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princesssszzzz · 3 months ago

Text

Feuds

Rhaena Targaryen x Daeron Targaryen // Modern AU

Summary: Rhaena and Daeron fall in love with each other but there's a family feud.

Angst & Fluff

Word Count: 18.7k

AO3

The Targaryen ancestral home was as imposing as ever, the high ceilings and grand hallways designed to remind those within its walls of the power and legacy of the family it housed. The dining room was no exception, holding heavy velvet drapes and richly carved wooden furniture. The long table, centered under a glittering chandelier, was set with the finest silverware and crystal goblets. Each place meticulously arranged by the staff under Viserys' watchful eye earlier that day. It was clear he wanted everything to be perfect, as if a perfect dinner setting could somehow heal the deep wounds within his family.

Rhaena had tried to dress appropriately, choosing a deep crimson dress that complemented her silver hair. She rarely dressed up for family gatherings lately, but this was different. This was Viserys’ house and despite everything, she at least somewhat respected the old man. He was her uncle and had always been kind to her and Baela, even if his kindness was sometimes overshadowed by his stubborn denial of the family's fractures. Tonight, she wanted to show her appreciation at least in the small way of presenting herself well.

As she took her seat at the long table, she noticed the way the hem of her dress shimmered under the candlelight, catching the eyes of those around her. Daeron, seated across from her, flushed slightly when she met his gaze. He quickly looked down at his plate, fiddling with his fork as if it were the most interesting thing in the world. Rhaena smiled to herself. His shy admiration was almost charming in its innocence, a rare thing in their family’s bubble.

The smile quickly faded as she surveyed the rest of the table. Her father Daemon was lounging in his chair. His posture relaxed, but his eyes gleaming with an ever present amusement at his niece and her stepmother glaring at each other. He hadn't said much since everyone arrived, content to watch the proceedings with the detached air of someone observing a particularly amusing play. Rhaena knew better than to expect any warmth or fatherly affection from him. Daemon had always been more interested in the spectacle of power and conflict than in the quiet nuances of family life. Totally different from her mother.

Viserys, sitting at the head of the table, was the picture of a proud patriarch. His thinning silver hair brushed back and his robes carefully chosen to exude authority. His wife sat beside him, a woman who had long since learned to mask her discomfort at these gatherings. She was not of Targaryen blood, and Daemon made sure she felt that every time they were in the same room. Laena was absent by choice. Rhaena could almost hear her mother's voice in her head, dismissing the dinner with a wave and a wry smile. "Let them play their games," Laena had said earlier that day. "I have no interest in watching them tear each other apart over grudges."

Rhaena had wished, just for a moment, that her mother had come along, if only to have someone else in the room who saw the absurdity of it all. But Laena had always been different from Daemon. She was a peaceful woman and found no joy in the theatrics of Targaryen drama.

The food began to arrive, course after course of rich decadent dishes that seemed to go unnoticed by most at the table. Rhaena ate slowly, not really tasting the steak and her mind wandered back to how they had all ended up here. How the fractures in the family had started and why they seemed impossible to mend.

At least for her six years ago, everything was different. Rhaena and Baela had lived far away, under the warm sun of Essos, shielded from the growing storm in Westeros. Daemon had taken them there when they were so young, they had no idea what was happening in Westeros. She and Baela had been oblivious to the brewing tensions, enjoying their childhood in relative peace. They were completely unaware of the battle lines being drawn back home.

It was only after they returned that Rhaena began to understand just how deep the rifts had become. Aemond's missing eye at the hands of his nephew was the most visible reminder, a scar that symbolized the enmity between their branches of the family. The fight between Aemond and their cousins Jace and Luke had been brutal, and the aftermath even more so. What might have been a temporary squabble had escalated into something far more serious, with both sides harboring grudges that would not easily be forgotten.

Aemond, who now sat at the table with a cold, calculating expression, had become a figure of quiet menace. His resentment was palpable, his every word and gesture laced with an undercurrent of hostility. Aegon, seated beside him, was a different kind of danger the girls only noticed because of his inappropriate comments. His lewd comments and inappropriate behavior, especially toward Baela, made Rhaena's skin crawl. But Baela, ever strong-willed, had learned to brush off his advances with biting remarks that left Aegon seething.

