into him with nuanced and languid movements. His brows furrowed in concentration, as his hazy and fogged over eye trailed across her freckled face. “To hell with keeping the bloodline pure,” He gulped as he relaxed into her, “Fuck principle.” His loins ached him with elation at the promise of release. The way she looked at him was too much. “Sīkudi nopāzmi, skori ao umbagon va bē hen issa…” His speech halted with the abstinence of another guttural growl, “Qrimbrōzagon, jorrāelagon, nyke jāhor tepagon ao nykeā gār trēsi.”

Very little he could say on the wild infatuation that he felt for the slight girl. He knew that he had well surrendered his will, his mind, and his whole being to the jolting peaks of madness – of love and lust and quaint desire.

He’d been a man bound by his duty. Prepared to marry his own sister and ensure their pure volition, should his brother prove himself more or less inapt to do it. Marry the Baratheon girl, concur with her father’s banners and one day sit at Storm’s End. But then he went against his mother – against the wishes of his grandsire, against the better of the Realm; he’d married her in disheartened haste, with no quaint or real regard over what would come of them. His extended family, the premise of his purpose as a simple second son, the scarce but mandatory expectations that were laid upon him since the first conditioned moments of his cursed and unwanted birth… they’d all have grown to account to nothing in the face of her lithe form. She was, by all righteous accounts, the one woman that the poets spoke of. The inviting and mistrusting siren that would lure tired men in, the innocent and stainless maiden that drove them all insane with need. His wife, His Lady – the only woman who could drive Aemond Targaryen wild with pure fervour. With every kiss on her pale skin, the falthered licks of true devotion cascaded from his parted lips – with every promise that he uttered in his olden mother tongue, too scared and afraid to claim them in a way she’d understand. For he was nought but a damn coward. A foolish man. One that was frightened. Frightened of the situation which he himself had put her under. Frightened of being rejected by his one true love again. Frightened of loving her wholly, as if but a single touch placed upon her skin would burn him.

Scared, that he would do anything it took to have her. Scared, that he would desolate his House, renounce his titles, give up his birthright – just to be allowed to stay quaintly over by her side. The tightness of his burdened sex deterred him to writhe and moan. His hands had worked throughout without him, undressing her with a light tremour – one that would have better matched a young and senseless stable boy, than a true and balanced Prince. His mouth latched on her heaving bosom, sucking its possessive mark along the low side of her collarbones. His right hand touched upon her thigh, and she immediately spread out her legs. “Se nyke jāhor jorrāelagon hen se tolvie mēn hen zirȳ.”

His trail of open-mouthed kisses faltered in their pushed longevity, as she offered her reply in kind. Her eyes washed over with confusion, and a quivering but dainty hand came up to rest over his scar. Her mouth opened as his closed, daring to utter but one question, after what felt like an eternity of eluding and punishing silence. “Is everything alright, my King?”

As if struck by a red arrow, Aemond countered her position – though he kept her tightly on him, his own chest touching with hers. “What did you say?” Following his own accord, the Prince wrapped a hand around her, “You do not speak High Valyrian.”

Not with this level of content.

“My love…” She strained herself to finally stay, whilst the Targaryen seized up her hand, “Aemond, my heart, what are you doing?”

“This isn’t real,” His voice cracked with dissolution, “This isn’t real.” His thumb trailed where her cut should be, across the soft mound of her flesh – though the only feel against it was her soft and healed-up muscle. In vain she tried to grip his face, and make him face her eyes again. In vain her face had gotten closer, urging him to probe her skin. “Aemond…” She tried her best to reel him back.

“You couldn’t have healed in two days' time.”

“I’m here, Aemond – I’m real. I am real just as you are.”

His thumb grazed her lower lip, trailing at her cupid’s bow. “No,” He muttered with a broken tone, “No, you’re not.”

Regret washed over her fair face – though whether felt or simply mimicked, Aemond wouldn’t dare to guess. Before he could swat her away, her hands gripped urgently at his loose shirt. The sick illusion stilled her movements, and merely pressed up against his form. “What does it matter if I’m not cut?” Her gaze softened as he pulled her nether, “This can be real,” She muttered meekly, as she trailed her smaller hand down the apex of his silver hair. Shyly she encouraged him to wrap a hand around her waist, and to rest his cluching chin on the nakedness of her small chest. “You and me,” She deterred further, “We can make this whole thing work.” She nodded fervently at her own words, as she unclasped the ready dagger that remained tied to his leg. Quietly she brought it forward, presenting it in her clean palms – and smiled at him encouragingly, as she pointed it to his big hands. “We can wed each other again,” She promised with a sweet allure, “And we can make it right this time.” Roaring anguish and relenting pain was all that Aemond found he felt, as her soft digits tried to trail over the sharpness of his jaw again. She raised herself back to her knees and straddled him with a shy look. “You know the words, Aemond, come on,” She coaxed him with a shallow grind, “Father, Smith, Warrior,” Her lips descended on his neck, “Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger…” A blinding array of wet kisses was panned insistently across his face. The cruel illusion pouted slightly, as her lost set of aching motions failed to be returned by Aemond. She stirred observantly in her found seat, and simply grazed his chest again. “I am his and he is mine…”

“Stop this.”

“From this day, until the end of my days.”

His hand had wrapped around her throat, holding her gently in her place – though firmly enough for her plump lips not to scoot a figment closer. His lone orb bore into her form, sending waves of apt vexation down the curve of her hicked bosom, “Enough.” He domineered his lady faintly, while swatting her off his heaving body. “Aemond,” She tried once more, thoroughly banished, and latched onto his extended arm, “Please,” Her tune had grown desperate in edge, “We can be so, so happy… I can be so good for you–”

But by then it’d been too late – for Aemond opened his eye, and was met with thorough light.

“Aemond.” A faraway voice called out for him.

His head was throbbing, his scar itching, stinging at his tightened skin with waves of blinding and deafening pain. His lips parted with the prying of a hardened groan, and the man hissed at the contact that the mattress made with him. “Shit,” He panted with a shaky exhale. The Prince’s lips pressed hard together, and a harsh frown scorned his features. As he glanced on at the man who’d dared perturb him in his sleep, his own surprise jolted him upward. “Daeron?”

As if motioned by his hiss of pain, the young Targaryen heathered closer, enwrapping his own slender fingers around his older brother’s forearm. Gentily he hoisted him better, making sure to shield his shoulder and press his back against the tall edge of his given bed. “You have slept for too long, brother.” He uttered in a sympathetic tone, “We thought that you might not wake up.”

“What happened?” Aemond jerked his whole arm forward, loosening his sibling’s hold. He winced at the grave discomfort, and Daeron breathed out a tut – though the two remained up close, even through Aemond’s conniption. Defeated or perhaps unnerved, Daeron straightened back his shoulders, broadening his slighter frame. He hummed towards him in slight admission, before resuming his known poise. “It’s good to see you, too, dear brother.” A sadenned smile played at his lips, before his eyes bore his again. “... The Riverlands have been secured two days ago by nuncle’s presence. I came and took you back to Oldtown.” His reply had been quite simple, yet Aemond’s blood surged through with ire. He almost jumped up to his feet, demanding for a hurried answer. “You mean to tell me… Harrenhal has been abandoned. The strongest keep in terms of rally.” His voice had grown huskier yet, as he strained his vocal cords to concur a neutral tone. A bludgeon red obscured his vision, as a palpable realisation hit – his wife had been abandoned, too. “The Lady of Riverrun –” He began with grave ferocity, yet Daeron’s voice befell his ears.

“What was once your prized war captive appears to have remained scot-free.” The deep purple in his eyes registered his wrathful face, “There was nothing we could do. Your shoulder blade was soberly infected. The girl could have been anywhere further South, and Daemon emerged up North with that vexing bastard filly.” As his speech came to a halt, the man expelled a briskened heave, “You’re lucky that you’re still alive, and that Ser Cole stuck out from Maidenpool to take over your share of men.” Aemond’s features turned impassive, as his bold and younger brother carried forward with his discourse. Recoil sprung inside his guts, densening his leaden body. Fury fought with better judgement, until the former struck its claim. “How long have I been asleep.” Though a poignant and illusive question, his words spewed out as a command, “How long has it been.”

“A little over three moon turns.”

“Three days,” The man spat out in disarray, “Three days,” He thus insistently repeated, as he fixed on the lowest point of the cranky wooden floor. His mind’s eye surged with hasty questions, with possibilities and made scenarios that could have feasibly played at her fate. She could not have gotten far. Walking through those fields on foot came near close to be impossible, even for the ones who worked them. She hadn’t stolen any horse, for Alys told him –

Alys Rivers.

The harlot witch who’d sworn before him that she’d find out where she would be.

“Where is the Rivers witch residing now?” Almost clearing through his trail of thought, Daeron’s body hindered forward. “Take it easy, Aemond, please. You have not yet healed your wounds.” The sharpened edge of his advice echoed through the dim lit room. “I shan’t allow your temper to recline your better health.”

“You listen here and listen well,” His wide stance dominated their reclusion, “I remain your Prince Regent until Aegon’s recuperation. You will tell me where that bastard is, or I’ll break this hedge to find her.”

“Do not make me choose between my man’s honour and my family,” Daeron sighed as he unsheathed his sword, “Lady Alys is under my protection. And no harm shall fall upon her.” A humourless laugh broke Aemond’s scowl, as a wild expression settled in. Her ongrowing popularity with younger men with silver hair hadn’t failed to irk him onward. “Ah, she’s shown you her loose cunny yet?” With two wide steps, he reached his brother, “You get the bull-tip of your cock wet and call that an act of honour? For agreeing to protect her whilst buried to the hilt inside her?”

Her deep-set eyes shone with uncertainty. The witch had bit over her lower lip, surging forward with her pleading. “I’m begging you, my Prince, Aemond cannot know.” Taken aback by her renowned persistence, Daeron merely nodded his head. “My Lady, you are well in Oldtown now. For saving my brother’s life as you did, I remain deeply indebted.” Though his stare had but ghosted over the appendix of her womb, the man frowned with laced dubiety. She followed his fixation vaguely, before bringing out a hand to rest over her emergent stomach. “Your brother isn’t a bad man – and he’s never wronged me, my Prince, however–” Her quaint unease shortened her argument. And alas, she’d lost her courage, lowering her arid stare. “However, I do not think it wise to spur him on with my condition.” With how her eyes avoided his, her kind admission of his resting brother might not have been all true and fair. Still he didn’t dwell on it; and merely chose to nod his head.

“He is certain to be mad at me.”

“You ought not to feel afraid, my lady. Any news of your condition will not come forth from my own lips.”

“Careful now, Aemond, you forget yourself.”

“And remain unarmed.” He gingerly agreed, “Did lord Ormund tell you how to be a man of honour? Was swinging your sword about in the face of your unguarded kin a lesson he’d formerly taught you? Or did you already possess such knowledge?”

“I do not wish to fight you, brother. Though you will stay your hand whilst here.” A damning silence cut right through them, clogging up their lungs with pressure and spiking up their avid hearts. Restlessness and grief filled Aemond, who only glanced in trepidation at his shorter and unmoving brother. The crackling fire of the room danced its flames across his face, thus distorting Daeron’s image of the fervour which he felt. “I’d tread lightly if I were you, brother. The Blacks did style me a Kinslayer.” Though filled with vehemence and zeal, Aemond had been smarter yet. With his small hum and low admission, he relaxed his back again. He took a seat near the small fire, and glanced at the boy again. His eye swirled with an iron glint, that merged into the biting flames of the red inviting blaze. His right arm rose in mocked surrender, though his sharp features didn’t lessen from their venomous display.

Despite his face being flushed red by his brother’s cruel last words, Daeron faced his flare with courage, and a straighter back than most, “Is it true?” He interjected, after a trifling plummet of silence. Though neither Prince required clarity upon the nature of his question, the younger lass protracted onward, as to secure Aemond’s reply. “Is it true that I should call the Tully girl my sister now?” The remnants of the aching fire danced across their heaving bodies. The avid churning of the olden wood dominated the wide room – two Targaryens singled each other, mirroring their counterpart in both elation and in stance. Aemond’s orb never once found itself leaving his face. Lilac clashed with spilling purple, until the latter of the two men moved.

“Yes.” Was all the Regent mustered to answer.

The oak floor creaked under the pressure of Daeron’s long and urgent steps. His hands sprawled over to the pine-wood table. His head lulled forward in a broken image.

In the nearing distance of the fertile fields of Oldtown, both Tessarion and Vhagar unleashed their frightening and unruly growls.

The Rushing Halls. The Half Calf’s Inn. Green Fork. Hag’s Mire.

Rushing Halls, Half Calf’s Inn, Green Fork, Hag’s Mire –

The North.

Words she whispered under her breath as she ran with a willingness unbent but strained. A ceaseless mantra of tied locations, that would hopefully bring forth her safety. Eventual peace within the Ream, to her family – and Gods be good, to the kindred spirits of all the souls she had selfishly left behind. She prayed and hung upon the last image that she got of Alys. Nought of what she said to her could be tested to be certain, and she might as well have sent her to an early and untimely death. She knew I wanted to march North, she'd ceaselessly remind herself, Could my own judgement be faulty?

Her legs had long been taken over by the blissful licks of numbness. And the soles of her silk shoes were long gnawed over by the pressure she had tirelessly put them under. Heaving breaths rattled her throat, and hot tears rolled off her cheeks. With a stupor which perturbed her greatly, the girl observed what had occurred.

She’d been crying. And for an awfully long time, at that.

Of exhaustion, of guilt, of desperation. Of feeling more caged than before, moving blindly like a pawn when bigger schemes were now at play – schemes that could have only been orchestrated by the Greens. Or the Blacks. Or the allies of those fractioned Houses. She could feel her heart emerge in the back-end of her throat. Her mouth dried up, although her tears quickened their flow into a heavy sheen of frightened spoil. The question in her mind remained – How long would it take until word reached the Blacks' most leal camps? Until Daemon or Rhaenyra found out about her bitter marriage, until her family – her real family – was used as bait to sway her heart?

They couldn’t know.

Would they believe it?

Would she be wrong to reach up North, in the hopes of peace and solace? Would she be caged and executed by the one Jace called his friend?

Her Jace. Her sweet and kind and perfect Jace.

His fingers threaded through her hair, as she sat across his lap. The padding of his calloused finger ran over her puffy cheek, prodding at her jaw affectionately as she read the book aloud. “Jace,” She hummed with contrary amusement laced within her tender voice, “However do you plan on learning all those words in High Valyrian if you can’t focus at all?” A boyish smirk spread on his face, which followed suit with a slight chuckle. Despite her chastising remark, the girl rose both eyebrows in wonder – she clicked her tongue in feigned dejection, but soon gave in to his strange joy. “Ah, but how can I be expected to concentrate on anything when you are so very beautiful,” Her Prince lowered his face to her, “And your lips look so inviting?” A myriad of little pecks descended on her face like rain, reaching wherever they could.

Three on her forehead, two on her brows, five on her nose and six on her lips.

A rather violent and aggressive turn stole the ground beneath her feet, and the woman found herself lying on the mudded earth.

Get up. Hurry and get up right now.

No matter how much she’d dare to try, she’d never be an avid runner. She’d never dare desert a post, but she’d never win a race.

Their giggles filled the blooming garden, as they both whispered their stale promises. “Avy jorrāelan,” He muttered right above her lips, “I swear that I’ll make you my Queen.” Her tiny gasps were soon all swallowed by the hunger of his mouth, “Avy jorrāelan–” She tentatively rolled the words in the back end of her throat, “That means ‘I love you’, doesn’t it?” The older boy let out a pur at her rightful and correct assumption, “My beautiful and smart betrothed,” He gently caressed her cheeks, “I love you,” He mustered up to say again, “I love you. I love you so, so much.”

“I love you more,” She strained herself to faintly exhale as she captured him again in an open-mouthed kiss.

She’d never seen love as a weakness, so she never felt the need to run. Although she’d never been the one to chase – always the last to eat her dinner, always the last to speak her mind. She was, in fact, a mere ground-holder. The one that always chose to stay.

“I’ll go with you,” Her weary eyes searched wide for his, “I won’t let you face the Triarchy alone.” Jace’s hands beckoned her hither, in a tight and chaste embrace. “You must stay here,” He softly uttered, “Your grandsire and brothers need you.”

“Not as much as you need me,” Her hands tightened their loose hold, “We’re a team. We’ve always been a team. I just–” Although the latter of her words were muttered, Jace still broke into a smile, “I just can’t let you go alone. I have a bad feeling about this.” He kissed the crown of her tied hair, and breathed in her daisy scent. “Stay,” He sighed in a low tone, “I did promise you, did I not?” His hawk-like orbs bore holes into her, “I swore to you that I’d return. I intend to keep my oath.”

Even when her shoes were laced, or when all her muscles tensed at the simple call of ready – she just wouldn’t move her legs. She was a stayer. Always the one to get up last.

“You shouldn’t be so taciturn,” Kermit’s voice rang through her ears. “Good things come to those who wait.” She dismissed him with a jab, and Oscar’s lips pulled to a smile. “In this world? In Westeros?” Her younger brother tightly questioned, “To a Tully? I don’t think so.”

Gods be good, her knees were bleeding from the sheer force of that fall. She blinked her eyes and panted loudly, trying to regain her vision. Dwellings on matters disclosed were the least bit of her worries. If she managed to escape her husband, then she could torment her soul.

The Rushing Halls. The Half Calf’s Inn.

Alys had at last been right.

“Hey, boy! You, from over there!” Her breathless callings were soon answered with a frail and slight refrain.

“Greetings, traveller!” The man instilled his horse to stop, whilst turning his face towards her. “You seem to be in a big rush.” Her heartbeat pounded in her ears. Her breathing came as short and laboured. “Aye, I am,” The girl agreed with a forced smile, whilst focusing to stop her pants. She glanced atop the horse’s rider, and merely nodded up ahead, “See, I was planning to go to High Heart – take the Gold Road back to Silverhill.” As she winced at her attempt to recall the map of Westeros, the nervous Lady of the Riverlands shrugged her shoulders in dismay. She swallowed deeply for a moment, and prayed to whatever God would listen for the man to be convinced. “But, uh,” She took in a shaky breath, as her lungs burned up her insides, “I didn’t realise the lands would be so muddy.” She chuckled as the boy relaxed, and aligned his horse to face her, “Not from these parts, are you, Lady?”

“I’m afraid I’m here in passing. My own family awaits in Appleton.”

If until then the lass had treated her with piercing and perusing distance, his facade had broken down, in the singular and stellar moment when her words mentioned the Reach – the modest castle of King’s Road where some lower lords resided. Immediately his shoulders slouched, as his eyes widened with joy. “You’re from Appleton, Lady?” Without awaiting for an answer, the boy shook his head and clarified, “My good mother comes from Appleton – she used to take me there in summers, since I was still in my cradle!” He dismounted his small horse with a feverished, good-willed felicity, and approached the waiting girl, “‘Tis good to see another lowborn of the Reach! My name is Dalron. Dalron Flowers.” As he proudly spoke his words, the Dalron bastard of the Reach leaned into a profound bow.

Another bastard of the Reach – this was starting to become a theme.

The amusing thought that reached her mind hindered the girl to suppress a laugh. Still, her eyes darted in focus to the side of the road, and she faltered a moment to plunge back into her words.

“I’m Sara Webber.” She lied without a single tick, and smiled crookedly when the man tripped over his better words, “M’lady!” He forthwith spat out his flattery, “Forgive me, m’lady, I hadn’t realised I was talking to a – well, uh, ah, a highborn lady.”

Relieved that her lie had worked and that her new identity had stuck so well – for she was painfully unaware if such a Webber even existed in the lands of Coldmoat Keep –, her hands came briskly in the air, as she waved them both good-heartedly. “It is I who should apologise, ser – I don’t reside exactly in Appleton. Though I share the enthusiasm: it is a rather beautiful place." Her tongue darted out to wet her lips, and her stare focused on the tiny horse; how very perfect it would suit her in the joncture of her little trip.

“I struck up a conversation to inquire about your horse. Would you ever think to sell her?"

“She's not truly a horse, my lady, but a half mule –”

Alys.

"Still, she's as good as any purebred! And she can last for a long distance."

“She must be quite valuable and dear, then!”

The lanky bastard nodded with a smile upon his lips. His eyebrows furrowed shortly after, as he patted the old yerdle on her boney and emblemished back, “Aye, m’lady, dear she is – but I must say with honesty that she can’t carry much weight.” A shy quirk befell his lips, and the boy dared to look away again. His black eyes ran over the hills she’d pointed – and he shook his head whilst thinking. “But with just you on her back, m’lady,” His yellow teeth showed for a moment, “I’d say she could take you to Appleton.”

Her dirtied hand dug through her breeches for the remaining coins from Alys. After but a hissed-out curse and a sheepish smile thrown at him, her unclenched palm revealed both silvers, and a carefully polished ring. “It’s not much, I must confess,” Her breath staggered with an inept swallow, “But it should be of enough value to at least make up for her.”

The way his face switched brash emotions made her squirm within her place. She filled her lungs with putrid air, and merely drove on ahead, “Of course, I’d deal you with these clothes, as well.” She humorously jabbed at Dalron, “If you could tell I was a lady, then my job wasn’t done right.”

The rags the bastard wore in daylight contrasted her shirt and braise. And Dalron looked at the two silvers, and at the stone caught in her ring.

In those unparalleled moments of quiet, the Lady smiled at him with patience, but prayed upon the Seven Heavens that the man accept her offer.

***

The mule’s strides were long and hearty – filled with more determination than the girl ever expected; swift and agile on her scrawny, although weirdly elongated feet.

The girl noticed, although dumbfounded, that her shoulders had relaxed. Her lips pressed into a tight line, as her back turned stiff again.

Such a fool’s role she was playing, disassociating from her nimble body, daydreaming with her eyes wide open, when she hadn't yet found shelter. She could not afford missteps – not another hurried movement, or another close miscall. Relaxation was a dreaded feeling.

Her, overcome with confidence in her own wit and reason, on her slim chance of escaping and her margin of enclosed direction could not have brought good news with it. And that bastard boy she’d left, wearing all of Aemond’s clothes…

She’d smiled at him in a faint manner, and fooled him to dress in her garments.

When quietness set in the fields, and all the birds ceased with their loud humming, the tired Lady of the Riverlands wondered if she’d killed the lass – if somehow, although unwilling, she’d condemned him to his death. Would he be found out by Aemond? Or by one of his unchanged supporters? Would any woman from his town recognise the three-faced dragon on the back-end of his shirt, and denounce him as a traitor, style him someone who plotted against the betterment of the Black flags? … Would he know her true identity? Had he figured it all out from the moment that he saw her, and only bargained with her money to suck her dry of all she had?

She was Elmo Tully's daughter. The granddaughter of mighty Grover. Kermit's sister–

Aemond's wife.

Both her brothers were well-liked, known and welcomed with great reverie on North to Kingsroad and South to Ashford. Surely then the boy won’t talk.

… But what if he were made to talk? Tortured on and on for hours, seemingly without an end? He’d seen her take to Wayfarer’s Rest, so if he’d give them those directions, then at least they would be wrong.

The mule was panting, hard but slow. Her feet had started giving out.

“Attagirl,” The girl encouraged, patting her on her slim neck, “Hold on for me. Hold on, sweet thing – we have to walk for a while longer.” The half-breed puffed through her pink nose, and merely grunted in her slight retreat. “I promise you, we’ll stop real soon.” Had she turned fully insane? Overcome by grief, fatigue, and so desperate to talk again?

Human company couldn't be traded with the one of a small horse. But conversing with the mare was better than not cackling at all.

A lousy crack of a felled branch unsettled both the mount and owner to the heights of deep hysteria – but only the former jolted and curdled out a high-pitched shriek.

“Shh, shh, attagirl – calm down, sweet thing, calm down.” The Bliss of Riverrun commanded gently. Her hands were shaking, still holding up the yearling’s bridle. She exhaled once through her straight nose, and tried to calm her aching nerves. “I got scared, too, but it was nothing.” Though darkness ate away the forest, her avid eyes searched through the shadows – and her own hand rested quite stiffly, palming at her thigh to ground her. “See, it was just a stupid bird. The breeze. A noise.” Her own breathlessness surprised her.

In olden days, she'd laugh at that. For she always teased the children that were still scared of the dark.

Droplets of sweat coated her forehead, tickling down her dirtied cheek. The girl didn't feel like laughing. The girl felt the need to scream.

Should Aemond venture out to find her, she’d be well aware of that. And no amount of greenery would mask Vhagar’s laid out shadow. The dragon’s roars had made her ears bleed – they would be louder than a measly crack.

As she looked up from the bushes, the girl's big eyes filled up with glee; for there it was, up on the hill – the unkept and deformed Hag’s Mire.

《"You'll go towards the Rushing Halls and buy yourself a mule from the Half Calf's Inn." As the younger Lady nodded feverishly at her late advice, Alys clasped her cheeks with her hands, and brought her head further towards her. "You'll keep a straight line to the Green Fork. You won't stop to eat or drink – you won't stop until you reach Hag's Mire.》

Alys told her she could stop there. And Alys had been right before; why would she be lying now?

Maybe she should stop about. Allow her mule the rest of night, eat something hot, starchy and fat.

She still possessed her golden pendant. And she could trade it for a meal, and a high stable for her tired mule. Her heart picked up with faith and hope, as her own lips parted with gratitude.

Thank the Gods for Alys Rivers, she compelled within her thoughts.

His eyes looked far into the distance, matching shadows to their forms. The grey within his tired iris faltered over with light languor – and a quaint sigh left his lips, as the man straightened his back.

“And so quietness enwrapped the Realm.” Her satin voice enveloped Cain, and whilst he turned his head around, he returned her smile with grace. His fatigued limbs chastised in protest, yet he still bowed in his reply. “Lady Arryn,” He echoed slightly, announcing the woman's presence. The night’s air flogged at his pale skin, leaving forth their angry marks at the apex of his hollow cheeks. “The hour’s grown quite late, my Lady.” Instead of an outright reply, the woman nodded in effervency, as she walked on by to sit near the stones he rested on. She turned her stare to the vast distance, and sucked a breath with a light tut. “When my ancestors built the Vale,” She began with a small hum, “They said it was impenetrable.” Her hands rested in her lap, playing with her golden rings.

“Why are you here alone?” The quaint recoil of her tone matched the weariness of his low stance. “Apologies, my lady. I hadn’t meant to abandon my post.” Though he tried his hardest to level out his prickled throat, the words he uttered maintained their shaky undertones. The subtle feel of her wool shawl surrounded Cain with love and warmth. Her hands had draped the silky felt over his unyielded back, and she rubbed long, soothing circles in the thick of the material. Twice she had patted his shoulders, before gently letting go.

A wordless colloquy was thus exchanged. “It’s really cold.” She hushed beside him.

“But I’ve always found their logic to be lacking in that sense.” Jayne transfixed Cain with her blue eyes, “No one's tried to break us in. But I'm certain that some could." She paused a while to maul her thoughts, before she carried on her speech, "Just because something looks to be untouchable, that doesn't make it rightly so.”

“It doesn’t quite inspire men to go to arms, either, my lady.”

“Yeah…” The knight chocked-out an affirm, “It is.” Her eyes pleaded silently with his, and the five and ten year old lowered her head over her knees. “You talked to him.” She merely sighed, as he quickly shook his head. “He reached out to me,” Cain muttered simply, “I was in the training yard when he showed up out of nowhere.” A wobbly hand came to wipe his tears away, and the lass scratched himself with the callous ends of his rough digits. “Said we needed to talk. I thought that… Gods, I never allowed myself to hope, my lady, but for once I–” The fever in his growing tone wantonly shredded his heart. The anguish in his gape was evident, but the girl lest found herself transfixed by his iron gaze – so close to being blue or green, so close to turning milky white. “Is he…?” She asked him with a reserved pitch. “His twin brother.” Cain huffed out, as a bitter laugh slipped past his lips. “Tyland was just there to make sure I wouldn’t yelp. His brother’s too much of a coward to address his son his questions.”

Lady Arryn forced a smirk, yet agreed with the tall knight. “Every coward seems courageous in the safety of the crowd.” She murmured through a marginal chuckle, “And bravery can be contagious when the band is playing loud.” Her tense gaze drowned him like a river – and the swirl beneath her eyes let the man know of her wide plan. “To be led by the force of example can be a very tricky thing.” Cain exhaled through his nose.

“Is that why you cannot find sleep?”

“Was he worried you would say something?” Her drawn voice laced with the cobwebs of uncertainty, “What would you have to gain from calling yourself a Lannister’s bastard?”

“A whole lot, Tyland thinks.” The corners of his mouth quirked upwards, “For one, Jason doesn’t have any sons.” Her eyebrows rose from perplexed to intrigued. “Even rumours of an illegitimate one could very well ruin their thread of succession.” As the two friends pressed on forth with their treasonous exaltion, the younger girl lowered her head. “But you don't want it. You don’t want Casterly Rock.”

“No.” His own body had become a vessel, a means to chain his most protruding thoughts. The corners of his mouth had watered, as his vision turned unclear. Gods forgive him, and Gods be good – but how he wanted it as his. He wanted to sit on that damned chair more than presidency would allow. He wanted to feel the weight of that ridiculous and pompous cape upon the broadness of his shoulders, he wanted to know what it would be like; For but a moment, he wanted to know their power. To know what it was like to be seen, quaint regarded as an equal, and not as a produce of lust. “No, I don’t want it.” His head surged clear with a response. The world was yet to make a man who lacked the much needed ambition to climb the ladder to the heights of power. The impulse he felt had made no difference – what he wanted and what he was owed were on the two sides of the same coin.

