#Capital Terrace | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sehaedazokla · 5 months ago

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he that dares

part six

premise: Cregan Stark's arrival in King's Landing has brought a new type of chaos to the capital. Lady Tyrell is determined to use the Northern lord to her advantage, but the task might not be as straightforward as it seems.

tags: slowburn, tension, angst, comfort, eventual smut, court politics

chapter warnings: suggestive content

word count: 8.6k

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The balconies that overlook the capital city are one of the loveliest features of the Red Keep. Lady Tyrell finds it rather unlikely that Maegor the Cruel spent much of his time considering the optimally ambient spots to break fast, but it is almost amusing how distinctly suited the terraces are for taking morning meals. It is at her suggestion that Cregan Stark joins her in breaking his fast upon one of such balconies, and while she has chosen the location it is he whom requested to dine together at such an early hour. The matter of the Hightowers still weighing heavily upon his mind, he has hoped to ask after the progress that has been made in communicating with Highgarden upon behalf of the Northern council.

It is as splendid a morning as can be wished; soft sunlight extending out over the rooftops of the city below, a gentle breeze that smells faintly of the sea rustling the vines that climb along the arches that are adhered to the stone railing. A great spread of food has been prepared for them, and while the lady cannot claim to enjoy the earliest hours of the day much, she is reminded then of how sincerely she appreciates the food presented at morning meals. The flaky pastries topped with lightly whipped creams, thick-cut toasts drizzled in honey and topped with fresh fruits, sizzled bacon in long strips that smells faintly of sweet smoke, eggs with their golden yolks glistening and sprinkled with garden herbs and salts. Quite a delicious collection has been brought up at her request, courtesy of having long since formed good relations with the kitchen staff. It is quite a beneficial relationship to invest in, according to her own silent opinion.

With a look of calm pleasure, she begins helping herself to the various foods that sit upon ornamented plates and trays. The gentle serenity upon her face while she carefully selects her breakfast softens Cregan’s eyes – rare is it that she looks so genuinely peaceful. The wind picks up a strand of her loose hair, lifting it languidly about her cheeks, and the delicate slip of a gown she wears is a light and neutral shade. It is a picture of natural comfort that he imagines few are fortunate enough to bear witness to, and the quiet delight that pulls at her lips when a bite of puff pastry and cream enters her mouth is not one Cregan shall soon forget. With silent certainty, he resolves to provide an impressive selection of foods for her to break her fast with the next time they dine in the earlier hours.

As a drop of thick cream graces the edge of her rosy lips, it is impossible for the Lord of Winterfell to not notice because of how intently he is gazing after her. His eyes drop to his lap, and after a moment of serious consideration he produces an ivory handkerchief and shifts in his chair so that he might lean in closer to her. Her wide eyes flick up to him in soft question as he extends his arm courteously in a subtle motion towards her mouth. One hand is raised elegantly to her chin, as she herself realizes what he is implying, but before she can brush the sugary substance away Cregan clears his throat quietly.

“May I, my lady?” His brows are drawn low over his eyes, which narrow in thought as he speaks in that warm Northern timbre. The morning wind sweeps strands of red hair against his face, and Lady Tyrell’s hand stills before it can reach the corners of her lips. She stares back at him wary hesitation – a lowering of her chin, a twitch to her bright eyes as they study him carefully. Cregan waits with steady patience, arm still outreached as his handkerchief catches a soft gust, accepting of whatever her answer might be.

Not completely unfamiliar is the tightening of her chest at his words, causing her mind to race as her heartrate upsurges in abrupt uncertainty. A pulse that can be felt thrumming low and deep at the base of her neck and the bend of her wrist, a swallow that passes with some difficulty down her throat which has gone dry. With all the tentativeness of an alley cat allowing a stranger to approach, Lady Tyrell provides the smallest incline of her head to indicate he may proceed as he wishes. It is all Cregan can do to stop the edges of his mouth from twitching upwards.

With utmost seriousness and propriety, his eyes remain firmly drawn to her lips as he presses the soft fabric of his handkerchief to the side of her mouth. She is keenly aware of the way her expression becomes more pliant, her eyes half-lidded and gentler as she allows him a physical closeness she does not usually give to others. His touch is tender; it is with one slow movement that he wipes the cream from her lips. As he leans forward to complete the motion, she once again catches sight of the dotting of warm freckles upon his face, reddish like his hair. When the lord draws away, it is out of habit that her tongue darts forth from her mouth gently to lick at where the sweet cream had been, her lips rolling over top of each other before she takes a quiet breath.

Cregan feels his mouth go dry at the sight of her tongue upon her lips, where his hand had just been only a moment ago.

Poignantly ignoring the coil of heat in his lower stomach at the action, he folds his handkerchief slowly and returns it to his pocket with an especially purposeful inhale through his nose. His hand flexes with tense, displaced energy before he returns his attention to the generous plates of food that have been set atop the white linen of the embroidered tablecloth. As he reaches for a thick strip of the juicy bacon, his eyes remain drawn to his task while he speaks.

“Have you written to your lady mother regarding the matter of the Hightower boy?” Cregan takes his polished silverware into his hands, the metal catching a slight shimmer of bright sunlight. As he slices an egg topped with the crispy meat, he flicks his eyes to meet hers as she nods delicately.

“I sent the raven the day we first spoke of it. I imagine she has already received it and should be sending word in response sooner rather than late.” A hand is lifted to brush loose hair from her face – she has grown used to having it arranged when she dines with others. Much time has passed since she has taken such a casual meal with someone, certainly not in the early hours of the day. Cregan leans forward at this, expression growing warier as the situation fills his mind once more. The lush vines snaking up the stone pillars and archways whisper softly in a light breeze, and the faint murmur of raised voices can be heard, carried up from the castle and capital by the wind.

It is not that Cregan is mistrustful of her mother, it is only that he does not know the woman. She must be quite capable, to be the acting head of House Tyrell and to have spared them from any amount of loss during the war, but the Lord of Winterfell does not know if this is a comfort or a concern just yet. And the matter of a Hightower hostage is a delicate situation, one even Cregan finds himself unsure upon the morality of. Garmund Hightower is barely older than Cregan’s own son, and yet is to be utilized as such a crucial piece in this securing of peace. “In your opinion, my lady, what will your mother think of such a plot? To weaponize a child in this manner…”

He does not wish to imply that the Lady of Highgarden would possess a gentle, womanly spirit that might prevent her from carrying out such a threat, but Lord Corwyn Corbray has expressed his concern upon the matter to Cregan in private. At his delicate questioning, Lady Tyrell lets out a soft snort of a breath, her eyes glancing up to the stone roofing above them. The ghost of a bitterly wry smile bites at the corners of her mouth, and she parts her lips for a moment, eyes narrowing sardonically as she searches for the words. “There is something to be said about the determination with which my mother leads our House. I would not let her neutrality during the war lead you to think she has no taste for bloodshed. It is pointless loss that she dislikes. She shall deliver the warning to Oldtown, you can be sure of it. Surer yet that she would carry out the promise if she is not obeyed.”

Cregan pauses, halfway through chewing his bacon, eyes meeting hers as she looks back to his face. With a curt nod, he presses his lips together and swallows, having gained a clearer picture of the woman he is dealing with at present. If the Lady of Highgarden is anything alike to her eldest daughter, the Lord of Winterfell feels it is in the Hightowers’ best interest to submit and stand down. “If a peace can be secured, the Realm will be all the more grateful to House Tyrell for it.”

“The Realm’s gratitude is often of unfortunately little value, my lord,” The Lady Tyrell muses with a sparkle of amusement in her eyes as she uses her knife to smooth berry jam onto a flaky biscuit. The red strawberry puree glistens tantalizingly in the clear light of the morning. “Your gratitude, in contrast, has proven delightfully useful.”

In truth, Cregan’s request to dine had been delivered on the premise of discussing the raven sent by her to Highgarden. Yet there is not much to be said upon the matter – she has sent her letter and awaits a response alongside the rest of the acting council. There is no need to sit for an entire meal over an issue that could have been asked after and answered about in a swift exchange. Yet neither of them seems too eager to point this out, nor to rush through the delicious breakfast and lovely morning weather upon the terrace. She watches as Cregan piles fried eggs onto his plate, careful not to break the yolks just yet.

Despite his previous irritation at the thought of being manipulated by her, Cregan finds himself nearly smiling at her words. When she had asked for something in return for her assistance at his council meeting, he had been prepared to sacrifice something that might pain him. It was to his great surprise that she asked for something so genuine and pure in nature, and it has been his honest pleasure to continue to accommodate her over the past two days.

“Princess Jaehaera’s Septa informs me that she has been faring much better since your visiting began.” His remark is tinged with soft approval, the usual gruffness to his tone shifting into a rumbling, melted ease. Both yesterday and the day before, Cregan has been true to his word and brought Lady Tyrell by the Queen’s Chambers to see the princess and spend time with her. On their way out of the rooms last night, the Septa had taken Cregan by the arm, tears in the old woman’s eyes, and graciously thanked him for allowing Jaehaera to see the lady. From the time spent watching Jaehaera and Lady Tyrell together, it is increasingly obvious just how much the two love each other. Cregan cannot help the guilt that fills his heart, knowing that he has been separating them since his arrival at the castle.

The softening on Lady Tyrell’s face comes with a sweet promptness upon hearing the girl’s name. She gives a gentle smile, her eyes dropping to the table as a rush of pride and love swells in a tender crescendo within the often-empty hollow of her chest. “She has always been a tender-hearted child. I cannot imagine how difficult this has been for her.”

With a pause, the lady’s smile wavers with the weight of what the war has cost. She fights back the urge to worry her teeth into the skin of her mouth, instead raising her eyebrows and letting out a soft breath. It is far too early in the morning to allow such heaviness to sit upon her shoulders and her mind – lest she wish to spend the remainder of the day bedridden by the affliction of guilt and sorrow. Instead, she forces her thoughts to return to Jaehaera. “She is exceptionally bright. She learned to read before other children her age, in both the common tongue and Valyrian. I have never had the mind for it, but she took to it so quickly. There is much upon her thoughts, it is only that she is shy.”

It is with a devoted attention that Cregan listens, eyes fixated upon the way her countenance lightens as she speaks of the princess. Within the shadow of the shaded balcony, a spread of delicious morning foods and the sparkle of genuine fondness dancing about her eyes, the Lord of Winterfell experiences the closest thing to peace that has settled upon his weary heart since his arrival to the tumultuous viper’s den that is King’s Landing. Such a feeling is reflected upon his features – his brows raised gently, his jaw eased and loosened as he tilts his head to observe her further. “The princess seems quite comfortable in your presence, my lady. You have a way with her.”

A soft breath of mirth is exhaled from her mouth, her hand absentmindedly stirring a tiny spoon into her morning tea. The cloud of milk she poured disperses into the dark liquid slowly, turning it to a gently creamier shade. Scents of bergamot and floral notes waft up to her nose in dreamlike swirls. “I have known her since she was but a babe. Spending so much time with my own younger sister has helped, since Cassia and I are rather far apart in age. I was seven when she was born.”

“A rather large gap, for siblings of a noble house. Mine own brother was only two youngers my younger, and Sara is but three.” The remark is an easy musing, low and casual as Cregan attends once more to his breakfast. It is simple to get lost in conversation with her, more so now that it is not shrouded in deceit and performance. Lady Tyrell gives a small shrug at this, well aware of how odd it is to have such large gaps with her siblings. While Cassia is seven years her younger, her brother Lyonel is only three. Nineteen years passed between Lady Tyrell’s birth, and the long-awaited birth of the heir of Highgarden.

