#timber framed great room

[90days-90reasons]

Rustic Living Room - Living Room Example of a large mountain style loft-style living room design with white walls, a wood stove, a stone fireplace and no tv

[sadis-gate]

Farmhouse Kitchen New York Example of a large country u-shaped medium tone wood floor open concept kitchen design with a farmhouse sink, recessed-panel cabinets, medium tone wood cabinets, solid surface countertops, metallic backsplash, metal backsplash, stainless steel appliances and an island

[blood-and-hugs]

Uncovered - Rustic Deck

Deck - large rustic backyard deck idea with no cover

[youmakemelikecharity]

Rustic Living Room Inspiration for a large rustic formal and open concept light wood floor living room remodel with beige walls, a two-sided fireplace and a stone fireplace

[moniquemartinez]

Dining Room - Kitchen Dining Ideas for remodeling a medium-sized Scandinavian kitchen/dining room combination with white walls and light wood floors and beige floors.

[louiseweird]

Kitchen - Great Room Example of a large farmhouse galley dark wood floor open concept kitchen design with a farmhouse sink, shaker cabinets, gray cabinets, marble countertops, white backsplash, wood backsplash, stainless steel appliances and an island

[sertane-j0]

Great Room - Rustic Dining Room

[kuku-doodles]

Great Room Dining Room

[scofieldshumway]

Dining Room Great Room (Richmond)

[emvozbaixa]

Living Room - Rustic Living Room

[rocketjumper]

Rustic Dining Room in Salt Lake City

[shesjustanothergeek]

His Love

|Aegon II Targaryen x Fem!Reader|

Part Fourteen

Master List of Series

Summary: Being a bastard born in the slums of Flea Bottom was all you were known for. Not the streak of white you had in your dark hair, the violet ring around your pupils, or how your sharp tongue and skills with the blade resembled your father, Daemon Targaryen. You were just a bastard, nothing more, but to him, to Aegon Targaryen, you were everything. You were his love.

Author's Note: I'm so sorry for the late update. Life has been pretty stressful these past three weeks, but not as bad as before. I finally finished all the required exams to become licensed in what I do, and now I have to wait for the results. I'll probably be starting a job in the coming months, so I might have to go back to uploading every two weeks like before. I'll keep y'all updated. Also, while researching, I realized this story has a cannon time frame. It's 127 AC to 129 AC, so everyone has a definite age. You're welcome. :)

Chapter Warnings: Period accurate sexism. 

"He was pointing at the moon, but I was looking at his hand." - Richard Silken, The Worm King's Lullaby.

It was two days before you woke. The stars were sparkling in an endless sea of the night sky, the waning moon reflecting a mirror image of itself over Blackwater Bay. You were surprised no one had come to wake you. It was rude for a guest to sleep the days away in someone's home, but you were exhausted.

So much had happened when you arrived at Kings Landing, resurfacing old memories you desperately pushed down. The pain was too great to sift through, tears heating your eyes whenever you thought of them. It was easier to ignore your hurt and squash it into a hardened cluster of untouched emotions, constantly pushing it deeper and deeper until it cracked from the pressure, exposing it raw.

You went to the great wardrobe on the other side of the guest chambers, wrapping a robe around your shoulders as you headed to the balcony. The small ship with your belongings arrived a few hours after you did, and everything was neatly organized into its designated place as if you had lived there your whole life. You supposed a part of you did, a piece never entirely leaving the haunting red rock walls.

There was a thickness in the air. The heavy humidity clung to your skin, making you feel sticky and damp, sweat accumulating in the warmer parts of your body even with your thin nightgown. Your room was on the upper levels of the palace, overlooking the never-ending labyrinth of sandstone and mudbrick houses. The ones closest to the Keep had tile roofing. Thoughtfully crafted peaks sloped down to let water drain on the rare occasion it rained, but the further you looked, the more you saw that foresight was lost. Straw and flat stones comprised the cupolas as timber support beams stuck out of the foundation, built for longevity and not fashion.

You were mainly awake now, although sleep still clung to your eyelids. A leaf had snuck its way onto the railing before you, a crispy tan color with holes in its body, a sign of the changing seasons. You watched it drag across the intricately crafted banister before being swept away as quickly as it landed. A strong breeze brushed your bare legs, feeling it weave through your long gown; you pulled your silken robe tighter.

Your limbs controlled themselves as you moved to your chamber doors, slowly opening them as you peeked out. As you suspected, the guard was slumped over, the hour of the owl upon him as you slipped out. You still recalled your time in the guest wing, traversing the long hallways to your intended destination.

The leaf reminded you of your brief moments spent at the Godswood. Your fleeting moments had you longing for a genuine opportunity to appreciate the acre of land it stretched on. You never had enough time to truly understand the beauty of it while you were here, caught up in the constant rotation of lessons and duties before your legitimization.

Elm, alder, and black cottonwood grew there, looking over the Blackwater Rush. Your old Septa Mariam had explained the history of a Godswood. You could remember her lecture as you sat in the lesson room, staring longingly out of the pane-glass windows.

When the First Men converted to faith in the Old Gods, after the Pact between the Children of The Forest, they created Godswoods. They were groves within their castles and villages where a single Weirwood, also known as a Heart Tree, would be planted so the Gods could be worshipped. Each tree was carved with a face, said to have been done by The Children during the dawn, centuries before the First Men. Before the treaty was made, while the war was waged between the Children of The Forest and the First Men, they cut down every Weirwood they found. They thought the greenseers of the Children, who could influence plant life and have prophetic dreams, could see through the faces.

The most severe oaths and vows are said before the Heart Trees, believing you are standing before the Old Gods when you do. To break a promise that was noted in the presence of the Gods was a means to a fate worse than death. Septa Mariam did not believe that to be true, going as far as to demonize the unpopular faith for believing in what she said were false idols. The dedication of the Seven was the only truth to her.

You didn't care or know much about religion before being found, only knowing the Seven as that was the most common belief and what the people of Kings Landing practiced. You didn't believe something so transcendent could reside in such a lecherous place, but when you stepped into the Godswood for the first time in years, the wind blowing through your ebony hair, you couldn't help but feel everything was true. 

Even in the heart of a secular city, you could feel the Old Gods watching with their unseen eyes, hidden within the rocks and the trees, settled into the blades of grass and dirt under your shoes. Their stares did not frighten you. Strangely, within their watchful gaze, you felt comforted. It felt mystical, a blanket of infinity enveloping your flesh in something otherworldly. You were welcomed in a place full of people who did not want you.

You walked to the Weirwood tree that stood ghastly in the darkness. Its bark was as pale as bone, its leafs as red as the blood coursing through your veins. The slender white branches shook in the autumn wind, the crimson foliage floating onto the sod beneath it.

You traced the tips of your fingers delicately across the truck, feeling its rough texture as you placed your forehead upon it. It had only been a short period in which you resided at the Red Keep, but your mind felt like it had been an eternity. You longed for the smell of brimstone and salt, a sulfuric scent no one besides Aegon the Conqueror was thought to enjoy. That scent was home to you, a place full of family, where you had fond memories of love and belonging. Your heart ached to see them again even though you had barely left.

You wished to ruffle your digits in Luke's curly brown hair, grab Jace by the scruff of his neck, rub your knuckles on his scalp, and pinch Joffrey's cherubic face until he swatted your hands away with his much smaller ones. You yearned to see your kin again. The people here that called themselves were anything but.

Peace had finally set into your limbs as you sighed through your parted lips, the isolation sinking into nothingness. You lowered yourself to the damp ground as you nestled between two winding roots and peered through the gaps of leaves above you, looking into the vast amounts of stars that twinkled in the darkness.

You thought about nothing anymore, staring into the sky as you heard the faint scraping of shoes. Assuming it was just a servant or perhaps a guard, you ignored them, breathing deep into your chest. The clatter of metal against stone rang through the night, disturbing your harmony. Barely audible sounds of dissatisfied rumblings caused you to sit up with a scowl, squinting to see the disturbance.

Almost imperceptibly, you saw the silhouette of a man bent over as he gathered a pitcher off the ground. You knew without a second thought who it was, debating with yourself if you should lend a hand. He seemed well enough as he scooped it up, stumbling to gather his footing. You settled back into your spot, sighing as you nestled your head back onto a pale root.

Just as your body had begun to slip into a relaxed state, the same piercing metal sound happened again, and you opened one unamused eye, sighing.

"Having difficulty?" you questioned with a snark into the night, not moving.

"Fuck," you heard him mumble, a dull thud following.

At that, you finally moved, propping yourself up on your elbows as you glared at him with a hooded gaze.

"Aegon, must I fetch your Mother?" you taunted, a wicked grin burning your cheeks.

Aegon snapped his head from his place on the ground towards you, a surprised look on his face. He believed you were in his mind at first. The cups he had lost himself in filled his head with thoughts of your gentle touch, your lips brushing against the shell of his ear as you whispered his name. He now knew it was the Arbor Red talking.

"I..." He staggered upwards, brushing his palms on his trousers, recovering quickly, much to your chagrin, "am perfectly well, dear heart."