His shoulders tensed, much like that night. “I feel…” He strained himself to give an answer, “When I faced the Kinslayer in that dark, secluded cave," His diction halted for a moment, as he thought on what to say, "I felt more than prepared to die.”

“But you didn’t die.”

“No, I didn’t.” His shame slid down his throat with ease, “I survived; and in the process of that, I failed her.” His stare threaded with the winter’s sky. And when he dared to speak again, his voice hung low with deep uncertainty. “There’s nothing to say I won’t fail again.”

“Nothing makes a man so bold as a woman’s smile, and a hand to hold.”

The redness in his cheeks had deepened, and though his mouth opened in protest, quietness ensued a while – He would have avidly denied her musings, swearing on the Gods above that what he felt for his fair lady was nothing but a lasted friendship.

I owe my very life to her, he might have been endowed to say, When no one else believed in me, she was the one who gave me hope. And the right purpose to uphold.

Only when he turned her way, did the knight realise that he was tired. Tired – but tired up and far beyond the constrictions of the mind and flesh. The only sound that left his lips was a faint sigh of refrain. Everyone inside his life abandoned him or ran away. How cowardly it was of him to wish to do the very same.

His weary and incessive shoulders stiffened with the gentle breeze.

A single tear rolled off his cheek, and Cain swallowed back a curse. “I always lived under the impression that fathers grow to love their sons.” The silence that swaddled the gardens exceeded deafening amounts. Crickets nestled in the grass, opening their wings to fly to the delicate petals of flowers in the raptures of the night. A gust of wind prodded her vision, swaying forth her longer hair. The young girl’s eyes closed shut in focus, as her lips parted instead. “Jason Lannister is an idiot.” She ended up concluding then, “He doesn't deserve to call you that.”

A steadied breath escaped Cain’s throat, and her wide orbs softened in pain. Her gaze moved forth to the green bushes, and her smooth hands twitched in her lap. Suddenly and without thinking, her palm enwrapped his shaking fist. “I’m glad he’s not making you live with the shame of being his first male offspring, you know.” Although her moody tone of voice snapped right through the orchid garden in a patronising way, the Bliss of Riverrun made use of her free remaining hand; digging through her gown’s loose pockets, searching for a piece of cloth. They emerged not moments later, holding up the handkerchief – which she brought up to his face, to wipe away his trail of thought. “Fuck him.” She disclosed with a sure frown, “How something so defiled and ugly managed to mend such a good and patient boy should be studied by the Citadel.”

“You should go back to the feast, my Lady. Your grandsire will be very mad once he notices you left.” Though his gentle tone of voice tried to lead the girl away, his calloused thumb stroked tenderly at her palm’s inner soft flesh. She gave his hand a caring squeeze, and aligned her grasp with his. “I’m not going to leave you.” Her eyes spoke the honest truth, “Not when you’re hurting like that. What kind of friend would I be then?”

A small smile formed on his lips, pulling them upward in a comical but quite strained fashion. All his blood surged in his ears, and the tall and blonde young knight wished to tell her how he feels. He wanted to at least say ‘Thank you’, but the words escaped his clasp. His weary eyes were set upon her – upon the small curve of her nose and the wide curls of her soft hair. His tongue felt tied inside his mouth, and he was glad she’d smiled instead. “Besides,” The young girl spoke to fill the silence, “I don’t think I’ve ever attended a more dull and stale soiree.” Though his tears had long dried up, her hand stayed rested on his cheek. “The smallfolk starves so the Lannisters can stuff their faces, and congratulate each other for being so stupidly wealthy.” She threw her hands up in the air, peeking at her sole companion for one of his amused reactions. Sure enough, the boy was grinning – and that lone and simple notion made her all the more excited to upkeep cheering him up. “They must think we’re stupid,” She hummed in a degreeing voice, “I swear to you – they’re taught one dance, and one dance only. They just slightly change the music in the hopes that we won’t notice.”

By then his laughter echoed like pure crystal through the otherwise deserted grounds. Her own smile broadened with elation, as her curious and searching eyes reached up to his jolting shoulders. The youngest child of great House Tully crooked her head to the left side. “Hey,” She called out for his attention, “I just had the best idea.” Her dire lips pressed up together, before she went on with a smile. “Do you want to do something fun?”

If not for Jayne’s inessive stare, and the lethargy he felt throughout, Cain might have bothered to deny her brazen, yet affitely laid-out assumption. Orbs of forged steel fought to maintain the stare of ones tempered in frost – yet still the man shifted about, landing both his muted eyes on the ventured meadowed cliffs. Defeat swarded up his chest – sieging his brain and better reason, making him almost lose his temper. The greenery before his eyes coveted a single truth; more than six moons had passed between them. From the last time he’d seen his friend.

Alone at night he often questioned whether she’d at least survived. He prayed flaringly without a fault that she’d end up safe and about – protected and abstained from harm, and from the swandering of the Kinslayer.

“But all alone his blood runs thin.” He swallowed back his lost refrain, finally answering the waiting lady. “Then doubt comes – doubt comes in.”

He’d seen her Septas teach her Prayer. He listened to their wilted teachings, to the encouragements she’d be swarmed by. It was shameful and disruptive – his need to bite his tongue so hard, that he’d draw blood inside his mouth. Laughing would be crass and vile, he’d repeat inside his head, when her weekly call to “Grace” led them to the striking Sept. Faith can be encouraging, he’d reason, Not all of us are dealt bad hands.

There was no mercy to be had once fate fell into Their harsh hands. Bastard boys knew it too well, and so did every man and child who’d go to bed without their supper. Survival had to come by first – and faith would take the back-end stroll, until the former be assured. No, Cain had never prayed before. For there was no amount of prayer to be whispered by his lips that would possibly bring forth reclusion and relief to all he’d lost. It was the Gods who took his mother. It was the Gods who made him so. It was the Gods who made him feel like the sombrest in the world. But in a twisted and deformed way, it was the Gods that gave him comfort – for it was easiest to blame them so, for all the slights which he had faced.

Cain had never prayed before, but how he prayed for his friend now.

“Place your hand upon my waist, like so.” Her tender voice led with an instruction.

“I don’t think this is…”

“Whatever are you scared of, Cain? I’ve not seen you so tense before – not even in jousts or tourneys.” Her tongue darted out to wet her lips, as her brows fixed in concentration, “And you faced knights there that were twice your age.” Defeated by her lack of presidence, the boy let out a shaky sigh, and focused on his burning stare on the forming trees ahead. His gape bore long and cutting daggers to the entrance of the gardens, and with each passing momentum, his back turned all the more stiff. Such an intimate position would have ruined any lady, were she caught with a high lord – and all the more vexing it’d be if she’d strayed with a sought bastard. His ears caught with a rosy tint, as his mouth parted with a forming protest. “My Lady–” The Waters boy had tried again.

Mayhaps sensing his mistrust, or simply carrying her own joke further, his lady rose her left hand up and swatted him with a slight grin, “See? You’re already a natural at it.” The music of the Great Hall carried to their small corner of the keep. And the Tully nodded once to encourage Cain to move. “Septa Harlow says it’s important to upkeep your stare,” She muttered as she twirled with him, “When dancing with a fellow lord, it is improper for a lady to look at anything below the brows.”

He could feel his hands get clammy, and his limbs turn firm and heavy. Though her words had eased him in, the boy remained brittle and set. “Boring, right?” She questioned with a tiny laugh, “As I told you – you didn’t miss much. That’s nothing else that people do there.”

As the music caught incentive, her feet stopped into their track. She mocked a deep bow at her partner, and slowly rose her gentle eyes. She turned around without a warning, and started running up ahead. “Keep up, Cain!” She yelled before her with a zeal that filled her heart, “I have a better idea than just staying here – but we’ll have to really hurry!”

The witty Lady of the Vale shifted on the cold, wet stones. She turned to fully face the bastard, and offered him a knowing nod. “The only time a man can be brave is when he is afraid.” Her azure eyes looked at his hand, and at the bandages that covered it. “To lose two fingers at three and twenty, to be unable to move your arm, or to fight as you’ve been used to,” The older woman spoke to him, “It’s a misfortune that’s more than daunting.” Her slighter frame approached his crouching and recoiled in body, choosing to stand next to him. “You’ve managed to hang onto life when everything else seemed to be lost.” She muttered lowly, as if taken by surprise by the man’s pure strength of spirit.

“I failed her.” He whispered back in spat disgust.

“You didn’t fail anyone.” The lady interjected swiftly, “From the very beginning, you’ve been sent on a death mission.”

His loosened locks of golden hair fell upon his ample shoulders as he marginally shook his head. “Oscar was right,” Cain murmured plainly, “In between the two of us, she should have been the one to get here.” His body twisted towards the older woman, as his brows furrowed in pain, “I failed her.”

“If she knew you were alive, leading troops to save her homeland, I think she’d be ample proud.”

Despite the empathy she felt for him, the small brunette hardened her stare, “‘Tis not about what Oscar, or Grover, or Elmo think – ‘tis not about what your Lady thinks.” Her hand took hold of his good shoulder, giving it a toughened squeeze, “‘Tis about what you do now, with the resources that you were given.” The leal fire in her eyes caused the man to straighten up from the slouch that bent his back, “I expect you to be nervous. I expect you to be scared. I’m asking you to go back there, and risk your life all over again for the sake of something that we’re losing.” As her speech came to a halt, she gnawed harshly at her bottom lip, reddening her paling mouth. “If you go back there, you might die. Forget about holding your sword the right way, or about fighting with honour – you might face dragon fire, and dragon fire doesn’t spare even the most able of men.”

Though her words were scarce and prudent, Cain waited patiently for her to finish. Slithers of shame gathered in the low pits of his stomach. How could he have lost his nerve when his Lady hung onto him? With so many lives at stake, whom all readily lent to him?

“We’re counting on you, ser Waters.” Jayne continued her trail of speech, “We’re counting on you. But can we truly do that?”

If he chose to fight again, it wouldn’t be for wealth or glory. It wouldn’t be for great renown, or to prove something to others. Even if he lived it down, no applauses would be heard like at the end of a big tourney. He’d emerge a new man, changed, lacking of some of the scarce qualities that he felt he had that day. But what would happen to him – inside of him – mattered not to the young knight. Once again her kindred eyes came across his spinning view. And he knew, once and for all, that he’d throw his life away, if only to shelter her own.

His peer had mended to determined, and he swore upon his honour that he’d see his deed go through.

Allyn Swann. Lady Jayne Arryn. Four thousand men and (Y/N) Tully.

All the people that believed in him. All the souls that trusted him.

Just like on that autumn night, when he and (Y/N) ran away to see a circus in Flea Bottom, the heavy-lidded cavalier felt his words die right on his parted lips. But he came forth with a swift answer – one which he truly believed in.

Her gentle voice seeped in his ears. ‘You’re the only one who understands me, Cain.’

“I swear it, before the Old Gods and the New – upon Faithkeeper, upon my honour. I’ll return your trust tenfold.”

A true smile formed upon her lips, at the near end of his pledge. “Do come with me, Ser Cain,” She instructed with a leveled tone, “I have a gift prepared for you.”

Fuck the Gods. Fuck Alys Rivers. That lying, scheming, filthy whore.

To think she almost prayed for her, and thanked her feverishly inside her head. Her trip ensued without a hitch – and so she let herself believe in her, and nearly bumped into the Redwynes. The lousy troops that gathered up and swarmed the entrance of Hag’s Mire. Had she not spotted their banner, she might have set her foot inside. And that ostentative and golden dragon, which she despised with her whole being, served as her only decent cover against their clumpy eyes and ears. Her mule had come free of her bridle before she could hide any better, and advanced without her forth into the crowd of foul usurpers. ‘You fucking traitor…’ Her soul was screaming, as a Green soldier gripped her small saddle, ‘I give you that damned red apple, and you go to feed from them?!” Her jaw was clenched, as were her muscles. She couldn’t bolt. She couldn’t run.

“Where is that useless boy we paid for?!” The high-pitched scream of an old woman reached for her tense and prodded ears, “This is the last time I let you deal with the stupid boys of bloody Ramsford!”

Her eyes darted to the source of noise, and her mind surged with an idea. It would be risky. She could well die. If Darlon Flowers had found her out, then the haughty and sullen madame would see right through her flimsy scheme. But she had no other choice. Hurriedly and with great ardour, she dug her hands in the fresh mud, and scraped its contents on her face, smearing them wildly about. “A-Apologies for being late!” Her hoarse voice echoed through the clearing. She mildly coughed inside her hand, and tried her best to engross her timbre. “I never went further than Oldstones, ma’am–”

“I care not for your excuses, lad!” Her antsy wording cut her off, “You were to be here for a good five hours,” Her hand enclasped and tugged her wrist, “So take your mind off being paid today!” Her hazy irises bore daggers in and out the Lady’s heart, and her nose scrunched in daunting wonder at both her face and dirty garments. “Gods be good, they sent an animal. Are you clean of spreading warts?”

“I-I, uh–”

“What about catching diseases? Are you simple-minded, boy? Address me when I speak to you!”

Her wrinkled hand prodded above the laced-up waistline of her linen breeches. Were she not to open her mouth, the madame would have no shame to check and see her parts herself. “No – no, ma’am. I’ve no disorders left in sight. N-no warts, no yellow cough,” Her face contorted with abstained tension, as her hands rose into the air, “Nor any other spreading disease, I can assure you well of that.” With a loud snort and a dismissive hand, the aged madame turned to the wench, “You take this Ramsford boy inside and help clean up his grisly mug.” Her glacial tone waved with intent, “Then back to work, the both of you!” The younger girl nodded her head, shaking off her loosened braids, “Y-Yes, madam, of course! I’d be glad to help him out!”

“Well?” Her cutting question sucked all the air from the blonde girl’s arid lungs, “Don’t just stay there and look stupid – now!”

***

The lost blonde girl was called Mariah. A jumpy but dexterous cook, more used to the blazing heat provided by the kitchen fires than the cool air of the airy inn. She’d awkwardly handed the Lady the much-awaited handkerchief – and merely played with her plump fingers as the girl wiped off the mud that hadn’t yet fully dried up. And although her nose scrunched up at her resistance to a watered cloth, she failed to do anything wanting besides pushing her towards a closed door. “You-you’re going to be their attendee tonight. They don’t like women overhearing their stories or their spoils of war… so it’ll just be you in there.” Her green eyes widened to two round specs, “O-oh, of course, well – it won’t be just you in there, since you’re serving a table full of men, but – I-I meant that you’ll be the only servant there.” The words that followed her expansive ramble turned from stutters to incentive murmurs. And the Lady nodded weakly, whilst trying to decipher them. When her speech near loomed its end, the girl coughed loudly with insistence, and offered Mary a small smile. “Thank you, Mariah. I’ll handle it.”

Her burning eyes interwovened with alight uncertainty, “J-just be careful,” She confided through the notion of a fragile sniff, “They tend to scream when they get angry… A-And they got angry quite a lot.”

Ghastly and impending savages – that is what the soldiers were, as they laughed and drank and scarfed right into their mead and ale. The short remnants of her hair brushed across her cupid’s bow, falling straight over her view and narrowing it to the front. Her breathing turned to short and laboured, as she turned her back to them – and her hand enclasped the wine pouch with a faint but thrilling shudder. She’d seen men get drunk before, and she knew how they could talk. How the pints of liquid courage pulled the truth from their loose tongues, how their vision and their temper simmered them to gentle hearts.

Wine and ale made men more placid, but they also riled them up.

Her fingers brushed across the table, and she crouched close to the surface, seemingly inspecting it. Although her ears and head were pounding, she’d have to play her cards just right.

The well-known shrill of a low voice sent a shiver down her spine. “The Targaryens have all extended their lines,” Arlow Redwyne spat out bitterly, and all eyes turned back on him. Her own head jerked upwards in wonder, as she sucked in a harsh breath. “And now that summer’s over, the Blacks will have a harder time keeping their men and horses fed.”

“Summer or no, they can’t even call that an army,” A haughty voice echoed amused, “What was it – six hundred men from our dear Tullys, and a couple more from close to Sherrer?”

Now her eyes had been blown wide. Six hundred men. That was all they could afford. Were six hundred starving men all they had left of their home?

“Those searing leeches, along with the Freys, understand the woes of winter better than we ever will. The cold won’t beat them. As for the Northerners…”

Her guts hung lowly in her midriff. She’d recognised the last man speaking – the infamous “Bloody Mance” Pyke: a lesser lord under House Greyjoy, one of the few who’d known her brothers in an up, ‘personal’ manner. He’d visited their home in Riverrun, and saw the little Lady grow. How much of her he would remember was a query without answer.

“The Starks have no interest at play here.” A bitter voice shook through the room, “They haven’t been involved thus far. Cregan Stark won’t risk his forces for a war that never reached him.”

“Our spies,” Lord Pyke snapped tartly, “Report growing discontent among the northern and south-western lords. The latter wants to return home and gather the harvest before the crops turn. The former has sent word out to gather an army.” His amber eyes rose to Lord Redwyne, who merely let out a hum.

He licked his lips off the sweet ale, and whistled lowly at the Lady to refill his empty cup. She briskly moved to his direction, and poured him in a hefty cup. “And I’m sure if those same spies snuck into our own encampments, they’d report growing discontent amongst the southern lords.” His own flat tune disconcerted any worry from his sons’ long freckled faces, “This is war. No one’s content. And the northerners might take years to even gather half a regiment. The conditions make it such that any message travels slowly; before the Boltons and the Banfields, and House Mormont from the West manage to defrost their troops…” His heavy hand dismissed the girl, “The battles will be long well-ended.” A cutting silence reigned the room, as Lord Mance Pyke drowned his tall cup. He shifted lowly in his wooden seat, and signed for (Y/N) to grant him a refill.

She approached with her chin down, chewing on her bottom lip.

Gods be good, let him not notice me. Gods be good, let him not see me.

“We’ve underestimated the Tully boy for far too long.” One of the soldiers dared to mutter, “He has a good mind for warfare, his men worship him.”

'The Tully boy,’ She exhaled slowly, Would that be Oscar or our elder brother?

“As long as he keeps winning battles, they’ll keep abstaining for Rhaenyra.” His voice had come to shake with fervour, “We’ve been waiting for him to fail, he is not going to fail. Not without our help.”

“Then think, Ser Wylde, exactly what would make the lass break.” Arlow Redwyne interrupted when his fist landed on cutlery. “What is the one thing a Tully cares for more than anything?” Lord Pyke surged forward with the burning but evasive question.

The blood had run from her slim face, making her seem pale and sickly. Though the mud masked her quite well, the Lady arched her shoulders forward, trying to appear unbothered. A rattle of contented laughter turned the men’s whole disposition. “Family, honour and duty.” A black-eyed boy mocked the lords’ distinctive dictum.

“You stupid fuck,” Another wheezed right next to him, “It’s ‘Family, duty, honour’ – at least say their calling right.”

“The point still stands,” Mance ushered with ascendence, “There is nothing a Tully cares for more than family.”

It was as if a punch had been directed at her carved-out chest. The air immediately left her lungs, and her fingers gripped the pouch. She’d take a knife to all their throats before she’d let them harm her brothers. In his seat, Arlow deflated. “Of course,” He puffed through his broken nose, “And how, exactly, do you plan to reach such an impressive feat?” His callous digits jerked a march over the corners of the wooden table, “You forget mayhaps, good ser, how both Grover and that Oscar rest somewhere in Baelish Keep. The girl disappeared near Hayford–”

So Kermit was still fighting out there… and they thought that she was dead.

“‘Heard our Prince made her his wife.” The searing words befell the chamber. Ser Wylde had captured their attention, and even the men drunk out their minds rose their heads to listen better.

The unhealed flesh of her soft palm stung her over the long cut.

"If he had, he never would have left without her. And more than enough rivermen thanked the Gods when they saw Vhagar heading towards nought else but Oldtown.”

He left…?

She had lived the past three days in excruciating paranoia. And her ‘husband’ simply left her? Confusion, anger and relief all surged into her pulsing heart. He’d given up on finding her. She’d finally see both her brothers. And with any ounce of luck, their paths would never cross together. She should have felt elated. She should have felt relieved. She should have tried to mask her happiness, the smile that pulled at her fair lips – yet all she felt within her soul was a plentifully bitter feeling.

May he rot in the darkest pits of the Seven Hells, she exhaled briefly, Both him and his damned witch.

A lousy snort bounced off the walls that sealed the chamber of their council. And Lord Redwyne's youngest son shook his head with a deep frown, “Don’t you find it rather strange,” he asked, “How he left in such a hurry?”

“‘Tis not for us to safely say.”

“Yet even so!” His youthful face churned with suspicion, “He kept us wholly in the dark.”

The only thing that truly mattered was that Aemond had abandoned Harrenhal.

“And what are we to do now? Daemon lurks with that strange lassie – that’s two dragons against none!”

“Aemond won’t abandon us.”

“Open up your eyes, ser Wylde!” Bowen Redwyne rose his voice, “He might just as well have done that. He left with Daeron to hide in Oldtown, and burnt Harrenhal to the ground.”

Her breathing hitched inside her throat. Not only were they aware of the stronghold’s current state – but they thought Aemond had burnt it with the aid of trusty Vhagar. It had been three days of running – the word surely traveled fast.

“He left us with no defence–”

“Enough!” The mighty roar let out by Mance silenced the forfeiting room. “We’ve gathered here to speak of war. Not gossip like fishermen’s wives.”

Where did Aemond’s army head to? Oldtown was a place secured. So had he left because of Daemon?

《"Going out to face two dragons is a death sentence." His deep voice rumbled through the silence of the chamber, "I can't afford that risk anymore with you involved. We'll have to move from Harrenhal. You'll get to meet Daeron in Oldtown."》

The plan was to leave for Oldtown – why was she acting so surprised? Why did she care whether or not he’d made it safe? Whether or not his wounds had healed? Why was she somehow weirdly hurt by the fact that he just left her? Her trailing thoughts and inner conflict came to a halt as Mance addressed her. “Drain that pouch of any wine, boy.” He commanded with a rumble to his stern and cutting timbre, “And bring out water. We’ll be here for quite some time.” As she turned her back whilst nodding, the lanky Lord heaved out a sigh. “Can you read, Lord Edmure Rosby?”

“I-I beg your pardon?”

“Can. You. Read.”

The Lord of Cornhill met his stare with a blacked-out and confused expression. “Y-... Yes, my Lord, I can.”

Just as Edmure answered his question, the Lord of Pyke let out a chuckle. He wiped his hands off the cooked supper, and reached his breeches for some paper. “This letter,” He clarified to the slow lordling, “detailing our infantry movements was meant for Lord Quentyn of House Marbrand.” After a slight egregious pause, his droopy eyes fell on the man, “It was sent to Lord Marlin of House Qallister.” The young Lord Rosby sucked in a breath, and allowed his orbs to trail to the stones of the hedged floor, “My apologies, my Lord, I must’ve–”

“Boy?” Mance called out to the working Lady Tully. “Fetch me The History of the Greater and the Lesser Houses.” He pointed forward with his finger, “It’s the second one on the side.”

Her feet might have given up on her, were it not for his stale order. She’d never been addressed before, and that alone made her breath hitch. Her eyes shut close in concentration, and a small curse beleft her lips. She could feel the break of sweat crown her forehead in round droplets, but she calmed her rabid breathing with a small roll of her shoulders. Her hands rose to grab the book, but wavered on for just a moment – touching up the edges of another heavy leaflet, before picking up the right one, and carrying it to her chest.

“Even this cupbearer can execute commands better than you,” Mance scolded the sitting lord, as the girl laid out the tome. “To whom does House Qallister owe allegiance?” He questioned with a honeyed tone. The frail lass rose up timidly, pointing forward to the laid-out scriptures, “My Lord, I…”

“To the Tullys of Riverrun!” His enraged scream and cutting look arose the silence of the whole commandment. “And who, pray tell, do the Tullys of Riverrun owe allegiance?” His fist came into contact with the freshly laid out table, “To the Blacks, to the Usurpers, to the Whore of Dragonstone and her bunch of bastard cunts!”

The Bliss of Riverrun remained hammered in her weary spot – somehow still holding her breath, in spite of being overlooked.

“I judged you might be good for something more than brutalizing peasants.” He exhaled slowly through his flared-up nose, “I see I overestimated you–”

A timid knock at the locked door caused the girl to jolt upfront. She caught her lip into her teeth, and chewed with tremor at its bottom, as the loud gates opened wide, to reveal a pale Mariah. “M-My lords…” She began with a light pause, “M-My mistress would like to ask you… when you’ll… p-pay… the charging fee.”

Bowen Redwyne smiled politely, bowing his head in return, “We must have overstayed our welcome.” He whispered mirthly to his brother.

Lord Redwyne glanced at the girl, mirroring his son’s refrain. “You can go announce your mistress that we will be done here shortly. Tell her to bring the written tax for the food and for the shelter.” As Mariah curtsied deeply, shutting the door in her departure, the old man turned to his sons, and to the lesser lords at present. “All of you except Lord Pyke – leave. Boy, clear this table.” Runceford’s even and dispersive voice rang right through her nimble body. She offered him a brisk ‘M’lord’, and hastily got up to work. As tiny Edmure rose as well, the lord of Old Wyk grabbed his arm. “We are not done with our talk.” He hissed in his petulant ear.

***

“We cannot allow this impunity to go on.” Mance spat out in a rough tone as the door closed in on them, “No matter what has been discussed today – the Tully boy remains a problem.”

Her dirty hands wavered a moment, ‘till they resumed their hurried task.

“His clever move near Redglass Field nearly cost us all the Capitol. We will not fall for that again – we look like fools and they look like heroes. That’s how Kings fall.” Runceford agreed with a small frown.

For a while, the only sound that thus emerged in their secret and concisive council was the clank of all their plates. “I want him dead. I want every last one of them dead.”

Her small, albeit stiffened fingers clasped over a sharpened stake knife.

“Killing them isn’t the problem. It’s finding them.”

If you kill them both right now, no one will know how to alert your brothers. The word will spread that they had butchered you – and then they’ll both come for revenge.

Her focused eyes softened at once, as her steel grip loosened the blade.

“Have you gone soft, Lord Pyke? I always thought you had a talent for violence – and an eye for weaknesses, as you so put it at this dinner table.” The iris of his tired eyes clashed with his protruding amber, “Burn the villages, burn the farms. Aemond might have left the Reach, but that doesn’t mean that the smallfolk will get a break. Let them know what it means to choose the wrong side.” With one last nod and a small bow, Mance and Runceford left the room.

In less than a moment’s notice, her upstrained feet gave out before her.

***

Not a single nearby lord cared enough to look at her. Not a single drunken soldier gripped her shoulders or her arm. She had slipped by unobserved, written off as less than cattle. In her time spent in that stiff room, she found of Aemond’s long departure. She knew now the North was angry, that the Rogue Prince beckoned hither – that her brothers and her grandsire were still on the loose. Alive. No matter her conflicted feelings. No matter all the new-found worry that she had for the Kinslayer. She was still breathing and living – her shortened breaths and anxious tears felt like proof enough of that. She found herself growing with purpose – to relive her climb up North. To alert both of her brothers of the Greens’ most jarring thoughts. To find what happened to her father, since his mention had been scarce and worn.

As she turned to leave the alcove, her eyes caught her in a nearby mirror. Her silky locks, darkened by mud and chopped inaptly by that dreadful shard. The black-rimmed circles underneath her foggy globes, the lone dictator of her sleepless ventures. Darlon’s garments were made to fit loosely – but even she could may well tell that she’d lost a lot of weight. Her sodden cheeks that cracked with dirt, and the way she stood preleened… it was of no immersive wonder that she hadn’t been spotted or seen.

A gust of hope picked at her skin – at her left leg, her forming scars. She trailed her palm with a smooth digit, and felt the ridges closing in. The dragon glass had cut her smoothly, and it was feasible the war did, too. Time heals all. Time mends scars well. Perhaps she could hope again.

What if this war could still be won – by the Blacks, by her, by them? Would she cling enough to life to see such a far-out feat?

And if she managed to live…when the slight girl watched herself be so changed by it already, could she ever tell herself to go back to how she was? The laws of men made it as such that she would never dare forget – any or all that had transpired in those years of grief and anguish. Her abatement would be short and minimal. She’d never dare forget her Jace, or sweet Cain, or loyal Beesbury. The almond eyes of baby Luke, or the laughs she’d shared with friends. Friends she’d never see again. Friends who all died long ago.

Desolation and resentment were not new to the young Lady. And she swore it to herself, as she glanced into the mirror, that she’d never ache again. For the betterment of her brothers. For their mother. For either father or their grandsire – she would make it so she’s useful. Strong. Contented. And reliable. No Hightower would make her kneel. Their time was spent and since ran out.

Fuck the Gods. Fuck Alys Rivers.

She would leave that inn at dawn.

***

At dawn she said, and dawn it was.

“Enjoyed your pats from those Green scum?” She asked the mule with a raised brow, as she untied her from the stable’s pole. “I hope you rested well last night. The real journey has just begun.” 

Almost as if she understood her words, the half-bred mare shook her black mane, huffing through her tinted nose. “I don’t like how that sounds, either.” The girl sighed in a spent tone, “I never thought I’d get to say this, but the more distance I put in between me and my home…”

The road was quiet. All too quiet. The Redwyne company left way before her, as the hooves that trailed towards south indicated half as much. It was bold and quite peculiar – that those pompous Green supporters were so close to their Green Fork. For both The Twins and Castle Seagard were unwavering, leal to Daemon. To the one true heir and Queen.

It had been too long for her – since she felt the rays of sunlight. And if those treacherous and shifty lords felt so at home existing North, then both strongholds must have been emptied. The Trident’s lords were scattered somewhere, fighting in some vacant halls. Even so, it was too quiet. Not a single man in sight.

Perhaps allowing herself to glance behind was the girl’s biggest mistake. Or mayhaps it was stagnating, as she let her mule rest up.

