#A Sky Beyond The Storm Spoilers

[dark-dawn]

you peel a pomegranate and watch as it bleeds, its juices staining your fingertips as you rip apart its flesh and devour the seeds within. you wonder if this is how the gods feel when they consume you, too. or, satoru gojo is born as the son of zeus. his fate does not change.

✭ pairing: demigod!gojo x mortal!reader

✭ contains: fem!reader, mutual pining, obsessive!gojo, religious imagery, greek mythology, slight manga spoilers, it's about him being used as a weapon, it's about him rediscovering his humanity, hurt/comfort, mortals can’t usually see him, but then he meets you, it drives him a little insane, mild sexual content, everyone is doomed by the narrative, slight angst, daddy issues!gojo, son of dionysus!geto.

✭ word count: 10k (utter agony) ✭ a/n: chapter 261 destroyed me, so i decided to write this as a coping mechanism :')

The first night you meet Satoru, the rain is relentless — a heavy downpour saturating the world in a thick curtain of silver. You stand alone on an empty street corner, the flickering glow of streetlights casting long, shifting shadows across the slick pavement. Water streams down your skin, soaking through your clothes and dripping from the ends of your hair.

Then, in a blink, a man appears on the opposite side of the street.

You notice how his lips curl into a sly, knowing grin, as if he’s been expecting you — as if he’s been waiting for this exact moment. You feel an unsettling sensation gnawing at the edges of your consciousness. You can’t shake the feeling there’s something slithering beneath the surface of his skin, raw and untamed, waiting to break free from its constraints.

The rain does not touch him, and the air crackles with an energy that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand on end. It feels a little like you’ve stumbled upon a creature masquerading as a man — familiar yet foreign, like opening your bedroom door only to find a wolf staring back you.

A flash of lightning illuminates the sky, followed by a loud crack of thunder. The storm intensifies, and you see it — electricity surging through him, piercing deep into his flesh. He stands with his arms outstretched like a crucifixion, his body twisting in agonised ecstasy as tendrils of light entwine around him. The heavens roar, a judgment passed, and his form is illuminated with a halo of searing, holy light. It’s blinding, and then gone in a heartbeat. As if you imagined it.

He tilts his head ever so slightly, assessing you, weighing your worth. It’s not quite human.

You wonder how swiftly you might be devoured, a rabbit caught between his teeth, the taste of your own vulnerability lingering on his tongue.

“You’re different,” he finally speaks, his voice cutting through the roar of the tempest. “I can see it in your eyes. You’re not like the others.”

You swallow hard, the weight of his gaze pressing down on you like a physical force — prey caught in a trap. “What do you mean?”

He takes a step closer, his movements fluid and graceful despite the violence of the storm. “Most mortals are blind to the truth,” he replies. “But you see me.”

“I don’t understand,” you breathe, heart pounding in your chest.

You notice that his eyes are a preternatural shade of electric blue, lightning trapped within the confines of human form.

“You will,” he promises. He says it with such certainty, as if it were an undeniable truth of the universe.

Perhaps it is. Perhaps he truly possesses that kind of power.

“What are you?” Your voice is barely audible over the cacophony of rain and wind.

His laughter echoes in the darkness, mingling with the rumble of thunder. “I am many things.” His smile widens, a gleam of amusement flashing in his eyes. “A messenger, perhaps.”

Before you can reply, another bolt of lightning splits the sky, illuminating his form in stark relief against the darkness. In that brief moment of clarity, you catch a glimpse of something beyond comprehension — something primal and ancient, older than time itself, gazing back at you with a smile.

---

Satoru is his father’s favourite child, and so the gods watch him every day.

He eats when they command. He sleeps when they command. When they ask for his devotion, his rage, his life, he cannot deny them. Their whispers infest his mind — always judging, decreeing, demanding — and he cannot silence them. He has been neatly erased and sculpted anew, again and again. The pain has long since faded.

He wants and wants and craves and needs and wants. They do not hear him. He fears he is forgetting his own name. His knees are raw and bruised and bleeding. How long must he pray? How long will he repent? He feels the blood under his skin and his heart throbbing in his chest, and he wants to claw it out and swallow it whole.

And then Satoru meets you. His longing grows teeth, and he wants to sink them into the marrow of your bones, to consume until there is nothing left but the echo of his name on your lips.

You can see him. He doesn’t remember the last time someone has.  

And so, he follows you.

He observes your every move, drinking in the sight of you as if trying to decipher a puzzle that has long confounded him. Other mortals pass by without a second glance, their minds clouded by the mundane concerns of their mundane lives.

He’s currently trailing behind you in a grocery store. He doesn’t think he’s ever been in one before.

The fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting a sterile glow over rows of neatly stacked shelves. It’s been years since he’s tasted mortal food, years since he’s felt the sensation of hunger gnawing at his insides. He can almost remember what it was like — the taste of ripe fruit on his tongue, the feeling of warmth spreading through his body with each bite.

His childhood memories are but fragments now, faded and softened like aged parchment, but he thinks of his mother often. She had treated him with kindness — fed and comforted him. He remembers the way she whispered stories of heroes and villains, of spirits and curses. It is perhaps the only vestige of humanity that remains within him. But then she had died, and left him with his father.

The gods are cruel and fickle. This is the oldest story he knows. Maybe it’s the only story that matters.

But now, he has better things to occupy himself with.

“Hello, little mortal.”

You’re startled by the unexpected voice. “You...” you begin, mouth agape like a fish. “I remember you. From the storm.”

“It seems fate has brought us together once again,” he says, smiling in a way that shows too many teeth.

“…In a grocery store?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he replies, his tone mocking and sharp. “Perhaps a dark alley is more to your taste? Maybe an abandoned warehouse?”

Other customers pass by without so much as a glance in his direction, their eyes sliding right over him as if he were nothing more than a ghost.

“Why are you here? Are you following me?”

“You’re asking the wrong questions, sweetheart.”

Then —

“Who are you?”

“There,” he grins. “Much better.”

He leans in closer, his presence electrifying the air around you. “I am the son of thunder and lightning,” he says, his voice low and resonant. “You are the first in centuries to see me for what I truly am. And for that, you have my interest and my gratitude.”

“I — you’re welcome?” you reply, your confusion palpable, and he finds himself quite enjoying the sight of you flustered and disorientated. “But what’s going on? Why am I the only one who can see you?”

“Maybe you’re blessed by the gods,” he muses. “Or maybe you’re just very lucky. Both, perhaps.”

“Lucky? This is crazy.” Your voice falters like a dancer stumbling mid-performance. “You’re crazy.”

He smiles. “Overwhelming, isn’t it? But don’t worry, you’re not losing your mind. Everything you see and hear is quite real.”

Satoru often wishes things were not real — that he had been born a simple soldier, just another grunt faithfully serving his leader, destined to fight and die in some random, meaningless battle. He would be lost to history, lost to the gods, and no one would remember his name or who his father was. Sometimes, he even thinks that might be preferable to this world, but he doesn’t want to scare you off that badly.

You exhale slowly, steadying yourself. “Okay, okay. So, what happens now? What do you want from me?”

“Nothing more than your company,” he replies. Satoru had always been a selfish child, unwilling to part with his toys, reluctant to share. This would be no exception. “You can expect to see me again soon. Don’t miss me too much, sweetheart.”

He watches you for a moment longer, a smile playing at the corners of his lips. And then, just as suddenly as he appeared, he fades into the shadows once more, leaving you standing alone in the store. As if you had imagined it.

It isn’t until later, when he’s alone with his thoughts and the gods’ whispers, that he realises something peculiar: the voices in his head fall silent in your presence.

He’s uncertain of its implications, yet strangely pleased by the trouble it promises. He’s always had a talent for pissing off his father.

---

The steady beat of the rain against the windows is soothing as you step into the shower. Steam envelops the room, clouding the mirrors and curling into a comforting haze around you. It had been a while since you were able to relax like this — thoughts of gods and monsters plaguing your mind with unsettling frequency. You were familiar with Greek mythology, of course, but it was one thing to enjoy studying history, another thing to relive it.

You had tried to convince yourself that it had never happened, that you just had an overactive imagination fuelled by reading too many fantasy books as a child. No, you weren’t being followed by a demigod; this was just a prelude to a wild, miraculous adventure. Maybe you’d slay a dragon, marry a handsome elven prince. This story wouldn’t be a Greek myth — you wouldn’t be swallowed by the sea, molten wings dripping down your spine; you wouldn’t walk into hell, never to return.

You’re halfway through rinsing the shampoo from your hair when you hear a strange rustling sound from outside the bathroom. You pause, water streaming down your face, listening intently. The noise is faint but persistent, coming from the direction of the kitchen. Your pulse quickens, mouth dry. It seems unlikely someone is trying to rob you; your apartment holds nothing of real value, nothing worth stealing. Perhaps a wild animal has found its way inside, seeking shelter from the storm.

You turn off the shower, wrapping a towel around yourself as you cautiously step out of the bathroom. The sound grows louder as you approach the kitchen. Your mind races through the possibilities, each one more improbable than the last.

Peeking around the corner, you brace yourself for whatever you might find.

Instead, you find the Son of Zeus rummaging through your cabinets. He looks up at you, unfazed by your dripping state, and grins widely.

You suppose you were right about the wild animal creeping in.

“You should really keep more snacks,” he says, holding up an empty bag of chips accusingly.

“Oh my god, I thought I was going to die.” You’re uncertain if you still might.

“Gods,” he corrects, and you’re really struggling to reconcile the image of him in the storm with the person now, complaining about your food options and grammar.

“You can’t just appear out of nowhere and start raiding my kitchen,” you hiss, wrapping the towel tighter around yourself.

“But it’s raining. You should’ve known I’d drop by.” he says, frowning, as if this were the most reasonable explanation in the world and not completely insane.

“Next time, send a text, a messenger pigeon, literally anything else. I think I’m going to have a heart attack.”

He shrugs, unperturbed. “Consider it a lesson in being prepared. You never know when a god might appear.”

“I could have been naked!” you retort, your voice rising in frustration. This is perhaps the least of your worries, but common sense and self-preservation has apparently abandoned you.

“Don’t shout at me about that! Besides, you’re in a towel, so crisis averted!” He seems disappointed by this fact. You want to throw something at him.

“I am not shouting!” you say, shouting. “I am communicating my annoyance.”

“With what? Your lungs?”

You cross your arms tightly over your chest, a stubborn set to your jaw as you turn mulishly silent. You can’t believe you’re being stalked by a demigod.

He heaves a deep sigh, leaning against your kitchen counter. “Fine, I’m sorry. I had not meant to upset or startle you.”

“Please stop following me.”

He ignores you completely, instead pulling out a can of soup and examining it with a bemused expression. “Seriously, how do you live like this? No ambrosia, no nectar. Not even a decent piece of fruit.”

“Get out of my apartment, I swear to god.”

“Gods,” he grins, before disappearing once more.

--- You realise you must have terrible luck when he begins to follow you around more persistently after the shower incident, no longer bothering to even hide his presence. It’s a little odd to have a demigod trailing behind you like a stray dog, but any initial wariness melts away when you catch him eating your cereal. He develops an immediate liking for Rice Krispies, insisting you keep the cupboards stocked with them. It feels as if you’re catering to a spoiled prince, but you suspect even that would be easier to handle.

But the sight of him — this divine, impossible entity — utterly engrossed in his breakfast is strangely endearing.

You still wish he wasn’t eating your cereal, though, and he never cleans his mugs after using them, and —

“You’ve never asked for my name, you know,” he says, interrupting your thoughts.

“Believe it or not, there’s a reason for that,” you reply, eyeing him cautiously. “Namely, you were never invited into my apartment in the first place.”

“You’re always so mean,” he sighs dramatically, “but I suppose I can forgive you this once. It’s Satoru.”

“I would say it’s nice to meet you, but I think I’d be lying.”

“No, you wouldn’t. Everyone likes me.”

“Are you sure? How many people do you talk to? Humans, I mean, not gods.”

He pauses, considering. “Then the gods like me.”

“Is that a good thing?”

He shrugs, his expression pensive. “I’m not sure.”

It occurred to you that you should be frightened of him. You are not.

You suspect he might just be lonely.

(And you, well, you’ve always had a soft spot for strays.)

---

His random appearances in your apartment were becoming a daily occurrence now. One moment you’d be brewing coffee, and the next, he’d be sitting at your kitchen table like he was the one paying rent. He would ask questions incessantly, about the most mundane things — the colour of your curtains, the taste of cake, the texture of your favourite sweater. It made you wonder if you were hallucinating, if perhaps the stress of daily life had finally taken its toll on your sanity. But the more you interacted with him, the more you realised that he was undeniably — and annoyingly — real. You couldn’t possibly invent a creature like him.

In response, you had started asking him questions back. If he was going to be spending an uncomfortable amount of time with you, he owed you this. Plus, it seemed like he enjoyed the sound of his own voice — perhaps you could tire him out and he’d go find another mortal to pester.

The likelihood of that happening seemed slim at best, but one could pray.

“What are the gods like?” you ask, biting into a croissant he bought from a little bakery down the street. You’re not exactly sure where he got the money, but you’re not going to argue with free food.

“Describing the gods to a mortal is like trying to paint a picture without a canvas.” He furrows his brow, searching for the right words. “They’re vast, incomprehensible beings, each embodying different aspects of existence. Some are benevolent, while others are more…capricious.”

“And you’re similar to them?”

“In some ways, perhaps. But I’m also different,” he begins, “I’m not bound by the same rules and regulations that govern the gods. I have a bit more... freedom, you could say. I’m not beholden to any particular domain or duty.”

You nod, definitely not admiring the way the sunlight catches in his hair as he speaks. “What about your powers? Are they granted by your father?”

The idea that his father is a god is still strange, lingering in your thoughts like a puzzle piece that doesn’t quite fit into the picture of the world you thought you knew.

“Yes, in a way. Zeus’s blood flows through my veins, so I can control the elements. I have the power to summon storms, manipulate lightning, bend the fabric of reality to my will.” He smiles, and it reminds you of a cat, smug and self-assured. “I’m powerful, you know.”

You roll your eyes at him. “You’re so cocky.”

“You would be too if you were me,” he grins.

But then you notice a shadow pass over his features. “Don’t mistake it for pride, though,” he continues, his expression tightening into a scowl. “I may not be bound by their rules, but I’m still expected to worship them, perhaps more than the average mortal.”

You furrow your brow. “But you’re the son of Zeus, why are you still expected to worship them?”

His laughter echoes through the room. “Because that’s the way it’s always been. You know the myths — they give you attention when it suits them, but they can just as easily cast you aside when they grow bored.”

“You’re caught between two worlds, then — not quite mortal, yet not fully divine,” you reply, frowning. “It sounds painful.”

“You seem worried about me,” he grins.

You can tell he’s trying to deflect, and you let him.

You briefly wonder what would happen if he carved out every unwanted emotion until only his soul remained. Would he shatter that, too? Break it down into more manageable pieces?

Had he tried to purge them, surgically extract sorrow, fear, anger, believing that what remained would be purer, stronger?

“I’m not worried about you,” you retort, crossing your arms defensively.

“Of course not,” he replies, teasing. “But don’t worry, I can handle myself.”

“On your own?”

His falters for a moment. “On my own,” he repeats.

Before you can press further, he seems to shut down, his expression becoming unreadable, like a mask slipping into place.

And then, without another word, he disappears.

You’re left standing there, alone, as if you had imagined it.

---

The next time you see him, Satoru is standing outside the door of your apartment. It’s a rare sight — he hardly ever bothers with such formalities as knocking. Usually, he strolls around your place without a care in the world, as if the boundaries of your home were mere suggestions rather than solid walls.

You notice the tension in his stance, the way he seems almost hesitant to cross the threshold. But it’s only when you see the blood that your unease turns to alarm. Flecks of red dot his hair, his hands, staining the fabric of his clothing, none of it his own — there’s not a scratch on him.

You hesitate, unsure whether to approach or flee, to lock the door and pretend you never saw him. But there’s a look in his eyes that stops you from walking away.

“What happened?” you ask cautiously.

“It’s nothing.”

“You’re dripping in blood, and that’s nothing?”

He exhales heavily, and he suddenly reminds you of Atlas, the weight of the world resting upon his shoulders. “Trouble,” he replies cryptically, his shoulders sagging. “More than I bargained for.”

You step closer, reaching out your hand to touch him, but he flinches away, as if the contact is too much to bear.

“Can I help?” you offer tentatively, the words slipping from your lips before you can fully comprehend their weight.

“I don’t know,” he admits, his voice tinged with uncertainty.

“Why don’t you come inside?”

He nods, conceding defeat. “Alright,” he murmurs. “Alright.”

Together, you guide him to the nearest chair, his body slumping heavily as if drained of all strength.

You step into the kitchen, your footsteps soft against the cool tile floor. Opening the cupboard, you retrieve a clean towel and a small bowl, filling it with lukewarm water from the sink.

As you return to the living room, you offer him a small smile, much like coaxing a stray cat, as you place the bowl and towel within reach. “Close your eyes,” you instruct gently.

He complies without hesitation, tilting his head back to grant you better access. Dipping a corner of the towel into the water, you carefully press it against his scalp, the fabric absorbing the blood with each gentle pat. Root to tip, you work your way through his hair, your touch light as you cleanse away the stains. As you work, you can feel the tension slowly seeping out of his body, his muscles relaxing beneath your touch.

After a few moments of silence, Satoru speaks, his voice barely a whisper. “Thank you.”

You pause, glancing at him. “Are you okay?”

“What?”

“I’m asking if you’re okay.”

He sits up, his expression guarded, as if he’s shielding himself from further vulnerability.

“That doesn’t matter right now,” he replies. “My feelings are irrelevant to the gods.”

You can sense the bitterness in his tone, the weight of centuries of servitude pressing down upon.

“That’s ridiculous,” you counter, your voice firm. “You’re a person, with your own thoughts and needs and wants. That matters more than anything.”

“You don’t understand. Being okay, feeling okay — it’s not something I can afford to indulge in.” He hesitates, his expression unreadable. “You shouldn’t concern yourself with such trivial matters. I am what I am, and nothing will change that.”

“You deserve more than that,” you reply firmly. You won’t let him deflect again.

The words hang in the air, and for a moment, his expression shifts from stoic resolve to something resembling surprise. It’s as if the concept of deserving more — of having a life beyond duty and sacrifice — is a foreign idea, one he has never entertained. He blinks, his eyes widening slightly, and you realise that no one has ever told him this before. The idea that he could desire something beyond his obligations seems to catch him off guard.

“Do I?” he asks cautiously, as if afraid of the answer.

“Yes, you do. You’re not a machine. You’re a person. You’re more than what the gods expect of you.”

He looks away, his gaze distant as he processes your words. “It’s hard to believe that after everything I’ve done,” he admits quietly. “I’ve spent so long being what they wanted me to be. I don’t know how to be anything else.”

He takes a deep breath. “No one has seen me in years, not really. I’ve forgotten how long it’s been. The only ones who notice me are the gods and cursed spirits. My friends are long gone. Some are in the Elysian Fields, others in the Underworld, forever lost to me.”

He pauses. “I’ve watched centuries pass, mortals live and die, while I remain. Your kindness is something I haven’t felt in a long time.”

For a moment, he looks at you, his eyes filled with a mixture of gratitude and uncertainty.

Then, with a voice barely above a whisper, he confesses, “I often feel like I am no more than a ghost.”

Oh, you realise, he has no one else.

He’s all alone.

“I see no ghost.” You grasp his wrist gently, feeling his pulse, the warmth in his hands. “Only a man, flesh and blood, right here with me.”

A corner of his mouth twitches, as if trying to restrain a smile. You wonder what would happen if he let go of all his control.

But then he clenches his jaw, steeling himself again before speaking. “I owe you an explanation for showing up here like this.” He looks away from you, his eyes fixed on some distant point. “The blood is from cursed spirits. The gods ordered me to kill them. Hundreds of them, for days on end. Over and over again.”

As he speaks, you can see the weight of his burden etched in the tension of his muscles, in the tautness of his posture. “The spirits were twisted, corrupted beyond redemption. They brought only chaos and suffering to those around them.”

“But why you? Why not another demigod?”

“Because I’m the strongest. And if I refused, the consequences would have been dire.” He shakes his head, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. “This is not new to me; I have been doing this for hundreds of years.”

“The gods... they speak to me constantly, relentless in their demands. There’s no respite, no break from their commands.” His voice softens slightly as he looks at you. “But with you, they’re silent. I’m not sure why. Only that I’m sorry you’ve been dragged into this.”

You blink, and then without thinking — instinctively, inevitably — your arms move towards him, pulling him into a hug. At first, he stiffens, as if unaccustomed to touch or kindness after years of solitude. But gradually, almost imperceptibly, he relaxes, leaning into your warmth.

“I’m sorry,” you breathe into the side of his neck.

“What for?” he asks, his voice tinged with bewilderment, as if he can’t quite comprehend your empathy.

“For everything you’ve had to endure. For the weight you carry, for the constant demands placed upon you. For helping people for centuries, without anyone to thank you.”

“I never expected...” he begins, his voice trailing off as he struggles to find the right words. “I never expected this.”

“Thank you,” you say, “for everything.”

His arms tighten around you, and it’s a small victory, a crack in the armour he wears so tightly.

As you pull back from the hug, there’s a brief moment of hesitation, a reluctance to let go. But you step back, allowing him some space.

“So,” you continue, “how about some pizza? I know a great place nearby.”

Terrible junk food always cheered you up — perhaps it would work on demigods, too.

His brow furrows in confusion. “What’s that?”

“Oh, I have so many things to show you.”

Has he ever had ice-cream? Greasy chicken nuggets? You realise with startling clarity that you want to introduce him to everything he’s missed, to show him the world, if you can.

You’ll psychoanalyse yourself later.

“I feel like a stray cat that’s just been adopted.”

“You are,” you grin.

---

That night, you dream.

Darkness envelops you, a suffocating shroud that clings to your skin. You find yourself standing in a desolate landscape, the ground beneath your feet cold and lifeless, covered in a fine layer of ash. The sky above is a vast expanse of swirling shadows, devoid of stars and moonlight. You are utterly alone.

And then, from the shadows, a figure emerges.

“You have trespassed into a realm not meant for mortal eyes,” his voice rasps, as though unused for years.

The figure steps closer, his form shifting and flickering like a flame in the wind. Long black hair frames a face that seems too perfect, too flawless to belong to any world. He reminds you of Satoru, but colder, more distant.

“You are in the Underworld,” he continues. “A place where the boundaries between life and death blur, where mortals are not meant to linger.”

“Why?” you manage to ask, but the words feeling thick and foreign on your tongue.

The weight of the atmosphere presses down on you, making your limbs feel heavy as if you’re wading through sticky, dense molasses.

“Because of the Son of Zeus. Mortals are fragile, easily ensnared by the allure of gods.”

“I don’t understand.” You wish he would speak clearly, cut through the riddles and half-truths.

“Satoru is bound by duty and legacy. His path is one of sacrifice and solitude. To draw close to him is to court danger.”

“But he needs help. He’s suffering.”

“Suffering is his burden to bear. Mortals and gods do not walk the same path.” He pauses, his gaze distant, like he’s not even looking at you anymore. “Turn back. Forget what you have seen. Forget you ever met him.”

It’s as if you’re underwater, each movement slow and weighted by unseen currents. But you know what you’re saying is important, that it carries weight.

“I can’t do that.”

“You defy the natural order. To involve yourself in the affairs of gods and their chosen is to court calamity.”

“I can’t turn away,” you insist. “He’s all alone.”

Uncertainty churns within you, a tumultuous mix of emotions that you don’t know how to navigate. You’re unsure when these feelings caught up to you, but you can at least recognise the depth of your own attachment. You’re scared of the consequences, but it pales beside the thought of doing nothing — of knowing you could do something, be something, and still choosing to walk away.

So, you take a step closer. “I won’t abandon him.”

The figure’s form shimmers momentarily, as if contemplating your words. “Fine,” he concedes, a fleeting hint of sympathy in his eyes. “But know this, mortals who tread where gods roam seldom emerge unscathed.”

“I understand.”

With a nod, he gestures toward a faint glimmer in the darkness. “Go then, but don’t say I didn’t warn you both.”

You wake suddenly, drenched in sweat, your heart pounding in your chest. For a moment, the darkness of the dream clings to your senses, blurring the edges of reality and casting your world into a cold, disorienting haze. Gradually, the details of your bedroom come into focus — the familiar contours of furniture, the posters on your walls, the soft glow of streetlights filtering through the curtains. You sit up, pulling your knees close to your chest, attempting to steady your breathing.

And then, as if he can sense your discomfort, Satoru is by your side.

“You’re awake,” he says gently, a tenderness in his voice that catches you off guard. It hadn’t occurred to you that he might care about your wellbeing, too,

You nod silently, unable to find words, your hands trembling.

“A nightmare?” he asks, his eyes searching yours.

“Yeah,” you manage to whisper. “Of the Underworld.”

“I’m sorry you had to see that.” he says softly. “Even the gods find it unbearable.”

“How did you know something was wrong?”

“…I’m not sure. It felt like I was missing a limb.” He pauses, contemplating. “It felt like a part of me was torn away, and I couldn’t find it.”

“What’s going on with the two of us?” You feel as if you’re two stars in orbit, drawn together by something neither of you can understand. “Why is this happening?”

“I’m confused too,” he admits, almost apologetically. “But I’m going to do some research, try to understand what’s happening.”

You exhale slowly, thoughts swirling as you try to make sense of it all. “In the dream, I saw someone. They warned me about you, about being close to the gods.”

Satoru’s brow furrows slightly, his expression troubled. “They have reason to caution you,” he replies. “There are dangers you don’t yet understand.”

“But I don’t want to leave you,” you confess. A simple truth, but it still feels disarming to admit. “I want to understand, to help if I can.”

Satoru reaches out, his hand finding yours in the dark.

“You already do,” he murmurs. “But I don’t expect that of you.”

The faint hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen blends with the occasional rumble of passing traffic outside, but otherwise, all you can hear are his slow, steady breaths, calming in the quiet of the night.

“Will you stay?” you ask.

He feels as safe as the earth and as steady as the trees — natural and unwavering, like something that can withstand time itself.

“Of course.” He says it without hesitation, as easy as breathing.

You shift slightly, making room for him on the bed, and he settles beside you, close but not quite touching.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

“Sleep. You’re safe here.”

You allow yourself to relax, reassured by the knowledge that you are not alone. That he isn’t, either.

---

You wake to the scent of something burning. It feels almost symbolic.

Groggy and sluggish, you stumble out of bed and shuffle towards the kitchen, silently praying that your apartment isn’t ablaze — that you aren’t the target of divine retribution from some irate deity. Pushing open the door, you find Satoru standing by the stove, a look of intense concentration on his face as he prods at a pan of charred bacon.

“Satoru?” you call out, half-amused and half-concerned. “What are you doing?”

“I... uh, thought I’d try to make breakfast, but it didn’t exactly go to plan.”

“Well, it looks like you’ve mastered the art of making charcoal,” you reply, moving to his side.

“It’s harder than I thought,” he admits, frowning at the pan.

“The big, scary demigod can’t cook,” you coo, gently nudging him with your elbow.

He stares at the bacon with contempt.

“Cereal?”

“I’ll get the milk.”

You set aside the burnt bacon and clear the stove, grabbing a couple of bowls from the cupboard while Satoru retrieves the Rice Krispies. Together, you sit at the table in comfortable silence, the early morning sunlight filtering through the kitchen window.

“You know, it’s nice to see this side of you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just that you’re no longer particularly intimidating to me anymore.”

“Don’t tempt me. I could still burn you to a crisp,” he huffs.

“I’ll take my chances.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And you’re not as terrifying as you pretend to be.”

“Please don’t tell anyone.”

“No promises,” you laugh.

A pause, and then —

“Can I show you something?” he asks you, still smiling. “Hold your hand up.”

Curious, you extend your hand toward him, but as your palm nears his, you feel a subtle resistance, an invisible barrier surrounding him. No matter how hard you try, you can’t get close.

“Is this a magic trick or something?”

He laughs, the sound warm and genuine, and you definitely don’t want to admit how much you enjoy hearing it.

“Not exactly. You’re the first to call it that,” he replies. “What you’re feeling is my Limitless technique. It creates an infinite amount of space between me and everything else.”

“So, nothing can ever touch you?” Despite being in the presence of the most powerful, impossible man you’ve ever encountered, your mind can only fixate on the idea of touching him. You should be in awe, or even fear — literally anything else — but apparently, logic and reason evaporate in his presence.

“Only if I want it to,” he answers, his gaze steady on yours.

The air hums with a faint energy as the barrier fades, allowing your palm to finally connect with his. He slides his fingers between yours, his touch surprisingly gentle, almost reverent.

“There,” he murmurs. “Now you can feel it.”

You can’t help but notice how large Satoru’s hands are, his fingers long and strong as they intertwine with yours.

You blink, and a sudden, sinking realisation washes over you.

Your eyes trace the unblemished ivory of his skin, the sharp line of his jaw, the curve of his throat. You can’t help but wonder what it would feel like if his touch roamed further.

Then, as if sensing your thoughts, his thumb grazes the bare skin of your arm. His touch is so delicate as he traces a path down from your elbow to your forearm, it’s almost as if he’s not touching you at all.

You realise with sudden clarity that you want him to touch you. You fear you might not let him stop, that you would allow him anything he asked.

The intensity of your emotions takes you by surprise. You reluctantly pull away, breaking the spell that had woven itself around you.

Now is not the time for this.

You couldn’t shake the feeling you were adrift in a storm-tossed sea, waves crashing around you, threatening to pull you under at any moment. And yet, strangely enough, you felt no fear. Not of him. Perhaps you should be terrified; perhaps there was something fundamentally broken inside of you, something that even the gods couldn’t save. But his presence, despite its intensity, was the eye of the storm, the still point around which everything else swirled. And somehow, that made all the difference.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” you breathe. “I’m fine.”

(Having a crush on a demigod was very much not fine, but he doesn’t need to know that.)

---

“Are any of the gods happy?”

You’re lying side by side, nestled in a field of tall grass that sways gently in the breeze. The warmth of the day hangs thick in the air, while the branches of nearby trees rustle gently, their leaves casting dappled patterns of sunlight over your intertwined fingers.

It was your idea to get out of the house, to show him something good and pure and timeless. The spot you had chosen is a favourite from your childhood, a place you’d escape to when you were stressed and overwhelmed. The scent of grass and earth brings back memories of those afternoons, when time seemed to stretch lazily and worries felt distant. Here, the biggest decision was whether to sit by the stream or follow a path through the woods.

As you lie there together, the scene feels almost sacred, as if the world has paused just for this moment of quiet between you.

You look at him and see the way the sunlight falls softly on his face, highlighting all the details you’d come to know by heart — the slope of his nose, the curve of his lips, the warmth in his eyes. His features are etched in your memory so deeply now that you could recognise him by touch alone.

In moments like these, it’s easy to forget the boundaries between mortal and divine.

“Happy?” he repeats. “I don’t know if happiness is something they seek,” he muses, more to himself than to you. “They are driven by duty, by ancient laws and responsibilities that are beyond even me.”

The breeze brushes against your skin as you wait for him to finish his thought.

“They experience moments of contentment, perhaps,” he continues. “But true happiness? I’m not sure they even understand what that means.”

“Do you think they envy mortals, then?” you ask.

“Perhaps in fleeting moments. Mortals possess a freedom we cannot fully grasp, but envy implies a desire for something different. I’m not sure they allow themselves such thoughts.”

“Do you?”

“There are times when I wish I had their capacity to experience emotions so deeply and openly — joy and pain, love and loss,” he says, glancing down at your intertwined hands on the grass. “But I also understand my path is different. My duty lies elsewhere, even if it means sacrificing certain desires. I cannot change what I am. I just wish I could offer you more.”

“You’re more than enough,” you reply, gently squeezing his hand.

He hesitates for a moment, then nods slightly. “Thank you,” he murmurs, squeezing back.

After a moment of silence, he sits up a little straighter, his expression pensive. “About the nightmare,” he begins, “the man you met...” His voice trails off, and you can sense his reluctance to delve into something so distressing for you.

You offer him a small smile, encouraging him to continue. “It’s okay, don’t worry.”

“Did he say his name?

“I don’t think so. He just said that I was in the Underworld, that I should stay away from the gods. I remember he had dark hair and eyes, and…” you pause, recalling another detail, “and he mentioned he’d warned you, too.”

“Suguru,” he breathes. “It has to be.”

“Do you know him?”

“I knew him a long time ago, perhaps. He was the son of Dionysus. We grew up together, and for most of my life, he was my only friend.” He clenches his jaw, and you can’t quite read the emotion in his eyes. “He’s gone now. It’s been more than a hundred years since I last saw him.”

“Do you miss him?”

“I miss him and hate him in equal measure, even after all this time.” His tone is perfectly neutral, carefully restrained. “He was a genocidal idiot. I was ordered to kill him.”

“Oh,” you respond, unsure of what to offer someone who has lost so much. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he dismisses with a bitter laugh. “It was written by the fates long before you were born. I’m just confused as to why he’s haunting your dreams in particular.”

“We’ll figure this out together, Satoru,” you reply gently. “Whether it’s fate, the gods, or something else entirely, we’ll find answers.”

You feel as if interacting with a demigod on a daily basis has made everything feel more possible, like you could pluck the stars from the heavens or reshape the very earth beneath your feet. You’re uncertain if this is a positive development.

“You’re taking all of this remarkably well.” His brows crease in confusion. “I’ve told you my dead best friend appeared in your dreams, that I killed him — hell, that the gods are alive and real — and you’re comforting me?”

“Sometimes, acceptance is just easier than disbelief and denial. You’re my friend, as strange and impossible as that may be. I trust you.”

Satoru laughs, a touch of disbelief in his voice. “Thank you,” he replies, his shoulders relaxing slightly. “For everything.” He leans in, kissing the top of your head.

“Plus,” you say, rummaging in your tote bag, “while things may seem messy and confusing right now,” you admit, pulling out a small box, “I did bring cupcakes.”

“Cupcakes?” he repeats, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

“Yep,” you confirm, handing him the box. “Chocolate chip with vanilla frosting. I figured something sweet might help, even just a little.”

“I knew following you around was a good idea.”

---

Satoru is his father’s favourite son, so when the gods call, he answers.

He tries to avoid meetings like this as much as possible, but a summoning from Zeus cannot be ignored.

He stands in the throne room of Olympus, the distant rumble of thunder echoing through the halls. Marble columns stretch toward a vaulted ceiling adorned with celestial frescoes, the air heavy with the scent of ambrosia and incense. The throne, carved from solid gold and studded with precious gems, rests upon a dais, elevated above the chamber like a sentinel standing watch over its domain.

Satoru thinks it looks tacky.

Servants and lesser gods scurry about, casting furtive glances at the demigod standing in their midst. They know him by reputation — Zeus’s strongest warrior, his favoured son.

He resists the temptation to kill them all.

Time stretches on, but the wait is a familiar ritual. He is nothing more than a dog on a leash, awaiting his owner’s return.

Zeus’s arrival shatters the silence with a crash of thunder, shaking the very foundations of Olympus. The torches flare, casting wild flickers of light as the King of Gods materialises upon his throne. Seeing his father always feels like staring into a distorted mirror — the same blue eyes, the same white hair. It’s a bitter irony that he bears such a striking resemblance to the deity who holds his life in an iron grip.

“My son,” Zeus begins, his voice a deep rumble reverberating through the chamber. “You’ve been avoiding your duties.”

“I do as I am commanded, Father,” he replies. The words feel bitter on his tongue, but meetings with his father are always like this — laden with expectations, heavy with the weight of centuries-old obligations. Satoru often wondered if he ever got tired of hearing his own voice.

Zeus leans forward, eyes narrowing. “Do not think you can run from this,” he warns. “Sukuna must be faced, and it is you who must do it. You cannot shirk this responsibility.”

Satoru clenches his jaw. “When have I ever run from a fight? When have I ever lost?”  

“And yet you hesitate, you question your purpose.” Zeus counters, his tone sharp. “You are my son. This is your destiny.”

“Destiny,” he repeats, almost spitting the word. “Is that what this is? Or is it just another way to keep me bound to your will?”

Satoru is his father’s son through and through – he could never control his anger in his presence, could never hide behind a façade of humour and indifference. He hates himself for it, but he hates his father more for gifting him these traits, like some fucked-up inheritance.

Zeus’s expression hardens. “You would be wise to remember who you speak to.” He rises from the throne, his steps heavy and resonant. “This is not a matter of choice. You are bound by blood and fate. Do not let your arrogance blind you to the responsibilities you bear.”

“Responsibilities that you have imposed,” Satoru retorts. “I have never chosen this path, yet I carry its weight while the gods do nothing.”

“I assume this is the mortal’s influence, then,” Zeus says, looking down at him with disdain. “Pathetic.”

“Do not mention her,” he growls.

“You have grown attached,” Zeus observes, a hint of mockery in his tone. “You forget your place.”

“She is not just another pawn in your games.” Satoru can feel his power crawling under his skin, the air humming with electricity like a gathering storm.

He had nearly forgotten how the gods watched him, how every moment of vulnerability could be seized upon to remind him of his place. He had grown too comfortable in your presence, allowed himself to slip into a sense of normalcy that the gods did not allow for.

Zeus’s expression darkens, the air thickening with his displeasure. “She is a distraction,” he asserts, his voice cutting like a blade. “Sukuna’s threat grows stronger with each passing day, while you’ve found yourself a mortal whore.”

“Careful, Father. Keep talking like this and I will let Sukuna feast upon your lands and swallow your oceans whole,” he hisses.

Zeus’s eyes flash with divine fury. “Do not test me, Satoru. The mortal’s fate hangs in the balance of your obedience.”

“You would threaten her?” Satoru’s voice cracks like thunder.

“She is mortal,” Zeus counters coldly. “Fleeting and fragile, her existence is insignificant.”

“And it still holds more meaning than you can comprehend.”

Zeus steps closer, his presence overwhelming. “Do not mistake defiance for strength, Satoru. If you defy the will of Olympus, you will face the consequences.”

“You underestimate me, Father. Defiance is all I have left,” he seethes. “I will face Sukuna on my terms, or not at all. If you threaten her again, you will face the consequences.”

---

To Satoru, worship had always tasted bitter — rituals steeped in obligation, prayers echoing hollowly through marble halls. It has been a tangled knot of obligation and distant reverence, something to be endured rather than embraced.

And then he met you, and found a different kind of sacred.

As a child, he remembers his father telling him how he had divided humans into two, each forever longing to reunite with their other half. Satoru had scoffed at the notion then, dismissing it as another tale spun by gods to amuse themselves. But now, he wonders if perhaps there was truth in the tale after all.

“I wasn’t expecting you until later.” You smile when you see him, and Satoru wonders if this is what home feels like.

He remains quiet, his expression softening as he lifts you off your feet with ease, carrying you towards the couch. You settle onto his lap as he sits down, his arms wrapping securely around you.

The conversation with his father has left him brittle, fraying at the seams, but you always made it easier to breathe. 

You run your hands through his hair, noticing the tension in his muscles, the furrow in his brow. “What’s wrong?” you ask, concern lacing your voice.

“Nothin’, just missed you.”

“I missed you too,” you reply, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

“It’s just been a long day,” he admits.

“What happened?”

“Doesn’t matter,” he mumbles, his thumb brushing against your cheek. “I don’t want to drag you into my mess.”

“It’s not a mess if it’s you.”

He doesn’t quite know how to respond that, so he just presses his forehead to yours, tightening his embrace.

He wonders if this was inevitable — if this is always where he was supposed to be. Here, with you, like this.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“You worried about me, sweetheart?”

“Shut up,” you mutter, cheeks flushing, “I’ll always worry about you.”

He can’t help but wonder how far that redness might spread — if it travels down your neck and across your chest, if it touches places he’s only dared to dream about.

“You’re so cute,” he hums.

He notices you look especially pretty today, though you always do. Your dress fits you perfectly — cinched at the waist and snug at the top, with a neckline that’s a bit lower than usual. Not that he should be noticing any of this, or where the fabric ends.

But he can’t help but let his gaze linger on you for longer than is appropriate, tracing the curve of your thigh where your dress has ridden up. For a moment, he’s frozen, his mind racing with thoughts of the bare skin beneath — how easy it would be to push that little dress of yours up higher. He suspects that would solve most of his problems.

But he tears his eyes away, forces himself to focus squarely on you instead.  And then you shift in his lap, and all coherent thought abandons him. He feels the heat of your body against his, the softness of your skin, how effortlessly you fit against him.

You are the only divine thing he believes in — the altar at which he willingly kneels, pleading and beseeching.