Jace sat near Baela and he was a different matter entirely. The girls quickly grew to learn his temper flared easily. He and Baela had grown close since the girls came back, their relationship tinged with flirtation.

There were so many people and conflict Rhaena couldn’t keep up, so she rested her attention back on Daeron. The sweet and earnest Daeron who had been kept away from much of the family's turmoil. He lived with their Hightower uncle far from the political and personal strife that consumed the rest of them, only recent;y returning. Unlike his siblings, he bore no ill will toward anyone, but he wasn’t naive either. He knew the tensions ran deep and he tried his best to stay out of the fray.

Rhaena’s thoughts were interrupted as Viserys cleared his throat, raising his glass in a toast. His voice, though warm, carried a note of desperation as he spoke of family unity and the importance of coming together for the holidays. All of the teenagers were there on winter break from school. Around the table, there were polite nods and forced smiles, but Rhaena could feel the disdain simmering beneath the surface like a pot about to boil over.

She glanced at Daeron again, who was now nervously sipping his drink trying to avoid attention. Rhaena felt a pang of sympathy for him. He was caught in the middle, much like she was, trying to navigate the treacherous waters of family loyalty and personal affection. She wondered how long he would last before the inevitable conflict dragged him down, just like most of them.

As Viserys' speech drew to a close, Rhaena found herself wondering how this dinner would end. With any luck, it would pass uneventfully, each member of the family retreating to their corners and nursing their grievances in private. But she knew better than to hope for that. In a family like hers, peace was always temporary, and the next eruption was never far off.

And so, she sat back and let her smile return, albeit a bit more strained as she prepared to watch the night unfold.

The silver clinked softly against the fine china, the only sound breaking the strained silence as the family picked at their food. Rhaena’s eyes flickered around the table. She tried to focus on her food, but she couldn’t help but notice the way Aegon’s eyes slid lazily over to Baela, then to her. There was something unsettling in his gaze, a glint of something that made her skin crawl. He leaned back in his chair, a smug grin tugging at the corners of his lips.

“You know,” Aegon drawled, his voice just loud enough for the table to hear, “it’s a shame Aunt Laena didn’t join us tonight. I always did wonder what kept her so…occupied. Maybe she prefers more adventurous company.” His smirk deepened as he took a slow sip of his wine, eyes lingering on Baela in a way that made her stomach twist.

Baela stiffened beside her, but Rhaena forced herself to stay calm, not giving him the satisfaction of a reaction. She knew better than to take the bait. Aegon’s remarks were always laced with just enough innuendo to provoke, without ever crossing the line into outright insult.

Daemon, who had been largely silent throughout the meal, finally looked up with his eyes gleaming with dark amusement. “Laena has better things to do than waste her time on the likes of you children,” he said, his voice cutting. “Not everyone is as desperate for attention as certain Hightowers seem to be.”

Viserys shot him a warning look but Daemon merely shrugged, his expression nothing but indifference. The jab at the Hightowers hung in the air, a deliberate provocation that was ignored by no one.

As the adults resumed their own conversations, seemingly unaware of the rising tension at the other end of the table, the teenagers began to speak among themselves in lower tones, careful not to draw too much attention. Rhaena leaned slightly closer to Daeron, hoping to find some neutral ground. “How’s school?” she asked softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

Daeron looked up, his eyes grateful for the distraction. “It’s fine,” he replied, his voice also low. “Different from being here.”

Rhaena offered him a small, sympathetic smile. “I can imagine. Must be strange coming back to all this.”

Before Daeron could respond, Aemond’s voice cut through their conversation, his tone deceptively polite. “I’m sure Daeron is adjusting well enough. After all, he’s had the luxury of avoiding the more complicated aspects of this family.”

Jace, who had been sitting quietly beside Baela, glanced up to see Aemond staring at him, his voice measured but tinged with resentment. “Not everyone gets to avoid complications, Aemond. Some of us in this family have to deal with them head-on.”

Aemond’s single eye gleamed with something dangerous as he regarded his nephew. “It’s interesting Jace, how you always seem to think you’re entitled to speak on matters of blood and family. Especially considering.” He paused before continuing, “well, let’s just say not all bloodlines are created equal.”

Jace’s face darkened, his jaw clenching as he fought to keep his temper in check. “Careful, Aemond.”