“Haaaalt! Halt right there, lassie, don’t move!” A faraway, salacious scream deterred her to jolt straight up. The tenseness of her stiffened muscles ceased as her eyes prodded onward, setting on the crest above them – made of a bird, and of a seahorse, and two dragons. An even more attentive glance let her know of their bronze armour – of their brown hair and mousy faces.

Freys, she laughed inside her head with glee, An actual Frey company – marching South from the Twins’ gates.

“Good day to you, soldier. It seems we serve the same leal camp.” She greeted him with a bright smile, but as she tried to move up forward, the sharpened edge of six steel blades pointed at her nape and neck. She swallowed thickly, but kept her temper, and rose both hands up in surrender. “I yield,” She tried to jest with the tall men, before speaking up toward them, “I’m (Y/N) Tully. I believe I have a right to be here.”

“(Y/N) Tully’s dead,” One of the more suspicious knights ushered at her from the back, “She perished near Hayford’s lone bridge – every man, woman and child heard the story a thousand times.”

“Oh, you better be joking,” She hissed through an acrid breath, as she let out a small curse, “I know I may not look the part, but I am (Y/N) Tully.” Her wanton orbs searched for the soldier’s, who only weighed her with conceit. “‘Course you are,” He answered crassly, “And I’m the Lord of Bastion Keep.”

She offered him a blithted smile, although not one that reached her eyes. “I can’t catch a single break, now can I?” The Lady murmured to herself, “Very well,” She spoke out clearly, “I suppose you are commanded by your good lord, Forrest Frey?” Whilst her tone was domineering, a subtle smirk graced her pink lips, “Call him over, see for yourselves. He will tell you who I am.”

“Look, girl, it’s gettin’ cold and we’re quite busy. So, you know.” One of the men shrugged his broad shoulders, “Best fuck off. Either that or stop your lying.”

“Tell your lord his niece is home.” She betted onward once again, “You wish to know who it is I am, and I wish to wash my hair. So call for your lord. And be done with all this bother.”

“Lord Frey’s too busy to waste his breath on you. Just like us.” His short patience had been running thin, as for his hand – awfully cold, “So for the last time – fuck right off, and state your business.”

“Maybe we should just detain her.” One of the more lithe men suggested, “Tie ‘er up, resume our marching.”

“Should you value your good hands, you won’t touch a hair of mine.”

“Careful now,” The fourth boy muttered, “We’re enjoying you here, lassie, but don’t think you’ll make demands.”

“You would harm an innocent, because you’re too lazy and stupid to call for your own lord?” Her latter comment set him off, and he jumped off his starving horse to come to grip her by her loosened shirt. “Now listen here, you dirty fuck–”

“What appears to be the matter here?” A hardened voice commanded swiftly. Slowly and without much heart, the younger boys broke off the circle, as they readied their report. “My Lord, as you can see–” The one who seemed to be best-spoken tried to give out his account. 

But no more words ever escaped him. For the wide and gentle Frey spurted out with a burst of solid laughter. He made great haste to debark his stallion – to reach with fervour for the small girl’s shoulders and to ruffle her short matted hair. “Well, I’ll be damned,” He exhaled shortly, “I would recognise those shrew eyes everywhere.”

“Uncle,” She greeted him with forming tears, “It’s good to see a well-known face.

Aemond had been right, he thought. In spite of their pleasant small talk, Evelynn had latched onto him. Laughing at his every word, even if he wasn’t joking – gripping down onto his thighs when the odd pair had sat down. He had been courteous and kind to dance with her two tamer waltzes, but even the boldest one of the confined Targaryens couldn’t possibly stomach another. When his deep stare started avoiding her, boring holes throughout the hall, the man noticed his escape, and thanked the Gods before his fall. Seated not one yard away, in a dress that matched her hair, rested Elmo Tully’s only daughter – a quiet child, not five and ten, which appeared fully engrossed as she talked with her tall friend.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve just done?” Daeron’s voice shook the whole room. As he turned his head around, his incessant stare bore daggers right into his brother’s throat, “What this decision makes of our political agreements?” His body was steadied and tense, taut and rigid, at attention – the implications brought on over by Aemond’s ill and thought-out match made his pulse readily quicken, and his whole soul seethe in anger. When he glanced over at him, not a single trail of shame registered on his sharp face. “We gain nothing from an alliance with the Riverlords,” Daeron desperately tried to tell him. “She's a comely girl, I'll give you that, but we’re at war, and she’s ill-favoured!” Finally, his dire words seemed to spark up a response – for Aemond took in a sharp inhale, and readily rose from his chair. “You will speak no more of her.” He deterred out in a deep growl, “Whom I marry is my business. I will not have you rebuke me.”

“I should not have questioned you,” The lone boy had swallowed thickly, as he met his brother’s eye, “Evelynn is… nice, ‘tis true. However…” His comforting and handsome face shifted with bitter intent, “I don’t know how to discourage her.”

Aemond smirked in deep amusement, drumming his fingers on the pine wood table. “Have you lost her in the crowd?”

“Momentarily,” Daeron surged forward, “But there are only so many men with short white hair inside this room.”

“I will question your decisions if they put us all at risk.” The youth spat out in a quick warning, “And your wrong choice to marry her will ruin every deal we had with Borros.” Daeron had fought to keep his voice down to a levelled plane of field, but even he cracked underneath Aemond’s lack of mournful interest. “I heard from mother of your obsession,” He breathed in a staggered breath, “But I never thought you foolish enough to marry a lowborn riverlander–”

The circumstances were not ideal, and he’d acted like a little boy – but he managed to desert the Frey and acquaint himself with the Riverrun girl. “I’m afraid I’ve two left feet, my Prince,” She granted him a small apology, as she ducked his offered hand, “There hasn’t been any time for me to practice my dancing whilst confined to the Red Keep.”

“Truly?” The corners of his hawk-like eyes glimmered with jocund distraction, and the young man tried once more, though his hand had then been lowered. “But the Red Keep swarms with banquets. Have none of my elder brothers taken you to dance before?” The Tully girl let out a laugh, and a faint pink caught her plump cheeks – and whether that was from frustration, of being irked by Daeron’s presence, or flattered by his light attention, the boy would find out soon enough. “As I said,” She smiled at him, “I’m afraid I’m a poor dancer.” Her almond eyes swirled with deep mischief, and she bit her lower lip to stifle down a roaring laugh. “If you wanted to escape my cousin, you should have checked in on the further right.” If his face hadn't been red, then it surely caught in pigment when she uttered her last words. “I assure you, my dear Lady, I had no such ill intent.” He clarified with a bent smile, but shook his head in grave embarrassment when she quirked up her shapely brow. “I shadn’t pressure you to dance with me.” He bit over his lip, defeated, “But I beg you to give me a chance.”

Her eyes softened at his request, and she gave her knight a nod. She mouthed him something intangible, and turned to face Daeron’s advances. “I will step on your feet, you know.” A loud laugh rattled his insides, “You may not believe it, my lady, but Tessarion once placed her entire weight on them.” She tutted lightly in reply, and merely entwined their hands, “My Prince…” She let out a tiny snort, as she gingerly laughed by herself. “You don’t believe me,” He feigned offence, as he spun her twice around. “You should know then, Lady Tully, that I scarcely ever lie.”

“Oh, I would never even dream of styling your good Grace a liar.” Her voice softened to a murmur, lowering in false sobriety. Almost as if they’d been conspiring, her youthful face leaned near his shoulder. “But you can’t be cross with me when I say I don’t believe you.”

Before either one of them could register Daeron’s last words, the lithe Targaryen grabbed his green collar and pushed him up against the wall. “You and I are family.” He rumbled out in a low tone, “Speak one more word of the one I have with her, and you’ll regret not dying sooner, during that raid of the Three Towers.” Daeron’s head shook with uncertainty, pounding in his ears from pain, and the young lass pressured him onward, as the blood tickled his tongue. “Did you go through with it, then?” He asked him through a gasping wheeze, “Did you bed her?”

The quietness that washed them both forced the boy to curse again.

“I take it that your charms have failed you.” Aemond hummed inside his goblet, as he looked at the small girl. “She’s talking with her brute again.”

“If only Evelynn wasn’t her cousin.” The boy laughed in miscontempt, “The Lady may have two left feet, but even then it was exaggerated how many times she stepped on me.” Their purple eyes set back on her – and Aemond was the first to stop. “I wouldn’t be distraught, dear brother.” His upturned mouth broke to a smirk, when Jace’s laughter seeped with hers – drawing long stares from the room and pulling whispers from lax mouths, “She seems to have an affinity towards bastards.” His good eye focused in on him, “The odds were truly set against you.”

Daeron’s face mirrored his brother’s, though the former tried to hide it. “Careful, Aemond. The Blacks are listening.” He pointed forward with a simper, to where their half-sister was sitting with her pompous and elusive smile. “I don’t think there’ll be a problem,” The One-Eyed Prince addressed his sibling, “She is quite taken with our father.”

His smaller hand scratched up at Aemond’s, endeavouring to put an end to his strong, unyielding grasp. “Brother…” He tried to word out in a plea. His tightened hold loosened a moment, and Aemond let his brother breathe. “I have lain with her before.” He asserted with a levelled timber, “The marriage was consummated.”

“Gods be good.” Daeron exhaled, as his hand ran through his hair, “What did you do?” He asked once more, as he pressed his back again right onto the jagged wall. “This doesn’t just put us in danger. Your wife’s a target – now more than ever.” He concluded after a while. “Lord Borros is too involved to annul our misalliance. But if word reaches the Blacks –”

“Which is why I must go find her.” Aemond gritted through his teeth. “So take me to that damned witch, and send word to the dragon keepers to fetch some bulls to cater Vhagar.” Daeron’s brows twisted in bafflement, creasing his face and his ravishing features. “You cannot mean this. She could be anywhere. Your shoulder hasn’t even healed.”

“I will tear down every castle, and every town, and every home that she could ever hide within.” Aemond’s eye was blazed with anger. The noble lines of his fair countenance bore the marks of his pursuit – disentangled to his face, his hands, found in every forming scar and in every galling crease. A bitter longing and a hopelessness interwoven in the need to find her – to hold her to his chest again, to feel her breathing hitch against him, to feel the pulse of her warm heat. The raw intensity of her brazen and uncaring kisses, the delicious and erotic sting of the one slap she had given him.

“Whether she wants that or not, I will have her by my side.”

All of this to feel her near. To own her essence. To drink her screams. To wake up and see her body lying consciously with his, to feel her eyes follow his movements and her warm, plump lips on his.

She must have hoped for this arrangement when she was betrothed to Jace – a life of comfort and of safety; a life where she would be The Queen. And for her, Aemond would do it. He’d subside his sister’s children and he’d sit the Iron Throne. He would place his crown atop her and bend to her every whim. “And she can try to break her chains a thousand times – over and over. There is not a single corner of this world that she can run to. I will always find a way to reclaim that which is mine.”

“Well then,”

In spite of the relief she felt to be parted from the Redwynes, Lady Tully’s restless mind seemed to be somewhat estranged.

"Which one of these fat ugly cunts tried to lay their hand on you?" Forrest’s voice plummeted through the small camp they had laid out. Strenuous licks of fair amusements pulled the corners of her lips, and the woman smiled contently, as she shook her head in earnest, “Please, uncle, there should be no need for that.”

“There should and there will!” His silk smooth baritone came out definitive, “No man will hurt a niece of mine and get to live to tell the tale.” Although his words were rough and final, the gentle furrow of his brow revealed the lord’s attempt to bluff. She laughed once more, in lifted spirits, and took a stance alongside his. Her eyes glossed over with incertitude, and the girl hummed, lost in her thoughts. “It would be quite a shame, you know,” She muttered lowly to her uncle, “For this fine army to be slain before they even set off to war.” Though he laughed at her poor joke, the Lord of Green Fork sighed in exhaustion, “Sometimes I think it’d be a kindness.” A bitter pause cut his lungs’ air, until he deterred out a breath, “None of these boys are ready for war.”

“I don’t think anyone is.” She muttered slowly by his side, “We think we are… we train for it – with jousts and tourneys and in combat yards.” Her latter thoughts had turned to Aemond, and how he’d train each daunting morning whilst she lived in the Red Keep. It was a somehow sacred ritual – a clash of swords, of wit, of power. It was a way for men to ease their stress, and wash away their stale frustrations with breakages of blood and sweat. It was a way to prove themselves, an easy way to become envied by the gossiping and gathered masses. Throughout their short acquaintanceship, she’d never once figured it out; whether or not Aemond was training for other people to admire him.

His mornings were moments of solitude – for scarcely anyone would gather hither. The nights and eves were for the lordlings – who slithered forward as he sparred Ser Criston. As proud as he ever was, she thought, everyone yearns for approval. And who else would need it more than the crippled second son.

Her cheeks reddened with slight colour, as her lips jolted a tremor – she could no longer think of him and remain listless and passive. With each and every chance she’d get, her trailing thoughts would reach for him – to the bump of his big nose, to the sharpness of his eye.

Had he reached his brother yet? Did he take Alys with him? Was his shoulder blade still healing?

Stop it.

Morbid curiosity is what killed the restless cat. What she now felt towards her captor was nought else but forced attachment.

But was he safe? And did he miss her–

She knead her hands in one another; both hidden by a pair of gloves. Realising that she’d been too quiet, she blurted out the next of her words. “... But no one is truly ready for the horrors that it brings.” Her chest felt hot. Her breathing ragged. Had she grown to care for him?

“Has your father ever told you how you sound just like your mother?” He breathed out through a soft exhale, “She hated war. Thought it was dumb.”

“‘Tis good, then, that she’s not here to witness it.” Though both of them had started walking, neither one let out their thoughts. Her clothes were clean, her hair was dried – she told him with a staggered breath what she’d gathered of the Redwynes, of the Targaryens and of the Greens. In return, Forrest confided her with her grandsire’s location – telling her Oscar was fine, that Kermit oft’ communicated by sending them concisive letters. “Thank the Gods,” She breathed out, with a hand upon her chest, "So my father is alive."

… But what of Cain? And what of Jace? What of Lord Beesbury and her dear cousins?

Suddenly she felt ashamed that she ever thought of Aemond.

“Where will you be heading now?” She asked her uncle with a shaky but consistent voice. “To meet your brother at Lakehore, of course.” Forrest responded with a growing smirk, “We won’t allow those mudded fuckers any further Crownland passage.”

“He’s near the God’s Eye?!” She stopped abruptly, whilst widening her tired eyes. A passing shadow of a smile lit the girl’s quivering lips, and she fixed the nearby stones as she tottered out a laugh. “To think that if I hadn’t ran, I might’ve met up with my brother.”

To think if Aemond hadn’t left, he would have met his in-law brother.

“But Harrenhal has been cleared out,” She turned abruptly to her uncle, “There’ll be no battle to be fought. The Pykes and Wyldes and Redwynes think that the stronghold is a waste – my fire has made sure of that.”

“Kitchen fires can’t melt stone.”

“... But the Greens would know that, too.” She gnawed at her bottom lip. Her eyes closed in concentration, trying to recall Hag’s Mire. She had been too scared to listen – truly listen to their tales. But a slight echo surged forward, as she rummaged through her brains.

《“He left with Daeron to wait in Oldtown, and burnt Harrenhal to the ground!”》

“They were arguing that Aemond had left them defenceless. That he took off to Oldtown and burnt Harrenhal to nothing.”

“But that was you.” Forrest Frey regarded her with an awfully twisted look.

“Not necessarily.” She mauled it slowly, “With age, dragon fire grows stronger. I’ve seen both Vermax and Vhagar burn open fields to ash and smoke.” Her orbs came into clash with his, and the man swallowed intently, gesturing her to go on, “There is a vast difference between those acres. The aftermath of Vermax was… closer to searings caused by people, than the inferno of a dragon.” As she pressed her lips together, she exhaled a deeper sigh, “But Vhagar…”

“I’ve seen that fatted lizard go to work.” Forrest agreed with a light hum, “Over at Mummer’s Ford; Gods, if I hadn’t grown up in the region, I wouldn’t have known there was a town at all.”

“So what if Aemond did burn Harrenhal?”

“He definitely had the time.”

“It doesn’t take long to yell out ‘Dracarys’.”

Their simmered dialogue had turned to whispers – and their small council reached an agreement. “Lakehore remains a strong location,” Forrest offered up his hand to her, as they passed the flowing river, “Even if Harrenhal should be no more. We’ll meet up there and ride towards East.”

“Will you meet up with the Arryns, then?” Her last refrain dumbfounded him, and the man stopped on the small path. “The plan is to take you there. Reunite you with your family.” His searching stare mended with hers, and the girl’s uncle quirked a brow. His mouth pressed to a thin line – a hereditary trait, it seemed –, and he shook his head again. “... You seem conflicted and obscured.” He muttered, whilst awaiting her reply.

“I am closer to the North than East.”

“No. I cannot let you go alone. Your father would strangle me for it.”

“So don’t,” The self-assured and poised young Lady now agreed with him wholeheartedly, “I’ll give you my mule if you give me a horse.” Her eyebrows rose in confirmation, “That way I won’t go alone.”

Although his face rattled conflicted, the older Frey gave her a nod. He paused to look at her thick gloves, and faltered on his mouthed reply. “You’ll need warmer clothes to survive their ever-winter.”

“And ink and paper before I go, so I may send out some letters.”

As he laid his preparations, Forrest Frey turned to his niece. The wide corners of his lips had twisted to an outline of a subtle grin. “I suppose you’d need an envoy for your grandsire and brothers.” He agreed before she could, as he rummaged through his vest and breeches for his House’s patterned seal.

***

“I cannot possibly accept this.”

“Given that it’s yours, ser Cain, I must urge you to reconsider.”

And so it was – sturdy Faithkeeper. His oldest and most trusted sword, and the one gift he got from Allyn as he departed all those years ago – to the grounds of the Red Keep, to the new home of his fair Lady. The blade remained as he had known it – with its intricate design of leaves and tender words carved on red iron. Though his mentor told him nothing when he handed him the gift, there was no avid denying of the nature of the shiv; A family heirloom with unmeasured value, and a kindness he could never repay.

“I cannot take it.” The boy had uttered, looking at the greying white-cloak.

“You can and you will.” The older man pointed a finger at his vest and heavy armour, “I am not having a conversation, boy, I am stating an order.” Though his eyes were rough and rigid, a coil of softness interwovened in the creases of his face. His wrinkled hand reached for his back, to give it a small squeeze of farewell. “You do good now.” The man instructed, furrowing his bushy brows, “I want no report to come through from any raven of King’s Landing telling me you’ve gotten lazy.”

“I swear to you that I’ll protect her.”

“Of that, I have no doubt, my boy.”

Upon throwing it a better look, the man remained engraved with shock. Both the handle and the hilt of it had been replaced to suit his needs. Sculpted by acquitted silver with a slight hole for his hand, and a velvety but silk-like ribbon to enwrap around his arm. “We thought the minor adjustments would prove useful when in battle.”

Almost too preoccupied to inspect its sharpened edges, Cain’s eyes snapped away from it at the inkling of Jayne’s voice. “We?” He repeated her words slowly, whilst raising his brows in stupor. His bewilderment would not live long, as the Lady of the Vale keenly offered him an answer. “The sketch for its newer hilt does come from the youngest Tully.” Upon his silence, she continued, as she spared a patent look, “I have reason to believe it’s his way of saying sorry.”

“Lord Oscar has no reason to apologise to me.” Though his words pondered definitive, a content arch pulled at his lips. His stare soon turned back to serious and his back awfully stiff. “I… wouldn’t know how to thank him.” Seemingly losing his face, the Tully’s sworn shield bowed to Jayne deeply, “Or you, my lady.”

“There is hardly any need for you to thank me, Ser Cain. It is us who should bow to you for your willingness to keep us safe.”

When her hand beckoned him onward to return to his wide stance, the woman faltered for a moment as she looked at his grey eyes. A look of startled but conclusive shock spread across her older face.

“Have you no shame, you stupid boy?” Tyland’s low hiss was followed suit by his stinging and petulant words, “You have a lot of nerve to show up here.”

“Ironborn?” She asked her question, as her features smoothed over.

“I wouldn’t be able to say, my lady. My mother died after my birth.” By all accounts, he’d been quite truthful – he knew who his father was, as it had been awfully clear when he glanced at his twin brother. He’d find lost remnants of himself as such, and questions of his build or hair had been answered with a single look. His mother was a simple woman – a merchant’s daughter, as he was told, once very beautiful and fair and honest. He didn’t know the way she looked, though he assumed that his eye colour came from her, and not the Lannisters.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I’m sure you are, you foolish bastard.” The words that tumbled from his lips reddened the tips of Cain’s big ears.

The sheer aversion in the man’s slim face sent a shiver down his back. Confusion laced with grave recoil, as a small curse beleft his lips – Gods, let this not be how he finally got to meet his dad.

When the boy stayed lost in silence, the younger Lannister pushed him again. “Doesn’t loyalty mean anything to you?”

He did desperately hope that he looked like his good mother; and sometimes, during the night, he would pray that she would guide him – prayed, but prayed not to a faceless God, but to the memory of her lost image. He would pray that she should guide him through his avid quests for glory; through his cluttered and entangled life path, through his hardest and most straining choices. There was something rather comforting in imagining his eyes were hers – that they looked like hers so much, that she’d still somehow live through him. He hoped that the Gods left an homage to the sole fact she existed. A silent proof that she’d not gone without leaving her own mark behind. That she had made him in her image, that he somehow held her inside. That men would glance right at Cain Waters and know that he was Wynne’s son.

“Loyalty means everything to me.” He spat out in a lowly tone, despite his evident confusion.

“Yet you show up here, threatening to ruin everything we’ve set in place.”

“You?” Cain’s face contorted to a deepened scowl. He shook his head in half-regret, and merely swatted Tyland’s hands away. “I haven’t shown up here for you.” His light-grey eyes shone forth with grief, “Don’t worry. I’ve no desire to be recognised.” The colour from the old man’s cheeks drained itself from his stiff face, “Not that anyone would believe you.” He muttered fast and quietly, “You cannot threaten us with this.”

“Of course not,” Cain interjected with a rattled and bemused expression, “I am just another bastard. I’d sooner die than see myself legitimized as one of you.”

“I am truly sorry to hear that.”

He leaned his head in a swift bow, as he spared her a small grin, “It is quite possible she was from Orkmont.”

Her expression shifted upward to a placid but elusive smile. Nodding once at his picked words, the lady shifted in her place, quirking up a thin blonde brow. “If you ought to be in search of Oscar, he should be near Longbow Hall.”

***

Angry, reckless, non-deserving; with an unquenchable desire just to prove himself as worthy – Oscar had been a wild child, and remained so as an adult. Always quick to take offence, always ready for a brawl and always willing to show off; despite the fact that he’d never won a joust or tourney in his life, and most lordlings of the Riverlands failed to give him credit’s due.

Restless, loyal and headstrong. Those were words that well-described him. Even in the crack of dawn, he was spotted in the training yard, walking miles in aching circles, practising with his great sword.

Family. Duty. Honour.

For the better part of his young life, Oscar had lived pledged to oath, to upkeep his House's words.

He’d go to war with his brother, he’d avenge his sister’s honour and take every man who ever helped tarnish his homeland through the judgement of his bitter steel.

Oscar Tully loved his family. Even when it was much smaller – when it was just him, and Kermit, and their loving and ambitious Mother. He swore to himself to always enact as a pillar to them – to turn responsible, reliable and trustworthy. And when his mother died, leaving behind his only sister, he promised himself to always protect her. When they were but small, lithe children, very rarely did they not bicker and argue like a bunch of wildings – yet when push came to shove, and either one of them stole one too many jam tarts to not go unseen, it was always one or the other who jumped to the rescue of their misbegotten sibling.

Oscar Tully was certain that he’d always fulfil his promise. He was the fair image of a future lord of the Trident – honour drove him to oblige his duty, and his one duty was to take care of his family. He was a second son, and as such, he served as a spare to his brother. Taught in the same way that he was, although with less vigour and effort by the thousand swarming maesters that took rest in Riverrun. He was only four and ten when he watched his whole world crumble; and his closest blood relations scatter through the lands of Westeros. He helplessly obeyed his grandsire, when he was sent away to squire under the greying Lord Tyrell – perhaps in the hopes that the Reach would temper him, or that he’d fall madly in love with his slight and sickly daughter. He watched as his sister was taken, away from the comforts of home – sent to the Capitol as a ward to elderly Lord Beesbury. All alone in shitty King’s Landing, to learn the mannerisms of a proper Lady, and to find a husband that would be competent enough to keep her and her offspring safe.

Dreadful, he thought it then, and awfully unfair deal now. For years he’d been unable to see his siblings, his father, and his grandfather – and when the war finally started, and alliances were formed, he lost his sister to the wrath of that sick freak.

The One-Eyed Kinslayer. The One-Eyed Prince.

《The boy scoffed at the knight’s attempt to pardon and explain himself. He nodded affirmatively, and scrutinized Cain with his piercing gaze. "You returned with an empty hand, Ser Cain. You failed: miserably." His back straightened in an attempt to appear bigger, and the hot-headed lass rose from his chair in a hurling daze. "Because of you, my sister is in the hands of that cycloptic freak. Because of you, we don't know anything about her whereabouts. She could be tortured, enslaved, sullied – worse!"》

He’d lost his temper. In his attempts to ground himself, he himself had failed his grandsire – who not only had to worry for his own son and House’s future, but for his two grandkids, as well. His blue eyes closed in concentration, as his lips parted in an exhale. He wondered if he had done right, to alter Faithkeeper like that.

Cain Waters was akin more to a beast than to a man. Seemingly fearless and focused, big as a mountain and wide as a bear. His pride had stung him when his grandsire chose him to rescue his sister, but even he had to agree that Cain had been their only choice. He just made sense, the lass agreed, as he watched him lead and point over Jayne’s numerous troops. Still, his mind remained unchanged – if only he had been allowed to, he would have seen his sister home. But he was the second son. The son whom nobody had wanted, the one who wasn’t even needed. Elmo and Kermit were thousands of miles away to fight; and he had begged them both to join them, but to no righteous avail. He just wasn’t skilled enough. His duty bound him to the Arryns. To taking care of his grandfather.

“Do you not feel forced to fight?”

“Forced?” Grover Tully’s husky voice echoed through the marbled walls.

“Pushed by your free will to do it.” Oscar sucked in a big breath, “I’m one and twenty. It is expected that I go out there.”

“It is expected that we do… all it should take to survive.” The older man hummed in admission. His piercing gaze cut through the boy, before his head turned to the sky, “Your lousy father and reckless brother are away to fight for a cause we don’t believe in. In the best case for your sister, she’s been taken forth as prisoner.”

“Which is why I should fight, instead of hiding like a coward behind these stupid walls.”

“Which is why it is imperative that you should stay here to remain alive.”

His face contorted to a painful scowl, as his legs carried him to the edge of his viewpoint.

“I’m afraid I do not follow.”

“I will not let those damned Targaryens put an end to my own House.”

“So you would let your own son perish? You’d let his heir go down with him?” By then their voices rose to screaming. “People die at war, my boy – good people, bad people, people who only did their part. Should I not word the possibility that your own brother might be killed?”

“You should not say it with such ease – you should not see your only family as some fucked pieces on a board!”

“I am trying to protect our family! Preserve our House, our heritage! By keeping one male heir alive – even if it brings the scorn of others!”

Oscar was the second son. The spare. The one who had to sit behind and watch how his remaining siblings struggled on their own to make it.

“My lord,” The gruff echo of Cain’s voice deterred him to turn his head. Tempered eyes were met with grey, and the young man nodded deeply in a stiff but poignant greeting.

“... Ser Cain.”

A small nod was shared between them, followed by an ushered silence.

"I believe we need to talk."

╒══════╕

Translations:

“Sīkudi nopāzmi, skori ao umbagon va bē hen issa…” = “Seven Hells, when you stay on top of me…”;

“Qrimbrōzagon, jorrāelagon, nyke jāhor tepagon ao nykeā gār trēsi.” = “Fuck, my love, I would give you a hundred sons.”;

“Se nyke jāhor jorrāelagon hen se tolvie mēn hen zirȳ.” = “And I would love each and every one of them.”;

╘══════╛

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Stranger 1

Warnings: non/dubcon, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Characters: Destroyer!Chris

Summary: A stranger buys the farmstead nearby and disturbs your sleepy village life.

Part of the Backwoods AU

Note: My first time writing this character!

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

Your nails are crusted in dirt as you kneel in the garden. You grunt as you wrestle the roots of weed from the soil and toss it aside. You wipe your forehead with the back of your glove as you hear the screen door snap shut. Your grandmother stands on the stoop, her hand on her achy hip.

“Did you hear, dearie?” She calls in her creaky voice. “Someone’s moved into Clyde’s old house.”

“Huh?” You catch your breath as you gather up the broken weeds, “it’s half ash.”

“Suppose they’ll fix it up,” she mutters as she leans on the narrow iron rail along the side of the backsteps.

“Suppose,” you agree as you stuff the green and brown foliage into the paper bag for the compost. “Who told you that?”

“I was just talking to Lynette on the phone. She also said Molly’s having her fifth.”

Five kids? You hide your chagrin at the thought. You don’t mind kids but that’s a lot to handle, let alone the pregnancies. Molly balloon’s up so big she can hardly move. Her last shower, she sat the whole time. Not much different than you, you guess. You sat in the corner and watched the silly games

“That’s exciting,” you say as you stand and dust off your knees, crumpling the top of the bag in your other hand.

“Ah, I’m sure you woulda loved to have four sisters? Maybe brothers? It’s a pity your mother never gave me any more grandchildren.”