Your stomach flipped for a reason you did not know. You didn't like how he spoke, uncomfortable with what they made you feel. It reminded you of something Rhaenyra would say, an intimate person you longed to be with again, as your eyes looked anywhere but at the drunken prince.

"You certainly appear so," you commented sarcastically, leaning more weight onto your elbows as you sighed. "Why are you awake, my Prince?" He did not indicate if he had heard you, only gazing into the vast acre of the Godswood.

Despite your voice's calm, almost emotionless tone, the flesh of your bottom lip found its way between your teeth as you sat up, pressing your knees to your chest and resting your chin on them. A short silence fell as Aegon gathered his bearings, stumbling over to you as you pulled your legs closer.

He stopped beside your slippered feet, staring at the shaking leaves above, some falling onto the soft grass as a cool breeze swept through the grounds. You couldn't understand why your toes curled at his presence, your hands suddenly sticky and uncomfortable and griping the hem of your nightgown. You wondered if he could sense it, your whole body tensing as he grew bored of the leaves and plopped next to you. You hoped he was too drunk to notice.

You swallowed thickly, the sound loud and audible as you picked at the blades of grass. Aegon didn't hear the loud clicking in your throat, focused on flipping the metal pitcher upside down as the last few drops of Arbor Red dripped onto his pink tongue. Unlike you, he seemed comfortable in the silence, quietly humming to himself as he wiped the excess drink with the back of his hand.

The guilt from how you treated Aegon when you found him crept up your spine, stinging your ears as your face burned at the memory. He was kind to you, albeit obstinate at times, but nothing terrible. He defended you before his mother, the Queen Consort of the Seven Kingdoms! On the other hand, you had spat such vile insults—words he did not deserve within such a vulnerable state. You regretted them deeply, but your pride refused to admit it aloud, your mouth opening and closing with slight intakes of breath as you fought to apologize.

"Why did you not return my letters?" Aegon abruptly asked, distracting you from your inner turmoil.

"I did not receive any."

And that was the truth. No raven from the Red Keep was ever directly for you until Queen Alicent. They were all intended for your mother, father, and the few Lords that spent their time at Dragonstone.

"Do not think me a fool," he spat without warning. "I sent you a letter every moon for a year, and even then, when you did not respond, I sent one to my half-sister, begging her for you to write to me." You stared at him bewildered, your mouth slightly agape as your heart sank. "I just..." he began, cutting himself off as his mouth became wet, "I only wanted to know if you were well. After everything that happened all those years ago, I would expect one to feel a need for comfort and companionship."

Aegon had no intention of belittling you; he only wanted to show you the compassion which you had been neglected of. Your instinct was to deny any need for sympathy, feeling offended that he thought you could not handle yourself, but you realized that was not the truth. The bitterness you harbored for his mother and grandfather had muddled together into a mess of resentment and rage for all who surrounded them, even those who had no part in it.

The moonlight reflected in his glassy eyes as you touched his cheek. You had never realized how pink and plump his lips were until they trembled in the silver lighting.

"I swear to you, Aegon, on the Seven, upon my late mother's grave, that I had no knowledge of the letters you sent me." You had to bite your tongue not to add that even if you did, you wouldn't have written to him anyways. The blinders of anger kept you from reason back then.

You saw how his face fell from the contorted pain your supposed rejection gave him to one of sad relief. "I must extend my apologies then," he said, attempting to move his cheek from your hold. You did not let him, leaning closer to him as you brought the other one to keep him in place.

"No, Aegon. It is I who must apologize." He stared at you in confusion, his light brown eyebrows furrowing together. Rubbing your thumb over the creases between them came naturally to you. You had done it with your brothers when they were upset, tracing over the lines and structure to calm them.

"Despite my lack of patience and disregard for you, you have continually shown your heart bare, and I..." you paused, willing your voice not to crack, "cannot thank you enough. You have only showered me with kindness and hospitality since I have stepped foot in Kings Landing. Even when I did not deserve it, you defended my honor so valiantly it would put my brothers to shame." You smiled, picturing Jace and Luke's faces as if they had heard the Queen call you a bastard. "Although I must admit my confusion surrounding your ravens. I never received any word from you, and I cannot fathom who would bar them from me."

You did have some ideas of who it was and why they did it, but it still upset you, even if you would have burned the letters anyway.

The tension in Aegon's brow loosened at the delicate swipes of your thumbs, shutting his bloodshot eyes in appreciation. He still looked the same boy you left for Dragonstone, though the dark circles on his porcelain skin were more prominent, and his hair was shorter. You watched him tuck his lower lip in his mouth, still quaking. You couldn't stop the way your hands slid back down his face, cupping his jaw in your palms as you tugged his wet lip from between the confines of his teeth, the dry pad of your finger sticking to the soft skin.

He opened his eyes at the movement, his violet irises nearly black to focus in the darkness. You gave a small smile, not fully stretching your face as you dropped your hands, finding his clenching the loose fabric of his trousers; his knuckles blanched as you took them in your own. You inhaled sharply to speak but thought better of it as you shuffled closer to Aegon, the fine hairs on your arm tickling his.

***

You weren't sure when you had fallen asleep within the Godswood, the birds chirping as the morning sun rose above the trees. Your back ached as you attempted to stretch your body, only to find the silver-haired head of a prince on your lap. You didn't remember inviting him to rest there, but you didn't wake him, his pouty lips slightly parted as he softly snored.

Aegon looked so sweet like this, like an innocent child who had yet to discover the atrocities of the world. Your fingers itched to run through his hair, to scrap his scalp until he purred into your touch. This was wrong, and you knew it, having the notoriously hedonistic prince lying like a babe on your plush thighs. You wondered what your father would do if he caught you.

The most obvious answer was that he would be furious, most likely at Aegon, and pull him by the short locks attached to his head and onto the ground. Deamon would spit pure venom from his lips, a fit of anger you had only ever seen him display once before, and then he would turn to you. He wouldn't say anything. He wouldn't need to. You could see everything he wanted to convey in his eyes. There would be a mix of frustration, confusion, and disappointment. You would explain what had happened and try to convince him his wrath was directed at the wrong person.

Aegon was just a byproduct of the people he hated, the green bitch and her cunt of a father, Daemon called them. You would explain that Aegon had no desire to rule nor the capability, even though he had not said that himself. Your father would argue that no man will turn away the opportunity to be the most powerful being in all the realm. Once Aegon understood he could have everything he desired, there would be no refusal. Would a man lost in the desert refuse a drink of water simply because it was not from the springs?

You would agree with your father. He was right, after all. He was always right. Daemon knew of the darkest wants everyone had. He could read people and bait them to reveal whatever he wanted them to. You admired him for that. It was a trait you hoped to possess eventually. You realized then that you needed to find something Aegon would covet more than unlimited power. You had to make him crave something more intoxicating.

A lump formed in your throat as you gazed down at the sleeping prince who had not stirred during your dissociation. You knew that only one thing could sway him from saying yes to the crown, and your eyes burned with tears at the thought.

You inhaled a shuttering breath, willing the water not to spill as you brought a shaking hand to Aegon's frizzy hair, running your fingers on his scalp.

"It is time to wake up, my Prince," you leaned into his ear, gently whispering. "The sun has risen, and there is much to do."

Aegon still refused to open his eyes. He groaned, rolling onto his side and shoving his face below your navel. You grinned, quietly laughing as you lifted his chin to meet your gaze.

The angle you moved him to caused his neck strain, a bright blue vein popping on his milky skin. You could almost see it throbbing as the flesh thinned. Your finger found its way to it, tracing the turquoise line that expanded from his jaw to his clavicle to where it joined the rest of his body. You caught his twinkling lilac eyes in your brown ones, the vessels within them no longer prominent as he blinked sleep away. Aegon sat up, shifting his body weight onto his palm as your finger stopped its movements on the stained undershirt he wore.

He said nothing as he moved to his knees, his free hand cupping the underside of your jaw in the juncture between his thumb and index. His touch was not quite as tender as yours was, squeezing the area tightly, almost as if he was afraid you would turn away. You felt your heart rate quicken, your lungs suddenly telling you to fill them with more air as his thumb stroked your chin, extending to expose the raw flesh from your nervous habit.

You didn't register that Aegon had moved, his face closer than what you would deem appropriate, as your lips quivered.

"You are shaking, little one," he stated, the gravel of his tired voice rumbling in your chest.

"I am?" you breathed, your body feeling powerless.

You wanted to be strong, as you were taught to be. Yank your face out of his grasp and dust off your dress as you left, but you couldn't. He made you weak. One look at his angelic face and your limbs were putty. Your eyes began to heat with tears again, your stomach fluttering with unfelt emotions.

"Princess," a man called from the entrance to the castle.

You jerked away faster than you thought possible, wobbling to your feet, lightheaded. It was only because you stood so quickly, nothing else.

"My Lady," one of the Cargyll twins stood, bowing his head stiffy as you approached him. "I was altered by her Grace Queen Alicent that there is to be a Council meeting at high noon. She wishes for you to attend."

"Thank you, Ser Erryk." A self-satisfied smirk curved your lips as you spoke, partially because you knew what Alicent had to do for you to be invited and the other because you had guessed to twin correctly based on how his blue eyes widened at the correct name. "If you have time, alter my maids that I wished to have a bath drawn. The air here is not what I am accustomed to."