Aemond smiled sharp and cold. “Just speaking the truth. But if the truth makes you uncomfortable, perhaps you should reconsider your place at this table.”

Baela, who had been watching the exchange with narrowed eyes, let out a short, humorless laugh. “Boys and your ridiculous need to flex and fight. It’s almost entertaining. Almost.”

Aemond’s smile was thin and cruel. “I'm only saying that some of us have purer blood than others. Not everyone at this table can claim to be a true Targaryen.”

Rhaena felt the tension escalating and shifted in her seat. She glanced at Daeron, who seemed frozen, his eyes darting between his siblings and Jace.

The words hung in the air, and Rhaena felt the temperature in the room drop. Jace’s face flushed with anger as he pushed back his chair and stood, his fists clenched.

“What did you say ?” Jace’s voice was low, laced with fury, his eyes locked on Aemond.

Aemond slowly rose from his seat, his expression one of cold anticipation. “You heard me. Or are your ears as common as the rest of you?”

Aegon, always eager for a fight, was up in a flash, a gleeful grin spreading across his face. “Finally,” he muttered, flexing his fingers. “I’ve been waiting for another chance to put you in your place.”

Baela stood as well, her eyes flashing with annoyance. “This is ridiculous,” she snapped, though she didn’t back down. “You’re all behaving like children.”

Aegon leered at her, his smile turning vile. “Oh Baela, I like it when you’re feisty. Maybe we should continue this conversation later, privately?”

The disgust in Baela’s eyes was immediate, but before she could respond, Rhaena shot to her feet, her voice firm and commanding. “Everyone, just sit down and have dinner.”

Everything about Aegon disgusted her.

Aemond’s gaze flicked to Rhaena, his expression darkening. “You sit down. You’re just a whiny little girl, and no one asked for your opinion.”

The insult hit Rhaena hard, she couldn’t even gather a reaction to Aemond’s unneccsary rudeness before Daeron stood abruptly, his face flushed with anger. For a moment, his eyes locked with Aemond’s.

A moment passed with Daeron taking a deep breath, shifting his stance so he faced the other side of the table instead of his brother. He raised his voice, ensuring the adults at the other end of the table could hear. “Jace, stop instigating fights,” he commanded, his tone loud and clear. “We’re here to have dinner, not to have a bar room brawl. Everyone please sit down.”

Aegon burst into laughter, clearly amused by the whole situation. “Look at Daeron, trying to be the responsible one. How noble.”

Aemond smiled, clearly pleased with what he perceived as Daeron taking his side. “Let’s not ruin my father's dinner.”

Jace hesitated, his fists still clenched, but after a tense moment he reluctantly sat back down, glaring daggers at the entire other side of the table. Baela followed suit, her expression a mix of irritation and disgust, though she kept her gaze fixed on Aegon with her clear distaste.

Rhaena slowly lowered herself back into her seat. She glanced at Daeron, who was now sitting back down as well, avoiding her gaze but clearly still troubled. The adults exchanged puzzled looks but said nothing, unsure of what had just transpired.

Viserys, desperate to restore some semblance of normalcy, raised his glass in a toast. His voice was slightly strained as he tried to bring the focus back to the meal. “To family,” he said, though the words rang hollow in the strained atmosphere.

As the conversation resumed in stilted, awkward tones, Rhaena couldn’t shake the feeling that the fragile peace would not last. Daeron’s actions, though seemingly aligned with his brothers, had been motivated by something far deeper. And in this family, true intentions were rarely what they appeared to be.

The weeks following the disastrous dinner were tense and uneasy, with the aftermath of the confrontation lingering like a dark cloud over the family. Baela, never one to keep things bottled up, had immediately told their grandmother what had happened. The adults remained divided, with Daemon continuing to stoke the flames of discord whenever he had the chance. Meanwhile, the teenagers kept their distance from one another, interactions laced with an undercurrent of hostility and unspoken tension.

Rhaena found herself withdrawing more than usual, retreating to the comfort of books, friends, and solitary walks with her shih-tzu Morning. The lingering tension left her uneasy, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was brewing beneath the surface.

It was on one of those solitary walks that she found herself in a small, quaint bookshop tucked away in a quiet corner of the city. She’d left Morning at home this time, not having to worry about the dog. The shop was a haven of peace, with the smell of old paper and ink filling the air, the soft rustle of pages turning creating a soothing backdrop.

