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stonecoldjerseyfox · 4 years

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Jersey on my mind (part 8)

While humming along to The Allman Brothers Band, Mila increases the speed, drumming on the steering wheel. She feels excited. Spending two days in bed was enough to make her feel better, more well rested than she’d felt in months. Of course, she’s in pain to the point where she could vomit, but that didn’t stop her from crawling out of bed that morning.

She got herself dressed, or more like wrestled the clothes onto her body, before crashing down the stairs. Carol cooked breakfast in the kitchen. Rick sat at the breakfast table, with Carl, Michonne, Morgan, Glenn and a big red-haired man with an astonishing mustache, who introduced himself as Abraham. She and Juri had, on occasions when they were awake, been visited by all sorts of people. Carol brought them meals and was happy to sit down and talk to them. She had also offered to prepare a bubble bath for Juri, when Denise checked on Mila’s wound. Glenn and Maggie had dropped by to give her cigarettes, no vodka though, and sat down and talked for a while. Michonne and Carl kept her and Juri company in the evenings.

Though in isolation in the bedroom, Mila found out everything she could about the community outside from the others. It sounded like a soap opera. The same night Daryl had brought her there, people had died. The leader of the community, Deanna, had lost her husband and the man in charge, Pete, had also been killed. Deanna had broken down by grief, understandably, and left all responsibility to Rick. And as that was not enough, Rick and Morgan had discovered a quarry filled with walkers. One thing was certain, there wasn’t a shortage of drama.

And then there was the enigmatic archer, Daryl Dixon, whom she hadn’t seen in days. Well, until now.

Mila looks at the man in the passenger seat. He has stopped moping over the fact that she insisted on driving, but has remained silent. Every now and then he has given short commands about where to drive. Otherwise, he’s been silent. Mila hasn’t taken note. Instead, she pushed one of her cassette tapes into the car stereo, to Juris delight. In the rear-view mirror she sees how he nods his head side to side with the music. He loves music. That walkman he got for his second birthday was truly a blessing. It has been very helpful when Mila needs to ward off walkers, it keeps him occupied, shielded off from the gruesomeness to an extent.

”What exactly is this quarry?” Mila breaks the silence and looks at Daryl. ”Everybody’s talking about it.”

”A quarry.” Daryl shrugs.

“Yeah. Thanks. What else?”

“A couple of hundred dead bastards trapped down there.” Daryl says. ”The barricade may burst. We need to lead them away.”

”Ah.” Mila searches Daryl's gaze. ”Hey, I didn't lie when I said I'm a good shooter.”

”Never said you weren’t.”

”Well then you can stop moping about me tagging along?”

”Was it really wise to bring the kid?”

”The kid-” Mila gives Daryl a sharp gaze. ”has a name. And he’s my responsibility. I bring him along everywhere. Besides, he wanted to come.”

Daryl looks away, his gaze wanders to the rear view mirror.

”Ya’ alright?” he says towards Juri, expects an answer, but Juri just nods back at him. ”Not that talkative?” Daryl asks.

Mila smiles as Juri makes a grimace, frowns a little and the side of his mouth goes up. Daryl looks like he doesn’t know what to say. Probably he thinks that one doesn’t need to say more than necessary. So far, he’s a living example of that.

”He's mute.” Mila says frugally. ”Believe me, I’ve tried everything. Ice cream. Candy. Toys. But he’s stubborn.” she smiles at the boy in the backseat. ”Your time is coming, malenkiy. Perhaps.”

After a while she’s instructed to stop the car along the road. The road is blocked by at least a dozen cars. They have to walk the last bit to the gas station. Daryl shows the way. The broad-shouldered hunter strides on at a rapid pace and has to stop many times to wait for them; Juri scurries while Mila walks at a decent walking pace. She’s in no hurry and, to be honest, she’s out of breath from being wounded. Despite his farouche, grumpy attitude, Daryl Dixon seems harmless. A crude hunter, but innocuous. Juri hurries up next to him as best as his short leg manages. He’s curious with the big man, but it might as well be the crossbow in his big hand. Mila can’t be sure. A few seconds later Juri turns his head towards her and makes the sign for ‘bowman’, then points at Daryl.

”He likes your crossbow.” Mila calls at Daryl’s back.

Daryl slows down and looks at Juri, who scurries next to him.

”Thanks.” he replies, slightly uncertain. As if he doesn't completely knows what it means to be mute or how on earth to communicate with him. ”Yeah…”

”You can talk to him.” Mila calls. ”He is not deaf.”

”I know that!” Daryl mutters, though Mila can see more than well that he absolutely didn’t know.

Juri, that little rascal, doesn't make the situation better. His angelic face turns into a cheeky, incredibly charming, laugh. Daryl grunts, and shoves him lightly. Juri lets out a laugh, one of very few sounds he actually manages to utter, and shoves him back.

”He can laugh?” Daryl looks surprised.

”Also the only thing he can do, or say.” Mila says and walks up next to them. ”He’s also a snorer.”

”How old is he-” Daryl asks firstly towards Mila, before remembering that Juri can understand him perfectly, and turns the question towards the boy instead. ”How old are you?”

Juri lifts three fingers and wiggles a fourth. Those six months are very important. Then he points at Daryl, as to ask how old he is.

”Ain’t got that many fingers, kiddo.” Daryl replies.

Mila smiles. She observes the broad man with the crossbow. He’s a big guy, tall, muscular and rough. The hair is messy, the stubble looks a few days old and the eyes are melange, with elements of green and blue. He wears a worn out ripped shirt, biker west and cargos. A bit rough overall. But on the other hand, Mila probably wouldn't have cared that much either if she didn't have Juri to take care of, making sure that he is clean and dressed. Although he belongs to a community of people, he doesn’t seem completely comfortable socially, talking to her.

They reach the abandoned gas station a few minutes later, in the middle of a parking lot, surrounded by a supermarket, a coffee shop and a liquor store. Mila’s eyes are drawn to the liquor store and she immediately gets very, very thirsty. There’s no living soul around when they arrive, no dead ones either for that matter. They pass an abandoned Chevy with punctured tires, standing in the middle of the road and heading towards the pump stations next to the convenience store. Three emptied vending machines are lined up against a wall, with glass scattered around.

”First and second pair of pumps are out of order.” Daryl says, pointing toward the two remaining, working pumps. ”I’ll get a can.”