"Why does Mother want her at a Council meeting Erryk," Aegon questioned too late, you already walking underneath the stone covering of the Keep.

You bristled at the informal way he addressed the knight, raising your eyebrows as you turned to watch the pair.

Ser Erryk was stiffer than you when you had spoken to Ser Criston Cole a few nights prior, tensing as Aegon came closer. "I am not certain of the reason, my Prince. It is not my place to question the Queen's decisions."

Aegon scoffed, stuffing his loose shirt into his pants to seem somewhat put together. He turned to you, his face asking if you wanted to spend hours deliberating with a bunch of stuffy, rich old Lords and his mother.

You made no protest like he had expected you would, remembering how much you disliked the small meetings you had to attend for your legitimization. He frowned deeply, childishly stomping as he sat on a wooden bench against a pale red rock wall.

"Do not sulk, Prince Aegon. It is unbecoming. I would hate for you to be in such a sour mood when we meet again." Your face and voice were stoic, but there was a light behind your eyes, only one that Aegon could see.

He crossed his arms, flipping his hair out of his vision as he continued to pout, though you swore you saw a hint of his smile ghost his lips as he turned away.

***

Once your maids of the Keep had brushed and washed your tangled hair, smoothing lavender and clary sage oils into the long strands and on your skin, they put the black tresses into a braided style similar to the one Visenya wore. It was simple yet regal, and when paired with the deep crimson of your dress, a golden three-headed dragon curling around the expanse of your breasts and wide neckline, it was sure to conjure the image you wanted—a fierce Targaryen princess born and bred of fire and blood.

The Small Council had to respect you in the sense of your rank, bowing and calling you a lady of the realm, but that was all pointless, nothing but supercilious words inside the Chamber. Lords would not adhere to the opinions of a woman, no matter if she was queen or not, and with Rhaenyra residing in her self-imposed isolation for the past years, neglecting her courtly duties, it only made things more arduous.

Your father had mentioned Grandsire appointing him to the Small Council in times past, but the positions always bored him. He felt the call to act while the other members sat and only wanted to debate. The world was moving faster than the Lords could discuss, and with how lawless Kings Landing was at the time, Daemon knew only action would fix it. He had created the Gold Cloaks, and after the night of bloodshed and savagery you had heard about when young, he was never allowed a chair again.

A guard had come for you when you were ready, leading you to the Council Chambers.

The doors were already open, and a few men sat discussing amongst themselves. You recognized one, heart-stopping and body freezing, his image forever seared into your memory. Ser Otto Hightower had greyed some, his hair was still the same wiry brown, curly beard brushed neatly as allowed, and hair slicked back with oil. The bronze hand pin poked proudly through his lapel's embroidered deep green fabric.

You felt your lungs shrink, refusing to let you inhale. Your chest began to hurt, your mouth becoming thick and your jaw quivering as you stood in the doorway, your presence so unimportant as not to go announced.

You couldn't think. You couldn't breathe. You couldn't move. All you could do was stare at the man who sentenced your loved ones to death. He shoved their heads on spikes and placed them on the battlements of the Red Keep for all to gawk and ogle. A punishment that was only served to those who betrayed the crown.

Everything seemed to move slower, your eyes focusing and unfocusing on the Lords surrounding the table. One laughed, a man with golden hair lifting his head back lightly to bellow one out. Another sniffled, wiping his nostril with his forefinger and running a hand through his thick beard before continuing his conversation with the nearly dying man beside him.

You were terrified, a fawn left alone in the woods, helpless to watch as a pack of wolves feasting on its mother's corpse. Your instinct was to run from the danger, run as far and as fast as your legs could carry you until all you could see was the top of the Tower of the Hand. You wanted your mother. You wanted your father. You wanted your brothers... You wanted your family. Why couldn't they be here with you? It was high time Rhaenyra took her place as the heir and ran the kingdom instead of the Hand, but she wasn't. She wouldn't. She felt her place was with her family on Dragonstone, eating candied lemon cakes and fish as she taught Jace High Valyrian, uncaring of her future simply because some Houses swore allegiance to her.

Daemon was wise to send you here without telling her. If he had, you were sure she would have attempted to impose her self-ideology and keep you on the volcanic island while Otto Hightower and his daughter continued to run the Seven Kingdoms in their vision.

"Her Grace, Queen Alicent of House Hightower."

Ser Harold Westerling's voice caused you to jump in fright, moving nearly three paces away from the door just in time for Alicent to make her entrance, her hands clasped together.

The Council members all stood from their chairs in respect for her title, but they couldn't help but wander away from the Green Queen and onto the Black Princess, dressed in rich Targaryen red and adorned with golden jewels. You caught the gaze of the black-bearded man, averting your eyes as you bowed to Queen Alicent. She only regarded you with a frown, like you were a frayed string on the seams of her emerald gowns.

She walked further into the Chamber, her back like an iron rod, as she sat at the farthest end of the table. The one meant for the King or the Hand, not the Queen. Her place conveyed a message to the entire room without words, and you made a small expression of disgust as you understood the meaning.

How many doubts for Rhaenyra's claim were planted by Alicent Hightower and not her father?

You finally comprehended how much you had underestimated her sway in the line of succession. You had thought Alicent still had some honor and sense of duty to do what was right, remembering how she could not stand Ser Otto's decision regarding Lyra and Sara. You were wrong. She was just as wicked and conniving as her father, a product of his greed and lust for power. The slight warmth you regarded for Alicent was gone.

During your displeased state of being, you realized that you had not taken the empty seat across from her at the other end of the table. The Lords stared at you, expecting you not to be told what to do as it was apparent. You brushed off their looks as you rolled your shoulders, straightening your posture and taking your place in the oversized wooden chair. A ball was already in its designed hole, reflecting a deep obsidian color as Queen Alicent began to speak.

"I am sure, my Lords, you are all curious about the presence of a new member," she paused, perched on the edge of her wooden seat as she placed her hands on the table. "Upon the orders of Princess Rhaenyra," Alicent lied as you narrowed your eyes at her, "she has sent her daughter as a ward to sit in her stead as the heir." The men all stared at her with wide eyes but kept their mouths shut, knowing it was not their place to question the child of the King.

She nodded to you, signaling she was finished with her short introduction and was allowing you to speak. You flashed a smile at the shocked looks of the grown men, and they all stiffened, a bolt of fear running through them as they saw Daemon sitting before them.

"My mother does send her sincerest regards for neglecting her duty for so long. As many of you know, she has been with child consistently these past years and has felt it unsafe to travel for her and a babe. Most of you sitting here are fathers yourself and I am certain you can understand how tumultuous childbirth can be." You placed your hands on your womb, looking down at the mahogany table with a slightly sad but wistful look, pretending to swallow tears back as you discreetly glanced up to see their reactions.

You had to hold back a snort as they all shared solemn looks, no doubt remembering how the former Queen had lost her life. All men were the same when it came to it, hypocrites and easy to fool with a few sighs and batting of lashes.

"As her Grace mentioned, I am here in her place, and the Princess expects you to extend the same treatment as you would to the heir of the Iron Throne. She has entrusted me with upholding her opinions and desires on matters of the realm." You raised your head, the sorrowful look you had passed now gone as you met each pair of eyes surrounding you. "And I intend to uphold them with unwavering devotion."

Leaning back in your seat, you signaled that you were finished with the introduction, resting your fingers on the shiny obsidian ball before you, but you were not done with your words.

"I realize that it has been some time since our King has set foot in these chambers," you traced the cool orb with your digits. "I, regretfully, have only heard on parchment of his health and wish to be informed of his most recent state."

It felt like all the men could do was stare at you, unable to form coherent thoughts with the upheaval in the order of things. The hand was the first to speak, unsurprisingly.

"The King is well and sends his regards for being unable to attend today. His health has continued steady progress." You kept your eyes down, waiting for the lies to ensue. "Now, I wish to speak on the matters we discussed yesterday of the outdated infrastructure of the Royal Sept. The benches are-"

A scoff left your mouth before you could catch it, interrupting Lord Hightower. "The well-being of the King is not as important as remodeling a sept?" You asked rhetorically, looking at Otto incredulously. "Are you serious?"

"Princess," he spoke to you condescendingly, as if you were a fool, "if you wish to inquire about the King's health, I suggest you visit him yourself. We have matters to discuss that you are unaware of due to your sudden attendance."

Otto had practically just told you to silence yourself in much more elegant words. You could barely contain the rage that shook your bones at his rudeness, wanting to jump across the table and strangle him until he turned blue. Instead, you clenched your jaw, settling him with a stare that would kill.

"The King's health is a matter of continued discussion. Should he not be here today? Sitting across from me with his golden crown? Our utmost desire should be to bring King Viserys back to his former self. I believe that takes precedent over the benches in the Royal Sept."

"Your Grace," the frail man spoke, his voice shaking from use during his decades of life. "I am Grand Maester Mellos. I see to the Kings in matters of his health." You nodded to him, waiting for him to continue, his words slow. "I can say with certainty that our King only proceeds to regain more strength and vigor that he had only possessed in his youth." You saw Alicent shift her hands into her lap, focusing on them instead of the old man. "You need not trouble yourself with handled matters."