He would beg if you asked him to.

(He would do anything you asked of him.)

Satoru has always been a selfish creature; perhaps that is why he’s unable to resist you, unwilling to contemplate ever letting you go. You have become his closest friend and greatest desire. He hasn’t stopped thinking about you since the moment he first met you.

He wants your hands in his hair, his fingers grazing against you, holding you down a little. He wants to push your skirt up until maybe, miraculously, you’re begging for him, too. He wants to take care of you, treat you how you deserve. Wants to feel how wet you get, the noises you’d make. He wants and wants and needs and —

“Satoru?”

“Sorry,” he says immediately, “I was just thinking about—”

Things he shouldn’t be, gazing at places he shouldn’t be, indulging in fantasies that are dangerous to entertain, especially with Zeus’s warnings ringing in his ears and Sukuna’s threat looming ever closer.

“—that Thai place down the road, want to order something?”

Casual. Normal. Perfectly in control.

(He’s decided he can’t have you sitting in his lap anymore; he worries he might accidentally set something on fire.)

---

“It’s so peaceful here.”

You’re sitting outside with him, staring up at the night sky. The stars sparkle like scattered diamonds, while the faint glow of city lights spills from below, casting a gentle haze on the horizon. It’s one of those nights where everything else seems distant and unimportant, the world shrinking down to just the two of you.

But something has shifted between you in recent months. There’s a new intensity in the way he holds you, his touch lingering longer, his gaze searching yours for something unspoken. Before, he was content with a hand resting lightly on your back, but now his grip around your waist is firm, almost possessive. He’s on edge, his body taut like a bowstring pulled too tight.

(And you really want to make him snap.)

You sometimes wonder if a constant battle rages within him, if his mortality wrestles with the divine power coursing through his veins. You see flashes of thunder in his eyes, the lightning crackle of emotions suppressed yet seething beneath the surface. It’s as if he stands at a precipice, teetering on the edge of control, where every touch, every word exchanged between you threatens to tip the balance. It both frightens and excites you, this dichotomy that makes him both ethereal and achingly human.

“I don’t think I ever want to leave,” he replies, tugging you closer to him. “And I won’t let you go anywhere, either.”

“You’re so clingy,” you say, laughing.

He grins, his fingers tracing a slow, teasing path along your waist. “Can you blame me?”

“You’re incorrigible.”

(You wish his fingers were touching other parts of you.)

“It’s not my fault you’re so pretty.”

“Shut up,” you mutter, flushing red.

“I don’t think I will, sweetheart.”

(You want to strangle and kiss him all at once – he’s always so frustrating.)

Down the hill behind you, someone is hosting a party. The faint hum of music weaves through the air, accompanied by occasional bursts of laughter. Lanterns sway gently, casting warm, shifting patterns across the dew-kissed grass. You wish all nights could be like this.

Here, with him, like this, you feel truly happy.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks.

“Just how insane it is I even met you. How it’s even more insane that I like you.”

“You like me?” His grin is devilish.

“I’m trying to have a moment of introspection here, not inflate your ego.”

“No, no, tell me how much you like me.”

“I take it back. I barely tolerate you.”

“You’re such a liar.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

“I hate you so much.”

“No you don’t, quite the opposite actually.”

“Okay, fine,” you relent, unable to suppress a smile. “Maybe I like you a little.”

His grin turns into a satisfied smirk as he leans in closer, his breath warm against your cheek. “Only a little?” he presses, his voice low and coaxing.

“Just enough to tolerate your cheesy lines and incessant teasing.”

He laughs, the sound rich and warm, causing a flutter in your chest. “That’s good to know.”

“I like you enough,” you say, “to want to stay here with you, too.”

“Careful,” he replies quietly, “You shouldn’t tempt me. You might find out just how much I like you back.”

Your feelings for him were beginning to feel like an oil spill; you’d let them overflow and now there was no way to clean up the mess. You’re not sure you even wanted to.

Your eyes flicker to his lips for just a second — a moment so fleeting, so small, you pray he overlooks it — but his lips curl into the smallest of smiles, and you know you’re truly fucked.

So, without thinking, without letting yourself pause and think for a second longer, you ask him a question you cannot return from:

“What if I wanted to tempt you?”

He looks at you like a predator would his prey, assessing and intense. You can’t help but think he is the most beautiful man you have ever seen.

“Are you sure?” he asks. “Would you let me kiss you?”

“I…” You’re embarrassed to realise you’re struggling to speak. His lips hover close to yours, a breath away, and you can imagine the feel of him against you, his body flush against yours. “Maybe.”

There’s a small smile playing on his lips, a blend of amusement and chastisement flickering in his eyes. “You really shouldn’t.”

His mouth traces a slow path down your neck, teasing and deliberate, but he refrains from kissing you. It’s as if he’s savouring the anticipation, drawing out the moment with a teasing, maddening patience. You wonder if he enjoys keeping you on edge like this, if he enjoys leaving a trail of heat and desperation wherever he lingers.

“Or maybe,” he continues, “you want me to kiss you?”

“Satoru,” you grumble, red-faced and wishing you could melt into the ground. “Stop teasing me.”

To his credit, he only lets out a small laugh. You genuinely think you might have murdered him otherwise, demigod or not. “I take it that’s a no, then?”

“You’re being so mean,” you whine.

“Am I, sweetheart?” he asks, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “How about you tell me what you want?”

Your heart pounds in your chest, and you wonder if this is what Pandora felt like before she opened the box.

“I want you to kiss me,” you confess, both a surrender and challenge.

The moment you give him permission — the exact second — it’s as if he can’t resist any longer, pulling you close and pressing his lips against yours. Inevitable. Instinctual.

The kiss is anything but innocent; far from gentle or kind. You grasp his shirt, your fingers tightening as his hands roam appreciatively over the back of your dress. He holds you as though savouring something sacred, as if you’re the answer to a prayer he dared not utter. The world around you fades into a blur of sensations — the warmth of his body pressed against yours, the taste of him on your lips. You think you might die if he stops.

He deepens the kiss, intense and demanding, as if trying to leave a part of himself with you, to express what words alone cannot. You feel his breath hitch against your lips, a soft groan escaping as his tongue traces the line of your lower lip. There’s a hunger in the way he touches, an intensity that speaks of longing held in check for too long.

You wonder why you didn’t do this sooner — why you wasted so much time when you melt into him this easily, when your bodies fit together like they were made for this moment.

Your breath quickens, each inhale and exhale more desperate than the last. His touch sears through you like a wildfire, consuming every rational thought and making your heart race with an intensity that borders on painful. You cling to him, your fingers curling into his hair, urging him closer.

But then he breaks away, his forehead resting against yours. His breath is ragged, mirroring your own, and he brushes a strand of hair from your flushed face.

“You drive me crazy,” he murmurs.

“Why’d you stop?” you whine.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll always give you what you want.��� His thumb traces the curve of your cheek. “I want to take it slow, take care of you properly.”

“I want you,” you whisper, a simple truth you cannot hide from.  

You knew that in all of the decisions in the world, he would be the most difficult. He was not something you could experiment with, not something you could predict or control — he was as wild as the winds, more myth than man, but you would choose him, again and again.

He pulls back slightly, his eyes searching yours with a hunger that matches your own. “And you’ll have me,” he vows. “We have all the time in the universe.”

---

Satoru is Zeus’s favourite child, and so the gods watch him every day.

Their gaze is unrelenting, their judgments immutable. They see his every move, his every choice. They see the shift, the subtle yet unmistakable turn of his loyalty toward mortal ties, and they want to watch the world burn.

The gods whisper among themselves, their voices carrying on the wind like a prophecy. They speak of consequences, of debts that must be paid, of balances that must be restored. They have tasted this before, have sunk their teeth into the bitter flesh of mortals who dare to defy divine decree.

They will consume you, too.

For while mortals may forget the weight of their choices, the gods do not.

Sukuna won’t, either.

[featherandferns]

5. “Ah Yes. Betrayl, I’m Familiar With That”

22. “You’re My Best Friend” Angst Pleaseee

🫂❤️‍🩹

21. "You're my best friend"

I've actually already done prompt 5 (read wasps here) and prompt 21 ("You're my best friend" is 21 not 22), so I just did an angsty prompt 21 instead of redoing both- I hope that's okay! <3

Season 4 spoilers kind of? Just episode 1 vibes.

Promise - prompt 21

JJ Maybank was designed for you to fall in love with him. It ran deeper than his looks; penetrated through the flesh. His personality was interwoven with his beauty the way his veins lined his muscles and skin. All the idiosyncrasies that made him up in flaws and faults, like his recklessness and his impulsiveness, were nothing but charms in your eyes. He caused trouble wherever he went the way a hurricane accidentally leaves a wake in its path. You chased that trouble like a storm chaser: compass and map and get-away car at hand, just for him. 

By the wonder of fate, you ended up by his side. It was as though the universe placed you there - as if you and JJ were born from the same star dust, destined to find one another in the next life. From childhood, you were in the picture. Offering him a place to stay when his dad was in one of his blind, drunk rages. Giggling through pier jumping adventures and screaming through cheesy horror flicks. Later, older, he was there after your first “heartbreak” and you were there to hear about his cunning escapades with a random girl on the island, his virginity no longer a mark on his name. And with this age came realisations and ramifications. With this age came thoughts and feelings that were new and alien to you. The kind that warps one’s perception. The kind that frames someone in new ways under new titles. JJ Maybank went from being your snotty, scheming long-lasting friend, into your crush. The more time you spent in his orbit, the closer you were drawn. And so, as designed, you fell in love with him. 

He was hard to read and harder to decipher. A flirt, no doubt, though less so as the Pogue-centred adventures grew. His carelessness diminished somewhat when the stakes grew. When the sight of blood and dead bodies became shy of the norm, even compared to his youth in his father’s shadow. John B and Sarah went and with that, JJ came. Closer to you than ever. Needing you more than before. Restless nights and lonely days which you were more than happy to fill, needing him just as much. Nothing beyond cuddles and shared beds. A kiss that never strayed more than a cheek or forehead. Then, reunited with the formerly missing Pogues, came his lightness once more. But that distance didn’t come: he was still just as close. Almost attainable. Poguelandia and El Dorado felt like fever dreams in this light. The one constant was JJ, no matter what, and you the same for him. 

Now, settled, JJ’s old Maybank home rebuilt and remade, the bait-and-surf shop up and running, the gang tethered together through trauma and triumph: you finally felt like everything was falling into place, the same way you had fallen for JJ. 

“I might just sleep out here tonight,” JJ tells you. He’s lying by your side on the newly fixed up boat. The two of you are staring up at the sky, slowly starting to fill with stars, slowly losing the colour of daylight. 

“You’ll be dinner for the skeeters,” you say. 

He shrugs. “Circle of life, I guess.”

Laughing quietly, you turn your head. His hair is short again - dirty blonde, sunkissed highlights. The small jut of his chin and the slope of his nose. The high press of his cheekbones from his small, lingering smile. At the feel of your gaze, he turns his head too. An air of amusement brushes over him; has him almost laughing, quirking a brow. 

“What?”

“Nothing,” you hum. Your own smile falters and your stomach churns. The words are brewing deep within you like a slow, roasting broth. They’d been there for years now, waiting to slip out, and you felt like you can’t hold it down much longer. JJ’s own smile fades into a look of worry, mirroring your own anxiety. 

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you repeat, lying. “I just…I’m just happy.”

His lips twitch upward again. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I’m happy you finally have a home, JJ,” you quietly say. 

Visibly moved by your sentiment, his hand reaches out for yours, lying limp on the cool plastic exterior of the boat. He squeezes your hand in his. Smiles at you. Holds your gaze. As if drawn in by some outside force, you lean over. Your eyes slip shut and your lips find his, and there, you plant a gentle, soft kiss. It’s no more than a peck. No more than a fleeting, almost phantom moment of weakness. Lingering, lips no more than a centimetre from his, you wait. Wait for some absolution that you hoped might come. 

JJ clears his throat. His hand slips from yours. Your heart cracks like the break of an ice surface as he sits up, sort of hurried. You sit up too. 

“What’s wrong?” you ask, knowing fully well what the answer is. 

JJ is reaching for his boots that he took off an hour or so ago. He meddles with the laces. Not looking at you, he mumbles, “why’d you have to do that?”

“What?”

“Everything was…God, why the fuck did you have to do that?” he repeats, frustrated, maybe even angry. 

Your eyes sting and your heart burns and it starts to feel as though you’re slipping away from yourself. “I don’t know. I just…I just figured–”

“--Well, you shouldn’t have,” JJ snaps, his head darting up. Your eyes meet his and there’s this panic there, deep and damning. You feel damned. 

“I’m sorry,” you say. Sorry for what? For kissing him? For thinking that he might feel the same? For hoping that he might? 

JJ shakes his head and looks back at his boots. His frantic movements stop, fingers mixed with his laces. “Why’d you have to do that, huh? Everything was finally how it should be and now…Now it’s all messed up.”

“Messed up? No, no, it doesn’t…We can just forget about it,” you hurriedly say. You grab at his forearm, wanting his attention, now for a whole new reason. “We can just pretend it never happened.”

“Why’d you do it?”

“I don’t know. I just thought that maybe, with everything that’s happened, maybe you might feel the same way,” you stammer. 

JJ’s eyes slip shut. It’s as though you gave him the diagnosis to a disease he always dreaded. “We can’t.”

You’re not sure what he’s alluding to with that. We can’t pretend it never happened? We can’t move forward? We can’t be friends? 

“You’re my best friend,” you whisper. “I don’t want to lose you.”

JJ gnaws at his lower lip. You sit and wait and hope and pray that you haven’t managed to tear apart years of friendship with one stupid moment of idiocy. Ironic how JJ lived his life in spur-of-the-moment choices but the second you make one, it might haunt you forever. Eventually, as if in slow motion, he looks at you. There’s a sadness in his eyes as though he knows what he says will pain you, and your heart takes pause as you wait. His lips move wordlessly at first and then, sighing, he finds the words. 

“I’m in love with Kiara.”

You feel like bleeding ink on a page. Like you have no mass or place of purchase. Like any meaning you ascribed to anything is now without, soulless and baseless; a work of fiction, like some Shakesperian tragedy. 

“Oh,” you breathe. 

He nods. “I…I’m sorry, I just…I don’t feel that way for you.”

“Okay,” you murmur. You think you might throw up. You shift in your spot as if preparing to. JJ reaches out a hand and it burns when he touches yours. 

“I don’t want to lose you though. I do love you, but the love I feel for her is different. I’m sorry, I don’t know why, I just–”

“--JJ, please,” you beg. You force yourself to look him in the eyes. He’s terrified of everything. Always has been, as long as you’ve known him. More than anything, terrified of love. And you know what that means, for him to care so deeply for someone. You know that he needs you. And you know that, despite everything, you need him. It hurts to be something but it’s worse to be nothing, after all. 

Somewhere deep inside of you, you find a smile. A forced, placid smile, like a lady-in-waiting might wear. Your other hand envelopes his and you will the tears away. 

“I’m your best friend,” you assure him. The words are sour like acid on your tongue. It feels like blasphemy. Nodding, as if trying to make yourself believe it too, you say, “we can forget the whole thing.”

A relieved smile comes to JJ’s face like a breath of air after free diving. He leans back, nods, happy, overjoyed, appeased. 

“Thank God. Cause I don’t know what I’d do without you. I really don’t,” he says, meaning every word. Maybe that’s what hurts the most. 

Nodding, agreeing, you say, “Kiara would be an idiot if she didn’t want you, too.”

Smiling to himself, his head dips, abashed, and you know then and there that he’d never be that way for you. He gets up and as his hand slips form your hold, it feels like you’re losing him forever. Once again, he’s reframed. Different again. No longer your crush, no longer your future, and no longer your best friend. He’s a mirage. He isn’t real. You no longer know what to call him or how to name your connection. Because as he walks away, bidding you goodnight, heading to the house where Kiara sleeps soundly, beautiful and brilliant, you begin to cry, knowing that you would never be able to forget it, and yet knowing that you had to. 

JJ Maybank was designed for you to fall in love with him, but he was never designed to love you back.

[rise-my-angel]

Heart of the Great Wolf

Masterlist

Jon Snow x F!Baratheon!Reader (Slow Burn)

Robb Stark x F!Baratheon!Reader

Pre Series Content and Extras:

Scattered Memories of the Starks

Shadows of their Hatred

The Lost Chapters of Jon Snow

A New Life's Darkened Lust

Interlude of Jealous Desires

The Trials of Resurrection

The Injured and the Perverse

NSFW Alphabet (contains spoilers for part 3 and 4)

Woes of a Modern Day Love (a modern!au)

Fresh Heals of Old Pain (a modern!au part 2)

The Aftermath of Envy (a modern!au part 3)

Stoking the Flames (a modern!au part 4)

Then Came the Explosion (a modern!au part 5)

A Family Conflicted (a modern!au part 6)

A Small Bundles Flash Forward (a modern!au part 6.5)

Part 1:

Wolves of the Lone Stag

Mouth of the Lion's Den

An Intrigue Drenched in Blood

Standing Behind a Betrayal

A War of Tragic Beginning

Part 2:

King and Queen in the North

Shadow of a Fiery Stag

Reunion of New Enemies

Pleasure of Conflicted Desire

The Sanctity of Children

What Lies Beyond The Veil

Part 3:

The Cost of Our Sins

Dragged Through the Violence

Only the Cold

Fire for the King's Blood

Part 4:

Ashes of Various Grey

Plans of Pain and Horror

Afraid of a Ravens Flight

Trust in the Gentle Rasps

Visions in Eyes and Flames

A Bastard or The White Wolf

Part 5:

Home of Bloodsoaked Stone

Blazing Fire of Storming Ice

Ghostly Dreams of Old

Sailing Through the Glow

The Last Dragon

The Winter Rose

Part 6:

The Clash of Three Kings

Shrouded Truth in Sickness

Winged Shadow in the Sky

Light in the Darkest Storms

Peeking the Realms Woes

Blood, Roses and All Lies

Broken Love of the Dead

The Souls Tethered in Death

Wolves of the Past and Back

The Crows and The Sight

Part 7:

A Brewing of New Mystery

Great Wolves of White Mists

Darkness Heavy in a World

Past Becomes the Present

The Thing in the Night

Waving Tides of Turmoil

Greenish White Boodraven

Dark Blood of Blinding Light

And Wait for the Snows

Part 8:

Into the Haunted Forest

Fist of the First Men

Through the Frost Fangs

News From the South

Lies Within the Sunlight

Night of Two Distances

Screams of Cracking Ice

The Final Marching Trek

Fear Overtakes a Night

Wolves Teeth and Claws

Part 9:

Forcing Past Our Safety

One Whirlwind to the Next

Court of the North

Glimpse into the Rains

Scattered Pieces of Truth

Reunions and Realizations

Laws of Gods and Men

A Mockingbirds End

The Cold and the Rats

Blood Filled Danger

[mononijikayu]

dearest, darling, my universe — gojo satoru.

"He… he always knew what to say, didn’t he?" Megumi murmurs, a small, sad smile tugging at his lips. "Yeah." you reply, your voice thick with tears. "He always did." The weight of Satoru's absence presses heavily upon you, but the words on the paper offer a strange comfort, like a hand reaching out through the dark. You hold the letter tightly, almost as if you could draw him back with the force of your grip.

GENRE: post shinjiku showdown (spoilers for jjk chapter 268)

WARNING/S: domesticity, fluff, angst, trauma, implied death, violence, romance, hurt/comfort, character death depiction of death, depictions of loss and depression, depiction of blood, depiction of killing, depiction of suffering, depiction of anxiety, mention of death, mention of grief, profanity, family drama;

WORDS: 11k words.

NOTE: my brothers caught a cold so i caught it too because that's just how it sometimes goes when you're always together. i've been writing a bunch of stuff in the mean time, cause i'm strong enough at least. but i hope you enjoy this. it took me a while to write this, but it's finally done. also, listen to iu's song love wins all while reading this. love you all!!!

masterlist

u s and t h e m

if you want to, tip! <3

IT’S BEEN A WHILE, BUT THINGS HAVE CHANGED. The world feels quiet now, almost unnaturally so, as if it is holding its breath, waiting to see what comes next. The grounds are empty, unlike how they used to be. The sky is heavy and dulled gray and the wind carries a strange stillness that presses against your skin. 

Everything seems suspended, caught in a moment that refuses to pass, a calm that feels more like a warning than a relief. It’s the kind of quiet that settles in after a storm — not the peace that follows resolution, but the heavy, fragile silence that comes when everything has been ripped apart, and nothing has been put back together.

Your gaze searches for someone as you look towards the horizon. It takes you a while, but you smile when you find that figure again. You sighed, he’s been there awhile. But you don't blame him. You think that Fushiguro Megumi feels like he’d find peace, if he sits there to wonder what had been before. You find him sitting on the bench your husband had loved to sit on years ago, his back turned to you. He is still, his head lowered, shoulders slumped, and you can see the way his body trembles with each ragged breath.

He’s still recovering, as most are after the battle with Sukuna. But for Megumi, the wounds are deeper, more insidious. After being imprisoned by Sukuna, after having his body and mind twisted and torn apart from the inside out, he’s struggling to find his footing again. His physical scars may heal with time, but the ones etched into his soul are a different story.

You approach slowly, hesitant to break the fragile stillness that surrounds him. He doesn’t turn to look at you, but you know he’s aware of your presence. You can see it in the way his shoulders tense, the slight shift of his head as if he’s listening, waiting. You move closer until you’re standing beside him, close enough to see the bandaged bruises that still darken his skin, the way his hands are clenched tightly in his lap, knuckles white with the effort of holding himself together.

“Megumi.” you say softly, your voice barely above a whisper, careful not to startle him.

He doesn’t respond at first, his gaze fixed on some point in the distance, his blue green eyes shadowed and hollow. You can’t tell if he’s looking at the ruins or something beyond them, something only he can see. You wait, giving him the time he needs, the space to decide whether he wants to speak or remain silent.

Finally, he lets out a breath, slow and heavy, his shoulders sagging further. “I couldn’t sleep.” he murmurs, so quietly you almost miss it. “I could still feel it. Like he’s still here… in my head… in my body. And then my dreams…. My hands and Gojo–sensei’s eyes….”

The words hang in the air, raw and unsteady, as if they barely have the strength to escape his lips. You hear the tremor in his voice, the way it quivers with each syllable. It’s a sound you haven’t heard from him before, a vulnerability that he rarely shows, and it cuts through you like a knife. Your heart aches at the sound of his voice, so broken and raw, a far cry from the stoic, determined young man you’ve known for so long.

You can see it in the way his eyes stare ahead, unfocused, as if he’s searching for something he can’t quite grasp. The way his hands tremble slightly, even though they’re clenched tightly on his knees. He sounds lost, like he’s still fighting a battle that has no end, still trying to claw his way out of a darkness that clings to him like a second skin. His whole body seems to sag under the weight of it, the invisible chains that bind him to a past he can’t escape.

“I see.” you whisper, your voice gentle, but firm. You reach out, hesitantly, resting your hand on his arm, feeling the tension that coils beneath his skin, the way his muscles are taut and ready to snap. “I’m sorry for that, Megumi.”

He flinches at your touch, just a little, his gaze flicking to yours for a brief second before darting away again. You can see the conflict in his eyes, the way he’s torn between wanting to believe you and the insidious doubt that’s been planted deep inside him. There’s a flicker of shame, of fear, as if he’s afraid of admitting just how much he’s struggling, how much of himself he feels he’s lost.

“It’s going to take some time for all of this to go and change.” he finally admits, his voice low, almost inaudible. “It feels like… like he’s still there, lurking in the corners of my mind, waiting for a chance to come back. And then Gojo–sensei’s voice echoes sometimes, whispering… and Sukuna just….It’s like he’s a part of me now, and I don’t know how to make him leave.”

His words are laced with a quiet desperation, a plea for some kind of reassurance that you’re not sure you can give. How do you tell someone that the ghost in their mind will eventually fade when you know that kind of pain never truly leaves? How do you promise a tomorrow free of shadows when the past clings so fiercely to the present?

You tighten your grip on his arm, just a little, enough to ground him, to let him know you’re here. “He won’t win. Satoru knew that too.�� you say, your voice is firmer now, more certain. “Not while you’re still fighting. And I know you, Megumi. You’ve fought through worse. You’re stronger than you think, even when you feel like you’re falling apart.”

His eyes meet yours again, and you can see the doubt there, the fear. But beneath it, there’s a spark of something else, something fragile and faint, but alive — hope, maybe. A glimmer of belief that he can pull through this, that he can find himself again. His lips part, but he seems to hesitate, as if afraid of saying something he can’t take back.

“I’m tired.” he confesses, and it feels like the weight of the world is in those two words. “I’m so tired of fighting. I don’t know how much more I can take.”

You swallow hard, feeling the sting of tears in your eyes, but you blink them back. “I know." you whisper, your voice thick with emotion. “I know you are. And it’s okay to feel that way. It’s okay to be tired, to need a break. But you don’t have to do this alone. I’m here, Megumi. I’m not going anywhere, okay?”

He exhales, a shaky breath that trembles with all the emotions he’s been holding in, and for a moment, he looks like he might break, like the walls he’s built around himself might finally come crashing down. His shoulders slump further, and he leans forward, just a fraction, as if testing the waters, as if trying to decide if it’s safe to fall.

“I….” he starts, his voice breaking, “I keep thinking about him… and about everyone we lost. And I wonder if it’s even worth it, to keep going… if I’m even worth it. I…I helped cause all this pain.”

His words hit you like a punch to the gut, and you feel your breath hitch in your throat. You tighten your grip on his arm, leaning closer, your heart breaking for him, for everything he’s endured, for everything he’s still enduring.

“Megumi.” you say, your voice thick with emotion. “You are worth it. You’re worth every fight, every tear, every moment of pain. You’re worth it because you’re here, and you’re trying, and you haven’t given up. And that… that’s everything.”

He looks at you, his eyes searching, as if trying to find the truth in your words, as if he wants to believe you but doesn’t know how. His lips tremble, and for a moment, he seems like he might speak, might say something that could change everything.

But then he just closes his eyes, a tear slipping down his cheek, and he lets out a breath, long and shuddering. “I don’t know.” he whispers, but he doesn’t pull away from your touch. He stays there, his body tense but close, and you know that for now, that’s enough.

You feel the slight tremor in his shoulders, the way he fights to keep himself together, and you wonder how many times he’s had to do this — how many times he’s been forced to stand tall when everything inside him was falling apart. You can see the exhaustion etched in the lines of his face, the dark circles beneath his eyes. He’s so young, but he looks older now, like the weight of the world has been pressing down on him for too long.

You don’t say anything, just keep your hand on his arm, feeling the faint, steady beat of his pulse beneath your fingertips. You know that words won’t fix this, won’t make the shadows in his eyes disappear. But you want him to know he’s not alone, that he doesn’t have to carry this burden by himself.

Slowly, almost hesitantly, he leans into you, just a little, his head bowing as if the strength he’s been holding onto is slipping away. You don’t move, don’t flinch, just let him take whatever he needs from you, let him find some solace in the contact, in the warmth of another human being who understands, who has lost as much as he has.

“I’m scared.” he admits, his voice so soft you almost miss it, his breath warm against your skin. “I’m scared that I’ll never be… me again. That I’ll never be whole. That I’ll always feel… like this.”

Your heart aches at the confession, at the way his voice breaks, the way his words tremble with an uncertainty that shakes you to your core. You feel a tear slip down your own cheek, and you quickly brush it away, not wanting him to see, not wanting to add to his pain.

“It’s okay to be scared.” you whisper back, your voice rough with emotion. “I’m scared too, Megumi. Every day. But you don’t have to do this alone. You have people who care about you, who love you. And we’ll get through this… somehow. Together.”

He nods, just barely, and you can feel the tiniest bit of tension ease from his frame, as if your words have given him something to hold onto, even if just for a moment. His tired eyes remain closed, and he takes another deep breath, his lips pressing into a thin line, his brows furrowing like he’s trying to muster some strength from within.

“I miss him.” he confesses, almost like he’s ashamed to say it out loud. “I miss Gojo–sensei. Tsumiki, I…I still can’t…”

Silence engulfs you, heavy and unrelenting, settling like a thick fog between you and Megumi. He opens his eyes. You couldn’t help but see the light of devastation in his eyes, a light that flickers and fades like a dying star. It’s a look you’ve seen before, a look you’ve felt etched into your own reflection every time you’ve caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. The eyes that have stared back at you have been hollowed out, drained of their usual spark, carrying the same weight that now rests in Megumi’s.

You see it in the way he looks down, his gaze fixed on some invisible point on the ground, as if he’s afraid that meeting your eyes might shatter whatever fragile composure he’s managed to hold onto. The devastation is so clear in his expression, so raw and exposed, like an open wound that hasn’t begun to heal.

But you share the same look, you think. Because you’ve both lost the dearest people in your lives. The ones who held you together, who gave you strength when you needed it most. You knew that too well — the pain, the grief that seems to expand with every breath you take, filling the space around you, making it harder and harder to breathe. Tsumiki, taken from him so suddenly, so cruelly. And now Satoru, your husband, the man who was everything — your light, your laughter, your reason to keep fighting even when the world felt like it was falling apart.

How much more can you both bear?

It feels like there’s a weight pressing down on your chest, an invisible force squeezing the air out of your lungs. Your heart aches with a pain that’s deep and unyielding, a pain that you’ve grown accustomed to, but that never seems too dull. It’s the kind of pain that lingers, that finds its way into every corner of your being, that refuses to be ignored no matter how hard you try.

You think of Satoru — his smile, his ridiculous jokes, the way he could light up a room just by being in it. You think of Tsumiki — her quiet strength, her gentle kindness, the way she could make Megumi laugh even when he didn’t want to. You think of how much they meant to you, to both of you, and you wonder how you’re supposed to go on without them. How do you keep moving forward when the ground beneath you has been ripped away? How do you find the strength to keep fighting when the people who gave you that strength are gone?

You feel a tear slip down your cheek, hot and heavy, and you quickly brush it away. You don’t want Megumi to see, don’t want him to think that you’re breaking, that you’re crumbling under the weight of your own grief. But maybe he already knows. Maybe he can see it in the way your hands tremble, in the way your shoulders sag just a little, in the way your breath catches in your throat like you’re fighting to keep from sobbing.

Megumi finally looks up, and when his eyes meet yours, you see the reflection of your own sorrow staring back at you. His eyes are tired, so very tired, like he hasn’t slept in days, weeks even. There’s a hollowness in them, a void where there used to be determination and fire. He looks older than he is, worn down by the battles he fought, by the losses he’s endured. And you wonder how much more he can take, how much more you can ask of him when he’s already given so much.

“I’m… I’m not sure how to do this.” he admits, his voice barely more than a whisper, his words trembling on the edge of breaking. “I don’t know how to… keep going.”

Your heart tightens, and you feel a fresh wave of grief wash over you, cold and sharp like a blade. You want to tell him that it will get easier, that the pain will fade, but you know it’s not true. You know that some losses never heal, that some wounds never close. All you can do is reach out and take his hand in yours, squeezing it gently, letting him know that you’re here, that you’re not going anywhere.

“I don’t know how either.” you whisper back, your voice thick with emotion. “But we have to try… for them. For ourselves.”

He nods, but it’s a slow, uncertain nod, like he’s still not sure if he believes you, if he believes in anything anymore. His grip tightens around your hand, almost desperate, like he’s holding on for dear life. And maybe he is. Maybe you both are, trying to keep each other afloat in a sea of loss and uncertainty, trying to find something solid to cling to when everything else has been swept away.

For a long moment, you stand there in silence, feeling the weight of everything you’ve lost, everything you’re still losing. And you realize that there’s no easy answer, no simple path forward. There’s only this — the two of you, standing together in the midst of all the broken pieces, trying to make sense of a world that no longer feels whole. And maybe that’s enough. For now, maybe that’s enough.

"I… I keep thinking he’ll walk through that door too, you know?" you finally manage to say, your voice catching on the last word. "With that grin of his, like it's all been a bad dream."

Megumi’s gaze drops to the ground. “Me too.” he whispers. "I keep hearing his voice, like he's about to make another joke… or ruffle my hair." His hands curl into fists, and he swallows hard. "I don’t know if I want to laugh or scream."

You reach out, hesitating for a moment before placing a hand on his arm. "It feels wrong, doesn't it? For him to be gone."

He nods, his shoulders slumping further. "I hated how he made everything a joke, how he never took things seriously… but I’d give anything to hear him laugh again." His voice cracks, and you see the tears he's been holding back start to gather in his eyes.

Your own tears brim over, and you don’t bother wiping them away. "I don’t know what to do." you admit. "I feel lost without him. I thought we’d have more time… that we could…"

"To live together?" Megumi finishes for you, and you nod, grateful that he understands.

For a moment, you both stand there in your shared grief, the silence punctuated by the distant sounds of the wind moving through the ruins. Finally, Megumi reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a folded piece of paper, worn and slightly crumpled, as if it’s been handled many times. You look at him and then to the paper. You could feel the air knocked from your lungs. 

"He… he left this for you." he says, handing it over. “Ieiri–san gave this to me. He told Ieiri–san to give it to you.....if something happened, you’d be the one to need it most.”

You take the letter with trembling hands, the weight of it almost too much to bear. For a moment, you can’t bring yourself to open it, terrified of what it might say, of the finality it represents. But then you unfold it, the familiar scrawl of his handwriting dancing across the page, and his little drawing of himself on the side. You don’t know whether you were going to laugh or cry. Because, almost immediately, you can almost hear his voice speaking the words.

𝑯𝒆𝒚, 𝒚𝒐𝒖! 𝑫𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒕, 𝒅𝒂𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈, 𝒎𝒚 𝒖𝒏𝒊𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒆,  

𝑰’𝒎 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒈𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒈𝒐𝒐𝒅𝒃𝒚𝒆𝒔, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒍𝒆𝒕’𝒔 𝒃𝒆 𝒉𝒐𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒕, 𝑰 𝒏𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒏𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒘𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔. 𝑩𝒖𝒕 𝒊𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖’𝒓𝒆 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒊𝒕, 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 𝒅𝒊𝒅𝒏’𝒕 𝒈𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒚 𝑰 𝒉𝒐𝒑𝒆𝒅. 𝑰 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝒚𝒐𝒖’𝒓𝒆 𝒉𝒖𝒓𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑰 𝒘𝒊��𝒉 𝑰 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒃𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒉𝒐𝒍𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖, 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒆𝒍𝒍 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒊𝒕’𝒍𝒍 𝒃𝒆 𝒐𝒌𝒂𝒚. 𝑩𝒖𝒕 𝒊𝒇 𝑰 𝒄𝒂𝒏’𝒕… 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝑰 𝒏𝒆𝒆𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒕𝒐 𝒉𝒆���𝒓 𝒎𝒆 𝒏𝒐𝒘.  

𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒐𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒌, 𝒃𝒓𝒂𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒃𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒆𝒗𝒆. 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒎𝒂𝒅𝒆 𝒎𝒚 𝒍𝒊𝒇𝒆 𝒃𝒓𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒆𝒓, 𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒊𝒆𝒓… 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒑𝒍𝒆𝒕𝒆. 𝒀𝒐𝒖, 𝑴𝒆𝒈𝒖𝒎𝒊, 𝑻𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒊𝒌𝒊 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑺𝒂𝒕𝒐𝒔𝒉𝒊 — 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒎𝒂𝒅𝒆 𝒍𝒊𝒇𝒆 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒕𝒉 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒎𝒊𝒔𝒆𝒓𝒚. 𝑩𝒆𝒄𝒂𝒖𝒔𝒆 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒎𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒂 𝒎𝒂𝒏 𝒇𝒆𝒆𝒍 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒉𝒆 𝒉𝒂𝒅 𝒃𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒍𝒖𝒄𝒌𝒊𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒍𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒏 𝒇𝒆𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆. 𝑩𝒖𝒕 𝒏𝒐𝒘, 𝑰 𝒏𝒆𝒆𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒕𝒐 𝒌𝒆𝒆𝒑 𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒎𝒆, 𝒐𝒌𝒂𝒚?  

𝑻𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒄𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝑴𝒆𝒈𝒖𝒎𝒊. 𝑻𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒄𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝑺𝒂𝒕𝒐𝒔𝒉𝒊. 𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒌𝒊𝒅𝒔, 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚’𝒍𝒍 𝒏𝒆𝒆𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖. 𝑬𝒔𝒑𝒆𝒄𝒊𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒚 𝑴𝒆𝒈𝒖𝒎𝒊, 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏 𝒊𝒇 𝒉𝒆 𝒅𝒐𝒆𝒔𝒏’𝒕 𝒔𝒂𝒚 𝒊𝒕. 𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝒓𝒆𝒎𝒆𝒎𝒃𝒆𝒓, 𝑰’𝒎 𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒚𝒐𝒖, 𝒂𝒍𝒘𝒂𝒚𝒔. 𝑱𝒖𝒔𝒕… 𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒌 𝒖𝒑 𝒂𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒔𝒎𝒊𝒍𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒎𝒆, 𝒐𝒌𝒂𝒚? 

𝑻𝒆𝒂𝒄𝒉 𝑺𝒂𝒕𝒐𝒔𝒉𝒊, 𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒍𝒆 𝒅𝒂𝒘𝒏, 𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒔. 𝑷𝒐𝒊𝒏𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒇𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒊𝒔, 𝒐𝒌𝒂𝒚? 𝑰’𝒍𝒍 𝒂𝒍𝒘𝒂𝒚𝒔 𝒃𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒚𝒐𝒖. 𝑭𝒐𝒓 𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒐𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖. 𝑰 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖. 𝑴𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒏 𝑰 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒅𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒔𝒂𝒚.   

𝒀𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒔 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓, 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆 — 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒍𝒊𝒇𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒏𝒆𝒙𝒕,  𝑺𝒂𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒖.

The tears spill over again, as they have these past few weeks and you clutch the letter to your chest, your heart aching with a mix of love and pain. You look over at Megumi, who’s watching you with a mix of understanding and his own quiet grief. He didn’t say a word for a while. He just let you cry, to let out the grief that you had been holding in for so long. 

"He… he always knew what to say, didn’t he?" Megumi murmurs, a small, sad smile tugging at his lips.

"Yeah." you reply, your voice thick with tears. "He always did."

The weight of Satoru's absence presses heavily upon you, but the words on the paper offer a strange comfort, like a hand reaching out through the dark. You hold the letter tightly, almost as if you could draw him back with the force of your grip.

Megumi shifts beside you, his gaze distant. You sense he’s been wrestling with his own demons, carrying a grief he doesn’t quite know how to articulate. You remember the nights Satoru would tease him, ruffle his hair, and declare with exaggerated fondness that he was the son he never had. And you remember how Megumi would roll his eyes, always with that begrudging smile, the one that said he was secretly happy to have someone who cared so much.

"I don’t know what to do." you confess, your voice barely a whisper. "I don’t even know where to begin."

Megumi looks at you, his eyes softening in understanding. "Neither do I." he admits. "But… I think Gojo–sensei would want us to keep going. He’d hate seeing us like this, stuck in the past."

You nod, wiping your tears with the back of your hand. "He was always moving forward, wasn’t he? Never stopping, not even for a second."

Megumi’s lips twitch into a faint smile. "Yeah, always dragging everyone else along for the ride." He hesitates, and then adds, "But… it wasn’t just him. You kept him grounded. You gave him a reason to slow down, even if just a little."

Your breath catches in your throat. You never thought of it that way — always felt like you were the one chasing after him, trying to keep up with his boundless energy and insatiable curiosity. But maybe, in your own way, you had been his anchor.

Megumi takes a step closer, his hand hovering near your shoulder, as if unsure whether to reach out. "He always talked about you, a lot. Even when you weren't around." he says softly. "Not in the way you'd expect. He’d get this look in his eyes, like… like he couldn’t believe he was lucky enough to have you."

You nod, finding some solace in his words. The two of you stand there for a moment longer, letting the silence settle around you, a cocoon of shared understanding. Then, with a deep breath, you fold Satoru’s letter carefully, as if it were the most fragile thing in the world, and tuck it into your pocket.

“I know.” you say gently, a faint smile on your lips. “I was the luckiest person alive too. To have loved him. To have been with him. To…To have a life with him.”

He turns his head slightly, just enough to glance at you out of the corner of his eye. There’s a flicker of something there — a mix of pain and doubt, hope and fear. He looks exhausted, like every breath, every moment, is a battle in itself. His hands unclench slowly, his fingers twitching like he doesn’t quite know what to do with them.

He closes his eyes for a moment, a pained expression crossing his face. “I don’t know if I can ever be what I was.” he says quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t even know who I am anymore.”

"That's okay." You whisper back. "You don't need to be whole to be yourself, Megumi. It's...enough. Being like this, for now."