“it is not for a lack of trying, by any account. My mother did very much wish to provide a son. It only took much longer than intended.” For years, Lady Tyrell had watched silently as her mother consulted with every maester she could find, hoping for some cure to whatever might be causing the seed to not take. As the years went by, it would seem her father’s age might be the problem, but few were willing to suggest this as it is much more commonly accepted to blame the woman. Highgarden had been overjoyed when a second pregnancy finally took, only to be given yet another daughter. Lady Tyrell had not minded in the slightest – a son would have been raised as the heir to House Tyrell and Cassia was instead given to her. A darling sister, the sibling she had always wanted. “My mother tried to shield me from it, afraid it would make me hesitant to have children of my own. But I have always longed for it, in truth. Daughters as much as sons, perhaps out of spite.”

The wry smile upon her lips widens at this, some faint amusement at her own stubbornness dazzling in her eyes before she takes a sip of her tea. Heavy is the breath that falls from Cregan’s lips at her words, heavier yet the way his lids lower slightly over his eyes. It should not be surprising, given how good she is with Jaehaera, but the confirmation of her inclination only serves to strengthen the draw he is becoming increasingly aware of. His lips part – and close at once, despite himself, instead swallowing thickly. A twitch of his jaw is the only indication of anything amiss in his mind. It is with decided intention that he focuses his thoughts upon those better suited to propriety and civility.

“Your lord husband shall be quite fortunate, in that regard.” Is the most restrained phrase he can manage in return. With some great luck, she does not seem to be paying his reaction much mind and is instead staring wistfully out over the city’s rooftops far below, the handle of her teacup held delicately between her fingers.

“Whomever the stranger shall be, I suppose. The prospect of having children with a man I do not know does not sit well with me, I must confess. Yet is it not the burden for all highborn ladies to bear? Complaining of it is for naught.” Lady Tyrell does not seem altogether thrilled at the prospect of a decidedly upcoming betrothal, a curl of her lip showcasing quite plainly how little she desires such a future. A slight sigh finds its way out of her mouth, and she rests her hand upon the palm of her hand, eyes still cast to the horizon. To a gull drifting lazily over the city, wings outstretched upon an ocean-bound wind.

“It is not the most ideal prospect, nay,” There is a gentleness to his tone, a consistent presence at their breakfast that morning that does not go completely unnoticed by her, nor is it commented upon. “Lucky am I, that mine own son was born of love that is true.”

Her eyes return to Cregan’s face at his words, studying it with a soft wistfulness as she notices his attention wander down to his hands. The tenderness with which he speaks of his late wife and young son give her pause, and she cannot help the tendrils of curiosity stirring within her. Such softness and devotion, from a man so stoic and steadfast. “Love.”

It is a quiet echo, floating gingerly between them as a hesitant question. Summoned back from softly nostalgic reminiscing, Cregan returns his attention to her. The wondering in her eyes has an innocent yet weary confusion to it, alighting something warmer within his chest. For all her scheming and her wickedly brilliant mind, he can sense this has eluded her. With a slow blink, he hopes silently not to offend or overstep. “Have you ever been in love, my lady?”

An almost imperceptible breath. The digging of nails into palms, the drop of her eyes. A soft tap of her heeled shoe that is muffled by the light fabrics of her morning gown. A blink as measured as his, when she tilts her chin down and stares wordlessly into her tea. The molten heat of anger, the trickling of a tempered sadness which sizzles upon collision. It is much easier to forget and she is much more suited to banishing such thoughts from her head. A flap of a gull’s wings above and she speaks with a detached and observational cadence. “I thought I was, once. It turns out I am occasionally a terrible judge of character.”

This, Cregan is not expecting to hear. His brows furrow, drawn above his stormy eyes as a look of pensive confusion flickers briefly across his stern countenance. Calloused fingers brush the tip of the fork he holds within his hands, while he briefly considers the unreadable expression upon her face. For all her studying, all her carefully crafted productions, it would seem unlikely for a girl so cautious to be wrong upon such matters. “I do not imagine you misjudging a person.”

“Harboring affection for someone can leave one blind to their true nature. It is not a weakness I am quick to subject myself to. Akin to aiming a sword at my chest, I imagine.” Bitterness wins out amongst her remaining emotions and pulls tightly at her lips and the corners of her eyes that crease with mordant amusement. A curl of her mouth as she sips her tea, allowing the pleasant bitterness to counteract her own sour discontent. “As if one needs more to fear, in such times.”

An offhanded note, said into a half-sipped teacup with a mild raise of her shoulders. But Cregan has seen the weight behind it, the truth of the matter on the few occasions he had seen any semblance of truth prior to that night in her chambers. The anxious way she had gazed up at him, as if afraid he might harm her and there would be nothing she could do to defend herself. And there had been the attempted assault, which Cregan has far from forgotten about. The thought of her unable to protect herself is one that does not sit soundly with him.

“Less to fear if you are the one holding the sword, my lady.” The Lord of Winterfell’s quiet yet steady observation causes her eyes to flicker up to him questioningly as she sets her teacup down upon the saucer. The seriousness in his gaze is not lost upon her, and it is without clarification that she understands the literal sense of the phrase. Tilting her head, a quizzically amused expression flutters onto her face.

“I cannot wield a sword. I am too weak, I have not the build for it.” Lady Tyrell feels an ease at the shift of the conversation, at the ridiculousness of his proposal. Leaning back in her chair, she crosses her legs beneath the skirts of her gown and fixes him with an appraising gaze. The chatter of voices drifts slowly up to the balcony in a more insistent volume, signaling that most of the castle has arisen for the day regardless of debauchery engaged in the previous night. The toasts have gone rather cold, but she selects one for her plate nonetheless.

“You are weak because you have not practiced. The more you practice, the less weak you shall become.” It might have been a biting comment if it came from anyone else, but she knows well enough by now there is no point in searching for cruelly aimed jabs within his words. Only with direct practicality does he speak, and she sees the honest truth in it quite plainly. All she can do is raise her eyebrows in quiet agreement, maneuvering her fork and knife gracefully to cut into her fluffy toast. Cregan watches silently for only a moment, before a smile quite nearly pulls at his lips. “That is something I can remedy, my lady.”

Boots echoing within the quiet passages that snake through the lowers portions of the Red Keep, the Lord of Winterfell is mildly aware of the realization that he might starve if he allows himself to give each free moment of his time to the lady instead of taking meals. His chair had been pushed back as soon as the afternoon meeting concluded and the plans for that evening had been decided upon. The scratch of wood on stone, of click of shoes upon the floor, the unhinging of the lock and he had disappeared. A small glance from one of his retainers, yet no further commentary upon his great rush to the sunlit and silent halls that line the far side of the castle, golden in buttery afternoon sun that falls in warm swoops across the expansive stone. One might think him in a hurry to devour his lunch, with the quickness that his heavy steps carry him down the corridors. Nourishment is indeed what he seeks, albeit for a different organ and of a debatable degree of good for him.

It had been with little thought that he had promised her time in these few moments of respite he savored during the afternoons, usually taken within the silence of his rooms. His dining hours the last two nights had been offered to her as well, so that he might take her to see the Princess Jaehaera. It quite nearly mystifies him, the ease with which he is willing to discard a meal if only to attend to her. It would have, save he swears he has felt the stirrings of this sensation before. Different, this time, but recognizable nonetheless. If only he is not so hesitant to name it, he might have a better grasp upon the situation.

And there it is again within the veins of his heart as he catches sight of her, covered in the warm sun streaming in through the open window in front of her. As if the sun itself has delivered her down from the sky, the edges of her hair and the bow of her lip almost glowing under the golden rays. She, who at night is of starlight, takes so easily to the sun during the daytime hours. The image of her within the Queen’s Ballroom, shimmering silver and soft smiles as a crowd cheers for her, remains prominently painted as a primary reference of her brilliance in his mind. The delicate glow she possesses in the evening, alone or attending to Jaehaera, is the only picture he might think after more often.

She turns at the sound of his approach, eyes flickering to the wooden sword within his hand. In her mind, a debate upon the seriousness of his proposition earlier has been occurring. But as Cregan descends the staircase to meet her in the empty hall, Lady Tyrell finds he is indeed serious after all. As if she should have expected anything less from him, all Northern stoicism and drawn brows. Her hands fold elegantly in front of her gown and she lowers her chin with a look of wary amusement that might be viewed as affectionate if she were not so mistrusting of others.

“Are you quite sure you wish to do this, my lord? I might be wholly unteachable.” Light and goading is the tone with which she addresses him, standing before him with a delicate raise of one eyebrow. Cregan dips his head, his eyes running down her figure for a brief moment as he offers her the pretend sword with an outstretched arm. It is with slow allowance that she sees more of his shrouded Northern wit, those ghosting half-smiles that grace the edges of his mouth as he does his utmost to be a gentleman. Shaking his head, he feels the brushing of her fingers upon his palm as she takes the sword from him.

“You have the mind for warfare. It is only right that you engage in the physicality of it as well, my lady.” A quiet assurance, steady in the consistent manner he always is, his eyes shining in wordless approval as she appraises the wooden sword, her gaze running studiously up its length. It is not too heavy in her hand, designed to mimic a longsword rather than the greatsword occasionally worn upon Cregan’s back. The heirloom weapon of his great house, Ice, which she has only witnessed him bearing when holding court. Her hands slot themselves at the base of the hilt, while she attempts to familiarize herself with the weight of it within her grasp. Uncertainty curls in hazy flickers through her arms as she frowns, unsure of how to mirror the manner that she has seen men hold swords before. This earns her a soft breath of what she might hesitantly deem as amusement from the lord.

It is his natural instinct to correct her poor form, no fault of her own as she has not received instruction before. His figure draws behind her, his broad shoulders eclipsing her back as the scent of cedarwood and leather and the faintest hint of amber rise to her senses. Her grip tightens slightly upon the hilt and Cregan grows still as her shoulders rise, her chest tightening as she inhales a sharp breath. He shall not forget why he is instructing her at all.

“May I?” Heavy and whispered upon his lips. Although she cannot see his face, the breath of his quiet words brushes the top of her hair. It is with a moment of weighty silence that she considers and slowly accepts. There is no point in learning if she does so improperly.

“You may.” Her shoulders square and she raises her chin, loosing her grip upon the wood of the sword as Cregan reaches around her frame with a steady arm. His hand envelopes her much smaller one, encasing it fully as he guides her left hand down to the faux pommel, the wood round and smooth against her skin. Cregan’s hand is warm, calloused from his time spent training and upon the battlefield, yet cradles hers softly as he positions it as he pleases.

His other arm wraps around her slowly, before he pauses once again. Her heartbeat quickens traitorously within her chest and at the pressure points of her wrists at the touch and proximity, her veins thrumming low with his steady presence so close to her. She does not dare to move, does not dare to risk brushing against him further. His right hand hovers above her own as he dips his head, the low cadence of his voice spoken as if a secret. “May I, my lady?”