"Good," you replied with a polite smile, quickly replacing your irritated demeanor as you looked over to Ser Otto. "I will be sure to see him attending the meetings soon, then."

Alicent twitched, her lips tightly pursing as she inhaled deeply. You relaxed lazily in your seat, the wood creaking as you become comfortable in her discomfort. Her anxiety only solidified your conclusion as you saw her pick her nails. They were lying.

You were silent the rest of the two hours the boring lords spoke. Your father's opinion was correct about the dullness of things. It was all frivolous discussion about updating the castle and Sept, replacing the "out dated" tapestries with more modern ones to showcase the future and wealth of House Targaryen. No action. Just talk. You knew that now more than ever, you were needed. If not for the sake of your family's claim, then for the sake of the realm. 

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Thank y'all so much for your support!! I'm so grateful for all the likes and reblogs. I hope everyone who has been with me since the beginning knows that you have a special place in my heart, and to anyone who just now tuned in, make sure to leave a comment so I can tag you! I would hate for you to search for your likes or reblogs for the story. I only say that because I hate doing that myself. XD Also, check out the Spotify playlist because I've added new songs and changed stuff around. I am trying to decide which is my current fav. It's either Little Red Riding Hood by Aeseaes or Fairwell Wanderlust by The Amazing Devil, or maybe even Souls on Fire by Mad Gallica. I seriously can't make up my mind!

Tagged Peeps: @zeennnnnnn, @malfoytargaryen, @targaryencore, @justasmallbean, @alexandra-001, @omgsuperstarg, @sommornyte, @silverslive, @unclecrunkle, @prettykinkysoul, @duesobabe, @djlexi, @ynbutbetter, @honestlykat, @graykageyama, @legolas017, @iiamthehybrid, @brezzybfan, @dd122004dd, @ladybug0095, @millies0bsimp, @kalfild, @sheislonelyalways, @tempt-ress, @bellameshipper, @minttea07, @trikigirl271, @esposadomd, @buckylahey, @justarandomflowerchildofthenight, @partypoison00, @please-buckme, @pastelorangeskies, @joliettes, @existential-echo, @priyajoyy, @valaenatargaryensdragon, @merovingianprincess, @rachelnicolee, @candy12110, @w3ird11, @ruhjkie, @fatalewomen, @somemydayy, @ariana-dumbledore8, @marikkjj, @zillahvathek, @adelusionalwriter, @sunny-boy-06

Bold means I couldn't tag you for some reason :(

[strangelockd]

Till The End Of Time

Smut - Explicit content - NSFW - 18+ only!

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x Female Reader

Summary: After years of living a busy life and being the worlds only consulting detective. Sherlock Holmes basks in the glow of fatherhood. Together you opt for a movie night, leaving Sherlock with other ideas in mind for the two of you.

Warning: - Heavy Fluff & Smut, Fingering, Pure Mutual Admiration, Praise Kink, P In V Sex, Hair Pulling.

•This came to me as I was organizing my music. I hope you all enjoy it. (Who wouldn’t enjoy Sherlock as a father 🥹) I am slowly returning to my inbox requests so please bare with me. If you like the song you can check out my Sherlock Holmes Playlist. As always likes, comments and reblog’s are always welcome•

Stroking Sherlocks soft brown curls between your fingers you couldn't help but give a joyful sigh. It was the perfect day, and Sherlock wanted nothing more than to enjoy the weekend with his girls. After retirement, it took a while for your husband to live a slower life amongst people.

For decades all Sherlock Holmes knew was solving criminal cases, chasing one high with the next. The Consulting Detective was never one to admit that he would become the ‘settle down’ type of man. But after time and great patience, Sherlock Holmes grew to fall in love with what normal people would call human domesticity.

Resting your arm around his neck Sherlock craned his head bringing your hand up, kissing each finger gently as your daughter continued sleeping in his lap. His free hand continued playing with Amelia's curls while his eyes trailed to yours. That piercing green gaze that always sent flutters through your stomach. To most Sherlock wasn't an easy person to read, but this look said it all as you felt the heat rise in your cheeks.

“I love you both so much y/n,” he broke the silence, “You and Amelia have brought me more happiness than anything could ever give,” his lips went back to your hand as he glacially made his way to your wrist. Placing a delicate kiss on your pulse point you released an impulsive groan bringing your legs closer in a foolish attempt to hide what the heart truly desired.

“And I love you S-Sherlock, we both do more than anything in the world,” you quivered, trying to maintain your composure. Nearly waking Amelia you both paused giggling only for her to continue back to her soft snores. She was always a deep sleeper like you and at times like this it served its benefit. Leaning in slowly you kissed Sherlock, feeling him moan against your soft lips, his free hand cupping your chin as if you were porcelain glass. His thumb stroked your skin softly as you leaned into his touch, soft and secure.

“How about we put Amelia to bed and we can have a movie night? I'll even let you pick the film,” you smiled.

Sherlocks hand trailed down resting on his navy clad leg as he sat contemplating your idea. The edge of his lip formed a familiar smirk as he quickly stole another kiss.

“That sounds more than fair,” he agreed.

Sliding your arm off, Sherlock stood up opting to carry Amelia to her room. Her small delicate limbs clung to her fathers frame like a tiny koala as his long fingers played with her soft auburn hair. Tucking her in gently, Sherlock kissed Amelia's forehead whispering sweet nothings, stroking her soft curls that strikingly resembled his own. Next to you, she was perfect in his eyes.

“Good night, my dearest Ameila. Mummy and Daddy love you with all of our hearts,” the timber in his voice spoke with promise, closing the door behind him. With a satisfied sigh he rolled his shoulders back with a feeling of confidence. Like the familiar thrill of solving a case Sherlock Holmes couldn’t help but smile from ear to ear.

The two of you brought him more pride and joy than he ever could imagine. All these years he always felt like a pariah, destined to wander this world alone. Sherlock kept convincing himself that he wasn’t worthy of anything good. But with you, it changed the course of his life for the better. With Amelia, life just became more plentiful.

*****

Making a quick change into your pajamas, you sat at the foot of the bed unaware that Sherlock was standing by the door frame on the side safely assuming he was watching this whole time. His eyes glowed in the low light as he took strides closer, wedging himself between your legs opening them wider, his expression drinking in your lovely features. The curls draped over his forehead as he slowly leaned into you, feeling his breath on your skin sent goosebumps up your flesh.

You pulled away, eyeing him with suspicion playfully taking him in, “penny for your thoughts?”

Sherlocks body towered above you, his big hands cupping your face softly bringing you in for a deep kiss. The feeling of his lips ever inviting as his tongue grazed across your lower lip begging for entrance. Together you moaned in sweet unison as he slipped inside, holding your frame up for support as you kissed with heated passion. Feeling his strong legs between yours you couldn’t help but bring your fingers up to his waistband pulling him closer. It was enough to spur him on as he continued kissing you. All that could be heard was your shared moans as you suddenly pulled away suddenly remembering the plans for tonight.

“Wait. S-Sherlock. What about the film?” You pleaded, his lips trailing your collarbone. The flecks of his tongue against your skin made you release a sharp hiss. His tongue continued nibbling your ear as you melted under his hypnotic touch. Powerful and strong, he was able to read you better than anyone. He pulled away leaving the both of you breathless as he rested his forehead against yours smiling sheepishly.

“I had another plan besides a film my darling. Much more pleasurable plans. And beside,” taking his fingers he slid off your top leaving your top half exposed, “you said I got to pick what I wanted to watch,” throwing the garment on the floor he gave a soft groan. He couldn't help but stare in awe, “and I choose to watch you come undone by me.”

His baritone voice dropped an octave as he was left stunned, “So perfect,” leaving his mouth agape you stood up to kiss him softly. Your bare chest pressed against his form fitting white shirt that was begging to be ripped off. Sherlock leaned in to kiss you once more as you leaned into his touch. The feel of his large hands pressed against your bare skin left goosebumps in their wake. All that could be heard was the sound of Sherlocks whimpers as your fingers threaded through the curls that crowned his head. He always had a weak spot when you grabbed or played with his tresses.

Sherlock was all too eager to accept the guidance as your hand led him to suck on a nipple, followed the other he traced each bud with delicate care. Knowing all the tricks to make your knees buckle. He was feeling you getting impatient as you pulled his head away, leaving him smiling. The sound of his labored breath only turned you on more as your fingers fumbled with the button of his white dress shirt.

You slowly removed his buttoned shirt leaving his top half exposed. The way the moonlight kissed his alabaster skin made your pussy ache. Before you could comprehend Sherlocks palms rested beside you on the bed as you felt the weight shift on both sides of your hips, he wanted more of you as he slowly slid two of his fingers around your waistband. Biting your lips you locked eyes as he slid your bottoms off finally freeing you from your pajamas. He could see the glisten of your eager entrance aching for his attention.