“Mmm,” you suppress a frown, “yeah, well…”

“Anyhow, enough talk of spoiled milk,” she waves off, “I got a pie in the oven. You can take it over the Clyde’s once it cools.”

“I… why would I do that?”

“Oh my, don’t be ridiculous. We have a new neighbour, we have to be polite and welcome them to the village. It’s probably a nice family, or maybe someone your age. A friend?” She suggests, “I’d do it myself but I don’t think I’d make the walk…” she looks down at her hip, theatrically rubbing it. 

“Right,” you agree, the prospect of strangers making your tummy lurch. “Well, that pie will take some time.”

“Long enough for you to put on something clean,” she tuts as she looks down at your dirty jeans, “my lord, what would they think?”

“Yes, gramma, I’ll change, once I get this in the compost.”

“Good,” she smirks triumphantly and turns to swing open the screen door, the hinges whining shrilly.

You sniff and cross the yard. It’s not often there’s new faces in Hammer Ford. The village is a tourist trap at best and not a very lively one. Everyone calls each other by name and it’s second nature to stop and say hi. But that’s because you know each other; you have for years.

You lift the lid on the large bin and empty the bag into it. You could always lie and hide the pie in some bushes. Your deceit wouldn’t be hidden for long. Even in this sleepy place, word travels fast and someone always seems to be watching and waiting to pass it on.

🥧

You head out with the pie in a basket like some fairytale. You’re only short a red hood and a big bad wolf. You set off down the country roads, following the lazy curves towards the horizon. It’s after noon and the sun’s turning mild as it drifts across its pale canvas.

The old homestead is the second closest to your grandmother’s. The homes around Hammer Ford or sprawled out amid the plowed fields and green meadows. The cluster of old pines loom over you as you pass in there shadow and crest the hill that marks the edge of the property. Clyde’s tractor used to sit there, just by the broken down fence.

Ahead, down another stretch of road, this path unpaved, stands the decrepit house. The tragedy still singes the memories of the villagers. That night comes back to you in a blaze of orange and the smell of cinder. Poor old Clyde was buried behind Sacred Stave church.

You search the overgrown grass for a sign of life. There’s a black truck by the caved in garage but that’s about it. It might not be a family. It’s a lot of work to do with little ones around. If anything, it would only be the parents as they rebuild. Your mind wanders, wondering who would buy the old farm and why.

You come down the path, just along the ditch that dips behind a cluster of brambles. There’s a snap and a crack and you skid to a halt on the stones. You spin and look around, a heavy breath pluming into the air. Like the fire reawakened.

“Can I help you?” The deep timbre rolls through you and you step back on your heel as you face the man down in the ditch. He peers up at you above the scraggly top of the brambles.

“Uh,” you gulp and stare at him dumbly. He might think you’re lost. Or worse, trespassing.

His hair is short, only an inch on top and shaved even shorter around the sides. His beard is thick around his mouth, growing sparse across his cheeks, and two vibrant blue eyes beam back at you. The way he looks at you makes you want to shrink away. You can sense the city radiating off of him. He scares you.

“Hello? What’s up?” He waves as if trying to wake you up.

“Um, pie?” You say, cringing at your own speechlessness.

“Pie,” he repeats flatly.

You hold up the basket and blink. You never were very good at introductions. You were the only girl at school without friends. You were just sort of there.

“Pie,” you echo once more and hold out the basket.

He tilts his head, curiously, and huffs. He juts out his jaw and grunts as he pushes the brambles apart and climbs out of the ditchy. His denim jacket is streaked in dirty and pollen.

He takes the basket by the handle, his rough finger brushing yours. He peels back the cloth and to peek inside, “pie.” He utters the syllable a fourth time between you.

“Yeah,” your voice is wispy and small. “Bye.”

You let out a strained breath and spin, keeping yourself from breaking into a sprint. You stomp away frantically, smacking yourself internally for being so awkward. Well, maybe that’s a good thing. He’ll have no reason to talk to you ever again.

[irondadfics]

So, I want some fics where Peter hides his identity from Tony and the Avengers, especially with identity shenanigans. I need something to read all night, after all. This includes fics where he's an intern. Longer fics would be appreciated! Only on ao3 please, my Kindle Paperwhite can't go on FF.net due to Cloudflare.

Fics that I already know about (so don't recommend them):

Hidden Truths by lostintheclouds321

Coffee, Interns, and Other Mysteries by sabertoothhousecat

Intern Spider by Emily_F6

Rise from the Ashes; Just to See You Again by Milstrim

Throwing Caution to the Wind by violetsunflowers (violet_sunflowers)

Just a friendly neighborhood spider by sarcasmismyweapon

Cluless is My Middle Name by pandaluna

Chasing a Spider by pandaluna

Adopting Identities by Thisisentertaining

Finding Home by Pink_Sunsets

Evasion by gammathetaalpha

Martian Child by Phiod_Muse

here’s some recommendations

Missing Links by spagbol99

The Rogues are back; Tony Stark couldn't even be mad about it - it was his idea after all. He's an Avenger and that means protecting the Earth at any cost - even if he has to deal with a certain star-spangled man and his sullen sidekick. After all, he's been through worse in his life; the loss of his wife and the disappearance of his son 12 years ago. Compared to that, this would be a walk in the park. Bucky Barnes is back on US soil as a free man. But freedom is more than just physical. On top of that, Steve is desperate for him to be the man he was before. The only problem is; that man is long dead. Peter Parker has been through the mill but he knows he just had to adapt, roll with the (many) punches and keep going. Spider-man is his safe place now, the one time he could truly feel like himself. Like he is making a difference. He'd make sure no one would suffer like he has, even if he has to track down the perpetrator himself.

Thunder and Attrition by magniloquentChanteuse

Peter Parker had been Spider-Man for five months and things were looking up. The beautiful and intelligent Gwen Stacy was showing interest in him. He found budding friendships with the Avengers. His reputation was growing in New York City. Spider-Man seemed to be at the top of his game and Peter Parker was finally regaining his footing after the death of his Uncle Ben. But as Gwen lamented his lack of attentiveness, the Avengers sniffed around Spider-Man's secret identity, and a mysterious man with a strange power and a terrifying plot emerged, Peter realized that he still had a lot to learn about leading this life he'd chosen. And with tragedy poised over his head, ready to fall, Peter was going to need to learn fast.

The Third Option by Uncertainty_Principle

Homecoming AU. Ben and May divorced before Peter’s parents died, so when Ben is murdered Peter goes into foster care. It takes just a tiny taste of superpowers for Peter to decide he doesn’t want to put up with his horrible foster father anymore—the streets are infinitely more appealing. All he wants is to be Spider-Man anyway. So he leaves. Simple. Simple, that is, until Iron Man needs Spider-Man’s help. Peter isn’t about to turn down an opportunity to fight alongside Tony Freaking Stark, but he also isn’t going to let his hero know that his recruit is a fifteen-year-old homeless dropout. So they strike a deal. Peter will help Tony. In return, the mask stays on. And that’s when things get complicated.

[asumofwords]

Smoke, Fire and Ash

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence, death, forced marriage, and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on.

This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: You are the eldest daughter of Rhaenyra and Daemon Targaryen. You are forced to navigate the difficult surroundings of your upbringing and the eventual disintegration between your family and the Hightower's relationship. What will happen when your older and estranged uncle suddenly takes a more sinister interest in you? (Dark!Aemond x Reader)

Masterlist

Characters: Aemond Targaryen X Reader, HOTD characters.

Note: The amount of messages about Alys have made me laugh so much that my stomach ended up in stitches and i felt sick hahaha. Thankful as always for all of your love and comments, I LOVE reading everything you guys have to say !!! Enjoy <3

Chapter 63 : The Witch of Harrenhal

Two large dragons circled each other in the sky. One black, and one green. They flew high and danced, breathing fire at one another as they flew through the large flames.

The great, green dragon breathed a flame too large for the black dragon, and it plummeted from the sky. The green dragon was so scared, and flew down to catch its friend, before it fell into the waves below.

Large talons cut the black dragon as it slept in the green dragons grip, flying them both to a forrest of Weirwood trees. Their white and brown bark glowing in the sky, as crimson leaves fell softly to the ground. 

The green dragon was so scared that it had killed its friend, and sat by the black dragon, day and night, not eating nor sleeping, waiting for it to wake. The green dragon begged the skies to let its friend survive, weeping silently as it watched the rise and fall of the black dragons chest.

Soon the black dragon woke, and the green dragon watched in anticipation and relief. But when the onyx dragon saw the green dragon beside it, it breathed fire at the green dragon, scared and angry, and cried out into the sky.

“Why did you burn me so badly?" It cried, "I thought we were friends? Are we not friends anymore?” The shadowy dragon roared as they stalked about the forest floor, circling one another. 

“I did not mean to.” Said the green dragon, preparing itself for the black dragons fire, “I was trying to make you see.”

The black dragon stopped its stalking, large, shining talons digging into the soft soil, “Make me see?” Asked the black dragon, shaking its large horned head, smoke pouring from its nose. 

The green dragon smiled, baring its large yellowed teeth to the forest, “Yes, make you see.” It spoke, tail swishing behind it, “That you are stronger than you think.”

You woke in the room as the noises of the maids entering rose you from your dream. You rubbed your eyes as you looked beside you. Aemond was not was not there. You pulled yourself to sit as the dull ache of cramps began to ebb back with your consciousness. 

The maids greeted you that morning with a smile and 'good morrow', as they moved about the chambers. They informed you that they had brought peppermint tea for you, as requested by Prince Aemond, and that they would be changing your sheets again.

You looked down at the bed. There were small bloody smudges and smears from where his wet fingers and your blood and bumped against the pale sheets, and pooled below you. 

You sat up in bed, and the eldest maid came towards you, bringing a robe for you to wrap around yourself, as you made to move towards the table. When you had stood, you noticed bloody finger marks in the front of your chemise, and you blushed in shame. You asked the two maids if they knew were your Lord Husband had gone, and neither of them knew. 

You ate quietly as they changed your sheets, and you greedily drank from the pot of peppermint tea, enjoying the minty flavour it left in your mouth. The two maids dressed you for the day, and left the chambers with a quiet farewell.

You spent another day reading in the gardens, looking out at the water, wondering where Aemond would be. 

Perhaps he rises early to assist Aegon with preparations for the day?

Or better yet, did he wake Aegon up from his drunken sleep?

Was he forced to dress and bathe his older brother who would surely not do it himself?

When the day grew long, and the air became crisp, you left to your chambers and had sat at the table and waited for Aemond’s return as the sun fell behind the horizon, sky growing dark. You had pondered on where he was, what he was doing. When the chamber doors had opened, you expected to see your uncle entering, long hair pulled back, and dark leather robes tight on his body. 

But it was not your uncle, instead the two maids that tended to you both, plates of food and wine in their hands. They had entered the chambers quietly and placed your supper in front of to you, and only yours. There was no plate, or cutlery, or goblet placed opposite you in anticipation for the Prince’s return. 

Looking up at the two girls as they made their way to exit your shared chambers, you called out to them.

“Is Aemond joining me for supper?” 

The younger maid looked down at her feet whilst the eldest answered your question, gently and confidently.

“No, My Lady. We were told he is not in Kings Landing.”

Not in the Keep?

Had he gone again?

And so soon after arriving?

“Well,” You paused, waiting for the maids to fill in the gaps, but they didn’t.

“Where is my Lord Husband?”

The youngest shuffled on her feet, whilst the eldest looked down at her, before back at you.

“Lady Alicent did not tell us, Princess.”

You swallowed, mind racing. 

“Very well. Thank you, you may go.” You excused the girls, watching them bow to you before leaving the chambers with great speed. As if the conversation made them uncomfortable.

Where was he?

Did Aegon send him away?

Was this his duty to the realm?

Would you be finding yourself alone more often?

You sat at the table confused and ate, before readying yourself for bed alone. The maids had come again later to collect your plates, and brought another steaming pot of peppermint tea for you. You drank it and sat in bed, the candles being blown out, and a dark glow settled in the room as you waited for Aemond to return. 

But he didn’t. 

The next day you had done the same. 

You went down to the garden and brought ‘The Fourteen Flames’ with you to read. You had sat on the bench, amongst the plush pillows and read until the sun lowered in the sky, and it was time to eat. You went back to your chambers and ate your supper, and watched in anticipation for the maids to bring the second setting for Aemond. 

They didn’t.

And so you went to bed again alone. 

On the third day of waiting, a creeping fear began to settle into your bones. 

How long would Aemond be gone? 

Did Aegon know where he was? 

Had he sent him away knowing that he wouldn’t be here with you?

Did Aegon know that you were alone in your chambers?

When that evening rolled through and the maids brought in your supper, you had waited until they left the chambers, quickly scooping up the knife, hiding it beneath the pillow of your bed. When they had returned to take your empty plates and bring your pot of tea, they had searched high and low for the missing knife. They had looked on the floor and table, and even under the bed in search of the utensil you had told them had fallen and could not find.

The eldest maid watched you with distrust, and you had made promise to her that you were sure it would turn up, and that when Aemond returned you would ask him to help you look for it. She did not press it, and discontinued her search with the younger maid.

They seemed to have a method to their serving.

They had readied you for bed and left, as they always did, and you were left alone, as you always were, in your darkened chambers, hand under your pillow, with your fist firmly grasped around the knife you had hidden. 

If this was your only source of protection, then so be it.

You had found yourself so restless in your sheets, tossing and turning, that you had opted to empty the decanter of spiced wine, letting the alcohol drag you down into a heavy sleep. You woke the next morning with a foggy mind and dry mouth, and moved through your routine without the Prince returning.

Anxiety built with each day passing and the absence of Aemond’s presence, and so to soothe this anxiety, you had turned to the cup for help. The spiced wine dulled your senses, and smothered your rising fear, leaving you in a hazy numbness that allowed for you to rest through the night undisturbed.

By the seventh rise and set of the sun, you had grown tired of not knowing where Aemond was as the anxiety continued to mount, and beside it, anger. You had grown so desperate, that you had even attempted to find Alicent, to ask her where her son had gone, and when he would be returning. But it was as though she too had become elusive, and you found you could not find her. 

Was she avoiding you? 

Did she know of where Aemond was?

Or was there something bigger happening?

Something that you had not caught onto yet.

Above the rising fear of Aegon’s return to your chambers, and the anxiety of not knowing where Aemond was, or what he was doing, there was an unsettling loneliness that sat in your chest.

There was no familiar presence around you. 

How long had you been in the Keep?

How long had you spent alone?

You were so used to the constant chatter and company of your brothers or family back on Dragonstone, that the silence of the Keep unnerved you. 

There was no one to talk to, not even Lucerys or Helaena had come to visit you in his absence, and so you were left to your racing thoughts, which quickly turned to paranoia and the quiet solitude you had grown to despise. You were so desperate for a human connection that even Aemond’s company would suffice.

It was pathetic.

You knew you shouldn’t miss him. You knew it was wrong. But you chalked it up to fear and anxiety and the horrible isolation of the Keep. The maids would barely talk to you, and you had no yearning to speak to Otto or Ser Cole. Even the Maester who served you and came to visit you at your request, had barely spoken a word under the watchful eye of Ser Criston.

It was making you stir crazy. 

It was making you antsy. 

It was making you pace about the chambers and lose sleep at night, waiting for either of the Targaryen Prince’s to enter your chambers. It was the not knowing that was so torturous. Not knowing when Aemond would return. Not knowing if he would be cruel when he did. Not knowing if Aegon was lurking about in the shadows, or the plotting of Otto and Alicent.  

It was mind numbing and mind racing all at once.

You had finished your book thrice, and not even the library could offer mental stimulation like a conversation would. And so you had begun to drink even more, emptying the decanter of spiced Dornish wine that always sat on the side of the room. You began to ask the maids to bring up more wine for you, to the point where they would bring a second decanter each day, just so you would not summon them to your chambers again. 

Today was like any other day that droned along unattended, unaccompanied, and abandoned. You woke with a bitter taste in your mouth, eyes lazily flicking to the side of the bed to find it empty, as it had been the day before. You had gotten out of bed and ate quietly as the maids prepared you, opting to drink three cups of spiced wine rather than the fresh juice and water. You had left the chambers, book in hand, and goblet of wine in the other, as you moved down to the garden to spend another monotonous day of habit by the ocean.

Your blood had gone, and the spike in energy you had gotten from it made you all the more impatient for your husbands return. 

You did not even know why you were impatient. 

Were you truly that lonely that you would seek out his comfort and presence, to satiate the aching pit that had cracked open inside of you?

Yes. 

But it was not something that you could help.

You sat looking out at the waves, pointlessly flicking the pages back and forth, not even reading them as you sipped from your goblet. It was almost empty already, and you knew that you would either have to hail down a servant walking amongst the garden, or trudge back up to your chambers to refill it.

The waves and the sound of the pages being flicked back and forth filled the space around you, until you polished off your goblet of wine. The sun had only just reached its peak, high in the sky, seemingly crawling at slower than a snails pace.

The warmth of alcohol wrapped itself around you. You most certainly felt a buzz from the wine, or at least, were already drunk. Either way, you pulled yourself to stand, feeling light and heavy all at once, and made your way back into the Keep where you could finish your first decanter of the day. 

But as you made your way through the Keep, you began to feel angry, heat rising in your cheeks. 

Where was he?

Did he expect you to hang around waiting for him? Like a dog? 

Why had he not told you of his leave?

Did he not care that he left you alone with Aegon?

Anger built and built inside of you, festering, and curdling until you made your decision. You would find where he was. And you would be told now. You heavily slammed the book and empty goblet on the ledge of the corridor, walking with purpose towards the Throne Room. 

If you were to get anything done, you would have to do it yourself. 

As you always had.

You pushed open the doors, moving past the slow moving guards, as one announced your arrival to the room in confusion. 

Aegon sat on the Iron Throne looking bored, chin leant in his hand, but as soon as he saw you enter, wild fire dancing in your eyes and steps echoing through the chamber, he smiled brightly, sitting up straight as he clapped his hands together, the noise echoing around you.

“The beautiful Princess Y/n.” His voice boomed into the space, “Have you come to witness me rule?”

“Where is Aemond?” You demanded, standing at the bottom of the steps as you looked up at him.

Ser Cole stood at the bottom of the throne, hand on the pummel of his sword as he looked at you, whilst Otto stood beside Aegon at the top, watching you from beneath his nose. The Iron Throne dwarfed all by its sheer size, and the sharp glinting edges of the swords shone against Aegon’s green robes. 

Leant against the front of the Iron Throne, beside Aegons thighs, was Aegon the Conquerors sword, far too large and far too heavy for Aegon to ever properly use. You had remembered watching him as a child in the training yard, swinging a wooden sword around lazily and in disinterest. Once, Cole had handed him a real blade, and you had watched in amusement as he struggled to swing it higher than his hips. You did not imagine that in his years of whoring and drinking that he would have found time to go to the training yard with his brother or Ser Cole. 

You let your eyes roam the rest of the chambers, in search of a familiar pair of violet and sapphire eyes. There were guards and knights on the side of the room, and members of Aegon’s small council stood around the throne nearby, watching the interaction between their King and his niece.

Alicent was beside Aegon, on the opposite side of Otto, wearing all green with her hair tied behind her head in a tight braided bun. Her eyes did not look at you, instead looking straight past you as though you weren’t there. 

Aegon laughed loudly at your question, finding mirth in your anger. 

“He did not tell you?” He asked, looking down at you. 

You frowned, waiting for him to answer you. 

Alicent sighed, shifting beside Aegon as she looked down at her hands. 

“You do not know?” Aegon questioned you again, smile falling from his face as he searched yours with his eyes, looking for any tell of your questioning.

You stayed quiet as Aegon leant back against the Iron Throne once more. Tilting his head he fought a smirk that tried to worm its way on his cheeks. He fought it terribly. His hair was wavy with the crown sitting heavily atop, pushing hairs out sideways from its weight. 

The King scoffed, clicking his tongue at you.

“Aemond left for Harrenhal. It’s where he always goes when he feels lonely.”

You straightened your back as you craned your neck looking up at your eldest uncle. 

“What is his business in Harrenhal?”

Aegon’s laughter echoed in the chambers again as he mocked you, Alicent and Otto shifting beside him.

“He has no business in Harrenhal… Only pleasure.”

You could not hold back the sneer that broke onto your face. 

“I am happy to warm your bed in his place.”

Your hands curled into fists as you stared at him. 

“I will tell you this because I am feeling generous today,” Aegon began, “When my brother returns from Harrenhal, ask him about Alys Rivers.”

You felt like a bucket of water had been thrown over your head. 

Alys Rivers. 

Alys Rivers.

It was her.

The witch of Harrenhal.

You felt a pang of jealousy in your gut as you thought of it, but then immediately questioned yourself, stamping out the bitterness that rose in the back of your throat.

Why are you jealous? If she warms his bed, then perhaps he will leave you alone. 

With this new knowledge you spun on your heel, flicking your eyes to Alicent Hightower, who’s gaze was still on her hands. You left the chamber loudly, skirts flying behind you in embarrassment and rage. 

Your husband was having an affair. 

Your husband was leaving Kings Landing, as he was free to do, and taking a woman into his bed, whilst you were stuck alone, not free to leave and forced to warm his.

You slammed your chamber doors open, the wood loudly hitting the back of the wall as you moved into the space, rage boiling up inside of you, its heat rising higher, and higher the more you paced about the chambers. 

How dare he.

How fucking dare he.

Openly fucking a Strong bastard. A House in which he had so many grievances with.

He was openly fucking a bastard and everyone had known, except you. 

You moved to the side of the room, not bothering to fill the goblet with wine, instead drinking straight from the second decanter, feeling the alcohol burn its way meanly down your throat. You wiped your lips with the sleeve of your gown, as a low growl passed through your lips. 

Fuck him.

How fucking dare he.

The highest of humiliations for a wife in court. 

He was making a mockery of you and the treaty.

And you knew that you should not care, and that you should be relieved, and that his time spent away from you gave you a reprieve that you so desperately needed, and his time with her saved you from his cruelty. But there was an undeniable anger that still raged through you. And the most tiniest whispers of fear. 

If he grew bored of you, would he have you killed and have her put in your place?

Your eyes flicked to beside the decanter. There beside where it sat, was Aemond’s quill and ink, with loose pieces of spare parchment rolled beside it. You grabbed the ink and quill moving it to the table, small drops of ink spilling over and onto your hand. You raced back to collect some parchment and slapped it down onto the table. 

If he wished to humiliate you, you could hurt him. 

You could. 

You could ask for star fruit. 

Fuck them all.

You could burn this entire Keep to the ground, if you asked. 

You could.

You began to write on the page, script messy and scribbled, your ink covered fingers smudging the parchment. 

‘Rhaenyra and Daemon,

It seems that due to my husbands travelling throughout the realm, and his extended stay in Harrenhal, he has been unable to deliver me Star Fruit. I have been craving its sweet flesh, and I must ask you, almost desperately, to send a barrel promptly to m-‘

You paused as your hand wrote the script. 

What would this mean if you sent this?

You knew what it meant. 

War would break out again, and losses would come with it.

You felt burning shame inside of you as you looked at the letter. 

How could you let him stir you to anger so quickly? How could you let him move you to such violence? And for what? An affair? Would the losses of your family be worth this petty grievance? Would you feel well inside of yourself to tell them that you asked for star fruit because Aemond was sleeping with another? 

How would you feel knowing that one of your own died because of you? 

Because of this.

You needed to be smarter.

Your hand trembled and you stood, scrunching the letter as you marched towards the fireplace. You tossed the crumpled parchment into the flames, watching the fire devour it the pale paper, blackening its edges as the ink bubbled on its surface, until soon it was completely gone. 

Your request for help was no more. Burnt to ashes.

Devoured by fire.

You went to sleep that evening with little appetite and a fire burning within.

Three days passed when Aemond finally returned to the Red Keep. You had been sitting in the garden, sulking and sullen, when you heard the great roar of Vhagar. You had leant over the edge of the stone ledge and looked up into the sky, watching as her large green form flew over the top of you, making her way to the other side of the Keep to let Aemond back into the castle.

An odd stirring of excitement ran through you at his return, which was dampened by the sour knowledge of where he had been, and why he had been gone so long.

You had to prevent yourself from racing back to the chambers, so instead, you forced yourself to finish four pages of the book in your lap. You then took yourself around the entirety of the garden alone, fighting the way your body tried to race towards your shared chambers to talk to him, or growl at him. 

When you had finally made your way into the Keep, Aemond was in your chambers, speaking with his mother Alicent. 

Both of their eyes flitted to you when you had arrived, and you felt that you had interrupted a conversation about you. They both fell silent as they observed you, Aemond's hands clutching his mothers arms softly as she held him. The Dowager Queen dropped her arms away from her son and bid him a quiet goodbye, uttering your name as she passed you in greeting. Aemond turned away from the door and moved towards the table, tidying a pile of scrolls, as you were left by the door. 

Aemond did not turn to greet you, nor did he mumble your name, or call you wife as he always did. He was quiet, and it made the days of anxiety and fear, anger and disgust, mount inside of you like a tidal wave.

“Where were you?” 

Aemond turned to look at you shortly before moving back to his task, long fingers shuffling the scrolls. You stormed across the room and stood beside him, leaning half on the table, as you tried to force your way into his line of sight.

To force him to look at you. 

“Where were you?” You asked again, voice sharper. All patience gone at the sight of his cool demeanour and dismissal of your arrival.

“It is of no concern to you.” He shrugged you off.

It made anger rise in your cheeks.

“Harrenhal.” You answered for him.

Aemond’s hands stilled for the slightest of moments, before moving back around the table, collecting the scrolls into a pile to lift them. Your hand shot out and you swiped the scrolls from his hand, the rolls of parchment flying in different directions to the floor. 

Where had this anger come from?

“Do you lay with another?” You seethed, chest rising and falling, waiting for him to answer you. 

To look at you. To acknowledge your accusations.

To acknowledge his wrongs.

“You will pick those up.” Aemond spoke calmly, looking at the scrolls laid out about the chambers.

“Udligon nyke.” Answer me, You growled.

Aemond finally turned his body towards you, watching as rage and anger rolled through you with every breath. At how you watched him with a furrowed brow, and sneer on your lips, small hands curled into tight fists at your sides. Your hair wild from the speed of moving across the room, and how your pupils expanded as you waited for him to answer. 

You were seething.

“It seems you already know.”

Your mouth opened and shut, trying to think of how to respond. 

How to make him hurt. 

“I thought you would be gladdened for my absence.” Aemond mused, looking down at you.

“You make a fool of me at court. For all knew where my husband was except his own wife! You left me to sit and wait for your return not knowing where you were, nor when you would be back. You left me alone with him!”

Aemond did not respond, his lips in a relaxed line as he watched you. 

Why was he watching you?

Why wouldn’t he say something? 

Your hands moved to shove at his chest, hitting him with force as he barely budged from his spot. You did it again, and yet he still did not react. 

“Answer me.” You hit him again, watching as he let you take out your anger on him, “Fucking craven!” You yelled, hand slapping the unscarred side of his face.

Aemond’s hands reached up and grabbed your wrists tightly in a bruising grip, yanking you against him.

“That’s enough.” He said lowly, looking down at you, eye shining dangerously.

You felt so angry. 

The rage just kept bubbling and bubbling, the tide rising higher, and higher within you as you stared at him. You tried to rip your hands from his grip but he would not let you go. Instead Aemond moved his face forward and kissed the crown of your head. 

Just as Daemon would.

“Get off of me.” You wriggled in his grip, jerking yourself from his hold. 

Aemond hummed, moving towards the chamber doors to leave. 

“I expect you to clean up your mess.” He called over his shoulder, before leaving you to stand in the room, anger overflowing. 

You let out an angry scream as you looked at the door shut.

You turned your head to look at your ‘mess’.

You thought of picking up his scrolls and throwing them into the fire. Of watching them burn with satisfaction, knowing that when he would return and ask where they were, you would say that you had eliminated the mess he spoke off. You thought of stamping your feet on top of the perfectly rolled scrolls, crushing them and tearing them beneath your shoes. But the longer you stood and stared at the scrolls, the more you came to your senses and cooled down. 

Do not lose yourself to anger.

You needed to be smart.

You begrudgingly picked up the scrolls and placed them on the side of the table, counting six in total. All perfectly rolled with their green wax seal. He was to send these letters out. A new thought popped into your mind. 

What if he was sending a letter to Alys? 

Were they plotting together? 

Did he love her?

Would she coax him into killing you so that she may take your place? 

For all you knew, she could be a very real threat. If she was with Aemond by choice, knowing what he did to her House, having witnessed it, witnessed his rage, knowing that he was a kinslayer and cruel; She was a dangerous person indeed.

You spent the rest of your day sulking in your chambers, and when the evening rolled though, you and Aemond ate together, for the first time in almost ten days, in tense silence. There was more you wanted to say. More you needed to say. But you also knew you needed to be smart. 

If this was something he knew would hurt you, or could use to break you, he would do it. 

And so you sat in the awkward silence, as politely as you could, answering the shallow questions he asked about what you did with your days alone. You had told him truthfully what you had done, minus the drinking, and of how you had read most days by the sea. You behaved as best as you could, and pushed your anger deep down into your chest, to use when you needed. 

For now you needed to be smart. 

After spending your evening in an uncomfortable tension, both of you behaving to the best of your shared ability, you went to bed and slept. Aemond did not reach over to touch you with his fingers, nor thrust his length into your core. He had rolled to his side of the bed and slept soundly, as heat rose in your cheeks from the anger that still simmered. 

Aemond had not been cruel, nor had he reacted to your outburst. He had stayed level headed and let you scream and shove him. He didn’t even try to goad you into an argument that evening.

What was his motive?

Did she make him kinder to you?

What was happening?