He looks at you then, really looks at you, and you see the tears gathering in his eyes, threatening to spill over. He’s still so young, you think, still so young to have been through so much, to carry so many burdens on his shoulders. You didn’t want this from him. You don’t want him to live with this for the rest of his life. 

“Do you think it’ll ever stop hurting?” he asks, his voice so soft it’s almost a plea.

You pause, considering your words carefully. “I don’t know.” you admit honestly. “I think… I think it might always hurt a little. But I also think that one day, the pain won’t be the first thing you feel. One day, you’ll wake up, and it’ll be a little easier to breathe. And then another day, and another… and eventually, you’ll find a way to live with it. To carry it without letting it crush you.”

He nods slowly, as if trying to absorb your words, to find some semblance of comfort in them. “I hope so.” he says quietly. “I really hope so.”

As you purse your lips into a tight line, Fushiguro Megumi turns his head slightly, just enough for you to catch a glimpse of the strain in his eyes. They’re the same eyes you’ve known for years, dark and brooding, yet now they seem dimmed by a weight too heavy for any young man to bear. His expression is weary, etched with the lines of battles fought not just against enemies but against the relentless tide of grief and responsibility that threatens to swallow him whole. 

You pause, taking in the sight of him. Megumi, who has always seemed so strong, so unyielding, now stands with his shoulders hunched, his frame pulled inward like a fragile fortress protecting a fragile heart. His hands, usually so sure and steady, are clenched tightly at his sides, fingers twitching with a nervous energy. 

The boy who faced curses without flinching now looks lost, as if he’s unsure of where to place his feet or how to hold himself together. You notice how his posture has shrunk into itself, his form smaller, more fragile than you remember. For a fleeting moment, he is not the stoic young man who bears the weight of the Zen’in name, but the boy you raised, the one who used to look up at you with a defiance softened by hope. 

Memories rush in, unbidden and raw. You remember the first time you took his hand, how tiny it seemed in yours, and the way he stiffened, wary of your touch. It took time for him to trust you, to accept the safety you offered in a world that had been anything but kind. He was so guarded, so determined to prove that he didn’t need anyone, but you had seen through the cracks in his armor, glimpsed the boy beneath who craved comfort and understanding.

Now, as you stand before him, you see that boy again. The boy who hid his hurt behind curt words and narrowed eyes, who watched the world with suspicion, waiting for it to turn on him. You see the boy who wanted to be strong, not just for himself but for those he cared about, who believed that if he could shoulder enough pain, he might somehow spare others from it. That same boy stands before you now, but the weight he carries has only grown heavier, pressing down on his shoulders until they sag with exhaustion.

You move closer, slowly, careful not to startle him. Megumi’s gaze flickers to you, and for a moment, something in his eyes softens, just a fraction. He looks at you as if he wants to say something, but the words catch in his throat, stuck behind the fear of vulnerability. You can see the battle waging within him — the need to be strong, to keep it all together, and the desperate longing to let someone in, to share the burden that’s breaking him apart.

“I…I’m sorry for putting you through what I did.” he whispers, so quietly you almost miss it. His voice is thick, strained with the weight of everything left unsaid.

It was hard seeing Megumi this way, you think. If anything, you still weren’t prepared to seek him out. You felt ashamed that you couldn’t do much for him. As much as you were also worried that he’d put himself at your feet, kneeling and in tears. Now your worst fear came to pass, that he would be apologizing to you for something that was not his fault. And so, you took that time — a long time, to just be alone and grieve. To let your husband’s soul rest in peace.

So your heart aches at his confession, and you step closer, wrapping an arm around his shoulders, drawing him into an embrace. At first, he resists, his body stiff and unyielding, but you hold firm, refusing to let go. Slowly, he relents, and he collapses against you, his head resting against your shoulder. His hands clutch at the fabric of your clothes, and you feel the tremble in his fingers, the suppressed sobs caught in his chest.

“It’s okay, Megumi.” you murmur, stroking his back in soothing circles. “You silly boy. Why are you apologizing for things that aren’t your fault, hm?”

His shoulders shake, and you feel the tears that he’s fought so hard to hold back finally spill over. He buries his face in your shoulder, his body wracked with silent sobs, each one tearing at your heart. You hold him tighter, as if you could somehow shield him from the pain, as if you could gather all the shattered pieces of him and put them back together.

He cries quietly, like he doesn’t want to be heard, like he’s afraid of what his grief might sound like if he lets it out. You just hold him, letting him take the time he needs, giving him the space to be the child you know he still is, beneath all that strength and stubbornness. 

And for that moment, you are back in time, comforting a boy who tried so hard to be brave, to stand tall in a world that felt too big and too cruel. You feel the years slip away, and you whisper to him like you did then, telling him it’s okay, that he’s safe, that he’s loved. 

Slowly, the tremors in his body begin to ease, and he pulls back slightly, just enough to look up at you. His eyes are red, and there’s a vulnerability there that you haven’t seen in years. “I’m sorry, Gen–san.” he mutters, his voice barely above a whisper. “I….It must be harder on you.”

You shake your head, cupping his cheek with one hand. “There’s nothing to be sorry for.” you say firmly. “You’ve been so strong, Megumi. But you don’t have to be strong all the time.”

He nods, his eyes closing for a moment as he takes a shaky breath. “I just… I miss him, Gen–san.” he admits, his voice breaking. “I miss them. Tsumiki…..I…I miss them both. And it���s…It’s my fault. If I had…”

“I know you do.” you whisper back. “I miss them too. And it’s okay to feel that way. But it was never your fault. You understand? This is not your cross to bear, hm?”

He looked at you, as though he was still unsure. But he nods again, and this time, when he opens his eyes, there’s a spark of something new there, a flicker of resolve. “Thank you.” he murmurs. “For… for being here.”

You smile softly, brushing his hair back from his face. “Always.” you promise. “I’ll always be here for you, Megumi.”

And as he leans into your touch, you realize that maybe, just maybe, he’s beginning to understand that he doesn’t have to face the world alone. That he has a family, even in the darkest of times, and that you’ll always be there to catch him when he falls. When he finally calms down, you look at him with a tender gaze. You rub the small of his back and coo towards him. You tell him over and over again that it’s going to be okay. 

THINGS HAVE CHANGED IN THESE MANY YEARS. But all the same, you were still just trying to get by without your husband. Just as you have done in the past fourteen years. Sometimes you can’t believe that it has been that long. Fourteen long years without his voice, his laughter, his warmth beside you in the dark of the night. Fourteen years of waking up every morning and remembering all over again that he’s gone.

Some days, it feels like he was just here, like you can still hear his footsteps in the hallway, the sound of his voice calling your name, teasing you with that easy smile that could always make your heart skip a beat. Other days, it feels like a lifetime has passed, like his memory is slipping further away with each breath you take, each step you take forward.

And sometimes, all you have to do is look at the world around you and see how much it has changed, even without Satoru. The world didn’t stop for his absence — it kept moving, kept spinning, kept evolving. The streets are filled with new faces, new buildings rise where old ones once stood. The skyline of the city looks different, the energy of the people has shifted, and even the quiet corners where you used to find solace now feel foreign and unfamiliar.

You think about the way he would have laughed at the way the world has moved on without him, how he would have been amused at the thought of being left behind by time itself. “Can’t keep up with me, huh?” he would’ve jokes, that mischievous grin spreading across his face, his bright eyes twinkling with that endless, boundless spirit of his.

But he isn’t here to see it — he isn’t here to laugh or joke or comment on the little changes that make up this new reality. And that’s what hurts the most, you think. The small moments that go unnoticed, the daily routines that feel emptier without him, the tiny, insignificant details that made life with him so full.

You were certain that today was one of those days — a day where the past and present seemed to blur, where the weight of what came before felt particularly heavy. The morning sun filters through the kitchen window, casting a soft glow across the table. You watch as the young clan leader, Gojo Satoshi, sits across from you, his posture a mix of youthful excitement and a hint of nervousness that he tries to hide. His eighteenth birthday has finally arrived — a day you’ve both been anticipating with a blend of joy and bittersweetness. 

For years, you’ve marked this date on the calendar, circled it with a smiley face as Satoru used to do. You remember the way he’d talk about this day like it was a grand milestone, his eyes lighting up with that familiar spark as he imagined all the things Satoshi would accomplish. And now, here it is — the day that seemed so far away, so impossible to reach, yet somehow arrived faster than you ever thought it would.

Your son had taken some time off from his responsibilities, from the pressures of the Gojo clan, just to be here with you. He’d insisted on it, saying he didn’t want to spend this day anywhere else. There’s a maturity in him that catches you off guard sometimes, a quiet strength that reminds you so much of Satoru, and yet he’s entirely his own person, shaped by all the experiences and lessons that life has thrown at him. 

At times, you catch yourself taking a moment to look at him. He was the spitting image of his father. Every bit of him was Satoru. From the way his eyes gazed at you, to the way he laughs. Everything was him. You think if your husband would be here now, it would have been hard to tell them apart. But, he was all you have of Satoru. And you were still grateful for it, even if it makes you cry sometimes.

“Mom.” he begins, and there’s a softness in his voice, a vulnerability that he doesn’t show often. “I… I’m glad I could be here today. I know it’s… a lot. For both of us.”

You smile, a warm, gentle smile that you hope hides the ache in your chest. “I’m glad too, Satoshi. I’ve been waiting for this day. Your father would have wanted it to be special.”

He nods, a small smile tugging at his lips, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes — a shadow of the loss you both carry, the empty space that Satoru left behind. You know this day is as much about celebrating as it is about remembering, about honoring the promise that Satoru made to him, to all of you.

And that’s why you’re here, sitting at the kitchen table, a letter in your hand — a letter you’ve kept safe for years, one with Satoru’s handwriting on the envelope, his familiar scrawl that brings a sting of tears to your eyes. The letter he wrote for Satoshi to open on his eighteenth birthday, a letter he wrote knowing he might not be here to read it himself.

You hold it out to him, your fingers trembling slightly, and Satoshi’s eyes widen. He recognizes it immediately, having seen it once before when he was a child, when you tucked it away with a promise that it was for another day, a day when he was older, stronger.

“Is this…?” he asks, his voice trailing off, almost afraid to finish the question.

You nod, swallowing back the lump in your throat. “It’s from your father.” you say softly. “Megumi found it cleaning your father's office. It seems....your father wanted you to have something special when you're older."

For a moment, Satoshi just stares at the envelope, his fingers brushing over the edges, tracing the curve of his father’s handwriting. You can see the emotions flicker across his face — curiosity, sadness, a deep, yearning love. He looks up at you, and there’s a silent question in his eyes, one that asks if you’re okay, if you’re ready for this.

You give him a small nod, even though your heart feels like it might break all over again. “Go on.” you encourage. “Open it.”

With a deep breath, Satoshi carefully tears open the envelope, his hands steady despite the tremor you know he must feel. He pulls out the folded paper inside, and as he begins to read, you watch his face, the way his expression changes, softens, as he takes in the words that his father left for him.

There’s a chuckle, soft and low, that escapes his lips, and for a brief moment, it’s like Gojo Satoru is in the room with you both, his presence lingering in the air, his laughter echoing in the corners. Satoshi’s shoulders shake with silent laughter, and he shakes his head, murmuring, “Of course he’d say that…” under his breath.

You can’t help but smile, a tear slipping down your cheek as you remember Satoru’s sense of humor, his way of making light of even the heaviest moments. You wonder what he wrote, what silly remark he must have made, what words he left behind to make his son laugh on this day.

But then, the laughter fades, replaced by a softer look, a look of longing. Satoshi’s eyes grow misty, and his smile wavers, his breath hitching in his throat. His hands clutch the letter a little tighter, his fingers pressing into the paper like he’s holding onto a lifeline.

“I miss him, a lot.” he whispers, his voice breaking, and in that moment, he looks like the little boy he used to be, the one who would climb into your lap and ask when his father was coming home. “I miss him so much.”

Your heart breaks all over again, and you reach across the table, pulling him into your arms. He doesn’t resist, burying his face in your shoulder, and you feel his tears soak through your shirt, hot and heavy. You hold him close, your hand running through his hair, whispering soothing words even as your own tears fall.

“I know, Satoshi.” you whisper back, your voice thick with emotion. “I miss him too… every day.”

He clings to you, his body shaking with quiet sobs, and you let him cry, let him mourn, let him feel all the things he needs to feel. You know that this pain will never truly go away, that there will always be a part of both of you that aches for the man who isn’t here, for the father and husband who left too soon.

But in this moment, you also feel a deep, abiding love — a love that stretches across time and space, that binds you together even in the face of loss. You know that Satoru is with you, in every laugh, in every tear, in every beat of your hearts. And as you hold your son, feeling the strength of his embrace, the warmth of his love, you know that Satoru’s spirit lives on, in him, in you, in all the days to come.

You feel Satoshi’s grip tighten around you, his shoulders still trembling with the force of his emotions. You hold him closer, pressing your cheek against the top of his head, breathing in the scent of him, so familiar and comforting. He’s grown so much, become a young man with so much of his father’s spirit, and yet so much of his own unique strength.

“He would’ve been so proud of you, little dawn.” you whisper into his hair, feeling your voice catch in your throat. “Every day, he would’ve been so proud. I know he is… wherever he is.”

Satoshi pulls back just enough to look up at you, his eyes red-rimmed and wet with tears, but there’s a light in them — a spark of resilience, of determination, of love. “I hope so, mom.” he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. “I hope I’m making him proud… and you, too.”

You smile, cupping his face in your hands, brushing your thumbs over his damp cheeks. “You are, Satoshi. You’re everything he could have hoped for… everything I could have hoped for.”

He leans into your touch, closing his eyes, and you can see the way his expression softens, some of the tension easing from his features. “I just… I wish he were here,” he admits, his voice a broken whisper. “I wish he could see this… see me now.”

You nod, swallowing back your own tears, feeling the ache in your chest grow sharper, deeper. “Me too.” you confess. “Every day, I wish for that. But he’s still with us, Satoshi. In you, in me, in all the love he left behind. And as long as we remember him, he’ll never truly be gone.”

Satoshi nods slowly, taking in your words, letting them settle in the quiet space between you. You know it’s not enough to fill the emptiness, to ease the pain that sits heavy in both of your hearts, but it’s something — a small comfort, a small truth that you can hold on to.

“Happy birthday, Satoshi.” You greeted him with a small smile on your face. “You and your papa. Happy birthday.”

“Thank you, mom.”

And so, you sit together in the soft morning light, holding onto each other, holding onto the memory of the man you both loved so dearly, trying to find your way in a world that has changed so much without him. You know it won’t be easy — it never has been — but you also know that you have each other, that you have the love he left behind, and maybe, for now, that’s enough to keep moving forward.

Just as you have for the past fourteen years.

Just as you will for the years to come.

YOU DECIDED TO VISIT THAT AFTERNOON. The pond is quiet, save for the gentle rustle of leaves in the wind, the soft murmurs of the water lapping against its edges. You stand at the edge, looking out at the calm surface, watching as the light dances across the ripples. The air is thick with the scent of earth and pine, and there’s a serenity here that you haven’t felt in a long time — a stillness that settles into your bones, grounding you in the moment.

This was land that Satoru bought a long time ago, back when the world was still full of possibility, when dreams felt tangible and within reach. You remember the day he brought you here for the first time, the way his eyes sparkled with excitement as he talked about the future, about all the things he wanted to build, all the memories he hoped to create. 

He’d stood right where you’re standing now, his hands on his hips, looking out at the same pond with a boyish grin on his face. “This is it.” he’d said, his voice full of conviction. “This is where I’d be glad to build a family… a place to call home when everything’s said and done.”

You could hear the hope in his words, the unspoken promise of a life filled with love and laughter. He had dreams of children playing by the water’s edge, of long summer evenings spent under the stars, of a sanctuary away from the battles, away from the chaos.

And you had made that happen. For a while, you had built that family, that life, just as he’d wanted. You shared quiet mornings and loud, joyous evenings. You laughed, you loved, you lived. The memories still linger in every corner of this place, like echoes of a time that now feels so distant, so far away.

This is the place where you buried your husband — here, by the pond where he once stood dreaming of the future. It felt right, felt like honoring that dream of his, of giving him the home he’d always wanted, even in death. You wanted him to be where he’d always hoped to be, to rest in the place he had chosen for his family, his sanctuary. So you laid him to rest here, in the earth he once walked upon, beneath the trees that whisper his name in the wind. 

But you chose this spot for a reason. So that he’ll always be home, so that he’ll never be far from the place he loved most. You wanted him to have peace, to feel the tranquility of the land he cherished so much. And maybe, in some way, you wanted him close, wanted to be able to visit, to sit by his side and feel his presence, even if it’s just in the whispers of the wind or the quiet ripple of the pond.

You sit back, closing your eyes, breathing in the fresh air, and you imagine his laughter, his voice, his hand in yours. You can almost hear him now, teasing you about being sentimental, about spending so much time talking to a patch of earth. But you know he’d understand. He always understood you, even when you didn’t understand yourself.

You look out over the pond, the way the water reflects the sky, and you wonder what he would think of the world now, of all the things that have changed. You wonder if he’d still choose this place, if he’d still find it as beautiful as he once did. You like to think he would, that he’d still smile and say, “Yeah, this is home.”

One day, you think. One day, maybe you’ll be here too, resting beside him, sharing this place forever. Maybe one day, you’ll find your way back to him, and you’ll get to hear his voice again, feel his arms around you, and you’ll be whole again. Until then, you’ll keep coming back, keep whispering to the wind, keep holding onto the memories that this place holds.

And as the sun dips lower in the sky, casting long shadows over the water, you feel a sense of peace settle over you. Because here, in this quiet place, he is still with you. Here, by the pond he loved so much, he is still home.

You’ve walked this path more times than you can count, but today feels different. The air is heavy, thick with the weight of unspoken words and memories that cling to you like shadows. It has been fourteen years now, and in a few days, it will be official. But it was your husband’s birthday today too, and you think that maybe that’s why. Satoshi is eighteen and your husband isn’t here to see it. 

When you reach their graves, you pause, taking a deep breath to steady yourself. The air is cool, the wind gentle against your skin, but there is a weight in your chest that feels heavier than any burden you’ve ever carried. 

Two simple stones lie before you, side by side, as if they were always meant to be together — Gojo Satoru and Geto Suguru. Their names etched in the granite are stark against the soft earth, the bold characters cutting through the silence of the space around you. The sight is almost too real, too final, as if the reality of their absence is etched into the stone itself.

It was what Satoru wanted, you remember. He had told you that a long time ago, in a quiet moment, his voice uncharacteristically soft, almost pleading. “Promise me, if anything ever happens… that Suguru will be laid to rest too. That he’ll have peace.”

You’d nodded then, not thinking much of it, not wanting to entertain the thought of losing him. But now, standing here, you understand why. You understand why it mattered to him, why it was so important that they be reunited in the end.

They were best friends once — closer than brothers, bound by a shared past, by dreams of changing the world together. Even when their paths diverged, even when they became enemies in the eyes of the world, there was always something unbreakable between them, something that tied them together beyond the choices they made, beyond the mistakes and the betrayals. They were always two halves of a whole, two sides of a coin that could never be separated.

And now, in death, they are together again. You think it fitting, think it poetic in a way that only Satoru could have imagined. They both found their peace here, in this quiet place, far from the chaos and conflict that shaped their lives. And maybe, just maybe, they have found each other again, wherever they are.

You kneel down, your knees pressing into the soft grass, feeling the dampness seep through your clothes, grounding you, connecting you to the earth, to this place where they both now rest. You reach out with trembling fingers, tracing the characters of their names etched into the cold granite. The letters feel rough under your fingertips, each line a reminder of what was lost, of the lives that were lived with so much intensity, so much passion, so much pain.

“Satoru.” you whisper, your voice catching in your throat. It feels strange to say his name out loud, to speak to him as if he could still hear you. But you hope he can. You hope he’s listening, somewhere out there. “I’m back, my dearest.”

“I miss you… so much. Every day. I don’t know how to do this without you.” Your fingers move to Suguru’s name next, tracing the familiar curves and lines, remembering the way Satoru used to talk about him, the fondness in his voice even after everything that happened.

“And Suguru.” you add softly, “I hope you found peace too. I hope… wherever you are, you’ve found each other again. That you’re not alone. Stay together, hm?”

The wind picks up, rustling the leaves around you, and for a moment, you almost think you hear their voices — Satoru’s light and teasing, Suguru’s deeper, quieter, both of them laughing together like they did in the old days, when things were simpler, when the world hadn’t yet shown its darker side. It’s a sound that cuts through the quiet, a memory that tugs at your heart, bringing a fresh wave of tears to your eyes.

You press your palms flat against the grass, feeling the cool earth beneath your hands, grounding yourself in the present, in the reality of this moment. You close your eyes, letting the tears fall freely now, feeling the ache in your chest grow sharper, deeper. 

“I’m sorry.” you whisper, your voice breaking. “I’m sorry I couldn’t save you… either of you. I’m sorry it came to this.”

But then you take a breath, slow and steady, and you remember what Satoru always said — that life goes on, that the world keeps turning, even when it feels like it’s falling apart. And you know he wouldn’t want you to stay here forever, trapped in the past, in the grief that feels like it might swallow you whole. He would want you to keep going, to keep living, to find joy again, even if it feels impossible right now.

You sit back on your heels, wiping at your eyes, feeling the cool breeze brush against your cheeks. “I’ll keep going.” you promise, your voice is stronger now, more certain. “I’ll keep living, for both of you. For all of us. But… one day, I hope I get to see you again. I hope we can be together again, somehow.”

The wind blows softly, carrying your words away, and you imagine them reaching Satoru, reaching Suguru, wherever they are. You imagine them smiling, together at last, watching over you, waiting for the day when you’ll be reunited. And in that thought, you find a small measure of comfort, a small piece of hope to hold on to.

So you stay a little longer, just sitting there in the quiet, in the space between what was and what is, letting the memories wash over you, letting yourself feel everything — the love, the loss, the longing. Because here, in this place, they are still with you. Here, by their graves, you are not alone.

You swallow, trying to keep your composure, but it’s hard. The memories rush back all at once — the sound of Satoru’s laughter, always so full and carefree; Suguru’s quiet, thoughtful gaze as he watches you both, always the more grounded of the two. You close your eyes for a moment, letting those memories wash over you, trying to hold on to the feeling of them, even as it brings a fresh ache to your heart.

“I miss you.” you say, your voice breaking on the last word. “Gods, I miss you both so much.”

Your hand drops to your lap, and you feel the sting of tears in your eyes, blurring your vision. You take a shaky breath, trying to steady yourself, but it’s no use. The tears spill over, hot against your skin, and you don’t bother to wipe them away. You’re tired of pretending to be strong, tired of holding back the grief that’s been eating away at you ever since you lost them.

“I still can’t believe you’re gone, Satoru.” you whisper, your voice trembling. “I keep thinking… I keep waiting for you to walk through the door with that ridiculous grin on your face, like this was all just some terrible joke. I keep thinking I’ll hear your voice, calling out to me, asking me if I’ve missed you. Fourteen years and I still think like this.”

Your shoulders shake with a quiet sob, and you press a hand to your mouth, trying to stifle the sound. You feel the ache in your chest, the hollow emptiness that’s been there since the day he died. Every day without him feels like a wound that won’t heal, a pain that won’t lessen, no matter how much time passes.

“I miss you so much.” you repeat, your voice raw and broken. “I miss the way you used to make me laugh, even when I didn’t want to. I miss the way you’d wrap your arms around me, like you could protect me from everything. I miss your voice, your smile… I miss everything.”

You take a deep breath, your fingers curling into the fabric of your clothes as if to ground yourself. “Sometimes… sometimes I don’t know how to keep going.” you admit quietly. “I don’t know how to keep living in a world where you’re not here.”

Your gaze drifts to Suguru’s grave, and you feel another pang of sorrow. “I miss you too, Suguru.” you murmur. “I know you and Satoru are probably driving each other crazy up there… but I wish… I wish you were both here with me.”

You let out a shaky breath, your tears falling more freely now. “I’m trying to be strong, to be the person you both believed I could be.” you say, your voice trembling. “But it’s so hard without you. It’s so hard to keep going when all I want to do is just… just give up.”

You close your eyes, bowing your head, and let the tears fall, your shoulders shaking with silent sobs. The grief feels like it’s drowning you, pulling you under, and for a moment, you don’t know if you have the strength to keep swimming.

But then, through the haze of your tears, you feel a small flicker of warmth — a memory, a feeling, a sense of Satoru’s presence. You can almost hear his voice, playful and light, telling you to keep going, to keep fighting, to keep living. And you know, deep down, that he wouldn’t want you to give up. He’d want you to keep smiling, to keep finding joy, even in a world without him.

You lift your head, wiping at your tears with the back of your hand. “I promise I’ll keep going.” you whisper. “I’ll keep living, for both of you. But… one day…”

Your voice catches, and you swallow hard, forcing the words out past the lump in your throat. “One day, I can’t wait to see you again.” you say, your voice breaking on a sob. “I can’t wait to be with you again, Satoru. I can’t wait to hold you and tell you how much I’ve missed you.”

You reach out, placing a hand on his headstone, your fingers trembling. “Until then… I’ll keep you in my heart.” you whisper. “I’ll keep you both in my heart.”

The wind picks up once more, rustling the leaves, and for a moment, you feel a strange sense of peace, as if they’re both there with you, watching over you, telling you that it’s okay to grieve, to cry, to miss them. And as you sit there, letting the tears flow, you realize that they’re not really gone. They’re still with you, in every memory, every laugh, every tear. 

“I love you so much.” you whisper, your voice carried away in the wind. “I always will, my love. Happy birthday.”

And for the first time in a long time, you feel a flicker of hope, a small, fragile thing, but there nonetheless. A hope that one day, you’ll see them again, that one day, this ache will be replaced by the joy of being with them once more. Until then, you’ll carry them with you, every step of the way, until your paths cross again.

epilogue 

In the ethereal expanse of the afterlife, Gojo Satoru was causing a celestial commotion that even the most seasoned spirits couldn’t ignore. The gates of heaven, grand and imposing, were currently the scene of an unusual spectacle. Satoru was, quite literally, throwing himself against them, trying to push his way through the ornate barriers with a determination that bordered on absurd.

Suguru Geto, Nanami Kento, and Haibara Yuta were standing a few feet away, watching with a mix of amusement and exasperation. Suguru was leaning against a nearby pillar, his arms crossed and an eyebrow raised. Nanami was rubbing his temples in frustration, and Haibara was trying very hard not to laugh.

"How long has he been at this?" Nanami asked.

"Since yesterday." Haibara snickered in response.

"I haven't had peace these past two days." Suguru sighed.

Satoru, his face pressed against the gates, was shouting, “GAH!? Let me out! I need to get back to Earth! They need me! I can’t just sit here while they’re struggling!”

Nanami, stepping forward with a calm yet firm tone, said, “Satoru, this is not a joke. You’re dead. You’re not supposed to go back. We’ve been over this.”

Satoru turned his head, giving them a pleading look. “But they’re my family! They need me! Can’t you see? I’ve got to be there for them!”

Haibara, trying to defuse the tension, added with a smirk, “Gojo–senpai, you know you can’t just break the rules. Besides, you have to admit, your dramatic exit would probably cause a cosmic mess.”

Suguru, barely containing his grin, stepped forward with a more practical suggestion. “Look, Satoru, there’s a much better way to be there for them without causing a ruckus. You can appear in their dreams. It’s a lot less disruptive and doesn’t require you to break through any divine gates.”

Satoru’s eyes lit up with realization. “Wait, really? I do that? Why didn’t anyone tell me sooner?”

Suguru shrugged nonchalantly. “You didn’t want to listen to me at all. Plus, you were too busy trying to create a celestial catastrophe.”

Satoru paused, considering the idea. “I suppose appearing in their dreams is a bit more civilized. But—” he added, frowning, “—can’t I just pop back in for a quick hug or something? A kiss, more preferably.”

Nanami shook his head, still trying to keep his composure. “No, Gojo. That’s not how it works. You’ve got to accept that you can't do what you want now that you're dead.”

Satoru, with a resigned sigh and the roll of his eyes, finally stepped back from the gates. He still looks like a child when he pouts. “Alright, alright. I’ll do the dream thing. But I want to make sure they know I’m there for them.”

Haibara chuckled. “Great. Just try not to turn their dreams into a circus act. They need comfort, not more chaos, Gojo–senpai!”

Satoru grinned, his spirits lifting as he envisioned his new plan. “Got it. I’ll keep it heartfelt and fun. And maybe I’ll sneak in a few tricks here and there. You know, just to keep things interesting.”

As Satoru prepared to set off on his new celestial mission, Suguru, Nanami, and Haibara exchanged looks of weary amusement. They knew that, despite his antics, Satoru’s heart was in the right place.

“Good luck,” Nanami said dryly. “And remember, no cosmic disasters.”

Satoru gave them a thumbs-up. “You got it! And thanks for the advice, everyone. I’ll make sure they feel my love, even if it’s just in their dreams.”

With that, Satoru faded into a swirl of ethereal light, heading toward the dreamscape to reach out to you and Satoshi. Meanwhile, Suguru, Nanami, and Haibara watched him go, their expressions a mix of relief and amusement.

“Do you think he’ll actually follow through?” Haibara asked, still grinning.

Suguru smirked. “If anyone can turn a dream into a grand spectacle, it’s Satoru. But I have no doubt he’ll manage to bring some comfort, too. Well, somewhat."

Nanami sighed, shaking his head. “Well, at least we’ve managed to keep him out of trouble, for now. Let’s hope he sticks to the plan.”

And with that, the trio returned to their celestial duties, knowing that despite Satoru’s chaotic tendencies, his heart was always in the right place.

And just as promised, Gojo Satoru did indeed make his grand reappearance in your dreams and Satoshi's, weaving a spectral thread through the fabric of your nightly slumbers. The dreams, much like Satoru himself, were a mix of whimsical chaos and heartwarming moments.

In your dream, the scene was set in a familiar place — a cozy, moonlit garden that felt both nostalgic and surreal. There, amidst the soft glow of fairy lights and the gentle rustling of leaves, was Satoru, his usual nonchalant demeanor softened by a warm, affectionate grin. He was seated on a bench, his posture relaxed, but his eyes sparkled with the same mischievous gleam you remembered so well.

"Soooo." he began, stretching out the word as if he were about to launch into one of his signature lectures. "Miss me much? I bet you didn't expect me to show up like this."

You could only laugh, feeling a mixture of relief and joy. "Satoru... this is incredible. I wasn’t sure if you’d actually come."

Satoru’s grin widened, and he leaned closer, as if sharing a secret. "You know me, always keeping my promises, even from beyond. Besides, I couldn’t let you and Satoshi have all the fun without me."

He gestured to the garden around you, which seemed to glow with a gentle, ethereal light, transforming it into a place of comfort and tranquility. It was as if he had crafted this dreamscape himself, blending his penchant for the whimsical with the tenderness of his love.

As you sat together, talking and laughing, the conversation flowed effortlessly. He shared stories from the afterlife, which he portrayed with his characteristic humor and flair, recounting celestial mishaps and the amusing antics of his fellow spirits. It was just like old times, but with a surreal twist — his jokes seemed to float in the air like bubbles, and his laughter was a melody that danced through the night. And then when it was time, he wrapped his arms around you and pulled you close into an embrace and a kiss.

Satoshi’s dream was equally enchanting. He found himself in a fantastical setting, a blend of his own memories and Satoru's imaginative touch. The scene was a vibrant carnival, full of colors and laughter. Satoru was there, dressed in an elaborate magician’s costume, complete with a top hat and a flowing cape. He was performing tricks, pulling stars out of a hat and making cosmic confetti rain down on the crowd.

Satoshi watched in awe as Satoru performed, a look of wonder on his face. When Satoru finally noticed him, he winked and gave him a grandiose bow. "Hey, kiddo! Did you miss me? Hope you're enjoying the show!"

Satoshi’s heart swelled with a bittersweet mixture of joy and longing. He approached Satoru, who enveloped him in a hug that felt strangely warm despite being a dream. Satoshi felt tears well up in his eyes, but he laughed, feeling a sense of comfort he hadn’t experienced in years. “I’ve missed you so much, Dad.”

Satoru ruffled his hair affectionately, his voice filled with genuine warmth. “I know, kiddo. I’ve missed you too. But you’ve grown so much. I’m proud of you. And I know your mom is too. You both are doing great.”

The dream continued with a playful sense of magic and wonder, filled with laughter and joy. Satoru’s presence, though fleeting, was a gift — a reminder that his love and spirit continued to be a part of your lives, even if only in the realm of dreams.

As the night drew to a close and the dreams began to fade, Satoru gave one last, heartfelt wave. “Remember, I’m always with you. In every laugh, every moment, and every starry night. I’ll be cheering you on from here.”

When you and Satoshi woke up, you immediately texted each other about the dream. And back in heaven, Gojo Satoru was pleased.

[queers-gambit]

"Plan To Make A Gift of It To My Lover"

prompt: ten years ago, Lucerys claimed Aemond's eye, and now, a Lannister will claim her debt.

pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Lannister!wife!reader

fandom masterlist: House of the Dragon

word count: 5.5k+

note: i use 'lover' because it sounds like the original line, 'mother'. also, what the fuck is this, Cherry?

warnings: very much not for minors! deranged characters? blood lust? depiction of grotesque, unhinged behavior. there's cursing, depiction of canon-typical violence and injury, show timeline and spoilers that lead into some VAGUE book references that might produce a slight AU timeline...? character death, obviously Team Green, so, there's some Team Black slander. half edited!

⚠️ season one, episode ten AND book spoilers

PLEASE BE AWARE I AM GOING TO MERGE THIS ONESHOT INTO A SMALL SERIES BUT WILL STILL LEAVE THIS UP

I AM CHANGING LANNISTER READER INTO A VELARYON READER

Rain water beaded against his leather trench overcoat, rolling off him like pellets to leave a scattered trail on the material. His boots splashed in the muddy terrain, dark castle looming tall in the stormy sky, and Mother Nature voiced her displeasure in the form of booming claps of thunder throughout the raging storm.

Long, straight hair turned unruly and crinkled in the torrential downpour; sticking to clothes and clinging to skin. His sword was latched to his weapons belt, bobbing on his hip with every stride he took to approach the Keep of The Stormlands, Storm's End.

"Identify yourself!" A guard shouted through the haze of rain.

You smirked, "Prince Aemond Targaryen, second son of King Viserys Targaryen, the Peaceful, and rider of Vhagar along with his wife, Lady Lannister."

The guards exchanged looks, then the other asked, "What business do you have here?"

"Official business that surely goes beyond your responsibility," you snapped. "We require an audience with your liege lord. Is Lord Borros in? Willing to receive? You'd do well to answer quickly, Vhagar isn't known for her patience - nor is my husband and I."

There was no dispute in leading you into the castle's throne room, members of court lingering in curiosity when they saw the One Eyed Dragon Prince and his Lady Lioness prowl through Storm's End. Lightning struck to flash through the cracks of the eery castle, creating an uneasy atmosphere and making Storm's End feel spookier then it probably was. Aemond smirked when you looked around the semi-empty throne room, the guards instructing you to stay put as their lord was fetched; you looking positively bored.

"You seem to have a natural liking towards our new status, do you not, my lioness?" He mused softly. "The way you commanded the guards to retrieve their Lord for us was very telling of your ease."

"Perhaps. Though I do not like the reason we are here, flexing our status in the first place," you told him with a sharp look. "Surely, there's other alliances to be made, Aemond. Why marry you off to some plain-faced Baratheon bitch?"

"Because war's come for us and we must all sacrifice for the cause," he sighed, staring at you without so much as twitching; letting you approach until standing chest-to-chest. "We require this pact, my love, because we must strengthen Aegon's claim. To use Daeron and I as marriage pawns feels logical given our proximity to the King."

You snarled, "You told me yourself that Aegon did not deserve to be King. Now, we must sacrifice our marriage vows for his claim?"

"I know it is not ideal," he relented, "but it's our current reality."

"Only for now, I sense the tides will turn several times before this is fucking over."

"Hmm."

When Lord Borros finally arrived, he appeared disgruntled by the abrupt arrival of you and your husband, Prince Aemond. He was grouchy, but still welcoming enough; slumped in his chair, eyeing you both, mentioning, "This must be of grave importance to arrive in such a manner, with no warning."

"It is," Aemond answered smoothly, "because war has come to shadow Westeros once more, my Lord."

"Is that so?"

"King Viserys is dead," he informed clearly, "and as such, the natural succession would've passed to the King's named heir, Princess Rhaenyra, but King VIserys had a change of heart. Instead of his daughter, the King wanted his first born son, Aegon II, to ascend the Iron Throne after him."

"And that's to do with me...?"

"The Princess will demand your loyalty, Lord Borros," you stepped in, "to uphold a stale oath your father made decades ago. Come the day, you will be forced to pick sides; yet we simply would like to offer you terms of consideration before hearing Rhaenyra's."

"If the Princess is willing to offer terms, that is," Aemond punctuated.

Borros sat still, then leaned in slightly, "And what are these terms you wish to offer, girl?"

"My Lady-wife has earned the title Princess, my Lord," Aemond corrected sharply, "and will be addressed as such."

Borros nodded stiffly, "Of course, my apologies."

"No matter," you assured. "Tell me, Lord Borros, do you not have unwed daughters?"

"I do, a gaggle of them."

You smirked, "My husband, though not King, is of ancient and rich Valyrian blood. He is happy to uphold customs of his ancestors by taking another wife - so, we offer a marriage pact in exchange for your swords and banners."

"And what of you?"

"What of me?"

"You would just let your husband wed another woman?"

"Who am I to question the will of the Gods?" You mused, figuring you wouldn't tell him how Aemond had already promised never to bed the Baratheon girl. "Should they smile upon this union, so would I. My father, may he rest in peace, before his passing ensured to instill in me a sense of duty and honor, Lord Borros, and with this civil war, we might all do our part to see the end of it."

He hummed, eyeing you both. "All right," Borros half-agreed, "but which of my daughters, hmm? I've four of them - uh," he snapped, "what is this? Someone fetch the girls! Let the Prince see - he may choose to wed whichever he deems acceptable."

"Do we have a deal, Lord Borros?" You asked.

He nodded, "Pending the Princess' terms - my father did swear fealty to Princess Rhaenyra, I would do well to honor that by at least hearing her."

"A noble answer," you accepted.

It wasn't a long wait for his four daughters to arrive, an even shorter wait for Aemond to make a decision. There was Cassandra, Maris, Ellyn, and Flora Baratheon - all ripe for the picking. "Well?" Aemond asked you.

You shrugged, "This is your choice, you're the one who has to bed her." His lips twitched in amusement, eyeing the women stood in a straight line. "Fuck's sake - why not kiss them all and chose that way? Leaves less room for surprise later. Plus what're the odds Rhaenyra's sent her envoy? We should solidify Baratheon's loyalty now."

Aemond chuckled, looking each woman over carefully as a guard entered the room. "My Lord," he called, earning the attention, "another dragon has been spotted and is approaching the Keep."

"What did I fucking say?" You smirked at Aemond.

"Receive whoever it is," Borros permitted. "And you? Have you come to a decision? My girl, Maris, there, would make a clever wife."

"I've one clever enough wife and would be overrun with another," Aemond answered wistfully. "The Lady Flora is acceptable."

"Very well," Borros nodded, "and the terms of dowry?"

You watched as Aemond pulled Flora from the line of sisters, standing to the side as he examined her. He told Lord Baratheon the number of Gold Dragons he thought his daughter was worth, the two haggling lightly over prices before Borros accepted that with the threat of war, his son might become preoccupied, so, the seat of Storm's End would be inherited by Aemond and Flora's children.

Thunder rumbled as a deal was struck.

Boots marched down the stone hall and all conversation ceased to await the newcomer with taunt curiosity. Aemond subtly turned to look at you, ignoring his pretty new intended, as a procession of guards marched into the gloomy room. You boldly stared at the arrival, feeling your heart stall in your chest when you saw it was him... That bastard... The Strong Bastard that mutilated both you and your husband a decade ago.

"Prince Lucerys Velaryon," it was announced, marching coming to an echoing halt. Aemond chose that moment to turn and present himself to the young prince who haunted your every living and dreaming nightmare. He looked startled to see you both there, the guard ending, "Son of Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen."

Against the thundering storm, Lucerys spoke timidly - as if, any louder and his voice would squeak and crack. "Lord Borros... I brought you a message from my mother... The Queen."

"Yet earlier this day, I received an envoy from the King," Borros shot at the young prince. "Which is it? King or Queen? The House of the Dragon does not seem to know who rules it." He laughed at his own joke, but when none others joined, he asked Lucerys stoically, "What's your mother's message?"