Hushed repetition in a thick tone, met only with a silent nod this time. Her eyelashes flutter in near annoyance at the intensity of it all: surely, this is not the atmosphere in which men learn to wield their weapons. In that fleeting moment she wonders if she ought to have someone else teach her, someone who did not evoke such an infuriating reaction beneath her warming skin. His fingers close overtop of her right hand, leading it up to rest against the cross-guard. Her eyelids lower, watching the nearly tender manner in which his rough skin waits upon hers. A flicker of heat emanates – as if from a fire, if only in her affected state – from his nearness to her back.

With his step back, taken to better appraise the corrections he has made to her form, she can allow breath to flow freely through her body. Until he moves, she is unaware of the blockage that bottles the air in her lungs. Her eyes remain fixated pointedly on the wooden sword, maintaining the hold that Cregan adjusted.

“Swing it forth, as best you can. Lead with your left foot.” The Lord of Winterfell steps deliberately around her figure, grey eyes narrowing with serious assessment while he watches. His arms are folded sturdily across his chest. With a deep breath, she shifts her legs to maneuver as he instructs, the sword falling through the air with a gentle swish. As a soft wind is produced from the movement, Lady Tyrell is left to stare at the wood. How strange it is, to copy an action she has observed countless times and longed for in equal measure.

Violence is not what she desires, only the power to defend herself fairly. But if the former must be obtained to achieve the latter then she shall not lose sleep upon the matter.

Cregan gives a slow nod at the action, the draw of his brow signaling his approval at her attempt. His eyes rake across her figure, unabashed as he studies her form for areas to critique. Underneath his heavy gaze, her chin lifts unconsciously and her chest flutters with pressing breath. It is with few large strides that he reaches her again, eyes following the curves of her body as she returns to the stance she had been in prior to swinging the wooden sword.

Thus begins his returning correction of her positioning before each time she attempts to wield the sword appropriately. A rush of wind from the swiftness which with she cuts through the air and Cregan is behind her, a whispered asking after her allowance before every touch like a sacred mantra chanted heavy and reverent upon his lips. Each time she forgoes speaking and instead dips her chin in acceptance, not trusting the strength of the words that might escape her mouth. Certainly not when he presses his large hands to the sides of her hips, calloused fingers slotting into the satin of the skirts of her gown as he rotates her lower body to face straight ahead instead of shifting when she moves.

“Nay, do not turn so.” His voice is a low rumble, and he indicates for her to swing again while his hand remain to her hips, the weight of it keeping her from turning as she swings the wood forth again. She can feel the way her body instinctively desires to shift with the movement, but as her hips slide forward Cregan tightens his hold and keeps her still. His chest is nearly pressed to her back, the curve of her brushing precariously against his lower body. There is an almost imperceptible phantom of his breath upon the top of her head as her hips stutter beneath his hands. If she were to turn, his low-lidded eyes and blown pupils might indicate a thought most improper settling within his mind.

“Good, good, my lady.” With a press of his fingers further into the fabric at the words, so tight she might feel the imprint of his thumb into the small of her back, Cregan steps back to watch her once more. Little is to be done about the sweet ache beneath the heavy skirts of her dress, altogether not productive to the end of learning to better hold a sword. And in truth, Cregan does not need to pay such dutiful attention to the movement of her breasts, bound so tightly within her corset that they bounce slightly with each swing, rather than to her hands.

As she grows more familiar with the weight of the wood and the motion of wielding it, the Lord of Winterfell guides her to step forward as she swings. To move her right foot and shift her weight to drift out of the way of any potential incoming attacks. It is not a motion easily done in such heavy clothing, but she shall make do as best she can given the trying circumstances. Indulgence does not suit her, but the heat pulsing insistently between her legs is disinclined to be ignored. It is wholly unfair, the press of his hands to her back as he readjusts her stance, the roughness of his fingers upon the skin of her wrists to guide the wooden sword through the space in front of her. The warmth from the golden sun shining upon the shadowed hall holds no candle to the warmth that blossoms beneath his every touch. He becomes a steady presence at her back.

When she turns her head to ask after the progress she has been making, her breath catches in a silent stumbling within her throat at how close he is. Her eyes drop to his lips, – parted and patient – to the freckles upon his face, and only then to his own eyes. Intently and steadily gazing upon her, with such Northern weight. Lady Tyrell might simply be crushed beneath it this time, as the pressure swells within her chest and plummets.

Cregan is left wholly grateful for the thickness of the skirts that separate her back from the prominent physical manifestation of his own budding need. It is with such sweetness that her lips open, the pink of her tongue plush between them, a rose in every sense. Her bright eyes wide, blinking gently up at him, and the surge of want that courses through his veins at the sight is enough to make him swallow back a quiet noise in his throat. In a desperate, grasping attempt at propriety, at civility, at honor, he draws back slightly before he hears footsteps echoing down the hall.

Lady Tyrell tightens her grip upon the hilt of the sword as an approaching presence shatters whatever heaviness has fallen between them, and she gives him a small nod before extending her arm and returning the sword to Cregan quickly. It is not as if she wishes to be caught training with a weapon, decidedly not a ladylike endeavor, nor alone with a lord, decidedly an even less ladylike endeavor.

“I am grateful for your instruction, my lord.” It is a breath, a rush of words that are exhaled from her diaphragm, as she folds her hands tightly across her front. Squeezing her fingers far too forcefully, she gives him a small dip of her head.

“You are a fast learner. It is no trouble at all.” The only indication of struggle within his voice is that it has somehow deepened as he turns away from her, not eager to show the effects that touching her has upon his body. Quick to depart before she is caught doing something she knows quite well she should not be, she nods to express her gratitude and disappears down the hall in a swirl of soft hair and satin skirts. The scent of vanilla and honey left in her wake leaves Cregan closing his eyes and rubbing his temple.

A crowd gathers within the hall that evening, a hushed and tense murmur buzzing in the great room like a swarm of thousands of roused bees. The torches have been lit and flicker brightly, alongside the ornamental brazier that hangs gracefully from the ceiling, illuminating many a worried face as gossip spreads quick and speculative through the crowds of nobles assembled within the halls. Not as many as might be there for a royal event when lords and ladies throughout the Realm are called to journey to the massive throne room, but all those in the capital at present. So tense is the atmosphere these days, that when called to gather the nobles do so with haste and without question. Ladies turn to their husbands and place their hands worryingly upon their arms, a few of the younger handmaidens whisper behind raised hands to each other. Men exchange deep frowns, their rumbling whispers upon what might transpire low and concerned. The large window behind the throne extends a view to a cloudless night sky.

The twinkle of stars, the shimmer of a silver crescent moon. In front of this sits the object of Lady Tyrell’s great ire, shining coldly as it is backlit by the moonlight. If only she could, the lady would take it upon herself to find the dragon whose fire forged the damned monstrosity and use all one thousand swords to slay it. Never could a chair be worth the price that has been paid, not to her. Helaena had never longed for the power that came with it, and when it had been forced upon her it had driven her to madness and death.

To prevent herself from glaring at the throne with repulsed distaste, the lady occupies herself by composing a discussion with the Lord Benjicot Blackwood. Although rather quiet, the young lord had peaked her attention upon their sole extended encounter within the council chamber. After sending her informational network to produce more knowledge of the lord, she finds him a rather suitable young man. His battle prowess has been echoed by many who witnessed him fight during the Dance, and yet he is known to behave with utmost decorum and respect when off of the field. In fact, he seems nearly shy when he lacks his armor, which Lady Tyrell finds perfectly acceptable.

Although Lord Blackwood seems rather flustered upon her beginning of the conversation, once she is able to bypass the initial awkwardness, they are able to converse rather pleasantly upon a selection of different topics while she studies him discreetly. The young lord is handsome enough, she decides objectively, and House Blackwood shall be in a position of favor with the young prince as they sided with his mother in the war. As he is already the Lord of Raventree Hall, any wife he takes shall immediately become the castle’s Lady. The Lady of a prominent house, in good standing with the new ruler, not lacking in funds nor men. Lady Tyrell does her best to not allow her eyes to glimmer as she questions politely about the lord’s intentions to marry and watches him stumble over his words, clearly lacking any plan. Her darling sister would adore him, this she knows for almost certain. And as the lord is only one year Cassia’s younger, the match would be perfectly ideal.

When the large oak doors swing open, the eyes of every nobleperson in the room turn to the incoming Northerners and voices drop to a hush. Lord Stark is accompanied by Lady Jeyne Arryn and Lord Corwyn Corbray, who follow behind him with neutral expressions as a pathway parts in the crowd to allow them to cross the room towards the staircase before the throne. It is with such ease that Cregan commands the attention and respect of a room, perhaps the loathing of one as well, despite not being of royal blood. As Lady Arryn pauses to speak to Lord Leowyn Corbray, it is Lady Tyrell’s eye that Cregan searches for among the throngs of nobles who have begun speaking amongst one another once again.

The Lord of Winterfell catches sight of her conversing with Lord Blackwood, the soft smile and flutter of her lashes signaling her public persona’s appearance for the convening that evening. As he makes his way to her, towards the head of the throne room, she turns as she grows increasingly aware of the wandering of eyes in her direction. Upon meeting his, the lady realizes that it is becoming habit to speak to Cregan plainly. To do so in front of others would be foolish, but she finds she need not attempt to as Cregan gives Lord Blackwood a rather heavy look and the young lord scrambles off to find the other members of the Northern council. She is left rather alone with Cregan at the head of the room, keenly conscious of how many nobles are boring holes into the pair of them. The torches cast a decadent yet wary light about the room, still fraught with tension.

Yet within Cregan’s eyes, she sees only the silent shimmer of familiar questioning as he narrows them at her. His voice is as low as he can make it, barely a murmur that passes between their ears alone. “You look far too pleased with yourself, my lady.”

The comment quite nearly brings a smile to her lips, but she presses them together a moment longer to prevent it from fully blooming. Instead, she folds her hands together and blinks up at him with soft innocence. “Is it so unimaginable to think that I might simply enjoy a pleasant conversation, Lord Stark?”

“Of course, Lady Tyrell.” With courteous ease and the slow tempo of his tone, Cregan dips his head to indicate he means her no offense, as any gentleman might. The lady takes a deep breath, her eyes flicking over to Lord Blackwood for a moment before she lowers her voice and tilts her head up at Cregan with an almost entertainingly solemn expression upon her delicate features.

“It is only that he seems to be lacking for a wife. And he is such a promising young lord, whose character I have studied and deemed appropriate.” As casually as a comment upon the clearness of the night sky outside the arched windows of the throne room, yet it is far more information than she would normally provide someone regarding her motives. The ghost of a smile once again challenges to grace her lips, but she forces it away, in an attempt to remain neutrally expressive in front of a crowd of so many.

It is clear to her then, fighting at the edges of his mouth as well, that Cregan finds himself facing a similar issue to her own. His eyes shine with the cloaked amusement of knowing, yet his face remains as impassive and stern as ever. Save for the twitch of his brows, and the shift of his jaw as he considers her. Leaning forward so that he might whisper quietly into her ear, his eyes are cast to the ceiling as he speaks. “I might ask you leave Lord Blackwood out of your schemes, my lady, but I can think of far worse fates than to be betrothed to your lady sister.”

The unspoken remainder of the sentence is heavy upon his tongue – if she is near as beautiful as you are. Her eyes flick down to the floor as she attempts not to look pleased at his approval of her idea. A small tilt of her chin as she lets out a tiny, gentle sigh. “I would wish to gain her opinion of him first, but I am afraid I am running short on time.”