You slept uneasily that night, and woke when you felt Aemond stir to start his day. You sat up in bed, a warmth settling in your stomach, as you watched him move about the chambers, looking at the pile of scrolls for a moment, the pile you had made, just as he had commanded, before he picked them all up, looking at you to bid you a good day, door shutting quietly behind him.

You ate as you always did, and were dressed as you always were, but there was something sitting under your skin that made you stay in your chambers that day. When the maids had brushed your hair or touched your skin to dress you, you had been set alight. There was a buzzing sensation that ran through you, and you found that you ached to be touched. 

You yearned to be touched. 

You missed the simple pleasures of being held, or the warmth of a hand, or hug. The simple presses of lips to your cheek, or the graze of a hand in your hair. But this yearning had grown, and instead of the desire to simply be wrapped in the arms of someone you loved, it had smouldered into a need.

Not once in your life had you ever felt a state of arousal like this. You had tried to ignore it, rubbing your thighs together to satiate the ache that continued to build, and build within you, flames of heat licking at your face and crux of your thighs. But no matter what you did, it did not help. You drank some wine, thinking it would numb you, but instead, it amplified your want.

When was the last time you had brought yourself pleasure?

Back on Dragonstone?

How long had that been?

You were no stranger to your body or desire, and when the urge came to call, you had always brought yourself to your peak with your hand without shame. 

But Aemond had brought you pleasure like never before, even before he had left. He had brought you to your peak twice on his skilled fingers. 

Your core clenched at the memory. 

All you could think about was his fingers sliding through your slick folds, rubbing on your sensitive bud until you cried out into the chambers. You let out a frustrated sigh, running a hand through the front of your hair. You worried your lip with your teeth and nibbled on it in thought. 

Aemond would be gone in the Throne Room with his brother all day, and the maids had already been….

What else would you do beside read, and drink, and wait for the day to end.

You looked at your bed as you made your decision.

You walked over, climbing onto the sheets as you bent your legs. You breathed shakily as you let a hand move to trail itself softly over the top of your breast, a small whimper escaping your lips.

You hiked your skirts up over your knees, bringing your fingers down to touch tentatively at your core. Your folds were already slick with desire and as you rolled a confident finger from your slit to your bud. You moaned, back arching as pleasure rolled through you.

You let your fingertips rolled over the top of your bud as you closed your eyes, imaging the skilled hands of a lover that was not the silver hair of your uncle. 

You thought of Darras and his striking green eyes, his soft tongue delving into your folds as you arched into his face, thinking of him lapping through your folds at your nectar that dripped out of you. 

Your fingers quickened their pace, but the more you thought of Darras, the more you could not see him above you. You tried to think of Ser Darke, your knight, but his image did not spark arousal, and instead sparked shame.

Angrily, you rubbed harder at yourself, desperate to reach your peak, feeling the coil tighten quickly but never quite snapping. A constant feeling of being stuck on the other side of the hill, never quite getting to the top to tumble down on the other side. You huffed a breath through your nose, wriggling into the sheets further as the image of Aemond on top of you flicked into your mind. 

Your core clenched and you shamefully continued. You thought of how he had fucked himself into you gently, praising you. Of how he had called you beautiful, while his skilled fingers swirled over your bud. Your release came quickly and suddenly, and you moaned loudly into the empty chambers as you rode your peak.

The room was hot and your legs flopped open in exhaustion, hand wiping itself on your chemise between your thighs as you closed your eyes, feeling the waves of pleasure slowly dim. Your core throbbed, and you found that although the want had gone, there was still a lingering heat within you. 

Rolling on your side, you blinked at the wall.

What the fuck was wrong with you?

Was it because you had never had a touch of another?

That his touch is the only one you had known and could refer to?

Then you thought of Alys. 

He got to experience pleasure from her. He got to lay with her, and share a bed with her, yet you were stuck only knowing him and his touch. 

How many others had he been with? How many more had he touched, whilst you lay dry and alone?

But you remembered your fathers words.

A political marriage does not mean you have to suffer a dead marital bed.

You could find your pleasure elsewhere.

If Aemond was going to fuck Alys, then you should be able to fuck someone else. 

You needed to remember why you were in this Keep.

Thanks so much for reading along with me, if you wish to be added to the tag list please let me know :) Likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated ! Enjoy <3

Tag List:

@izzicle @ej-shitchats @may-machin @alegria1580 @witchy-jadda @videovampire @inkdelicious @queteimporta39 @virtualsweetsqueen @fo-cus @auratiqs @feyres-fireheart @queenofshinigamis @asoiafwh8re @teasandcrumpets @shesjustanothergeek @grungegrrrl@queenofsarcazm @marihoneywk @curlszx88 @virgogaia @loser-keiji @asoiafwh8re @whore-of-many-hot-men @vipervixxen @theonewiththeimaginaryboyfriends @watercolorskyy @lavendervisions @mazmack666 @chokefrog @orangejump-suit @nik2blog @serrhaewinin @ohemgeewhat @winxschester @cryptidsrcool @drinking-tea-and-be-obsessed @celestedonut @bloodyvelvet777 @iamapersonthatsalive @av-sos @yentroucnagol @sanzu-s @opheliaas-stuff @bellameshipper @maviee @persephonerinyes @neytiri-09 @ensnaredinwonderland @xbluegracex @sotragedynut @nattieot7 @shesawaywiththefairies-blog @coffedraven @prettycutebunny @celestedonut @the-jess-life @ssulfurr @out-of-life @madislayyy @crazylokonugget @cicaspair418 @katwmk @relminnie @milovart @teagrex @visenyaverse @bellameshipper @toodlesxcuddles @tempt-ress @dontmindmereading7 @qyburnsghost @55gyi53vtnquwziq5 @notnormalthings-blog @maidmerrymint @qyburnsghost @madislayyy

Bold is who I cannot tag!

[lyuenger]

** Authors note. Obvious C3E91 spoilers.

[[ update, thanks to @ReaderOfDragons sending me an invite I'm now on AO3, and it's posted! I did make a few changes/updates/fixes - so read it there for the updated/better version ]]

Also, my first fan fic (and I don’t have an Ao3 invite yet, so I’m sharing here). The moments after played in my head, and the players didn’t act it all out, so I figured I would share tge version in my ''mind palace'. I’ll be sharing more art soon, now that my main job is on summer break.

Note that it switches perspectives. Also, pasting it here messed with my formatting (but I think I fixed most of it).

Faithful End

Chet couldn't hear the sounds of the metal clanking around him, only the ringing in his ears, as he stood in shock and disbelief. The air tasted of blood, sweat and red earth. Quickly his world snapped back into focus and he began to survey the battlefield. What remained of Otohan was charred and strewn about near the freshly made crater on the cave floor.

Orym.

Orym lay still and limp, covered in blood (surely both his and his foes), his sword in the nearby dirt.

A slight rise of his chest showed he was still alive, somehow.

He's alive.

Ash..

A quick look to where he had finally fallen at Otohans blade showed Imogen and Laudna rushing to aid him.

Chet rushed to Orym, knelt down, and fumbled in his pockets until he touched the cool glass of his last healing potion. He uncorked the bottle, pulling the limp Orym up and cradling him into position. “You did good, my boy.” He quietly croaked, as he carefully poured the red fluid into his mouth.

Orym’s chest rose, filling with air, and fell again as he started to exhale, then cough. Green, tired eyes opened and looked up into his own. Chet sighed in relief.

******

Orym coughed, the metallic taste of iron and the familiar herbal taste of a healing potion filled his mouth.

He hurt.

Everything hurt.

He just wanted to sleep, but he felt someone gently holding him, stroking his hair. He lazily opened his eyes, and saw the blue eyes of Chetney looking at him with concern.

Otohan. I have to kill Otohan and get everyone back safe.

With a new burst of adrenaline flowing through his veins he quickly, albeit unusually clumsily, pushed onto his feet. Intense green eyes, framed by the fresh blood that smeared his face, darted around.

There was an odd stillness on the battlefield.

Laudna and Imogen were clutched together.

Shaking.

In fear?

No. Crying. They were crying. Sobbing.

He lowered his eyes and saw an empty glass bottle abandoned near Imogen.

Alert green eyes shifted slightly, resting on Ashton. He was sitting next to them, face buried in a large stoney hand. He couldn't make out his words, but he knew Ash… “Fuck. Shit. Piss.” Surely.

His eyes shifted once more and discovered a newly formed crater, and the charred and bloody remains scattered around the red and now sparkling earth. The sight caused his heart to skip, until he recognized the features… Otohan.

Oh thank the Gods.

He hadn’t believed they would survive that fight, but his friends had pulled it off. He closed his eyes and worked to catch his breath… slow his heart rate. It was over.

It would be okay… he gave himself a moment to let the adrenaline subside, and opened his eyes again.

The sparking red soil caught his eyes now. Pieces of metal? Where did all the metal pieces come from?

The gears in his head began to put the information together, but it didn’t seem to want to click into place. His shifting eyes scanned the cave once more and fell on Fearne. His Fearnie…

He watched those big eyes of hers filling as she stepped into the crater bent down.

Wait, what happened… why was she so upset otohan was dead? Why were the others so upset. They won, somehow.

At least this fight. He knew it wouldn't be their last.

He scanned the cave again checking on his friends. Immogen and Laudna were looking pretty battered and drained, but not quite as rough as Ash. Then again, Ash always looked pretty rough. Chet (who had moved over to check on Everoa) looked real rough, but he had went down hard. Luckily FCG had helped him.

FCG. Did he escape? He had been running…

Movement caught his eye, and he looked over in time to watch Fearne stand, clutching a large metallic chunk… what remained of FCGs smiling face. The eyes were cracked and FCGs smile was now disjointed and crooked, but it somehow still felt… warm.

“Letters?” He heard the words croak out of him, as he looked into Fearne’s and then Chets eyes. He read their faces. Tight, with wet eyes. Feeling his heart shattering, he knew.

“No. Nonononono.” The words softly left his lips. Fearne, barely holding back tears, rushed to him. Her comforting arms gathered him up and Orym buried his face into her.

****

Ash woke up, feeling like he had been ran over by a dragon, but that was nothing new. He always hurt. Although he didn’t always feel this weak.

Having friends, with concerned faces, helping him up was new though. So he sat up, and then stared wide eyed at scraps of metal that had settled across the ground.

Why was there metal on the floor?

That color…

The same color as… The color of FCG.

He scanned the room, quickly taking in the destruction. The crater. The remains.

Why?! Why did he do that. We talked about that.

He knew that damn automaton was going to sacrifice himself one day… he had hoped he would get through to him, but no.

No one gets left behind.

But Letters was gone.

His friend was gone. Gone.

Bits spread everywhere across the cave.

He tucked his face into his hand.

“Fuck.

Shit.

Piss.

Damn it.

You self sacrificing litt….” The words that escaped his mouth registered in his brain, and his eyes flew wide with panic.

Wait.

Orym. She got Orym. I have to help Orym.

Eyes darted to where he had seen him fall, and saw Chetney holding him as he set down an empty glass bottle. Orym’s tiny body shuttered as he coughed awake. Ash felt his body exhale in relief.

Orym will be okay. He's a little guy, but the toughest guy I know.

He's okay.

He's okay.

He took a deep breath in an attempt to steady himself, wiped his eyes, and looked around the room again. So many metallic scraps littered the rusty red floor.

“Fuck. Shit. Piss.” He muttered angrily to himself, and punched the ground in frustration.

He vaguely took in Ferane running to Orym and Chet, and the other two witches clinging to one another for another moment before jumping up and rushing around to look for something.

He stood dumbfounded and unsteady, leaning against his hammer and lost in thought, until his eyes caught on an unnaturally bright glint of metal in the cave wall.

No one gets left behind.

The words echo in his head on repeat, but all that escapes his lips is “Fuck.”

He takes several slow strides as his feet lead him to the rocky wall near their exit.

The piece of metal, a distinct shape…

The coin. That. Fucking. Coin.

That fucking coin that he always trusted.

What a lot of damm good it did him.

He jammed his fingers into the rock around the metal, gripped firmly and yanked. The rock crumpled away easily and he palmed the coin, staring at it for a minute before slipping it into his pocket.

“We have to make this count” Chets scratchy voice stated matter of factly. Ashton looked over to see him snatching up the backpack.

“Right.” Ash muttered to himself, and he moved to help the others gather anything they could.

***

The blood and dirt covered halfling wiggled out of Fearne’s arms, so she reluctantly set him down gently, making sure he was steady enough on his feet before fully letting him go. His eyes darted around the debris littered on the ground. He knew, deep down, it was futile, but he helped them gather all the pieces they could.

Fresh Cut Grass.

His body may have been weak from exertion and damage, but Orym’s perception didn't fail him. He could sense Fearne following near him, as he maneuvered towards a shiny chunk that had caught his eye. He wearily crouched and picked it up, turning it over in his small hands carefully, avoiding the sharp edges. Familiar slash marks arched across it. Like blades of grass reaching for the sun, or swaying in the wind. Tiny, calloused fingers, stained a brownish red with the soil and dried blood, carefully caressed the recessed lines in the smooth metal.

Letters.

He closed his eyes and hugged the piece of metal tightly to his chest.

FCG.

Faithful Care Giver.

FRITA. Fuck.

What am I going to tell FRITA…

Unconsciously he gently rubbed the moons on his shoulder. The physical pain taking a backseat to the anguish that burned through him. It was not a new feeling. He didn't like it. He would rather feel the physical pain.

It should have been me…

Letters should be with FRIDA, and I would be with Will. And Dad.

Oh Dad, I failed.

Again.

This is too big, and I'm, I'm too li….

A firm hand gripped his shoulder, breaking him away from those spiraling thoughts. He glanced up, first to the hand, then up Fearne. Her expression was full of concern, her voice soft, warm, and comforting, “You okay?”

He didn't think he knew the answer to that yet, and he knew he couldn't talk without falling apart, so he simply flung himself around her in a tight hug. If she could feel the tears soaking into her skirt, she didn't say anything.

*****

Fearne was barely holding it together. FCG was gone. She had never lost anyone she loved like that. But her best friend needed her, so she focused on him. Orym was a hardened soldier, the Savior Blade of the Tempest. He fought steady and bravely. He was a little guy, but so strong and agile. She had never seen anyone do so many sit ups, or wield a sword with such grace and control.

But his heart was fragile, having already been broken, and not yet fully mended.

Not that it ever could be. Some wounds never fully heal. She was starting to understand that. Her heart began to crumple under the weight of their mutual loss, compounded by seeing the pain in Orym’s face. She could feel his rough, gasping breathing as he clung to her.

She couldn't fix their broken hearts.

So she gently rubbed small circles onto his back instead, pushing away the sad thoughts, and focusing on comforting him.

I can't fix this, but I can remind him that he's not alone.

Orym suddenly jerked his head away from her to look down the cave entrance. She could see the damp (and blood and dirt stained) spot he left behind… Although her clothes were already quite soiled before that. Chet had also glanced over his shoulder at the same time. They must have heard something.

Quietly but firmly Chet informed them “We have to move, we won't be alone here long.”

She watched Orym nod, his face now stern and determined.

A soldier's face.

Orym slipped the hunk of metal he had been gripping into his bag as Fearne lifted him, easily swooping him up and onto her shoulders. Man was he light! And so drained, his grasp weak as he held on. Being so drained from the fight, she was sure he couldn't move as fast as they needed to. And they needed to move fast. They needed to find a safe place. They all needed to rest.

***

“Let's go!” Chetney growled.

“On it!” Ashton raged and punched the wall where the exit was.

“We still need to find the …” Laundna’s frustrated statement was cut short.

“Found it!” Imogen exclaimed, briefly holding up the staff FCG had been carrying. Laudna stopped her search with a sigh of relief, and they made their way to the others.

Smart.

Imogen was smart. Orym had known for a while that she was leadership material. They would need the staff for it's ability to teleport everyone. Soon. Too bad it needed to recharge first. Not to mention, someone would need to attune to it.

Because…

Letters.

Letters was gone.

I failed. I failed Letters. I wasn't enough, even with the powers Nana Morey gave me.

Orym felt a firm squeeze on his leg, grounding him. Fearne kept one hand gripped firmly on his leg to make sure he didn’t slip off and she rushed down the tunnel.

He held onto her with as much strength as he could muster, as the remaining Bell’s Hells fled for their lives. He looked at his friends, all beaten and tapped out, but pushing themselves past their limits once again. Helping to steady one another and make sure everyone was keeping up. Orym hugged Fearne’s head tighter and nuzzled it a little. He had great friends. Weird, but great.

I couldn't save FCG, but for now I need to focus on getting the others home.

Home safe.

Alive. Somehow.

Dad and Will wouldn't stop fighting, and neither will I…

[liesmyth]

Alright, I've got another fic question for you! What are your favorite tlt gen fics?

you say “what ARE” I took this as permission to rec Many

A Mild Sort of Resurrection by sigaloenta [Bari Star AU]

In all the extensive special briefings and all-hands bulletins and strict sets of orders preparatory to the Emperor Divine's inspection tour of the Avernus, no one had considered that God might desire to fetch Himself a coffee.

An Impromptu Christening by orphan_account

The Ninth house finds a body and a baby. Nobody who matters is really thrilled about this turn of events.

believing in everything (and knowing nothing at all) by LesbianJesusLovesYou

A series of childhood memories from the Ninth.

“Fuck it, I'm adopting her," said John Gaius, not knowing the paperwork wasn't necessary by @naamah-beherit

Gideon, a highly distinguished Cohort lieutenant, saves the day—and the girl—and then gets stuck in the lift of The Erebos with a man feeding her peanuts as if they have all the time in the world. They don't, but if he doesn't mind, then why should she?

High But Very Drear by @honorarycassowary. (written pre-NtN)

Aiglamene and Crux receive the five hundred ancient dead gifted by the Emperor for the renewal of the Ninth, and also do something that could be construed as mourning.

John 25:12 by @halfeatenmoon

John and his friends escape the cow fortress to spend Christmas Day at the beach. With beer, salads, pavlova, and the corpses of a million fish killed by nuclear weapons testing.

Mortification of the Flesh by @theriverbeyond

In the myriadic year of our Lord—the ten thousandth year of the King Undying, the Lord of the Sharpest Edge!—Harrow Nova challenged the cavalier of the Ninth for his title.

Purgatory Is Mandatory by @urban-sith (written pre-NtN)

Ianthe figures out the true secrets of Lyctorhood while stuck in a time loop at Canaan House.

recognize them by their fruits by @ceruleanvulpine (written pre-NtN)

John and Ianthe deal with the fact that his only remaining Lyctor is the one he never liked much. Maybe they can bond over the fact that they're both egotistical manipulators who lie like breathing? No?

so I open the window to hear sounds of people by @sunderedstar [but really that whole series!]

John misses the beach. The real beach. The current one is mostly soil with a lacy veneer of nuclear ash, clammy and streaky and hilariously radioactive, which is a real bummer when he thinks about it too hard. But the twenty-five meter sea level rise that came when all the freshwater ice finished melting around the mid-century mark ate away at the shoreline, rolled in between the skyscrapers on a new tide, swallowed up all the people who couldn't afford to move anywhere else. Have you seen the rent rates lately?

some part of me must have died by @theriverbeyond

What if Wake survived long enough to bring her newborn baby to Tomb, and killed her. and then the baby didn't die.

the kingdom of heaven by bittybelle

John puts that first-draft dream of his to bed.

Two Things by Isis

There were two things Jeannemary Chatur wanted: to fight for the Emperor Undying by the side of her necromancer, and for the stupid pimple on her chin to go away already.

when I call, will you come to me? by LesbianJesusLovesYou

“My Lady,” Ortus wheezed, shifting uncomfortably. “I only thought you should know… Gideon Nav was flogged before the congregation.”

[fire-lizard-ro]

Lil post about HSR men with religious themes for none have lead me into temptation I found the way myself-

This is for you @pix3lplays <333 (I was screaming at her about it, lol-)

I love???? Religious themed characters and the works that come out of that??? I have an Argenti smut fic in the works with heavy religious themes, but here's a mini ramble about Argenti, Sunday, and Luocha.

CW: blasphemy :))), religious themes, softcore gore almost but not really???, somewhat dark themes/dark romance

Yeah I grew up with church and stuff sorry if some of it does make sense to the general public lololol-

For Argenti (snippets from my fic I'm working on):

"He would sooner rend his mortal form to pieces than ever hurt you. Even a little. He would splay his torn shell across the canvas of stars that blanket the universe that was made for you for whatever other higher powers- whatever fate exists should there ever come a day in which his hands hurt rather than protect. So that they may judge what remains of his soul for his crime."

"At your behest he would present his heart, ripped from his chest, for you to take. You were his heart, anyways… Without you there was only a hollow cage within his chest where never again would the echo of a heartbeat reside. The fire nothing but ash where there was once a blaze of life and passion."

For Sunday:

It's either he makes you his church and his bride (talking about how the church is god's bride) or you make him your elohim your "I am". Perhaps both.

His penchant for control is perfect for this. He will be your only god for you are to have no false idols. Only he must remain in your heart for he is the owner of your soul, your life, your breath. He is the light and the truth. His word is law.

But of course, a god must tend to his flock. He will take good care of you for your devotion.

For Luocha:

The thorns. The almost rosary like item he carries, wrapped around his hand. The words he speaks. "Death is not the end. The dead will return."

Pix brought to my attention the idea that some have about Luocha carrying your body, devoid of breath and life, in his coffin.

And to that I respond:

"So devoted was he that not even the sacred soil of the earth would be allowed to have you. Even in death."

He would search until the ends of the universe to find a way to bring you back to him. Even though his god was made of flesh and blood as he, it mattered not. Only you could possibly be the divine for you were his cornerstone. Without you he would fall apart. God works in the waiting and surely this was his divine burden- His test from you to prove his devotion. He was sure he would one day complete this task for you and bring you back. You, the life beyond death. You the light in the midst of his darkness. His eloah, his elohim, his almighty.

[ironstrange1991]

Need

Pairing: Doctor!Strange, Defender!Strange, Supreme!Strange x Fem!Reader

Synopsis: After the reader breaks one of the Sanctum relics, she starts to feel a little strange and it is up to the Stephens to deal with the situation in the best way possible.

Word Count: 7k

Warnings: Polyamorous relationship dinamics. SMUT: Sex pollen, oral sex with male receiving, masturbation with male receiving, umprotected p in v sex, creampie, cum eating, slight spanking, slight degradation kink, there is probably more stuff that I am not remembering.

A/N: It took me almost a month to write this fic and I know many of you are anxious to finally read it, so I hope you like it and have a good reading.

You weren't feeling well. Your body was aching, but it wasn't a normal kind of pain, it was something very specific. At first you didn't pay attention to the sensations when they started, you ignored them as much as you could because you were worried and embarrassed about having broken one of the Sanctum's relics and you had no idea how to tell Stephen because you were tired of hearing phrases like: Don't touch things you don't know what they are; Don't mess with the relics; Stay away from magical artifacts.

You always did like you were told, but sometimes you needed to clean one shelf or another, you couldn't stand to see the dust gathering and Stephen never remembered to clean them and Defender never had time when you asked him to, so sometimes, against their advice, you did a good job cleaning everything.

It was exactly what you had done that morning. Since you were off work and the three Stephens were busy doing god knows what and you'd be spending the day alone, you decided to be productive and clean up the parts of the Sanctum that were always overlooked in routine cleaning.

Everything was going perfectly fine until you bumped into one of the many vases on the pedestals in the Window of the Worlds Room and it smashed to the floor. Inside the vase there was only earth. Or you thought it was earth, although you could have sworn you smelled a strange smell coming from it. It was a black and thin substance that, when it fell to the ground, raised a cloud of dust, soiling your clothes.

"What the fuck, Y/n" You screamed to yourself bringing your hand to your mouth completely paralyzed. It took a few minutes for you to calm down and clean up everything. As you put the pieces of the vase in a box and tried to pick up that disgusting dust from the floor to dump it in a plastic bag you were pretty sure you inhaled a lot of the substance, but you tried your best not to think about what that meant, although a thought insistent in the back of your head made you scared to death that the thing was actually the ashes of some important master who had died centuries ago and was now stuck to your hands and clothes.

But there were more important things to think about. For example, how were you going to tell Stephen that? He would be so mad at you.

Finally, you hid the box and plastic bag with all the earth you could pick up from the floor and put it on a shelf at the back of the library. You continued cleaning and tried to calm your anxiety by telling yourself that the best thing to do was to tell Defender what happened and ask him to fix the relic before Stephen noticed. You just knew he wasn't going to get mad at you and he would do his best to help you hide it from the other Stephens.

You were finishing your cleaning when you noticed the first symptoms. You felt a little dizzy and thought that was why you hadn't eaten anything in the morning, but then you started to feel hot. Very hot. Which wasn't normal since you were in the middle of autumn.

The other symptoms took longer to appear and it took you a while to notice that something was really wrong.

You noticed that you were thinking about Stephen a lot, which to a certain extent was normal, you thought about your Stephens all the time, however you were thinking about specific parts of their bodies and very specific things they did to you in bed and it was leaving you in an almost unbearable state of arousal.

By mid-day it was clear that those sensations were not normal, mainly because you tried to solve the problem yourself with one of your vibrators and you didn't get any results, in fact the situation seemed to get worse.

You were horny, sweating and aching for Stephen to the point where it became a real pain right between your legs. You couldn't think straight, but you knew it must have something to do with the substance you inhaled and seeing that your symptoms seemed to get stronger by the minute, you overcame your fear and shame and called the first Stephen in your cellphone speed dial.

The phone rang a few times until finally you heard the familiar baritone voice. The sound somehow made the ache between your legs increase.

"Stephen… can you come home, please?"

You didn't pay attention to how your voice sounded, but his response sounded worried. "Y/n? What happened?"

You inhaled and exhaled through your mouth "I'm not feeling well. Stephen, please... can you come home?"

"Honey, tell me what happened." Supreme insisted on an answer.

"Please Stephen, Hurry up!"

...

Stephen and Defender were talking to Wong in his office when Stephen's phone rang. He looked on the screen and seeing that it was Supreme he just declined the call. Whatever it was, it could wait.

A few seconds later Defender's cell phone rang and he excused himself to Wong and left the room to answer it. He came back quickly seeming worried.

"Something happened to Y/n. We need to go home."

Wong didn't ask any questions, he just waved towards the door "Well, go ahead then. Let me know if you need anything."

Stephen walked out of Wong's office with Defender on his heels.

"What exactly did she say?" He asked putting his sling ring on his finger.

"Supreme said she called him begging him to come home. Said she's not feeling well."

Stephen opened a portal to the Sanctum's living room and the two walked through it, finding the room empty.

"And why did she call him?" Stephen didn’t even try to hide his annoyance.

"This is no time to be jealous, Doctor." Defender answered while they went up the stairs and crossed the corridor quickly finding the door to the master bedroom, Stephen's room, open.

When they got there, they found Y/n sitting on Supreme's lap, both arms thrown around his shoulders, face hidden in the crook of his neck. He was stroking her hair, whispering in her ear.

"What happened?" Stephen asked, quickly noticing that her skin was red and glowing, her clothes was wet with sweat.

Hearing his voice, she got up and ran to him, her arms wrapping around his neck, her lips colliding against his. Stephen kissed her quickly, but brought his hand to her forehead.

"Christ, she is burning!" He said casting a worried look at Defender.

Defender touched her arm and as if she had only noticed his presence at that moment, she let go of Stephen and threw herself into his arms.

"I'm sorry, baby. It was my fault."

Defender shushed her "What happened, baby?"

"I was cleaning the house and... it was an accident, I didn't want to break anything, you know I'm always careful with your things..."

Defender shushed her and faced Stephen worriedly. "We should take her to the hospital."

Stephen nodded "Sweetheart, whatever you broke, we'll fix it later. Now, tell me what you're feeling."

She faced him shyly taking Defender's hand and lowering it until it reached between her legs "I’m feeling weird here."

The two Stephens glared at each other and Supreme chuckled nervously. "Did you notice the smell on her clothes?"

Defender buried his face in the crook of her neck and inhaled deeply. She moaned softly and shamelessly rubbed herself in Defender's hand. "Baby, please. Make the ache go away."

Stephen sighed heavily "What exactly did you break, sweetheart?"

"A vase. It was on one of the pedestals in the Window of the Worlds room."

Stephen shook his head "If it's what I think it is, it could take hours for her to get better and the symptoms are only going to get worse unless we..." He didn't finish what he was saying, instead he glanced at Y/ n moaning and grinding herself in Defender’s hand like a cat in heat.

"Baby...please." She whined.

Defender shushed her and placed a kiss on her forehead. "It's okay, baby. We'll make the ache go away."

Supreme stood up "I'm going to lock the Sanctum. Hope you guys saved your energy today.

...

You were burning. Inside out. But unlike any other known fever you didn't feel cold, you were literally melting in beaks of sweat.

Stephen insisted on putting you under the shower to remove any trace of the magical substance that was stuck to your skin and although the water was cold, you were still burning.

He insisted on soaping you up like he was bathing a child and the whole time he kept his face straight and didn't say a word. That, along with all the weird sensations in your body, brought tears to your eyes.

"I'm sorry, Stephen." You apologized for the thousandth time, your voice trembling. "Please, don't be mad at me."

He sighed heavily helping you rinse the soap off your body and smiled reassuringly "I'm not mad at you. I'm just worried. I don't know how long this is going to last."

You whimpered hearing those words. You just wanted it to stop. "Don't you have any spells you can use?"

He shook his head "Not that I know of, at least." He turned off the shower and wrapped you in a towel "Come on, let me take you to bed, I'll take care of you."

Supreme and Defender were in the room sitting in the two armchairs next to the fireplace, but the fire had been put out.

Stephen touched your forehead "The temperature dropped a little with the cold water" He said sitting you on the bed and going to the wardrobe to get a change of clothes for you.