The Strong Bastard just held up a scroll like the spoilt brat he was, a guard taking it from his fingers to walk it to the Stag Lord since the Prince deemed himself too important to hand deliver the message. Lord Borros sighed when he took up the scroll, looking expectingly to his court, then snapping, "Where's the bloody Maester?"

Lord Borros Baratheon could not read, you see.

So, you all waited as the Maester was retrieved; Lucerys sparing spooked looks at you and Aemond - the latter of whom just smirked in amusement. Luke couldn't truly see the disfigurement he caused, but your scars almost glittered in the flashes of lightning to assure him they were right where he left them. You turned to your husband, whispering in his ear, "Remember all those times when you promised me his eye as a gift? When shall we be presented an opportunity such as now?"

He shushed you with a restrained smirk, wanting so bad to entertain your banter - and daydream about doing to Luke what he did to you two. You told Aemond you didn't need Luke to bear a scar like your own, and that's when he promised to give you the Prince's eye.

The Maester arrived when Luke felt uneasy enough to palm a fist around the hilt of his sword, elderly man hobbling up to Lord Borros, taking the scroll, then reading it.

The Maester bent to summarize the letter to his Lord. You smirked at Aemond when Borros snapped, "'Remind' me of my father's oath? King Aegon at least came with an offer: my swords and banners for a marriage pact! If I do as your mother bids," he leaned forward on his throne, looking to the side, asking, "which one of my daughters will you wed... Boy?"

"My Lord," Lucerys trembled, "I am not free to marry. I'm already betrothed."

"I did not realize betrothal was weighed heavier than marriage," Borros sneered, indicating to you and Aemond, "which means you come with empty hands. Go home, pup, and tell your mother that the Lord of Storm's End is not some dog that she can whistle up at need to set against her foes."

There was a beat as his words sunk in.

"I shall take your answer to the Queen, my Lord," Lucerys informed, sparing everyone one last look before turning on his heel to vacate.

Yet he couldn't just walk away so easily.

"Wait," Aemond called out loud before you could, the Prince halting, "my Lord Strong." You grinned when Luke turned fully and then stepped forward to the edge of his guarded protection, a look of disbelief adorning his features. "Did you really think that you could just fly about the Realm," he continued, taking a few slow, stalking steps forward with you on his flank and Floris stepping further away, "trying to steal my brother's throne at no cost?"

"I will not fight you," Lucerys declared. "I came as a messenger, not a warrior."

You giggled to mock the boy's sword skill, wanting to hurt the boy's ego as much as possible. Your husband smirked at you before musing, "A fight would be little challenge." He paused to consider his options. "No," he told Lucerys, reaching for his eye patch and pulling the leather from his head. "I want you to put out your eye," He growled, staring at Luke, sapphire winking in the low torchlight; his arm coiling around your waist to keep you at his side. He explained, "As payment for mine. One will serve," and he flipped back his leather overcoat to reveal a dagger, yanking it free to toss across the distance at Lucerys. It clattered and skidded, the sound ominous between the claps and rolling booms of thunder. "I would not blind you," he told the boy. Then, as if concealing a smirk, he finished, "Plan To Make A Gift of It To My Lover."

The ground shook violently when Vhagar landed outside the Driftmark Dragon Pit. The air whooshed your hair back, little feet stumbling back a few paces into the rock wall, hair on the back of your neck standing on end when Aemond dismounted the beast. It wasn't as if you weren't proud or incredibly impressed by his ability to claim the oldest dragon in the known world, but you weren't a Targaryen and dragons made you uneasy.

You could understand animals had minds of their own, and while, yes, Targaryens were closer to Gods than Men because they fly on dragons, you knew they did not control the dragons. They merely domesticated the winged terrors, but you knew the animal could snap at any moment's notice. You didn't like being so close as to become an accidental casualty, so you waited in the mouth of the Pit to give plenty of room between you and Vhagar.

"Well? How was it?"

Aemond beamed at you, "Like nothing I've ever experienced before."

"She's much, much bigger up close," you eyed the dragon watching you both. She was too large in size for the Dragon Pit, but for you, it was a way back into the Driftmark Castle; so, Vhagar was left to her own devices as you and Aemond strode inside.

"You'll have to come flying with me."

"No, no, I like the ground very much. It's safer down here."

"You'll love flying, I can all but promise you."

"If the Gods wanted me in the air, they'd of made me a Targaryen," you teased, both entering the torch-lit passage. "Alas, I am not, so, I think it wise to keep my feet on the ground."

"I'll get you on dragonback with me one day," he smirked. "She's the oldest, you know, and the largest, too."

"I know," you beamed in amusement.

"And she's mine," he whispered, shaking his head and fighting off his grin. You looped your arm with his, giggling your praise over his display of bravery; entering the division foyer of the Pit only to spy Prince Daemon Targaryen's daughters, Baela and Rhaena, with Princess Rhaenyra's sons, Jacerys and Lucerys Velaryon.

"It's them!" One barked.

"It's us," Aemond sneered quickly, understanding confrontation when he felt it. You didn't like this... Something about this exchange felt very wrong; there was four of them, two of you, and you were not their blood relative - so, why be involved at all?

"Vhagar is my mother's dragon!" Rhaena seethed.

"Your mother's dead," Aemond reminded sharply.

You smirked, tacking on, "And Vhagar has a new rider now."

"She was mine to claim!"

"Then you should've claimed her!" You barked in annoyance. "You are not the only dragon-less Targaryen, but you're the one who expects to just be gifted one!"

Aemond sneered right after you, "Maybe your cousins can gift you a pig to ride. It would suit you."

This (rightfully) angered the girls. Rhaena charged and latched onto Aemond but was easily swatted to the ground. At that same moment, her twin, Baela, took the opportunity to jab her knuckle into your nose, sending you into the dirt. "Fuck's sake!" You snapped, Aemond clocking the injury and slamming his fist against Baela's cheek to send her into the dirt, too.

Aemond helped you to your feet as he snarled at the girls, "Come at us again and I'll feed you to my dragon!"

Jace charged, and from there, it was a blur of adrenaline. Before you understood, you were defending yourself from a hurricane of fists and feet; reaching up to grab hold of Rhaena's locs and yank as hard as you could. It gave you a small advantage to get up, see the three others beating on Aemond, and rushed for the fray.

The Prince saw you and pause his resistance to let you grab hold of Baela - also pulling her so hard, a loc or two might've been ripped from her scalp. Aemond kicked Jace, you sent the girls into the dirt, and Aemond managed to catch hold of Lucerys by the throat as he got to his feet. Aemond's hand found purchase on a large rock, standing above them all as you panted from his side; rock raised in threat.

"You will die screaming in flames, just as your father did!" Aemond declared, snarling, "Bastards."

Through his whimpering, Luke sobbed, "My father's still alive!"

For a moment, Aemond appeared disarmed, but then sneered, "He doesn't know, does he? Lord Strong?"

This upset Prince Jacerys enough that he brandished a concealed dagger from his sleeve; holding it at the ready, ignoring his cousin's pleas of his name. "Blade in play," you warned Aemond.

Luke was kicked away, Jace was dodged, disarmed, then shoved to the ground. You were all bruised, bloodied, beaten; thinking that despite twice the numbers, you and Aemond managed to hold your own pretty damn well. The Prince lifted the rock again, this time with his sights set on Jace, ignoring Luke scrambling in the dirt.

Pretty damn well until it was too late.

You screamed in absolute horror when a white hot pain flashed across your face when you meant to turn away from the fight. You went down, Aemond looked over in shock and confusion, and in that moment, Lucerys swung his brother's blade again. It cut through half of Aemond's face, the eye being severed in two; blood gushing between both your hands.

Of course, this was the time the White Cloaks arrived - but it was too late. The damage was done. You sobbed uselessly as the knights tried to help you off the ground, trembling violently as adrenaline wore off. You were instantly escorted to the castle's throne room where the Maester and other attendants met you.

Guards posted.

Blood soaked into cloth.

The Queen arrived with the Hand before anyone else - instantly demanding her son (and you) be attended to at once. She listened to the shaky account of events, but it was difficult to get an accurate picture as you and Aemond were both preoccupied with being medically attended to.

You held Aemond's hand as you were both cleaned up. There was nothing to save, Aemond's eye removed and your face being pinched and stitched. Nearly 200 years from now, one of your descendants will earn nearly the exact same scar during the Battle of the Blackwater; a mark that cut through the face from temple, over the nose, to opposite ear.

You listened to the spoiled brats spin their webs, opting to remain quiet in the presence of the King.

However, after Princess Rhaenyra finally showed up with Prince Daemon, after Lord Corlys Velaryon and Lady Rhaenys Targaryen arrived, attention shifted.

" - Didn't just mutilate our son, but the Lady Lannister as well!" Alicent raged.

King Viserys eyed you as if seeing you for the first time, slowly approaching. "My Lady," he spoke softly, "you have not yet said a word this evening."

"It is not my place, Your Grace."

"It is now," he permitted. "Speak, and tell me the truth of it. What happened tonight?"

You swallowed nervously, "The Prince Aemond claimed his dragon, Vhagar, Your Grace, and upon returning, the... Uh, well, the Princes Jacerys and Lucerys along with their cousins, Ladies Rhaena and Baela, were waiting for us."

"Waiting?" Viserys repeated.

"Yes, Your Grace, I believe they wanted to see who had claimed Vhagar," you offered.

"Who hit who first?"

With a sigh, you answered, "Lady Baela hit Prince Aemond first. A solid hook, for whatever it's worth."

Alicent now approached, squatting in front of you and asking, "How did you sustain such injury, Lady Lannister? Come... Speak the truth. Tell us the meaning of this."

"Prince Jacerys brought the blade, Your Grace," you mumbled, "but it was lost in the scuffle. It was Prince Lucerys who offered injury to both Prince Aemond and I."

You could've cried when Rhaenyra, as usual, managed to somehow spin your story into making her sons the victims. Despite being told the four ambushed you two, they weren't even reprimanded because their parents were all so angry that it truly distracted from the present situation at hand. In the end, Queen Alicent snapped and charged to attack, but the Princess Rhaenyra intercepted her before damage could be done.

The blade Alicent stole from her husband's belt was dropped - but not before the tip sliced into the flesh of the Princess' forearm. You were fuming, watching them all leave; you had been seriously maimed, and so far, you had been the one spoken to as if a criminal. Rhaenyra would need stitches, sure, and a broken nose was the worst of their injuries - but Aemond lost his eye, and you?

You felt as if you lost your life because who the hell would want you now? With this scar? This big, fat, noticeable scar that split your face? Sure, your Lannister name would get you places - but not everywhere. Considering your young age, this only left time for rumors to fester and for everyone to notice your injury; being no escape and no where to hide from ridicule.

For years, you would consider yourself damaged. For years, you would mourn yourself. For years, you would sharpen your mind, wit, and intelligence because if you couldn't bring standard "beauty" to the table, you wanted to be able to offer something redeeming.

For years, you would undergo emotional turmoil before your engagement to Aemond is announced; convincing yourself you did not deserve love because your anger made you likened to a shrew. You felt ugly on the outside, ugly on the inside; a product of your environment and experiences. When the promise of marrying your best mate was bestowed, the entire court was shocked by the 180 you both did; where once stony and stoic, both were now soft and kind - but only to one another.

To everyone else, you were both still stony and indifferent. But to each other? You and Aemond would move mountains.

Yet that night on Driftmark would haunt for you for the rest of your lives; no matter the promise of love, marriage, and a 'normal' life. Late nights would be held together, fantasizing about your revenge; considering the future in which you made Lucerys Strong pay for what he did to you.

"Plan To Make A Gift of It To My Lover."

"No," Lucerys barked, looking distraught by the sheer idea of what Aemond demanded. His answer made the amusement drain from Aemond's features, this was a man not often told no. His hand passed you his eye patch for safe keeping; the raging storm outside portraying the tension brewing in the throne room of Storm's End.

"Then you are craven as well as a traitor."

"Not here!" Borros understood fighting words when he heard them - not wanting the repercussions of a dead or injured Prince Lucerys, because, let's face it, Luke couldn't do damage to Aemond even if he tried.

Aemond literally sprang into action, releasing his grip on you, shouting as he strode forward. "Give me your eye," he stooped to snatch his dagger from the ground, "or I will take it, bastard!"

Lucerys brandished his sword for protection, but Borros launched out of his seat to intervene by shouting, "Not in my hall!" This made Aemond skid to a halt. "The boy came an an envoy. I'll not have bloodshed beneath my roof. Take Prince Lucerys back to his dragon... Now."

You smirked when Aemond just watched the boy flee the hall, hand flipping his dagger expertly before sheathing it. You met his gaze, holding prolonged eye contact to publicly show you were not afraid of him, his looks, his lack of eye, or adoration for him.

"Well, Lord Borros," you mused, turning to the Stag Lord, "looks as if you've chosen in this war."

He huffed, "We can discuss specifics later."

Aemond nodded, "We'll be off."

"Do not - "

"You said no blood shed under your roof," you reminded, "not above."

"The Prince is young and small - "

"We gave him a fair head start." Borros looked ready to rebuttal, but you snapped, "We're at war, my Lord. Either you let the dragons fight in the skies or it'll be your men fighting in the trenches. The choice is yours."

"See that? His woman bites harder than he," Maria scoffed to her sisters, only juuuuust loud enough for her voice to carry across the room. Then she snarled at your husband, "Tell me, Prince Aemond, was it just your eye Prince Lucerys took, or one of your balls, too? You threw a dagger at him and stopped when Daddy said stop," her eyes rolled, "those are not qualities of a man."

You were ready to attack. In fact, you started striding up to Maris when Aemond intercepted you swiftly with a suffocatingly strong grip. "We've more important matters," he reminded you, turning, and promising to send word to Lord Borros before disappearing out of the side door.

"How dare she," you seethed on your way to Vhagar. "That buck-tooth looking rodent dares insult you? Her own Prince? In front of others - oh, the nerve of that family!"

"Bigger picture at work here, love," Aemond mused as he fixed his patch back on, never one to address the things that were bothering him - like when someone hurt his feelings or bullied him over his missing eye.

But you were always ready to bite those that offered insult. You were a Lion in a golden cage, after all.

You grumbled the entire time, reaching Vhagar, launching as discreetly as she possibly could to scan the skies. It wasn't easy to find the Prince because his dragon blended into the storm so perfectly, but once the tiny beast was located, you were locked on. You rode behind Aemond in his saddle, both being harnessed to prevent any unseating; the combined weight never phasing his ol' girl. Vhagar understood they were in some kind of chase, and when she gave a grumble that rumbled over the thunder you flew through, Aemond gave her a command in High Valyrian to quiet herself.

You could see glimpses of Luke turning to search areas you had just vacated; loving this game of cat and mouse. You hoped the anticipation and anxiety of being watched was upsetting the Prince - just so he had a little bit of emotional trauma from this, you know? Just so he had a little taste of the emotional turmoil you had to suffer the past decade.

"Ready?" Aemond asked you.

You squeezed his waist before boldly reaching down to palm his cock through his breeches, hissing in his ear, "Do it, you owe me a gift."

Aemond grinned and directed Vhagar to circle around and fly forward until almost colliding with Lucerys - should he not've steered Arrax lower at the last moment. The close call was enough to make you both laugh, the sound traveling over the noisy nature. Aemond turned Vhagar again, trying to snatch at Arrax with her talons while your husband hurled insults and taunting phrases as his nephew.

With a small groan, you reached for a separate piece of the saddle to hold onto while Aemond drove Vhagar into a nosedive after the smaller dragon. When they came up to a cavern of sea rocks, Aemond was forced to pull Vhagar back before she could crash - but Arrax had no issue navigating into and through the canyon. You were forced to fly above it, searching for your prey once more.

Lucerys seemed to evade you for a time.

"What happens when we find him?"

"I will have the bastard's eye," he reminded you.

"Yes, but what if he resists?"

"Of course he will."

"So you mean to kill him? Is that the plan, Aemond?"

He did not answer you, looking over Vhagar's sides for his prey. He shouted in High Valyrian, "You owe a debt! Boy!"

Suddenly, from your left, Arrax descended upon Vhagar with a vicious spewing of fire that licked your flesh hatefully. Aemond flinched back into your chest, trying to shield yourselves from the heat of the flames, but it was too late. You cried out, whimpering with discomfort when the flames died; marring and mangling your skin. Prince Lucerys was heard scolding his dragon, and for a moment, you felt as if you could see the future because there was no way Vhagar was going to let that kind of disrespect occur and do nothing about it.

The ol' girl gave a rumble before bellowing after Arrax. She turned herself to where the other dragon had disappeared and started to push off as her owner begged and pleaded with her not to. "Serve me, Vhagar, no!" He commanded, desperate to keep his beast under control, but being evident these two wild animals were in an altercation all their own and meant to follow their instinct.

"We want his head still, Vhagar!" You laughed loudly, Aemond growling with a smirk.

"Do not encourage her!"

"Do not try to domesticate a 180-year-old dragon!" You gave a small whoop of excitement. "She's a Dragon of War, Aemond! Violence is what she knows!"

He grunted as he struggled with the reins. However, Vhagar ignored him and made her own turn, pumping her wings twice and then breaking into the morning sun above the storm. For a fleeting moment, it was incredibly gorgeous to be so high in the sky...

And then it was over before anyone could stop it.

Vhagar opened her mouth and gave one chomp around the body of boy and dragon. There was a shrill cry of fear before Vhagar's moan of content, then eery silence settled as half-consumed bits fell to the ground beneath.

"Well," you cleared your throat, staring at the bloody bits falling, "if it wasn't enough that Aegon took her crown, surely, the two of us taking her son will be the push Rhaenyra needs to meet us in conflict."

"No," he cleared his throat, "you were not here - "

"I was, I would not allow you to bear this burden on your own. To take the blame," you met his eye. "I encouraged this just as much, and Rhaenyra will know it was us - she'd never believe I was not involved."

"Can you not be logical right now?" He trembled, leaning his forehead to yours.

"Okay..." You whispered, "Well, could we go see if there's anything left?"

"That's morbid, my love."

"What? You're the one who promised me his eye. I know you didn't mean for this, but the truth is," you smirked, "you did. You knew what pursuing him would result in - your dragon doesn't understand your need for revenge, she understands eat or be eaten."

Aemond sighed, "Too soon for that phrase."

"Noted. Now, c'mon," you encouraged, giving his waist a squeeze. "I know you're curious to see what's left, too."

And he was, so Aemond directed Vhagar back down. It was difficult to predict where the body parts could've ended up, but seemingly, luck was on your side and you descended to the shore. There was a small scattering of remains, bits being washed up or away with every new lap of sea water.

You dismounted and started searching through the remnants, storm still outlandishly raging around you. "Love?" Aemond spoke from behind you, making you jump slightly. He smirked, "Got something for you, my Lioness."

"You do not..." He held up the messily decapitated head of Lucerys "Velaryon", your laugh surprising and genuine. "Oh, we're sooo going to Seven Hells," you sighed, shrugging, "but you know, it doesn't really get worse than what we've already done, so," you motioned for him to set the head down.

"Here," he agreed, using his dagger to harvest Lucerys' eyeballs from the skull you helped hold. When he was done, you chucked the head away before Aemond's bloody hands set both eyes in your cupped, outstretched palms; watching you weigh them.

"You know, Lannisters always pay their debts," you mused, smirk pulling at your lips, "but we also are always repaid our debts. How strange, to hold his eyes and think they were once functioning... In his head, of use, probably full of tears when Vhagar chased him in the sky."

"Hm," Aemond considered, then pointed to your hand. "It's with his eyes, I promise you, my Lioness, the fall of our enemies." He proclaimed, then musing, "Should we give Maris Baratheon one to prove ourselves?"

You smirked, "She said you must've lost your balls, right?"

"Almost positive Vhagar ate Lucerys' so we cannot present her with them."

"Damnit," you pouted. "All right, fine, sure, we might show the Baratheon's we mean war... But I'd like to keep them both, please."

"What are you going to do with them?"

"Put them in a jar and keep until I'm no longer angry about what he did to us..."

"So, his eyes are going on our mantle?"

"You bet your sweet balls," you grinned, twirling Lucerys Velaryon's Strong's organs in your hand like a pair of game dice.

requesting rules and masterlist

HOTD masterlist

[damn-stark]

Chapter 20 The Witch, The Siren, and The Prince

Chapter 20 of Moonlight

A/N- this was very fun to write, I hope you all enjoy it!!

Warning- Swearing, talks of pregnancy, violence, angst!!, fluff!!, SPOILERS FOR FUTURE EVENTS OF HOTD, USING FIRE AND BLOOD, LONG CHAPTER.

Pairing- Aemond Targaryen x Velaryon!fem-reader, Cregan Stark x Velaryon!fem-reader

Episode/Pages- 447- (only a part of) 449

(If you want to be tagged let me know)

————

Maybe it’s the rain, the grey skies, and the chilly air that makes your mind wonder about your mother and how she’s dealing with Jacaerys death. Has her heart completely been torn from her chest like yours was? Is she overcome with nothing but a raging storm that doesn’t let her see a single break of light in the darkened clouds?

You don’t want to think of her, you want to stay angry, but she appears in your mind like some ghost haunting you from the great beyond. And her eyes, her tears, her reaction to all that transpired in the Gullet fills your head. You’re still angry, you still feel that poison deep within you, but…you can’t help but wonder what she might've thought when she heard what you did. Is she disgusted? Horrified? Is she scared of the woman she birthed and raised after she heard how you relished in that massacre?

No matter what, you don’t want her to be scared of you. You don’t want her to be horrified. And even if some part of you wishes you hadn’t been born, you don’t want her to feel that regret about you. No matter how angry you are…

“My Prince Regent. Princess Regent,” Ser Criston greets Aemond and you with a bow of his head. “Welcome to Harrenhal.”

You snap from the depths of your mind and find Ser Criston glaring at you. If looks could kill his glare would have killed you the moment you hopped off Astraea and stepped onto these damp lands. Why is it so?

Is it because of the lack of a battle and his all too clean armor that should be stained with the blood of the Rivermen? Is it because of the lack of an army and the lack of dragon battle between Caraxes and Vhagar? Or is it because you’re all in Harrenhal?

Sure as you saw it from the sky, you could see the reminder of what happened when Aegon the Conqueror showed the rivermen the power of the dragons, but it’s not a terrible sight. The castle is tall, it was probably the tallest tower once, and it probably touched the sky before it was burnt down. The stone is dark which adds an eeriness as it’s cast by grey clouds, and a large lake sits by the castle which contrasts its eeriness and offers some serenity—for those who can find it anyway.

So it’s not all bad. To you at least. To Ser Criston it’s a different story and a different reason why his frown is carved so deeply on his face—you can already predict why he’s so upset, he’s practically yelling it at you through that glare.

“Men are already rounding up everyone who lives within the castle,” Ser Criston shares as he brings out his arms from behind him and steals a glance at the entrance of the dark castle before looking at Aemond. “And guards are being posted in every direction of the castle.”

Aemond hums and turns around to look at the castle, letting Ser Criston once again sneak a glare at you.

“Taking the castle was easier than I imagined it would be,” you mock Ser Criston as you hold his glare through the silver chains that fall over your face like a veil.

Aemond hums, and you let a faint smirk play in the corner of your lips before you turn away and face the castle from the ground, catching yourself smiling instead of feeling a chill as you see a small brown owl flying overhead.

“Where is everyone?” You don’t try to ease that frustration Ser Criston so obviously holds. You instigate the problem with a smug look playing in your eyes instead of your lips as you face the knight again.

“Why don’t you come with me to the main tent before we head inside,” Ser Criston suggests and Aemond doesn’t hesitate to follow, making you turn to trail after him. Yet as you’re going to step away, suddenly a breeze brushes over you that carries unintelligible whispering which causes you to snap around and face the castle.

Was it just some fragment of your imagination? Some mind trick? It could just be the wind, but you know the difference between a breeze and the whispers that come from someone’s mouth, and what you heard just now was whispering; not from Aemond or Ser Criston, they’re walking away. The whispering came from the breeze that blew from the direction of the castle.

If only you understood what it was saying, but not a word was clear. You just know it was someone whispering, and you wait in hopes you will hear it again, but you instead hear Aemond calling out your name.

“I’m…coming!” You respond over your shoulder and wait for a split second more before you turn around and see him waiting at the bottom hill for you. When you catch up you hook your arm around his and whisper to him as Ser Criston leads the way.

“He seems upset,” you point out as you flip back the chains hanging over your face, and then look at the back of the man's head. “At me more than anything else.”

Aemond sighs and speaks up in High Valyrian so he’s not understood—yet talking in a different language only makes him more suspicious. “<Don’t pay it any mind. There’s no reason to be upset, Daemon left. He’s a coward. It’s that simple.>”

“<You're not upset at me?>” You can’t help but ask and glance at him, catching him glance at you at the same time. “<He saw me. I could’ve been the one who sent him flying.>”

Aemond shakes his head. <You said he was wearing armor. I'm certain he didn’t know we were nearby before he saw you, so he most likely already planned on leaving. It’s not your fault.>”

You glance down at the hand you have around his arm and hum in comprehension, giving away the uneasiness that you tried hard to fight off, but finds a way to still weigh down on you as you feel some responsibility for facing an empty castle. Aemond senses that and leans over to press a kiss on the side of your head.

“The twins don’t like this weather,” you complain and look up. “It messes up my hair.”

“You were just covered in blood,” he rebuttals, making you snicker—“anyway with Daemon gone we won’t stay long. We’ll have my uncle stay here to keep the castle.”

You nod softly. “Good, I miss Aerion and our bed.”

He scoffs, but you make a faint smile tug on his lips regardless.

Before you can reach the tent you feel his gaze on you, so you look over to lock eyes with him and catch the corner of his lips twitching to a smirk. “You look beautiful in that gown. If that wasn’t obvious,” he says, making a warmth creep on your face, and causing you to turn your head away to grin as you mindlessly brush the long silk crimson skirt with your hand.

“You’re being unprofessional, husband. You're going to make Ser Criston mad.”

Aemond scoffs and leans over to whisper in your ear. “I don’t give a damn. I can tell you you look nice whenever I please.”

You smile wider and then lull your head back toward Aemond to look at him with a love-struck gaze. “Thank you,” you whisper against his lips that you brush against as you find him closer than you thought.

He hums and looks down at your lips before he presses a peck on your forehead, making you groan, but making him smirk before he flips the silver chains back over your face to fall like a veil instead of using it like a hairnet.

“<Protect yourself. We’re on enemy grounds.>” He says in High Valyrian.

“It’s more like a fashion piece,” you mumble as you fix the chains.

“It works both ways, that's all that matters,” he retorts before he walks ahead of you to open the tent and let you walk in first.

Once inside the perimeters of the main tent, you’re greeted with the sight of other knights and commanders who hadn’t been in your meetings before. And they all go quiet when Aemond and you walk in and steal their breaths—All except Ser Criston’s and Ser Gwayne’s breath that is.

“Welcome to Harrenhal my Prince, my Princess,” Ser Gwayne greets with a kindness Ser Criston lacked. “If it wasn't obvious we have already taken over the castle with minimal challenge.”

“If a challenge is what you call it,” Ser Criston grumbles. “The doors were open, and the halls emptied. All that remains is prints of what used to be.”

His eyes follow you as you make your way to a seat. You can feel him glowering.

“Have the men inside faced any resistance?” Aemond asks as he takes a seat across from you since there’s no map to study or markers to move. The wooden table is empty and men in their armor simply surround it.

“No, none,” Ser Gwayne answers. “Some men were left, but easily fought. The Strong’s have all but surrendered.”

Aemond hums and Ser Criston parts his lips to finally express his anger against you in a daring and bold tone. “Perhaps if the Princess Regent had not been so reckless in her scouting task then the army would be here, and Daemon would not have fled.”

You look at him unbothered as you cross your leg over the other and sit back before you let your head loll to the side, and then interject in your defense with this cocky air mingling around you. “Mind your tongue Ser,” you roll out softly but threatening in every way. “You may be the Hand, but you still are a Kingsguard.”

You narrow your gaze and a faint smirk that only Ser Criston sees plays on the corner of your lips.

“Forgive me,” he says with no sentiment behind his apology, he just loses his glare and averts his gaze. “I did not mean to raise my voice. We could have had them pinned and destroyed their army. Or if we hadn't, we could have at least diminished their numbers, but now who knows how many more men we may have to face when he joins the others. The Northmen get closer by the day, their numbers may be small, but together they will be a much more dangerous threat.”

Your smirk falls and your eyes fall on your hands as you start to fiddle with your rings at the mention of the Northern men.

“The Northerner army still has to face our Western army,” a commander offers some consolation. “Lord Jason may be dead, but the Lannister army is still prevailing. They fight under Lord Humfrey Lefford now.”

“He’s in a litter,” Ser Criston snaps back spitefully as if the man had any fault.

“But still fighting,” Ser Gwayne counters. “Ease that brow Ser Criston, the princess did not send Daemon and the Rivermen army fleeing. It seems that by the time the Princess went to scout, the army was already leaving around us to avoid us. The same goes for Prince Daemon.”

“Daemon and his river scum fled rather than face my wrath,” Aemond proclaims and as much as you would want to agree, you have a feeling that there’s a much more significant reason why Daemon finally left the Riverlands and the castle undefended—“we will take the castle and after it falls the Princess and I will return to King's Landing. Ser Gwayne—”

Before he can finish sharing his plan a knight walks in with a raven scroll. “My Prince, this came for you from King’s Landing.”

You and Aemond share a confused and concerned glance before he walks over and takes the scroll, letting the knight walk out.

As Aemond opens the scroll, you slip your leg off the other and sit up straight to watch as Aemond’s face begins to twist with a seething rage.

“What is it?” You probe as you stand up. “What’s wrong?”

Aemond crumbles up the scroll and hurls it on the tabletop before he snaps his glare up as he huffs out through his nose, and then exclaims. “Daemon and that cunt Rhaenyra took King’s Landing!”

Tension fills the room, and everyone around the table passes worried glances as Aemond’s nostrils begin to flare with each heavy breath he takes.

“They took it while we were away! They have my son captive! And my mother and sister along with him!” He yells, making you swallow back nervously. Not out of fear of what they would do to Aerion, your mother wouldn’t hurt him, nor would Daemon. You grow nervous because of what Aemond wants to do to retaliate such an attack against him and the crown he almost held at his fingertips. It was there in his reach and now it got taken away by a man that a few days ago was under his nose.

“That’s where that craven took that army! That’s where that fucking craven went!” His angry shouts fill the tent, making everyone not dare to look him in the eye. You don’t even look at him, not because you fear him, you don’t. You don’t face him because you once again redirect your thoughts to your mother.

She took King’s Landing. That’s what she has been up to since Jacaerys death. She most likely used her anger to finally take the capital from Aemond and the rest of the Greens while Vhagar was away. She did it and you don’t know if you’re angry, or secretly proud. You don’t fight for either side, that’s still true. You fight for yourself, for your survival and that of your children and Aemond, but as she sits on the throne of swords does she think about you? Or does she now look at you the same way she looks at Aemond? Like an enemy that needs to be taken down? A daughter turned enemy that she will not consider her heir now that Jacaerys is dead?

What are you to her now that she finally sits on the Iron Throne? And are you proud or upset? Then again that last question depends on how she sees you now.

Regardless, it’s not like you can know now so you focus back on Aemond still simmering in his rage before he suddenly turns around swiftly and stomps out of the tent.

You and Ser Gwayne share a concerned look before you quickly follow Aemond out, seeing that he seems to be heading toward the castle.

You then quickly catch up to him and match his pace even if he takes very long strides, and manage to catch his arm.

“Aemond?” You beckon his attention, and he doesn’t hesitate to give it to you. And rather than meeting anger because you are the daughter of Rhaenyra; the one who took the throne behind his back, you actually see that he shares a malicious and smug look with you that answers your upcoming question before you can express it, and eases your chest from its clenched hold whilst also sparking those same emotions inside you.

That malice playing in his eyes is contagious, and you welcome it with open arms. You don’t fight it, it eases right in you. Which sounds twisted that with one look from Aemond you match the emotions inflaming within him, but you can’t help it. Be it doubt about your mother and the anger you still hold for her that makes understanding him and matching his fire that much easier, but you do. And it’s also with another single look that he gives you that you trust him wholeheartedly.

No words were exchanged. There’s no need for them. He asks you with his eye alone to trust him, only glances are exchanged, only your souls communicate together through your eyes, and without hesitation or pesky doubt, you trust him. You show him that you trust him without a single word, you lift your nose in the air and pass him a sly smirk. And he is relieved to know you understand. It’s your understanding, your matching fire that makes his shoulders roll back with more confidence and makes him have more cockiness in his stride.

When you finally make your way past the entrance of the blackened castle, your gaze hardens and emanates an icy fire that intimidates those who meet your gaze and gives away the suffering that made you so cold.

For those who look closely anyway, otherwise, they meet the eyes of a dragon in human form, the Blood Dragon, and the Fire Demon who demolished the Triarchy in The Gullet. You are a sight to behold, more so as you walk side by side, and at a matching pace with your husband Prince Aemond, the Prince Regent.

Before there was a change in the air as all the bodies that inhabited the castle were rounded up and confronted by a large army, but now it’s a different story. Now a darker cloud looms over Harrenhal as Aemond and you make your way into the courtyard, as they announce your names and titles, and you both pierce your glares down at everyone from the clouds. You literally stood before them, face to face, on the ground, but to the eyes of captured men and women and everyone that was not either of you, you watched them from a throne in the clouds.

Aemond and you are the very picture of royalty. Whereas Daemon waltzed about the castle looking every bit of a dragon warrior and offering his assistance where he could, Aemond and you differed; you’re like gods with your piercing glares that could damn anyone if they looked too close, and your noses in the air that showed everyone you were nowhere near them.

“Who is the castellan of Harrenhal?” Aemond asks a question he knows, but he’s playing around with all the captives set before you. “Step forward.”

The old and the young men all look between each other before a plump man with grey hair steps forward in his velvet robes, and his eyes downcasted.

“It is I, Ser Simon Strong, at your service, my Prince…and Princess.”

He dares himself to glance at you as if waiting to be corrected, but you tilt your head up, proving he was right to also name you.

“The castle is yours,” Ser Simon Strong adds, making Aemond snicker, and unsettling the old lord and every man behind him. “We surrender Harrenhal to you.” The man declares and bows his head.

Aemond and you share a quick glance before Aemond steps forward and pulls Blackfyre out of its sheath to lift Ser Simon’s chin with the flat side of the blade.

“Did you fall on your knees just as quickly when Daemon barged in here and took the castle?” He asks with his anger heightening in his tone. “Why should I trust the words of a man who yielded the castle and his loyalty to the enemy?”

Ser Simon swallows thickly and shakes his head as panic grows in his eyes. “No, he forced us, my Prince. He took the castle by force. My loyalties are to King Aegon. We are true and loyal servants of the crown,” he runs his mouth without trying to avert his gaze so his every word is believed, but Aemond is no fool. Even if he was, nothing would spare the castallen from Aemond’s wrath.

“My nephew Lord Larys Strong serves the realm, and the King as the Master of Whisperers,” he continues to add, but that only makes Aemond’s grip around the sword tighten. “House Strong serves no other ruler but King Aegon, and you.”

Aemond lowers the sword and steps back, giving the man a false sense of relief.

“Lord Larys tried to kill my son and heir,” Aemond makes the man stiffen. “He is only five months old. Lord Larys tried to kill my wife, your Princess, and the babes growing inside her, so tell me, Lord Strong,” Aemond rolls out with every word laced with venom. “Why should I trust the words or loyalties of a man whose nephew betrayed the crown? Who let the pretender inside the city and take the throne?!” He sneers, and Ser Simon shakes his head trying to argue but what words can he use to assure Aemond?

There’s nothing the man can say. No excuses, no protests. There at that moment, inside of Aemond’s eye, he can see the fate that awaits him.

“Give Ser Simon a sword,” Aemond demands as he turns to start pacing menacingly. “Let the Gods decide if he speaks truly. If you are innocent Ser, the Warrior will give you strength to defeat me. If not…” he trails off and ends the sentence with silence, but there’s no need for him to finish, everyone knows what will happen if the man doesn’t defeat Aemond. Just like everyone knows that will be the only outcome of this duel. Aemond knows it, and you know it.

Everyone knows that Ser Simon’s fate is imminent. He knows it for certain and it’s why he looks at you for reassurance, for a wedge that could let him escape his lurking fate. Yet he’s mistaken. Besides he only looks at you for help because you’re a woman for one; you are meant to have a woman’s merciful heart. And two, you're Rhaenyra’s daughter, you are the Realm’s Golden Girl, but the Realm’s Golden Girl doesn’t reside within you anymore, she’s dead, and he sees that when he catches your intimidating glare behind those silver chains over your face. Thus he leaves you be as he sees that his fate is set in stone.

“<You may not need it, but I’m still going to give you my favor,>” you tell Aemond as he waits to fight Ser Simon, making him hum in response before you stand on the tip of your toes and press a kiss on his cheek. “<The gods are in your favor, my love.>”

Aemond holds your gaze for a lingering moment before he turns away and heads to the center of the courtyard to face his old opponent shoved to the center. All while you walk back in the shadows to stand next to Ser Gwayne.

“What happens to the other men of the castle?” You ask as you see how Aemond rolls his shoulders back.

“If the Prince is merciful they are kept captive where they’re forced to work for us or rot in a cell,” Ser Gwayne says without trying to hide a thing. “If he’s not well, your dragons are going to be well-fed tonight.”

You hum and drift your eyes to all the men and the boys nervously watching the fight about to commence. You would like to say there’s a flicker of some sense to help them, but all that grows within you is a dangerous smugness that accompanies a wicked plan that starts to take root.

Would you be denied such pleasures though? That’s the question you should ask yourself before you get excited.

Perhaps by Ser Criston, but Aemond? Doubtful. Actually probably not since he’s furious that King’s Landing was taken. You will have to wait until after the duel to know though.

Until then you clasp your hands before you and feel a rush of excitement as the duel starts and Aemond stares the man down. Yet as Ser Simon is going to attempt to make his first move, a breeze blows past you again and that same whispering travels amongst it, pulling your eyes away from the duel and drifting them toward an arch that leads out somewhere you don’t know, somewhere that every muscle in your body wants to move toward, but somewhere you don’t push yourself to go to just yet.

You stay where you are and slowly bring your eyes down, at that moment catching distant green eyes looking back at you. Big green eyes that belong to a woman in dark purple who sports long black hair that flows behind her as a breeze also brushes past her. A woman that steals your attention over the singing of the swords hitting against each other and holds your attention over the fact that Aemond is the one dueling.

You don’t know why she holds your attention captive, you don’t know why you look at this woman amongst the flock of other women who reside in this castle. You just hold her gaze and feel a familiarity deep in your bones. Have you seen the gleam of her eyes somewhere? A haunting dream perhaps?

You don’t know, she just seems familiar. And the way she holds your gaze makes it seem like she knows you too, like she’s not scared of you like the others are.

“No!!”

You rip your eyes away from the woman and look back to the center of the courtyard, finding Ser Simon bleeding out from a large gash on his stomach that has his inside leaking out, and proves Aemond the winner. Not like it was going to go any other way, everyone knew, you knew with certainty. But even still, you beam at him and clap, making him smirk at the ground as you make your way to each other.

When you meet in the middle he grabs your hand and kisses your knuckles. Before he turns around you tighten your grip around his hold and draw his attention to you. “Do you trust me?” You ask out loud.

Aemond’s eye digs deep into your soul to try and figure out what you’re up to. Yet even if he sees that malice reflecting back at him, he can’t exactly pull your mind apart so he nods. “Of course,” he assures you.

You blink and sigh with relief before you glance at the women cornered at the far end of the courtyard. “Oh, and the women, spare them.”

Aemond follows your gaze and shakes his head lightly, but you grab his arm and pull his attention back to you. “Aemond,” you insist and come up with a quick but strong excuse to spare their lives. “With King’s Landing taken we might stay here a while, we need them. I need them. I need someone to tend to me as I am with child.” You press and make him hold your gaze for a long while as he debates your proposal.

When his mind is made he sighs deeply. “Alright. They will be spared.”

“Good…and let me handle the sentencing of the sons, everyone else is yours to do as you please,” you add for some context before he can get carried away.

“They will not be spared,” he clarifies, making you nod in comprehension before you let his hand go and face the horrified and solemn crowd together.

“Have his body fed to Vhagar,” Aemond proclaims as he strides forward to be at the center of attention. “As for the rest of you, hm.”

He turns with his hands clasped behind him, and his nose in the air to show his boast in confidence and power after his win. “The Princess Regent wants the women spared, so they shall. Thank her for I thought of you as dragon fodder.” He huffs with amusement. “Tend to her, and if she or my children are harmed I will slay you down myself.”