Rhaena was lost in the pages of an old history book, her mind temporarily freed from the weight of family drama, when she heard a familiar voice behind her.

“Rhaena?”

She turned to see Daeron standing a few feet away, a look of genuine surprise on his face. He was holding a book in one hand, his expression lighting up as he realized it was really her.

“Daeron,” Rhaena greeted, a small smile tugging at her lips. “What are you doing here?”

Daeron took a step closer, his demeanor noticeably relaxed, a stark contrast to how he had been at dinner. “I come here a lot, actually. It’s a good place to clear my head. I didn’t expect to run into you, though.”

Rhaena nodded, closing the book she had been browsing. “I was just looking around. I was bored, I guess.”

“Same here,” Daeron admitted, a slight flush coloring his cheeks. He hesitated for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts, before speaking again. “It feels like it’s been ages since we’ve had a chance to talk. You know, without everyone else around.”

There was a sincerity in his voice that made Rhaena’s smile widen. Despite the craziness between their families, Daeron had always been a calming presence, someone who didn’t seem to fit the mold of the typical Targaryen.

“Yeah, it has been a while,” she agreed. “It’s nice to get away from all the drama.”

Daeron chuckled softly, a sound that eased some of the lingering tension in Rhaena’s chest. “You’re right about that. You wanna grab a coffee? There’s a café just down the street. It’s quiet, and the food is pretty good.”

Rhaena was taken aback by the invitation but found herself nodding almost immediately. “I’d like that,” she said, her smile genuine.

Daeron’s face lit up with relief, as if he’d been worried she might say no. “Let me just pay for this, and we can head over.”

As Daeron rushed to the counter, Rhaena felt a small, unexpected flutter in her chest. It had been weeks of stress and uncertainty, but here things felt so normal. She found herself looking forward to the simple pleasure of being away from the prying eyes and whispered judgments of their family.

For a moment, as she watched Daeron pay for his book, she allowed herself to hope that maybe, just maybe, there was still room for peace in their fractured world. And perhaps, in this small moment of reprieve, they could both find a little bit of that peace together.

The café was a warm, inviting space, filled with the comforting aroma of espresso and freshly baked pastries. It reminded Rhaena of her time in Pentos. Soft music played in the background, mingling with the murmur of quiet conversations from other patrons. Rhaena and Daeron had found a cozy corner table by the window, where they could watch the world go by while enjoying the atmosphere inside.

“So,” Daeron said, taking a sip of his latte, “what’s the most embarrassing thing that’s happened to you recently?”

Rhaena laughed, shaking her head. “What? I’m not sure I should tell you. You’ll probably never let me live it down.”

“Oh, definitely not,” Daeron teased, leaning in slightly. “But that’s why I want to know.”

She rolled her eyes playfully, but there was a smile on her lips. “Fine. I accidentally walked into the wrong classroom at the start of the semester and didn’t realize it until halfway through the lecture. I just sat there, completely lost, trying to figure out why none of it made sense. It was a senior’s advanced chemistry class.”

Daeron chuckled, his eyes lighting up with amusement. “And here I was, thinking you were always the perfect student. Guess you’re human after all.”

Rhaena stuck her tongue out at him. “Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. What about you? Any embarrassing moments you’d care to share?”

He leaned, pretending to think deeply before telling her. “Hmm, let’s see. Oh! I tripped in the hallway last month while trying to impress a new friend. Landed flat on my face. Not exactly the best way to make a good first impression.”

She laughed, covering her mouth with her hand. “Did he see you?”

“Oh, he noticed,” Daeron said with a grin. “But probably not in the way I wanted. He helped me up, though, so I guess that’s something.”

Rhaena’s laughter was infectious, and Daeron found himself relaxing even more. There was something about her that made him feel at ease.

“You know,” Daeron said after a moment, his tone turning more sincere, “I’ve always thought you had this. I don’t know, this aura about you. Like you’re above all the craziness, just gliding through it with so calm and collected.”

Rhaena raised an eyebrow with a small smile playing on her lips.

He leaned in a bit closer. “I mean, you just seem to have it all together. I don’t know how you’ve dealt with our family like this. It’s impressive.”