The Lady of Highgarden wishes to betroth both of her daughters as quickly as possible, and the lady knows her mother well enough to know that a match with Oldtown is highly coveted. In marrying Cassia to Lord Lyonel, her mother would possess greater influence within House Hightower and could control them far easier. Yet Lyonel is foul-tempered and quick to anger, and if that were not enough to give Lady Tyrell cause to oppose the match, the young lord is obsessed with his father’s young widow. She simply could not allow such a union to proceed, not when it would surely bring her sister such misery. Even if Raventree is further in distance from Highgarden and of a cooler climate, Cassia would be far better suited for a boy such as Lord Benjicot Blackwood.

“If it would please you, I could send Lord Blackwood to treat with House Tyrell on my behalf.” Cregan offers quietly, his eyes searching hers passively as he continues to speak in quiet whispers, to avoid the ears bending with poorly concealed interest in their direction. Her eyes soften, her brows drawing closer gently.

“It would please me, Lord Stark.” The lady murmurs, her eyes holding Cregan’s steadily as he gives a deep hum to indicate his agreement upon the matter. Their gazes remain locked upon each other for a moment longer before the Lord of Winterfell must make his way to the top of the staircase that stands before the Iron Throne. As she turns her attention back to the nobles around her, she discovers with some surprise that Lady Arryn is staring at her quite astutely. The other woman is too far away to have heard their conversation, and yet as she approaches, the lady cannot help but wonder if she somehow knows its nature. Lady Arryn stands beside Lady Tyrell without speaking, instead turning her attention to Cregan, whose presence at the head of the hall has brought the whispers to a hush.

Beneath the imposing throne of swords, his ancestral weapon heavy upon his back, even Lady Tyrell is left to stare at him wordlessly. The picture of strength, reminding every noble in the crowd whom it was who forced King’s Landing into submission and rules it still. The ever-present sternness upon his face is far more serious as he addresses the lords and ladies, his deep voice echoing out into the massive hall. Addressing the nobles as a man of true power, despite the young prince Aegon still maintaining claim to the crown and title. It is trials that the lord announces, much to the shock that ripples through the crowd like a stone upon water. Hushed, worried mutters from those gathered as they immediately begin to surmise the fate of those arrested by the Northerners. Her own concerns are still heavy upon her mind; she has yet to hear of how the Hightowers responded to her mother’s warning. War might still find House Tyrell yet.

Lady Tyrell catches a glimpse of the twin princesses Baela and Rhaena, their faces betraying their own grave concern for their grandfather, Corlys Velaryon. The Sea Snake remains imprisoned, and the lady is unsure as to what his fate shall be. She holds no allegiance to the man, but it would seem that her mother is rather keen to make an ally of him yet. This matter she would have to consult her mother upon further.

Noticing the direction in which her eyes are wandering, the Lady Arryn leans over as Cregan finishes his announcement. “The Lord of Winterfell shall be just in his trial proceedings.”

It is a slight surprise that the older woman addresses her directly, almost as much as Lady Arryn approaching her in the first place. Lady Tyrell blinks for a moment, before dipping her head elegantly, her eyes dropping to the stone floor. “I am sure he shall.”

A polite yet detached offering, given with a sweet smile and a demure posture. Lady Arryn hides nothing in her eyes as she scans the lady with an impassive expression, cool eyes raking across her figure. The direct way that the woman carries herself is of great interest to the Lady Tyrell, as it had been when she had seen Lady Arryn at the council meeting. Even so, she does her utmost to gaze gently back while waiting patiently for the other woman to finish her assessment.

“It is tradition for those of House Stark to carry out the sentences themselves.” Lady Arryn informs her with calm neutrality, expression sharp as she searches for a reaction to this information upon the younger woman’s face.

Lady Tyrell pauses, yet ensures that a saccharine smile remains pleasantly painted onto her lips. Her eyes flicker to Cregan, descending the staircase with heavy steps, and to the greatsword he carries upon his back. Ice is an intimidating size, quite heavy to wield by most standards. She finds she can conjure up an image of him utilizing it with ease, the rippling of his muscular arms and chest as he wields it in battle. And yet the idea of him condemning someone and beheading them himself, rather than deferring to the Southern custom of bequeathing the duty to an executioner, creates a sense of unease in her chest. It is not that she disapproves, if she thinks upon the matter further she will surely find it a rather honorable and accountable action, it is just foreign to her. She remembers then with perfect clarity that despite the North existing as a part of the Realm, it is a place wholly unknown to her and vastly different than the Reach and the capital.

She gives a small breath and nods softly, declining to comment additionally upon the matter as it requires more contemplating. Lady Arryn’s hawkish eyes have not looked away from her visage since Cregan finished speaking, but as Lady Tyrell notices Cregan’s own gaze fixed firmly upon her, it would seem that Lady Arryn does as well. The older woman gives a sigh, her eyes flicking between the two of them for a moment, before she lowers her voice. “It is a shame winter approaches so quickly. I imagine it difficult to adjust to the North in such a time.”

The other woman slips off into the crowd of nobles as they begin to trickle out into the halls, their faces creased with worry and, darker yet, a glimmer of excitement at something new finally happening in the castle they are all but trapped in. Lady Tyrell does not have the opportunity to answer, nor to wonder what Lady Arryn might mean.

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sandybuny · 4 months ago

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got this VS "iron age" build finished and im fuly moved in justt in time for winter 2

the windmill is pretty weak, ill need to build it higher and bigger for more power before i can put other things on the power train (no steel until then...) but for now its better than turning the quern by paw

that tree trunk inside with the bark on it and the candles in front, was a big oak tree i planted shortly after i spawned into this area. ive been treating it like a shrine for the whole year n a half since then, leaving little offerings for it once i got alcohol brewing going, and when i built my big house on that little rise i had to preserve some of it... its now the center post of my home and im going to chisel that basalt block on top into a nice capital for it.

ive been making a point of like only using the space i need, not terraforming lightly (that terrace only got built during winter 1 after my first garden failed to get me thru winter), replanting what trees i cut and not logging too much old growth, but for all its complex systems (it even makes u rotate crops) its a pretty glaring thing that mining all these extremely toxic ores and smelting them has no consequences

another issue, anti wolf propaganda - they attack u unprovoked

#vintage story

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lily0819 · 4 months ago

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🍁 Romantic little things you must do in Quebec: 1, Come to Quebec in autumn to see the maple leaves once, see the layers of forests and the colourful leaves in superb colours! 2、Explore the Fairmont Chateau Fontana Hotel, which is one of the most famous attractions in Quebec.

Take a stroll through Little Champlain, one of the oldest commercial districts, with many art galleries, restaurants and more!

Don't miss the 17th century staircase in Petit Champlain, the oldest staircase in Quebec City.

The National Gallery of Quebec, one of the city's top museums. 6.Eat and drink at the Old Port Market, which is located in the historic harbour district and is filled with food stalls. 7.Visit the Capital Observatory for a stunning view of Quebec City, located on the 31st floor of the Marie-Guyart Building, the tallest building in the city.

Visit Place Royale, underneath the old Quebec cable car, and check out the giant mural. 9: Take a walk on the Dufferin Terrace, a wooden walkway around the Château de la Fontaine with plenty of benches for relaxing. 10、Cathedral of Notre Dame de Quebec, one of the oldest cathedrals in North America. 11、Wander around Old Quebec, hiking is the best way to travel around the city. 12, Walk along Rue Saint-Jean for shopping and coffee, it's really super cosy! 13.Sample the local cuisine, such as cheese fries with gravy or Tortier cheese. 14, Stay at a great [❤️Airbnb] B&B in Quebec!

#canada #autumn #quebec #landscaping #picturesque #picture

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arcielee · 1 year ago

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Quietly, it slips through your fingers

Summary: Rhaena confronts Aemond after dinner. Paring: Aemond Targaryen x Rhaena Targaryen Word Count: 2.7k+ Warnings: Aemond is an asshole, but he is the consent king. Sexual inexperience, kissing, grinding, fingering. Then he is an asshole again. Author's Note: This is dedicated to the wonderful @witheredoffherwitch for always encouraging the brainrot, no matter my ship. Thank you to the amazing, the talented @myfandomprompts for this gif, it is perfection ✨ And thank you to my beloved beta readers @breanime and @aemondtarqaryens. Your comments had me cackling and your feedback let me know I was doing this ship justice. This will only have two parts!

“You should not have stopped me.”

Though her tone was accusatory, Rhaena knew well enough that her sister was only expelling steam, her frustration from the night still kindling the fire in her veins.

Instead, Rhaena said nothing. She followed after her twin and her fury, her own footfalls quiet in the wake of Baela and their father. Daemon peered over his shoulder, a quick glance to catch her gaze, his signature smirk splayed across his lips. He then said to his eldest:

“Your behavior tonight was hardly befitting for a princess,” Rhaena saw how his eyes teased, glittering in the candlelight that lined the corridor, “much less that of the future queen of Westeros.”

His intention worked, as Daemon knew his daughter well. He glowed in the amber light, in the proximity of his progeny. He always saw his reflection in Baela, in her passion that bridled beneath; she was fearsome, though brash, and both quick witted and quick to action. Her temper was a weapon to wield, but could be swayed.

Rhaena knew that their father loved them equally, but Baela was the embodiment of the future of his bloodline, whereas she haunted Daemon with the memory of their mother, Laena. In contrast to her twin, she was a gentle echo of their mother, with the same quiet resolve, a strength kept tucked away. She also had an innate ability to be mindful, to read people in an almost intimate way.

Which was why she knew to step forward and catch her sister around her waist.

Which was why Baela now had an unrest to her steps, but Daemon knew his words would draw the attention onto himself rather than Rhaena.

Baela turned her agitation onto him, the very same eyes that were gifted by his blood now curdled near black with her emotions. Daemon met her gaze, amused, unbothered. Rhaena knew their exchange would rumble the cobblestone of the Keep–heated, albeit respectful of one another. Their father always welcomed it, but also knew how to reign in her passion that thrummed beneath.

“You should have done something,” her lips curled upwards, her tone now taunting the old dragon.

It was then that Rhaena noticed a slip of silver; Aemond–and she was certain, her face burning with her recognition of his now grown form. After their arrival to the capital, she was quick to see that the petulant child she remembered was now matured, lithe and lean and with a grace to his steps that now pulled him into the opposite direction.

Was he following us…?

The audacity sparked something within her. As Baela squared off to their father, Rhaena knew she could slip away in the smoke that rose thick from their egos, the same size of the dragons that they rode.

Her fingers lifted her skirts, allowing purpose to her pace as she followed after the shadow that Aemond made, flitting through the corridors and crevices of Maegor’s Holdfast. His long legs allowed for a long gait, but her boldness borrowed from her twin propelled her own steps after, following him to a tuckaway terrace.

She paused in the archway to watch the almost familiar sight. Aemond had his back to her, hunched to place his large palms on top of the balustrade that caged, knuckles pressed white. The moon above poured over the seclusion, highlighting the silver of his hair, the slow rise and fall of his shoulders as his tension fell away.

“You are lost, princess.” It was not a question, but a statement.

His voice jolted her, rooting her to the stone. The boldness that burned bright was now slipping away with the sea air, spilling off the ledge as Aemond turned around to face her. She was again reminded of how tall he had grown in their time apart, now looming over her. The silver spilling from above conflicted with a sole torch that was lit, casting shadows across his sharp features, a mixture of both menacing and divine.