”I’ll go to the liquor store.”

Daryl gives her a suspicious look, before he starts walking towards the convenience store. Mila looks down at Juri.

”You wanna go with me or him?”

Juri looks at her, then casts a glance towards the convenience store. He knows very well that he can find sweets and chocolate bars there. And at the end of the world, his mother can’t deny him sweets. To Mila's relief, Juri scurries after Daryl, as fast as his short legs can.

Mila exhales and pulls her hands over her face. Shame and guilt washes over her, but she quickly shakes it off and walks toward the liquor store. She should stop drinking, for Juri's sake. But in the current situation it has been almost impossible. The booze suppresses the overwhelming anxiety and grief she carries around inside of her. How else is she going to handle those feelings without her dying from practically feeling too much? Booze keeps her in balance in a fucked up way, but it could also be just an excuse for her to have a drink, any time of the day.

Brusquely, she opens the glass door to the store and raises the rifle in front of her, in case a walker would find it funny to surprise her.

#daryl fanfiction #daryl x oc #daryl dixon #Jersey on my mind #Daryl Dixon Fanfic #The Walking Dead fanficition #The walking dead fanfic #fanfiction #twd fanfiction #fanfic #twd fanfic #the walking dead fandom

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onemilliongoldstars · 5 years

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a crown seldom enjoyed - chapter 20

To maintain the fragile peace between north and south, Clarke of House Tyrell is sent to live in Winterfell as an act of faith between the two kingdoms. There, she is put under the protection of the first queen in the north, Queen Lexa of House Stark, Daughter of Wolves. A woman draped in steel and silver, wolves at her heels and rumoured to be a manifestation of the fury of the old gods; Clarke refuses to be awed be her quiet violence and cold smile. Instead of fostering unity, the meeting of the wolf and the rose lights a spark that spreads through the rest of Westeros, threatening to burn it to the ground.

20/25

clexa game of thrones au

read on ao3

Book Two: Chapter 6

Kings Landing doesn’t become much quieter at night. In Highgarden, night would lead the hush of activity and a sweet, warm darkness that would fill the air. Winterfell’s night was different, cool and crisp and broken only by the howling of wolves and the hooting of owls. In Kings Landing, dusk leads to the end of the work day, the downing of tools and the lifting of goblets and flagons as people rush to the many taverns of the city. In whorehouses the clinking of coins fills the air as people delay the return to their own homes, and vendors selling meat and bread peddle their wares to inebriated citizens. Under the cover of this noise and activity, Clarke is able to slip unnoticed through the streets, Octavia and Raven by her side.

Her new handmaiden Harper hadn’t asked questions when she’d requested some plain, dark clothes, and had helped her dress before slipping from the room. Her cloak has a wide brimmed hood which shadows her face, and her hair is pulled back into a sensible braid, running thick and heavy down her back. There is no way to tell that she is one of the most powerful women in Westeros. The dagger Lexa gave her hangs heavy at her side, hidden within her skirts. Their path leads them down darkened alleyways and cobbled streets, until they emerge before a tavern with rotting walls, and a sign which squeaks as it blows in the wind. The moonlight is dim here, slanting between the tall, rickety buildings of Flea Bottom to emerge in strange beams of light which sends leering shadows.

Together, they slip into the busy tavern. They make it a few steps towards the stairs to the upper floor before a hand reaches out and catches Octavia’s arm, pulling her to a stop. The girl’s hand goes to the sword, but to Clarke’s relief she doesn’t draw it.

“No one upstairs without paying,” The innkeeper growls from a grisly, scowling face, and Raven drops a few coins smoothly into his hand before saying, with easy seduction.

“We’re expected upstairs.”

The innkeeper’s eyes travel over them suspiciously, and Clarke is sure to offer him a pretty smile when his gaze finds her. Eventually, he grunts his approval, and lets Octavia go, bustling away into the crowd with loud shouts to two men beginning to brawl. The distraction allows them upstairs, where the sounds and the smells are more of a brothel than an inn.

Raven leads them down the hallway, until they round a corner and come to a rickety wooden door. Clarke gets to her knees before it, extracting a pin and a lock from her skirts, and carefully begins to pick quietly at the lock. She wonders whether the squire who taught her how to pick locks, and kissed her so soundly in the stables that she lost her breath, ever imagined she would be using the skills she taught her for such a purpose. Beneath her fingers, the lock clicks, and swings upon at the lightest of pushes. Inside the room is dark, but the slant of light let in through the door illuminates the bed, and they can see the whites of two eyes staring out at them. The woman in the bed is trembling, the blanket pulled up to cover her bare chest, and she opens her mouth to shout when Octavia draws her sword and Clarke presses a finger to her lips.

The woman’s mouth snaps shut again, and she watches them with fearful eyes as they pass through the room towards her. Raven gestures her from the bed, as Octavia gathers her clothes and presses them into her hands, urging her into her dress and cloak. While they work, Clarke slips her hand into her dress again and extracts a small vial, sealed with wax and stolen from the Measter’s chambers. Unpicking the wax, she presses the liquid into a rag and holds it over the mouth and nose of the boy in the bed.

Under her hands, she feels the boy stiffen and cough, and then his eyes shot open and he is left staring up at her as he struggles for breath. Octavia joins her, her firm grip keeping the boy still as he stares up into Clarke’s eyes, wheezing and gasping, a choking sound emerging muffled behind the cloth. It takes several moments, but his eyes eventually roll back in his head and he falls still and silent.

From the other side of the room, a stuttered exclamation draws their attention, and Clarke extracts the damp cloth from the boy’s mouth as the woman, still half naked, staggers back a step, her horrified gaze taking them all in.

“He isn’t dead,” Clarke tells her, as she struggles to find her voice. “We just need to talk to him.” She gestures down to the boy, and their gazes all follow the slow rise and fall of his chest for a moment.

The woman appears slightly relieved, rushing to pull her arms into her dress, and Raven stops her before she can leave, taking a handful of gold coins from the purse Clarke had given her earlier in the night.

“For your troubles,” She tells her, lightly, and then adds, “And your silence.”

The woman’s eyes widen when she sees how many coins are in Raven’s hands, and she takes them without a word, nodding their way before turning on her heel to dart out of the door.