"I don't feel any better. It's too hot." You complained looking at the silk pajamas he chose for you to wear. "I don't want to get dressed, Stephen. I just said it's too hot."

He sighed rolling his lips "Okay, Sweetheart, as you wish." He placed the change of clothes on top of the bedside table looking unsure of his next actions, so you let go of the towel letting it fall down your naked body. "I need you."

He gave Supreme and Defender a quick look as if he was expecting some kind of approval and you spread your legs so he could fit between them.

Stephen touched your face and allowed himself a smirk "I never thought I would have to make love to you under these circumstances, love. This is for you to learn to listen to me and not mess with the Sanctum relics."

You pouted "But you want to make love to me, don't you?"

He took off the shirt he was wearing and you were eager to touch his defined chest. You scratched at his skin, your hand going down to the waistband of his pants. You helped him to undress. He was hard already and you couldn't help but devour him with your eyes.

Stephen grabbed your chin making you look into his eyes. "I always want to make love to you, sweetheart. Always. But something tells me that’s not what you need today."

You grabbed his cock and started to pump him and Stephen let out a little groan watching you spit in your hand and stroke him nice and hard to get him ready for you. He gently pulled your hand away and took over giving his cock a couple of jerks.

“You need to be fucked and that’s precisely what I’m going to do to you now.” He finally entered you drawing a loud moan from your lips. The feeling inside you seemed to intensify for a moment, but when he started to move you felt relief, it was like you could finally breathe after being submerged for so long.

"Oh Stephen..."

Stephen groaned, his face in the crook of your neck, your legs entwined behind his back. He wasn't being gentle and you didn't want him to be. He was right, this definitely wasn't about making love at all, you were filled with the most basic, primal desire to be dominated by a man and be used without mercy.

Stephen leaned on one of the canopy columns of the bed and considerably increased the strength of his thrusts.

"Yes, right there, Stephen."

He grabbed your chin making you look at him "Does it feel better now?" He asked, his breathing coming in between gasps.

You just nodded.

"I know. My cock is making you feel a lot better, isn't it, sweetheart?"

 You nodded vehemently and clung to his neck, searching for his lips as if you needed them to breathe.

"I need you to come, Stephen. Inside me. It will help, I know it will help. Please."

Stephen groaned loud "Need my cum inside you, uh? That will make the pain go away?"

"Yes, yes, it will. Please, Stephen, cum for me, cum inside me, give it all to me."

Stephen buried his face in your neck getting carried away by the moment and let out a loud moan right by your ear and his thrusts stopped completely and you felt his cum spurting inside of you, thick, warm and so much of it. You moaned feeling a different kind of climax. You didn't come, but it was like your body was reveling in the sensation of having his cum inside you. Like the body of a person who has spent days in the desert and can finally feel the water running down their throat.

Stephen kissed you gently and pulled out. "How does it feel now? Better?" He asked, checking on you. He was panting.

You felt slightly better, but the fire still burned between your legs. Somehow you knew it was far from over.

You bit your inner lip and shook your head.

"It may take some time to actually get better, but we're here, we'll take care of you."

You wrapped your arms around him pulling him back on top of you "I need more, Steph, please..."

He chuckled. "I need a few minutes to get ready for you again, sweetheart." He responded placing a peck on your lips and then addressed Supreme. "She needs more. You take over now?"

Supreme got up with an ironic smile on his lips "Tired already, Doctor?"

Stephen pressed his tongue against the inside of his cheek, but he didn't respond, wisely deciding that this wasn't the time to argue.

When Supreme approached you stopping beside the bed there was a smirk on his lips and his eyes showed that he was holding back his laughter.

"It's not funny, Stephen." You said slightly offended.

"I know, I know this is a terrible situation, honey, but I can't help it." He said giggling and pulling you to his lips. You slapped his shoulder, but kissed him anyway. You reached for his belts, but he snapped his fingers impatiently and quickly got rid of his robes. You pulled him on top of you, letting his body weight make his cock rub against your clit. It felt good, very good.

You moaned pornographically loudly.

"Of all the relics, you had to bump into that vase." He said nibbling your bottom lip and teasing you.

"Stephen, please..."

"I know, I know." He patted your hip "Turn around. Get on your hands and knees for me."

You complied, but he tsked "Turn full length on the bed. Let's give the other Stephens a better view of our actions."

You did as you were told and pulled a pillow up to your head, hugging it tight and lifting your ass as high as possible. Supreme rubbed the tip of his cock on your slit, using Stephen's cum as lube. He put two fingers inside you fingering you and gave his cock a couple of jerks and finally, finally, entered you with a hard thrust.

He stopped with his dick buried inside you enjoying the feeling "Fuck, honey, you feel so good, so impossibly warm..."

"Stephen, please move." You begged and moaned loudly when he did as you asked. He rested both hands on your waist pulling you against his thrusts at an incredibly fast pace.

"Oh my god yes, yes Stephen, just like that, fuck me just like that.”

He slapped your ass cheek hard, much harder than you were used to, making you yelp. "Yeah, just like that? Who could tell a magical relic could turn my girl into such a needy little whore, uh?"

You whimpered softly feeling the mixture of pleasure and relief flood your body, Stephen's teasing having an effect on you. "Y-Yes, Stephen"

He slapped you again and kept his pace incredibly rough "Such a needy little thing desperate to be fucked. Aren't you ashamed?"

You shook your head no "It feels good, Steph... when you fuck me like this. So good."

Stephen groaned obscenely loud, his fingers carving the flesh of your hips, his heavy balls slamming against your clit as he fucked your pussy with such hunger.

"I know, honey. It feels good for me too. Your pussy is so warm and so delicious... wanna cum inside and fill you with my seed. Will it help calm the ache?"

"Y-yes, it will, please give it to me, Stephen."

You bit the pillow suppressing your desperate moans that were quickly escalating to screams.

"Oh, I will, but I want to enjoy this warm little pussy a bit more. It feels so good."

He brought one of his hands to your hair, gripping it tightly and pulling, using it as a rein to pull you against his thrusts. It felt so good, so right to give yourself to him like that, for a minute all that existed was the two of you and the sounds of the sex you were having, loud and wet.

"F-Feels so good, Stephen, cock's fucking me so good. It's so big."

He slapped your ass ever harder this time, the sharp pain somehow adding to your pleasure. "Cock feels good inside your pussy, uh honey? You know what, I think you made it on purpose, wanted to know how it would feel to be this horny for my cock."

"N-No, I didn't. But it feels good when you're fucking me." You moaned loudly and bit the pillow feeling your whole body tingling with a strange sensation, it was almost as if you could feel your orgasm approaching, but at the same time it was different, too strange, and too strong and it all felt too much. "Please, Stephen cum, it feels too much, I need you to cum."

Stephen groaned "Beg for it, just one more time."

"P-Please Steph, I need your cum, please cum inside me, please."

And so he did. Stephen's thrusts came to a halt, he moaned so loud and you felt his cum spurting inside you. It felt good and you felt relieved. Your legs gave out and you fell face down on the mattress. Stephen supported his body weight on his arms and kissed your cheek.

"Good girl. Tell me, does it feel any better now, or do you need more?

You were panting, your heart was pounding in your ears, yet you know you were far from sated. "N-Need more."

You were scared by the intensity of it. The relief you felt when he was fucking you, or pushing his cum inside you, gave way to the already known need, a desire for sex that seemed inhuman.

"I know, honey. We'll give you more."

...

Defender was extremely hard. His cock was throbbing desperately asking for Y/n, and it couldn't be any different. Even though he was used to sharing her in bed with the other Stephens, watching them fuck her was still one of the most arousing things he'd ever done in his life. Over time he stopped questioning whether that was right or wrong and just enjoyed the moment.

He couldn't believe such a silly accident could have led to that, and the problem wasn’t that she would have to have sex for the rest of the day and they would have to provide that for her, that was a privilege. The thing that was bothering Stephen was that she was, to a certain extent, suffering, and he wanted to alleviate that, he wanted to make the ache go away.

He went to her, eager to play his part, but first, he conjured a glass of water and made her drink it. He took the hair tie that held his hair and tied hers in a ponytail.

"It'll help with the heat." He said caressing her face. "I wish there was more I could do, baby."

She threw herself into his arms, wrapping her arms around his neck "I'm sorry..."

"Shh, its okay, we are not mad at you, none of us are mad at you. It was an accident, accidents happen."

Y/n sought his lips desperately and he kissed her. Her hands were eager to free him from his robes.

Stephen let her undress him. He kicked off his boots and got rid of his pants and boxers and sat on the bed, leaning against the headboard.

She grabbed his cock and spat on it and swallowed it whole with such a hunger that Stephen gasped. She started bobbing her head along his length and Stephen grabbed her ponytail and let himself indulge in the feeling of her mouth sucking his cock for a minute, but as soon as he realized how that wasn't going to help her situation at all, he gently grabbed her chin and pulled her off his cock.

"Baby, you shouldn't make me cum in your mouth, it would be a waste. You need it inside, remember?"

She nodded with a sweet pout "But it feels good when I such your cock, baby."

Defender almost melted at those words. God, she was so lovely and he was so in love with her that sometimes it felt like his chest was going to explode. So much love that he never dreamed of being able to feel before he met her.

He pulled her to his lips and she moved to straddle him. "I know it'll be even better if you ride me, baby. What do you think, uh? Would you like to use me to make yourself cum?"

She nodded and he guided his cock to her entrance and she lowered her body letting him stretch her inch by inch.

"Oh, baby it feels so good." She moaned resting both hands on his shoulders.

Stephen let out a soft groan "Yeah? Use me then, baby. Fuck me any way you want. I'm yours."

She moaned loudly and began to ride him at first slowly and then increased the pace, fucking him fast and hard, riding him with such desperation. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him for a passionate kiss, eliciting a hum from him and Stephen closed his eyes forgetting for a moment why they were making love like that in the middle of the day. He just concentrated on the wonderful feeling of having her tight and warm pussy around his cock, squeezing him incredibly tight.

Y/n let herself be carried away by the moment, her forehead pressed against his, her lips stealing passionate kisses from his lips. It felt so good, definitely too good.

Stephen held her waist to make her stop for a second. "Slow down, baby. Don't make me cum yet, I want to last for you."

She nodded, but her hips kept moving albeit slowly. "It feels good. Your cock is making me feel so good, Stephen."

"Your pussy feels amazing too, baby. I never get tired of making love to you, you know that?" He cupped her face and kissed her ardently and in one swift movement he placed her under him and entered inside her again, thrusting slowly but putting intensity into the movements, going deep enough to reach that special part of her that always made her moan louder. . And as soon as he found it, she whimpered.

"Y-yes, baby, right there."

She locked her legs behind his back and dug her nails into his skin.

"Gonna cum for me, uh?" He teased.

Y/n nodded. "Yes, yes, baby, I'm so close. Wanna cum, Steph, please."

Stephen leaned on the headboard to increase the intensity of the thrusts and put his other hand between them, he started rubbing her clit in circles and instantly he felt her pussy fluttering around his cock. She closed her eyes and her whole body started to shake.

"That's it baby, don't hold back, cum for me."

She moaned outrageously loud and grabbed a handful of his hair pulling him to her lips. Stephen kissed her passionately and kept thrusting, prolonging her climax and feeling his balls tightening.

"Fuck baby, wanna cum in you. Can I cum, love? Tell me I can cum."

She smiled sweetly. "Y-yes...cum baby...inside." Her voice sounded shaky and so sweet. Stephen buried his face in her neck and gave a couple of intense thrusts before coming to a complete stop, emptying himself into her.

Stephen knew it didn't matter how many times he had come inside her, every time was special and it always made him feel like the happiest man in the world.

...

You opened your eyes feeling your body tired, but you were far from sated. Although the strange feeling and heat had subsided considerably, the arousal you felt was far from being considered normal. Your body was trembling under Stephen, you were feeling weird in your stomach and your walls were clenching around his cock as evidence of how much you still wanted him.

Stephen's heavy breathing in your ear didn't do much to help your situation as you loved the sounds they made when they finished on you.

You stroked his hair gently kissing the top of his head.

 "How are you feeling right now?" He asked in your ear and kissed your lips gently.

"Better, but I still want you." You replied feeling your cheeks getting hot, but deciding to get over your shyness. There was no room for that when you were with your men. "Actually, I think I need my three Stephens now." You confessed.

He smirked cupping your cheek and kissing your lips again. "Yeah? I'm sure the others are eager to join us."

He pulled out and you stretched out on the bed. You were feeling a little sore between your legs, but you didn't pay much attention to that.

He conjured a cloth to clean you up. "We made a mess on you, baby." He admitted making you chuckle.

"I like it."

You waited patiently while he cleaned you up carefully, being extra affectionate. When he was finally satisfied with his work, he got rid of the dirty cloth and kissed you. Your fingers tangled in his hair and he let out a soft moan. So soft and so sweet.

"I want your mouth now, baby, if that's okay." He asked nibbling on your bottom lip.

You nodded, but gently pushed him away so you could sit down. You hooked your finger, inviting the other Stephens to join in too.

"There's room for more Stephens in this bed." You teased.

Stephen, who had put his boxers back on, walked promptly to you, his cock visibly hard beneath the white fabric. There was a smirk on his lips as he sat down on the mattress beside you and stroked your cheek, the tension from before long gone.

"You have no idea what it's like for me to see them fuck you, sweetheart." He confessed taking your hand and leading it to his cock. "You look so good while being fucked, taking them so well. You make me so proud."

"Hm, I love being fucked by all my Stephens. I feel like the luckiest woman in the world." You responded grabbing his cock through the fabric, moving to sit on his lap and pulling him to your lips. He wrapped his arms around you and thrusted his tongue into your mouth, dominating yours in a big, wet, jealous kiss. It was you who broke the kiss first, running your lips down his neck, biting and sucking the skin while grinding yourself back and forth in his shaft.

He groaned and patted your ass and suggested "Get on all fours and stick that luscious ass out for me so you can suck Defender while I fuck you from behind. What do you think, Sweetheart?"

You nodded, smiling slyly, but cast a questioning look at Supreme who was still sitting, smoking a cigarette and watching you intently.

He smirked "I'll join you soon, honey. Now, do as he says, make me proud."

You nodded at him dismounting from Stephen's lap and positioned yourself on all fours making sure to stick your ass as high as possible while wrapping your arms around Defender's thighs and grabbing his cock. You gave him a teasing look before popping it into your mouth eliciting a loud moan from his lips. He threw his head back indulging in the pleasure of it.

"Fuck baby. Oh yes...she really knows how to suck dick." He praised and Stephen chuckled proudly.

"I know, she is amazing." Stephen answered slapping your ass. "Isn't that right, sweetheart? Show him you're the best."

You let out a muffled moan when Stephen thrust two fingers into your pussy and started to fuck you with them. You felt him nudging your entrance with the tip of his cock and you wiggled your ass teasingly as he gripped your waist tight and entered you with a single thrust. You would have screamed if your mouth wasn't stuffed with Defender's cock.

Stephen kept the pace fast and strong and Defender grabbed your hair that was starting to come loose from the hair tie and wrapped it around his hand, but he didn't push. "That's right, baby, feels so good. Flick that wonderful tongue on the head. Yes, just like that. Such a good girl, such a good baby sucking my cock so good."

You groaned loudly, loving hearing Defender loosing up like that. Usually, he was always very modest in dirty talk, which only made the moment even more exciting.

Stephen slapped your ass again, harder this time, and pulled his cock out of you, teasing. "Such a dirty little girl taking my cock so well, uh? And sucking Defender's dick too. You drive me crazy, you know that? Make me wanna fucking ruin you."

You took Defender's cock out of your mouth to respond to his taunts. "Ruin me, Steph. Fuck me til I can't walk. I'm still so horny."

"Yeah? I guarantee you learned a lesson today, didn't you?"

You pumped Defender’s cock hard and replied "You guys aren't mad at me?"

 "How could I be mad at you if your disobedience resulted in the three of us fucking you like that?" Stephen replied entering you all at once and starting to pound into you, the sound of flesh against flesh and your breaths and moans was all you could hear.

Defender pulled you to his lips, fucking your mouth with his tongue as you let out a moan on his lips.

"He's right, baby. You need to be more careful, but none of us are mad at you. How could we…"

He directed you back to his cock and you spat at it and shoved it in your mouth going all the way down this time, feeling the tip hitting against the back of your throat.

He groaned loudly. "...when you suck cock like that? Fuck, baby. You’re gonna make me cum."

You just hummed in response.

"Is that what you want? Want my cum in your mouth?"

You hummed positively making Stephen groan in response. "Such a dirty little thing. She needs cum in all her holes today, isn't that right, sweetheart?"

"Uh hum" You hummed while Stephen fucked your pussy in such violent pace. You put your all into your work, swallowing Defender's cock and then taking it out of your mouth and flicking your tongue at the head and sucking hard and then running your tongue down the length of it just to swallow it again and repeating the process until he moaned loudly and grabbed a handful of your hair and spurted ropes of his warm cum into your mouth.

"Oh fuck..." He let out something between a groan and a chuckle. "Take it, baby. Swallow it all."

You were aware that this was definitely not Defender's usual behavior, he was usually much softer than that and much less talkative, but you couldn't deny how much that side of him appealed to you.

His moans were like music to your ears. "That's it baby... so fucking good. Oh... love you so much."

You took his cock out of your mouth and made sure you opened it for him to see his cum inside and only then did you do as you were told, swallowing everything and sticking your tongue out for him to see.

“So fucking dirty.” He groaned pulling you to his lips.

"I love you too" You moaned in his lips as Stephen's thrusts became more erratic and you could feel him pulsing inside you.

He let out a loud groan. "Fuck sweetheart, pussy feels too good, gonna cum, tell me you want my cum too, tell me how much you need it."

You moaned feeling that you were close too. Your body responding to his thrusts, the coil threatening to snap each time he hit your sweet spot. "Fuck yes, Steph. N-need your cum, give it to me."

He grabbed your hair and pulled it pulling you against his chest as he fucked you mercilessly.

"Body is desperate for more cum, uh? You're leaking and you still need more?" He teased whispering in your ear.

"Y-Yes. Need more."

"Yeah? You're a greedy little whore, aren't you? One Stephen isn't enough, it takes three to fill that pussy with cum and make the ache go away?"

"Uh hum" You hummed feeling that you were very close to your second orgasm. "Stephen... wanna cum."

Stephen bit your earlobe and lowered one of his hands to the middle of your legs and began to rub your clit in circles. You let out a loud moan. "Oh yes, Steph, make me cum."

He hummed in your ear making sure to rub his goatee in your skin, making it prickle. "Then say it: I'm a greedy little whore who needs three Stephens to satisfy me."

You whimpered repeating the words the way he wanted and once he was done with his teasing he started to pound into you even harder and that added to the stimulation of his long fingers on your clit was enough to make you come, but this time it was bigger, more intense and you felt warm liquid running down your legs. Stephen groaned loudly and started to spurt his cum inside you. He didn't stop thrusting until he was fully finished, pushing his cum inside you with each thrust.

"F-Fuck yes. Oh my god, sweetheart... the things you do to me..."

You felt your legs shaking and Stephen pulled out and you sat up in bed. Your entire body was shaking with the intensity of your orgasm.

"Fuck sweetheart, you squirted all over the bed, made a mess." He stated, but there was a certain pride in his eyes, the corners of his mouth curled up in a smirk. "Was it that good?"

You nodded letting yourself be pulled into Supreme's lap who had returned to bed. You were so lost in your pleasure that you didn't even notice Defender pulling away, he was sitting in the armchair by the fireplace now, dressed in sweatpants, his hair pulled back in a messy bun. He smiled proudly at you, deciding to just enjoy the show as now he was satisfied.

"First time wetting the bed like that, honey? You're going to have to do it again for me now." Supreme teased but you knew he was serious, you could see in the way his irises darkened that he was jealous.

"I... don't know how I did it." You replied feeling your face getting hot. "I never..."

"He knows, sweetheart." Stephen chuckled "I'm sure it will happen again sometime. Now, give me a kiss." He cupped your chin and kissed you and then got up and walked gloriously naked to the bathroom.

Supreme held your chin between his thumb and index finger making you look at him. "How you're feeling now? Pussy still feeling weird?"

You stroked his hair, tucking a few white strands behind his ear and trying to understand how you felt. The desperation and the heat had passed, your body was tired and sore, but you still felt the desire for sex and you knew that wasn't normal, because you had already come twice, the second one being the most intense orgasm you've ever experienced.

"I'm feeling better, but I still need you." You replied cupping his face.

He smirked "That pollen really turned you into an insatiable little thing, didn't it?"

You nodded feeling your cheeks getting hot and buried your face in the crook of his neck. "I didn't do it on purpose. I didn't even know what was in that vase."

He stroked your back, his trembling fingertips brushing lightly across your skin. "I know, I was just teasing you, honey. We know you don't need pollen to be horny."

He took your hand and led it down to his cock. He was so hard for you.

You wrapped your fingers around his cock and turned your head to capture his lips in a hungry kiss. Your lips moved in sync as your tongues fought for dominance, neither of you willing to give in, but when you tightened your hand around his cock and began to pump him at a fast, precise pace he relinquished control moaning loudly and you took the opportunity to win him over by sucking his tongue with a victorious hum.

It was you who moved to position him inside you. You were leaking, Stephen's cum running down your thighs mixed with your own fluids, but neither you nor Supreme cared about the mess at that point. All that mattered was the desire you both felt and as you sank into his cock he moaned loudly cupping your face and making you look into his eyes.

"I love you, Y/n. I love the life we ​​share." He whispered as a secret in your ear.

You grinned as you move up and down fucking him slowly but oh so good. "I love you too, Stephen. I love all my Stephens."

He smirked grabbing your waist and taking control back to himself, moving you on his cock at the pace he wanted, always fast, hard, rough even. The squelching sound of his cock fucking your pussy was so arousing, you were so wet, the sensation was different and so amazing and it wasn't just you who noticed that, because Supreme groaned completely lost in his pleasure and confessed. "Fuck, honey, pussy feels so nice wet like that. Cum is the best lube in the world."

You let out a small giggle letting yourself be manhandled by him and feeling like the coil in the pit of your stomach was about to snap again. He felt it too because your walls fluttered around his cock and he groaned loudly, both of his hands grabbing your ass cheeks and moving you up and down.

"Are you going to come for me now? One orgasm for each Stephen?" He teased and you just nodded, your arms wrapped around his neck to keep your balance as you rocked on his cock.

"Do it, honey. Do it now. I can't hold back any longer. Gonna cum too."

You forced yourself down rubbing your clit on his pelvic bone and let yourself be dominated by the wave of pleasure that washed over you.

Stephen came soon after, pushing ropes and ropes of cum inside you.

You two ended up panting, devouring each other's mouths and moaning.

After five loads of cum inside, you felt the fire and need for sex die down leaving you in a state of exhaustion you couldn't remember ever feeling before. Your body slumped over Stephen and your eyes closed almost immediately and you felt him holding you tighter, but everything around you was an incomprehensible blur.

...

Stephen returned to the bedroom after taking a shower and putting on a pair of pants. He had also prepared the bathtub with warm water and Y/n favorite bath salts, imagining that she would need them to relax after their activities.

"If you guys are done, I prepared a bath for her." Stephen said and Supreme nodded.

"Hear that, honey? A hot bath will help you feel better."

She just hummed and mumbled some incomprehensible words.

Defender got up and walked over to them. "I take care of her." He said taking Y/n from Supreme's lap and taking her to the bathroom.

Supreme quickly cleaned himself up and used magic to dress back in his robes and boots. "I'll take care of the mess Doctor, maybe we'd better take a look at that relic before Wong finds out she broke it."

Stephen nodded. "You're right. Did she say where she put it?"

"At the library. In a box."

Supreme used magic to dry the mattress she had soaked so beautifully and part of him was still fighting the jealousy that scene caused in him. He put clean sheets on the bed and finished organizing everything before leaving. After an afternoon like that, he was begging for a hot shower and some sleep.

Defender knew Y/n was exhausted, so he bathed her quickly and sat her up in bed and helped her get dressed in the silk pajamas Stephen had left on the bedside table. He used magic to dry her hair and helped her under the sheets.

"Is cold." She complained now that she was totally free from the influence of the pollen.

"Do you want a blanket, or do you want me to light the fireplace?"

But she didn't answer, falling asleep almost immediately.

He covered her with a blanket and placed a kiss on her forehead. "Love you baby." He whispered and left the room.

...

Stephen shouldn't have been surprised to find Wong in the library. It was the most common thing in the world, but due to all the events he couldn't help but curse internally.

"How is y/n feeling?" The Sorcerer Supreme asked walking down the hall carrying a box with pieces of what was once a relic.

"She is better now." That's all Stephen said.

Wong smiled to himself. "I will take this to Kamar Taj to repair the relic and its contents."

Stephen nodded. "That's precisely what I came to do now."

Wong seemed to think for a moment before speaking. "You know, there's an herbal infusion that can be brewed to ease the... symptoms, but it looks like the three of you managed to solve the problem quite well."

Stephen was blushing like a teenager. "Yes. Thank you, Wong."

Wong nodded opening a portal back to Kamar Taj. “Keep her away from my relics, Strange.” He demanded.

Stephen sighed watching the portal closing and shook his head still trying to believe in everything that had happened. The things Y/n did to Stephen, to all the Stephens... Yet he wouldn’t change a thing.

Reblog please! Leave a comment if you liked it. Interact! I will love to read all of your comments and opinions. It inspires me to keep writing!

BACK TO MULTIPLE STEPHENS MASTERLIST

MAIN MASTERLIST

Tag list: @doctorstrangelovemusic-blog @rachelessfreedom-world @a-tong @ppatricia34me @strangesgirls @dreamxonxx @benaddictcumberpatch @iamsherlocked1479 @evelyn-kingsley @veryladyqueen @notglucose @wickedscribbles @agathassscribbles @rmoonstoner @fanartka @katehawke @nicoletk @azu21 @captaincarmel416 @harlekin6 @coffedraven @withalittlehoney

@dontmindme262 @dementeddoll @yourmajesty13 @strangeions @bloodyflowerrr @insanelyobsessedwithdilfs @dragonqueen89 @newtsniffles @whiskeyho @sherlux @xourownsidee @kakashibabe02 @hobimysolecito @geeky-politics-46 @lykaonimagines @d0ct0rstrangewife @classickook @iobsessoverfictionalmen @bobateadaydreams @aphroditesdilemma @sassenach-on-the-rocks

@thealleydog @anadlockfan @pinkthick @loverofallbroken @butchers-girl @singhfae

[actual-changeling]

I've been rotating this scene in my head for like three weeks now, send help. There's a continuously expanding fic I'm writing and this is a warm-up stream of consciousness. thing. I guess.

If there's one thing I know how to write it's overly emotional mental breakdowns.

tagging @today-in-fic (side note: would people be interested in a general tag list for my txf writing? i did it for GO until the fandom got. bad.)

And they're changing and still looking at each other, thinking, is this who I want you to become? Is this how you see me? Is this the 'you' I shaped without knowing I was taking the knife to your face?

There are no apologies spoken, but they both know they're sorry. They both know they're forgiven, and that was never the question to begin with. If there's one thing they never have to ask for, it's forgiveness.

Every single time she takes his hand, she wonders if their fingers will always fit together the way they do now. If it's enough to squeeze them until it hurts and then find more pain in the letting go than the holding on.

You don't need me. You never have, and he never did, did he? I've just held you back.

Scully cannot decide what's worse—being needed and becoming expendable or never having been as important as the blood rushing through his veins, after all. Mulder is the oxygen in hers, indispensable, vital, the reason the world has yet to suffocate her as it reaches for her with its greedy claws and sharpened teeth.

I loved you, she wants to say, and then corrects herself before the words can spill. They built a home out of misplaced guilt and fear of loneliness, and yet she wouldn't change a day—she likes to think that neither would he.

I want to love you. I still love you. I love you. 

She knows she might never tell him. Maybe she will, maybe it will be a goodbye instead of a long-overdue confession. Maybe he will kiss it off her lips and lick it out of her mouth. Maybe she will take what could have been to the grave.

I don't need you to love me back.

Maybe her words will grow roots and bury themselves in the soil of their relationship, maybe they will grow and morph into something entirely unrecognisable; maybe Mulder will dig them up one day and read them back to her.

I just need you to keep looking at me and make me believe that you need me. That you have always needed me and always will.

When did they turn themselves into a game? When did she start feeling lonely with his palm pressed to her lower back? When did he stop believing in her? Why does love suddenly feel like surrender on an empty battlefield she thought she had left behind?

One in five billion, he told her, and she believes him even though she knows he is lying. She still believes him when his past catches up with them and takes her place.

She needs to believe him, or she's going to turn around and walk away.

She might anyway.

She will never ask, but she knows he would never forgive her if she did, not really. Not in a way that would bridge the gap opening between them as they drift further and further apart, and she believes him and he believes her, and she doesn't recognise either of them anymore.

There's a stranger in her bathroom mirror smeared with soot asking, who is this person you no longer need? Because it isn't me. It can't be her.

Everything smells like him, and her body is aching for more, for his arms wrapped around her as she tries to keep him from breaking within her embrace. For his hand on her lower back and the loneliness it brings. 

Mulder will gift her his anger, and she will take it because anger means there is still something left. Anger presses a gun into her hands and tells her to keep fighting.

Anything, anything at all, and she will take it.

I burned a long time ago, and now you've finally grown tired of playing with the ashes.

[lyricalt]

[tf2 mini fic] roll over

BLU and RED spies take a smoke break together.

(Implied R!Sniper/R!Spy, PG)

bonus scene: the sequel for all bite. There was no way to fit it neatly in the main fic so here it is.

---

There is something different about RED Sniper. 