You took a quick hold, grabbing his waistband once more in a desperation to have him closer. Your lips returned in a feral fury as you removed his trousers and boxers in a swift motion. His hands returning to your entrance, you cried a soft moan as his fingers pumped in and out, the feeling was pure ecstasy as you felt your orgasm blossom. It clearly spurred Sherlock on because it made him pick up the pace as his thumb teased in circles around your tender bud.

“Darling you're so beautiful. I love the way you look with my fingers inside of you,” he purred curling his finger in that spot. The sweet spot that always had you see stars. Before you knew it you cried out in pure pleasure as Sherlock watched on, grinning with pride.

Coming down from your high Sherlock paused, bringing a foot up he placed a kiss on your ankle. Hearing you giggle his green eyes glowed as he locked into your gaze. He slowly crawled on top of you kissing up the length of your body, his arms cadging you in as he leaned down kissing you softly. Sherlock was always a passionate person deep down and to find himself lost in this moment was something of a dream. The look of your pebble flushed breasts accompanied by the look in your eyes of pure satisfaction. He wanted this moment etched in the walls of his mind palace forever.

He kissed your forehead trailing down to your nose, his lips found yours as he melted into your touch. The great detective was immensely turned to putty by the one thing he can't live without. You. For you fit him better in more ways than one. He brought himself up aligning his cock at your entrance. Giving a few steady pumps with his hand you took in the glisten of pre cum beading off the tip making you bite your lip once more. Bracing his shoulders for support as he asked, “Are you ready my love?” Sherlock's eyes never left yours as he scanned you for absolute permission.

Taking a hand you cupped the back of Sherlocks neck, bringing him close and kissing him gently. Showing assurance the kiss was soft and bared your heart filled trust. No words were needed as Sherlock slowly thrusted himself in. You both shared a groan as the kiss never broke. Allowing yourself to adjust before he pulled away gently, he locked on your gaze once more purring into your ear.

“Promise me one thing y/n,” he went even slower, itching himself deeper as he slowly bottomed out. Savoring the moment of feeling his cock stretching you so unbelievably full. You clenched slightly causing Sherlocks hands to suddenly dig into your hips knowing damn well it will leave marks.

“W-what's that,” you stuttered as he kept up his thrust, determined to make you feel complete.

Sherlock caged his arms around you as he paused leaning into your ear his voice purred against your ear, “that you're mine. Forever,” returning to his pace your nails dug into his back. Your hand laced the nape of his neck, pulling him in for a deep kiss. A kiss that spoke of untimely promise. He kept up the pace as you moaned once more in pleasure.

“Always!,” feeling your climax blooming, your nails dug into his pale back even deeper, “I promise Sherlock. Now please go faster,” you begged, feeling your heels dig deeper, spurring him on as it only took those words for him to start thrusting into you at such a pace; A pace you will know you'll feel the next day.

“Jesus Sherlock!” You groaned into his neck, his curls sticking to his sweat glistened forehead as he kissed you. Stifling all moans as you rode your climax. The feeling bloomed as his hips moved at this new angle that made you suddenly see stars. Whatever god you were chanting was wasted as Sherlock slammed into you one last time. Your orgasm hit you, making your eyes practically fall into the back of your head as you drenched his cock with your nectar.

“That's my good girl,” he smiled, feeling the praise go right to your solar plexus. You were always a sucker for admiration. He pulled out gently making you wince, you couldn't help but miss the feeling of him. Throwing the blanket iver Sherlock quickly returned with a tray full of essentials. Even after lovemaking he always believed in aftercare. The tray consisted of two sleeptime teas, massage oil and a small stack of what looks like steaming towels.

“You always take such wonderful care of me Sherlock, how did I get so lucky?” He traced a warm towel over your center as he was careful not to overstimulate. He reached for the glass bottle of oil, pouring it over his elegant digits as he signaled you to lay on your stomach. The feeling of his strong hands worked every aching nerve as you sank into the mattress.

“It's not luck y/n I just love taking great care of what is precious to me,” he spoke softly rubbing every part of your skin. The oil felt amazing as he finished with your shoulders sealing the gesture with a kiss he rubbed his hands dry on a towel before reaching for your tea. Covering with the blankets you snuggled closer together as you both sipped your beverages in complete happiness enjoying the moment shared between you both. For life could not be any more satisfying than having you and Amelia at his side.

Masterlist

Sherlock Holmes Playlist

@withalittlehoney @deepbatched @bakerstreethound @thealleydog @sassenach-on-the-rocks @blxckdragonfly @asherloki @pinkthick @stewardofningishzida @cumbrbatchbenedict @geeky-politics-46 @lokidokieokie @strangesgirls @silversword7000 @newavenger @icytrickster17 @lucimorningst4r @lady-harvey @evelyn-kingsley @battledress @budugu @kentucky-criedfricken @hunterofshadows04 @km-ffluv @datauthorress @azu21 @cemak @sobeautifullyobsessed @aphroditesdilemma @huxs-waifu @strangesslut @butchers-girl @dino-fart @meeom @strangesthirdeye @vickiee-mcmuffin

[probablyasocialecologist]

At a societal level, most people grasp the importance of plants to their lives and the ecosystems they inhabit. The success of humans as a species is inextricably interwoven with the success of plant life on Earth. Without the growth of ancient forests, the biosphere in which we live would not have enough oxygen-rich air for humans to have evolved. Without the cultivation of plants for food, humans could not have settled, built shelters and developed rich and diverse cultures. In practical terms, too, building with plants makes a lot of sense. They grow back and are relatively easy to cultivate, harvest and process into useful materials. Their inherent fibrous structures give our buildings integrity. Trees, processed into timber, work extremely well in both compression and tension. Hollow straws and grasses hold air within them, making them great insulators. The lignin in many different plants can act as a natural binder when heated, meaning that you can essentially squash them, heat them and they stick together into useful sheet materials. Mixed with different binders like clay and lime, they can be given resistance to fire, insects and mould. Bio-based materials are also hygroscopic – meaning that they hold and release moisture. The fact that they can absorb humidity from a room helps to regulate damp and prevent mould from growing. That they are moisture permeable means that water vapour trapped in walls, from rain ingress or generated through leaks, always has somewhere to go. Contemporary buildings, on the other hand, are essentially wrapped in plastic sheets, trapping in moisture and resulting in poor indoor air quality.

Some of the best examples of bio-based buildings are hiding in plain sight in villages, towns and cities across the globe, having withstood decades, sometimes centuries of wear and tear. Timber-framed barns, reinforced with hazel wattle and clay daub can be found dotted across the British countryside. The technique of cob building, using loadbearing clay and straw, was very commonly used in the south-west of England in the 19th century, and many of those cob buildings still stand in Devon and Cornwall today. They are finished in a lime render and look from the outside like any other stone or brick building.

That these techniques have not become more widespread is, at first glance, surprising. The local materials and skills used to build with them were relatively low cost, and when well maintained, extremely durable. The critical thing about these materials, however, is how they were intrinsically linked to land, and specific geographies or bioregions. Industrialisation brought with it a change in agricultural practices and land ownership. Bio-based materials were conventionally derived from agricultural waste; long wheat straw was for example used for thatching, until modern chemical fertilisers that help the wheat grow more quickly weakened the structure of the straw, making it too brittle. Water reed, also used in thatching and as a render substrate, was once abundant in wetlands, but these were drained over the course of the 19th century to develop more arable farmland, cutting by approximately 90 per cent the amount of land on which the reed could grow.

Industrialisation also brought about the development of contemporary insulations, designed initially to prevent energy loss from high-energy machinery and factory spaces. Materials such as concrete and steel, which enabled the quick assembly of spaces of production, ultimately sought markets in domestic construction too. These materials were produced at an unprecedented scale and advertised as technologically advanced, in need of little or no maintenance: symbols of a bright future in which being cold, damp and living with fire risk were a thing of the past. And as these materials became more and more popular, regulatory frameworks began to be designed around them, with lawmakers falling victim to aggressive lobbying and marketing campaigns. Today, testing and certification, mortgages and insurances in the UK and beyond are generally designed around contemporary building systems, and materials which have proven their efficacy over decades of service are considered risky, fringe and ultimately more costly.

The petrochemical and mineral materials we have been building with since the Industrial Revolution require an enormous amount of energy to be extracted and processed. The cement industry, for example, is responsible for about eight per cent of planet-warming carbon dioxide emissions – far more than global carbon emissions from aviation. We cannot continue to build using materials that generate enormous outflows of emissions and have to be shipped across great distances. We need to use materials that are lower in embodied carbon: bio-based materials, derived from plants which can regenerate sustainably and sequester carbon into our buildings.

[killingthemoon84]

~The Door~

I sat on my couch, covered by a small, cozy blanket, slowly drinking my coffee as I gazed out the open window. Outside, the rising sun illuminated the calm land, the autumn trees swayed peacefully in the breeze, and the birds sung their delicate, joyful melodies. Soft, golden clouds drifted gently across the orange sky as the nearby stream happily babbled over smooth stones. Observing the beauty of nature, I quietly hummed to the song playing on my little radio. Oh, what a lovely morning.