“She won’t give us any trouble,” Raven assures them both, with satisfaction, and with the door locked behind them they stir the fire in the grate and drag out the single chair from near the fire. The boy’s limp body is sticky with sweat and surprisingly heavy, and it takes all three of them to carry him to the chair and tie him securely in place. Then all that is left to do is to wait for him to wake.

When his eyes finally flicker open, he wakes with a strangled sound, muffled into his gag. Their eyes are drawn to him in unison, and Clarke watches as his gaze spirals around the room, his eyes wide with panic as he takes in the three people watching him. Clarke pushes herself away from the wall, approaching with carefully measured steps, and crouches before him.

“We have some questions for you.” She tells him, coldly. “If you cooperate and tell us what we want to know, we can make it worth your while. If you don’t…” Her voice drops, her fury like ice beneath it. “We will hunt you to the ends of this earth and kill you slowly and painfully.” The boy’s eyes are filled with horror and fear, and she sees his throat bob as he nods. “Good.”

With her dagger, she slices through the gag he wears, and watches without compassion as he coughs and wheezes.

“What did you give me?” He asks, at last, still spluttering and Raven laughs mirthlessly from behind her.

“You tell us, you’re the Grand Measter’s apprentice.”

His eyes dart to her, narrowed with anger, and Clarke speaks before he can, cutting through the words resting on the tip of his tongue.

“You have some information that we need.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.” He spits, stubbornly and Clarke quirks her head at him, curious.

“I’m sure you do. What did you give my father and the king?”

“Nothing.” The boy’s lips press together. “Only what the old man sent me with.”

“That’s a lie, and we both know it.” Her voice is falsely pleasant. Behind her, she hears Octavia draw her dagger from the sheath strapped to her leg and watches the boy’s expression stutter at the sight of it. “What’s your name?”

He eyes her, uncertain and suspicious, but finally answers. “Glenn Stane.”

“Glenn,” She offers him a friendly smile, “How much did Pike Lannister give you, hm?”

“Nothing,” Glenn glares at her, “I didn’t do nothing.”

“Our sources tell us otherwise,” She flips her dagger in her hands, playing idly with the sharpened blade, and watches as he stares at her, his breath coming more quickly. “You think Lannister deserves your loyalty? He won’t care if you die over this Glenn, he’ll probably be glad.”

“No,” Glenn flinches back in the chair when her blade comes a little too close to him. “You’re wrong.”

“So you did work for Lannister?” Clarke eyes him over the blade, and sees the panic flicker through his expression.

“So what if I did?” He tries to shrug off her questioning. “The Lannisters are good for it, they pay their debts.”

“Oh, you mean this blood money?” Raven holds out the heavy bag of coins they had found in the trunk at the bottom of his bed, and it’s the first time the boy really struggles against his bonds.

“Give that back, that’s not yours!”

Clarke lets out a cold laugh, “Oh believe me, if you don’t tell me what I want to know, you’ll have no use for that. No whore will fuck a corpse who can’t pay.”

“You’re full of shit,” He growls, and the moment his words leave his lips, her dagger goes to his throat, plucking another strangled yelp from him.

“You think?” She presses a bit closer, so that the blade pulls a thin trickle of blood from his neck, and then lets the weapon skim down his naked body, to where a patch of wiry hair covers his flaccid, wrinkled manhood. “I have no desire to touch your dirty little cock,” She hisses, darkly, “But I’ll make an exception to cut it off.”

The boy whimpers, flinching violently away from her, and she watches him, cold and emotionless, to see what he will do.

“Lord Pike…” Glenn says at last, his voice trembling. “He’ll kill me if I speak.”

“He won’t know until it’s too late.”

The boy’s eyes take her in, assessing her honesty. “How do I know you won’t just kill me?”

“You don’t,” She admits, flexing her blade, “But do you want to take that chance?”

He swallow heavily, finally nodding. “Fine. Lord Pike… gave me money to give Lord Tyrell something else.”

Though she already suspected it, to hear the words said aloud sends a flush of fury through Clarke’s body. “What did you give him?”

Glenn’s eyes are fearful, but when she brings her dagger closer to his prick, he cries out and flinches away. “Tears of Lys! I gave him Tears of Lys!”

“Tears of Lys?” Her dagger falls away in her surprise, and she watches as he gasps for breath. “You’re sure?” When he nods fiercely, she glances back at Raven and Octavia. “Where would Pike get Tears of Lys from?”

“I don’t know,” Glenn tells her, earnestly, “Please, I don’t know anything else.”

Her eyes travel over his body, disgust curling at her lips. “I believe you.” She says at last, and then breaches the small distance between them in less than a moment, pressing her dagger against his neck once again, so close that she feels him catch his breath beneath her. “You killed my father, and I am only keeping you alive because I need you, do you understand?” He nods his head minutely, tears leaking from his eyes. “You live by my grace, don’t forget it.”

“I know, I know my lady.” His voice quivers and breaks and she pushes away from him, sheathing her dagger.

“Here,” She tosses the bag of coins onto the bed, “We don’t want your money. But when we come for you, you’d better be easy to find.” She gazes down at him, “If you even think of running or squealing, I promise I will hunt you to the ends of the world, cut off your cock and make you eat it before I gut you.”

---

The castle is never truly silent, but at this time of night, when the moon is high in the sky and sends slants of white light down through the murder holes in the walls, it is as close as it ever comes to quiet. They slip their way through the deserted corridors, dipping away from approaching footsteps and slipping into the shadows to avoid the torchlight of nearby guards. Raven left them in Kingslanding to make her way back to her own bed, but Clarke can’t even think of sleeping in this moment. Her blood is still roaring in her ears, her mouth pressed into a hard, thin line as she thinks on what the runner said. Her own father, poisoned by something as malicious and secretive as Tears of Lys, a flavourless, odourless, colourless potion meant to twist the insides into a slow, painful death. It’s a raw, graceless way to die.

“Lady Clarke!” The voice from behind them startles her from her reverie, and she and Octavia turn at the same time, their hands going to their weapons. The approaching figure is familiar however, and when Lady Fern’s handmaiden Margo comes into sight, red haired and plump, she relaxes. “My lady!”

“Margo,” Clarke sheathes her dagger again, pausing to watch the girl approach down the dark corridor. In the light of the moon, she can see the worried twist of her expression. “What’s wrong?”