There’s no echo of responses, everyone understands and agrees in a sign of relief.

“And if I hear that any man from our army touched them against their will, I will hunt them down,” you make it known threateningly. “Ser Criston? Ser Gwayne? The men better behave and find whores to bother instead.”

“Understood,” Ser Gwayne is the only one who voices his comprehension, while Ser Criston, well, as you peer back he simply offers you a stiff nod.

You don’t argue about his response, you simply hum and then roll your shoulders back to mirror your husband's stance before you stalk toward him as you have your gaze set on the crowd of men now.

“As for the men,” you continue to have your voice be heard, piquing Ser Criston’s attention now more than before. “Every bastard boy seventeen and younger is spared. As for the sons of Ser Simon Strong, please step forward.”

Whispers travel about the crowd of men and women, while you peer over at Ser Criston and catch him looking at Aemond as if seeking for him to control you and stop taking charge.

Alas Aemond is too busy with what you have planned to pay Ser Criston any mind.

“Good,” you say as the men you asked for walk to the center of the courtyard, whilst in the air the sound of large flapping wings is heard before Astraea makes an appearance as she perches herself on a wall that towers over the courtyard, setting terror within the men before you as her gaze pierces in them the same way yours does.

“W-we surrender!” A man seeming to be not much older than you stammers out as he falls to his knees. “Please, please Your Grace we are at your mercy!”

A wicked smirk tugs on your lips at the sound of his words, but before you can do or say anything, you look over at Aemond, and with your eyes point at the empty spot next to his uncle that’s right under Astraea’s neck, and away from her target of fire.

Aemond of course seems hesitant at first, but after you insist he falls back, letting you face the men with a dark and piercing gaze and a menacing smirk only meant for them.

“You’re at my mercy. That’s good,” you interject in a soft voice before you utter a single word in the softest most alluring way. “Dracarys.”

Astraea doesn’t hesitate, she doesn’t need to be told twice, she brings her head down right behind you and opens her mouth to blast out a blazing cloud of fire that captures you in its rage along with all the men you brought to the middle. All except one.

One man manages to slip away from Astraea’s wrath the moment she opens her mouth. Albeit he’s caught by Aemond before he can run any further and is forced to watch as his brothers cry out in pain, as their skin melts from their bones, and as you stand there unharmed and a cold look in your eyes. There's no menacing smirk, no smug one either. You watch them suffer from inside those flames with a piercing look; not amusement or pride, and not malice either. Pure anger flickers in your eyes the same way the flames flicker around you.

Why anger though?

Because you’re angry at the world. You want the men you set ablaze to suffer the same way you’re suffering over the loss of your brothers. You want them to suffer the same way you suffer as those lies you were told echo in your head. You want them to live in the same pain you do as you remember at every waking hour that the man you loved with all your heart left you behind.

You’re full of rage and you want them all to feel the heat of your anger.

——

*LATER*

“What do we do next?” You ask as your eyes wander yet another darkened hall. “With Vermax gone that still leaves us severely outnumbered.”

Ser Criston sighs deeply and for once his glare is not aimed at you, or anyone for that matter, he looks down at the table and thinks over the next course of action.

“We march South, join Daeron and the rest of the Hightower forces,” Ser Gwayne suggests and looks to Aemond in hopes he will agree. “Our support is the strongest in the South. With the Rivermen supporting the Blacks we are surrounded by the enemy now that they have taken the throne. Our best choice would be to march South, have three dragons joined together, and two large armies join strengths. We could have a chance to retake King's Landing with our forces together.”

You slowly drift your eyes toward Aemond, and as he glances at you, you let him know with a slight lift of your chin that you agree with whatever he has planned—He understands that and rolls his eye back to his uncle.

“No. That is a craven’s choice. That’s what they want us to do, run like they did. I will not run like a dog with its tail between its legs,” he sneers and presses his hands on the surface of the round table. “We will hold this castle and find a way to retake King’s Landing, even if it means having to lure each dragonrider one by one until all that Rhaenyra has left is one dragon.”

“There's no use for our armies here,” Ser Criston argues and approaches the table. “Prince Daemon is gone and the men with him are too. That’s why we came in the first place, to fight them, and now they’re gone. We will just be a sitting target ready to be plucked by the enemy around us.”

“Enemy?” Aemond bites back as he tilts his head. “The Lannister army is taking out our enemy. We will not run. We will hold this castle and make our plans here, do you understand?”

Ser Criston and Ser Gwayne share an unconvinced and doubtful glance before Ser Gwayne meets your gaze and seems to ask for help to talk sense to Aemond. Which is kind of funny because ever since you stood there in that courtyard with the ashes of your enemy at your feet and you perfectly unscathed, Ser Gwayne nor Ser Criston have been able to meet you in the eye.

They can’t look past their horror because that’s what it is, there’s no mistaking the horror you saw on their faces when the fire died down and you stood there unharmed. It’s like you turned to a plague in their eyes, a fearsome thing to behold, or even look at.

Not like you care. You don’t give a damn if they fear you, or if they think of you as some demon. Aemond looked at you with fascination as the fire died and you stood there unharmed. If it was possible his love for you only intensified, and if he wasn’t already in love, he would fall with you all over again at that moment in time as the fire bathed you and you stood there radiantly, like the very sun itself. You were not someone to fear. You were and are awe-striking, something to look at with wonder and fascination. Someone to worship. What you possess is a gift, not a curse. He sees that, he knows that and he could never fear you because of it. That’s all that matters to you.

“Great,” Aemond adds with a huff as neither Ser Criston nor Ser Gwayne protests his plan.

“What of Ser Simon’s youngest son?” Ser Gwayne brings up now that he has the chance. “What will be of him?”

You stand up straighter and stifle your mischievous smirk. “I will give him the chance to gain his freedom on the morrow in a…trial by combat. He managed to escape Astraea’s wrath, so I will give him a chance to gain his freedom. It’s only fair.”

Ser Gwayne does not seem to have any protests about your plan. It’s insignificant so it doesn’t bother him, but Ser Criston seems annoyed, disgusted almost, and he hopes Aemond has some protest, but your husband did not see what he did. Not even a bit, which only leaves the knight more annoyed.

Does he say anything though? No, he stays quiet and doesn’t really speak up about any other matter that’s discussed. A silence falls over the hall as they all swallow any protests that go against Aemond’s plan, which makes for a short meeting. Which is great for you, it feels like you’ve been on your feet for days without rest. The twins are only getting bigger by the day and are only draining more of your energy. You want to sleep until the next day, and maybe eat something sweet?

Cake! That sounds good. Maybe you’ll have one of the cooks make you one—then again what if they try to poison you?

If only you had the faintest idea of how to make a cake of your own. Alas, you don’t, and you don’t want to ask anyone to make one either. You’ll have to live with the temptation.

Unless…

“Ser Jason—”

There it is again. That whispering accompanying the wind.

It’s still unintelligible, but you hear it again. Only this time it doesn’t go away with the wind, you keep hearing it. It's loud and then it goes quiet as it lures you somewhere you shouldn’t go, somewhere you should be cautious about, after all, you just got here, Daemon held this castle previously, and someone loyal to him could harm you. Yet no matter how many times you try to tell yourself to stop, you can’t ignore the soft whispering. It’s as if the wind is pulling you with it throughout the wet grounds, and you’re too entranced to stop.

“What is it, princess?” Ser Jason interjects.

You shake your head. “Never mind,” you brush him off and walk faster, turning corners, and passing by servants who stop to let you pass. You walk over puddles, and forget corridors you take to get to the Godswood?

You’re in the Godswood, in front of a large Heart tree with vibrant red leaves, the finest and whitest wood, and long roots that spread all over the ground. You stand there under its towering ancient presence and realize at that instant that the whispering is calling you to its presence. It’s telling you to go so you go with no protest and no fear. You walk to it with fascination as that whispering gets louder but not clearer, just louder as you get closer and closer.

Once you stand before the weeping face an urge takes over you to touch the sap that falls from it. It’s telling every muscle in your body to touch it and finally cipher what the whispering is saying, so you start to stretch your hand out. Yet as your fingers hover over the red sap, the sound of Ser Jason’s threatening voice stops you.

“There is far enough.”

The whispering goes quiet and you drop your arm back to your side right away before you turn and face, her. It’s that woman from the courtyard, the one that you swear you know, but can’t pinpoint from where. A dream perhaps?

Regardless, she’s standing there behind Ser Jason’s sword looking directly at you with her big eyes.

“Ser,” you interject softly and walk down toward them. “It’s alright.”

Ser Jason glances over at the entrance to make sure your husband isn’t lurking and ready to get him in trouble before he slowly does as he’s told, leaving the woman with access to you now.

“You,” you direct at her with a hint of wonder.

“Alys,” she says and side-eyes your sworn protector with the most rudest side-eye you’ve ever seen and then slowly drags her feet toward you. “Rivers.”

You take in her name with a gentle nod and she stops walking while you step back on the ground to be on the same level, but still several feet away.

“You,” she redirects, making the corner of your lips twitch up, but not extend to that smile just yet. Not even when she says your name.

“Some of those boys you and the Prince put to the sword were good. Boys with no name who were just trying to live,” she says boldly, making you raise your chin and show no falter in your decision. You show no regret and no guilt. Pride sparks in your eyes and makes the corner of your lips tug to a malicious smirk.

“Boys turn to vengeful men,” you counter simply. “Men have already tried to kill me and my children. I won’t let them get close again.”

She doesn’t say anything in return, she instead walks closer but stops soon thereafter and looks you up and down, letting you do the same in the silence that comes down over you.

You still try to figure out where you might know her from, but you can’t come up with an answer, just more curiosity.

“I’ve been waiting for you for a while now,” she breaks the silence, making you stiffen and causing your lips to part as your eyes slowly widen—“It’s about time our paths crossed, don’t you think?”

The corner of her lips lift slightly, but you only look at her shocked as your mind unravels what she might be.

“Are you��”

“A healer,” she interrupts you. “Yes.”

You shake your head as that shock turns back to fascination. “A witch?”

She scoffs and brings her hands together as she slowly makes her way closer to you, causing you to try and step back out of caution. However, you don’t actually end up moving. You think you do but you can’t bring yourself to really move.

“Well, I dabble in some medicinal things and people call them potions. The wind speaks to me, murky waters and fire paint me a picture, but I wouldn’t call myself that.”

You let out a breathless laugh, and then as she finally stops only a few inches away do you study her; her defined jaw, her big green eyes that have a way of luring you in, and her long and beautiful black hair that flows down her back.

“I am merely Alys. That’s all. That's all I’ll be in this long game.”

Your eyebrows twitch together in confusion, but you don’t question her. You don’t dare to yet.

“And you,” she continues and piques your curiosity. “A spark that triggers a greater fire.”

Your shoulders fall and a flood of questions come through your mind, drowning out any suspicions you held for her.

“What do you mean?” Is the first question that escapes you, making her lips lift up to a smug smile.

“All in due time, Princess, we still have a lot of time together,” she deflects and steps aside to point at the door that leads back inside the castle. “Why don’t I check on your twins first, hm?”

You part your lips and finally have the right mind to hesitate. “Maybe a maester can help me.”

She scoffs. “There’s no maester here. He left. Don’t worry, you can trust me.”

You draw in a deep breath and continue to hesitate for a moment longer until you remember that there’s no maester in your grand arsenal of men, so there’s no other choice but to trust her.

“Very well,” you give in with a deep breath and walk with her, but end up stopping when Ser Jason doesn’t follow closely behind. He stays in the middle of the courtyard and looks around panicked until you call for his attention.

“Ser Jason?”

His head snaps toward you and he looks at you horrified.

“Are you alright, Ser? Too brisk for you?”

Alys snickers and you offer the man a teasing smile, but he just heaves until he shakes his head and clears his throat before he finally catches up. You then continue your path inside side by side with Alys until you reach some messy hall with a cozy fire lit inside, and a round table full of clutter.

It's hard to be awed by the mess.

“Sit,” she orders and points to a large chair before she goes and tries to close the door. However, Ser Jason puts his foot in the way to stop her.

“No,” he deadpans.

“No men, just us. I have to check on her privately. Unless you want to be a part of it?” She asks and then seems to whisper something you don’t catch, but makes Ser Jason’s eyes flutter nervously before he slowly slides his foot back, making her scoff.

“None of your father’s backbone. He would’ve fought to stay here,” she has no shame in saying. And even if you should be in disbelief, you’re awed by her jab.

Poor Ser Jason can’t say the same, he’s horrified and flabbergasted all at the same time, and it’s her comment that lets her shut the door in his face and then face you with a smile.

You had the thought of asking her how she knew about Ser Jason’s big secret, but how do witches know anything?

Who knows. You leave it as just an impressive feat.

“How far along are you?” She asks as she makes her way to the round table.

You draw in a deep breath and look at the floor for an answer, but you can’t come up with it right away. There’s been death after death, and devastating news after devastating news that you lost track.

“A month maybe? Almost two? I have lost track. I just know that I am not showing yet.” You say.

Alys hums as she puts a kettle over the fire. “Has there been bleeding?” She then asks as she turns back to her table. “Anything of note?”

You shake your head. “No, I’m just more tired now. Hungry. The aches have slowly gone away.”

She nods in comprehension and you interlace your hands together and let your eyes explore the dimly lit room. Alys walks over to you, but doesn’t garner your attention until she’s standing over you.

“You ought to be more cautious,” she almost scolds you. It sounds like it anyway. “Locked in a room with me? After having just met me.”

You slowly stand up as you hold her gaze and without saying anything you flip back the silver chains that fall over your face, as if leaving the most valuable part of you vulnerable after feeling the need to protect it after Jacaerys death.

“There’s nothing you can do that can hurt me,” you mutter full of gloom. “Whatever was left of my heart died with my brother.”

Alys looks deep into your eyes and you catch the slight shake of her head before she whispers. “Is that why you leave yourself vulnerable to me? Armor can only protect so much.”

You draw out a deep breath and finally let go of her gaze. “Let’s just say it feels as if I already know you. Is it you? Some trick?”

She rolls her eyes. “No,” she retorts. “No trick, our part of our story is at last getting told. That’s all.”

You scoff and nod softly. “Okay. You’re strange, you know that?”

She smiles. “So I have been told. Sit and put your legs up on this,” she says and drags a tall stool in front of the chair, letting you do as she asked to let her check on you and the twins.

“You ought to be careful with whom you share your fire with,” she finally goes back to what she was trying to get at. “You don’t know me. You don’t even know half of this world. There are cold people who would do anything to snuff out a warm and blazing fire like yours. You can’t let them, you’re a dragon with fire-made flesh, be a dragon,” she gets across harshly as she’s examining you, which kind of fails to get her point across, but it still finds a way to travel in your ears and make you quiet. Like a mother would, or an older sister, or some passionate and dedicated teacher.

And like a scolded child you stay quiet until she’s done.

“Strong,” she shares, easing your worry. “And growing as they should be.”

You let out a relieved sigh and slide your legs back to let your gown fall back over your legs. “There was one smaller than the other, is that still the same?” You have to ask, making her hold your gaze in a gentle manner as she nods.

“Keep trying to stay strong and your little dragons will do the same, hm?”

You nod in comprehension and watch her walk to a bowl of water to wash her hands before she pulls the kettle out of the fire to now prepare some tea or something you can’t figure out yet.

“It’s nice talking to another woman,” you share with no shame and with no kind of hesitation to her warnings. “My handmaiden Vanessa stayed behind, and so did Helaena. It’s just me and a bunch of men. Only Aemond doesn’t let me converse with any, so it’s mostly him, and Ser Gwayne. So it’s nice talking to you.”

Alys stops mashing some kind of herbs and blinks repeatedly as if caught in disbelief over your words before she slowly lifts her gaze and looks at you with this different gleam in her eyes. It’s much softer, but still bright that it makes it look like she’s smiling with her eyes before an actual smile paints on her features.

“Daemon was much colder and distant, you—”

“Ew,” you cut her off with disgust. “Never ever compare me to him. That’s…no.”

She giggles and besides your disgust, you laugh quietly along with her. You share a laugh until the door is ripped open and Aemond stomps inside with a glare already set on Alys.

“If you’re done let’s go,” he says through gritted teeth as he snaps his gaze to you.

“It’s quite alright,” she tries to assure him as she mixes the hot water and herbs she dumps in a cup. “I don’t bite.”

Aemond drags his gaze back to her and passes her a glare without returning any word. He just glares at her before he looks back at you and presses his insistence to leave.

“I’m going,” you whisper sharply as you make your way to him, whilst Alys makes her way to you—“she was just checking on me and your twins.” You snap and he presses his glare at you, making you roll your eyes in return.

When you reach Aemond’s side, Alys reaches you, so he grabs your wrist and steps back, but you stay grounded.

“Drink this, it’s red raspberry leaf tea. For you and your babes,” she says and offers you the cup which you take without question.

“Thank you, Alys,” you tell her with a gentle smile as you slide your arm up to grab Aemond’s hand.

“And if you,” she directs at him. “Find yourself having…sleepless nights, I can make you something to aid in that. You need only ask.”

Aemond’s gaze hardens as he hums before he turns around swiftly, making his hair turn dramatically. Before you leave Alys behind you offer her one last smile, and then catch up to Aemond’s side so he’s not dragging you with him.

“I went to look for you at our chambers and you were not there,” he says in annoyance, but you brush him off.

“She was merely checking on me and the twins. That’s all.”

Aemond stops walking, and you stop with him. Before he can face you he mutters. “Then talk to a maester or a midwife. Not some…whatever she is.”

“Healer,” you avoid saying witch so he doesn’t overreact. “And if you must know the twins are fine. Strong, she says.”

Aemond turns slowly with a change in his expression; going from upset and overly concerned to relieved and soft.

“Are they?” He probes as he reaches over and gently caresses your belly.

“Mhm-hmm,” you reassure him with a hum. “Getting bigger.”

The corner of his lips twitch up very faintly and you just watch him with a blissful smile before you glance down at him pressing his hand against your belly.

“<That's good,>” he whispers in High Valyrian.

You press your hand over his and smile wider, which is something he catches now and studies for a lingering moment before he then snatches the cup in your hand and throws it back.

“Aemond!”

“You’re not drinking that,” he deadpans and continues walking.

It’s not like you can collect the tea off the ground so you follow at his side. “You’re being dramatic,” you mumble.

“No. You don’t know her,” he argues. “It could be poison. I’m just protecting you and the twins.”

He is right to be wary, so you don’t argue, but to throw out the tea like that?!

Regardless, with nothing to be done over the spilled tea when you make it to your quarters, you once again hesitate and stiffen at the sight of your new dark chambers with a leaking roof.

At least there’s a hot bath ready now.

“Bathe with me, my love,” you tell Aemond over your shoulder, and at that moment catch him still in the hall, seeming to be staring at something in particular that has him stiff, his nose flared, and his chest rising and falling quickly.

“Aemond?” You call out and walk back out, catching a simple dark empty corridor. “What is it?” You query and grab his hand to tug it and gain his attention. “Aemond?”

Said man’s lips curl as if he’s getting upset at the emptiness, so you step in front of him and find his lost gaze.

“What is it?” You ask with concern and finally, his attention finds you after being somewhere far away. “Are you okay?”

His gaze flickers behind you for a second before he looks back at you and nods. You question him speechlessly as you’re hesitant to believe him, but he presses a kiss on your forehead and finally heads inside.

“Come on,” he whispers, but before you follow him back inside you steal a glance at the end of the corridor first. When you find it empty once again you just head back inside your chambers.

——

*THE NEXT DAY*

“The prisoner as you requested,” a man says as he pushes the Strong boy in front of Aemond and you, letting Aemond and you share the same mischievous look before he steps forward and simply studies the boy.

After a minute of silence, he steps before him, towering over his kneeled figure and looking at him with a pointed glare. “I will say I am…surprised you managed to avoid getting burnt,” he breaks the silence in his menacing low voice. “It is for that sole reason that the Princess Regent has granted you a chance to live.”

The boy blinks repeatedly in disbelief and shifts on his knees but doesn’t dare to look up at the lurking menace before him.

“A simple trial by combat,” Aemond reveals, making a crowd of men begin to gather in the tall and long great hall. “I’m sure you are aware how that works or do you need someone to explain it to you?”

The boy shakes his head. “No, I know.”

Aemond shifts his feet around and looks at the ground before he slowly scales his gaze up your figure before meeting your gaze with a sense of hesitation in his eye. All because he isn’t a big fan of your plan. He only agreed to it after a lot of persuading.

“Albeit,” you interject and walk forward, catching the young man’s attention, and making Aemond watch you walk forward until you reach his side—“there’s a change in the rules. You cannot pick your champion, you will fight, but you can pick your opponent between fighters we have chosen for today.”

The young man’s eyes widen before he drops his gaze to the ground and dares to argue. “But…”

“You can always choose death,” Aemond cuts him off, and the young man closes his mouth and stays quiet, responding to Aemond’s comment at that moment.

“If you win you get to be free, and if they win well…” you trail off since there’s no need to finish the rest, he knows what will happen. “Here are your choices,” you gain his attention once again.

“Ser Gwayne Hightower,” you announce and point to the knight. “Ser Criston Cole. Prince Aemond Targaryen,” you say and look at your husband who is hoping he is the one picked for today's trial. “Or…me.” You smirk, and the young man of course doesn’t reflect any sort of amusement. He looks rather baffled and slightly horrified that you, a woman, would offer to be his opponent.

“Don't worry you will get to wear armor,” you try to reassure him, but that’s not what he’s worried about.

“But the Prince is the Prince, I cannot harm him,” he argues as he shakes his head in denial, making you grow annoyed rather quickly.

“Choose,” you urge him impatiently.

The young man looks between Aemond, you, and the two knights behind you. He debates for a long moment, bringing tension to the hall until finally a shaky finger points at you.

“Good,” you whisper with a smug smile that slowly spreads on your lips. “Why don’t you help him don some armor,” you direct at the guards and start to turn to Aemond.

“No,” the young man cuts in, pulling your eyes back to him—“I do not require it. I am good as I am.”

And there it is, overconfidence because you’re a woman. You admire it.

“Are you sure?” You make sure to ask, but he doesn’t think it over, he nods, making you scoff softly before you turn to your husband whilst the young man is pulled off his knees to be prepared for the duel.

“I could take your place,” Aemond tries to protest. “I know you can fight, but you do not have to.”

You grab his arm and shake your head. “No I do not have to, but I want to. I can. And he is already doubting me. I will use that and win.”

Aemond swallows thickly and still looks unconvinced.

“I will be okay,” you assure him softly as you slide your hand down his arm to grab his hand. “You have to trust that I can win. Alright?”

Aemond draws in a deep breath and steals a glance at the young man getting a sword handed to him.

“I don’t know, it takes one swing,” Aemond argues and returns his gaze to you to plead with his eye as well. “And you are with child. No, you cannot.”

“I will,” you press and grab his other arm to lean in closer. “I have fought men much more threatening than him and won, and I have learned from good men like you.”

Aemond’s gaze falls and he shakes his head. “You more so stalked our training.”

You chuckle softly and his lips twitch but he can’t find amusement in your laugh, he only finds more reasons to stop you.

“Aemond,” you insist softly. “I will be fine. I will win. I won’t die today.”

Aemond’s gaze slowly drifts past you and fixates on something. You slowly follow his line of gaze and see nothing but a group of men waiting eagerly for the duel, so you look back at him and cup his cheek

“I will be fine,” you say one more time to reassure him and then lean in to press a kiss on his cheek.

“At least use Blackfyre then,” he quips as he has no other choice but to accept your decision. “If he’s a great fighter he will win regardless of what sword you use.”

He pulls the sword out of its sheath, and you gladly take the massive Valyrian steel sword.

“<Be careful>,” he finally says in High Valyrian, making you nod in comprehension before you let him press a kiss on your cheek.

Before he pulls back he keeps his face close to yours, letting his breath unfurl over your cheek, and his lips grazing on your flesh. You stay in his presence and take in his gentle gesture before you tilt your head and slowly press a kiss on his thin lips before you pull away and walk to the middle of the circle the audience of men has created in anticipation and curiosity.

The young man slowly follows suit and rather than looking nervous, he looks rather determined and quite vengeful. Rightfully so, but let’s see if all those emotions will help win.

He does start right away by stalking around you, which gives him an edge, but you're quick to fix your stance while you follow his figure with your eyes until he's finally face to face with you again, glare narrowed and full of fury. He parts lips and you wait for a word to slip, something to express the grief and the anger, but instead, he lets out a deep guttural scream before he sprints at you and throws a harsh swing that you avert by stepping back with your hand relaxed.

The man sees that you swerved, so he reacts with a growl before he follows with another swing that you once again avert by turning away swiftly.

This only infuriates the young man more so he grabs his sword with both hands and brings his hands back to swing down at your head. You, albeit, quickly swing Blackfyre up and let your swords sing in the tense silence that fills the hall.

“That’s right,” you whisper as you hold his gaze overfilled with anger, and those two simple words only trigger him further, causing him to shove you back with all his strength to the point you stumble but react with a grin.

The young man lunges at you out of anger, but you’re quick, you meet his action and use all of your strength to push away his sword. He then quickly throws his arm back up, but you once again meet his swing. This time though you see that he’s focused on your upper body so you use your leg to kick him back.

The young man stumbles back and you take advantage of the rush passing through your system and stomp toward him. He quickly finds balance and swings hard at your neck with an angry bark leaving his lips, but you duck, and as you’re swinging down past his blade, you swiftly twirl the sword around in your hand to pass it to your non-dominant hand over your back. When you’re standing to your given height you reach your dominant hand back to rip your cloak off and hurl it at his face the same way you saw Ser Jason do to his opponent when you watched him fight for the first time. And like when you studied his fight you actually manage to catch the man off guard and block his view. Just the way you wanted.

Thus just as the man grabs the cloak on his face and begins to pull it off, you swing your sword and manage to slice his head clean off his neck, ending the fight, and proving you the winner.

Now that nail-biting tension slowly slips away, the nervousness on the men’s faces gathered around fall and a mix of disbelief and pride begins to seep through. And as much as you rejoice in the people’s reactions, and find an immense pride in proving men wrong by winning, you turn to look at Aemond first and foremost. You meet his gaze and get lost in his eye, causing everyone and everything around you to slip away and only leave you and him in the hall full of people.

There you are in your own little world, relishing in your achievement, proving you are strong and capable, someone worth fearing just like him, and Aemond can’t offer you anything else but a soft prideful smile as his eyes offer the same emotion, but also an intense awe. And no matter how much you like the attention of other people, the praise, and demonstrating that you are a fearsome thing to behold, all that matters at that moment is Aemond’s reaction. Everything else is meaningless compared to the pride and praise he offers you with his smile and that look in his eye. That’s all you need, all you could ever want.

“Let’s give a cheer to the Princess Regent!” Ser Gwayne breaks you away from your moment with Aemond before you can run over to him. “Princess!”

“Princess!”

“Princess!”

“Princess!” The cheers fill the room, ridding the hall of all that tension that once held a grip on everyone. After seeing you come out of that dragon fire unscathed they thought of you as some demon from the seven hells or some damn curse, but now that’s all quick to vanish after you won your duel. Now every man that is fighting for the Greens is filled with admiration and respect for you.

All except Ser Criston, of course. You find him through the crowd gathering around you. He carries a look of disgust as he looks at you in the center of attention after having won a hand-to-hand duel. He hears all the praise in their cheers and sees the way they all crowd around you to be close to you, but he cannot see what they do. You’re like the eye of the storm in a sea, captivating perhaps, calm looking, but you’re completely dangerous and carry the potential to destroy everything in your path just like your mother.

You see straight through that, you note his disgust and don’t get shamed by it. You’re not belittled, you raise your nose in the air and shoot him a malicious smirk before you flash him a grin and turn away to give your attention to the men around you. You relish the praise and the celebration all meant for you.

For a while at least until you’ve had enough and slip away while they’re all busy talking amongst each other, and go in search of Aemond.

However, you find it difficult to find him when he’s not where you last saw him. He’s gone so you have a choice to wait for him to return because you’re sure he will since you’re out here, or you can go find him.

It’s a rather easy decision, you choose the latter as you have a bubbling excitement to talk to Aemond about the way you fought.

Yet when you leave the great hall and find yourself within the dimly lit corridors, you catch Ser Criston talking to Aemond just above a rather pressing whisper. You almost just reveal your presence by joining the pair, but you then catch your name and instead hide behind a wall with Ser Jason listening beside you.

“…too extreme. She cannot be allowed to be doing such barbaric acts. Not in front of the army of men, not in front of servants with slippery tongues.” He says in regards to your duel, and you wait with your breath held for Aemond’s response, hoping he will counter this rather stupid argument that comes from what? Misogyny? Ser Criston has never cared enough to worry about your well-being.

“Why would I do that?” Aemond snaps back, making a slow relieved breath escape past your nose—“She’s a fighter. A warrior with a great capability, far greater than most men here. She’s also a dragonrider, a talented one at that. Why should I care what people think or say about her in regard to her talents? She’s a Targaryen.”

The corner of your lips slowly pulls up whilst you hear feet shuffle against the stone ground.

“She may be all things you say and more, sure, but she is Rhaenyra’s daughter, Aemond. Don’t you see?” Ser Criston argues sharply and with a loss of patience in his tone. “What would the people think when they hear the whispers about her winning battles and duels?”

“I do not care!” Aemond loses his own patience, making butterflies flutter in your stomach at the sound of how desperately he’s defending you against a man who is his mentor, and like a father.

“She is my wife before she is Rhaenyra’s daughter! She is mine!”

“Then think about your unborn children!” Ser Criston cuts Aemond off in that heat of the moment with a sharper tone in his voice that pierces right through Aemond’s quick-rising rage—“It takes one lunge Aemond, one strong hit against her belly and you lose it all. Your legacy is threatened. Everything you’re fighting for will falter if you lose them over something you can prevent by keeping her away from these duels and battle plans.”

There’s a moment of silence that grows tense for you as you await Aemond’s response like waiting for bad or good news. Then again that is what it is to you, no matter how hard you may fight, Aemond still holds a lot of power over you. You see it, you recognize it, and you slightly fear it only because of the insecurities you hold for being pushed aside and locked away like some exotic bird only needed to be gawked at.

“But that’s it, Ser Criston,” Aemond responds clearly and calmly. Which is far more frightening than if he spoke with anger clinging onto his voice. “If it’s a choice between them and her. I chose her. Legacy be damned. We can always make more.” He finishes with a soft huff before you hear his heels turn against the stone and then click against the hard surface louder and louder as he approaches where you hide, making you bold and step out of the shadows.

When you’re under the revealing fire casting down from the walls, Aemond comes to an immediate halt and his eyes widen as his heart seems to fall to his stomach.

“Ser Criston,” you greet dryly at the man at the end of the corridor, making him avert his gaze and bow his head.

You pierce your glare into him until he escapes down the other corridor, letting you then face Aemond with a softer gaze that brings a sweet smile to your face.

“You heard?” He asks.

You nod without hesitation or shame. “I did. You are arguing in a corridor.”

He holds your gaze and then hums before he starts to walk, making you walk with him at the same pace.

“Thank you, I appreciate you supporting my decisions to be involved,” you say sweetly and reach for his hand, realizing at that moment how stiff he is, but not questioning it, just thinking it’s this castle and its eeriness.

“By the way I’m going to scout on Astraea, make sure there’s nothing lurking in the forest,” you bring up hopefully.

“Alright,” he gives in, making you beam at him before you lean in and press a kiss on his cheek.

“I won’t be long.” You assure him. “I will make sure to not engage in anything that might give me away this time. Swear.”

Aemond scoffs softly in amusement and strokes your knuckles with his thumb before the cold air hits his hand when you pull away and hurry down the hall to go to your dragon. Yet as fast as you are he catches up to you to watch you leave and make sure that what? You don’t slip off the rope ladders hanging on Astraea’s side?

Whatever the reason he follows you until he reaches an arch that leads to Astraea resting on the side of a hill. He stays leaning against it as you mount your dragon and ascend to the grey skies. It’s only once the sight of you is lost amongst the clouds that he turns away.

Nevertheless, when he faces the courtyard in front of the weirwood tree he comes to an immediate halt when he sees him again. A ghost haunting him since the moment he stepped foot in this haunting castle. It’s Lucerys Velaryon once again, standing there with a shadow cast behind him, looking at him with a pointed gaze, and a disappointed frown.

Like the other times before he doesn’t say a word, he just stands there watching him, as if threatening him, overlooking every action he takes. Especially when it comes to you. Like many times before he feels the need to react, to tell him to go away, but before he can part his lips he comes to his senses and realizes he’s not real. He's just some illusion. So with that thought in mind, he intends to walk away, but then the unexpected happens, Lucerys eyes drift up and he watches something in the sky.

Aemond doesn’t want to pay him any mind, but as if he has no control he slowly looks up and sees you returning.

You must’ve forgotten something or seen something.

Thus he turns back around to return to the arch and wait for you to land, but the moment he faces that arch Lucerys is standing under it, watching him again quietly until suddenly he parts his lips and it’s as if he’s really there. “You’re going to kill her.”

Aemond turns away swiftly but there Lucerys is again!

“Just like you killed me.”

“It was an accident!” Aemond barks out and storms toward Lucerys until he’s before him. “It was an accident,” he says quieter but through gritted teeth as his irritation heightens.

“Was it an accident when you slashed her cheek?”

“Yes.” He answers without hesitation or deceit because it was a stupid accident.

“How about when you seeked the company of that whore?” Lucerys quickly counters, making Aemond grow quiet this time and letting Lucerys continue. “It's inevitable, that’s who you are. What you are. You will be her death.”

Aemond shakes his head as his eye quickly wells with tears. “No,” his voice cracks. “You’re wrong. She means much more to me than you ever did. I ride the biggest dragon! I am a skilled swordsman! She will not die by my watch! She will not die. No. She’s mine.”

Lucerys chuckles dryly, causing Aemond to look him up and down with a curled lip.

“Keep telling yourself she won’t die if that’s what helps you sleep—”

“I will not send her away!” Aemond bellows back before Lucerys can finish. “Her mother lied to her and pushed her away! Her grandfather prefers bastards over his own kin! There’s no place for her to go! She’s safe here with me because I will not harm her. You’re wrong! You’re dead!”

Lucerys nods. “I am, but you’re wrong, her mother loves her, you know that. Just like you know she’ll welcome my sister back with open arms. That’s the difference between you and her.”

Aemond shakes his head. “Her place is here with me,” he whispers with a quiver in his voice.

Once again Lucerys nods as if assuring Aemond’s claim before he whispers this time. “Okay.”

Aemond blinks repeatedly to blink away the tears, but at that moment he hears it, a screech ripping through the air. He snaps his head up and right away he is welcomed with the horrifying sight of an arrow pierced through Astraea’s eye, killing her instantly, and setting her plummeting to the lake behind the Godswood.

Aemond gasps your name and before he could even think he sets off toward the lake, forgetting the ghost haunting him, and only thinking about you, hoping—no, praying that you are okay.

He can’t fathom Lucerys being right, he can’t let himself imagine your death. It terrifies him to his very core, so as he runs and runs as fast as his long legs can carry him, he builds up the illusion that you can survive that fall, and that you will just hit that water and walk to shore with a beating heart, and just simply shaken up.

He doesn’t think of the realistic outcome. He can’t. He can’t. He can’t! Not even when he makes it to the Gods Eye and sees your body washing up ashore. He just tricks himself into thinking you’re passed out, he ignores the blood running out of your mouth and your nose. He ignores how lifeless your body looks when he drags you out of the water and cradles you there on the sandy ground.

“You’re okay. You’re okay,” he whispers as he wipes the blood and the water off your face.

You won’t open your eyes, but that will take time, he tells himself, so he waits. He keeps you in his arms and keeps wiping off the blood that keeps running out of you. Even if his hands get covered in the thick crimson liquid he keeps wiping it off your face, hoping that with his gentle touches, you’ll wake.

But you don’t. Your eyes stay closed, your chest keeps still, and the heart in your chest that he keeps feeling with his palm remains lifeless.

“Wake up,” he whispers and leans in to press his forehead against yours. “Come on. I have you, you’re okay now…” he trails off and lowers his gaze to wait for a breath to escape you, but your lips remain closed, and your nostrils unmoving.

“It’s not funny,” he hisses. “Wake up!”

He waits desperately. Pathetically so, but you don't laugh, or break into a smile. Your face is stiff, slowly proving his worst fear. “Please don’t do this to me, my love. Please, please.”

Tears run down his cheeks before he has a chance to process that they were building up, while his chest is hit with the worst pain he’s ever felt in his life. And the only way he can expel a fraction of that suffering that torments him so is by letting a wail rip out from the depths chest; one so broken and raw that his throat and chest hurt altogether. It’s so unlike him to let out such an emotion so loudly but there’s no other way to express what he feels inside and what makes it hard to breathe with how choked up he gets.

And yet he tries to keep pleading, he calls out your name over and over again with every word trembling and accompanied by a tear.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers against your lips. “I’m sorry. Please, I can’t…I can’t keep roaming this world without you. It won’t make sense. Please.”

“I told you,” he hears Lucerys whisper, hitting him with a burning fury. Yet when he snaps his head back Lucerys is not there. It’s that strange woman, Alys, looking at him with that same frown Lucerys carried, but a different look in her eyes than Lucerys’. She looks at him without fear, no respect, just a shameless icy look.

“You have to help her,” he ignores her piercing glare and glances back at you to reposition you in his arms so he can get up, but when he looks back at his arms where he once held you, you’re gone and the blood that once covered his hands is also gone. He then looks over at the lake in search of Astraea, but nothing is in the water. You’re not even in the sky…

It was all…fake…

It was all a cruel trick, but one that helps him realize what he must do in regards to you, so you don’t suffer the fate he just saw.

.

.

.

.

.

A/N- Conversations with Alys reminds me of how young mc really is.

Tagged- @namelesslosers @stargaryenx @chainsawsangel @lauftivy @winxschester @cloudroomblog @llarue @padsdarlg @sofietargaryen @gracielikegrapes @dreaming-of-the-reality @itzelpeyton @patdsinner33 @mrsdominickstark @elaena-aerrin @todoroki-slut @snh96 @urmomsgirlfriend1 @nifujiswhore @sweethoneyblossom1 @kaetastic @lightdragonrayne @squidscottjeans @oh-you-mean-me @wallacewillow0773638 @icefrye19 @thescottpack @fiction-fanfic-reader @crazymusicgirl104 @r-3dlips @strangersunghoon @just-pure-trash @ethereal-athalia @missyviolet123 @callsignwidow @xunquish-blog @tabathastan @weepingfashionwritingplaid @answer-the-sirens

[nelsaqift]

Would you talk about the “magic-ing someone out of existence” thing from that one bird in the storm comic. Actually, Tango vastness backstory in general? Anything you’d see fit to answer if you want. The vibes I’m getting of him and the open sky and storms and the lightning strike? Really fun!

tango’s connection to the vast is quite vague, to be fair, and mostly has to do with the “fear of insignificance in the vastness of the universe” aspect of it. he’s been marked by it via a lightning strike (to say it was inspired by mike crew would be an understatement) as a young adult struggling to define himself. neither him nor jimmy are really avatars in the commonly agreed upon sense, though if you’re familiar with TMA you most likely know how much discourse there is in the fandom when it comes to clearly defining what even makes an avatar, so do with that what you will. all i can add is that tango doesn’t know of the entities, or what the strange feelings he experiences when staring out at open fields mean

he doesn’t think much of what was, unbeknownst to him, getting marked by a fear entity beyond human comprehension. he treats it like a funny story/great conversation starter, and he found jimmy’s absolute terror upon learning that information particularly amusing. and a little sweet

as for the comic. not being an avatar doesn’t necessarily mean no “powers”, as it were, just that the person hasn’t sacrificed their humanity to fully align with whichever entity. what tango’s referring to is an accidental use of such “power” - during an argument, he unknowingly (and not fully of his own accord) sends a person to what i can only, very eloquently call the “endless sky dimension”. he doesn’t know what happened, what he did to this person, his brain sort of refuses to accept that any of what he just saw was real. all he knows is that there used to be a person in front of him, there isn’t anymore, and that it’s somehow his fault. him not being aware of the existence of the dread powers is why he describes what he can only assume was someone’s death the way that he does. plus he thinks that telling the story accurately wouldn’t help his case at all, considering jimmy probably already thinks he’s a lunatic (spoiler alert he doesn’t) 

[arclundarchivist]

SPOILERS C3E91

-

TURN BACK

-

THIS IS NOT A PLACE OF COMFORT!

-

Goodnight, Smiley Day

He blinks, and he…. feels the touch of light on his skin.

The warmth of the air around him, he breathes in and he tastes all he has ever wished, oranges and mint and chocolate and water.