Aemond stepped towards her. “Why did you follow me?”

Her mind blanked with his question, wiping away whatever had possessed her steps. Rhaena swallowed. “...you know it was not right with what you said tonight,” was what she decided on.

There was something cruel in the way his lips curled–amused almost–and he turned away from her, moving back to look out over at the waves of Blackwater Bay. “Perhaps its implication could be considered indecent by the standards that have been set by the king,” and he looked back over his shoulder, half cast in shadows, his good eye fixating on her. “But I was merely toasting my nephews.”

Rhaena shifted under the weight of his words, of his diction choice when acknowledging his own father–King Viserys. The title had been spoken like it was poison on his tongue. She felt a pull at her heart, the same that had been crafted from her mother. “Regardless of your intention,” her own words were chosen carefully, “I still feel it distracted from the matter he spoke on earlier.”

Aemond sneered. “You also choose to ignore her behavior.”

She would not acknowledge that. Not tonight. “I believe the house of the dragon will fall as long as we remain divided–”

“Are you the emissary they have chosen?”

Aemond was now facing her, his head tilting with his second derisive question of the night. She felt her blood warm with his gaze, with how he conducted himself; the smirk that curled on his lips, his goading tone, and his words brimming with an arrogance. “No, I just thought–”

“Do you truly believe he will be great?” he sneered her words back at her. “Do you truly believe he would give justice to the Lord of the Tides if your grandsire does not recover?”

The subject change was another jolt, and she balked with her response, not that Aemond would have allowed her a chance to say anything in return. “Do you believe he would be fair and just, hm? A spoilt boy who never suffered the repercussions of his actions?”

“We were only children,” Rhaena found her voice, though it was a weak protest. She watched him. “All of us were young and mindless, but passionate of the weight of the words that were chosen–”

“Does this justify what happened?”

She blinked, her eyes watering. “No, but–”

“You have never seen it,” his tone grew low, a murmur as if he was lost in thought. Rhaena saw flashes of that fateful night play in the eye he still had. “Would you like to see the aftermath of the actions inflicted by your beloved?”

Aemond had now pulled away from the edge, a singular step closer to her with his question. To wilt away in this moment would give a sense of satisfaction to accompany his ire, but to gainstand would stoke it further.

So instead, Rhaena remained rooted. Her eyes trailed along his sharp jaw, to the wrathful red that cut underneath his patch worn before settling onto his good eye. “He is not my beloved,” she corrected him. “He is only my betrothed.”

He watched her for a moment, his smirk returning to mask whatever unsaid emotion flitted across his features. His large hand lifted to grab his eyepatch and he pulled it over his head.

She felt her heart tighten in her chest. The rumors that had woven throughout the kingdoms were now confirmed with the gleam of the sapphire stone. The night light and amber that shone from the torch reflected in the gemstone placed in his scarred socket.

Rhaena recalled how at first she felt a kindred sense with her cousin, though this felt a lifetime ago. He carried the same burdened weight of a dragon egg that only turned to stone. Baela had been blessed for her egg to hatch, but Rhaena remained anchored to the earth. As she watched them soar in the heavens above, she swore that she would be a dragonrider like her twin, like her mother and her father, something that was intrinsically knitted in the blood they shared.

Rhaena recalled her fury that burned hot in her veins when she realized her opportunity had been taken. It was a second loss alongside her mother, but it did not excuse her response. After that night, his screams haunted her, tormenting her. Daemon tried what he could, but it was the memory of her mother’s voice, her gentle reminder of how dragons were not pets to be controlled.

And she realized that Vhagar had chosen Aemond, that he paid greatly for this.

He was just a boy. Rhaena dared to close the space between them, until she was certain her hoarse whisper would be heard by him: “Iksan vaoreznuni.”

I am sorry.

She watched the rippled effect of her words wash over Aemond. The trained hatred flashed with the amber glow of the torch, how his brow furrowed with his anger and then his confusion when she pressed even closer to lay her hands on his chest. Rhaena could feel the surge of his adrenaline to her touch, his warmth permeating through his doublet and against her palms. She pressed to the balls of her feet, steadying herself with his tensed frame, and her lips touched the lower part of his scar that cut into his cheek.

It was a moment, it was an eternity. Rhaena could hear the waves roar below, a rhythm that matched her heart beat in response to the intimate gesture she just brazenly showed. She then tilted her head back to look up at Aemond, and found his bicolored gaze boring through her, heating her blood beneath.

His stoicism settled over, mixing with the smoke and the sandalwood that clung to him. All her life she had been praised for her talent to read people as if they were books, but his pages seemed to slip through her fingers, which she slowly began to pull away–

Until Aemond moved to place his hands on top of hers, halting her motion. She could feel the warmth, the calluses that lined his palms, and he leaned closer with a spilled curtain of silver.

He stopped. His exhale fanned her cheeks until she understood his hesitation.

Aemond was allowing her the chance to pull away, to break this moment. He was allowing her a courtesy that most men would never offer; a singular choice to go or to close the space that still existed between.

And so Rhaena kissed him.

It was her first kiss, something tentative and uncertain. Her lips were soft and full, melding against his own so sweetly. Her hands trembled beneath his and he moved to wrap his arms around her waist, pulling her closer. Rhaena felt his lips curl with his kiss, his pace slow and savoring.

Her hands trembled beneath his, and she felt his lips curl upwards, moving to wrap his arms around her waist and pulling her closer, his pace slow and savoring.

She felt her heated blood begin to simmer in her veins, and she moved to wrap her arms around his neck, her body now aching to feel his lithe and lean frame crushing against her. His hands followed the curve of her backside, pulling her even closer, and when she sighed, Aemond dared deepen the kiss, his tongue curling to taste. Rhaena burned when she felt him, thick and heavy and wanting. Her hips rolled against him, begging for friction, and his hand dipped to the small divot between her thighs.

She gasped. “Aemond,” she whispered, breathless against his lips.

Aemond tightened his hold, lifting her enough for staggering steps until she felt the cool stone pressing against her backside. His arms caged her against the wall and her hands grasped to pull him close again, her mouth desperate to capture his own. Her tongue now found a pace with his and Aemond moaned in response; a low rumble, a sensation that rolled down her spine and kindled the heat that was building in her core.

“Aemond, please,” but Rhaena was not even sure of what she was asking for.

While one palm remained on the wall, his other fell to her hip, pressing and moving along her lower abdomen. His hand continued lower, grabbing a fistful of her skirt, his head tilting up with his hushed command against the curve of her neck, “Help me,” and she began to ruck the heavy fabric up around her waist.

Aemond pressed his thigh to guide her legs apart, his hand dipping to cup her clothed cunt. Her thin chemise now melded against the wet warmth that pooled between them, and he pressed his lips to muffle his low groan against her skin; gooseflesh rippled with her response.

Her fingers bit into his shoulders, bracing as he pulled back. Rhaena dared not look at him, still trembling despite his careful touch that slowly pulled at her remaining layers: the hem of her chemise brought up for her to hold, and her smallclothes falling away. The night air was cool against her skin and her vulnerability was fleeting when she heard his breath hitch in his throat.

Rhaena looked to see how the black now eclipsed the lavender of his eye as he took in the sight of her. It rolled over from her grasp of the fabric now bunched around her slender waist, to the curves of her legs and the silver curls nestled between. The golden hue of the flames crackled loud, spilling over her brown skin; a glowing sepia that was smooth and inviting.

She saw his heady stare, the bob of his neck as he swallowed.

Then Aemond surged against her, a delicious pressure that pinned her against the wall, head bowed to press his lips to her collarbone for a kiss. He was gentle, his dexterous gliding through her velvet folds that were slick with her want, and he hummed against her skin as he drew patterns, listening for her response.

His touch sparked through her nerves, her soft sounds spilling against her own volition, and Aemond moved to capture her mouth, swallowing her pleasure. Her hands let go to comb through his hair, knotting at the base of his neck. His heat enveloped her as his pace continued to coax something new, something bright that was thrumming in the marrow of her bones.

“Aemond,” she swallowed the salt air, the perspiration that now gleamed on his neck, the smoke and leather of his scent. “It’s too much…”

He only hummed, his lips finding hers once more to now swallow her surprise as his finger curled within her, shifting so the heel of his palm now pressed against her bloom of nerves above. She mewled with the new touch as he added a second finger, curling in tandem with his first, a sensation licking up her spine and dissipating in the stars above them.

Rhaena gasped, rolling her hips against his hand and he praised her with a rasped, “Sȳz riña.”

She pulled him in for another kiss or else she would scream. It was a searing desperation, a trilling pleasure fluttering and feeding her intrusive thoughts of his lithe and lean form, bare and pressed sinfully against her own. She mewled pitifully and he quickened his ministrations, the come hither curl of his fingers sparking a euphoria she was not even aware existed from the depths of her; it was a quivering release that rattled her bones.

Aemond remained pressed against her, his spine curved to rest his forehead against her own, his other arm moved to anchor around her waist and hold her upright. His hand pulled away from her core, taking the warmth of his touch away, and her layers fell to cover her. He remained close, waiting until her breathing evened, until her grip finally softened its hold.

She ached to kiss him, but he then pulled away, stepping back into the shadows that shrouded the terrace. Rhaena saw his smirk had returned, as arrogant as before.

“If you ever wish to find satisfaction,” his tone was not cruel, but almost teasing. “I am certain you will be able to find me again.”

And he was gone, leaving Rhaena to fall back against the cobblestone, the sea air cooling against the perspiration on her skin.

Taglist (Tumblr kindred spirits): @aaaaaamond @annikin-im-panicin @watercolorskyy @black-dread @fan-goddess @httpsdoll @theromanticegoist @assortedseaglass @amiraisgoingthruit @theoneeyedprince @babyblue711 @itbmojojoejo @girlwith-thepearlearring @lauraneedstochill @theobjectofyourire @troublesomesnitch @hb8301 @snowprincesa1 @namelesslosers @darylandbethfanforever9 @helaelaemond @qyburnsghost

part 2 - arcie's hotd masterlist

#quietly it slips through your fingers #hotd fanfic #hotd fanfiction #aemond targaryen fanfic #aemond targaryen fanfiction #aemond targaryen #rhaena targaryen #aemond x rhaena #rhaena x aemond #rhaemond

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gravity-what · 7 days ago

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A couple of maps to go with Gathering the Dragons!

Map 1: hometowns of each of the Xiaolin Dragons plus their current residence in Luoyang. The dragon represents the yellow sea and is holding a scale of 一千里 (1000 li ~300 miles). The white tiger of the west rests to the western side of the image to give a sense of directionality.

Map 2: a close-up map of Luoyang, capital city of Wei, and some important temples around it. Including the White Horse Temple and the Shaolin Temple. The Vermillion Bird flies to the south giving a sense of direction.

A much more detailed description of the labels on each map are under the cut with each location description written as if it is the third year of the Xiaochang era (aka: 527 ce).

(Again, not necessarily to read this for the story. I just figured someone might be interested in my notes)

ཁྱུང་ལུང་དངུལ་མཁར། - khyung lung dngul mkhar or Kyunglung (abr.) - Meaning: “Valley of the Eagle” also referred to as the “Silver Palace of Garuda Valley”. - Dashi's home town.