“Thank the gods I found you!” The girl pants, coming to a halt beside them. “It’s Lady Fern, something has happened, you must come!”

“Lady Fern?” Clarke’s eyes widen, “Is she well?”

“No, please, please help us,” The girl’s voice trembles over her tears and Clarke and Octavia make to follow her when she leads them back the way she came. The girl hesitates, looking back at them, and then says, uncertainly. “Ser Snow… I think it best if you stay behind.”

“What?” Octavia stares at her, astonished. “Why?”

“Lady Fern… she was attacked by a guard,” Fresh tears spill over her full, freckled cheeks. “Seeing you would just scare her.”

“Attacked by a guard?” Clarke echoes, horrified. “A Lannister guard?”

The girl nods miserably, but Octavia shakes her head. “I won’t leave Lady Clarke.”

“Please, I need Lady Clarke’s help and I can’t trust anyone else!” Margo’s voice rises, hysterically, and Clarke glances back at Octavia.

“Lady Fern knows Octavia, she knows she won’t hurt her.”

“You have to come, my lady,” Margo takes her arm, tugging her harshly towards her, and Clarke staggers closer.

“Not without me,” Octavia darts closer to separate them, and it is only that fumble that stops the dagger Margo presses into Clarke’s stomach from sinking far enough into her to kill her. Clarke shouts out as Octavia throws her backwards, the dagger still buried part way into her stomach, and she lands on the floor with a terrible jolt. Pain blossoms like a red flower from her midsection and she feels bile rise in her throat, gasping for breaths. Before her, Octavia strikes with a flurry of blows against the young handmaiden, but Margo rolls out of the way with unthinkable skill. She pulls another dagger from her skirts, and is able to fend off Octavia’s mighty blows. In the small corridor, the sound of metal hitting stone rings out, and when Clarke puts a hand to the wound in her stomach, she feels sticky wetness.

Groping along the ground, she finds her own discarded dagger, and pulls herself upwards with a pained grunt, trying to ignore the weakness that sends her head spinning. She raises her dagger just in time to block Margo’s attack, shoving the girl backwards with all her might towards where Octavia waits. Octavia manages to inflict a nasty cut into the girl’s arm before she spins out of the way. Moments later, Octavia is fighting for her life, as the skilful assassin manages to back her into the corner where Clarke is leaning, her dagger still brandished. Octavia takes a defensive stance in front of her, her injuries weeping, and Margo gazes at them both, her expression one of cold, calculated annoyance.

“Move,” She tells Octavia, still in that sweet, country girl voice, “This isn’t meant to take your life.”

Octavia opens her mouth to growl something in return, when suddenly Margo is gargling and gasping for breath, her dagger falling from her hand as the tip of the sword embedded in her back protrudes through her chest. The sword retracts and she crumples to the floor in a lifeless pile, her orange hair falling in tight curls about her face. The figure behind her is hulking and tall and so familiar that Clarke slumps, weak with relief, against Octavia’s shoulders.

“Who are you?” Octavia is still baring her teeth, her sword drawn, battered and covered in blood.

“Octavia,” Clarke squeezes her shoulders to draw her attention. “Stop, that’s Roan. He’s a friend.”

“Move,” Roan steps from the shadows, close enough that they can see his long hair tied at the nape of his neck, and his weathered travel clothes, and growls at Octavia. “Lady Clarke, you’re hurt.”

“I- yes.” As the adrenaline drains from her body, Clarke stutters over her words, looking down to where the dagger is still sticking from her body. “Gods.” Her eyes fall on Margo’s body, and her breath catches in her throat.

“We have to get you somewhere safe.” Roan is insisting, reach out to help steady her, but Clarke pushes past him to stagger closer to Margo’s body.

“Anyone could be coming,” Octavia agrees, but Clarke ignores them, pulling Margo’s body over with a grunt of exertion.

“Look,” She demands, gesturing down, and when Octavia gasps sharply behind her, she knows the soldier has seen what she sees. Where Margo’s body once lay, there is now the body of a lean young woman. She is older than Margo was, by many years, and her hair is short and cropped, her skin dark. Clarke draws her hands away as if burnt, unable to comprehend what she sees.

“But… what happened to Margo?” Octavia stares, wide eyed, and Clarke just shakes her head, her eyes darting about them fearfully.

“There was no Margo. Or if there was, she is long dead.”

“But…” Octavia gapes, “But she was just there, I saw her, I fought her!”

Slowly, Clarke’s pain sluggish brain begins to work again, dredging up a memory long forgotten. “Lady Myra’s handmaiden… she told us about some assassins from Bravos who could change their faces.” She looks back down at the assassin’s body, swallowing against her dry throat. “Margo was a Faceless Man.”

---

Roan scoops her into his arms and carries her to her bedchamber when standing makes her knees shake. Octavia sends a serving boy running for the Grand Measter, and Roan peers at her wound while they wait. The dagger had slipped and fallen away when he’d hauled her into his arms, and now they press cloth to it to stem the bleeding and Clarke tries not to take short, sharp breaths, despite the pain.

“This doesn’t look too bad,” Roan’s scowling expression meets hers’, “You’re lucky.”

“Who are you to say?” Octavia frets at her bedside, her own wounds still bleeding, unattended to.

“Roan fought in the war,” Clarke swallows against her dry mouth, trying not to think about how much blood she’s losing. “He’s been a loyal knight for House Tyrell for as long as I can remember.”

“So I’ve seen injuries like this before,” Roan adds, still glowering at them. “Where’s that damn Measter?”

“He’s coming, Roan,” Clarke reaches out, grasping his arm. “What are you doing here?”

“Your mother sent me to bring you back to the Eyrie.” Roan spits, angrily, “And now I can see why.”

Clarke lets out a groan that is nothing to do with her injury. “Of course she did.”

“You’re not safe here!” Roan rounds on her, fury dripping from his bones. “Not while the Lannisters still have the run of the place.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” She snaps in return, wincing when the pain travels up her abdomen. “I can’t!”

“I’d carry you from this caste right now if you weren’t hurt,” Roan retorts, “You’re clearly not safe, someone just tried to kill you for gods sake!”

“The city needs me,” Clarke protests, and then softens when she sees Roan’s angry expression. “You saw that assassin, she was a Faceless Man, Roan. The most feared assassins in the world!”