A light knocking came from the other room. Curious, I rose from my seat and set aside my warm cup. Who could it be at my door? I made my way down the hall and to the entrance just as the knocking sounded once again. Smiling at the thought of what might be a friendly visitor, I opened the door.

Without hesitation, I slammed the door shut once again. Shock engulfed me. Fear ran freely through my veins. My heart hammered in my chest. I couldn’t find my breath. No. No, this couldn’t be happening. It couldn’t. Why was it here? Why? 

There was great crashing, and the door shook in its frame. It was trying to get inside.

A second crash. The wood splintered.

A third.

Before I could run, before I could scream, before I could do anything, the door shattered in an explosion of wood and timber. I fell to the floor, terrified and trembling. 

There, standing above me in the entrance, was a walrus.

The End.

[sabraeal]

All Pain Will Turn to Medicine, Chapter 8

[Read on AO3]

Written for the birthday of our favorite Australian, @meibemeibelline! It has been over a year since I have gotten a chapter of this one out (after being SO sure I was going to finish it in 2023 ha. ha. ha.) and after worrying that I might not have enough of a first draft to cover the whole content of this chapter...went and had to cut it in half again to keep this chapter from growing out of control 🤣

Herr Kruger’s inn towers over the other buildings in the quarter; three full stories stacked one atop the other like layers on a cake, its peaked roof jutting higher still. Half-timbered, like all the stores on the square, but not just the simple cross-hatched frames used to shore up the plaster. No, these were all arches and stars and clovers, as prettily patterned as the gingerbread houses in the pastry shop.

“There’s four floors,” Herr Kruger corrects, stairs creaking beneath his feet. “A fifth, too, if you don’t mind the rafters squeezing in on you. Pavo kept his room there for a while, before he nearly put his head through the roof.”

Anda may snort, but it’s not some fatherly boast. He’d broken skin— enough to have his mother sobbing, thinking his brains might be next, but it’d barely been more than a scratch, not deep enough to need stitching. Shirayuki had been the one to ruffle the plaster from his hair, giving a soothing cluck when he bleated out, don’t tell Herr Anda. She rubbed some salve into it, and with a firm recommendation to stick to higher ceilings, let it close up all on its own.

“The old building here has a half dozen rooms,” Herr Kruger presses on, leading them out onto the landing. “It’s the original inn, back from when my opa built it. But the new extension’s got twice that. Bigger ones, too.”

New extension, Oma would huff at the very whisper of the words. That old thing has been squatting here since before you were a twinkle in your father’s eye. Had the quarter split right down over the middle over it, when they put it up— half of them could hardly wait to tap a new keg to celebrate, and the other stood out on that very street and cursed the name Kruger down to its cornerstone. Your grandfather right at the head of them, of course.

A misty look would roll over her then, a wistful smile curling up at the corner of her mouth. Some days I used to wonder if they’d settle it the whole business with their fists. But it never quite came down to that. Pity, really.

“Bigger?” Anda cranes his neck around a jamb to give the room a cursory look. “Seems fine enough to me.”

Herr Kruger hooks his hands on his hips, a sigh blustering out from between his lips. “Most custom that stops in now has a man or two with them. For safety, mind you. A servant sometimes, or a guard, maybe both. Want ‘em to be as close as a good yell.”

It’s hardly the first time Shirayuki’s shuffled down the extension’s spine— they’d play here in the slow season, her and Pavo and a handful of the other children around their age, racing down the runner and pretending they were trapped inside some great cat, all curled up right against the street. But it’s never been so empty, so quiet that every footstep echoes down the hall, announcing her approach as gustily as a herald might a king.

The staccato taps of Anda’s cane burst like firecrackers into the silence, pop-pop-pop, too loud as he lingers at a threshold, his brows bent over a bemused hum. Already she can see the protest brewing behind his rumpled mouth, frustration fomenting before reason can react. Too many floors. Too many rooms. We’d be on our feet more often than we’d be off them.

Shirayuki sidles up beside him, peering over— or rather, around his shoulder. Anda may have stooped and she might have grew, but he still stood a head taller, able to see eye-to-eye with Obi while all she managed was an aching neck. “I suppose we wouldn’t have to worry about beds.”

He startles, annoyance hissing out between his teeth. “Beds, ha. This thing keeps on like it has and we’ll be adding them. Might even be best to put a few pallets in each room to start, keep down on the pacing. In the field hospitals, they’d have them laid out in one big room, a dozen rows deep, so all you had to do was look out and know where you were needed. Never more than a few steps from one beside to another…”

“’And the flux and flu could stretch their legs just as easily as we could.’” Shirayuki smiles up into his scowl. “That’s what you would always tell me, isn’t it, Meister?”

“I suppose I did.” He grunts, blowing a breath through thinned lips. “All right, Herr Kruger. You said there’s a back stair, isn’t there? Let’s see if it’s any more convenient than that death trap you had leading up.”

There’s a little knot beneath her breast as she watches him hobble off, putting force behind each tap of his cane. The hunch of his shoulders tells her she’s pinched his pride, and his sour stamp says he wants her to know it, to feel bad for the old man whose honor she’s impugned. She doesn’t, of course— he’s a petty little porcupine of a man, Seyha would tell her whenever she could settle long enough to bend her ear, it’s best not to give in to his sulks— but the light catches more gray the brown these days, and she’s come to suspect that cane has become more crutch than affectation, and--

And her fondness chokes her, right there in the door.

“Are you coming, girl?” he calls out, the clacking of his cane more cross by the word. “I didn’t bring you to test out the beds, too!”

Shirayuki smothers her smile. “In just a minute! I was…”

Her gaze drops to her skirt as she turns, trying to make sure she doesn’t catch herself on the doorway— she’s done that more than once here, the jambs always set a little too high or the latches reaching out just a little too far— but a ripple on the wall distracts her. Paper peels back from the plaster, and beneath it lay a pock-marked scar, a divot poorly patched.

The crater sits smooth beneath her fingertips, a little wider than two of them pressed together. It’s impossible to resist the twitch at the corner of her lips, to keep it from slanting into the softest smile. That had fit her whole hand once, fingers spread as wide as starfish as she marveled at the dint Pavo had made with just the top of his head. She’d been smaller then, and the wound freshly made; Pavo had cried thinking of the way his mother would scold them for sliding down the runners, trying to see how far they could go before either the carpet or their knees gave out. Neither of them expected the wall to give first. She couldn’t have been more than eight summers then, maybe nine, Pavo just a year older, and Obi—

She blinks. Obi hadn’t been there. It’d be years yet before he came, undersized and underfed, bleeding buckets on Herr Anda’s table. Those small hands hadn’t yet sewn flesh, hadn’t yet learned how to coax a reluctant cat of a boy into a bath, hadn’t yet become hers, with all the nicks and calluses and scrapes that made her Shirayuki.

And that’s the crux of it, isn’t it? It seems impossible that Obi wasn’t beside her then, because for as long as she’s been Shirayuki, there’s been an Obi just a few steps behind, a taunt poised at the tip of his tongue. In her memory, he's at her shoulder, helping Pavo to his feet and chuckling at the way he stumbled. She can see it so clearly; that same face just at the cusp adolescence, fat clinging to his cheeks even as the bones beneath tried to angle themselves into sharper planes. The odd stretch to his long bones, despite being the smallest in his year, like they were coiled for the growth spurt that would shoot him to a man’s height, just another summer or two away.

If he wasn’t with her then, then that means they were once separated. A tea cup without its saucer, a right hand without a left. And if they were once…

Then that means they could be again.

“Shirayuki.”

Her breath catches, fingers snapping away from the plaster. It’s too late, a polished cane lingers between her toes; when she looks up, there is Anda, far too much understanding in his dark eyes.

“Meister!” she gasp, gripping her skirt in both hands. “I…sorry. I’m coming…”

His palm lifts up, halting her where she stands. “No need, girl; the deed is done. Probably walk across the city twice each day all put together running ourselves ragged down these halls, but this old pile will do for our purposes.” His shoulders shrug, more agitated than resigned. “Not likely to get a better offer anyway. And we can’t pack them all in the apothecary like cord wood, now can we?”

“Ah…” Her mouth falls open, just a bit, before she catches it. “I suppose not.”

“That’s right.” His cane rattles in his hand, knocking against the floorboards. “Which means we’ve got to have the stocks to treat them. Last I checked we were running low on mallow and sweet flag. Certainly not enough to treat the whole quarter if they come begging at our door.”

“Ah…?” Her eyelashes flutter, gaze tracking from one end of the hall to the other. “But don’t you need help relocating what we have? The drawers—?”

“Kruger’s young buck will do me well enough, and some of the stablehands besides. Not like they’ve got much else to be doing.” He huffs, blustering in his usual way. “You’ll serve me much better out in those reeds, doing the things an apprentice is meant to do.”

“But, Herr…”

“Shirayuki.” His dark eyes rest on her, concerned and contrite all rolled into one. “Am I a gentle man? A generous employer?”

The answer to both is yes. Anda might be an exacting one, not given to coddling or comfort, but in the six years she’s been his apprentice, she’s never worked a single festival. When her hours began to stretch deeper into the night, he made a bed for her, a second home to keep her from needing to walk dark streets to her door. He might snipe at Obi when he lingers, but he’s never shooed him either, simply finding jobs that needs a young man’s strength and putting him to work.