She looked at him, a mix of surprise and warmth in her eyes. “Thanks but honestly, I’m just as lost as everyone else. Maybe I just hide it better.”

“Well, you’re doing a good job at it,” Daeron said, his voice dropping slightly as he held her gaze.

Rhaena felt a flutter in her chest at his words, a slight blush rising to her cheeks. She wasn’t used to getting compliments like that.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” she replied, her voice softening. “You know, you’re way more interesting than you let on.”

“Interesting, huh?” Daeron grinned, clearly pleased. “I’ll take that.” He paused before continuing, “I’m glad we finally got the chance to hang out, just the two of us. It’s been nice.”

“Yeah, it really has,” Rhaena agreed, smiling back at him. “We should do this more often.”

They continued talking, their conversation flowing effortlessly as the minutes turned into hours. They joked, debated their favorite books, and even made plans to visit a few other places they both liked. The easy banter between them was punctuated with moments of comfortable silence.

It wasn’t until Rhaena glanced out the window that she realized how much time had passed. The once bright sky had darkened, the streetlights outside casting long shadows on the sidewalk as the snow started pouring down. She gasped, her eyes widening in alarm.

“It’s already dark! My mom’s going to freak out.”

Daeron looked at his watch, then back at her, chuckling. “Don’t worry about it. I’m sixteen now, I’ve got my license. I can drive you home.”

Rhaena visibly relaxed, though a hint of panic remained in her voice. “Okay, thanks. I'll text my mom and let her know I’m safe.”

She pulled out her phone and sent a text, explaining where she was and that she’d be home soon. As she did, Daeron leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand with a smile that was half amused, half affectionate.

“You know,” he said still holding his smile, “I won’t even text anyone. They probably haven't even noticed I’m gone. Sometimes they forget I even moved back in.”

Rhaena paused, looking up from her phone, her expression softening. “That’s sucks.”

He shrugged, playing it off casually. “It’s whatever. I’m kind of used to it by now.”

She hesitated for a moment before speaking, her voice gentle. “I get it, though. My dad pretty much ignores me most of the time. And I overheard my granddad once saying he doesn’t think I know anything.”

She laughed at the absurdity of it when Daeron’s eyes met hers. For a moment, they both shared a silent understanding before he spoke again.

“It’s like we’re invisible sometimes,” Daeron said quietly, his voice tinged with bitterness and acceptance.

“Yeah,” Rhaena agreed softly, nodding. “Like they’re so wrapped up in their own worlds that they don’t even see us.”

For a brief moment, the lighthearted atmosphere dimmed, replaced by the weight of their shared experiences. But then, Daeron reached across the table and gently tapped her hand, offering her a small, reassuring smile.

“Well, at least we’re not invisible to each other,” he said, his tone warm and sincere.

Rhaena’s heart skipped a beat, and she found herself smiling back, the warmth of his words spreading through her. “Yeah.”

They stayed in the café a little while longer, finishing their drinks and slipping back into their easy banter. When they finally decided it was time to leave, Daeron led the way to his car and they drove through the quiet, dark streets. As they pulled up in front of her house, Rhaena turned to him with a grateful smile. “That was fun.”

“Anytime,” he replied. “I’m glad we ran into each other. We should do this again.”

“We should,” she said. With a final lingering look, she got out of the car and headed inside, feeling lighter and happier than she had in weeks.

As Daeron drove away, he couldn’t help but smile to himself, already looking forward to the next time he could spend with her. Whatever the future held, he knew one thing for surs, moments like these were worth holding on to.

Rhaena walked into the house with a lightness in her step, a smile lingering on her lips. The warmth from her time with Daeron still wrapped around her like a comforting blanket, and she was eager to share it with her mom. As she headed toward the kitchen, where she could hear the familiar clatter of baking, she rehearsed what she would say: Daeron brought me home, she’d begin, maybe with a bit of teasing about how he was surprisingly good company.

But as soon as she stepped into the kitchen, she was met with the unmistakable sound of her father’s voice, raised in frustration.

“Those fucking Hightowers,” Daemon was ranting, his hands gripping the edge of the marble counter as he paced back and forth. “Otto thinks he can push me out, does he? Thinks he can make me disappear just because I’m ‘untrustworthy’? I’d like to see him try. They’re all the same, all of them treacherous, backstabbing pussies.”