Fresh Cut Grass pushes himself to stand and looks around. An idyllic field rolls into the distance, all about him, except for where he currently stands.

A crossroads.

And from it, the paths extend far beyond the horizon, rising into beautiful tresses of the goddess he has only ever seen at a distance.

The Changebringer.

She smiles, and suddenly, she and he are eye to eye, her gentle hand reaching up to caress his cheek.

"I… is this how it always goes?" they ask.

She laughs, gentle yet sad, her eyes surprisingly downcast.

"No… no, it isn't," she states, looking to the sky, and he follows her gaze.

Ruidus bleeds in the sky, scarlet light snapping and biting at the pristine blue, and he can hear… a scream on the wind.

"We live in unfortunate and unusual times." she breathes.

"Yeah… yeah." he agrees, looking up at her after a moment.

"Did I make the right choice?" he asks, clutching for the coin but instead finding her hand.

She gives it a comforting squeeze.

"What do you think?" she asks.

"I…" he pauses.

"Yes." he finally states, and she smiles.

"I don't know what kind of path I'd set them on, but… I'm glad they'll get to keep walking on." he states, "Even if I'm… not there with them."

"Who says you won't be?" the Changebringer asks, gesturing towards the roads winding away from them.

And suddenly he can see his friends.

Ashton, carving a path, grief, and rage shattering stone as his coin, a beacon, clutched tightly in their fist.

Imogen kissing her hand as she lays it on his body, that same hand then tightly grasping her mother's, a road reforged between them, "Thank you, Letters."

Orym, standing firm, bronze armor marked by three blades of grass shimmering defiantly against an oncoming storm, "Together, Grass."

Chetney carving a toy in his likeness to hand to a frightened child, "For a smiley day."

Fearne snatches the coin from Ashton, kissing it and slipping it back, "So we're both with them for tomorrow."

Laudna stands at a crossroads beneath a tree, half livened, half wizened, reaching for the glow even though it burns her hand. There is resolve in her eyes.

Dorian, amidst unfamiliar faces, staring up at the red moon.

"We're fighting for a shiny day."

A confused dwarf looks up at him, "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Something a friend always wanted. A good day." Dorian remarks, tapping the sending stone in his palm.

"I love you, Faithful Caregiver." A soft voice murmurs.

They freeze, turning to see FRIDA standing and looking at him, gently smiling, "I'll see you soon."

"No, you… you take your time," FCG mutters, and to his surprise, tears track down his face.

The Changebringer reaches out and wipes them away before pulling him into a tight embrace.

Huh… so this was a hug.

"Do… do folks always feel most alive at the end?"

"Not always. The end doesn't give the journey meaning; it's the joys you find along the way." The Changebringer returns, squeezing him tighter.

He sees Milo, Dancer, Joe, Deanna and Prism, all trying to make sense of the world and the paths set before them.

"You did good." a gruff voice remarks, the whisper of Eshteross.

"But the journey's just begun." a more jovial voice states, Bertrand.

And there they stand, down the road.

"What… what happens now?" FCG asks, looking to the Changebringer.

"Now, we do what we can from this side." she states, "And see this all to the end of the road."

"Alright… alright." he remarks, smiling as she squeezes his hand once more, "I'm ready."

And he heads on down the road.

Goodbye, Fresh Cut Grass. Your love, your faith, your hope, let it ever be a beacon for those who knew you best.

[spookyspecterino]

Grunt Work

Sam Coe x GN! Reader

GN! Reader. No pronouns, no use of Y/N, or reader descriptions used. Reader is referred to as Captain sometimes, like in the game.

Canon typical violence: blood, injury, mentions of death, guns, language, romance, kissing. All PG-13.

Spoilers for the “Grunt Work” Quest

It’s the very first UC Vanguard quest. If you haven’t played it yet, I highly recommend it. Out of my 20-ish hours playing it’s my favorite so far.

No spoilers for the end of game (I haven’t even gotten close to it yet) or anything to do with Sam Coe’s romance questline (I haven’t finished that either).

Non-spoiler summary for this fic/quest:

Reader and Sam Coe go to Tau Ceti II to check up on the settlers in the Tau Gormet Production Center.

More descriptions of the fic with a more specific summary below the cut. I’m being very specific about spoilers because for most people, myself included, we’ve only had the game for a week.

More specific summary of this fic/quest:

The UC Vanguard sends you on a routine mission to check in on a settler colony on Tau Ceti II—it turns out to be anything but routine. With Sam Coe at your side, your first Vanguard mission is a baptism by fire.

Characters: Hadrian, Sam Coe, Vasco (mentions of other characters: Cora Coe and Barret)

“Vasco, do a quick comms check for me. I want to make sure it’s working after it glitched out on the last planet.”

The tall robot makes some beeping and whirring noises. The way it stares into nothing bothered you at first, but after some time you’d gotten used to it—even appreciating how it followed commands without hesitation. Over by the ships on and off-boarding ramp, Sam says goodbye to Cora. A smile spreads across your face as you watch them.

The Frontier’s external lighting illuminates the surrounding landing site. An otherworldly moon hangs in the night sky. You take one more moment to do a last check of your pack’s contents. This was going to be a routine check-in mission, but it never hurt to be safe than sorry.

“Comms are operational, Captain.”

“Thank you.” You wave goodbye to Cora who smiles and waves back before returning to the Frontier. “Comms are good Sam, ready to go?”

Your companion saunters over with that signature ranger’s confidence. “Always.”

“Great. I think I’ve got everything. Vasco, have I got everything?”

“Scanning now.”

Sam shifts from foot to foot. “Storm’s rolling in.” He comments, looking into the distance. “I’d like to get there before it starts raining.”

Sure enough, muted thunder rolls on the horizon and the wind picks up a touch.

“Yeah, yeah. Hold your horses, cowboy.”

“I don’t even know what a horse looks like.” He mumbles.

Vasco beeps affirmatively. “The necessary items are present, Captain. However, you are carrying more than the recommended amount.”

You sling your pack over your shoulder with a grin, ignoring the second part. “Thanks Vasco. You know, for a second there Sam, I thought you were going to say something about your joints hurting.”

“Ha ha. I’m not that old.”

You make a teasing face at him as you start heading toward the compound’s lights in the distance. The trek isn’t bad, mostly flat terrain with a few rocks here and there. The wind continues to pick up, carrying the scent of rain.

Sam hops over a rock, taking his place by your side. “Not to sound too over-eager to get this Vanguard busy work out of the way, but, where’s our next stop after this?”

“I was thinking we could explore the rest of this system. How’s that sound?”

“You know me, no complaints here.”

A radio tower comes into view, red lights along the sides flashing periodically. Beyond it is the main compound.

“Oh, Cora asked to keep an eye out on books specifically about ship reactors. She thinks she can fix ours.”

You hike your pack higher on your shoulder, already feeling the soreness. Blast your incessant need to carry every type of weapon part with you at all times. “I’ll be on the look-out. If she can save me a few credits and fix it herself, she’s welcome to try.”

“She’s a brilliant kid, but let’s do it on a planet with an actual mechanic who can make sure it works after. I have faith in her, but she’s 11 and you can’t learn everything from books—”

“Hold up. Sam. Stop.”

He freezes, noticing your stock-still posture, eyes fixed on the wide-open doors of the radio tower. Bright light filters out into the night.

“Does that look like a body to you?” you ask him, pointing toward a slumped over shape laying against a supply crate.

“Sure does.”

Unholstering your pistol, you both crouch and move closer. The grass underfoot sways in the wind.

It’s a grisly scene. Multiple bodies litter the area. All settlers—dressed in civilian working clothes. Blood splatters dot the concrete, some trail back to a body. Sam whistles, short and low, to get your attention. He’s looking inside. On the table is a settler, face up, arms splayed out and gutted. Clothes stained a vibrant red. Deep claw marks gouge out sections of the floor.

“No bullets, no casings in sight.” He murmurs close to your ear. “And it’s all fresh.”

You don’t need to look at him to know he shares your particular anxiety. “Let’s check out the main compound.”

Moving out of the small building and down toward the tar mac, you’re about to say something about the wrecked ship when an alien scream interrupts you. It sets every hair on end. Never have you heard a sound like that, even on the many planets you’ve explored.

In little to no time after the scream, a sharp static crackles over your comms, making you jump. Sam shuffles closer, crouched low next to you. If the situation wasn’t so tense, he may have chuckled, but he stays frozen and somber faced.

“I am so glad to see you.” The voice, a woman’s, sounds heavy with relief. “I think it knows you’re here. Hurry up to the second-floor office, I’ll unlock the door.”

As you make your way into the compound, it feels like walking straight into the lion’s den. Every sense is on high alert. Lightning flashes, making you see things in the shadows that aren’t really there. Only Sam’s presence behind you keeps you level-headed.

The brightly lit, glass windowed office only makes you feel worse, like a sitting duck on display.

“I’m Hadrian.” The woman introduces herself curtly while holding her side. “Are you my saving grace?”

“Not exactly. I’m UC Vanguard—sent to check in on the settlers.”

“Well shit.” She leans against the table, eyes closed in pain.

“Please don’t tell me we’re dealing with a Terrormorph here.” Sam asks, beating you to the punch.

She sighs. “Unfortunately, yes.”

“Shit. That’s bad news, Captain. Real bad.”

“Listen,” Hadrian starts, moving away from the table, “I know you’re just two people, but you have to help me kill this thing.”

“And why’s that? Why don’t we all just leave now?” You ask.

“It’s unique. It showed up way too early. Tau Ceti’s only been colonized for 20 years. If this is a new kind of Terrormorph that matures faster and shows up earlier, we need to know.”

“Damnit.” You hiss. “Terrormorphs that show up after only 20 years of colonization could wipe humanity off the map.”

“Exactly.”

Rain begins to fall on the large windows with a clatter. The rolls of thunder were becoming booming clashes now. Visibility was already reduced at night, but now the storm made things worse.

You relent, giving up any notions of leaving. “Alright. I’ll help. Got any ideas on how to kill it?”

Sam’s eyeing you particularly hard from where he stands.

“Yeah, turrets. But we need to bring them back online and get them powered up. The terminal’s on ground level at the far end of the warehouse.”

Sam grunts. “So, closer to the Terrormorph?”

“I’m not sure where it is right now. My best guess is it’s still around the outer edge of the facility. But there’s a tracking system you can use on one of the terminals.”

You run a hand over your face. “Ok. Tracker and turrets. That’s better than nothing. I can make do”

“Radio me when you’ve reset the system and I’ll calibrate it from here. Thank you for helping and good luck.”

You and Sam sneak out one of the office doors into the warehouse. Fat raindrops fall on the metal roof, amplifying the sound into a loud drumming. It doesn’t come close to the volume of your heartbeat in your ears.

“Vasco, come in.”

“Reporting, Captain.”

“Initiate full lockdown on the ship. Tell Cora we ran into some trouble and are taking necessary precautions. If she seems worried, give her a book from my locker.”

“Yes Captain.”

You shut off comms and sling your pack from around your shoulders, attempting a commanding tone that you’ve always needed to fake. “Sam Coe.”

His usual raspy, low voice is layered with apprehension. “Captain?”

You’re pulling out weapon pieces from your pack for your rifle. They’re big—heavy duty—and add a decent amount of weight to the gun. “Go back to the ship.”

“I had a hunch you were gonna pull something like this. No. No way.”

“That’s an order—”

“Don’t try that with me. You know it ain’t gonna work.”

You pause, just as you’re changing out the rifle’s .50 Cal magazine with a 9x39mm eight round clip. “Sam.”

“I’m staying.”

His eyebrows are furrowed. Mouth slanted in a stubborn, almost angry frown. You’d have to dig deep. “Cora can’t lose you.”

“You always pull that card. It’s lost its affect.”

“…I can’t lose you either.”

You’ve never used that before and quite frankly are surprised to hear it come out of your mouth. Maybe it’s too soon. Up until now, you and Sam have only been flirting—no real feelings or moves have been made. It’s a bit of a jump, but you’re sincere.

His eyes hold yours unflinchingly. The crease on his forehead lessens a little. “Then you know how I feel and why I’m staying right here.”

He’s one-upped you and you weren’t prepared for it. You murmur a “Damit Sam” and go back to modifying your rifle. Fighting is pointless, and his admission has your nerves shaken more than you’d like. “Stay glued to my side unless I say otherwise. If things turn sideways and I order you back to the ship, you’d better listen. Got it?”

“Understood, Captain.”

“I mean it.”

A hint of his familiar smile returns. “I heard ya.”

“And Sam…”

“Hm?”

“No heroics.”

He doesn’t respond, his brows pinch together again. It’ll have to do.

Moving through the warehouse went excruciatingly slow. At all times you wished you could just get up and run instead, but it would signal the monster almost immediately. The whole situation made you feel like you were prey, scared and small. The addition of Sam’s presence put a heavy responsibility on your shoulders and that made you even more careful.

Hadrian was on your comms as soon as the system was reset. She directed you to the tracker frequency tuner in the same room. While finding the frequency, the system went into high alert—detecting the major threat. Your watch begins beeping steadily, and then rapidly speeds up. The Terrormorph was getting closer to your position.

Your eyes met Sam’s just as the alien appeared on the roof of the building outside. Right in sight from the room’s windows you were in. A rough hand yanks you down to the ground. Sam is crouched damn near on top of you, shotgun aimed up at it. However, it doesn’t notice you two in the dark room. You slowly cover the watch face to try and muffle the beeping sound. Maybe it was the rain, or the creature was just playing games, but it moved on past to a different part of the facility. Loud footsteps fading as it leaves. The radar lessens to a low, steady beat.

“Hadrian, come in.”

“I read you. The turrets are going to need their power sources reset with the security system in lockdown.”

“Great.” Sam sighs, lowering his gun. His shoulder leans into yours as he gets closer.

“We’ll find them. Out here.”

Reaching for your rifle, your hands visibly shook. You can feel Sam’s watchful gaze.

“Last chance to leave.” You whisper, aimlessly checking over your gun. You feel his hand squeeze your shoulder reaffirming.

“Not happening.”

The first power source wasn’t hard to find. You took the slow route, keeping an ear out for any changes in the radar frequency. The power switch was like a beacon, a big red switch on a yellow panel—it stuck out like a sore thumb. When you flipped it lights came on, loudspeakers announced to stand back…and the radar went nuts.

“Out, out, out!” You hiss, pushing Sam toward the far end door. He doesn’t need to be told twice as he beelines it.

With Sam leading, you follow him, scrambling up onto the roof of the building near the turrets. Two of the six are online now. Two more switches and you’ll have a fighting chance. Maybe.

Behind you, further in the facility, things crash. For now, it seems you’re safe.

You huff, lightening the death grip you have on your rifle. “Ok, here’s the plan. We’re going to split up.”

“I’m not gonna like this am I?”

“Take the watch. Find the power sources. I’ll create a distraction.”

“No.”

“Sam…” you exhale, closing your eyes. Despite the sheer terror you feel, you manage a chuckle. “We’re not going to get anything done if you keep arguing with me.”

“Let me create the distraction.”

“No.”

“Now who’s arguing?”

“Your shotgun has no range—it’s effectively useless, you’d be dead in two seconds.”

“Fair point. Then give me your rifle, I’m a good shot.”

You’re already unclasping your watch’s band from around your wrist. “I’m not taking the risk.”

“What if I wanna take the risk?”

Shuffling over while still crouched, you bring his arm closer. The watch slides on and you make sure to fasten it tightly. “You already know I won’t let you. At least now you can radio Vasco if…”

It didn’t need to be said.  

He looks at the device and back to you. “Why is this startin’ to feel like you’re on a suicide mission?”

You can’t look at him or you’d lose the last of your nerve. “I’ll be on that walkway over there. It’ll have to run through the turrets to get to me and they’ll still have a shot when it tries to climb up.”

The way Sam chews his cheek really underlines how unhappy he is with this plan of yours. “Remind me to have a word with you about your savior complex when this is all over.”

“Hm. I’m looking forward to it.”

A gentle hand wraps around your arm. His eyes are soft, pleading. His other hand cups your face, it’s rough and calloused, but warm. “If you need to run, then run. You don’t have to die for some Vanguard that sends you on a ‘routine’ mission they were too lazy to check first—or for a colony full of dead settlers. Ok? I want you back, with me, alive, and in one piece.”

You don’t trust yourself enough to speak, something sappy or cheesy may decide to come out, so you simply nod.

It isn’t enough for him. “Please, say you’ll come back to me. I need to hear you say it.”

If he wasn’t so close, he may not have heard you through the pounding rain. “I’ll come back to you.” You pretended that you meant it, that you believed it.

“Thank you.” His hand falls away to hold his shotgun. “Now let’s kill this thing.”

“Be safe.” You manage before turning and heading toward your position. The chill of the rain creeps through your spine, but the warmth from Sam’s hand lingers on your cheek. You try to hold onto that feeling.

The steel walkway is sturdy and grated, giving you a good vantage point of the surrounding area. Once in position, you set up your rifle and lay flat, adjusting the scope. Lightning flashes, the crash of thunder isn’t far behind it. Water runs down your face and you wipe it hastily to keep it from your eyes.

The bright fire of the flare casts everything in red. With a good toss, it lands directly in the middle of the kill lanes. Bringing out your pistol you shoot once, twice, up into the air. The alien screams and the sound of wrenching, tearing metal draws near.

The hulking creature appears at the far end of the kill lanes, focused on the flare. It’s huge, big enough to fill your scope’s sights. You breathe deep and exhale slowly as you take your first shot.

The round hits the Terrormorph square in the back leg, crippling it for a moment. Blood leaks out onto the ground below. It lurches before regaining balance on its five other legs, letting out an enraged roar.

More lights come on in the facility. Sam’s already found one power breaker. Two more turrets begin to flash and come online.

The monster’s head swings in a different direction. Toward Sam, no doubt. The realization fuels you with a cold fury. You crank the rifle’s bolt-lever, a long bullet casing flies out of the chamber with a cling. Sliding the lever back with a heavy clunk you even your breath and prepare to take another shot.

You take it, aiming for its other back leg, but miss—the shot glances off the ground. Six shots left.

The thing’s giant head swings back to stare at you directly. Through your scope it’s as if you’re staring it directly in the eyes. Its front legs stomp the ground, and it roars. It ambles forward right into the kill lanes. Four turrets open fire, knocking it off balance and sending it sprawling momentarily. You take another shot, this time severing its thinner front limb.

The thing howls, ear splittingly loud and shrill, but claws its way back onto its feet. The turrets are doing damage, but it isn’t enough. It lurches toward you with surprising speed. The turret fire follows. You take a shot and miss. You exhale and your breath comes out shaking.

It's at the base of the building your walkway is on as Sam flips the final switch and the last of the turrets power up. The Terrormorph slows down a little, struggling to climb the building with two of its limbs missing. You have another 130 seconds, maybe, before it reaches you.

Your fifth shot hits it in the back, effectively doing nothing. The thing is bloody and losing steam from the constant onslaught of all six turrets. You start to feel hopeful. There’s movement to your left. It’s Sam on one of the rooftops. You’re about to give him a thumbs up when lightning flashes—some of the facility machines spark, an alarm sounds, and all lights except for auxiliary backups flatline. An unlucky power surge from the storm.

The Terrormorph has reached the base of the walkway below and is trying to make its way up, now free from turret fire. This would be your chance to run, but something holds you there. A false hope maybe.

You hold your breath, take a shot, and hit it square in the face. It doesn’t stop, clawing at the thin metal for purchase. Pulling the bolt lever and sliding it home, you fire again, chipping its other back leg and causing it to stumble. Metal rails groan and collapse under the monster’s weight. It falls to the ground with a metallic crash. You don’t fire, yet.

Sam is still on the other roof. You wave him off, pointing to the ship. Trying to make it clear that this was the order to run. A clashing sound below snags your attention back to the monster. It’s testing out the strength of the rail supports.

You’re aiming again as it springs up and begins throwing its weight at the steel rods. The vibration of the metal groaning and shifting with each impact reverberates through you. This is your last shot.

You fire and miss entirely as a section of rails to your right collapse and bend, tugging your section down. You’re forced to let go of your rifle to hang on. It clatters to the ground below.

More support beams collapse and you can feel the structure groan before you even hear it, vibrating hard enough to numb your hands. Trying to climb up the tilting walkway was a mistake as the shift in weight caused the whole thing, with you attached, to fall entirely. The feeling of falling was short-lived, something sharp sliced at your leg as you fell into the railing and walkway debris below.

For a moment, you lay dazed and in pain. The sound of rain patters around you on metallic surfaces. The whole walkway and railing fell over, the area was littered with jutted angles and metal parts. Something shifted under the debris. Something big enough to toss heavy metal away with ease. Any hope of the Terrormorph getting crushed by the impact was gone as it reared back and screamed. Its eyes, all six or seven of them, landed on you.

There was no way of escaping, debris had fallen over you. A particularly large beam held you in place on your back. Your pistol, the last line of defense, dug into your hip uncomfortably.

Sensing it had you trapped, the creature took its time closing the distance. Your leg was devoid of all feeling except a vague sensation of warmth spreading around it. The rails on top of you pinned you down, but you managed to free your measly pistol.

Only three or four of your shots made contact, others glanced off the Terrormorph’s armored shoulders or missed entirely. Either way, the low caliber did nothing to it. With an empty mag, and nothing else to defend yourself with, your arm fell to your side. You just hoped Sam was smart enough to listen and go back to the ship.

A loud blast caught the monster on the side of its head, snapping it away from you, and causing it to stumble.

Apparently, he wasn’t.

Sam emptied three more shells into the creature before reloading with cool, practiced ease. One blast dislocated the Terrormorph’s other back leg. Chunks went flying.

It howled and thrashed as he kept unloading shells into it. When he was completely out, he dropped the shotgun and picked up a long rod of metal with a jagged, broken end. The sharp tip sliced clean into its ribcage. When the alien still tried to pull itself up on its remaining two feet, Sam pulled it out with a yank and drove it home into the thing’s head, right above the mandibles. It gave one final spasm and finally fell dead.

At last, the only sound around you was the rain.

Sam dropped the crude spear with a clatter, eyeing the body a few times as he rushed over through the debris.

“You ok?” he panted, kneeling down. His hands cupped your face, bringing the familiar warmth with them.

“Holy shit.” Was all you were able to say.

It made him laugh with relief as he moved to check you over. “And you said a shotgun wouldn’t do anything.”

His hands moved debris from your legs, and he hovered as you yelped in pain. “You’ve got a nasty gash here. We need to get you back to the ship for medical attention. Let me see if I can get this off you.”

With a grunt of effort, he pushed the beam up enough for you to pull yourself out. Your leg was bleeding badly, but nothing you couldn’t fix with some TLC and bed rest. The pain hadn’t set in yet, thankfully.

Near you was a chunk of the Terrormorph’s leg. Feeling oddly disconnected from yourself, you grabbed it, staring at the gross thing, and put it in your pocket for Hadrian.

Sam started taking out bandages and doing what he could to wrap your leg. You could see his hands were shaking now.

Against all odds you both were alive; you started to laugh.

Sam gave you an odd look. “Don’t go loopy on me.”

A giant smile broke across your face. “Wasn’t expecting to live. There goes my chance at a cool memorial or bragging rights.”

“Going face to face with a Terrormorph and only losing a chunk of your leg gets bragging rights. Believe me.”

“Nah. All the credit goes to you on this one. That was just badass.”

He grunted, throwing more debris out of the way, and trying to clear a path. “Wasn’t thinking about how cool it looked when I did it. I was just trying to save you.”

“You know I’ll be telling this story forever, right?”

He chuckles, helping you up, slinging your arm over his shoulder and wrapping his around your waist. “I can see Barret’s expression now.”

“‘Sam Coe, my hero’ is how I’ll start it.”

He groans playfully. “Please don’t.”

“It’s true.” You looked at him as your feet touched even ground. Your faces were close. You could see the rain drops clinging to his hair and beard. “You saved my life.”

When he looked over, his nose nudged yours from close proximity. He didn’t shy away from the contact. Your paces slowed to a stop. “I wouldn’t hesitate to do it again, either.”

Your grin was slow to spread as you glanced at his lips more than once. “Would you prefer a quippy one line as thanks?”

“Mm—no. Maybe something else though.”

You feigned ignorance as his eyes trailed down your face. “Oh? And what would that be?”

“I’ll let you think of it.”

“A hero’s song?” you joked, voice softening.

“Nope.”

“How about a poem?”

He faces toward the room Hadrian’s in with a low laugh and begins to walk again. “You know, if you were as much of a smartass to that Terrormorph as you are to me, it would have keeled over on the spot.”

You put your good foot down and hold it, halting any forward progress. “Ok, ok. I think I’ve come up with something.”

He’s still smiling as he looks at you. Your noses nudge again. “If you suggest a book or a short story—”

His surprised breath as your mouth presses to his is an award in itself. He stays motionless for a moment, as if his brain had short-circuited, before his lips move and mold to yours. Slow and tentative at first, exploratory. Soft and gentle as if he’s afraid of hurting you. His hand on your waist moves to your lower back, gripping your clothes. He leans into you, beard scratching the skin of your face. Your fingers slide through and tangle in his wet hair. It makes him pant into your mouth before kissing you again, more eager this time.

Breaking apart, you both linger close, hot breath mixing together. His forehead leans to yours, eyes still closed.

That raspy voice of his you love so much is the first to break the silence. “You have no idea how long I’ve been wanting you to do that.”

“You could have made the first move. I wouldn’t have minded.”

“Was never sure if you were just being quippy and flirtatious for fun or not.”

“It is fun, but it’s also because I care for you.”

He hums, nuzzling his nose against yours. “Good to know, we’re going to have to find time for this more often.”

You close the distance enough to ghost your lips over his. “We have time now.”

He hesitates, so tempted with the offer, but exhales instead. “You’re hurt and bleeding all over the place, I need to get you some medical help. Plus, Hadrian needs her damn samples.”

“Pshh. I’ve got plenty of blood left—and she can be patient.”

He starts walking again, bringing you with him, and pressing the gentlest kiss you’ve ever felt against the corner of your mouth. “Just wait until you’re healed. You won’t be able to keep me away.”

[t4twnyclaw]

retconning Curlfeather moments (River + Sky vs. Star.) spoilers V

Curlfeather isn't as heartless as how Frostpaw remembers her as. ofc fFostpaw has every right to demonize her mother I just mean like as a reader I never got that vibe. I remember in Star when comparing Curlfeather to Jayclaw she said something along the lines of "Curlfeather never gave me affection unless I had earned it." but in River, it seems like Curlfeather is the opposite:

"Her mother, she knew, would have stopped before Frostpaw even needed to ask, curling herself around her as a shelter from the wind."

“It’s not your fault, Frostpaw. I would willingly die countless times if it meant keeping you safe.” <- First thing Curlfeather says when Frostpaw sees her in 'Starclan'.

Also the two examples Curlfeather gave to Frostpaw to convince her she's a real medicine cat- were completely valid examples that she in no way could've even faked. (Jayclaw's death and a storm.) Sure, Curlfeather could've...hyped Frostpaw up about her visions but she didn't somehow plan Jayclaw's death or a storm. And I'm not defending Curlfeather; she's still manipulative in other ways (managing Frostpaw specifically in order to conceal Reedwhiskers body/discovery etc)

Also, Curlfeather is mentioned as "Having stars in her pelt." So was she originally in Starclan or is it an Ashfur situation where she just has stars in her fur for no reason. and speaking of this- in Sky, Curlfeather was the one that said "You have to look beyond the obvious choice." in regards to telling Frostpaw who the new leader should be. Curlfeather could've said splashtail or her evil brother podlight but she didn't... like she's depicted as being neutral/in Starclan yet in Star...

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Have You No Idea That You’re In Deep? [Chapter 8: Starfall] [Series Finale]

Aemond is a fearless, enigmatic prince and the most renowned dragonrider of the Greens. You are a daughter of House Mormont and a lady-in-waiting to Princess Helaena. You can’t ignore each other, even though you probably should. In fact, you might have found a love worth killing for.

A/N: Hello all! At long last, here is the conclusion of this series. Thank you for all the love that this fic has received; I am truly thrilled beyond words to read each and every one of your thoughts, rants, outbursts, compliments, complaints, and analyses. My first idea for a story is always the ending, so I’ve had parts of this finale written in my Word Doc since before I published the first chapter. Still, it feels very surreal to have finally finished it. I hope it is worth the wait. 💜

Song inspiration: “Do I Wanna Know?” by Arctic Monkeys.

Chapter warnings: Language, violence, death and destruction, ANGST, dad!Aemond, Aegon-related chaos, prophesies for days, a tiny bit of sexual content, dragons, drama, lots of shouting, if you have not read Fire & Blood then you should know that there are SOME spoilers/allusions involving certain characters (but not that many).

Word count: 10.5k.

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

Taglist: @crispmarshmallow @tclegane @daddysfavoritesexkitten @poohxlove @imagine-all-the-imagines @nsainmoonchild @skythighs @bratfleck @thesadvampire @yor72 @xcharlottemikaelsonx @loverandqueenofdragons @omgsuperstarg @endless-ineffabilities @devynsshitposts @vencuyot @ladylannisterxo @cranberryjulce @abcdefghi-lmnopqrstuvwxyz @liathelioness @mirandastuckinthe80s @haezen @fairaardirascenarios @darkened-writer @weepingfashionwritingplaid @signyvenetia @crossingallmine @burningcoffeetimetravel @yummycastiel @lol-im-done @lovemissyhoneybee @nomugglesallowed @witchmoon @yoshiplushie @torchbearerkyle @sweetashoneyhoney @quartzs-posts @lauraneedstochill @nctma15 @queenofshinigamis @rapoficeandfire @hinata7346 @curiouser-an-curiouser @meadowofsinfulthoughts @imjustboredso @unabashedlyswimmingtimemachine @myspotofcraziness @bregarc @mikariell95 @doingfondue @justconfusedperiod @mommyslittlewarcriminal @graykageyama @elsolario​

“Goodbye, Papa,” you whisper for your daughter who cannot yet speak, your cheek pressed to Laurel’s. You wave her tiny hand as Aemond and Vhagar vanish into a horizon that’s darkening like a bruise: gold, blue, violet, black, punctuated by rising stars. Encroaching thunder growls like a dragon. Lightning flashes as raindrops begin to fall from the sky. “Goodbye. Good luck. We’ll see you again soon.”

You retreat back inside the Red Keep and accompany Helaena and the children to Alicent’s rooms. As Jaehaera and Maelor play agreeably on the floor with woodcarvings of animals—and Jaehaerys mutilates a horse figurine with a toy mallet, targeting one leg at a time—you trade with the old queen: you give her a very drowsy Laurel, and she hands you her embroidery. The pattern is a simple white watchtower, but you’re so distracted thinking about Aemond and Storm’s End that you promptly botch it and tangle the threads beyond repair.

“I’m so sorry,” you tell Alicent, mortified, showing her the rubble. “I should have known better than to try…I’m afraid I lack Helaena’s talents…”

“Don’t worry about it, dear,” Alicent says. She beams down at Laurel as she rocks her. Helaena is absorbed with embroidering a strikingly lifelike water strider. Sir Criston is ostensibly polishing his sword at the table, but in truth listening to Alicent; he studies her words and moods and gestures the same way maesters study poisons and cures. “You must be terribly preoccupied this evening.”

“I am,” you admit. There’s no point in trying to hide it. Your hands are trembling and useless.

Still gazing at Laurel—her dreamy half-closed eyes, her silver lashes, her vulnerable smallness—Alicent speaks to you in a voice that is wistful and far away. “There was once a time when Rhaenyra suggested a match to resolve the question of succession. Jace would marry Helaena, and thus our bloodlines would be knitted back together and both branches of the family spared. I refused her. I’m not even entirely sure why I did. Now I wonder if I was wrong to reject her offer. Perhaps I could have stopped this.”

“You must not blame yourself. The realm has always balked at Rhaenyra’s claim to the Iron Throne. I don’t believe anything short of her surrender could prevent war.”

“You have no idea what it was like,” Alicent says. Now she looks at you with dark eyes that glint with deep, wounded bitterness. “Watching Rhaenyra indulge every whim, flout every tradition, taste every desire, while I…while I…” She pinches her eyes shut, trying to forget. “I have been standing on this precipice since I was eighteen years old, yet I have discovered that it is something else entirely to plunge headfirst into it.”

You place your hand lightly on her forearm. From across the room, Sir Criston lays down his sword and considers approaching. “You will not face this alone.”

“Aemond says you are a woman who admires ferocity. You must think that we can win if you’ve thrown your lot in with us. Perhaps that is why you support the Greens, why you came to King’s Landing to serve us to begin with. Because you have judged us to be the victors.”

That would be perfectly logical, but it’s wrong. “I support the Greens because I love you. All of you.”

Alicent’s face breaks into a sad smile. “I’m very glad that you are Aemond’s wife. Even though I was rather horrified at first.”

“I have been known to have that effect on people.”

“You don’t know what he was like before,” Alicent says. “The only way he knew to redeem himself was through violence. I think you saved him from becoming a monster.” She returns Laurel to you. The baby is sound asleep. “You both saved him.”

Sir Criston, having sheathed his sword, wanders over to invent some pretext to converse with Alicent: something about Aegon’s new council, something about the terms sent to Rhaenyra. She is still mulling it over, this last chance at peace; yet even if she is inclined to accept the concessions—an unconditional pardon, Dragonstone for Rhaenyra and Jace, Driftmark for Luke, recognized legitimacy for Harwin Strong’s sons, places at court for Daemon’s—her husband will advise her against it. Aemond was right when he said that Rhaenyra isn’t suicidal. You aren’t so sure about Daemon.

As you depart to put Laurel to bed, you pause by Helaena and praise her embroidery. It is exactly what you have come to expect from her: intricate, gorgeous, and yet unnerving somehow. Her water strider is made of gold-and-ruby flames, and the wave it dances on is adorned with the reflection of a crescent moon. You recall what she said at King Viserys’ last dinner, so softly that hardly anyone noticed: Beware the beast beneath the boards. “Meleys in the Dragonpit,” you say. “You knew it was going to happen.”

Helaena’s reply is halting and dazed. “I can sometimes see what—pieces of it, anyway, fragments of it, like shards of glass left in the frame of a broken window—but not when or how.”

“That must be maddening.”

“Oh, it is,” she agrees, and resumes her stitching. On the floor, Jaehaerys starts dragging a screeching Maelor around by his white hair. Sir Criston separates them, then lectures Jaehaerys about the importance of princely behavior. Jaehaerys kicks him in the steel-plated shin.

“I suppose we could share grandchildren one day,” you tell Helaena. “Laurel might marry Maelor.” Otto Hightower has already suggested it, and you aren’t necessarily opposed, assuming the two grow up to be genuinely fond of each other. Maelor is a shy, benevolent sort of child, just like his mother; he’s no Jaehaerys, that’s for certain. Aemond always says the same thing about Laurel, without further explanation, without hesitation: She will be whatever she wants to be. This seems to be in blatant conflict with his self-sacrificial sense of duty, of advancement. Then again, so is his love for you.

But Helaena shakes her head, very slowly, her gaze still tangled in the threads of her embroidery. “No, she won’t,” the new queen murmurs.

You take Laurel back to her bedroom and lay her in the cradle, and you stand there for a long time with your hands on the railing. A mobile of cloth insects—a gift from Helaena—twirls lazily above your head. The room is hushed. The window looks out on Blackwater Bay, where rain falls and lightning splits the indigo sky like fractured bones; the island you and Aemond call Bearstone is visible only as an outline on the horizon that blacks out some of the stars. The only way he knew to redeem himself was through violence, Alicent had said, and that’s true, isn’t it? You wonder what Borros Baratheon’s answer will be. You wonder what kind of man will return to you if Aemond spends weeks, months, years away at war.

Beside your sleeping daughter is the dragon egg Aemond chose for her: white, silver-flecked, as large and armored as Laurel is fragile and diminutive. She often reaches for it, marvels at it, beats her little fist against it as if trying to crack the shell. The egg came from Dreamfyre’s clutch, and the Greens have already begun referring to the one-day dragon by a name that honors both its Targaryen and Mormont affiliations: Frostfyre.

You leave Laurel in the care of her wetnurses and handmaidens and sit by the fireplace in the chambers you share with Aemond, trying to lose yourself in a book about the geography of Westeros. Flamelight dances across the pages as you turn them. Your mind keeps wandering: south to Storm’s End, north to Bear Island, into the future, into the past.

There is a knock against your doorframe. Aegon leans there in gold and green, smirking, pleasantly tipsy but far from drunk. “Hi,” he says.

“Hi.”

He waltzes inside, flourishing the wine cup in his hand. “Are you utterly tormented? Are you inconsolable? Have you chewed your fingers down to the bone?”

“Not yet. But this book isn’t helping as much as I’d hoped.”

“That’s because it’s a book.”

“Perhaps I should try whores.”

Aegon cackles and throws himself down into the plush reading chair across from you. He props his boots on the footstool and crosses them one over the other. “Can you believe that this is my fourth cup of wine today? Not fourteenth. Fourth.”

“I’m very proud of you,” you say, and you mean it.

“It’s the strangest thing. I train with Sir Criston and I attend council meetings and I make my public appearances…and before I know it each day is gone. I set my cup down on tables or bannisters and then I forget all about it.” He glances to the bed, noting the dusty pale-pink remnants of the protection spells you’ve cast there. “What happens when all the bears relocate from the kingswood? What happens when Balerion runs out of teeth?”

“I’ll start pulling yours.”

He is amused, but there is something dismal about his expression as well. His face is less puffy, more serious. The reflections of flares and embers glow in his eyes. “I don’t know why you would want to protect me,” he says, remembering the night before his coronation. “If I die, Jaehaerys is next in line to the throne, but he’ll be a child for the next decade. Aemond could be regent. The task would suit him. It would please him, I believe. It is a role he was built for. The gods used entirely different bricks when they made me. Your life would be simpler without me in it.”

“Simpler, perhaps. But not better.”

He smiles; and this time it is shadowless and pure. “Where the fuck did you come from?”

“Bear Island,” you reply; and you both burst into laughter as you sit together in the crackling firelight. Outside, rain drums against the windows and the wind howls as the storm intensifies. “Also, I think Jaehaerys might be deranged.”

“Yes, well you have to watch out for firstborns, you know. They are often incorrigible.”

“Personally, I have a weakness for second sons.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“What happens if Rhaenyra won’t accept the terms?” you ask quietly, looking at Aegon. “What happens if there is war?”

“There won’t be.”

“But if there is?”

Aegon shrugs, unconcerned. “Then we’ll win. We have the support of the Westerlands and the Reach, and probably Storm’s End too. We have Sir Criston, the best swordsman in Westeros. We have Sunfyre, Dreamfyre, Tessarion, and Vhagar, who easily counts as two or three ordinary dragons put together. We have my supernaturally manipulative grandsire. We have you. And, of course, we have Aemond.”

“I fear losing him,” you confess. “I hate how much I fear it. It makes me feel pathetic. I didn’t used to be like this. But now I’m filled to the brim with dread.”

“Are you worried that he’ll march off to battle and fall into the soothing arms of some other enchanting, adulterous Northerner? That’s quite impossible, I assure you. He’s never been one inclined towards romance. What liaisons transpired before you—and there weren’t many, believe me, I judged him plenty for that—were…” He ponders how to phrase it. “More educational than impassioned.”

“No,” you say, smiling wanly. “I’m worried that he’ll come home a different man than he left. I’m worried that he’ll succumb to his blind hatred for the Blacks and be poisoned by it.”

“I don’t think that will happen. He won’t allow himself to lose his way. His love for you and the baby is too great.”

“Will you show me?” you ask, holding up your book. There is a map of Westeros on the page, mountains and rivers and borderlines carved like knife wounds in flesh. “If there is fighting, where it will happen?”

“Sure,” Aegon replies. He has attended enough council meetings to know their schemes by now. He gets up and rests his elbows on the back of your chair, hovering over you to point out the pertinent locations. He is very close; you can smell wine on him, and perfume scented like pomegranates, and soap and sun. There are ink stains on his hands. His silvery hair brushes against your cheek. “Control of the Riverlands would be essential. It is the closest thing Westeros has to a center point, and we would need it to have ready access to the surrounding regions. Its rivers carry trade goods. Its lords have many men and horses at their disposal. Its flat, fertile soil is good for feeding soldiers. And killing them.” He grins. “We would need a foothold there. Maidenpool or High Heart, perhaps. More likely Harrenhal. That’s Lord Larys Strong’s castle, conveniently.”

“It would be an uncommon sensation for him. Being useful, I mean.”