There’s a hundred other small kindnesses that come to mind— her afternoons off, when the weather is fine; how he’s always peckish when the bakery’s at a lull and she can grab more than just a pie and few words at the counter— but she’s learned: in this and this alone, Anda prefers the expected over the earnest.

“No.” This lie is as poorly done as all her others, but this, at least, is one he wants to hear. “Of course not, Meister.”

“Then go take your afternoon already,” he grumbles, shoulders hunched around his ears. “Before I change my mind and make you count sprigs.”

*

This early in autumn, the trees cling to their summer plumage, the nights not yet cold enough to gild green to gold, and for gold to ignite into fiery reds and orange. At yet, when she arrives at the water’s edge, struggling through some stubborn tall grass overgrown from the late summer rains, it’s not green and gray that ripples across its surface. No, the vibrant blooms of marsh chestnut clinging to their rafts of spade-shaped leaves. They float at the deepest parts, bobbling like the candles children send across it at Samhain; it’s no river to guide wayward souls, but they make due. Shirayuki, for her part, has never heard a soul complain.

She’s tempted to, however, taking in the pond’s height. For as much as the heat lingered these past few weeks, it hasn’t done much to the waterline. A good thing for the mill, she supposes, but a pain for the girl that’s been sent out to wade in its shallows.

With a sigh, she toes off one boot. No point in putting off the inevitable. Her stocking bunches under her hands as she works it down from knee to ankle, slipping off her foot with far more ease than it took to put them on. Her bare toes land on damp grass, and it’s cold too, clammy. But with a stiffening of her resolve— and her spine— she lets another boot and stocking join the pile.

The soil is moist enough to stick to her feet, shedding from her soles with even the slightest shift in weight. As a child she would revel in it, sinking her toes deep into the ground until dirt embedded itself so deep it’d take a week’s worth of baths to get it all out. Now her teeth simply clench, contemplating whether her skirt or the waterline is higher.

“Better to be safe than sorry,” she murmurs, hiking it from knee-length to somewhere around mid-thigh. Her pale skin blazes like a beacon in the overcast light, visible from the far shore, but there’s no one around her to see her, none of Oma’s old friends present to cluck and scold and sniff at her over what sort of behavior a good girl was meant to show. The kind that married young and popped out a half dozen children before she could have second thoughts.

Like that Suki Bauer, they’d say, proud of themselves for thinking of it. Two girls already and a boy probably already on the way.

If only they knew how high her hemline had to go to get Gen to jump the broom, Obi would tell her, grin as slanted as his stare, they might suggest you wear yours up around your ears.

She’s been behind the counter then, a pair of elder ladies eyeing them from where they browsed the shelves, and she’d clamped her teeth tight over her lip to muffle her laugh down to a snort. Bad enough that he said those sorts of things where anyone could hear, the last thing he needed was encouragement.

But now her fingers flex, a strange itch burrowing beneath her skin. There’s a heat there, just under the surface, one that radiates out from the molten place in her belly and— and she shivers without touching the water at all. Wonder what you could do with someone who wanted you, then?

Her breath catches, throat so tight it nearly chokes her, and ah, she’ll take her chance with the mud and the leeches, as long as she can be free from… from this, whatever it is.

Shirayuki doesn’t so much step as slide down the shore, hands flying out to keep steady. The muck sucks at her toes, chilly and unpleasant, soft enough that some of it even clouds up around her feet. It’s the slimiest pair of slippers she’s ever had the misfortune of wearing. A small school of pucker-mouthed guppies crowd her as she gains her bearings, gumming at the bubbles caught on the downy hairs dotting her shins— better company than leeches to be sure, but it tickles, sending the smallest shivers beneath her skin.

“Ah…” Her teeth grit tight as she wades through the muck, bracing her against the chill of the water. “Well, there’s no point to standing around!”

On a warmer day she might kneel, letting the water cool her as long blades and gnarled roots piled high in the basket floating beside her. But today each shift in the waterline brings a gasp, that run of warm weather all but leeched from the pond’s memory. So she bends instead of bathes, questing fingers digging deep beneath the soaked soil, feeling for the hard rootstalks hidden beneath the murk and muck. Sweet flag— calamus, its tag reads, once it was boiled down and turned to oil or dried powder— wasn’t the sort of the plant that rooted deep, entrenching itself the way that the oaks and the willows did just up on shore. Instead it runs parallel between plants, a dozen little knotty shoots tangling around each other to keep each sprout from toppling.

A practiced tug pulls three of them out together; they all share the same rootstalk, the first plant showing the most robust rats’ nest of pale shoots and the third only a handful of spindly ones. A fair specimen, for her first go. And she’d need a dozen more like it to even scratch the surface of what they need to replenish their stores.

It’s hardly difficult work; her first year as an apprentice, Anda had brought her out here in the dead heat of summer and showed her how to feel for the thickest rootstalks, plucking only the most hearty plants to boil down. She’d been down to her chemise, fingers and toes so pruned it’d taken her a day to lose the wrinkles. Her whole body had singed to a light pink after all those hours in the sun, but she’d plucked enough to keep them stocked for nearly a year. The motion comes to her easy as breathing now, her fingers slipping along stalks and roots, wiggling when she things she’s found a good clot.

There’s one that gets stubborn— a big, chunky knot of a thing, holding what has to be five plants together. The roots are so gnarled beneath it she has to work her palm under and around to get a good grip. A grip she does, hauling on it until roots snap like stitches under her hands, toes curling in the mud to brace her. And she’s got it, she really does, the whole thing pulled like a tooth, but—

“You know, half-pint,” a familiar voice drawls from the shore, “if you were just gonna splash around in the water, you should have told me.”

It surprises her. Enough that she tugs too quick, too strong, and— and Shirayuki isn’t clumsy, no matter how Obi likes to tease, but with that knotty clump of roots and long grass in her grip, center of gravity shifted to yank rather than hold, it’s no surprise she tumbles. Topples really, like a tower of dishes stacked askew, sweet flag flying from her hands and basket sent skittering. When she falls, bottom-first, there's only water to catch her.

Which would be fine enough all on its own. With the soft silt lining the pond’s floor, there’d be no injury save to her pride. Wet skirts wouldn’t be pleasant, but she’d suffered worse under Anda’s exacting tutelage. The day might not be as hot as the ones before, but she’d dry quick enough picking mallow from the dryer parts of the marsh.

Or at least, that’s how it should have been, save for the fact that she’s waded right to where the shore drops off, knee-height to one side and waist-high on the other. When she tips over, there’s no clacking of teeth as her tailbone hits the bottom, but instead—

Instead a splash, murky water closing over her head as her fall slows to a float.

It only takes her a moment to find her feet— a breath, really, one that leaves her sputtering as she breaks the surface, glaring up at the grinning mouth on the shore.

“Obi,” she gasps, trying for stern but only managing sopping. “What were you—?”

“Sorry there, Miss.” He hardly sounds it as he slips down the shore after her, hand held out like an olive branch. “Didn’t mean to spook you. Just saw you splashing around in the shallows there and thought you might ask me to join.”

“Splashing?” Her hand grips onto his, a cascade of pond water dripping down her arm for the effort. “I wasn’t trying to just play around in here, Obi! I was—”

As firm as Obi holds her, his strong fingers latched around her wrist like a vise, she slips. Not all at once, oh no, but just enough to catch her breath, and when he goes to fix his grip—

Water closes over her once more, seeping through to her already soaked skin, and oh, she’s had quite enough of this.

“That was an accident, Miss!” he swears, hands waving overhead. “Really, the water went and made you all slippery, and I, er…”

She surges up, gripping him right below his elbows, and pulls.

Obi surfaces with a squawk, pond water running in rivulets down the sharp angles of his face. “Miss,” he huffs, finding his feet. “That was dirty—”

“You dropped me!” she reminds him, chin held high. “It was only fair.”

“Fair?” He wades toward her with a purpose, mischief dancing in his eyes like the townsfolk swore lights did over the pond. “Oh, I’ll drop you all right. I’ll drop you right—”

His arm snakes out, cinching around her waist before she can do much more than flounder, lifting her up off her feet. There’s a moment where he holds her, her back pressed tight against his front, heat radiating off of him even soaked to the bone, and her breath catches, heat flushing her cheeks, and—

And with a grunt, he throws her, cold water enveloping her as she struggles back to the surface. “Obi!”

There’s no need to call for him, not when he’s already trudging toward her mouth curled towards mischief.

“No!” she shrieks, a laugh bubbling out beneath it. “Don’t you dare!”

Her hand barely skims the water, but somehow a bucket’s worth flies up from it, slapping him like a wave does the shore. It stops him, at least for a moment, but then he’s on her again and she— she yelps, springing back, cupping her hands now to splash him, breathless as his grasping hands reach for her, as relentless as his grin—

And she slips. It’s a rock’s fault, mossy with algae and right where she needs her foot to brace for the next splash. But it goes out from under her instead, and she expects to fall, expects to end up once more beneath the surface, this time without any of Obi’s assistance, but instead—

Instead he grabs her, one hand on either hip, and drags her to him. It’s enough to startle a shriek out of her, bubbling into a giggle as her hands brace against his chest. She struggles in his hold, his body unbearably hot even through the dampness of his shirt.