Laena was at the island, calmly rolling out dough for cookies, her expression a mix of patience and amusement as she pretended to listen. She did this all the time with him. Every so often, she would hum in response, her focus more on the dough than on Daemon’s tirade. Next to her, Rhaena saw Daenaera sitting in her high chair, happily playing with a small squid toy and babbling to herself. She knew her mom had done the girl’s hair. Her hair was styled the same way her and Baela’s were styled when they were younger. Rhaena watched as her braided pigtails swung, and the girl looked utterly content, oblivious to the tension around her.

Rhaena hesitated in the doorway, her earlier excitement fading as she took in the scene. She was about to retreat quietly when Baela came bounding down the stairs, her eyes lighting up at the sight of the kitchen.

“I’m so hungry” Baela asked, a hopeful grin on her face as she headed straight for the counter.

Laena smiled warmly at her daughter. “These snickerdoodles aren’t quite ready yet. You’ll have to wait a bit longer.”

Baela groaned dramatically, leaning to pick Daenaera up.

Rhaena finally stepped fully into the kitchen despite the undercurrent of tension from Daemon still being there. “I didn’t know Daenaera was staying with us.”

Baela straightened up, smiling at Rhaena. “Yeah, I’m babysitting. She’s been an angel so far.”

Daemon’s voice broke through the moment, sharp and filled with venom. “I want you both to listen to me, and listen well,” he said, turning to face his daughters. “You stay away from the Hightowers. All of them. They’re nothing but trouble. They’re conniving, deceitful, and dangerous. I wouldn’t trust them as far as I could throw them.”

Laena, ever the diplomat, continued to roll out the dough, her voice soothing as she spoke. “Daemon, darling, I’m sure the girls know to be cautious. There’s no need to worry them.”

Daemon’s eyes narrowed, his expression dark. “No, Laena, they need to understand. The Hightowers are our enemies. And if Otto thinks he can push me out, he’s got another thing coming. I’ll see every last one of them dead before I let that happen.”

Rhaena felt a chill run down her spine at her father’s words. She glanced at Baela, who was still trying to keep things light, but even she couldn’t hide the discomfort in her eyes.

Baela cleared her throat, attempting to change the subject. “So, Mom, when will those cookies be ready? I think Daenaera’s getting impatient.” She smiled down at the toddler, who was now reaching out for one of the mixing bowls, her chubby fingers grasping at the air.

Laena, sensing the need to defuse the situation, nodded and began cutting the dough into shapes. “Not long now. Why don’t you girls take Daenaera into the living room and play with her until they’re ready?”

Baela didn’t need to be told twice, quickly twirling around. “Come on, Rhaena.”

Rhaena hesitated, glancing back at her father, who had resumed his pacing, muttering darkly under his breath. Laena caught her eye and gave her a reassuring smile, nodding toward the door as if to say, It’s okay, go ahead.

Rhaena forced a smile and nodded, following Baela and Daenaera out of the kitchen. As they moved into the living room, she felt a weight lift off her shoulders, the oppressive atmosphere of the kitchen fading as they left it behind.

Baela plopped down on the floor with Daenaera, who immediately started playing with a set of colorful blocks, giggling as Baela made them into a tower. Rhaena sat down beside them, her earlier happiness beginning to return.

“So,” Baela began, glancing over at Rhaena with a teasing grin, “what’s the story? You walked in here looking like you’d just won the lottery.”

Rhaena blushed slightly, the memory of her time with Daeron flooding back. “I ran into Daeron and we ended up spending all day together. “He even drove me home,” Rhaena said with a small smile, her earlier happiness bubbling up again as she recounted the evening.

Baela’s expression quickly shifted from curiosity to concern, her playful grin fading. “Rhaena,” she whispered, glancing over her shoulder to make sure their father wasn’t nearby, “you went out with Daeron? What were you thinking?”

Rhaena’s smile faltered. “What do you mean? We just hung out, it wasn’t a big deal.”

Baela leaned in closer, her voice low and urgent. “It is a big deal. You know how Dad feels about the Hightowers, and that includes Daeron. You can’t tell anyone else about this, and you definitely can’t do it again.”