Kyunglung is the capital city of the Zhangzhung kingdom. It rests atop a large mesa overlooking three surrounding valleys and, on clear days, the sacred mountain of Gang Rinpoche, also known as Kailash, can easily be seen. While the majority of the farmers and poorest of Kyunglung’s population live within the three surrounding valleys, the mesa itself is home to the wealthy. The mesa top is divided into three terraces: the lowest and largest terrace being the residential district where domestic duties and life occur. The people occupying this terrace being mostly composed of wealthy traders, businessmen, and artisans who travel into the city proper for work. Along with them are their servants, and retainers who maintain the households and everyday duties. The middle terrace is therefore the city proper. The buildings here are mostly comprised of businesses, places of worship, and public areas for gathering. Lastly the upper terrace is reserved for the wealthy elites of the population, those few high-status individuals who had achieved wealth and prestige along with the Zhang Zhung ruling class.

Sources: https://www.penn.museum/sites/expedition/in-the-valley-of-the-eagle/

ཞང་ཞུང་ - Zhang Zhung

A powerful and wealthy empire located within the Gangdisê, Khunu, Gdang La, and Himalaya mountain ranges, high deserts, and plateau’s of the Bod sa mtho (Tibet Plateau). It is located to the west and northwest of Wei and borders the strategically important trade route: the Hexi Corridor. It is considered and important intermediary for trade between the far western societies of Sogdiana, Persia and Helen, the southern empires of the Gupta, Khanate, and Kamarupaof, and and the eastern empires of the Wei, Qi/Liáng, Tuyuhun, and Xiya.

Source: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Zhangzhung

河西走廊 - Hexi Corridor

Stretching from Jìnchéng in the east to Dunhuang city in the west the Hexi Corridor is a key bridge for trade between the Wei empire and the western regions. It is bracketed on the south by Bod sa mtho’s Mdolaringmo and the Róurán to the north. Because of its strategic importance in trade it is also prone to military incursions into Wei and other surrounding empires. For this reason a large section of the Chángchéng was constructed during the previous Han dynasty along the northern side of the corridor to protect travelers and traders from northern raids.

Source: https://www.chinadaily.com.cn/a/202405/31/WS66599489a31082fc043ca4b6.html

晉城 - Jìnchéng - Meaning: Golden City - Guan's home town.

Built during the Han dynasty it has been hailed as the "impenetrable city" of the north. It is a strategic city along the northern ‘Silk Road’ pass, located at the very start of the pass going from east to west. It is slowly starting to become a center for Buddhist study as more people travel through the Hexi Corridor into the city along with being a key trading point for tea and horses. Because of its location it often has trouble with raiders and Rouran armies from the north.

Source: http://lanzhou.china.org.cn/2014-06/30/content_32809186.htm

魏 - Wèi

Imperial dynasty ruled by the Xianbei Tuoba clan. The empire has existed from 386 to the present day and is currently under the rule of Emperor Xiaoming. The main language was Altaic, however, due to efforts by the past and present Wei emperors, the Wei dynasty has slowly started to adopt Han culture and language. Along with these changes Han administrative methods, penal codes, and Taolist and Buddhist religious practices have become common practice and highly encouraged, with the previous Emperor Xuanwu informally making Buddhism the state religion. This adoption of Han beliefs and ideas has only sped up with the recent move of the Capital from Pingcheng to Luoyang in the sixteenth year of the Tàihé era. In addition to this, the Wei Royal family took on the Han name Yuan, abandoning the ‘Touba’ name of their clan. The Royal family has also maintained a policy for many years of arranging the marriages of Han elites to the daughters of Xianbei elites in order to further bring the two cultures together with as many as half of the Xianbei elite women now being married to Han men.

Source: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Northern_Wei

梁 - Liang

The newly created kingdom to the south of Wei. Established in the second year of the Jǐngmíng era after the assassination of Emperor He and (most) of his family at the hands of Xiao Yan. Many of the elites of the former Qi dynasty fled to Wei for asylum during this time of turmoil and uprising.

Source: https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Emperor_Wu_of_Liang

黄河 - Huanghe - Meaning: Yellow River, Murky River, or simply ‘The River’

The pride and sorrow of the Wei empire (and all empires that came before) is the life-blood of the country. According to records its flow used to be clear and crystalline but, sometime in the last few hundred years, it changed to the muddy yellow color for unknown reasons.

Source: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yellow_River

洛陽 - Luòyáng - Xiaolin Dragon’s current home

The Capital City of the Wei empire. It is located on the northern side of the Luo River at the confluence area of the Luo River, the Yi River, and the Yellow River. It is home to over 600,000 people and six Buddhist temples, including the Yǒngníng and Yaoguang Temples within the main-city walls, the White Horse, Jingming, and Qin Tainshung temples all just outside of the city proper. Further, but still within a day or two travel of the city, the – still under construction– Lóngmén grottos, and the newly built Shaolin Temple found at the foot of Wuru Peak of the Song mountains.

Source: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Luoyang

Detailed Map of Luòyáng:

伊 (Yi), 洛 (Luo), 伊洛 (YiLuo) - the convergence of the Yi and Luo rivers to the east of Luoyang creates the YiLuo river which will merge with the Yellow River 59 li to the east.

白馬寺 (Báimǎ sì) - The White Horse Temple - The first Buddhist temple in China, built in the eleventh year of the Yongping era. The temple is named after the two white horses who carried the founding Buddhist monk’s from Gupta to Wei. (Additional Fun note: in 628 ce The Monk Xuanzang, also known as Tang Sanzang began the famous Journey to the West from this temple!) (Source: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/White_Horse_Temple)

龍門石窟 (Lóngmén Shíkū) - Dragon's Gate Grottoes - Carving of these statues began in the sixteenth year of the Tàihé era commissioned. The first cave, named Guyangdong, was excavated and carved by Emperor Xiaowen after moving the Wei capital. The second, third, and fourth caves were done by his successor, Emperor Xuanwu, in the memory of his parents, Emperor Xiaowen and Consort Li, and were named the Binyangsandong. (Source: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Longmen_Grottoes)

少林寺 (shàolínsì) - Shaolin Temple - Located at the base of Wuru peak in Mount Song, this temple was recently founded in the twentieth year of the Taihe era by the monk Batuo who come to Wei through the silk road passage in the seventh year of the Taihe era. Thanks to the sponsorship of Emperor Xiaowen the Shaolin Temple has thrived in its secluded mountain location as a center of study and translation of Buddhist scripture. Recently the renowned monk Bodhidharma, the 28th patriarch of Mahayana Buddhism, has arrived for continued study and teaching at the temple. With him he has also brought with him a unique martial arts style which he has been training the local monks in as exercise.

柔然 - Rouran

The Khaganate state to the north, ruled by a confederation of kaghan with the central ruler being Chiliantouqiudoufa Khagan. They continue to push at the northern borders of the Wei empire with the Hexi Corridor being one of the most contested pieces of territory. However, while battles are being fought in the western territories, some of the Rouran in the central and eastern territories seem to be under the employ of the Wei dynasty. The Rouran are known for being skilled horsemen and for using sorceresses in battle.

Source: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rouran_Khaganate

前张村 - Qianzhang Village - Chase’s home village

A small village on the outskirts of the Tongcheng (铜城镇, Copper Town). It is located on the northern bank of the Huanghe and mostly consists of a small shopping and trading district surrounded by farmland. It is home to a singular Buddhist temple, The Xiangshan Temple (香山寺).

Source: https://zh.wikipedia.org/zh-hans/%E9%93%9C%E5%9F%8E%E8%A1%97%E9%81%93

#xiaolin showdown #chase young #master monk guan #grandmaster dashi #gathering the dragons

28 notes · View notes

misguidedasgardian · 6 months ago

Text

Wildcats (Part XXII)

XXII. The 97th hour

MASTERLIST

Summary: You were running on thin ice, regarding your arrival time in Alexandria.

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Zombie apocalypse AU, living dead, zombies, guts, blood, guns, injures, kissing, longing, angst, fluff, heavy kissing, touch starved reader & Daryl, might miss some important warnings, but you know what this is about

+18, MINORS DNI

Notes: Alright, you are gonna be confused, so… questions at the end of the chapter please jiji

“His finger better not slip”, Alex mumbled close to your ear, as he was patching you up, a few feet away was Daryl, pointing his crossbow at him

“It never does”, you assured him with a soft smile

“How long have you two been together?”, he asked, you winced when the needle punctured your skin, but you put on a brave face

“Not long, a week or so”, you mumble

“Dang”, he mumbled, “how did that happen?”

“He is great, once you get to know him”, you said with a smile, a smile that weirdly pops up only when you think about the archer.

“Uuuffff”, he whistled, “he got you good, didn’t he?”, he teased

“Yeah”, you said happily

“All done”, he said, “I knew it was going to go straight out”, he said like he was proud of himself

“Ah great”, you said mockingly, he took time in placing bandages in your wound, his hands seemed to linger in your skin, you look at him weirdly, you saw him with a sneaky smile on his lips, at the same time Daryl adjusted his posture, tightening his arm, “you are doing it on purpose”, you whispered to him, “stop it”, he laughed

“It's just so funny, riling him up”, he said, he finished placing the bandage, he slapped your arm playfully and sent you on your way.

“Now, new guy, before you get to Alexandria, let me walk you through the chain of command”, said Abraham, they spoke kind of the same language, being military men and all, so you left them to it. Daryl seemed to be relaxed now, so you exchanged looks with him and then you exited the room, and towards the stairs that led to the roof, you felt him following you, so you just kept walking until you were on the terrace.

You looked at the dead city from above, not a light turned on, everything deadly quiet… it was gone… Washington DC was dead…

“What r’ya thinkin?”, you heard Daryl ask behind you

You could tell him, you could tell him that even though your mission was becoming a success that got you clothes, food, materials, weapons and a valuable addition to the club, you were disappointed. As you looked at the dead city, this was the capital of one of the most powerful countries in the world, and it was dead, completely dead, there was no stopping this, there was no hope, and that terrified you.

You never thought the world was going to go back to what it was but… at least… you had hope that maybe one day soon the dead were not going to rise again to eat you. That someone, somewhere, was trying to fix this, that everything wasn’t as lost as it looked.

But things were not looking up…

You could have said that, as you looked back to him, but you only smiled

“Just wanted to see the city… if we could see some lights or something”, you mumbled. He looked uncomfortable now, looking everywhere but at you, “but there’s nothing”, you tried. You quickly realized you had so much to say, and he did look like he wanted to say things too, there was so much you wanted to ask him, that you wanted to talk to him about… but still… nothing…

You had to take that step…

“Everything went well and I still think…”, you took a long breath, “we have medicine, guns, food, clothes, and I still feel disappointed”

“Why?”, he asked, and he seemed interested… truly

“If there was any hope… of ending this… I really thought it was gonna be here”, you whispered, “there is no stopping this… I guess I always hold up hope, but… now I know for sure… we are on our own,” you said, with a lump in your throat

“Yeah”, he said, you turned back and watching him, “there is only us now”, he said softly, looking at you with his piercing eyes, so you smiled at him

“Are you ok with that?”, you asked him, because you were terrified.