“Let me go!” she gasps, not meaning a single word. Her fingers knot at his shoulders, wet fabric squishing beneath her fingers. “You’re keeping me from my work!”

Her knees find his hips; a more solid place to steady herself than the shifting silt beneath her feet. Obi coughs out a pained, “Miss.”

But it’s no use, she’s too busy trying to squirm herself away, laughter warring with her words as she blurts out, “Herr Anda told me to collect some calamus! You’re going to have to explain to him why—”

“Shirayuki.” He shakes her shoulders, but that’s hardly what get her attention, not when his mouth wraps so seriously around the syllable of her name. His voice lowers as he says it, dragging it across the gravel in his throat until it leaves her as scoured as the sounds themselves, a hot sting scraping over her skin.

Their eyes meet— too close, now that she’s noticed, their noses a finger’s breadth from brushing. His breath fans out over her, catching on a cheekbone before it ruffles the small, wispy hairs by her ears. It’s…intimate, too much and not enough all at once, and she wishes she could understand why her palms itch to grab him, to bring him closer still—

“I’m leaving,” he grounds out. Her fingers spring open in shock, and only his grip around her waist moors her. “Seyha is taking me to Port City.”

Her lips are too numb to mumble out more than a, “When?”

“A day.” He shrugs, like it hardly matters, but his eyes slip away, fixing somewhere past her elbows, not daring to look at her face. “Maybe two. I don’t know.”

Her feet skim down to the silt, holding her steady, the way they always have, all on their own. Obi watches her, eyes darting across her face over and over, as if she’s a book he can’t quite make out the words on, hoping that an extra read or two might make her meaning clear.

“She’s eager to get going,” he says. There’s a gulf between them now, water rushing to fill it. “Never could be tied down long, could she? Even as big as she is. We could leave now and in two days, maybe she’d finally waddle to the gate.”

She wants to laugh, to scold, to give into the usual ebb and flow of their banter and let it pull her under, make her forget that there’s anything to worry about at all, but—

But it’s a lie. One that splits around the shape of his meaning, sounding out its edges while never quite getting to the truth: it’s not safe for Seyha to be here among all this sickness. And it’s not safe for her to go alone, not carrying a child so close to term.

It will have to be Obi that goes with her. That will have to leave her, right when…when…

His smile fades, mouth finally reflecting the desperation in his eyes. “I didn’t know until last night. After you…”

The gears turn then; she can see it behind his eyes, his too-clever mind puzzling out the arrangement of bodies in the bakery last night, of what sort of conversation could be heard through the stockroom walls. “Did you…?”

“Come on.” Her hands slips from his grip, and she tries on a smile that hardly fits. “If you’re going to soak me to the bone, you might at least help me finish.”

His stare fixes on his empty hand, a strange smirk slanting up one side of his mouth. “That’s right.” His hand curls shut. “What’s a little back breaking labor between friends?”

*

One glance at the pattern of drips she leaves on the apothecary floor and Anda gives a great harrumph, telling her to leave her bounty of shoots and stalks on the county before she heads home.

“I can come back,” she offers, less confident and far more helpless than she’d like. “It won’t take long for me to change clothes, and then I can help with—”

His hand waves, the politest dismissal Anda can ever bear to give. “And then have you sick when I need you most? Go, girl. There’s nothing to do here that I can’t handle myself.”

“I’m nearly dry.” A statement that isn’t as factual as she’d hoped it would be, even after spending a hour on shore collecting mallow. Too little sun, too little heat, and she’d only managed damp instead of soaked. “If we’re going to set up the inn, then I should really—”

“Get a good night’s rest.” Anda’s forehead rucks up like his mouth, impatience and frustration leaving gouges in his skin. “Herr Kruger’s boy is handling most of it. Obi too, if Shou’s finally got a collar on him.”

“But I can—!”

“Catch your death, that’s what you’re going to do if you keep loitering in my shop like this,” he huffs, giving the floor a rap for good measure. “Go home. It might be a while yet before you get to do it again.”

Shirayuki lets out a sigh. “That’s what you said last night.”

“And I’m going to keep saying it.” His brows knit the same as his jaw, stubborn all over. “Things like this, they don’t stay contained. Illness spreads, the gates come down, and people panic. Enjoy this last bit of sanity while you can, girl. Because once it stops…”

He gazes out the window, knuckles white where he grips his cane. “We’ll see what’s left.”

*

Anda might pretend to be an exacting employer, the sort that expected odd hours and long nights with little thanks in return, but the truth of it was he was merely a prickly personality with a rather permissive policy when it came to the actual hours she worked. Some days she labored into the wee hours; mostly when a patient was in labor herself, though there’d been more than a handful of brows that needed mopping and stubborn fevers that refuse to break that kept her worn thin for weeks as they raced through the quarter.

But there had been more where Anda shooed her out the door, telling her the weather was too hot to have more than one body in the shop, or that there was no need for her to hike all the way back to gossip with him once she was done with her rounds. Enough that habit has her reach for an apron as she steps into the pub, ready to lend a hand before the regulars stomped in, eager to unwind from their wearying work.

But the taproom is silent, not a soul in it besides Oma, wiping a cloth over a counter so clean it nearly gleams. Her hands drop to her sides, stomaching rolling over to follow.

“Shirayuki!” There’s a warmth in Oma’s smile that thins before it can make it to her eyes. “You’re back so soon! And here I was, just thinking what I might put on for dinner. I think there’s a roast…”

“Ah!” She shakes her head, a palm flying up between them. “I don’t really think I could…I mean, thank you, but it’s been a long day. I think I might just grab something light to tide me over. We still have some of that cheese, don’t we? The one Seyha’s friend sent in from Clarines? If you don’t have any plans for it…?”

“I don’t,” Oma sighs, the wrinkles deepening at the corner of her eyes. “So, it’s the both of you today is it? Careful, spurn a woman’s cooking too often and she might find insult in it.”

“Nothing could keep me from one of your meals if I thought I could stay awake long enough to eat it.” Shirayuki offers a weary smile. “Is Opa feeling all right? Usually he’s first in line for your roast.”

“Oh, you know how he is. Got a bit of a head cold and suddenly nothing’s quite right.” She shakes her head, fond. “He’s just got to sulk about it for a bit, then he’ll come around. Maybe if he smells it cooking.”

If he’s got enough of a cold to complain about how his food tastes, Shirayuki doubts he’ll be smelling much of anything. But she knows better than to say anything but, “Maybe.”

“Well, off with you then.” Oma waves at her, imperious as a queen on her throne. “Go scrounge up what you’re planning to stomach. But wake up hungry, would you? If I don’t feed you something I’m afraid Anda will run you so thin you’ll slip through the floor boards.”

“I will,” she says, hoping this knot in her stomach doesn’t make a liar out of her. “I promise.”

*

Shirayuki may eat light, but it does nothing to settle her stomach-- or the pit of dread nestled at the center of it. It had been easy to ignore it as she waded in the reeds, too busy trying to keep herself steady in the shallows to think of the inn’s echoing halls, or the quiet of the pub’s taproom, or even the brittle parchment of Goro Bauer’s skin. No space to think of the halo of blonde waves spread over Maki Fischer’s pillow or her mother trying to stifle her sobs in the pantry, not when her ankles itch in the tall grass, hunting for mallow.

But it comes to her now as the minutes tick right over midnight, the hours inching closer and closer to the dawn. Every body twisted in its bed, sweating out a sickness too stubborn to relinquish its dominion; every face peering around the sickroom door, strained with worry. She’s responsible for all of them, every soul in this quarter, and the longer this drags on, days turning to weeks turning to more—

She’s failing them.

The glass rattles in its casement— from the wind maybe, or simply the pub settling on its old bones. Laying here, she can’t know which; there’s no tree to give away a breeze with its swaying, the same way there had never been one to give an easy answer to Obi’s entrance. She’d never discovered how he’d done it either; for all that he’d though getting Shou a wife would grant him more free hours, he’d come away with less. What time he did spend with her tended to be either between batches, when he could steal across the street to bother her, or when Oma put dinner on the table— and in either case, he used the door.

And now she would never know, because she— because he—

He was leaving. And she…

She wishes that it was warm enough to leave the window open. That he might see it, however he used to, and know that she wanted him to come, to lay down beside her the way he used to when everything felt right in her world.

That’s the thing about growing up, she thinks, the quarter bleary as her eyes drift shut. Once things start feeling wrong, they just never feel right again.

*

She must sleep at some point. There's a vague memory of her mattress slipping dipping beneath the weight of a shadow, of a too-warm body holding her close. But when she’s awoken, the sky still heavy with night, there’s no one beside he. Only Oma, grip hard on her shoulder as she shakes her awake.

“Shirayuki,” she gasps, hushed. “Get up, please.”

Shirayuki blinks blearily, trying to find some hint of the sun on the horizon. “What time is it?”

“Please,” Oma says, so dire she’s awake all at once. “It’s your grandfather.”