Aegon’s index finger travels around the map. “Battles would pepper the Riverlands and the parts of the Crownlands likely to support Rhaenyra. Duskendale, Rosby, Rook’s Rest. We’d stay out of the Vale. Men can’t fight on the sides of mountains. We aren’t goats.”

But your gaze has snagged somewhere else. In the belly of the Riverlands, there lies the largest lake in Westeros: vast and crystalline blue and with an island at the center known as the Isle of Faces, a legendary and unconquerable mystery that turns all sailors away with fierce winds and flocks of squawking ravens. “I’ve been there,” you say. “The God’s Eye. We stopped to swim and picnic on its shores when my family brought me south to marry Axel Hightower. It is a place of magic, of deep, ageless power. I’d like to go back someday. I’d like to try to visit the Isle of Faces.”

“Aemond can take you, when all this is over. He can land Vhagar right in the middle of that fabled, forbidden little island. And then burn it to ash if you’re unimpressed.” He plucks the book out of your hands and snaps it shut. “Now let’s desist with the geography lesson and do some gambling instead.”

You play cards for several hours—thunder booming, lightning striking ever-closer, Aegon unashamedly robbing you of your coins as you fumble along without much strategy, distracted and nervy—until you tell the king that you’re going to bed. You’re a liar. You bathe and slip into your nightgown and then sit and stare at the dying cinders in the hearth, pulsing like fireflies: garnet, jasper, carnelian, tiger’s eye. When you begin to nod off at last, your vision blurs and the pinprick infernos become distant and indistinct, like stars. They form constellations you can only decipher pieces of: a claw here, a wing there, eyes and blades and teeth. You jolt awake when you hear the bedroom door creak open. The fire rekindles with the gust of cool new air. You know exactly who it is. You recognize his footsteps.

“You’re back already—?”

His face stops you. Everything about him stops you. He’s drenched to the skin and shivering, staring at the wall. His hair is in disarray. Wet, silver twists hang loose and wild; his tie has come undone and he hasn’t even noticed. Water drips from his coat and forms reflective pools around his boots. You can see firelight dancing there. Helaena’s words whisper through your skull like cold wind: He comes home late, covered in rain.

“What?” you say, standing. “What happened?”

Aemond is silent. Lightning illuminates the room in stark, white-blue rage.

You take his hands, and he allows this but won’t look at you. Every angle of his body is wrong: his shoulders, his spine, his jaw. You’ve never seen him like this before. Perhaps nobody has. What could it be? What could it POSSIBLY be? “Did the Baratheons deny you?”

“No, they are with us. Daeron will marry Floris.”

“Then what…?”

At last, his gaze meets yours. His words are slow and heavy, so heavy. His eye—blue like clear skies, like the ocean, like veins beneath paper-thin skin—is more than just stunned. It is afraid. “Luke was there too.”

You don’t understand. “…At Storm’s End?”

“Yes.”

There’s blood on him, you realize now; not much, but enough. There’s a smudge on his right temple, a stain on his throat, flecks in his hair. “Alone?”

“Yes,” Aemond says again.

Just Luke. Not Jace, not Rhaenyra, not Rhaenys, not Daemon…just timid little Luke Strong. You take a step back, dropping his hands. Your stomach plummets; cold sweat slicks across your pores. You are suddenly terrified to know more. You don’t want to ask, but you have to. “What happened, Aemond?”

You call him by his name, and you never call him by his name. Your husband does not seem to have caught this. His fingers go unconsciously to the bear-hilt dagger he still wears at his belt. “Luke was sent to compel Lord Borros to honor his father’s long-past commitment to Rhaenyra. He was so pitiful, so weak, he brought nothing but his mother’s admonishment. Borros turned him away. And then, I…I…” Now his fingertips ghost over his scar. “I stopped him. I threw him your dagger. And I told him to put out his eye.”

Timid little Luke Strong, alone in Storm’s End…small and afraid and outmatched just like Aemond had been all those years ago on Driftmark when he was maimed. “You…?”

“As payment for mine.” He smirks, a ghoulish little half-smile with no humor at all. “I told him that I planned to make a gift of it to you.”

And there is something gut-wrenching about this, it hits you harder than you could have anticipated: that the same man who gave you tenderness and devotion and whispers and faith and a child was going to give you another child’s eye. A debt is still owed. A debt will always be owed. “But he didn’t do it.” If he had, Aemond would now be radiant, victorious. Instead, he is horrified.

“No,” Aemond says. “He refused. And when he left on Arrax…I followed him.”

Your voice is hoarse, brittle. “You killed that boy?”

“I did not give the order,” he insists fiercely. “I meant only to frighten him, to shame him, but Vhagar…she…she…” He shakes his head, like casting out bad dreams. “I tried to stop her.”

Surely there can be no greater betrayal than this: his dragon, his first conquest, his path to redemption. And he will never be able to admit it to anyone but you. Helaena’s warning is a specter hissing through fanged teeth from the shadows of this room: Be cautious with her. She will not always listen. “Vhagar against Arrax, that is no battle, that is murder. The realm will see this as murder.”

“I know.” His reply is helpless.

You reach for him. “Aemond…”

“Do not comfort me,” he flares. “I am not worthy of it. It is you and our daughter who I have endangered.”

“We can win,” you say quickly, desperately. “There will be war now but we can win it, the Greens have the Reach and the Westerlands and Storm’s End, and half of the Crownlands too, we have wealth and armies and dragons and magic, and we already hold the capital, we need only to defend it—”

“I have to send you away.”

Every frenzied thought in your mind falls silent. “What? Where?”

“Starfall.”

Dorne? Some remote, desert castle in a land I’ve never known? You watch each other in the firelight. “No,” you reply simply.

“This will destroy Rhaenyra. She will want me destroyed in return. And Daemon knows exactly how to do it.”

“No,” you repeat, furious. “I’m not going anywhere, we don’t run from battles, I don’t run from battles—!”

Aemond grabs your wrists and holds them against his chest, gently but stubbornly. “Listen,” he says. “I will have to leave King’s Landing to fight this war. And Daemon will come for you. He knows what you mean to me, what you are to me, he knows. He will do it himself, or he will send someone to do it for him, or he will do it if the Blacks sack the city, but no matter how it happens he will not stop until your blood is spilled. He will not honor your status as a noncombatant. And he won’t just kill you. He will do excruciating, unforgivable things to you, because that is how he can hurt me best. The way he looked at you…here, in the Red Keep, as Viserys lay dying…that was the first time I ever saw you as what you truly are.”

“A burden?” you fling at him like a blade.

“No, Moonstone.” He releases your wrists and clasps your face with his hands. “A weakness.”

The fight bleeds out of you. Not so long ago, it was not believed that Aemond One-Eye had any fears, any weaknesses at all. “I don’t want to leave you. Any of you.”

“It won’t be for long.”

“I can’t go to Dorne. They don’t have any heart trees there. The Old Gods won’t be able to hear me.”

“You cannot stay here,” he swears. “I cannot leave you in plain sight and undefended.”

“Then send me back to Bear Island instead,” you plead frantically.

“No. The North is likely to side with Rhaenyra, and Daemon would know to look for you there.” He strokes your hair, your cheek, the pendant that swings from your neck. “Dorne will remain neutral, and Starfall is on the Summer Sea. You can get there by ship, easily and inconspicuously. I cannot fly you. Vhagar could be sighted, and everyone knows who she belongs to. And I…I…” His eye goes vacant, haunted. “I don’t know if I can trust her.”

A shudder claws down your spine. I’ve ridden that dragon. My daughter has touched that dragon. “So you’ll ride off to battle against Syrax and Meleys and Caraxes and I’ll…just…what, stare out a window and wait for you to show up and rescue me? Wake up every day wondering if you’re still alive? If Aegon and Sir Criston and Otto are still alive? I’ll read books and play cards and embroider pillowcases and go on meaningless fucking strolls through the gardens? I’ll be useless, I’ll be worse than useless because I could have helped you if I had stayed, I will—”

“You will survive.” He smiles faintly. “The maesters of Starfall will offer you and Laurel shelter. They will keep you secret. They will keep you informed of how the war progresses. And if…somehow…the Greens are on the losing side…then they will help you start over someplace where you will never be found.”

You think of all the letters he’s exchanged with Dornish maesters over the past ten months, letters you’ve never pried much into, ravens loosed and received. “How long have you been considering this?”

“Since I met you. Just in case.”

You try to imagine it—hot blaring sun, bobbing ships, the ocean, castle walls—and perhaps Starfall won’t feel so very far from King’s Landing after all. Perhaps it will be a respite, not an exile. Perhaps you will be back in the Red Keep with every living soul you’ve ever loved before the year is finished. Even if I can’t bear to do it for me, I can do it for Laurel. I will have her. I can protect her.

Aemond touches his forehead to yours, and only now are you aware of the tears streaking down his flawless right cheek. “I am so fucking sorry,” he says, his voice breaking.

“I’ll go to Starfall. If that’s what you need, if that’s what’s best for our daughter, I’ll do it.”

“There’s one last thing.” He takes your dagger from his belt and lays it in your outstretched palm. You think, without wanting to: If Luke had mutilated himself with this blade, he’d still be alive. Aemond lifts your chin to kiss you, an act so delicate and insurmountably heavy it could shatter. “Keep this with you.”

~~~~~~~~~

He introduces her to each type of blossom, skimming a kaleidoscope of petals across her miniature fingers: roses, wisteria, jasmine, calla lilies, orchids, chrysanthemums, red poppies. He is cautious not to let her get too firm a grip, lest she decides to eat one. He insists on doing everything. He never wants a break from her. Soon you’ll both be gone, sailing into the horizon on some nondescript ship bound for Dorne. He knows his time is running out. Laurel devours him with those enormous, knowing eyes. She clutches clumsily at the petals with great interest, perhaps in part because he’s the one offering them. She gets upset when he tries to carry her through the cool, dark trellis archway grown thick with greenery; she wonders where the sun has gone.

At last he returns to sit beside you on the edge of the fountain. A pair of white stone dragons exhale gushes of clear water like flames. The gardens are quiet and still. It is late-afternoon on a magnificently warm and golden day, but the Red Keep feels abandoned. Bees and butterflies and beetles wheel in the air. You can hear waves crashing against jagged black rocks, windchimes jangling in the breeze, the distant snarls of dragons.

“She might be walking by the time we see you again,” you tell Aemond. You smile, hoping to lift his spirits; but he doesn’t smile back.

He presses his lips to Laurel’s silver hair. Someday soon, it will be long enough to braid. “She might have a dragon waiting for her.” Frostfyre’s egg will remain in King’s Landing, of course; it will be left in the care of the Dragonkeepers in case the beast hatches during the war.

“You will get to teach her how to ride. How to speak High Valyrian.”

Now he does smile, with hope and optimism and pride. “And you will teach her magic.”

There is the sound of dainty heels clicking against the cobblestones. Helaena appears, carrying a praying mantis in her palm like a beacon. “You are required in the Great Hall,” she says.

You and Aemond look at each other, mystified. “Why?” he asks Helaena.

“Everyone is waiting.” And then she turns and leaves.

You and Aemond follow after Helaena, struggling to keep up. You lift the hem of your dress—black with accents of silver, your dagger secured by a belt patterned with silver bears—to avoid puddles and ascend steps; Aemond carries Laurel against his chest. She peers over his shoulder, eyes alert, cheeks chubby and with dimples like her father’s. You will have to be mindful in Dorne to ensure her skin isn’t burned by the sun. As you near the Great Hall, you can hear muffled music and voices and clanks of cups and silverware.

“Oh, gods,” Aemond groans, realizing too late.

You begin: “What—?”

The guards open the doors. Inside the Great Hall, there is a raucous feast in progress: dancing, drinking, gorging, whoring, wolfing down enough pleasures to last until the war is done. Everyone knows that time is disappearing like a starving crescent moon. Everyone knows the blood will soon begin flowing. The royal family has a table above all the chaos: Otto, Alicent, and Sir Criston are seated there with grim faces. Aegon is laughing hysterically about something that no one else seems to appreciate. Helaena scurries across the room to take her rightful place in the empty chair beside him.

“Ah, the guest of honor!” Aegon booms when he sees you and your husband, tottering to his feet and raising his cup of wine. He is grinning hugely beneath glazed, groggy eyes. He’s not just drunk. He’s ruined. “A toast to my brother, Aemond, the champion in the very first engagement of the war. To the prince, to Vhagar, and to a hasty victory!”

There are dutiful cheers, but when the nobles of Westeros turn to Aemond their faces are not congratulatory; they are wary, mistrustful, repulsed. Even the most fervent supporters of the Greens have trouble stomaching the murder of a child. Aemond’s own face is stone; he is seething, of course, but he hides it well. You take Laurel from him so he can meander through the hall accepting obligatory compliments from the guests: sword-wielding men, blanching women, reticent daughters who are for the first time relieved that it was not one of them he chose to wed. As you make your way to the royal family’s table, you swim in a sea of noxious whispers.

“…Nothing left, I heard…not a single piece…just a head of the other dragon…the boy must have been swallowed…”

“You saw Rhaenyra’s son when he was here, didn’t you? Nothing but a scared little runt…”

“…More like an execution than a battle…”

“Look, not even Aemond’s Mormont wife can summon up enthusiasm for this travesty. When was the last time she wore black to a feast? She’s always in that strange pearlescent color…”

“…Vhagar is five times the dragon Arrax was…”

“I have it on good authority that Rhaenyra was considering terms before what happened at Storm’s End, and now it will be a bloodbath…now all our sons will be expected to bleed…”

“…There is no decency in this…”

“Aemond One-Eye, they call him. Maybe they ought to change it to Aemond the Kinslayer.”

There was a moment—at Aegon’s coronation, at the beginning of the end—when there was a chance for the people to meet Aemond, to witness his gifts, to learn to love him. Now that chance is as dead as Lucerys Velaryon.

You greet Alicent and Otto, then tell them that you’ll return after you’ve put Laurel to bed. It is not customary for young children to attend feasts, nor do you wish to frighten her with all of the unfamiliar sights and scents and sounds…although, and perhaps you should have anticipated this, Laurel doesn’t seem frightened at all.

“Nonsense!” Alicent says, rather ferociously, and gleefully lifts the baby out of your arms. She and Otto pass Laurel back and forth: snuggling her, tickling her, showing her off to mostly-indifferent courtiers. Your adopted family knows that this is one of their last chances to see her before your departure to Dorne. They have been informed of Aemond’s plan—Alicent, Otto, and Sir Criston—and contrary to being outraged (as you had been) they are in agreement that it is a wise course of action. Helaena was not explicitly told, but seems aware of it nonetheless; this morning she was offering you advice about packing lots of light, breathable fabrics. No one has told Aegon yet. Aemond doesn’t want to be the one to do it. You aren’t sure how.

You pick at your food and sip your wine and try to keep your expression as neutral as possible. There is no winning here. If you appear joyful, you are celebrating the murder of a child; if you are morose, you are betraying your husband. In truth, you are neither, and you are both, and you are everything in between. As Aemond traverses the Great Hall, he keeps you on his good side as much as he can. He glances at you—over and over again like the cyclical phases of the moon— storing up visions to be conjured when he is on the field of battle and you are in Starfall, not even a whisper, not even words on a page. He will not be able to visit you until the war is over. He will not be able to send you letters that could be intercepted.

“Should we go see the Iron Throne?” Otto asks in a high, squeaky voice as he struts around with Laurel. “Yes, let’s go see the Iron Throne. Once upon a time, there was a man called Aegon the Conqueror, and you happen to have some of his blood in you. You have his hair too, but that’s a separate story. We can talk about the trials and tribulations of hair later. Now, Aegon was born in…”

A very different Aegon saunters over to you, wine cup in hand. You ignore him.

“You look tense,” he says, swaying. He begins ineptly massaging your shoulders.

“You look wasted.” You swat him away.

“Dance with me, Moonstone,” he begs, plopping down in Aemond’s chair, swigging the last of his wine and then refilling it. “I am soon to be sent off to war. I could be killed, or worse, mortally wounded and rendered incapable of debauchery at the level which I aspire to.”

“No thanks.”

“Why, do you have other plans? Will you be sneaking off to any dusty stairwells? Do you need someone to guard the doorway for you and protect what scraps remain of your honor?”

“I don’t think I’m in the mood tonight.”

“I’m always in the mood,” he says, grinning. “What do you think, did little Luke Strong go down smooth, or are there still bits of him caught in Vhagar’s teeth?”

You see it in a nauseating flash like lightning: that same boy who cowered beside his mother and attempted to defend Jace and loved Rhaena Targaryen reduced to a jumble of blood and bones. That’s really all we are. Beneath the names and the banners and the faiths and the magic, that’s all any of us are. “You’re being cruel.”

“I’m being supportive,” Aegon counters.

You glower at him, half-angry, half-disappointed. The disappointment feels worse. “Why did you have to do this?”

He is genuinely confused. “Do what?”

“This.” You gesture to the feast, the crowds, the tentative praises offered to Aemond like girls climbing—numbly and obediently—into the beds of old men.

Aegon slurs as he speaks. “Look, whether it was the honorable thing to do or not, whether it was the wise thing to do, the Strong boy is dead and nothing can change that. We cannot apologize for it, we cannot disregard it. All that’s left to do is celebrate it.” He clangs his cup against yours. Wine splatters on the tablecloth. “There is one less Black. There is one less dragon for them to burn us alive with. And I have made Aemond a war hero.”

“You have made all of us profoundly uncomfortable.”

Pain rushes into his face like blood to flushed cheeks: true, repentant, defenseless pain. “That was not my intention,” he says softly.

“No, I see that now.” I don’t have much time left with Aegon. I don’t have much time left with any of them. “I’m sorry. And as my act of contrition I will dance with you.”

Aegon smiles again and leads you down into the crowd. You and the king are an island in a sea of depravity. To your right, some Lannister is practically undressing a more-than-enthusiastic Swyft girl. To your left, a Costayne lord has passed out on the floor; people step around him as they twirl and stumble. Aegon grasps your waist—chastely, careful not to offend—with his right hand and weaves his fingers through yours with his left. The music is quick and plucky, almost restless, almost perilous.

“I know I’ve been excessive tonight,” he admits, meaning the wine. “I hope you are not too angry with me. It’s just that I am acutely aware it will be my last chance for a while.”

This is true: there are armies massing, plans being drawn up, new weapons and armor being hammered into existence. Your ship leaves tomorrow. “I forgive you. Your brother will too, although it will take him longer.”

Aemond has at last arrived at the royal family’s table. He has somehow wrestled Laurel away from Otto and has her clutched to his chest as he confers with Sir Criston. Still, he is watching you. “So you remain opposed to the prospect of my untimely demise,” Aegon teases.

“Quite vehemently.”

“And I will continue to have the benefit of your gruesome, illicit spells until all the Blacks’ heads are secured on spikes outside the Red Keep.”

You hesitate. Aegon’s ungainly steps slow. The crowd around you is rowdy and oblivious.

“What’s the matter, witch? Have you embraced a non-heathen religion? Have you renounced the ways of your hairy, half-human, cave-dwelling forefathers?”

“It’s not that,” you say. “I would want nothing more than to help you…if I was able to. If I was staying in King’s Landing.”

He stops completely: a sudden lurch, an inebriated wobble. “What are you talking about?”

“I’ll be going tomorrow.”

He rips his hands away from you. “Going where?” he demands. His eyes are sharp with betrayal.

“Aegon…”

“Going where?”

You answer in a whisper, pained and sorry. “Starfall.”

He whirls and storms out of the Great Hall, tripping occasionally, pushing himself off walls when he careens into them. In the chaos of lust and gluttony, few guests even notice. You chase Aegon out into the hallway. He is moving with truly impressive speed for a man in his condition.

“Aegon, wait!” you call after him.

“Whose idea was this?” he hurls back, still racing through empty corridors. “Aemond’s, right? It couldn’t have been yours. I can’t believe that. You wouldn’t run.”

“Please, just let me explain—”

“Explain what, that you’re abandoning me—?!”

Aemond comes soaring out of a hallway, grabs Aegon, pins him roughly to the wall.

“You can’t send her away!” Aegon pleads, struggling. There are tears spilling down his cheeks. He slaps clumsily at his brother’s face, inflicting no damage whatsoever.

“And who will protect her if she stays?” Aemond says, his voice low and serrated and dark like volcanic glass. “I will be needed in battle, you will be needed in battle, Sir Criston will be leading the infantry, so tell me, who will be here to stand between her and Daemon when he comes to King’s Landing with fire and blood?”

Aegon stops fighting. His white-blond hair shags over his eyes. He is savagely bitter, glaring, hateful. “This is all your fault.”

“You think I don’t know that?”

“Why did you do it then?!” Aegon shouts. “Nobody told you to kill the Strong boy, nobody told you to make this war inevitable and incur the eternal wrath of the Blacks, so why the fuck did you do it?!”

Aemond doesn’t reply, but the truth speaks through the collapsing lines of his face, his shoulders, his spirit. His hands fall away from the king. His rain-blue gaze drops to the floor.

“It wasn’t on purpose,” Aegon realizes with hushed shock, with horror. And then, much louder: “It wasn’t on purpose?!”

“No one can know,” Aemond says.

“Oh gods, oh gods…” Aegon rubs his wet, ruddy face with both hands. “Seven hells, how does that happen?!”

“It doesn’t matter. It’s done.”

“You’re telling me that you possess the largest, most lethal dragon on the planet and you can’t control her?! Someone explain to me how I’m still the family disappointment when I ride Sunfyre around the Crownlands all the time and I’ve never accidentally killed someone!”

Aemond says nothing, but he looks miserable, he looks broken.

“And now you send her away,” Aegon pitches at him. “You take her away from us, from me, not because of anything I did but because you made a mistake, because you fucked up—!”

“It’s not your decision to make.”

“I am the king, every decision is my decision to make—!”

You flee from them as they slice at each other with venomous accusations, blades aimed at hearts and jugulars. You run beneath the torchlight, beneath the fading sounds of music and shouts and the crumbling realities of the world. Nothing will ever be the same again. That thread of fate disappeared down Vhagar’s void-black, scorching throat. We’re not supposed to be attacking each other. We’re supposed to be winning the war.

You know that Laurel’s bedroom will be deserted. You take shelter there, supporting yourself with the railing of her crib, empty except for Frostfyre’s egg. Through forge-hot tears, you stare out the window at the starless blur where Bearstone must be. You have not been there in the three days since Aemond returned from Storm’s End. He doesn’t want you to ride Vhagar. He doesn’t want you anywhere near her. Everything’s falling apart. How can I stop this? How can I stitch us all back together?

You wish there was a way to turn back time. You wish you had known to cast a protection spell for Lucerys Velaryon.

In the window’s glass, you catch a reflection of movement behind you in the dimly-lit bedroom. You catch the flicker of moonlight on metal.

Someone is in here with me. Someone with a blade.

You spin. A man is stepping out of the shadows, broad and black-haired and bearded. For a second, you can only gape at him with slow, stupid bewilderment. This doesn’t feel possible. This doesn’t feel real.

How…?

And then you know. Aegon uses the hidden passageways that crisscross the Red Keep like arteries; and, once upon a time, so had Daemon Targaryen. And this is the man he’s sent to kill you.

Aemond was right, you think, and realize that until now you had never truly believed him.

“Where’s the baby?” the man rasps, only half-illuminated. His dagger glints in the moonshine. “You’re supposed to have a baby with you.”

You reach for your bear-hilt dagger. He lunges for you. The second intruder, the one you still hadn’t known was there, crawls out from under Laurel’s crib and grabs your ankles. You scream like clashing swords, like a gutted animal as they grapple with you and slam you to the floor. You pull your dagger free and stab half-blindly at the larger man’s face as hands clamp over your eyes, your lips. He shrieks when your blade pierces his cheek, nicks his tongue, fills his mouth with blood. He pins your wrist to the floor and coughs up scarlet globs, spits them on you, calls you a bitch and a whore. You bite the hands that cover your face. You try to scream through their murderous fingers and palms. One of them rips your moonstone pendant off your neck, snapping the chain. The men are tearing pieces of your dress away. They are cutting the laces with their daggers. They are talking about what they plan to do to you.

Daemon wants this. Daemon told them to do this.

In his distraction, the larger man’s grip around your wrist loosens: only for a second, but that’s enough. You wrench your hand free and bury your dagger in his eye, all the way to the hilt. He howls and rocks backward, blood and remnants of his eye gushing down his face.

“Just kill the bitch!” he roars at his companion. “Just fucking kill her—!”

The bedroom door bangs open, and through the smaller man’s fingers you can see Aemond and Aegon burst inside. You hear Aemond drawing his sword. You hear the men Daemon sent struggling with him. Aegon drags you to the other side of the room and crouches over you, steadying himself by pressing a hand to the wall, wine and sweat oozing from his pores.

“No no no no!” the smaller man screeches as Aemond’s sword comes whistling down. The man’s skull is suddenly no longer attached to spine; his head rolls away with thick, sickening thuds. His blade still dripping with blood, Aemond turns to the larger man and slits his throat before he can beg for mercy. The bedroom falls into an abrupt silence.

“That is why she has to leave King’s Landing,” Aemond says, pointing to the would-be assassins’ corpses, still breathing heavily. Aegon just gawks in blank, speechless horror. Then Aemond sheaths his sword and gathers you into his arms. You dissolve into tears of fear, exhaustion, pain, shock.

“They were asking about Laurel,” you sob. “They, they, they were sent to kill her too—”

“Shh, she is safe, my love, she is safe. She is with Mother and Otto.”

“I didn’t believe it,” Aegon exhales, sinking to the floor. “I really didn’t…I didn’t think…”

“Double the guard on Mother and Helaena. They go nowhere alone.”

“Yes,” Aegon agrees immediately.

“And my wife sets sail for Starfall tomorrow.”

“Yes,” Aegon says again. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said those things. I’m so sorry.”

“Aegon.” You reach for him, and he comes to you and Aemond on his hands and knees. The three of you sit on the floor together in the bloodied, moonlit quiet. You tuck the king’s hair behind his ear, whisk a tear from his cheek with your thumb, smile with soft, kind sorrow. “I’ll miss you too.”

~~~~~~~~~~

In Blackwater Bay, there is a ship with no destination.

It is small, inconspicuous, loaded with enough supplies for a handful of passengers and a skeleton crew. It is decorated with no banners. It carries no nets for fishing, no treasures for selling, no soldiers for transporting. In times of conflict, it is rare for such a seemingly available vessel to not be requisitioned for the war effort. Not even its captain knows where it is headed. When people—fisherman, traders, passersby—inquire about his purpose, he smirks slyly and replies: “I’m going wherever the wind blows me.”

Most accept this unfulfilling explanation with some mild bafflement, continue on with their business, and promptly let the exchange slip out of their mind like sand through the gaps between fingers. Some pester the captain with further questions until he waves them off. Some chatter innocuously with him about the weather or the sea or who he believes will triumph in the impending war for the Iron Throne. But when several Gold Cloaks from the City Watch happen by, something about this captain and his enigmatic ship catches in their minds like a thorn in flesh. Something about him reminds them of signs they’ve been told to look for.

And just as nearly a year before when Aemond Targaryen publicly announced his scandalous marriage to a willful, insignificant, already-wed daughter of House Mormont, a raven carrying this news finds its way from King’s Landing to the rocky, salt-lashed shores of Dragonstone.

~~~~~~~~~~

Laurel is asleep in a crib in the corner of the bedroom you share with Aemond. Neither of you will allow her out of your sight. The feast has ended, the guests have been sent home to prepare for combat, the castle has been searched from top to bottom, from the godswood to the Great Hall to the weblike design of secret passageways. There are no other intruders. You are safe. There are guards stationed outside the bedroom door, guards beneath the windows, guards pacing the gardens. Aemond is sitting up in bed and mending your pendant with a pair of pliers and spare links of silver obtained from the maesters. His long hair falls over his bare shoulders and chest. His eyepatch hangs from a knob on the dresser. His forehead is wrinkled and determined.

You climb into bed beside him, candlelight painting you both with a brush made of heat, rage, lust, devastation, rebirth. “Can I ask you something, Silver?”

“Anything.”

You graze his face—you’re so fucking beautiful—with the backs of your fingers, first his good side, and then his ragged scar. “Why a sapphire?”

“Because of Symeon Star-Eyes.”

“I regret to remind you that you have married an uncultured Northerner.”

He smiles, still working on the damaged chain. “He was a knight during the Age of Heroes. He was blinded when he lost both of his eyes, so he replaced them with sapphires. That’s how the singers tell the story, anyway.”

You can picture it with aching clarity: Aemond as a small, lonely, tormented boy consuming book after book about ancient warriors and legendary beasts. He kept every piece of lore he learned about them like secrets, like jewels, like bricks to build himself with. “And he never stopped fighting.”

“And he never stopped fighting.” Aemond finishes the chain and lifts it over your head. The moonstone pendant returns to rest exactly where it belongs. Then your husband tilts your chin, turns your face one way and then the other, his gaze wandering over the bruises and crimson scrapes left by Daemon’s would-be assassins, troubled and pensive. And then he kisses you, his lips gentle.

“I don’t blame you,” you say, resting your forehead against his. “I want to make sure you know that. I don’t blame you for what happened to Luke, or what happened today, or what will happen tomorrow.”

“I just can’t believe I did it. I can’t believe I was that stupid.”

“You weren’t stupid. You were hurt, you were angry.”

“When I was chasing him through the storm…when he was so weak and helpless and I was so powerful…” His eye goes vague and far away. About six years away, you believe. “It was like I was carving out every part of myself that had ever been afraid, ever been harmed: by Luke and Jace, by Rhaenyra, by the world, by my father. It was like I was destroying that child who was once so friendless and overlooked and unchosen.”

“You can’t destroy him, Aemond. He’s you.”

He stares into nothingness. “You would have been safer as Axel Hightower’s wife.”

“I would choose you again. And again, and again.”

“Would you?”

“Always.”

Your lips meet his, delectably slow at first and then faster, bolder, more hungry. He matches your fire with his own. His hands steal beneath your nightgown. Your fingers knot in his hair. His mouth smiles into yours as you straddle him, nip playfully at his lips and tongue, reach down to feel how hard he is.

“Now,” you murmur. “Give me one last good memory to take with me to Starfall.”

~~~~~~~~~~

In the garden, Helaena braids daisies into your hair and introduces you to a walking stick that you pretend not to be repulsed by; you even let it creep up the downy-soft underside of your forearm. In her chambers, Alicent gives you a warm, rather desperate embrace that feels like it goes on forever…and then she offers you a package wrapped in green silk. It is a book she requested from the Citadel about the history of Bear Island. “I thought it might keep you occupied on the journey,” she explains, almost self-consciously. “Perhaps you could even read it to the baby if she is restless.” And in the shadow of the heart tree in the godswood, King Aegon—dreadfully hungover, more racoon-eyed than ever—lounges with you sipping wine and talking about anything except the fact that you’re leaving. At last, it can’t be avoided.

“I don’t feel bad for you, just so you know,” he quips.

You grin. “No?”

“No. You’re going to be sunning yourself on a beach in beautiful, debaucherous Dorne. What’s there to pity? You’ll probably have a dozen paramours by the time Aemond returns for you. You’ll have forgotten all about us. You’ll be clinging to the castle walls begging Aemond to leave you there. He’ll have to pry your fingers free one by one. Now Daeron, that’s someone deserving of sympathy. He’s being dragged out of Oldtown to help us burn cities and butcher men and his great reward, if he survives, will be marrying Floris Baratheon, the realm’s most eligible donkey. His children won’t get dragon eggs. They’ll get bits and bridles.”

You laugh, then peer up at the clouds. “Daeron. I can’t wait to finally meet him one day.”

“You’ll like him. He’s the best of us, clever and kind and unruined. He’s the good one.”

Now you look at Aegon. Both he and Aemond slept with the protection spells you cast for them under their beds last night. It is the last magic you will perform until the war is over. It is the last advantage you can give them. “You’re all the good one.”

It is not until after nightfall when Aemond walks you out to the waiting ship. He wants no witnesses, no rumors. He carries Laurel all the way there; he has to blink the tears from his eye when he surrenders her to the wetnurse. You will take two wetnurses and three handmaidens to Starfall. The ship is stocked with provisions for a trip of several weeks. The captain, an ardent Green, has not been told the destination in advance, nor of your identity; he has been told only that he will be abundantly rewarded, that he will never need to work a day in his life again, that his five children won’t either. Everyone else goes aboard. You and Aemond linger together on the dock under more stars than could ever be named. He is solemn; he is intensely quiet.

“Fear not, husband,” you say. “You cannot rid yourself of me. I am yours for life.”

“For life,” he echoes, kissing you, filling himself with you like you’re the air in his lungs, the marrow in his bones.

Your fingers brush the bear-hilt dagger at your belt, which you will take to Starfall at his insistence. “I wish I had something more to give you, a piece of me to carry through the war.”

“You have given me enough, Moonstone. You have given me everything.”

“Wait.” You lift off your pendant and stand on your tiptoes to hang it around his neck; you watch the gemstone, gleaming in the moonlight, settle on his chest by his heart. “I’m coming back,” you tell him, smiling, tears like constellations in your eyes.

Aemond admires the pendant with reverent incredulity, and then he kisses you again: one last time, his hands on your face, you tugging him closer by the collar of his coat, the wind whipping through you both. “Not soon enough. Tomorrow wouldn’t be soon enough.”

You board the ship. He returns alone to the Red Keep, his head down, his arms crossed, his mind presumably lost in the nebulous future.

The captain greets you warmly, and you give him the name of the location you are to be taken too. He nods and confers with the navigator before guiding the ship out into Blackwater Bay. You venture below deck to check on Laurel. She is sleeping peacefully in her cabin, loyally attended by her wetnurses and handmaidens. You study her for a long time—your skin, Aemond’s hair, one tiny balled fist propped against her cheek—before ascending the stairs to watch the firelight of King’s Landing fade into the past.

Sails crack in the wind above you, waves break against the hull below. The moon is obscured by indigo clouds; the night is dark and cool and placid. As you pass Bearstone—rendered nothing more than a murky, inconsequential pool of earth in an endless sea—you think of all the moments you shared there with Aemond, all those sun-drenched afternoons and whispered promises and swims in the sea, all those letters he scrawled to Dornish maesters as you laid dozing beside him, still naked, blissfully content, trusting and oblivious. You will have each other like that again, certainly. You and Laurel will survive the war, and Aemond will win it, and a night will come when the stars shine down on your reunion, flesh and words and soul.

Like knuckles, like a stone, Helaena’s words hit you. If they were solid, they could crack ribs. They are so loud you can hear them, her voice as clear as the lines on your own palms.

Because there is a great deal of fire in your future.

The wind tears viciously at your hair, your eyes, your cheeks. The flames of the ship’s lanterns bend and flicker, never extinguished but always imperiled.

The sea is calling for you.

You lean over the railing at the stern of the ship, contemplating the ocean: the eternal secrets below, the voyages above. This is the same sea that touches the Vale and Dragonstone and Storm’s End. This is the same water that Lucerys Velaryon was killed over.

Stay away from the fire.

You look at the lanterns again. No, that’s not what she meant. You pace frantically around the deck as the Red Keep becomes just a haze in the distance, searching for the source of Helaena’s prophesies. You pry open barrels and crates with your dagger, upturn buckets, study the weblike rigging. You hunt like a wolf, like a killer.

I want to help you.

Help why, Helaena? Help how?

He waits in the lagoon, coiled, red.

Your steps die. There is only one lagoon you know of in King’s Landing. You turn towards Bearstone. There is movement there, but indistinct in the darkness. There is a flapping, a shrill clicking. It grows louder. It approaches, it retreats, it vanishes. And suddenly, randomly, it occurs to you that despite all those protection spells you breathed to life under the heart tree, you never thought to cast one for yourself.

Moon on the water, fire in the sky, moon on the water…

The clouds are heaved away from the moon. Silvery light cascades down, dances on the waves, brightens the night. A shape passes high over the ship, blindingly swift and unreadable. Somewhere, there is a sound that could be laughter.

It comes from the sky.