BLU Spy considers the body, slumped awkwardly in its seat. He taps his foot in contemplation.

Something is off. It bothers him that he cannot quite place it, but he has an instinct for this kind of thing. He remembers the way RED’s sniper had turned a little too late from the window. That flash of annoyance across his face had been fun to see, per usual, and he’d died quite appropriately to the butterfly knife. 

At the risk of soiling his shoes with blood, BLU Spy kicks the body so that it falls to the floor, splayed out and arms akimbo. He cranes his neck and pulls out his disguise kit.

After a moment, he blinks. Ah-hah. He sees it now. The change. He snorts, flipping through his paper masks until he finds the one with RED Sniper’s face on it.

“How interesting,” he says with a laugh, and takes a pen out from his pocket to make the correction.

---

There is a secluded backdoor in one of the factories with an awning that hardly anyone uses. The spies tend to take their ten minute smoke break there, away from the main battle but still close enough to hear whatever’s going on. It’s irrelevant on when the daily smoke break occurs, but this time BLU Spy leaves a note for an early meeting.

They smoke in silence for a bit. Both are leaning against the wall with the locked door between them. 

BLU Spy speaks up first, letting his arm fall back to his side, flicking ash from his cigarette. “There’s a possibility I had to update my disguise kit because of you.”

“Hm? Someone on my team wearing a new hat?” RED Spy asks.

They speak in the privacy of French, casual and pleasant, because it’s their only chance in the day to not be so secretive. A nice ten minutes to shoot the shit.

“No. It was something very subtle. But you know me, always obsessing over details.” BLU Spy pauses, just shy of being dramatic, because he can’t very well hold it in. He’s been waiting ages to speak to his counterpart today. 

“You do have an eye for them, Bleu. Well?”

“Your sniper, Monsieur Rouge,” Bleu says, watching RED Spy very carefully. “The one with the, hm, ‘keen eyes’ and ‘fast trigger’.” After a moment, he gleefully punches RED’s arm. “You sly dog.”

For three seconds, Rouge’s expression is one of perfect blankness. Bleu is about to congratulate him on his poise when Rogue shoots up from the wall to grab Bleu’s upper arm, shaking it with such intensity that Bleu fears his arm might vibrate out of its socket.

“No. Don’t tell me he’s wearing that. Not in public,” RED Spy starts, so aghast he abandons his carefully cultivated European French and slips back into his natural Quebecois accent. “This can’t be. I didn’t think he would-”

“I saw it myself.” Bleu shuffles the paper masks in his kit and carefully removes Rouge’s grip off him when he almost drops the entire stack. “Would you like to see? I’ve already added it to my repertoire.”

Rouge has since launched into a litany of “no no no no no no no, he can’t do this to me-” while Bleu takes his time finding the right mask. A second cigarette makes an appearance in Rogue’s fingers. He begins to smoke both at the same time. It’s a nostalgic sight to see. Bleu has not seen Rouge double fist cigarettes since their days at the university during final exams. 

Rouge hisses, “Please, M. Bleu, don’t put that o-”

Pleading hands grasp at his sleeve to no effect. Bleu slips on the disguise. Poor Rouge looks like he wants to perish on the spot from sheer mortification. His eyes dart to BLU Spy’s throat.

There is nothing at Bleu’s neck. Rouge would see his sniper’s RED uniform in perfect order, not a hair or button out of place.

BLU Spy lifts the kukri illusion, pointing to a very nice piece of strap fitted along the shoulder, a touch thicker than the rest of the sling. At first glance, it appears to be a nice lanyard to hang an extra carabiner on the shiny metal ring. 

Or perhaps something else could be clipped on such a fine metal ring. Who could say.

“Quite subtle indeed,” Bleu says, imitating RED Sniper’s voice, though the intonation is entirely wrong. He smiles, serene, and doesn’t hesitate to deal a killing blow in the form of a head tilt and a playful, “Arf-arf.”

There is a third cigarette between Rouge’s fingers. He squats down and smokes them all in silence, sucking them down to the filter. He looks like he wishes for the ground to swallow him up.

They still have four minutes left of their break so Bleu takes pity on the man and pulls off the mask. The disguise fizzes away, leaving him back in his blue suit. He pats Rouge’s shoulder and joins him squating on the ground, forearms resting on his knees. There’s only so much aloof leaning against a wall that he can take in a day. 

He nudges Rouge. “It’s going well, I take it?”

A sullen pause seems to be the only answer Rouge is willing to give until he finishes his cigarettes. After brushing off a credible amount of ash away, he grumbles, ”Yes.”

“Ah, my dear, so it really would’ve never worked out between us. How could I have competed with a piss-smelling hobo living in a dirty van? But don’t fret, sweet rival of mine, I still hold a special place in my heart from our delightful fraternity days-”

“Disgusting. Awful. Should you not wait to enact psychological warfare upon me until after our ten? At least you’ll be paid for the effort,” Rouge says stiffly. He sighs, rubbing his temples. “Take me back to Respawn. I need more ammo and cigarettes.” 

Rouge hands him a blade. Bleu cackles, not minding that Rouge has somehow stolen his own butterfly knife off him. Quite talented at that, those quick hands, even amongst other spies. 

“But of course,” he says, and slits RED Spy’s throat neatly.

For a very entertaining day ahead of him, it’s the least he can do 

---

Sniper gets cornered on the way to supper after his shift. It’s Spy, who looks unusually harried. 

“Promise me,” Spy says, serious, “Promise me you will not wear that thing around your neck in public.”

Sniper almost sputters. Awfully bold of Spy to bring it up in the middle of the hallway, in public, which seems like the opposite of what he wants. That thing could only mean one item in particular. Sniper puts up his hands, hissing softly, “There's a reason why I became a sniper, spook. I like hidin’ and stayin’ out of sight. You think, of all people, that I’d be an exhibitionist?” 

He truly cannot think of a worst thing to do. It’s a hard pass, if Spy ever asks this sort of thing from him, and Sniper wonders if this is going to be some kind of boundary-setting conversation. He hopes it isn’t. Not in the middle of the hallway and not right before supper. He’ll have to take his meal up in a tree if the conversation goes poorly—he can already feel a haunting embarrassment creeping in.

“Are you?” Spy asks.

“No!”

-----------------------------

Note:

RED Spy = French Canadian

BLU Spy = Cajun

Neither are European French, though they both speak it professionally. (Professional Frenchmen.)

I suppose the reason Sniper thinks he sucks at learning French (on his own) is probably because Spy is speaking French Canadian in their private moments. Ah well!

[shibaraki]

Do you have any mha fic recommendations? Something long probably? I need some to read after my finals are over

this is a wee bit vague beloved lol I have a lot of long ones but I’ve only really been reading gen or fics with little focus on romance so I’ll throw my favs out there for you and pray something sticks:

the thin gray line [89K + quirkless vigilante izuku]

mean rabbit [104K (ongoing) + quirkless izuku + mentor mirko]

little stars [213K + hawks and dabi deaged in a quirk accident + family feels]

from ash, from dust, from soil [129K + canon divergence: after sekoto peak touya and tenko find each other]

cure to evil [274K + antihero izuku has AFO]

fear no evil [50K + pre canon izuku kidnapped by humarise + dadmight vs dad for one vs dadzawa]

reminder there are also recs collected from my end of year event here(ship/gen) or here (xreader) 🤝 O AND GOOD LUCK WITH YOUR FINALS!!!!!

[yearningaces]

IF IT AINT TO MUCH TROUBLE. LET ME RIDDLE YOU THis

YOU wrote a fic about nyx's s/o dying and then being buried and him NOT having it

WHAT WOULD HAPPEN if his s/o was cremated? Like they take his s/os body one day, come back sometime later and hand him a vase while being like "well here you go!"

WHAT HAPPENS THEN?!

Oh my God ok so actually it might be easier

If they're buried alone in a grave in a cemetery he will dig down and lay with their corpse, this is established.

While he will mourn the loss of them, how they burned and were scorched in a stone box without anyone who cared around-

He can bury your ashes. Ashes are great for soul(he is stretching so much but let him have this.)

Now, will he get so so emotional having to be the one to observe particles of ash that's so small in comparison to how large you seemed in life?

100%

But he'll find the spot in the forest where you saved him, where you met. He'll dig down so far by the tree that he's etched a heart into the bark of, hell open the container and bit by bit pour it out, as gently as one could.

A small bundle of moss laid overtop so he isn't setting pure dirt on what once was you, similar to a blanket, attempting to tuck you in one last time.

He buried you when the sun rose, never wanting you to go gentle into the night, but wanting you to lay with the bright colors and warmth of the sun rising once more.

He keeps the urn. Not wanting to add it to the soil. It won't decompose the same and he wants to care for your resting place, maybe add some flowers to the soil just over the spot so no one tramples it

And he mourns

[asumofwords]

Smoke, Fire and Ash - Aemond POV

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence, death, forced marriage, and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. Aemond!POV, murder, violence, blood, gore, infidelity, smut.

This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: You are the eldest daughter of Rhaenyra and Daemon Targaryen. You are forced to navigate the difficult surroundings of your upbringing and the eventual disintegration between your family and the Hightower's relationship. What will happen when your older and estranged uncle suddenly takes a more sinister interest in you? (Dark!Aemond x Reader)

Masterlist

Characters: Aemond!POV Targaryen X Reader, HOTD characters.

Note: Hello my angels, I thought I would write this up considering I've had so many of you asking for Aemond!POV chapters for when he goes to Harrenhal etc.

So I have written two short chapters, one as an introduction to Alys Rivers (I can hear you all hissing right now) and the other will be the Aemond!POV of when he finds the reader after her assault. I'm sorry I haven't written too many Aemond POV's as of late, but I don't really have the energy to do it! So, I hope this feeds you for the time being. Enjoy <3

Alys Rivers

Alys Rivers was a woman of conviction, head strong, and assured.

Though a bastard and a wet nurse in Harrenhals walls, she had teeth that had been sharpened by the blade she had been raised on. Quick witted and patient, Alys was willing to sit back and watch things play out, and not be rushed to action.

Though, it helped to have her sight. A gift in which she had been born with, a gift in which her mother before her had guided her through.

Storm clouds and pools of water, flames of fire or cups of ale, Alys saw many visions and knew much of many things. She knew of the future, and of the past. And she saw the present as anyone else did, but with whispers of what was yet to come.

Alys had looked into the flames of a fire one night, and she had seen a vision of green and black, a vision of Fire and Blood, dripping from the earth, pooling thickly beneath it. She saw a mountain three feet tall, and she saw a man with silver hair, and one lone eye, standing tall with sword in hand.

She had seen the destruction of House Strong, and had not warned her kin.

Aemond Targaryen was a man of duty, but Alys Rivers contradicted this. For she was low born, a bastard of a House he unleashed years of collected rage and sorrow upon.

The Prince remembered the day clearly. News had come to Kings Landing, and death had come to Harrenhal in return.

He had every person, young and old, child and man grown, woman and babe, lined up for him in the yard of Harrenhal, and with Aemond’s hand, he delivered swift and unjustified death to all of them. 

They had watched one after the other be slain, all in a line, waiting for their turn to go next. Waiting on shaking legs, soiled in fear as they were pushed towards the One-Eyed Prince.

With each swing of his sword, slowly, but surely, the House Strong dwindled, and their numbers dissolved into a lump of flesh and blood. Each one begged for mercy, each child calling for their mothers, each woman begging for their life. But some of the men did not beg, and went to him without a word, eyes coldly staring into Aemond’s.

Strong. 

He supposed that was why the House was called what it was. He could not say the same for the women though, but they would fall, whether on their knees willingly or with the slice of his blade through their bones. 

Each and every single one of them was slain, until a pile of heads grew larger and larger, its base unsteady as new ones were tossed atop, rolling from the highest point down onto the blood soaked stones below. 

She had been one of the last of them.

Alys Rivers.

A Strong Bastard.

A woman, older than him, with jet black hair and bright green eyes. She had an air to her which invited mystery, allure, and Alys had walked towards Aemond, with no fear, as though she already knew her fate.

As though she knew that she would be spared. 

And she was. 

“Are you going to beg?” He had asked her cruelly, waiting for the tears to roll down her cheeks and her meek pleading to begin. 

But she didn’t. 

Instead, Alys Rivers spoke with confidence, “No.” She did not address him, “It is not my time. She waits for you…” Alys paused, seeing Aemond stiffen, hand readjusting on the large blade which dripped with the blood of her House, “Your zaldrītsos.”

Zaldrītsos.

How did she-

Aemond looked at the woman.

She was dressed in maids robes, and her hair lay shinily down her back. Her eyes were what drew him to her the most. They were the brightest green he had ever seen, brighter than the scales on Vhagar, like two emeralds that glistened behind her thick, black eyelashes. 

“Come.” Aemond had barked, flicking his sword out to the side of him, blood spraying against the stone.

Alys smiled.

She did not bow, she did not address him as Your Grace, My Lord, My Prince, she did not offer him anything but what she would willingly give. It intrigued him. And so with swift and wet footsteps, he stormed across the courtyard, leaving his men to deal with the mess that he had created, and to finish what he had started. 

Aemond had taken her, forcefully, brutally, and roughly in one of the closest rooms he could have found. His armour was dripping with blood, it dotted his face and stuck thickly in his silver white hair, clumping the strands together, and if she had any fear or worries about it, or about him, she did not show it.

And instead, Alys Rivers had welcomed him into her cunt, which was wet with her slick already without having been touched. 

And thus became a new duty Aemond created for himself.

To see her. His Alys. To watch her. Talk to her. Fuck her. Dive between her thighs, latch his lips around her nipples which leaked mothers milk into his mouth for him suck greedily, nipping at the stiffened peaks with his sharp teeth. 

As he grew to know Alys, he grew to love her too. His Alys. His witch. She sees much and more, and tells him much and most. She sees things, in the clouds, in the sea, puddles or chalices. In the flames of the fireplace, or the flames of Vhagar, who he let her ride with him, sat astride in front or behind, her soft skin pressed to him tightly. 

For any fear Alys had for him, she did not show it. 

She did not cower at his anger, nor did she shrink at the sight of his eye like others. She came to him, swiftly, confidently, and kissed the scarred skin, cradled it with milk white hands, whispered praise and adoration to him, and murmurs of her visions. 

Of his zaldrītsos.

And visions of herself. 

“I see a babe born of your blood, his fire licking at my womb. A young Prince.” Her hands soothed through his long hair, as she held him in the chambers he had demanded for her.

A Prince. 

A babe. 

His. 

Aemond hummed, “And when will the bastard Prince be born.”

“When the tenth moon comes and goes, the babe will be born as the air shifts, and another grows.”

“Another?”

“A true born Prince of silver hair and purple eyes. You will be wed to your zaldrītsos, and she will come to love you as I do.”

Aemond felt his heart race in his chest, “And you have seen it?”

“I have, my dragon. I have seen many things, heard much more. I see what is yet to come, and what has been.”

Aemond shifted, leaning on an arm so that he lay above her, “And what do you see, my witch?”

Alys looked into his eye and let a soft hand brush against his face and up through his hair. Leaning up, she pressed a kiss to his sapphire eye, then to his cheek, and then to his mouth, rolling her hips upwards to meet his own, his softened length beginning to harden again. 

“I see a union, of Green and Black. Of two great flames, united as one.” The witch rolled her hips again, feeling his length stiff and heavy upon her thigh. Reaching a hand down she grasped him and pumped him in her palm, “I see a love that was lost, united again.” 

Leaning forward, Aemond slid through her folds and into her waiting heat, pleasure rolling through the both of them.  As he moved in and out of her cunt, Alys continued to whisper her visions. 

“An ‘X’ to guide her way back to you. She walks through the dark to seek you out. To t-touch you.” Her back arched as Aemond dips a head to take a swollen breast into his mouth. 

Aemond began to thrust into her harder, “Ravens will whisper the words of a burning star, a crown forged of blood.” She cried, nearing her release as his long fingers made their way to her pearl, rubbing in slow circles, feeling her cunt flutter around his cock. 

“I saw a child, born from ice and fire, the Prince that was promised. Five years to come, from her blood, the Merciless Princess.”

Alys came with a cry, and Aemond toppled over the edge shortly after, laying on top of her for her to brush slow hands through his hair as they both came down from their highs, sighs and jagged breaths, Aemond’s cock softening inside of her. 

“She will come back to me?” Aemond whispered into her neck, feeling the heat from her body radiate up onto him.

“She will always come back to you.”

And Aemond always came back to Alys.

For she offered visions of hope, visions of love. Words of encouragement and praise. She offered a place of solitude, a place to be him. A place to get away, to hide, to seek out a warmth he never got from you, or his mother, or anyone who was supposed to love or care for him. 

Alys Rivers had seen many things. 

And she had seen you.

Thanks so much for reading along with me, if you wish to be added to the tag list please let me know :) Likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated ! Enjoy <3

Tag List:

@izzicle @ej-shitchats @may-machin @alegria1580 @witchy-jadda @videovampire @inkdelicious @queteimporta39 @virtualsweetsqueen @fo-cus @auratiqs @feyres-fireheart @queenofshinigamis @asoiafwh8re @teasandcrumpets @shesjustanothergeek @grungegrrrl@queenofsarcazm @marihoneywk @curlszx88 @virgogaia @loser-keiji @asoiafwh8re @whore-of-many-hot-men @vipervixxen @theonewiththeimaginaryboyfriends @watercolorskyy @lavendervisions @mazmack666 @chokefrog @orangejump-suit @nik2blog @serrhaewinin @ohemgeewhat @winxschester @cryptidsrcool @drinking-tea-and-be-obsessed @celestedonut @bloodyvelvet777 @iamapersonthatsalive @av-sos @yentroucnagol @sanzu-s @opheliaas-stuff @bellameshipper @maviee @persephonerinyes @neytiri-09 @ensnaredinwonderland @xbluegracex @sotragedynut @nattieot7 @shesawaywiththefairies-blog @coffedraven @prettycutebunny @celestedonut @the-jess-life @ssulfurr @out-of-life @madislayyy @crazylokonugget @cicaspair418 @katwmk @relminnie @milovart @teagrex @visenyaverse @bellameshipper @toodlesxcuddles @tempt-ress @dontmindmereading7 @qyburnsghost @55gyi53vtnquwziq5 @notnormalthings-blog @maidmerrymint @qyburnsghost @madislayyy @chelseaouat

Bold is who I cannot tag!

[stuck-in-the-ghost-zone]

MAC. OH MY GOD. HEAD IN HANDS. HOLY SHIT. ashe is in college (normal college i think??) VYCNENT IS IN SUPERHERO COLLEGE!!!! wiwi fucking around in the woods..... dakota also in college i think??? idk that wasn't super clear 2 me but i think he's there IDK I WAS JUST SO EXCITED FOR ALL OF THEM TO BE LIKE. EXISTING IN THE SAME PLACE!!!! ashe oughhh ashe i missed u ashe <3 i like to think he still has the trickster's wings. thats canon 2 me idc. oh my godd they're doing like. relatively normal shit!!!!!! aaaa!!!! oh i need 2 write a fic about them in college. i got 2. i MUST. even just a oneshot idc i wanna do it!!!

THE IRL MARIOKART AGAIN!!!! LE FROG!!! WILLIAM'S FUNERAL!!!! THE SILLIES ARE BACK!!!!!!!! SHENANIGANS!!!! oh that was so good. that was SO GOOD!!!!! oh im going 2 cry. i didn't cry and then it got to dakota with his aunt and i teared up a lil and then it had william falling off the cliff and landin gin the dirt and just. holding the soil in his hands and feeling it and i actually cried a lil. man. also CANTRIP IS NOT IN THE SPIRIT WORLD!!! WHERE IS SHE!!! DOES THIS MEAN SHE'S ALIVE OR IS SHE A GHOST I DON'T KNOWWWW GOD I WANT 2 KNOW. I WANT 2!!!! and atlas being killed. an X being carved into him. XAVIER VILLAIN ARC????? 👀👀👀👀 PERHAPS??? god i hope so. i would love to see him as a villain. i rly like xavier actually and i think he deserves to go a little apeshit <3 SO EXCITED FOR WHATEVER THE FUCK IS GONNA HAPPEN WITH MAL!!! GUY WAS ALREADY FUCKED UP AND NOW HE'S EVEN MORE UNHINGED!!!!! i like mal a lot. he fucking sucks. terrible horrible awful little man. i love him so much he's such a cool fucking character i want to throw him out a window <3 idiot shit bastard man!!!!!! and william asking vyncent if he would come to ghim funeral. bro was like THIS CLOSE 2 asking him out. i am telling u. and btw william's fucking "vyncent did you realize anything while i was gone?" right ebfore vyncent just passes tf out in ep39 was so fucking. yeah. that's ghostknife!!!!!!! it always almost happens and then it fucking doesn't!!! i love that for them i hope they're ten times as gay and awkward in s3 <3

GOD. that was so good. finales always fuck me up dude. im so fucking emotional. i feel like my entire being is vibrating like a lightning rod or some shit. ALSO u gotta send me more trivia abt the episodes!!! i think the last one u sent me was for episode 15 of s2. GOD PLS SEND ME GREYSCALE AND DEADWOOD TRIVIA!!!!!! I WANT IT!!!!! I WANT 2 KNOW WHAT THE HELL CHARLIE WAS THINKING DURING GREYSCALE. WHAT WERE UR THOUGHTS KING!!! TELL ME MR SLMCL!!!!!!!!

man. im gonna listen 2 bitb next but i feel like i gotta take a few days first yk??? i gotta let that shit sink in. i hope ur havin a good time reading worm <3 i wil start worm soon!! i just wanna get thru jrwi first bc if i try to get into more than one thing at a time that i know will inhabit my entire brain i feel like my brain is melting. too many blorbo thoughts i gotta stick to one thing first. anyway yeah that was. fucking wild <3 ty for getting me into jrwi i regret nothing

HIIIIIIIIIII WHISKEY. SORRY I LET THIS SIT IN MY INBOX FOR SO LONG I LOVE YOU.AUGH. PRIME DEFENDERS MY LOVE. every day i think about yakko showing up in cosplay . that made me so happy. ashe winters i love you so dearly. i have so many thoughts about post s2 ashe. if ashe isnt in s3 im going to fucking riot.

when i tell you that fucking part with the cliff made me UGLY CRY . like full on. "and you stay there" lives in my head forever.

EXTREMELY EXCITED ABOUT A POSSIBLE XAVIER VILLAIN ARC. LIKE. THATS GOTTA BE HIM RIGHT. THAT CANT NOT BE HIM. i wonder if allen is with him. fuck. AND WHERES CANTRIP. GOD. i miss her :( i think she deserves to go full vengeful spirit on williams ass and haunt him like a fucking poltergeist. god forbid women do anything.

dude finales fuck me up so bad too. god. 39 hurts me just a little bit more than 40 but 40 is still SOOOO insanely good to me. 40 was like the breath of fresh air we needed. i dont think 40 hit me as hard as a finale because i know we're getting a 3rd season so its not OVER yet. but something about it just made it feel so much more impactful than a regular season finale. god. i miss them so much.

IM SO GLAD YOU GOT INTO JRWI !!!!!!! ITS BEEN SO FUN SEEING YOU GUYS REACT TO EVERYTHING!!!!!! jrwi has been like. HUGE main hyperfix for me since like. last october. so im having sooooo much fun forever. hehehehe. me when my beloved mutuals and i are all into the same piece of media again!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk]

Begged & Borrowed Time (xxi, ao3)

Chapter twenty-one: The human queens arrive for their second meeting with the inner circle. (Prologue // previous chapter // next chapter)

(AN: I'll be taking a teensy break from this fic for the next few weeks to focus on Nessian Week stuff! But when we get back... shits about to hit the fan)

The first time Nesta Archeron had found fae beneath her father’s roof, there had been ice on the roads.

Snow had lain thick on the ground, and the night had been dark and depthless— the height of winter. Such a stark contrast, she thought now, as she glanced out of the receiving room window and found the trees bordering the Archeron estate blooming. Fallen pink flowers littered the lawn, scattered across the meticulously clipped grass, and the air outside was laden with the promise of spring, balmy and fresh. 

How much had changed with the seasons, she thought as she Elain waited in silence.

From winter to spring— how much had changed.

That first time, that first night, she had taken a seat at her father’s dining table and felt her blood run cold— had beheld Feyre’s newly pointed ears and felt her heart stop dead in her chest. Nesta had been empty, then. Hollow, like there was no space inside her for anything but anger and grief and bitterness. But when Feyre had gone out into the forest the morning after and been attacked by a creature from above the wall…

He’d seen her.

Cassian had seen her, cut through all of the lies to find the truth beneath, and even as they spat and scowled at one another… Nesta had stood by those same windows, looking out to that same tree line, and found herself asking for his name. And against all her better judgement, against everything she knew was proper, she had let him in. Let him ease his way into her heart. 

How much had changed, indeed. 

Wryly now, she smiled to herself, smoothing a hand down her skirts as she waited for the knock at the door. It came soon after - a brisk knock, Feyre’s knock, echoing through the halls - and as Elain departed in a whisper of silk and perfume to see their sister and her friends inside, Nesta looked once more to the blossom trees swaying gently in the breeze outside. When those branches were bare again, she mused, how much more would have changed? Would war have been and gone, by the time autumn ran its fingers through the forest? Would she watch the seasons change from above the wall, with Cassian by her side? Or would the winter snow settle over nothing but the ruins war left behind, ash and dust in the soil? 

“Nesta!”

Feyre’s voice shattered the silence, her footsteps muffled by the thick carpet as she stepped into the receiving room ahead of the rest. Nesta turned from the window to find her youngest sister standing before her, a glint in her eyes that hadn’t been there the last time they had met. There was a quiet joy in her voice, and something… different about her. Something that seemed… new, like some patina had fallen away to reveal something shiny beneath. She was practically glowing with contentment, a crown of golden feathers sitting atop her gently curling hair. 

“It’s good to see you,” she continued softly, her voice smooth, assured in a way Nesta hadn’t heard before— like Feyre was suddenly more certain of her place in this world. “You’re well?”

Nesta blinked, masking her surprise as she nodded. Rhysand appeared beside her sister, an easy kind of smile on his face as his fingers intertwined with Feyre’s, the tattoos swirling over her fingers so similar to the ones that peeked out from beneath the sleeve of his jacket, cuffed at his wrists. His violet eyes were sparkling, and atop his raven hair sat his own crown, the twin to her sister’s, and as Nesta looked to Feyre once more—

She knew about the bond, Nesta realised. 

The High Lord had told her at last, it seemed, and as Feyre smiled brightly at the Lord of Night, she dipped her head before taking a step back, letting him lead her to the circle of chairs Elain had set out before the fireplace. Nesta looked at the way Rhysand held Feyre’s hand, the way he saw her into her own chair before sinking into his own. The way their hands separated for just a moment as they settled, before he reached back across the space between them and linked their fingers together again. 

Some kind of envy flickered in Nesta’s gut, but she forced it down as she remained in her spot by the window, the exact same spot she’d occupied the last time the queens had visited.

Azriel entered next, giving her a brief hello, Nesta before scanning the room and checking the windows. The blue-siphoned warrior nodded once to Rhysand - some kind of confirmation, she supposed - before immediately taking up the same place by the door he’d had last time, too. Morrigan was close on his heels, the blonde slipping through the door with a box in her hands. Her grip was tight around its base, and dimly Nesta wondered if that box contained the proof that queens had asked for, if that was why Rhysand’s cousin carried it so carefully, but it didn’t matter— ruby siphons gleamed in the doorway, and Nesta’s thoughts were cut short, abandoned entirely as an all too familiar silhouette appeared from the hallway. 

In the distance Nesta heard the sound of Elain locking the front door, the slide of the deadbolt across, but it was quiet, muted, as if every one of Nesta’s senses had shut down. Her heart had simply given up and stopped beating— but when Cassian’s gaze snapped to hers across the room, when he canted his head an inch to the side and gave her a small, crooked smile… 

The air between them went taut, damn near trembling, and she wondered if the others could sense it— if it felt that way for them, too. Did they feel the way the space between them seemed to vibrate? Or was it just her world that had stopped spinning the moment he’d crossed that threshold?

The late morning sun drifted lazily across his face, dancing across the scar cutting through his eyebrow and glinting off the earring he wore, and Nesta worked to keep her face blank, even as her eyes dropped to his mouth, remembering the feel of his lips at her neck. Her heartbeat kicked, ratcheted, drawn to him like something fundamental, some base instinct that had her feeling comforted by the sight of those wings, tucked close to his spine as he stepped through the receiving room door.

She’d been horrified by those wings, once.

Now she looked at them and remembered only the way he’d shuddered when she’d dragged her finger along the membrane, soft and smooth beneath her touch. 

Illyrians don’t let just anybody touch their wings.

With effort she took a breath, blinking away the memory of that night, the way the lightning had lit the stable up in silver as she lay pressed against his bare chest, her hands wandering, tracing his tattoos as his palms skated over her waist, his touch a brand as she gave him a piece of her soul and he gave her a piece of his in return. 

It speaks to trust and devotion.

Gods— she had missed him. Every second they’d been apart had felt protracted, indeterminable, and now he was here, striding into her father’s largest sitting room so easily, so casually, like he hadn’t called her his the last time they’d been together. Like they hadn’t danced on an abandoned dock beneath a sky littered with falling stars.

She glanced to the space opposite Azriel, on the other side of that door. It was where Cassian had stood last time, and the spot she expected him to fill now, but he didn’t even look in that direction. No— he only strode purposefully across the floor and took up a spot right beside her, so close they could almost touch. 

“Hello, Nes,” Cassian whispered.