“This isn’t convincing me to let you stay here,” Roan grinds out, his face stiff with fury.

“They must have been ordered by Lord Pike,” Clarke’s expression drifts thoughtfully to Octavia as the soldier bandages up the cut on her arm. She looks up, her brows furrowed, and asks.

“But how could Lord Pike get the Faceless Men? They’re from Bravos.”

Clarke looks down at her own wound, where it is weeping into the fabric of her dress, and presses the cloth more firmly to it, stuttering over a breath as she tries to fight past the pain clouding her brain to think more clearly.

“There,” Roan leans against the wall, “Even the guard knows that Pike couldn’t have access to the Faceless Men. From what I’ve heard their fees are more than even a Lannister could afford.”

“He’s… he’s the Master of Coin,” Clarke thinks aloud. It is as if the memories resurface one at a time, one triggering the next. “Finn said he has a close relationship with the Iron Bank, and I met a representative at the coronation, Dante Wallace. There must be some connection there, they must all be working together.”

“But why would the Iron Bank care about the workings of Westeros? They’ve always stayed out of our politics.” Roan shakes his head, lips pursed in thought.

“I don’t know-” Their conversation is cut short by a sharp knocking on the door, and Clarke sits back in the bed, giving the Grand Measter a weak smile when he enters. Grand Measter Orrin gets immediately to work, tutting over her like a concerned grandfather. He gives her milk of the poppy, which she takes gratefully, and she is barely awake when a castle guard appears at the door and informs them all, gravely.

“The assassin’s body is gone, there’s nothing but blood.”

---

She’s incredibly fortunate that the wound to her stomach is shallow. Grand Measter Orrin works over her for most of the night, and when she wakes it is early morning and she feels groggy and disorientated. The Grand Measter is sleeping lightly at her bedside, and wakes moments after she does. He asks her about her pain, ensures that she is lucid, and tells her that he had sent her guards to bed when they started to fall asleep on their feet. She nods, but the words seem to come from far away, and when he pats her hand and says, with a vaguely fatherly tone, that she should get some more sleep, she takes him at his word.

It seems like she only blinks, when a harsh knock to the door wakes her again, and she jars into consciousness, peering around the room in confusion. She alone, but for the knocking on her door, but she doesn’t get a chance to call her visitor inside before the door swings open and she is faced with the sight of Lord Pike. Fear lances through her, cutting through her lingering grogginess, and she works to push herself further up in her bed as he approaches. His face is twisted with sympathy, and it makes her stomach curdle to see it.

“Lady Clarke,” He pauses at the end of the bed, and from here he seems to tower above her. “I am so glad to see you well.”

She swallows against her dry throat, hating the way her voice scrapes and cracks over her words. “Thank you.”

“How terrible for this to happen here in the castle, where you should be safe.” He shakes his head gravely. “Rest assured, more guards will be assigned to you.”

“The guards I have protected me perfectly well last night.” She retorts, her lips pressing into a thin line at his words, even as fear sparks in her stomach.

“With respect, you wouldn’t be lying in bed injured now if that was the case.” Lord Pike looks at her with a curled lip. “I must admit though, it was fortunate that Ser Roan was here to help you. Sent by your mother I expect?”

“Ser Roan is on his way elsewhere,” She tells him, darkly, “He just stopped in the capital to give me his regards.”

“I expect your mother would like you to return to her,” He edges a little closer around the bed and her fingers curl in the blankets. It’s difficult to appear unaffected by him when reclining on feathered pillows. “It certainly seems like the city isn’t safe at the moment…” His eyes linger on her, “Deaths and assassination attempts abound. It could happen again at any moment.” Her breath catches in her throat, her heart gripped with ice at the coldness in his voice.

The door barrels open behind them, drawing their attention away, and Finn strides into the room, almost tripping over his own feet in his haste. His eyes find Pike, furrowing in confusion, before landing on Clarke in the bed. His expression twists with despair, and he approaches quickly, throwing himself to his knees before her and reaching out to grasp at her hands earnestly.

“Clarke! I came as soon as I heard!”

Lord Pike’s eyes dart between them and he quietly excuses himself, the door shutting with a click in his wake. Clarke’s tears her eyes away from the closed door when Finn speaks. The king seems to barely have noticed the departure of his Hand.

“Oh Clarke, I’ll never forgive myself for letting this happen to you.”

“Hush,” She turns her attention to soothing him, running her hands over his comfortingly. “There’s nothing you could have done.”

“How could you have come to such harm here? The castle is so well protected!” He stares at her, anguished, and she tentatively tries to speak.

“That’s a good question-”

“I should have protected you!” He speaks over her, his manners utterly forgotten in his desolation. “You should never want to see me again! I have failed you!”

“Finn.” She speaks with the gentle firmness of a mother, drawing his eyes to hers. “This is not your fault,” She squeezes his hands softly, drawing him back to himself. “Don’t blame yourself.”

“Oh Clarke,” His voice has quietened a little. “To think what I would have done… if anything had happened to you.”

“There’s no use dwelling on that,” She gives him a weak smile, “I am here and shall be well again soon enough.”

“Even so,” Finn shakes his head, his eyes fixed to hers. “This has shown me all that you mean to me… truly.”

“You’re dear to me too,” She assures him, running a thumb over his hand. “You really think I would leave you alone so easily?”

The teasing draws a fractured smile from him. “I promise I’ll always keep you safe from now on, I’ll protect you Clarke.”

“You already do.”

“Not as well as I could,” His fingers tighten around hers, his eyes wide and earnest. “Marry me, Clarke.”

The words are like a hand around her throat, choking a gasp from her, and she has to fight not to pull her hands from his. Still, she cannot hide her wide eyes and the shock on her face. “What?”

“Marry me,” Finn insists, his eyes growing warmer as he speaks. “Ever since we were children I’ve loved you Clarke, and I know you feel for me too.”

“Finn…” She struggles to find the right words, struggles for breath, struggles for everything, and he gives her a soft, sympathetic smile.

“It’s alright, you don’t have to say anything now. You’re not well, I’ll give you some time to think on it. But Clarke,” He hesitates, lifting her hands to his mouth to kiss tenderly. “If you were mine I would cherish you, and I know you would make Westeros a wonderful queen.”