You stare fixedly up into the night. It is a bottomless inky sea, one on top of the other. Your heartbeat is thunder in your ears. Your fingernails bite wounds into your palms. You hear it again: wings, distant cackling, clicking shrieks. And—too late for it to matter—you understand.

~~~~~~~~~~

Aemond’s hand closes around your moonstone pendant as he watches from the window in Laurel’s bedroom. On the dresser hangs his eyepatch. On his face is a smile, just a hint of one. He has ensured your safety, your survival; he has secured his peace offering from the gods. He can envision himself arriving in Starfall in six months or nine months or a year, you barreling out of the castle to meet him, Laurel no longer an infant but a little girl; perhaps she will be walking, babbling, grinning with tiny white teeth. Perhaps she will recognize him.

The ship, its lanterns dots of captive light, is barely visible by the time it sails past the island he now calls Bearstone. It will soon drop over the horizon like a falling star. Aemond half-turns from the window when something wrenches him back: a flicker of motion, an interruption in the moonlight. He leans closer to the glass. Dimly, he can glimpse his own reflection in it.

It is only when Caraxes unleashes his flames that Aemond can see him in the night sky, wings outstretched, blood-red contorted body hovering above the ship. The vessel does not merely burn. It explodes, it is eviscerated, it ceases to exist entirely.

“No!” It is not a scream but a rupturing, a splitting open and hollowing out of the man he could have been in a different world. It is the end. It is the beginning. It is a fire that burns his humanity to ash.

Vhagar, he thinks, the first word he can discern from the clamoring inferno of wrath, grief, madness. Fire and blood. He is faintly aware of gasps and screams spreading like a plague through the Red Keep. Someone is wailing like they are being slaughtered, their organs dismantled piece by piece; his mother, he believes.

He bolts from the room. He is halfway down the hall when Aegon crashes into him, catches him around the waist, knocks him with great difficulty to the floor and fights to keep him there.

“No!” Aemond screams, pulling away. “Let me go, let me go—!”

“Stop it, Aemond, stop!”

And then Sir Criston appears, and Otto, and Alicent; they join the king in restraining Aemond. It takes all four of them to hold him down.

“Let me go!” His voice is raw and mindless, more animal than man. He struggles so forcefully they fear his bones will snap. Aegon grabs his face with both hands.

“Look at me, look, Aemond, look at me!” Aegon pleads. The king is sobbing, panting, frantic. Aemond’s right eye lands on him. His sapphire gleams with cold, soulless fire. “You cannot catch Daemon, he is already headed back to Dragonstone, he—”

Aemond screams again and tries to free himself. They manage to hold on to him. Helaena has materialized in the hallway like a ghost; she is shellshocked, almost catatonic. She says nothing. Her eyes leak constant, soundless tears.

“You cannot catch him,” Aegon repeats patiently, like he’s speaking to a child. “Vhagar cannot catch him, even if you had left the second it happened. Not even Sunfyre can catch him. If we go after him now, he will lead us into a trap on Dragonstone. He has surely planned for that. He is hoping for that. He—”

Aemond claws at the floor, trying to drag himself out of his family’s arms, but a part of him knows it is hopeless. His fingernails leave white lines on the wood, and then ruby ones when his nails tear out. Aemond is not aware of this. He howls and roars and finally collapses. Alicent, weeping freely, strokes his hair. Sir Criston watches her, longing with everything he’s made of to fix this. It cannot be fixed; it is not just shattered pieces, it is ash, it is dust. Otto’s face is a wasteland: desolate, brutal, a million years old.

“Look at me!” Aegon demands, still gripping Aemond’s face, still sobbing. “Aemond, you cannot kill him if you’re already dead. That’s what you want, isn’t it? You want vengeance. You want fire and blood. You want to kill them.”

“Yes,” Aemond chokes out. That’s all he wants. Nothing else exists.

“And I will help you do it,” Aegon vows. “But we cannot do it now. We have to prepare. We have to do this right, or we will not live to see vengeance. Wait for me, Aemond, and I will help you. You can have Daemon, but I want Rhaenyra. And I swear to you in front of all the gods that we will burn them alive.”

Aemond is beyond words, but Aegon can read them in his eye: Yes, I understand, I yield. The last of Aemond’s ferocity vanishes. Sobs pour from his throat. Aegon embraces him. So do Alicent and Sir Criston and Otto and finally Helaena. They cling to each other, bound to the world by a multitude of glimmering strings like a spider’s thread and yet alone. The moonlight floods in. The future, dark, merciless, bathed in dragonfire, dawns like a sun.

And every second of every minute of every day for the next year—as Aemond wages war at Rook’s Rest and Harrenhal, as he burns the Riverlands, as he inspires immeasurable horror and agony and hatred, as he abandons strategy for blind revenge, as he flies to meet Daemon and Caraxes in battle above the God’s Eye—it is still there around his neck: the moonstone pendant, the silver chain.

[bookdragon-shenanigans]

Second Signet Analysis: Distance Wielding

Welcome to the first in a long series of posts where I do a round up of all of the "Violet Second Signet" theories in hopes to provide a (hopefully) complete list of all possible ideas so when Onyx Storm releases you won't be clowned because at least you can say, "Hey! I saw a theory post on this once!". 🤡🤡🤡

So since RY dropped the bomb that violet’s second signet has manifested in IF, my brain has been going BONKERS racking up possible signets. I’ve currently settled down on one theory that I guess could be correct. (Idk honestly) (or at least that’s what I’d write if I was in RY’s place)

VERY BIG DISCLAIMER: Although I try to stay neutral, some things in this post is my personal opinion. You do not need to agree with them and neither am I asking you to.

Anyways with that over, let’s start the analysis.

FOURTH WING/IRON FLAME SPOILERS AHEAD

Obviously the starting post had to be distance wielding because duh.

What is Distance Wielding?

As the name suggests, Distance Wielding lets a rider travel large amounts of distance within a short period of time (I'm going to guess it's just teleporting but with a fancier name?). As RY herself states-

“Are you a distance wielder?” I’ve only read about two riders in all of history who could cross hundreds of miles in a single step. -Rebecca Yarros, Chapter 55, Iron Flame

Now, it is to be mentioned that it was one of the only elements/signets that were actually name dropped during the second signet conversation.

There are many hints that Violet might be a distance wielder:

Violet is often described as extremely quick

There is one scene in Iron Flame which could either be a genius hint or bad editing:

I jolt upright in bed, reaching for my throat and gulping lungful after lungful of air, but there’s no cut, no ache, and when I turn the mage light on with lesser magic and a twist of my hand, I see there’s no blood, either. “Of course there isn’t,” I whisper aloud, the raw sound cutting through the silence of my bedroom as the first hints of sunlight lighten the sky to purple beyond my window. “It’s just a fucking nightmare.” There’s nothing that can touch me here, Xaden asleep beside me. [Xaden isn't supposed to be in Aretia if my timeline is correct.]

 Distance wielding is a signet that “Hasn’t been seen in centuries”. Do you know who also hasn’t been seen in centuries? ANDARNA.

Andarna always says “I’ll be right where you need me” and if that isn’t suspicious then idk what is

My opinion (?):

I was thinking distance wielding for violet at one point too. But then this appeared:

(some parts of quote cut out because it’s irrelevant)

“What’s your signet?” Mom shouts, but I lack the strength to lift my head. “Hasn’t manifested,” Aaric answers in a panic. -Chapter 64, Iron Flame

Now, from a writer's point of view, why would RY mention this line if not for it to be relevant? Aaric has bonded a pretty powerful blue dragon and his signet hasn't manifested.

It adds up to Aaric’s personality too. He ran away from home and is still trying to get away from his father. He's spent the entirety of IF running away. So distance wielding is perfect for him seeing as it can let him travel extremely quick (aka amazing for fleeing)

Anyways, that is all for this one cause the brainstorm has become a brainfog and I cant legitimately think anything rn. Let me know if I missed anything (please 🥺🥺🥺) and other signet theories you have so I can make sure I didn't miss anything!

[serotoninisheldinkiwis]

there's a folk tale in hisui. (PLA SPOILERS)

a prophecy, passed through time itself. it's just whispers and rumors, now, a story told from mother to child to soothe nightmares, legend becoming myth and myth becoming skepticism.

they say a man is coming. a man will be coming to hisui, with a voice such as thunder, loud and booming, with eyes the color of a stormy moon. he will rage once, and when it hits, it hits as a lightning strike, harsh and burning and uncaring of who is in its path. they are told to beware his arrival, but do not cast him out- for where his arrival foretells disaster and chaos, his presence will lead to the solution, preserving the Clans.

with the man will come a child. they will not look special. their arrival is the second warning, the calm before the storm. they will fall, from heights unimaginable, and in their palms they hold the power of the very stars from which they came. they will face an untold darkness, an evil none will know, but their light will burn brighter than any darkness that may befall them.

some versions disagree. many will tell the story as the man having a brother, others will claim that neither are human, something unknown and beyond belief. some will claim that a dragon will come, others claim a god.

the myth has dwindled, told only as it is viewed- a myth, a bedtime story for children.

a golden-haired child looks to his aunt, silver eyes wide as he takes in the story. time passes, he grows old- wide eyes grow bitter, awe shifts to a grim, determined darkness. distortion taints his soul as he flies, tries to reach those stars, grasp their power in his hands.

the sky twists, bends, breaks.

a man falls from the rift, silver eyes wide and confused and lost, voice too-loud for survival and too-sudden. he is silent when he walks, moving as if he takes more Space than he does- yet if you look into his eyes, it's as if lightning streaks across his irises.

three years pass. one night, a comet streaks across the sky.

a girl is found, on the banks of a beach. she knows nothing, yet when you look into her eyes, they shine as the stars would, bright as the sun. no one in the village next to this beach knows of the myth, yet all can agree... something is off about her.

[skyloftian-nutcase]

Malice (Dad Squad)

Fair warning, this does have TotK content but none of it is spoilers. It's all literally stuff from the trailer. But anyway, I had fun writing it. :)

The lurch was absolutely nauseating.

Rusl shivered on his hands and knees, dizzy and disoriented and so unbelievably ill. He'd never been pulled in so many directions at once at such an unimaginable speed. He could barely make out his surroundings, having been torn from the jungle where they'd been wandering.

Taking steadying breaths, Rusl kept his eyes squeezed shut to reorient and not throw up. He remained stiff, not daring to move until the wave of nausea had passed. As his mind slowly stopped spinning,

The grass beneath him was damp, littered with little stones, which was the first thing he noticed. The stones felt... unnaturally shaped. Running a finger along it, he felt the curved edges, the too straight lines framing it.

Cobblestone. Cobblestone with grass growing through it, so withered and worn it was barely there anymore.

More ruins?

Exhaling, Rusl slowly opened his eyes. It was a dismally dark day, wherever they were. Storm clouds brooded overhead, he could tell by the lighting and the damp. Beside him, Abel was laying on the ground staring up at the sky, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. The Fierce Deity was crouched just a pace away from the pair, apparently reorienting faster.

Rusl wasn't surprised.

The Ordonian leaned back on his knees and feet, a trembling hand reaching for Abel's shoulder. "Are you alright?"

"Headache," Abel muttered before sitting up. "I'll be fine. But..."

The Fierce Deity rose to his full height, helping Rusl to his feet. The blacksmith stumbled a little, dizzy at the speed at which the deity lifted him up.

Rusl's companion opened his eyes, glancing around before gasping. "This is--this is just outside of Castle Town! How did--did that item bring us here?"

This was Castle Town?

Rusl looked around again, horrified to see the ruined remains of what should have been a sprawling city. He'd seen pieces of ruins, leftover outposts, a destroyed wagon here and there, but nothing of this magnitude.

Spirits above. He swallowed, suddenly thankful that the Twili invasion hadn't reached this level of destruction.

"But how did we--?" Abel cut himself off abruptly, and Rusl was about to ask what was wrong when he noticed it too.

What was that aura? Why was there ominous mist emitting from all around them, oozing out of the ground like steam from a boiling lake?

The Fierce Deity hissed, collapsing to the ground, a hand clutched to his face.

"Fierce...?" both men made their way to him, hands hovering over him uncertainly.

The deity was trembling, in obvious pain with his sharp teeth bared and eyes glaring into the earth. His hand on his face slid up to his hair, fingers curling around it in a desperate attempt to alleviate whatever was wrong.

"What's wrong?" Abel asked.

Fierce curled in farther, shriveling from their attempts to touch him. "It's the mask."

"What mask?" Rusl questioned.

As the Ordonian tried to figure out what in the blazes was happening, Abel's eyes roamed forward towards the city, and beyond it, to the castle.

"This mist..." he muttered. "It's the same as..."

Rusl looked between Abel and the Fierce Deity, wondering what in the world was happening and how they could fix this. "We need to get him out of here."

"Kill him." Fierce suddenly snarled, pulling away when Rusl tried to reach for his shoulder. "I'll be fine. Get him."

"Who? Who are you talking about?" Rusl asked, growing far more nervous than he cared to feel. He was usually fairly adaptable and had seen so many things that had little explanation in his life, but seeing a war god writhing in pain was beyond unsettling, particularly since he was his friend.

Abel rose, eyes dark. "It can't be..."

Rusl was clearly missing something, a connection that both of his companions had made. Nevertheless, the priority was to help the Fierce Deity, not worry about whoever they were talking about.

Abel clearly didn't seem to understand that, gripping his sword with enough ferocity to make his knuckles white. He marched ahead.

"Abel, what are you doing?" Rusl called. "We have to get Fierce out of here!"

When he got no response from the world weary traveler, he looked back at the deity, who insisted through gritted teeth, "Go with him. I'll be fine."

He looked distinctly not fine, but watching Abel walk into a heavier dark mist made Rusl equally unsettled. The Ordonian sighed. "Get away from here. Find somewhere safe to lay low. I can help you--"

"No," Fierce hissed. "I do not require help. Abel does."

"Fierce--"

"I will retreat as instructed," the deity acquiesced shakily. "But help him."

Abel had almost vanished into the darkness. Rusl bit his tongue, standing stiffly, filled with dread and annoyance. "Fine."

Drawing his blade, he hurried after the former knight, feeling cold dread sink into his bones the closer to the castle he got.

Abel's world was a desolate place, filled with mausoleums for villages, but this place had to be the pinnacle of it all. Rusl didn't want to get any closer. Had those guardian creatures really caused such destruction?

Despite his misgivings, the Ordonian did manage to catch up to Abel, who was slowly descending a stairway into the damp depths beneath the castle.

"I don't understand," Abel said softly as Rusl approached. "There are no guardians here. There's... no sign of anything."

"I'd say this mist is a pretty clear sign," Rusl pointed out, grabbing Abel by the wrist. "As is our friend's ailment. We should go back to him. There's something wrong about this place."

Abel pulled out of Rusl's grip sharply. "I know. It..."

The two men stared at the dark abyss below. Abel's face glowed with equal parts determination and dread. He was just as scared as Rusl, but rather than listening to his gut instinct, he ventured forward.

Rusl sighed. This man was beginning to remind him of Link.

Rusl had been to many a place that gave unnerving auras, but that had always been milder sensations. A feeling of being watched, an innate sense of danger to the area that would linger near dungeons. This... this was something entirely different.

This, for lack of a better word, felt demonic.

Pulling out a lantern, Rusl lit the wick and glanced at his companion. "If you're insistent, we should at least have a means of seeing where we're going."

Abel nodded in thanks before continuing. Rusl sighed and followed him down the stairs.

The farther they went, the sicker Rusl felt. He broke into a cold sweat, shivers racking his body. He'd never had such a visceral reaction to anything - even the Twili barriers that infected his world, despite their wrongness, hadn't made him physically ill. They'd felt more like the sensation of being in the dark, an overbearing heaviness and fear of the unknown, whereas this felt like a violation of body, mind, and soul.

He honestly didn't know how Abel wasn't at least reacting to it. Even the Fierce Deity had been affected. It had crippled him.

Spirits. It had crippled a war god. What were they doing down here?!

"Abel," Rusl tried again. "We should go back."

"What happened to your cheer for exploration?" Abel asked in a monotone, not really asking so much as distractedly challenging. He was far more focused on what was ahead than his companion behind him.

"I have a sense of self preservation," Rusl replied. "We don't know what we're walking into."

"It's like the Calamity," Abel muttered, more to himself than to Rusl. "But it's... I don't understand."

"The Calamity?" Rusl repeated. "The destruction of your land?"

"The Calamity isn't just an event, it's a monster," Abel explained, walking ahead despite his ominous words.

"So... we're walking towards the monster that destroyed the entirety of Hyrule," Rusl supposed with a raised eyebrow, continuing to follow his friend.

Abel huffed, stepping hesitantly as they seemed to reach the bottom of the stairway. "I don't hear any guardians yet."

"Those aren't the Calamity?"

"No. The Calamity used the guardians."

Rusl looked around warily, lantern raised. "So we're potentially looking for a beast that is stronger than guardians. And a single guardian can annihilate both of us."

Abel's shoulders stiffened, and he shook his head. "Dammit, Rusl, I don't know. This... this mist surrounded the capital on the eve of the Calamity. But... then the Calamity happened. Nothing is happening here, except that our companion is falling ill because of it."

"We should be trying to help him," Rusl reasoned.

Abel turned sharply. "This is me helping. He... he said..."

"He said kill him," Rusl repeated, a little disturbed at the words.

Abel grew very still and silent.

"Do you really think we can defeat something that is incapacitating a war god?" Rusl asked solemnly, trying to get through to the knight. "I had an entire resistance to assist me in my journey to save Hyrule, and inevitably it was Link who did the most work."

"Yes. Link. A child." Abel hissed. "We left the fate of our nation in the hands of children and expected them to--"

There was the sound of a foot scuffing on a rock and both men immediately froze. It came from somewhere ahead, vague and distant and bouncing in the chilly air, steadily making its path to them. It moved rhythmically, steps on stone, growing ever quieter.

Someone else was down here.

Someone else was down here and they were walking further into the abyss.

Abel stepped forward, sword at the ready. Rusl followed, armed and on edge.

Who else was down here? Had they heard the two men arguing? Was it just Rusl, or was the mist getting thicker?

The pair walked through some unusual corridors, and though Rusl's lamplight wasn't the best, he could make out odd shapes and figures in the stone. Abel glanced at it in passing, noting it and moving ahead. Neither man spoke at this point, ears peeled for any indication that they had caught up to whoever else was down here.

For such a foreboding place, there was certainly a strange lack of monsters. Rusl didn't know if he should find that reassuring or not.

Finally, the two men descended further and emerged into a large underground cavern of sorts. A strange light shone ahead, dulling Rusl's lamplight to that of a mere stub of a candle. The pair paused, uncertain and leery. Rusl's eyes settled on a strange swirling pattern of light that emitted from a... severed arm? The arm was perched on a half rotted corpse, almost as if it were pushing the corpse to the ground.

As if this place couldn't get any creepier.

Notably, though, Rusl's eyes caught movement. Up by the mummified body were two other figures, their voices lost in the echoes of the large space. All he could make out was that one was a female and one was a male. The male had a sword with an uncomfortably familiar shape to its hilt.

Rusl squinted in the darkness. It was hard to tell from here, but something about the swordsman's blade... he tried to focus more on it but couldn't, not at that distance with the dim light. The Ordonian turned to his companion and saw Abel transfixed at the sight.

"Is... this the Calamity?" he whispered. Was the foe already defeated? Was it trying to recuperate its strength? Who were the two in front of it?

Abel didn't answer. Voices grew louder, a strange sound emitted from ahead of them, and Rusl jumped, turning to look at the scene ahead of him to find that the corpse was moving.

There was a flash of light and the entire room shook. Rusl grabbed on to Abel's arm, pushing both of them against the wall to brace themselves as the entire place seemed to crumble in a flash of red, hellish light.

Abel dove forward, and Rusl yelped, pulling him back and trying to fight his vicious energy.

Abel was frantic; he didn't even seem to notice Rusl was there anymore. Instead, a scream tore out of his throat, desperate and pleading and terrified.

"LINK!"

The ceiling collapsed, and they were sealed into darkness.

[strxnged]

KAZUHA: # lent.

word count. 0.7k. genre. ANGST.

song request by @rainswept: lent — autoheart.

warnings. spoilers for kazuha's backstory.

✧ join my event, tuned to the world's sounds. send me a character and a song and i'll write for you. requests wide open until june 30. ✧

Whether he would admit it or not, Kazuha was running.

“The clouds do not thunder above me,” he would always say. “I only catch the scent of rain and know when it is time to move on.”

That wasn’t the whole reason, but you wouldn’t argue anymore. He had his reasons, of course, with the tragic but “justified” death of his closest friend, and his other friend unwantedly encouraging him to mourn. You eventually gave up on telling him to work through the pain. He was allowing the avoidance to change him at his core. He didn’t want to hear you talk about the duel at the throne, he didn’t want you to tell him to face the truth, and he didn’t want to stay still. Which meant that you didn’t stay still, either. Despite everything, you remained by his side.

Until today.

As much as you loved and cared for Kazuha Kaedehara, he was lost and wandering and dragging you out of the storm's reach with him. After many failed attempts to tell him to leave you behind, today you would be successful. Today his scarlet eyes would do no convincing, his speech of tulle would fall flat. Today you would plead with him to let the darkness of a storm come.

Kazuha seemed to know, too. He was keeping a careful eye on you and his hands fidgeted. You were just outside of a village, one you didn’t mind the prospects of settling down in. But he often faced away from it, to the horizon of the sea.

It was as if he wanted to journey beyond the ends of the earth to avoid the storm.

“A storm is on our tail,” he urged you, absently curling a leaf in his fingers. “We shall go on, indeed?”

You did not speak. He knew the answer.

“Tempests are nearing,

And merciless, gusting threats,

My breaths grow sharper,” he mused. You stood behind his view from where the clouds in the horizon were approaching quickly. They were indeed black, and you could hear rolls of thunder.

“We live in a nation,” you said, “where the threats are not to be ignored.”

He didn’t respond, but his fist clenched and he tilted his head up towards the sky.

“Even fugitives must face their pursuit.”

He shook his head, turning his head just enough so that you could see one of his eyes. “Not like this.”

“Kazuha.”

He fully faced you, eyebrows puckered. “Not like this,” he repeated in a whisper. The wind was picking up and his loose hair swirled around his face.

Your heart felt like a cloth being wrung over a well, but you held fast. “I don’t want to keep running. This has become different from when we started, Kazu. I can’t be involved in your denial like this.”

He shook his head. “I have no reason to wallow in the darkness.”

“You’re not listening!” you cried. Wind tore at your face, drying your tears almost immediately. “You’re going to be running your whole life because you aren’t letting his sacrifice mean anything to you! To us!”

The last time you had seen Kazuha cry was the day of the duel before the throne. But he had later claimed that it was dishonourable to cry over it, and that he must not allow himself to be weighed down by it. Now, the weight was coming over him again, sinking his shoulders and drooping his eyes as the tears fell.

His eyes flashed up to the sky, fear spawning in them at the sight of the grey clouds. Oh, you knew he was so tenderly sensitive to the weather. You knew his connection to the wind had always tormented his soul. But you wished, you prayed, that he would stay.

You felt his hands on your cheeks and his lips on your forehead. Then, he turned away from you again, wiping both his eyes with his wrists. “I must—I must go. Follow me if you will it.”

The rain hit your back, your hair, your cheeks. It soaked and consumed you as you sank to your knees, planting yourself in the grass. But Kazuha ran. His hand had released the leaf and it danced in the wind before settling a few feet before you.

“Come back,” you whispered. You tilted your face and caught the rain in your eyes and the raindrops became your tears. And you became the storm. But Kazuha still ran.

author's note. holy guac, ink, this song was so good and this fic just. like. happened. thank you 100000 times for your request and for introducing to me this song AGHSHFF

please reblog if you enjoyed!

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[intubatedangel]

Code Red - Conclusion

I got a bit carried away with this one. It’s a long chapter, and I did consider splitting it into two, but honeslty felt it wouldn’t work as well in two pieces, it all fits together as a single unit. I really hope it is worth the read, but can’t say much else without spoilers.

I’ll be taking a break from the series after this, I’ve got some non-resus stories I want to try and write while I’m still in the groove, and I need to emotionally recover from such a heavy story.

Story Index  

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8

* * * 

The sky was shrouded with a layer of grey cloud and rain pattered down, drumming lightly on the old slates. It wasn't too hard a shower, spring was more a time of drizzle and persistent light rain, rather than howling storms. Carl watched large drops splash on the ground beneath a crack in the aging cast iron gutter as he sat on the old wooden bench underneath the lean-to porch, situated next to a side door of the small, old church. Anna had often told him that she wasn't religious, but in this part of the world that didn't particularly mean much. In small villages with no other amenities beyond perhaps a pub or inn, the church was simply the place where community events took place. Festivals. Jubilee celebrations.

Weddings.

Funerals.  

Carl shivered as the memory intruded upon him again. He still hadn't been able to shake free of the images, despite counselling. Anna, laid out on the trauma bed, lifeless. Her utterly unmoving heart held between his hands. The sound too. A screaming monitor just behind him. Sarah's sobs as the young nurse cracked.

A hand on his shoulder broke him free of the grim reverie with a jump. Carl looked up to see Roger stood beside him. The nurse gazed down at him with a look in his eyes. Not quite pity, more of understanding with a sad element of helplessness. Which was more than true. They'd talked about it at length on more than one occasion since that day. Roger's presence in Trauma 3 wouldn't have changed anything, and every idea the two of them had come up with to combat the recurrent memories had been a bust. The only thing left to try was deeper, more intensive therapy.

He just had to get through today. Maybe doing that would help all by itself. Carl gave Roger a nod and pushed himself to his feet, throwing off the past and coming fully back to the present. They both stepped up to lean against different thick oak pillars, gazing out through the haze of the rain at the church's graveyard. Anna's adopted family had been a fixture of the village for untold years. There were generations of Swifts buried here.

Roger blew out a breath. "Do you know what you're going to say?" He asked.

Carl nodded, slipping a hand into the inside pocket of his black suit, pulling out a folded piece of paper. "I don't know if I'll be able to though."

"You will." The nurse said, making it seem like a simple statement of fact. A moment later he stood straighter, looking out at the road leading down to the church. Carl followed Roger's gaze, quickly locking on the long black car as it passed behind the trees. Roger turned to him, his hand landing on Carl's shoulder again. "Here she comes. We should get inside."

* * *

THE DAY OF THE ATTACK

Stelling had relented to Carl's request for 5 more minutes with a small nod, easing back from the bed to leave him to it. He turned to look at Mark, or more particularly the rapid infuser.

"Go ahead with another full round of blood products."

"This'll be all we have." The nurse warned.

"Jones will be here." Carl told him. Not that it would matter if they didn't get Anna back by the time the red bags were empty.

Through the conversation Carl's hands had continued to squeeze Anna's heart, palms and fingers pumping the otherwise inactive muscle. He feel the blood in the chambers, a glance at the monitor telling him that Anna's blood pressure, above the aortic clamp at least, was almost at a normal level. They, He, just needed that heart in his grasp to beat on its own.

He glanced at the clock. 2 of those 5 minutes had slid by already. It was so hard to tell time when everyone was so quiet. And when there was so little else to do. It also meant it had been 4 since the last round of adrenaline.

"Get me another round of epi." He said to Trish. "Inject it directly into her heart."

It was a desperate measure. It was a more desperate time. This was already one round beyond the usual maximum. She'd probably bled a few rounds out before they stopped the worst bleeding. As a justification for breaking protocol, it wasn't the best. However, the protocol was based on evidence. Any epi beyond the maximum showed no clear difference to outcomes. But if, technically, that maximum amount hadn't truly made it into her system, maybe giving her one more would make a difference.

Carl kept up the compressions while Trish filled the syringe, and stepped up beside him. "Right in there." He indicated with his finger, while still compressing. He was pointing just below where the coronary arteries branched from the aorta, and did his best to keep Trish’s target still as he made sure blood still flowed. The sheer size of the aorta would mean some, maybe even most of the drug would be sent elsewhere, but it also meant the whole heart itself would receive a decent dose at the same time.

Carl desperately hoped it would be enough.

He watched Trish guide the point of the needle towards the indicated point. Her hands were tightly controlled, not even a single tremor. The needle pierced the aorta just above the ventricle, sliding in just a tiny distance. Trish held the barrel with one hand, keeping the tip of the needle where it needed to be, and eased the plunger in with the other. Carl's massage pushed the drug into her system, and her heart.

Trish extracted the needle, stepping clear of Anna's chest, limiting any potential to accidently introduce an infection, in the increasingly vain hope that Anna would survive long enough for that to be a concern. Carl had hoped for an immediate response to the adrenaline, but Anna's heart didn't react.

Come on baby. Come on. Come back to me. Come back to me baby.

He repeated variations on that refrain in his head as he stared at her face.

He never even noticed the moment he started saying it out loud.

"Carl....Carl!"

Everything looked hazy, until he blinked away his tears. As his vision cleared he became aware of everything.

Sarah was sobbing. She'd detached the ambubag and dropped it next to Anna's head. The monitor behind him continued to scream, Anna was still asystolic. Her heart refused to even twitch. It laid there in his hands, lifeless, just like the rest of her body.

The surgeons had stopped working. He raised his head, to see Jones stood inside the trauma room, a large bag slung over one arm. His other was wrapped around Lucy as she buried her face in his shoulder. Trish laid her hand on Carl's elbow. He couldn't look at her.

Instead, his gaze drifted towards Stelling. He didn't expect it, but she looked broken. Her eyes glistened with her own tears. "Carl, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." She took a shuddering breath. "It's been 35 minutes. I...I have to call it." She looked at the clock, one hand gripping part of the sheets in a knot. "Time..." Her voice cracked. "Time of death, 04:17"

* * *

Anna was able to feel Carl's compressions. But not much else. Her abdomen no longer existed to her senses. She did not feel her lungs inflating. The pulses from those compressions had slipped beyond her. She only felt the physical squeezing of her heart by his hands. And even that was fading away from her.

Please don't stop.

Her mental voice had barely the strength of a whisper.

Don't let me go.

She felt so insignificant. She tried to cling to that feeling of her heart being massaged, but it too was beginning to fade. Even though she was in a lightless void, a greater darkness seemed to be drawing in around her.

The squeezing of her heart stopped. Not like her sense of it faded away. It simply stopped.

They had stopped.

No...

She whimpered as that final darkness started to rush in at her.

* * *

Carl's world was ending. Tears tracked down his face, soaking into his mask. He looked at her blank face, her empty eyes.

She can't be gone.

But she was. Her heart, cradled in his hands, lay totally still.

He heard others crying around him, in a far off, disconnected way. He couldn't move, his body frozen.

She's gone. Anna's gone.

* * *

I'm so sorry Carl

The rushing darkness was close to snuffing her out completely. Close to erasing everything she was. Her memories of the past. Her feelings in the present. Her hopes for the future.

No.

All those dreams of times with Carl. Of love. Family. Life.

Not like this.

She wasn't pleading.

She was pissed.

I won't leave him! You hear me! I will NOT go!

Anger had never really come easily to her. It had always seemed like a waste of energy.

Now, she raged, pulling on every memory, every emotion. Every dream.

You think I'm just going to let you take all of that from me?!

She roared at the eternal darkness.

FUCK YOU!

She drew all her rage into a single point and cast it out like a supernova, a brilliant flash in the darkness.

* * *

Anna's heart twitched in his hands. For a long moment he thought he had imagined it. Then it quivered, wriggled, and began to squirm. Carl's head snapped around to the monitor, that persistent whine had gone, replaced by the two tone alarm, and a coarse v-fib was juddering along the screen.

"Charge to 50!" He called out, spinning around to grab the wand like paddles.

"Carl..." He heard Stelling saying something, but he blocked her out. Thankfully Trish had set and charged the defib.

Carl turned to back to Anna, plunging the paddles into her open chest, placing them around her shivering heart.

"Clear!" He shouted, even though no one was touching her. They'd all stood back after giving up.

He pressed the buttons.

Anna's heart spasmed once as the shock jolted through, the muscles throughout her chest giving a tiny jerk. Time almost stopped. Anna's heart fell still. For an agonising, endless moment, it stayed still.

Then it moved.

A co-ordinated contraction, first the atria, then the ventricles.

The monitor bleeped, once, twice, three times. It continued bleeping.

And Anna's heart continued beating.

* * *

She's alive.

Carl finally breathed again, his brain buzzing as thoughts ran into one another. But that was the most important one.

Anna's alive!

"Get the vest! We need to cool her down!" He shouted. Her body was alive, he needed to keep her brain that way too. He looked beside him to Edwards, wordlessly asking for an update.

"Renal artery is grafted, it'll hold for long enough." She said. "We can pack the rest and give her a few hours at least." She said, with a relieved sigh.

"Keep that infuser going, just like you have been." Carl told Mark. It wasn't much of an apology for his earlier forcefulness, but the nurse nodded, his expression offering forgiveness.

"Carl." It was Stelling again. "You need to leave her to us."

"Not yet."

"Now." She didn't shout, but her voice held the same unyielding command he often used. Unsurprising really. He'd learned it from her. "I can forgive your actions so far. But it's time to step aside." She held his gaze for a moment, then looked down at Anna. "We'll do everything we can. I promise."

A small part of his mind snarled at that. She had literally declared the love of his life dead. But he knew the senior doctor well. Where there was real hope, she would fight for her patients. Anna had that hope now.

Finally, Carl stepped back from the bed. His knee's trembled, and he had to place a hand on the crash cart to steady himself for a moment. The last hour had been a chaotic, terrifying, adrenaline rush. With Anna back, and nothing left for him to do, it finally started to hit him. He pulled off the glasses, mask, and gloves, letting them drop to the floor as the nurses followed their orders. He only had eyes for Anna.

Before the bed got too busy he slipped around to the top of the bed, next to Sarah. The nurse was still taking shaky breaths, but she had reattached the ambu-bag. She eased to one side for him, letting him close enough to lean down over Anna's head.

"I love you Anna Swift." He breathed, as he laid a quick gentle kiss on her forehead. "I love you."

He stood straighter, moving out of the way as the nurses arranged the cooling vest. The surgeons were working both sites, packing sterile gauze into her chest and abdomen and preparing to cover the sites temporarily before they took her to the operating theatre. They left the aortic clamp in place for now. He watched on as the whole team worked together to gently lift her up enough to slide the vest underneath her, extracting her shredded clothing at the same time.

He could feel himself trembling, the shock ramping up as he found himself unable to take his eyes off the blood soaked bundle that had been dumped on the floor. He jumped when Stelling put her hand on his arm. "Carl." She said quietly, the stony voice of his boss replaced by the compassion of a friend. "Go and get cleaned up. We'll let you know if anything changes." He struggled to nod, but the comforting squeeze Stelling gave his arm helped.

His legs felt like lead, and there was a constant ringing in his ears. He had to keep glancing at the monitor to confirm it wasn't an alarm as he backed out of the trauma room. Though the windows he watched as they got the vest wrapped around Anna's body and switched the ambu bag for a ventilator. It was one of the hardest things he'd ever had to do, but he finally dragged himself down the hall enough to take her from his view.

* * *

He shuffled down the corridor, pushing through the doors and heading for the staff room. He ignored all of the stares at his bloody clothes. All the questions from nurses and doctors. The words themselves didn't penetrate, but it was clear they knew now that it was Anna in trauma 3. His lack of response probably didn't help them, but he simply couldn't.

He finally made it to the staff room. He trudged to his locker, fingers refusing to cooperate as he manipulated the lock. Eventually he pulled it open. A change of clothes hung there, but he ignored them. Instead, his hands went to his jacket, finding a small box inside one of the pockets. His hand clamped around it, pulling it out.

It was all too much. He staggered back until he managed to brace his hand on one of the sofas, then he sank down until he sat on the floor. His mind was spinning beyond his, beyond anyone’s control. He'd come so close to losing her. He still might.

 He wept.

 He didn't know how many people came through. They said things to him. Gave comforting squeezes on his shoulders. An occasional one sided hug. Some sat by him for a time. It all just passed him by. He simply stared at the bank of lockers. At one in particular. Anna's. Daylight started shining through the lone window, casting a wedge of light across the lockers. To his perception it seemed to jump across lockers in small movements as the sun rose. The rest of the time all he saw was Anna laying on the landing covered in blood. Anna mouthing three words to him. Anna staring past him. Anna with a tube shoved down her throat. Anna receiving deep compressions. Anna with her chest open and her heart in his hands.

Finally, someone managed to break through to him. They had been sat beside him for a while. And he'd been vaguely aware of a conversation between the one next to him and someone else. He just wanted them to go away. To leave him alone. But they wouldn't. The person moved to kneel in front of him.  

"Carl. Come on mate." He said, shaking Carl's shoulder, first gently then more aggressively. "Don't make me slap you."

Carl blinked, his eyes finally moving to look at Roger.

The nurse let out a breath. "Good. Listen. She's out of surgery. She's still with us. You hear me? She's still with us."

Carl tried to reply, but his mouth was dryer than the Sahara. He opted for a nod.

"That's it. They're gettin' her situated in the ICU, but you're going to have to change before they let you in, yeah?"

Carl glanced down at himself. The blood, Anna’s blood, on his clothing had dried, turning to a coppery colour. He gave another nod. Roger stood, and held out a hand, helping to haul Carl to his feet. Pain shot through his back and legs. The physical sensations helped to pull Carl back together more than the words. He must have winced or groaned.

"Yeah, 6 hours sat on the floor will do that to you." The nurse said, trying for a bit of levity.

It had been that long? Roger kept him steady as Carl found his feet. He finally parted his hands. The small box had left deep indentations in his palms, but he kept it from view. He started towards his still open locker.

"I'll get those. You get into the shower."

Carl's knees protested, but he took a step. He clapped a hand on Roger's shoulder and gave him a nod. He tried to say something but couldn't find the words. He just nodded again.

The nurse reached up and mirrored Carl's gesture. "It's ok mate. I know."

Carl slowly made his way to the shower, not letting the small box out of his grasp, as awkward as it made the process.

* * *

Carl sat beside the ICU bed. Machines whirred and whooshed and chirped around him. But he could only look at the figure on the bed. Anna looked a mess. But an alive mess. The ET tube was still held in her mouth by the tube holder, and she was wrapped up in the cooling vest. He could just see the bandages through the translucent material, taped over her chest and abdomen. But her skin had colour to it, her lips were pink.

The neurologist had been to examine her, but the findings were inconclusive. There was some damage. She'd been in cardiac arrest for more than half an hour. Nobody was getting through that unscathed. But at this point they had no way to tell just what had been affected, or how bad it was. The EEG monitor was encouraging though. A halo of electrodes ringed her hairline, the wires running to the screen that showed good steady spikes. Neurology wasn't his department, he couldn't interpret them to any significant degree, but he knew one thing. Spiky brain waves meant she wasn't brain dead.

A nurse was fluttering around the machines, checking readings, adjusting levels. Carl said nothing while she was there. He simply held Anna's hand. It chilled his fingers a little, with the vest covering her completely, but he could withstand that. Eventually the nurse wrote one last thing on the chart, and with a small smile, she slipped out of the room. Carl watched her go. Then his hand slipped into his pocket.

"I'm sorry." He said to Anna, almost pretending she wasn't unconscious. "I lied to you, earlier." He took a shuddering breath as he pulled out the small box. He shifted her hand, exposing her fingers, and cradled it as he placed the box half in his hand, half in hers. "About the accountants."

He sighed. He could feel the tears prickling his eyes again. "My grandfather. He did leave me a trust, but they didn't need managed. Not today. Or yesterday, I guess." He said with a chuckle that almost became a sob. "He left me a trust that I was only to use for three things. Education. A home. And..."

Carl looked up at Anna's face. Her beautiful face. His heart ached, desperate to see those eyes open.

"And a ring." He whispered, gently opening the small box.

Inside laid a gold band, wide, but not excessively so. With a series of small stones set into the band itself, forming a palindrome of ruby, sapphire, diamond, sapphire, ruby.

He'd seen her admiring it in the window of the jewellers. Seen her wide eyes and radiant smile. That reaction told him everything he needed to know. She wanted him just as much as he wanted her. And that ring was the perfect one for his perfect partner.

"So please. Anna, baby I'm begging you. Please wake up so I can put it on your finger."

* * *

13 MONTHS LATER

Gravel crunched beneath the wheels of the black car as it made its way down to the church. Flowers adorned the trees that lined the trail, bouquets of pink and white. It was a long trail, almost frustrating by the time it pulled up outside the main door. Anna struggled to contain her excitement as her dad stepped out and rounded the back, coming up to her door and helping her out of the vehicle. Anna hid the wince, the scars were still a little tight, but she could bare it, especially today.

"Are you ready Petal?" He asked, looking her in the eyes.

She nodded, struggling to find any appropriate words, before realising that words were mostly meaningless. She reached out and pulled him into a hug.

He chuckled. "I'm so proud of you." He said into her hair. His voice was thick, heavy with love, true pride, and tinged with the memory of how she was a year ago. " Let's go." He whispered, as they both heard the first few notes from the organ.

As they walked into the church Anna was comforted by the steadfast presence of her father. She might have been adopted, but he was her father. Her hand laid on his arm gently, but he held it firm, ready, just in case. It had been a long year, and she was still recovering. The tingles and numbness in her right side could still come unexpectedly.

They stopped just inside the outer door, beneath the stone vaulting. Literal centuries of brides had stood right there, waiting for the right moment in the music. Trish was there, along with Anna's niece and a young boy, barely even 4 years old, one of Carl's cousins. Trish was already crying, a huge smile on her face. She approached tentatively, but Anna accepted the hug without tottering. It was Trish's turn to be unable to speak. She pulled back, nodded, still with the big smile, and hugged Anna again.

"You're going to make me late..." Anna whispered to her.

Trish finally retreated with a shared grin, and the organ music launched into the main theme. Trish shepherded the children around the corner, leaving Anna and her father in the vestibule, waiting for the cue. Her dad laid his hand upon hers, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

"Let's go kiddo."

The music came around to 'the moment' and Anna stepped onto the aisle confidently. She looked around, greeted by the sight of so many familiar faces. Plenty of family, hers and Carl's. Colleagues and friends, the line there was pretty blurred. She didn't want to consider the bill for agency staff the hospital was taking. They hadn't complained though. Perhaps it was the trusts idea of a wedding gift. Even Dr Stelling was there.

It didn't matter how many times Anna told the trauma lead that she understood her actions, the senior doctor was endlessly apologetic. It was genuinely becoming annoying. Part of Anna wanted to grab her by the shoulders and shake her while screaming 'You don't need to apologise again! I would have done the same thing!' She was glad Stelling had allowed Carl to give her that last jolt, but...ugh, I'm over it, why aren't you, she thought.

The steady arm suddenly felt firmer, and Anna caught herself. She hoped nobody noticed. That was the biggest lingering issue. If she got distracted her mind could float off and leave her limbs behind. Totally normal, for someone who had been dead for half an hour, apparently. In time it would hopefully get better. It was still irritating.

But it did force her to focus, and what a sight it was. Carl stood before the altar, in a frankly ...mmmmfff... fitting suit. She was sure she hadn't forgotten a word, an embarrassingly common occurrence in the last year. For once she knew what she saw was beyond such petty things as words.

Many would say it was a pretty standard suit. But with Carl in it... How do you clothe the perfect man?

He'd been the first face she truly saw when she awoke. He'd held her as emotions pulled her apart and she dragged herself back together again, a beacon when communication was almost impossible. He'd held her arm as she took her first steps on wasted legs, steadied her as she relearned balance. He read her favourite books aloud to ease her off to sleep despite the beeps and bongs of various monitors. He had taken her home, to their home, and cradled her when the nightmares came. As she gradually returned to who she once was, he was there. Always waiting, ironically she reflected, patiently, until she was ready for the next step.

It had been a long year, and at times it was terribly hard. But it only served to deepen their love for each other. The ring was on her finger throughout. And, once her recovery permitted, they'd been able to have some moments of ... fun. Considering they were both employed in the medical profession, they ought to have seen it coming. They'd both been terrified when the doctor asked them to come and double check some results from a routine post-'event' exam.

Anna's hand drifted towards her belly, where the bump was only just starting to show, and Carl's joined it as she alighted the small set of steps up to the altar. His fingers lingered for only a moment though, they had ceremonial obligations to fulfil. Anna watched the embrace between Carl and her father, and realised just how bonded the two had become. If, in some bizarro universe she ever tried to divorce Carl, she had no idea who her father would choose.

Roger's presence behind Carl was also an element she would never have foreseen. They'd been colleagues, sure enough. But something around the 'event' had changed their relationship on a fundamental level. Men. They were weird.

And then Carl took her hands, and it was just the two of them. Nobody else mattered. The vicar was giving his spiel, and Anna was slyly glad she could blame the 'event' for her distraction when it came to the parts that actually needed her input. The truth was she didn't care for anything else but him. His eyes. His smile. Him, standing there before her. It took her a moment to realise what the vicar had said, until Carl unfolded a piece of paper. His voice barely wavered as he read out the handwritten vows, and Anna's heart became physically, metaphorically, and eternally, his.

THE END

* * *

There we go, didn’t want to say this upfront in case of spoiling it, but I hope I made some people reading cry as much I did when writing. It’s the ending I always had in mind but it was so intense to write. Hard but exhillirating. I was up to 2:30am doing the first draft because I was so into it. I sincerely hope everyone enjoyed this series, and I will be back with more stories from Anna and Carl eventually.