“Yeah”, he said, completely sure, he didn’t even think about it. You looked at him and then you understood it, he didn’t feel alone, or completely left out because he never felt “protected” in the first place, by anybody, or anything, it had always been him against the world. “How ‘bout ya?”, he asked

“I’m scared”, you admitted, “but I know…”, you stopped your own words, it was so tiring to have to translate everything before you said it, “being with you all makes it better”, you tried, “I know that with you, I stand a chance, that together, we can fight this”, you tried to explain

You were completely terrified, but… he wrapped his arms around you anyways, at this point it felt like a need, to keep touching each other, the physical contact, was becoming like oxygen for you. It had been so long since you had arms wrapped around you protectively. And Daryl’s felt incredibly right, so good. you wrapped your arms around him too, breathing him in.

You still felt sore all over, your shoulder still burned, especially now with stitches in it, but it stopped suddenly when you felt Daryl’s warmth envelop you.

You stood by his side in silence while he smoked a cigarette, you didn’t like it, neither the smell nor the act itself, but you stood there nonetheless, accompanying him.

When you went back to Alex’s quarters, you heard them, Abraham and him were drinking Whiskey, while Rosita laughed at their occurrences, and Eugene was occupied with an electronic… thing… he found in the mall

“So… Deanna is like the Queen, but Rick is like the prime minister”, he said weirdly

“Something like that”

“Wha’?”, asked Daryl. You only laughed while shaking your head.

“Makes perfect sense”, you said with a laugh, you then turned to Daryl, “Deanna is like the Queen, she is the symbolic power, while Rick is the prime minister, he makes all the real decisions, but they cannot rule without the other”, you said simply.

“Whatever”, he grumbled, he took a seat in the corner of the room, you wanted to join him, but… Rosita joined in with the guys, taking a glass and sipping on some scotch, and you joined in as well… Eugene took out a deck of cards, and you started playing, and drinking… then the instant ramens came out and it was the greatest thing ever. Daryl watched from the corner, staying at the margin, and even though you insisted he joined you, the only thing he did was sit by your side, he didn’t take a drink, he didn’t play cards, but he was there, right by your side.

The very next day, at the crack of dawn, you were ecstatic to return home, but so hungover you could barely keep a thought together. Abraham and Alexander were making an inventory, and loading all of his… guns… including two RPG’s and like three rockets for each… in the trailer of the HUMVEE.

You ransacked the entirety of Alexander’s quarters, everything he had, which were very important things, they all fit in the truck

“I don’t think we should have this ones in Alexandria”, you whispered, your felt Daryl’s gaze on you

“Why?”, he asked

“What if something goes wrong?”, you ask him back. Alex looked at you and nodded

“like what?”, he asked

“Any emergency, we are attacked by another group, or we are forced out by the Alexandrians, or… I don’t know… a hostile takeover happens… anything”

“I know exactly what we should do”, Alexander said with a smile.

“This is bananas”, you mumbled, as you drove the three vehicles to the mall, and used plastic from the hardware store, to wrap the guns, rifles and all, and put them on the bottom of the tanker, it was risky, but at least it was something until you could get them in a safer place. You left one rifle and one of the RPG’s out, because it would be odd if you showed up with Alexander and no arms at all.

You grabbed everything you could carry, all of it, a couple of months worth of food, supplies, medicine, clothes. You grabbed the things you scavenged for yourself… and a little thing you grabbed for Daryl, it was noon when you were done and ready to get back. you passed the 96th hour mark, and that concerned you, are they going to be worried? you could bet on it.

You got inside the passenger seat of the HUMVEE, your shoulder hurts, bad, especially with all the movement, you refused to stand back and you helped carry anything you could get your hands on, the price was that you had to blink away tears because of the sharp pain. But it was worth it, you were lifting your weight, in the mission you requested.

You didn’t even know how you managed to land in this sitting arrangement, you wanted to drive, Alexander said no, but you wanted to ride the HUMVEE, and Daryl was quick to jump in the back seat.

Abraham was driving the tanker, and Rosita the truck, she led the caravan, you were next, and then Abraham in the back.

You were finally going back home, the mission was becoming a success.

With a couple of hours of setback, but… You hoped they would understand why, I mean, only four days was a crime in itself… You barely scraped the surface of the city. You watch the Washington memorial disappear in the rearview mirror, and you hoped you could return soon to keep scavenging

“Well, like I said, the Joint Base Andrews was the last bastion of hope for the military, but soon it was evacuated with the rest, and then, it become overrun, till this day is just… a walking graveyard”, he said, and you nodded shamefully, you were lucky enough to not go there, who knows what could have happened if you did. “Unless you know how to drive a F-22’s I don’t know if it would be worth it…”

“I don’t know how to pilot a war plane, no”, you laughed. You picked up a familiar song through the low-volume radio working on CD’S, “uuuhhh I love this song!”.

“Mee too!”, laughed Alexander

“Girl! It’s been a long time since we’ve been apart! Much too long for a man who needs love, I MISS YOU SINCE I’VE BEEN AWAY!”, you really wanted to sing it, even though you could barely sing happy birthday, but your voice carried and Alexander started singing with you, “Babe, it wasn’t easy to leave alone, It’s getting harder each time that I go… If I HAD TO CHOOSE I WOULD STAY!”, this was one of your favorite tunes, classic rock, passionate lyrics, you looked back and looked at Daryl while you sang, he looked like he could kill someone, but as he caught you staring, and singing, his face completely softened.

“SING IT WITH ME!”, cheered Alexander

“THERE’S NO ONE LIKE YOU! I can't wait for the nights with you! I imagine the things we’ll do! I just want to be loved by you!”, you became incredibly embarrassed because of his confused and blushed face, and looked away, because you couldn’t believe how relatable the song was. Well, Daryl wasn’t a girl but… the rest? It was incredibly similar. But still, he was going to think you were some sort of freak for singing that to him like that….

Oh gods. You kept singing in a low voice, trying to get smaller in the big chair. What was the matter with you? Why were you so horny? since you got to Alexandria, managed to land three meals a day and water and a comfortable bed you were so horny someone could fry an egg over you. Well, being with Daryl didn’t help either, you wanted to be with him…. and you did spend much of your day imagining the things you’d do. He did say that when you were home you could get more personal, you really hoped so.

You shook your head, and started to look away, beyond the vehicle… The setting started to look familiar, trees on both sides of the road, the road dirtier, nature taking over. So you knew you were near home.

“Wow wow”, muttered Alexander and you looked forwards and you saw Rosita slowing down.

“What the hell?”, you muttered, there were people on the road… bikers more like it, a bunch of bikers blocking the road. Your hand went straight for the door handle when you saw Rosita jumping out of the truck with her hands in the air.

“Dixon…”, Alex said, “they can’t see you from here”, but you were spotted as some guy pointed at you to get out, “Are these friends of yours?”, Alex asked, his hands in the air

“No”. You answered, Daryl understood what he meant, he hid behind the seat, and you exited the vehicle as Abraham did behind you, and walked until you were at the front.

“Why don’t you come out, join us in the road?”, asked the leader of them. “That’s great! it's going well right off the gate!”, you already hated this prick. But you didn’t say it outloud, as he and his friends were all armed to the teeth, guns pointed at you. ”Now, step two, hand over your weapons”, he said

“Why?”, asked Abraham

“Well, they're not yours”, he said, and your hand was tickling because of how much you wanted to grab your ax, that you left in the car.

“Oh no? who’s are they?”, asked Alex, as you were becoming angry. This guy, who looks like he could work as a comic book salesman, got serious all of a sudden

“Your property now belongs to Negan”, he said simply, “and if you can get your hands on that plentiful bounty, you're people our person wants to know”, this bastard looked like payday had arrived, wanting all the things you scavenged. “So let's get those sidearms, shall we?”, he walked right at you, the guys behind him, like this? you couldn’t take them down, if you only had the RPG on hand, but at least, Daryl was in the back. You released the silencer from your gun before you handed him, not after giving the angriest look you could muster, he pretended to be scared, and you believed you had never wanted to punch someone in the face as much as him. “Thank you”, he said mockingly.

Alexander held onto his gun when he pretended to give it to him, which pissed this guy off quickly, but he released it with an amused glint. Alex wanted to kill this guy, you could tell and you didn’t even know him. but this guy thanked him too.

Then he went to Abraham, who didn’t even acknowledge him, he just kept looking forwards

“Look if you have to eat shit, best not to nibble. Bite, chew, swallow, repeat. It goes quicker”, Abraham finally gave him his gun, although didn’t bother to say anything. Eugene still had his hand raised in the air, and he was shaking like a leaf, he didn’t have anything on him, and you could tell by his loose clothes.

“Who are you people?”, asked Rosita

“I get the curiosity, but we have questions ourselves. And we'll be the ones asking them while we drive you back to wherever it is you call home. Take a gander at where you hang your hats”, you laughed like he had said the most funny thing, these guys looked back at you like they wanted to kill you, and they probably did.

“Like hell we will”, you grunted, he only looked at you like you had told him the joke of the century, but then just kept going”

“First, though, your shit. What have you got for us? Much for what I can see”. He said, he couldn’t hide his excitement, “a fruitful trip to DC, I gathered?”

“Yeah, why don’t you guys take a trip too?”, Alex said.

“Come on. I mean, can we not, okay?”, he said, “You’ll give me your shit, and then, you will take us to the place you call home”

“Who's Negan?”, asked Abraham. This guy did not appreciate you not taking him seriously.

“Ding, dong. Hell's bells”, he said pathetically, “You see, usually we introduce ourselves by just popping one of you right off the bat”, you shifted on your feet, as Eugene whimpered, “but you seem like reasonable people. I mean, you're sportin' military clothes, for Christ's sake”, said looking at Alex, “and, like I said, we're gonna drive you back to where you were. I mean, do you know how awkward it is carpooling with someone whose friend or friends you've just killed?”, he hissed theatrically.

“Well… we are not taking you anywhere, so”, you said angrily.

“Well then”, he said, he raised his own guns back at you. All his men who had relaxed their stance did so too. “It will have to do with the shit you already have here, right? it’s plenty, and badass trucks too”

“Wait!”, said Eugene, “we can work this out”

“SHUT UP EUGENE!”, Rosita and you screamed at the same time

“It’s Alexandria! IT’S ALEXANDRIA!”, he screamed, shaking violently, “down the road where it connects with…”

“SHUT UP!”, said Abraham, “hold onto your nutsack for once!”, said Abraham

“Good!”, exclaimed the guy, “the one with cars on the outside and big walls? oh yeah, we had our eye on you for a while now”, he said happily, lowering his guns. “See? wasn’t that hard, but you see? the lot of you don’t seem to have the right disposition”, he said

“Let the ladies go, and you and I can go take a ride”, said Alex, but his face looked so intimidating he didn't even make it a joke. “What do you say?”, the leader of the fuckers just chuckled.

“I don't want you to get the wrong impression of me”, he said, placing his hand on his chest, “And I already said that I was gonna waste you… so”, he raised his guns again, as did their men

“Great, just great!”, you said, “I can’t believe we survived the fall of cities… the walking dead, cannibals, and rapists, TO BE TAKEN DOWN BY THE SONS OF ANARCHY TRIBUTE GROUP!”, you said angrily

He was going to shoot you and this time you were not going to survive it.

And then, from one second to the next you were ejected backwards by an explosion.

You landed on the floor as the heat hit you hard. Making you cough and protect your face

The bastards had blown up. You didn't understand what was going on, and then Daryl showed up by the side, in his hands, the RPG. You moaned when you saw him, adrenaline making you feel like you were on fire and your man showing up like this… Sleeveless, showing his powerful arms, on his hands a rocket propelled grenade launcher… All sweaty and bothered…

And he just saved your life

“What a bunch of assholes”, he said, dropping the weapon and coming straight for you, helping you off the floor.