---

“My lady, my lady,” The words rouse her slowly from sleep, hissed to her as she wakes, and her expression crumples with displeasure, rolling away when the wound to her side makes itself known, and she is woken with a gasp of pain, eyes flying open. “My lady,” The voice says again, insistently, and she turns to find an unfamiliar face close by, peering down at her. Immediately, she reaches for the dagger under her pillow, fumbling to draw it out as the stranger staggers a step away, eyes widening in alarm. “No!” The girl gasps, fumbling in her pocket for something. “No wait, I’ve been sent to find you.”

“By who?” Clarke hisses, still brandishing the dagger before her. The girl looks like a servant, she is dressed in plain clothes, with a cloth tied over her auburn hair.

“Prince Wells!” The girl retorts, and pulls a ring from her pocket, holding it out as if to defend herself. “Here, take it.”

Clarke eyes her for a moment, but the curiosity is too much to fight, so she reaches out to take the ring from her. Eyeing it carefully, she feels her breath catch in her throat when she sees the familiar stag signet upon it, and remembers the sight of this ring on Wells’ finger every day since he was gifted in for his thirteenth name day. The hand holding the dagger slackens a little, relaxing as she stares down at the ring in astonishment. Her gaze goes back to the serving girl, eyes wide.

“How did you get this?” Clarke demands, her fingers tightening over it. “Where is Wells?”

The girl holds her hands out, as if to quieten her. “Please,” She casts a glance back at the door, “I don’t have long.”

“Then speak quickly.”

“Prince Wells is in the Citadel,” When she sees Clarke open her mouth to protest, she continues fiercely, “But he’s not with the Measters, not really. He’s being held there by Lannisters.” At the words, she glances around fearfully, and Clarke stares at her, mouth agape.

“But… how did he get there? He joined the Measters, everyone knows that!”

“Lord Pike blackmailed him.” The girl is almost breathless.

“With what?”

“Prince Wells has a son, a baby born from a night of passion in Flea Bottom.” The girl’s words are like a punch to the gut. “Lord Pike found out and told the prince that he had to denounce his claim to the throne and join the measters, or he would have the girl and the baby killed. He has the a guard on the house day and night.”

“Gods,” Clarke falls back into the pillows, her mouth agape. She thinks of the increasingly upset letters Wells wrote to her, of his devotion to the Seven and how bedding a girl out of wedlock must have tortured him. And to think of that mishap threatening the life of an innocent girl and a baby… she can only imagine his anguish. “It all makes sense. How do you know all of this?”

“I worked at the Citadel, the prince told me everything when I was cleaning out his chamber pots.” Her eyes dart down to the signet ring. “He said I could keep that, for my time.”

“No,” Clarke’s fingers curl over it, “I’ll give you double its worth in gold you can actually spend.” She looks at the girl, brows furrowing. “And I’ll pay you that again if you agree to do something for me.”

The girl’s eyes brighten and Clarke feels a thread of hope.

---

“You want me to do what?” Roan stares at her from the end of the bed, his arms crossed over his chest and his expression twisted with disbelief. From her place leaning against the wall, Octavia seems just as unimpressed, unable to stop herself from casting glances at the serving girl still lingering in the corner of the room.

“I need you to go with Fox,” Clarke indicates the serving girl with a small nod of her head. “And find a way to free Prince Wells.”

“If this is all true, which I’m still suspect about,” He looks back at Fox with a suspicious sneer. “Why not tell the king and have him arrest Pike and send an army, or even ask your mother?”

“That’s too obvious, Pike has spies everywhere,” Clarke shakes her head, “We have to keep this under wraps.”

“You really think that I can do anything against a hoard of Lannister soldiers?” He scoffs, and Clarke feels her frustration bubble closer to the surface.

“You’re a good fighter and one of the few people I trust Roan, I need you to do this.”

His face sets stubbornly and he shakes his head, “Your mother sent me to fetch you and that’s what I’m going to do.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” She retorts, “Please Roan, don’t you see?” Her voice hitches with desperation. “If this is true, it explains so much. Pike is worse than we thought, he’s been setting this up for a long time, and he has the Iron Bank behind him, though only the gods know why. He may not be on the throne, but he has someone he can manipulate there now.”

“He’s trying to kill you Clarke, he knows you’re a threat,” Roan stares at her. “If he’s really got enough money for Faceless Men there’s no way he’ll let you live.”

“Exactly! He won’t stop just because I go back to Highgarden, or the Eyrie. I’ll just be putting mother and Lord Marcus in danger!”

“But you’ll have people to protect you there!” Roan’s voice is raising angrily, and she sees Fox stiffen in the corner. She’s known Roan since she was young, and she knows that his bark is worse than his bite, so she steels herself and continues.

“I have people to protect me here. Please Roan, this is bigger than either of us now.”

“What good can you do here?” Roan shakes his head, “At least in the Eyrie your mother would stop worrying.”

“I can’t go to the Eyrie,” Her gaze flickers to Octavia, something curling in her gut as she continues, “The king has asked me to marry him.”

“What?” Octavia takes a step forward, her eyes widening and her mouth dropping open. “You can’t marry him! You l-” She cuts herself off, and Clarke has a horrible feeling that she knows more than she should.

“The marriage proposal of a king isn’t easily spurned, and besides, Finn loves me and I… care for him.”

Ser Roan scoffs loudly, and when Clarke’s eyes dart to him, glaring, he says. “I remember how the boy used to trail along after you when you were both younger. He was nothing more than idle sport to you, Lady Clarke.”

She bristles under his words, her chin tilting out stubbornly. “I was always fond of him, and now that I’m older I can see his qualities more clearly. Besides,” She continues over Roan’s protests. “I can do far more for Westeros as his queen than as the Lady of Highgarden.”

“This is a mistake,” Octavia’s anger is burning low in her voice, and when their gazes meet Clarke feels a fountain of guilt emerge in her breast, so powerful that it spurns her rage.

“What do you know of these affairs?” She snaps, and then turns her furious gaze back to Ser Roan. “People of my standing marry for advantage, not love. My mother will understand, I will marry the king, and you will go to the Citadel with Fox and find Prince Wells.”

Roan’s lip curls in annoyance, but he offers her a low, sarcastic bow. “As my future queen commands.”

The words send heat running through her veins and she tries to ignore Octavia’s eyes upon her, burning brightly with anger.