In his habitual leathers, he turned his face an inch to the side, just enough to give her an irreverent, entirely disarming grin. Nesta blinked. Whilst she didn’t think there was anybody left in that damned room that didn’t have at least a suspicion that there was something going on between them, it hadn’t ever been acknowledged out loud. She wasn’t sure she wanted it to be, either, and yet here he was, standing right next to her as though this were the only place in the world that made sense. His arms hung at his sides, fingers inches from the hilt of the dagger at his thigh. He faced forwards, casting an assessing eye over the Archeron sitting room, but Nesta caught the sidelong glance he gave her, dragging his eyes from the crown of her head to the tip of her toes and all the way back up again. It burned— her skin burned beneath his gaze, and as his bottom lip found a home between his teeth, as his eyes still roamed, blatant, over every inch of her, Nesta felt every single nerve she possessed suddenly ignite, like she was nothing but touchpaper beneath his flame. 

When she hissed, Cassian smirked.

“What are you looking at?” she demanded, and oh, how different those words sounded now.

It had been the first thing she had ever said to him, a question spat over a dining table, and it felt distant now, so long ago it might as well have been another life. She hadn’t known his touch then, or his smile, or his laugh. She felt a blush crawl over her throat, rising to her cheeks as she held his attention, rapt. His eyes darkened as he took in that spread of colour, a muscle feathering in his jaw as his gaze turned languid.

“Nothing princess,” he hummed in answer, his voice dipping low, a brush of velvet against her skin. “Just admiring…”

His eyes wandered to her neck, following the curve of her collarbone before sliding to her chest. Lower— he dragged his eyes over every single inch of her, pausing at her waist, her hips. Nesta felt her heartbeat stutter and climb, and a smirk tugged at the edges of his lips - those damned lips - as if he could hear the way it pounded, for him and him alone. His teeth sunk once more into his bottom lip, and Nesta tried hard not to think about those teeth grazing her neck, how it felt when he bit into her lip instead of his own. She hissed again, and his eyes danced as they flicked up to her face, lingering on her mouth for far too long, as if he were thinking the same damn thing.

“…the scenery,” he finished, his voice a low murmur.

He nodded to the window at her back, to the trees in bloom along the edges of the estate. Nesta scowled, but Cassian seemed to be suppressing a laugh, his lips pressed tight together as his eyes glittered with mirth. 

“Stupid bat,” she muttered, and his expression turned to one of unparalleled delight, unfettered joy lighting up his entire stupid face as that stupid smirk grew even wider. Nesta huffed. 

“Is that all you’ve got, sweetheart?”

“Stop calling me that.”

“You like it when I call you sweetheart.”

“I don’t know what gave you that impression, but—“

“You did, princess.” Cassian smirked, folding his arms casually across his chest. “You can’t lie to me. I can hear the way your heart skips.”

Nesta turned her head to look at him, eyes wide. He smirked still, and even though they spoke in whispers, her eyes went to Elain standing only a few feet away, to Feyre sitting by the fireplace, speaking in quiet murmurs with Rhysand, Mor beside them, dark box still held  tight in her hands. Cassian quirked an eyebrow, his head tilting to the side. 

“I hate you,” Nesta murmured.

Cassian grinned. “No, you don’t.”

Across the room, Rhysand cleared his throat. He shot Cassian a sharp look, an almost imperceptible shake of the head. It had Cassian lifting his chin and straightening his shoulders, settling back into his role as General rather than the rake who seemed to enjoy flirting with her more than anything in the world. He turned his attention back to the room at large, one hand coming to rest idly on the hilt of his dagger, his wrist at the pommel. 

But he spared her one last glance, one last look, and his hazel eyes were soft when he met hers, filled with a kind of affection Nesta had never found anywhere else. 

“Later,” he whispered softly, a small smile playing at the corner of his lips. 

Before she could answer the clock chimed noon, and on the other side of the room, Azriel’s stance mirrored Cassian’s, his hand resting on the hilt of a dagger too. But before his fingers had finished curling around it in preparation…

The queens arrived. 

***

Only two this time— only two of them had bothered to turn up.

The eldest queen and the youngest, one with skin like aged paper and one with hair like spun gold, stood in the middle of her father’s sitting room, two guards each flanking them. Rhysand rose from his chair.

“We appreciate you taking the time to see us again,” he began, his voice smooth, courteous. 

The eldest queen only sneered and turned her eyes to the window, finding Nesta standing before it. Just as Cassian had, the queen raked her gaze over Nesta’s entire form, but where Cassian had had a glint in his eye and a smirk on his lips, the queen’s face held only disdain.

“After the insult we received last time,” she said, her lip curling, “we debated for many days about whether or not we should return.” Her eyes narrowed. “Three of us found the insult to be unforgivable.”

She waved a hand to the empty space at her side, at the absence of the others. Nesta glowered, and at her side Cassian shifted closer, the edge of his wing brushing her shoulder as he adjusted his stance, so slowly, so smoothly, it was almost imperceptible. His hand wasn’t just brushing his dagger now. His fingers had closed definitively around the hilt, his eyes no longer straying or alight with mischief. He was focused now, all terrifying force and brutal strength.

“If that is the worst insult any of you have ever received in your lives, I’d say you’re all in for quite a shock when war comes,” Feyre said mildly.

The eldest queen huffed, indignant, and it was the golden queen who tilted her head, sending waves tumbling over her shoulder. Her eyes had fixed on Feyre’s hand joined with Rhysand’s.

“So he won your heart after all, Cursebreaker,” she said idly.

Feyre’s expression flattened, her eyes shuttering. “I don’t think it was mere coincidence that the Cauldron let us find each other on the eve of war returning between our peoples.”

“Our people?” the queen asked, raising a brow. “Our people do not invoke a Cauldron. Our people do not have magic.” She shrugged. “The way I see it, there is your people— and ours. You are little better than the Children of the Blessed.” She waved a hand, lowering herself into one of the chairs Elain had set out. Her eyes moved over Rhysand, from the crown balanced on his brow and over to Azriel by the door. She took in the spread of him, his wings, before blinking mildly and looking, finally, to Cassian. She noted the way his wings spread, the way he seemed to be drawn to Nesta as if pulled by an invisible thread. Her eyes dropped to his fingers, still tight around his blade. 

“What does happen to them when they cross the wall?” she asked slowly, her voice soft but in no way gentle. “Are they prey? Or are they used and discarded, left to grow old and infirm while you remain young forever?”

Cassian snarled softly, a low rumble in his chest as he drew another half-inch closer to Nesta. She didn’t know whether it was something deliberate or some innate draw that kept him drifting towards her, because he didn’t look at her. He kept his brutal gaze locked on the queen who pursed her lips in distaste. 

The eldest queen rolled her eyes. She nodded at Mor, seated in the chair beside Rhysand, golden hair shining and her dress a deep red. The queen nodded to the black box Mor carried.

“Is that the proof we asked for?” the queen asked. 

Mor’s face was unreadable, the nod she gave so small it seemed she resented it. Nesta looked to Feyre, whose face had turned ashen, fraught, all trace of her earlier happiness vanished. Her eyes were wide, and as she leaned forward in her chair, her hand slipped free of Rhysand’s. 

“Is my love for the High Lord not proof enough of our good intentions?” she said, and Nesta wondered if anybody else caught the desperation in her tone. “Does my sisters’ presence here not speak to you? There is an iron engagement ring on my sister’s finger, and yet she stands with us.”

Elain shifted on her feet, the iron ring on her finger dark against her pale skin, but she kept her head high as the gaze of both queens shifted to her, studying her as though she were a curiosity to be leered at. It made Nesta bristle, the way they cast their eyes over her sister, faces lined with disdain. 

“I would say that it is proof only of her idiocy,” the golden one said flatly, “to be engaged to a fae-hating man… and to risk the match by associating with you.”

Her lip curled with contempt, her voice dripping with condescension, and as the queen’s eyes drifted back to the ring on Elain’s finger, Nesta felt the last fragile thread of her patience simply… snap. 

“Do not,” she spat, “judge what you know nothing about.”

The golden one looked like she was about to laugh. “The viper speaks again.” She shifted her eyes to Feyre, tsking lightly. “Surely the wise move would have been to have her sit this meeting out.”

Cassian snarled— and there he was, her fearsome general, the man who had ended lives with his bare hands, staring down a queen like he’d love nothing more than to feel her blood dripping through his fingers. He angled himself in front of Nesta, using an arm to push her behind him. Nesta scowled, and looking around the edge of his wing she saw the eldest queen frown, saw the golden one raise an eyebrow, and saw Feyre turn her eyes to Rhysand in barely disguised shock.

But if Cassian noticed - if he cared - he gave no indication.

“She has more of a right than any to be here,” he said darkly, his voice a low, menacing thrum, every word clipped. “This is her father’s house, and she has risked far more for this war than you.”

Nesta took a step to the side, rounding his wings in order to see his face, but Cassian didn’t look at her. He only glared at the queens, coldly furious, and Nesta had never seen him so incensed. Fury burned behind those eyes, and it was as though she could hear his heartbeat hammering, as though she felt every single pulse of his anger. 

“You’ll speak to her with the respect she deserves, or you won’t speak at all.”

His words rang with a threat, stone-cold and not at all idle, and it didn’t scare her. Perhaps it should have, but it didn’t. Rhysand only looked at Cassian sharply, violet eyes alight with warning. 

The golden queen glared right back, but before she could say another word, the eldest queen huffed loudly.

“We came here for one thing and one thing only,” she said, cutting through it all. She waved at the box in Mor’s hand. “Show us the proof we asked for before we change our minds entirely.”

Rhys nodded, and Mor flipped the silver latch on the box she carried. Inside was a glimmering silver orb, glittering like starlight had been trapped inside. Nestled in black velvet it shone, and Nesta might have thought it beautiful had Mor’s face not been so grave. Had Rhysand and Feyre not gone utterly quiet. Cassian was silent too as he took a step to the side, back to his original spot, but tension still lined every inch of him, agitation laid thick on his frame. It was almost as if he didn’t trust himself not to reach for that blade and cut out the queen’s tongue. His lips were pressed tight together, his fists were clenched, and it was for her, Nesta knew. All of it— for her. 

It was a feeling so foreign, so unfamiliar, that she didn’t quite know what to do with it.

For her, he’d damn any hope of diplomacy, risk Rhysand’s wrath. All for her.

At last his eyes slid to her, and Nesta watched as all that tension simply… melted. He let out a breath that soothed all those jagged edges, and his fists unclenched. He offered her a tiny smile, the barest tip of his lips, as Mor lifted the orb from its wrappings, her eyes turning distant and chilled, thrumming with a kind of power Nesta didn’t know how to name. It made her hair stand on end, a shiver running down her spine as the blonde waved a hand over the shining surface of the orb before setting it down on the floor. 

A cloud of light and colour seeped from it like a dense fog before settling an inch above the fibres of the rug their father had imported from the continent. Nesta watched in disbelief as a river materialised on the ground— the river where she’d watched the stars be mirrored as they fell to earth. She gasped, and Elain did too, rocking back on her heels as the scene continued to emerge. Suddenly Nesta could see the mountains that surrounded the city in the distance, and a cloudless sky above a line of brightly coloured shops on the riverfront. The sun was shining, and it was a place of colour and life, exactly as Cassian had once described.

Nesta tore her eyes away from the magic hanging thick in the air, her gaze flitting to the warrior by her side. He was facing forward, eyes on the queens, not on the cityscape on the floor, but he shifted just a little, just enough to let his little finger brush the side of her hand. Elain took a step forward, eyes wide, entranced, and all eyes were on that city conjured from light and mist, a mirage on the receiving room floor.

In the silence, Cassian brushed the side of her hand once more, more determined this time. With the rest of the room distracted he took her hand, fingers weaving through hers as his palm slid home, holding her tightly as that foreign city sprawled across her father’s carpet. An inexplicable feeling of rightness spread through her at that stolen touch, and her grip tightened as the city on the rug shifted, the vantage point turning to the mountains that cradled the city. She watched a distant sun shine lazily over distant streets, and she squeezed his hand so hard she might have worried he’d bruise, but—

He only squeezed back, a silent display of comfort. Of support and solidarity. 

Then the illusion on the rug shattered— and Cassian’s hand slipped from hers as Nesta pulled away. Her heart ached, but as Elain took a step back, as Feyre raised her eyes and Mor returned the orb to its box and fastened the lid, Nesta clasped her hands before her, like Cassian’s touch hadn’t been there at all. 

“That is Velaris,” Rhysand said. “For five thousand years, we have kept it a secret from outsiders. And now you know. That is what I protect with the rumours, the whispers, the fear. Why I fought for your people in the war— only to begin my own supposed reign of terror once I ascended my throne.” 

Nesta could think of nothing else except that Cassian hadn’t kept it a secret from her, even when he should have.

The queens shared a look, and for one moment - one achingly hopeful moment - Nesta was certain they would grant them the aid they needed. Just one moment— one that seemed to hold the fate of them all suspended.

And then the eldest queen’s eyes turned cold.

“We will consider,” she said mildly.

“There is no time to consider,” Mor retorted, her voice tight, surprised.

Even Rhysand blinked. “Do you not understand the risks you’re taking?” he asked, his brows furrowing over violet eyes. “This alliance is for the good of all of us—”

The queen let out a derisive snort. “Did you think we would be moved by your letter? Your plea?” 

A cruel kind of smile curved her lips, and when she nodded to one of the guards at her back, he moved to pull something from his pocket. In a heartbeat Cassian had half-drawn his dagger. But it was a letter— a small square of paper, a dark Night Court seal broken on the edge. Cassian didn’t remove his fingers from the hilt, though, and the tension only continued to mount, becoming suffocating. Nesta knew she wasn’t the only one caught between fury and shock.

“I write to you,” the queen read, her tone grimly gleeful, “not as a High Lord, but as a male in love with a woman who was once human. I  write to you to beg you to act quickly. To save her people—to help save my own…” She tossed the letter onto the table sitting between the chairs. “Who is to say this is not all some grand manipulation?”

The breath left Nesta in a sharp, aching gasp as the queen with the golden hair lifted her shoulders and let them fall in an idle, laconic shrug. The silence was thick and suffocating, a shroud, and Nesta knew every ounce of shock and anger that was storming through her veins was replicated within every one of them in that room. Mor’s face had gone white, and Feyre’s lips were parted in an expression of bleak, despairing surprise. Even Rhysand didn’t bother to mask his shock, and he too was silent as if he didn’t know what to say. Nesta looked across the room and found Azriel’s eyes hard and cold, and by her side Cassian was gripping his dagger so hard his knuckles had turned white. His wings twitched, and she could swear she could hear his heart hammering— or was that just hers?

“What?” Mor said at last, aghast.

The golden queen sneered. “Perhaps the High Lord has crept into our minds to make us believe—”

“Fools,” Nesta spat, interrupting the queen in a voice that burst from her chest, strained and trembling. “Arrogant, stupid fools.”

Without thought, she took a step forward.

Elain reached for her, grasping, her fingers grazing the back of Nesta’s hand— but Nesta pulled herself free, her eyes widening as she kept her gaze fixed on those two queens, content to sentence them all to death. She took another step forward, slow and purposeful, and this time Cassian moved too. But unlike Elain, Cassian didn’t pull Nesta back. No— he took that step with her. 

Nesta clenched her teeth, curled her hands into fists by her sides. “Give them the book.”

Her voice echoed in the silence, and in the quiet she could hear the clock ticking in the corner, every second a brutal reminder that time was of the essence, and without that book they were all of them doomed. The steady swing of the pendulum had her heart thundering, every infinitesimal shift of the minute hand her fear deepening. There was no time— no second option, no other hope.

“Give them the book.”

The eldest queen leaned forward in her seat. “No.”

Nesta felt Cassian beside her, knew without looking that his eyes were on the guards, hand on his blade lest any of them - any of them - take so much as a step towards her. 

“There are innocent people here,” Nesta said, trying to keep her voice steady and failing when she thought of the destruction waiting for them— when she thought of the harm that could come to Elain, to all the people she’d ever met. “Give us a fighting chance— give my sister the book.”

The queen sighed, but the look she sent Nesta’s way was filled with contempt. Her dark eyes were unforgiving, the slant to her mouth almost cruel as, warily, she waved a hand. 

“An evacuation might be possible—”

“You would need ten thousand ships,” Nesta interjected, her voice, her strength beginning to waver. “I calculated the numbers— you’d need an armada, and you expect me to believe that whilst you’re readying for war, you will spare us so many?” She shook her head. “No— you’d leave us stranded here.”

The queen blinked passively, and then shifted that dark gaze to Cassian, standing so close to Nesta that she could feel his warmth. The queen looked at that barely-there gap between them and raised an eyebrow.

“Then I suggest asking one of your winged males to carry you across the sea.”

Cassian snarled again, the sound of it low and vicious and rumbling through Nesta’s chest. His teeth were bared, eyes alight with fury, and as one of the human guards lifted his blade half from its sheath, Cassian smiled— a terrifying, coldly violent and ferocious grin that had the blood draining from the guard’s face. Cassian’s wings flared, the siphon on his chest pulsing and casting crimson light across his leathers, and Nesta could almost feel his rage, that absolute unending fury as the queen turned her gaze back to her, looking at her as though her life were nothing— meant nothing.

“Please,” Nesta said at last, the word sticking in her throat. Across the room, Feyre’s mouth dropped open. “Don’t let us face this alone.”

Tears burned in her eyes, and she wanted to be mortified— but she was too angry, too terrified of what would happen once those queens left. She didn’t let her eyes stray from those two sovereigns sitting in her father’s chairs, wondering how cold they must be, how heartless, to so willingly leave them to die. Her breath shook, her tears threatening to fall, and—

A warm hand suddenly encased hers, and her view of the queens was cut off by large, membranous wings as Cassian rounded her, stepping before her.

A single tear slid down her cheek.

“I told you once before that I’d find a way to keep you safe,” he said, and his voice wasn’t quiet. It was as though he’d forgotten where they were— who surrounded them. When he looked at her like that - like she was the only thing in the world that mattered - Nesta found herself almost forgetting too. “I’ll protect this house and your people with everything I have,” he vowed.

Another tear fell, and Cassian reached up to wipe it away. His fingers didn’t leave her face— he cupped her cheek, his thumb drifting across her cheekbone. Her heart was beating so hard it almost hurt, and her ribs were aching as though something was squeezing, constricting them. Cassian dipped his head, the tip of his nose brushing her forehead, and his voice slipped lower, deeper, weighted with an absolute kind of conviction.

“If anybody touches you,” he swore, “I’ll be the one to start this fucking war.”

Nesta was silent, feeling his thumb brushing across her skin as the heel of his palm rested against the corner of her mouth. His fingertips curled around her jaw, and for a long moment they stood there, neither speaking nor moving. Nesta looked into his hazel eyes and found certainty there, bald honesty and raw emotion that had her wanting to sob, to fall to her knees. He held her there, his promise lingering in the air and stretching between them.

It was Mor who broke the silence.

“Is it money you’re after?” she demanded of the queens. “Name your price, then.”

Her voice shattered something, breaking whatever spell Nesta had been under, and Cassian’s hand fell away from her face. Her cheek was cold in the wake of his touch, and Nesta cleared her throat and took a step back, but Cassian didn’t step away. He stood closer now, closer than before, his wing extending behind her shoulder and curling slightly around her arm. 

It was a touch Nesta would never have allowed before— one she would have scorned and pushed away, but—

She needed him. More than ever, she needed him.

“We will return to deliberate,” the golden queen said as Nesta felt her heart sink.

Mor practically snarled. “You’re already going to say no.”

The queen shrugged. “Perhaps.”

And then— in a moment they were gone, just like that. Nesta felt the little kernel of hope she’d harboured crumble, and as her eyes remained fixed on the empty spot where the queens had stood, she willed herself not to cry— not to fall apart.

But when Rhysand rose from his chair, there was curiosity in his eyes, not disappointment. His violet gaze was trained on the chair that the golden queen had sat in, and his lips parted as he ducked, picking up a box that had been hidden, tucked away behind the queen’s skirts. Feyre’s eyes widened as he retrieved it, a soft gasp leaving her as Rhysand lifted the lid.

“Is that—“ Feyre began, her words cut off as Rhysand lifted a book out of the box. It was old, bound in leather, with a bronze clasp, and with the sigh of relief that came from Mor - with the way Feyre reached for the box with her mouth hanging open - Nesta supposed this was the book, the one they needed. Her mouth went dry, and even though she realised that perhaps they weren’t doomed just yet after all, something about the book in Rhysand’s hand made her skin erupt in goosebumps, a chill crawling down her spine.

There was something wrong with it, something unnatural.

Rhysand laid the book back in the box, closing the lid with a snap. When he looked up, he turned to Elain and met her eye before looking to Nesta. 

“It’s your choice,” he said, “whether you wish to remain here or come with us. Should you wish to come with us, I’d suggest packing now.”

Nesta looked to Elain. Her sister twisted the ring on her finger, her eyes cast downwards, and as Cassian’s wing remained spread at her back, Nesta said, quietly, “It’s up to you.”

Elain brushed a thumb over her engagement ring. “I can’t,” she whispered. She looked up— first to Nesta, then to Feyre, her widened eyes containing a multitude of emotions, all of them akin to sorrow. “I can’t.”

Nesta nodded. She didn’t look to see Cassian's face, but she didn’t need to. She could practically feel the tension in every line of his body, so close it was to hers. He was wound as tight as a bow string, ready to snap.

“I’ll have men stationed here,” he said firmly, and this time Nesta did look to him, finding his eyes fixed on Rhysand— calculating and methodical, a General’s stare. “They can be here within the hour to protect both this house and—“ he paused, eyes flicking down to Nesta, “—your husband’s.”

His voice dipped as he said the word husband, his lip curling incrementally. 

“They’ll be glamoured. You won’t see them, but I’ll have them at the perimeter at all hours. If you change your mind,” he continued, face tightening as though he hoped more than anything that she would change her mind, “all you need to do is announce that you want to cross the wall. They’ll hear you.”

Elain’s eyes hadn’t moved from her wedding ring, but she murmured a soft, “Thank you.” 

Nesta said nothing.

There was nothing left for her to say, anyway.

Rhysand cleared his throat. “We should get back,” he said, just a shade too gently. He looked to Feyre, extending a hand before turning to her sisters. “My home is your home,” he added, eyes moving over Elain and shifting to Nesta as Feyre’s fingers settled between his. “Its doors are always open to you.”

His fingers squeezed Feyre’s, and Nesta’s eyes tracked the movement. Her heart tugged painfully, and all she could think was—

“That’s why you painted stars on your drawer.”

Feyre nodded, giving Nesta a smile that seemed far too melancholy, far too close to tears.

“I wish we had more time,” she said, her voice swollen with regret. “I wish I could—“

“Go,” Elain said, lifting her head at last and stepping forward. She reached out to clasp Feyre’s free hand between both of her palms and, bravely, Elain smiled. “Go. It’s alright. We’ll be fine.”

Feyre loosed a breath, and Nesta wondered whether she had seen the way Elain’s hands trembled just a little, if she noticed the shadows beneath their sister’s eyes. She must have, Nesta thought, because suddenly Feyre pulled away from Rhysand completely, drawing nearer to Elain and keeping her hand firmly in Elain’s grasp.

“Come and find me,” Feyre said softly. “If it gets too much, if you don’t feel safe— come and find me.”

Elain only nodded, and Feyre’s gaze shifted to Nesta. Gods, there was so much that was fraught between them, so much that was frayed and so much that still hurt, but... They were sisters, and none of it much mattered now, not as Feyre gave Nesta a weak smile, and Nesta dipped her chin in a small nod. Perhaps she might have stepped forward. Perhaps she might have pulled the pair of them into an embrace. She couldn’t remember the last time they had shared a hug, the three of them, and Nesta might remedied that then and there, but… Rhysand placed a hand on Feyre’s shoulder, and for the first time Nesta saw him hesitate.

“We need to get back,” he said slowly, and Nesta didn’t think she imagined the way his voice had dropped lower, turning apologetic, almost sorrowful. Feyre turned to him, and the way he looked at her...

It made Nesta’s heart ache.

He looked at her like she hung the stars in the sky, like she was the reason the sun broke over the horizon every morning. Rhysand looked at Feyre the way Cassian looked at her, and suddenly Nesta couldn’t bear the thought of them leaving. Nesta wanted to grab Cassian’s hand and never let go, wanted to ask him to stay, to not go where she couldn’t follow.

But…

Feyre pulled away from Elain, one last rueful smile playing across her lips. After a murmured command and a sharp nod from Rhysand, Azriel disappeared into his shadows. He didn’t offer them a goodbye, but the Shadowsinger gave Nesta a brief nod before darkness claimed him, engulfed him entirely. 

After the last meeting,  Elain had insisted that they stay for tea, but there was none of that now, only movement as Feyre took the box containing the book they had needed from Rhysand’s smooth hands, looking down at it with a stony expression flitting across her face. 

Mor made a start for the front door— to be polite, Nesta supposed. They would exit through the door rather than vanishing into nothing like Azriel and the queens. Rhysand gripped Feyre’s hand once more, and as they made their goodbyes, Nesta remained rooted to the spot, and Elain stood in her place before the window, hands clasped before her. Mor was waiting already by the front door, and as Rhysand and Feyre departed, Nesta turned to look over her shoulder, looking at the warrior who seemed unable to move, unable to step away, as if aware, somehow, that the moment he did - the second he left this room - there was no going back.

It was the point of no return, some final threshold being crossed.

A shiver ran down Nesta’s spine. As soon as Cassian left this house, she knew he would be going to prepare for war. She’d known it before, of course. Known for weeks - months - that war was coming, but it had only ever been an abstract concept before, and now it felt more real than ever— closer than ever.

Cassian rounded her, just as he had when she’d stood up to the queens, and reached for her, grasping for her hand. 

“Nes,” he began, breathing her name as his eyes searched her face, roaming across her jaw, her cheekbones, the tip of her nose. He met her gaze, that burning hazel pinning her in place. He opened his mouth, but the words seemed to get stuck on his tongue, tangled in his throat. He swallowed, fingers twining around hers as he tried again. “I—“

“Cass,” Rhys called from the hallway. “We need to go.”

Cassian’s eyes turned fraught, and he looked more torn than Nesta had ever seen. She wasn’t used to it, seeing him like this. He was so confident, so arrogant, that when he stumbled over his words and looked at her like he couldn’t find a way to express whatever it was he wanted to say… Nesta felt her heart swell, straining uncomfortably behind her ribs as her hand gripped his to the point of pain.

Don’t leave, she wanted to say.

His other hand went to her wrist, lightly tracing the string of the bracelet he’d given her, the pad of his finger gliding across her pulse. He offered her a small smile, a gentle curve of his lips. 

“I have to tell you,” he said softly, and Nesta’s heart thumped. “Before I go, I have to tell you.”

She wasn’t breathing, wasn’t thinking. His thumb still circled her wrist, his other hand still gripping her so tightly it was like he resented letting her go. And Nesta knew what it was he was about to say, felt the words because they were lingering on her own tongue, swelling in her own chest.

“I—“

“Cass.”

In the doorway, Rhysand scowled. Cassian swore soundly as he whipped his head to face his High Lord, and Rhys had the good grace to cringe a little, to look somewhat chastened, but he didn’t back away. 

“We need to go,” he said again, but there was softness there that hadn’t been there before, that Nesta hadn’t ever heard from him before.

Cassian’s fingers unwound from hers, his hand rising to lay a palm flat against her cheek. He pressed a kiss to her forehead, letting his lips linger as he eked it out, as though trying to wring from this moment every single second he could. Nesta’s heart hammered against her ribs, rioting in her chest, and as her eyes closed she laid a palm flat against Cassian’s chest, his lips still at her brow. She could feel his heart— felt every lurching beat of it as they stood there, neither of them able to pull away.

“I’ll see you soon princess,” he said at last, lifting his face from hers, and Nesta knew with certainty that that wasn’t what he’d planned to say at all.

It wasn’t a goodbye— but gods, it felt like one. It felt like she was at the edge of a cliff, a breath from tumbling over, and the only thing in the world that could save her was him, those hazel eyes and that arrogant smile, and he was pulling back, pulling away, leaving her to tip over that edge and come crashing down alone.

With Rhysand waiting at the door, Cassian dragged himself away, leaving Nesta standing there, with nothing but the fading warmth left behind from his hand on her cheek. 

Come back, she wanted to say. Come back and tell me that you love me.

He didn’t.

He reached Rhysand and looked back, a thousand things left unsaid. It hurt— Nesta couldn’t understand why, but it hurt, watching him leave without knowing when she would see him again. 

“Soon,” he whispered— and then he was gone, down the hallway and out of the door, winnowed away before Nesta could so much as take another breath. 

Suddenly she felt cold.

“Please stay,” Elain said quickly, and when Nesta turned to her, she found her sister still standing in the same spot by the window, practically shaking, like she’d only just been holding it together, and with Feyre had departed all the strength she’d had left.

“Please,” she said, lurching forwards and gripping Nesta’s wrist, her fingers closing right over Cassian’s bracelet. “Please. I don’t— I don’t want to be alone.”

Nesta nodded. “Of course—“

“I’m still dreaming of her Nesta,” Elain cut in, her voice strained. “Clare, poor Clare. Every night, I see her in my dreams and I—“

“It’s alright,” Nesta said, before Elain could devolve any further into hysteria. “I’ll stay. I’ll tell Tomas that you’re ill and need me with you.” She felt Elain’s hand tremble, but didn’t pull back. All she could do was repeat herself, hoping it might ease the worst of Elain’s fears.

“I’ll stay,” Nesta said again. “I’ll stay.”

Taglist: @hiimheresworld @highladyofillyria @wannawriteyouabook @infiremetotakeachonce @melphss @hereforthenessian @c-e-d-dreamer @lady-winter-sunrise @the-lost-changeling @valkyriesupremacy @that-little-red-head @sv0430