“That was awesome”, laughed Alex, “you saved your ases”, he said, as he and Daryl shook hands in a sign of camaraderie

“That’s what we do”, he said

“Nibble on that!”, said Abraham.

“We are going in”, said Rick, placing a map of DC on top of the table, “the 97th hour is now, and they are not back yet, I want cars all going on on different routes in case we miss them”

“We have to give them a little time, is still early, even if they left Washington, at this hour, they still going to take a bit longer to get here”, said Michonne, who seemed entertained, “I bet they are making the best of the day to scavenge”

“Or they are trapped in a horde”, said Rick. He looked at the new man in the community, who was standing across from him on the table, “what do you think?”, the man seemed surprised, placing a hand on his chest

“Me?”, he asked

“Well, you told us you were from Washington”, he said, “have you been there since this whole thing got worse?”

“No, not really I have been scavenging in smaller places with Laura and Gary”, he said, rubbing his beard, “How many are they?”, he asked

“Five”, Rick said, “they are… strong, they have decent firepower with them…”, he was concerned, truly concerned, if they lost them, he would have lost his right hand man, his brother, Rosita and Abraham, and his canary…

“I say we go”, said Carl, “(y/n) told us exactly where they were gonna go”, he said, pointing at the plan map, “we should go and get them”

“Carl…”

“I bet he agrees, Smith?”, he asked, looking at the man in question, just like Rick

“Look, kid, I’m new here, alright?”, he said, “Don’t make me the odd man out”, he said with a chuckle, “I say we give them till the end of the day, if they don’t come back by then, we go early in the morning, your best guys and gals, lots of firepower”, he said simply. Rick mumbled something positive under his breath

“Rick…”, called Deanna, “we can’t use that many people, they knew the risks…”

“I’m not abandoning them”, siad Rick, “I’ll go myself”

“Good!”, said Carl, “me too”

“No! you will stay here”, Maggie placed a comforting hand in Carl’s shoulder

“They took our best fighters”, said Maggie, “Daryl, Abraham and Rosita”, she said, worried

“I’ll go”, said Tyresse, but Rick wasn’t convinced, Tyresse was a pacifist, he needed muscle. He needed nerves of steel.

“I’ll go”, said Michonne, and Rick then nodded.

“And me”, said Negan, or rather, the name he was going by… Smith. Rick doubted, but he nodded. Negan got out of Deanna’s house with a smirk on his face, that of course he saved for when he was alone, and met his saviors that were with him

“What happened?”, asked Laura

“Five of their guys are missing”, he said, “I convinced them to wait until tomorrow, but they are going in trough route 633”

“Bud’s territory”, said Laura with a soft smile

“Indeed, this will weaken them considerably”, said Negan, “After that, there is only Prick RIck, the chick with the sword… and maybe a couple of others”

Laura and Gary smiled

“I’ll go tomorrow, to make sure they don’t return”, he said, “Then we take the momentum to bring everyone in”

“So soon?”, asked Gary

“Before they can regroup”, said Negan, “we only need to figure out where they keep the guns, it could get messy”, he said.

They were interrupted, when he heard horns outside the gates. Rick came out running out of the house

“IT'S THEM!”, screamed Glenn excitedly, from the gate, and the gates opened to reveal the truck, the box filled to the brim with things, then the HUMVEE, with the cart, and then, the huge tanker.

Rick laughed, laughed in relief when he saw his family coming out of the vehicles.

They all ran to receive you, all of them who were in Deanna’s house and those near.

“WE MADE IT!”, you screamed happily with open arms. Carl beat his dad and came in and hugged you tightly. This is something nice you had gotten accustomed to doing, hug your people goodbye, or hello… because you never knew if you were going to see them again. Michonne hugged you next, and you saw Deanna’s and Rick’s faces, looking at all the things you had brought.

Rick turned to you and hugged you tightly

“See all the stuff we got?”. you asked

“I don’t give a shit, I’m glad you are all back”, he mumbled against your neck, his hand on the back of your head.

The greeting were finally over, so they all turned to the odd man out, Alexander

“Who’s this?”, asked Rick, he looked back at Deanna who was… admiring… Alex

“You must be Deanna”, said Alex, almost bowing to the woman, he grabbed her hand and kissed it, you thought it was too much. “I’m Alexander Price, Sergeant of the US military”, he said quickly, “and you must be Rick”, he said, shooking the hand of your leader, “Your teammates brought me from DC, because they saw in me abilities that could service you as a community, and I could really use a community as well, I’d like to submit myself to whatever test you deem fit to let me be a part of this place”, he said, with a charming smile, you and Daryl shared entertained looks

“Of course Sargeant”, said Deanna, who made you chuckle at the attitude she’s got, like a blushing teenager in front of her crush. She led him towards her house. As Alexander admired everything

“Who's that?”, Rick grabbed your shoulder and you hissed in pain. You were using a V neck, so it was easy for him to spot the wound, “what the hell happened?”

“She got shot”, said Daryl, and they exchanged looks, “Alexander did it”

“WHAT?”, he said, outraged

“We didn’t know him yet!”, you explained.

“We need to talk”, he said, looking at the lot of you.

“We will unload as we do an inventory”, said Glenn, and Rosita and Abraham nodded.

“Yes Sir”, you said then, looking at Rick, and you and Daryl walked back towards your house, in the way… you saw three strange figures

“Looks like the mission is off”, said Rick to the three newbies.

“Your people came back! great!”, this was… an odd looking man, sharp hazel eyes, salt and pepper beard, hair combed back, leather jacket. “My pleasure, my lady, gentlemen”, he said, “My name is Smith, and these are Laura and Gary”, he presented.

You decided you didn’t like them right then and there, it was a hunch, a feeling, that you needed to keep away from them, you didn’t know why

Daryl only nodded, and you just went in your way… You felt his eyes on you as you walked away, but you were probably just imagining things.

“Who the hell is that guy?”, grumbled Daryl, as you three looked back at the new guy walking with such a stance he thought himself to be the owner of the place.

“He and two others approached Glenn and Nicholas while they were out there, they looked pretty roughed up”, he said, “I don’t like this, but Deanna let them in, couldn’t do anything about it”, he said, “but there’s three of them, and a bunch of us, so…”, you left it at that, as you filled Rick in everything that happened, including your recent encounter with those men. He begrudgingly accepted Alex in the community, especially when you told him you had doubled the number of guns, with the handguns from the pentagon and the weapons from Alex, and he also agreed that was going to be kept within you seven, the DC Team and him, and you were going to hide the guns out there.

He also had news… but those were coming the next day, when he could gather everyone again and you six had your rest He insisted…

So you tried your best to have your rest, but after a dinner in your honor, where they spoiled the six of you, you had managed to get your archer in your bed, laying over the covers. Expecting your surprise.

“I have something for you”, you said shyly, he accommodated on the bed and looked at you through his wild hair

“Wha’?”, you smiled

“Promise me you won’t be mad, it’s something I found while I was on our run”, you said softly, “and don’t take this the wrong way, I just saw it and I thought of you”, you said, you revealed a pajama wrapped in a single bow.

“For me?”, he asked, he seemed truly surprised, receiving the gift

“Yeah”, you said, “it was so soft… so I thought of you”, you said softly

“Thanks”, he said, he looked truly touched, and you smiled

“I got something else”, you said, arching one of your eyebrows

“Wha’?”, he asked, laying down again, you grabbed your hoodie, and opened the zipper slowly, revealing to your partner the little lingerie set that you had scavenged with Rosita.

You could already hear Daryl getting angry because you would think about things like that, but no matter, you had a couple of wine glasses for liquid courage, or else you wouldn’t have the bravery to show yourself like this to him.

“Did you really scavenge tha’?”, he asked incredulously, you looked down and you saw your breasts dressed in… well… cheap lace, but lace at least, “instead of…?”

“I’m returning it then”, you said dangerously and he shook his head with a smile, “if it's of any consolation I took one for each of the girls too, so everyone is getting lucky tonight”, you said with a wide smile, “Michonne, Maggie, Rosita, even Tara, I see it as a way to boost morale, very important”

“Come ‘er”, he said, reaching for you, you disposed of your cotton pants revealing the bottom part and you laughed when you heard him growl. You walked slowly to the bed, teasingly, and then you straddled him.

Oh this was it! you were finally going to…, he grabbed you softly and placed you on your side, not in your injured side

“Ya r’injured”, he mumbled, grabbing your thick bedcover and placing it over you.

“Hey but…”, you protested

“nother time”, you felt your cheeks heated and your nose started to tingle, meaning tears were coming… You actually put on freaking lingerie on yourself to please him and he barely even looked at you, he rejected you.

You felt so stupid, and even more stupid to feel like that, but you did.

You wanted to cry

“Ok”, your voice cracked, you hoped he didn’t notice.

But of course he did

“Hey”, he called, but you hid your face from him, “Don’t be upset”, he said gently. You actually threw the bed covers away and jumped off the bed, “hey”, he called softly.

“I can’t sleep on this, the wire is crushing my ribs, and the lace is rubbing in all the wrong ways”, you explained as you walked towards the bathroom. You heard him sigh.

“Why’d you put it on then?”, he asked through the wood of the door. You shook your head as you wiped your tears, and winced in pain when you had to use your injured shoulder to get out of the ensemble, but you wouldn’t ask him for help... You shook your head and grabbed your pajama, put it on quickly, it wasn’t flattering in any way shape or form, it was comfortable as hell though, long sleeve and leg. You then went back to the room and you almost gasped when you found Daryl, wearing the pajama you got for him. It was a black cotton henley, with long leg bottoms, with a tartan in black, green, blue, yellow and red.

“You’right”, he mumbled with a soft smile, “these are comfortable as hell!”, you smiled sadly, and again you walked towards him, he grabbed you in his arms and placed back into the bed, hugging you tightly, “damn”, he grumbled, “is like we are both on clouds”, he whispered.

You had to admit it felt great, so soft, especially when he grabbed you and cuddled deep into you, his leg around yours, his arms wrapped around you like you were a teddy bear. Your head on his chest.

“I don’t think I had pajamas since I as a kid”, he admitted, whispering in your ear

“Really?”, you asked softly

“Mmm”, he grumbled, “before my mom turned to booze”, he whispered, “I can actually remember some nice years, didn’t last long though”

“I’m sorry”, you whispered. You caressed his back, and as in his chest, you could feel ridges… scars… deep ones… you hugged onto him tightly. You wanted to protect him, to prevent anything else from happening to him. He didn’t deserve it, what happened to him.

Now you feel like an asshole.

He wasn’t ready. You kissed his chest, above his neckline, and hugged more into him.

PCN: SURPRISEEEE! Are you surprised? are you? hehehehe If you are… i’m only going to say this… he is still the Negan we love or the one we love to hate… Also, I’m gonna try to write longer chapters… because I’m finally at the point of the story I wanted to get to hehe, sorry I know I should built this better, but c’mon, I’m not a pro… ALSO, yeah poor reader and poor Daryl… but I’m exploring his character and they have a bit more development to go through until they can… be truly together, and Daryl is just starting to open up to us… so…. good things are coming.

taglist! @crazyunsexycool @capricxnt

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