---

Words escape her now in a way they never have before. She was raised in the courts of the south, where women chirped like pretty birds, and though governesses tried to train the habit out of her, never once was it said that Clarke of House Tyrell found herself with nothing to say. Ever quick tongued and sharp of wit, she was the bane of every person to ever try to teach her dainty southern manners, and yet the words she inherited from her grandmother, which grew through her body, curling up her spine like roses and blossoming from her lips unbidden, had always been her greatest weapon. More so than a bow, or a dagger, or even the poison she had left in Winterfell, her words were always at her side. They helped her to win over the darkest of minds and the cruellest of hearts. They soothed and hurt in equal measure, and never was she without them, but now, staring down at the parchment rolled out before her, she can think of nothing worth marring its unblemished surface.

The ink drips from her quill, splattering across the parchment like a raindrop, and it startles her from her reverie. Carefully, she sets the quill back into the ink pot, and gazes down at her hands. The ring is not yet on her finger, but when she meets the king for supper it soon will be. The thought stirs so much within her that she can barely untangle her own feelings. Relief, at being a step closer to defeating Lord Pike. Guilt, that she is marrying a man who she knows loves her with his whole heart, when she cannot give him even part of hers. Grief, as deep as a well and as wide as a valley, gaping through her like a wound, in the place where her heart should be. The pain of it gnaws at her, festering in her wound like a reminder of the wrong she is committing. Her body recoils even at the thought of tying herself to Finn forever, not through any fault of his, but because it longs so deeply for another.

Clarke wonders if she will ever forget the silvery moonlight and the warm light of the candle, the touch of Lexa’s fingers to her waist and the tentative hope in her eyes. If she closes her eyes, she can imagine it as if it were real again, but she doesn’t allow herself the luxury. She does not deserve it now, when Lexa is waiting for her so patiently and kindly in Winterfell. Lexa, who thinks her so overcome with grief that she cannot bear to leave her mother’s side, when in reality her mother is so far from her mind. Lexa, who gave her leave to go despite the turmoil it surely caused in her court. Lexa, who trusts her as only a northerner could.

She deserves to hear the truth from Clarke’s own hand, but there are no words to explain all that has happened. When she tries to think of them they sound like wild excuses and tales made up only to soothe Clarke’s own guilt, which in a way they are. The words fly away, like doves searching for a better home, and so instead all Clarke can do is take a shaking breath, put her quill to the parchment and write her truth. Three words, so small and fierce and dangerous, that the moment she has penned them she stands, her skirt swaying around her ankles. She walks to the fire and holds her terrible truth between her fingers, staring at it until she knows she will never forget it.

A knock comes to the door, and Octavia calls.

“My lady, the king is ready to receive you.”

Clarke’s gaze falls back to the parchment, her fingers running over the letters, before she lets it fall from between her hands and flutter into the fire.

---

#clexa #clexa fic #clarke griffin #commander lexa #the 100 #ahhh be kind to me and trust me thanks!!

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its-negans-lucille · 7 years

Text

Kissed By Moonlight

THIS IS A REUPLOAD

You can find my Masterlist HERE!

Prompt: Could you do an imagine where Negan sees a trans guy during the line up (where he kills Glenn and Abraham) and doesn’t think much about it until he starts dreaming about them? And he comes to Alexandria, he seeks the guy out? Sorry if this isn’t the clearest requests, but thank you! I love your blog. – Via Anon

Ships: Negan x TransMan!Reader Words: 1,555 Warnings: Curses Category: ???

*** Negan’s POV ***

Negan had been dreaming about him for about a fortnight. Each night he would awake, drenched from head to toe in sweat, breathing heavily as he would try and recall what had happened in his dream before it slipped out of his memory until the inevitable next night.

In each dream, he would see a face, a face that was bathed in moonlight. The stars would look upon that face and not even the great supernovas could compare too his beauty. His lips slightly parted in awe as he looked upon the infinite seas of stars and planets though he wouldn’t know that nothing could challenge the galaxies that swam in his eyes.

That visage would make Negan question himself, his very being. He had been trying to remember when he had seen that face, for he was sure that he had lay eyes on his visage before now. Negan hadn’t visited his wives at all and had barely left his room or ate, determined to find the man who was haunting his dreams.

Negan couldn’t recall the face until the seventh day of the recurring dream. He had woken up with the vision of a face that wasn’t bathed in moonlight, but rather in the harsh, white, light of cars and truck headlights. The face was pale and terrified, though no tears fell from those beautiful eyes. That was when Negan realised where he had seen his face.

Not even a week prior. When he had lined up the small group of Alexandrian’s. At the time he had thought nothing about the man who had stared up at him defiantly, maybe he was a little impressed by him but his thoughts hadn’t gone beyond that.

Negan decided that he wanted to meet the famous man who had plagued his thoughts for the past week. Within the hour of Negan telling Simon that they were to pay a visit to Alexandria the cars had been packed, Saviours awoken from their slumbers and guns cocked and reloaded.

Negan now sat in a leather seat, gazing out of the window as they drove a small convoy of vehicles to Alexandria.

Despite himself Negan felt a nervous tension building up in his stomach as they drove closer to the community. This was a new feeling to Negan, he hadn’t felt that kind of feeling since his late wife, Lucille, and none of his wives since then. Negan tried to ignore it as they stopped in front of the iron gates of Alexandria. Negan stepped out of the heavily armed, black, car with deliberate slowness. Negan could taste the stench of inescapable scent of death on the air. Death and anticipation.

Negan heard the gates of Alexandria rattle open loudly, sending birds erupting from their nests in the early morning. Negan smiled his far too white smile as he spied the form of Rick Grimes, his hands on his hips as he surveyed the Saviours.

“You’re early.” Rick said in a groggy voice. It was still dark outside; the sun had yet to peek out from the hills.

“Well, I fancied an early fucking stroll and decided I’d pay my good ol’ friends at Alexandria a visit.” Negan replied in a confident tone as he stepped toward Rick, casually slinging Lucille over his shoulder as he went.

Negan stepped over the scratches and marks that indicated the crossing to Alexandria. He could see that people were immerging from their quaint, suburban, houses with confused looks on their faces. Negan smiled and made an over exaggerated bow at the small crowd that was beginning to group, all of them looked to their great leader for support.

“Now, Rick, give me the grand motherfucking tour!” Negan exclaimed in a loud tone which had most people flinching. Rick only jerked his head in a feeble attempt at a nod.

Rick took Negan all around Alexandria and yet he had not spied the man that had been in his thoughts. Negan had seen all manner of faces, all of them held the same look of fear and exhaustion.

Negan was beginning to lose hope of ever finding the man until he saw someone stood atop one of the watch posts, a hatchet strung over their shoulder. Negan stopped dead as he watched the man, almost as if hypnotized.

“Who the fuckty fuck is that?” Negan asked in a low voice, making sure none of the onlookers could hear him.

“That?” Rick asked, matching Negan’s low and secretive tone. “That’s (Y/N), he helps man the wall.” Rick said in a tentative and nervous tone, his eyes flicking from you to Negan, unsure of what to make of Negan’s sudden interest.

“Rick, stay here.” Before Rick could protest Negan had begun to make his way over toward you.

*** Reader POV ***

You had been minding your own business when you felt a pair of eyes on you. You rubbed the back of your neck and turned around. You saw Rick standing with the tall, lean, form of a man who you hadn’t wanted to see for a long while yet.

Negan.

You turned your back on them once more, determinately watching the horizon. You stood very still as you watched the sun slowly turn a dark, plum purple. Yet you could still feel the scrutinizing gaze behind you.

You had been having odd dreams about the imposing man who had taken all your lives and who now owned them. You hadn’t told anyone of the nature of the dreams for you didn’t know completely yourself. All you knew was that Negan’s presence here was making you anxious.

You didn’t move until you heard the sound of the ladder creaking. You immediately spun around and held out your hatchet, your brows furloughed as you saw Negan hold up his hands in a mock surrender.

“What’re you doing up here on this fine morning?” Negan asked as he surveyed your form openly and appreciatively.

“Not making people’s lives miserable. Unlike some people.” You said in a pointed tone, nodding your head back toward the Saviours.

“Ouch.” Negan said, placing a hand on his heart in mock offense.

“What do you want?” You asked in a low tone, your eyes narrowed in suspicion as you surveyed him sceptically.

“Do you dream? Hm?” Negan asked in a soft voice, softer than you would’ve thought possible for him.

“Excuse me?” You coughed and choked in surprise at the question.

“Do you dream?” Negan repeated slowly as he scrutinized your face with an almost childlike curiosity.

“Yes. Of course, I dream.” You answered in an unsure tone, keeping your eyes firmly forward.

“But what do you dream of?” Negan continued. You felt a twinge of unease caressing your senses. Your fight or flight instinct peaking. “Because I’ve been having a lot of dreams about you.” Negan said in a low and suspicious tone, as if you’d poisoned him with these thoughts.

“Excuse me?” You reiterated again, feeling stupid at your lack of vocabulary.

“You heard me.” Negan said and you felt a leather clad hand softly cup your chin and angle your face toward him. “What’s so special about you?” Negan asked in a dark and curious tone. You didn’t reply. “Tut, tut, tut.” Negan chorused, shaking his head. “You know, this’ll be easier for you if you answer my damn questions.” Negan continued. “So, I ask again! What is so special about you?”

“I-I’m transgender.” You replied hurriedly. From the corner of your eye you could see Rick looking at the scene unfolding, his eyes concerned.

“You’re what?” Negan asked in a confused tone.

In response to his confusion you simply stepped back and lifted your shirt to reveal the two scar where your breasts had once been.

“Oh.” Negan said simply. He ran a hand down his salt and pepper scruff. You had the inkling that Negan didn’t know how to react to this. That he was confused and frankly in shock and taken aback. You found it rather entertaining that the charismatic tyrant that had terrorized your people couldn’t find words.

“I’ve been having dreams about you too.” You said in a quiet, almost embarrassed tone as you lowered your plain shirt. You didn’t know what made you tell Negan about the dreams, all you knew was that you needed to tell someone.

“Oh really?” Negan asked in an impressed and somewhat flattered tone.

“Yeah.” You replied, running a hand through your hair absently.

“Well, I have a proposition for you.” Negan said with his usual valour, his unnervingly white smile appearing once more on his lips. “You come back to the Sanctuary with me and we get to the bottom of this weird fucking ‘dream’ thing.” Negan said in a smooth voice.

“No!” You exclaimed without thinking.

“C’mon, handsome, if you come back to the Sanctuary I won’t take so much next time we come knocking.” Negan asked in a sweet voice. “You do you not care about your people?” Negan asked, cocking his head to the side. A triumphant smiled donned his lips as he knew he had won. “It wouldn’t have to be long term,” Negan continued. “Unless you want it to be.” Negan winked mischievously.

“Fine.” You said in a resigned voice.

“So, you’ll come?” Negan asked in an almost excited voice.

“Yes.”

***

Thank you all so much for reading! This is the first time I’ve written a transman who has transitioned and it was hard! I’m sorry it it wasn’t that good :/ Also the last part of this story was not proof read so I apologise for any mistakes.

Thank you all for reading and I hope you all have a great day! Thank you!

#Negan #Negan x Reader #Negan TWD #TWD Negan #TWD #The Walking Dead #The Walking Dead Negan #Negan The Walking Dead

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its-negans-lucille · 7 years

Text

Kissed by Moonlight

You can find my Masterlist HERE!

Ships: Negan x TransMan!Reader Words: 1,555 Warnings: Curses Category: ???

***

Negan’s POV

***

Negan now sat in a leather seat, gazing out of the window as they drove a small convoy of vehicles to Alexandria.

Negan stepped out of the heavily armed, black, car with deliberate slowness. Negan could taste the stench of inescapable scent of death on the air. Death and anticipation.

“You’re early.” Rick said in a groggy voice. It was still dark outside; the sun had yet to peek out from the hills.

“Now, Rick, give me the grand motherfucking tour!” Negan exclaimed in a loud tone which had most people flinching. Rick only jerked his head in a feeble attempt at a nod.

Rick took Negan all around Alexandria and yet he had not spied the man that had been in his thoughts. Negan had seen all manner of faces, all of them held the same look of fear and exhaustion.

“Who the fucky fuck is that?” Negan asked in a low voice, making sure none of the onlookers could hear him.

“Rick, stay here.” Before Rick could protest Negan had begun to make his way over toward you.

***

Reader POV