“But we didn’t do anything wrong,” Rhaena whispered back, her heart sinking at Baela’s words. “We were just talking.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Baela insisted, her eyes pleading with Rhaena to understand. “If Dad finds out, he’ll go ballistic. Just promise me you won’t see him again, okay? For your own sake.”

Rhaena nodded slowly, feeling the weight of Baela’s words pressing down on her. “Finee,” she whispered, though her voice was tinged with sadness.

Baela offered her a sympathetic look, but before she could say more, Daenaera tugged on her arm, demanding her attention. “Okay, sweetie, let’s build another tower,” Baela said, turning her focus back to the toddler, leaving Rhaena to grapple with her swirling emotions.

Rhaena stood up and the warmth of the evening quickly slipping away, replaced by a cold emptiness. She excused herself quietly and made her way upstairs to her room, trying to process everything that had just happened.

As she passed the kitchen, she overheard her father’s voice, sharp and filled with anger. “I want every last Hightower dead,” he was saying, the venom in his words unmistakable. “They’re a blight on this family, and I won’t rest until they’re all gone.”

Rhaena felt a lump form in her throat as she hurried past, the weight of his words crushing the hope she had felt earlier.

Once in her room, she collapsed onto her bed, staring up at the ceiling. She thought back to the way Daeron had made her laugh, how he had told her stories, and how normal everything had felt in those brief moments. It hurt to think that they had been purposely sent to different schools, kept apart as if to ensure they would never grow close. Daeron was the same age as Baela; they could have grown up together, formed bonds that might have helped bridge the divide between their families.

Rhaena sighed.

Instead, she felt trapped. Caught between her loyalty to her family and the connection she was beginning to form with Daeron. A connection that now felt impossible to maintain.

She sighed deeply, closing her eyes and trying to push the sadness away. But just as she was beginning to drift into a restless sleep, her phone buzzed on the bedside table. She reached for it, blinking against the brightness of the screen.

It was a text from Daeron: Good night, Rhaena 😊

Rhaena felt a smile tug at the corners of her lips despite everything. She had given him her number earlier without thinking much of it, but now the gesture felt significant, like a lifeline in the dark.

As she typed out a quick reply, she made a quiet vow to herself. She could still talk to Daeron, still maintain that connection. She just wouldn’t tell anyone about it. It would be their secret, a small rebellion against the forces keeping them apart.

With that thought, she placed her phone back on the table and curled up under the covers, the sadness in her heart eased by the simple comfort of knowing that someone out there cared. And as she drifted off to sleep, the smile on her face remained, holding onto the hope that maybe, just maybe, there was still a way to keep Daeron in her life.

Winter break had come and gone, and the chill of January settled over the city as Rhaena returned to school. The hallways were filled with the usual buzz of students catching up after the holidays, but Rhaena’s thoughts were elsewhere. Every time her phone buzzed in her pocket, a smile tugged at the corners of her lips.

Over the past few days, she and Daeron had fallen into an easy rhythm of texting each other. It started with simple messages, jokes to pass the time during class, requests for quiz answers when one of them was stuck, and playful banter that made the school day go by just a little bit faster.

Rhaena hadn’t mentioned anything about what Daemon had said, and Baela, caught up in her own world, seemed to have forgotten all about that night. Rhaena was relieved. It made it easier to keep her connection with Daeron a secret.

In class, Rhaena would sneak glances at her phone under her desk, quickly typing out replies to Daeron’s messages. He had a knack for making her laugh, sending her ridiculous memes or coming up with silly nicknames that brightened her day. They would quiz each other on their homework, though Rhaena suspected that Daeron was only half-serious when he asked for answers. He seemed to enjoy the game more than anything.

Days turned into weeks, and their conversations became a constant part of Rhaena’s routine. It was their little secret, a lifeline that kept her grounded even as the tension at home lingered in the background.

One afternoon, after the final bell rang, Rhaena made her way to the library, her backpack slung over one shoulder. She told Baela she’d be studying late, but she was looking forward to some quiet time where she could talk to Daeron without interruption.

The library was nearly empty, with only a few students scattered around, hunched over their books. Rhaena found a secluded corner near the back, away from prying eyes, and pulled out her phone. She hesitated for a moment, then tapped Daeron’s name in her contacts and hit the call button.

The phone rang twice before Daeron’s voice came through. “Hey, Rhaena. Miss me already?”

Rhaena grinned, leaning back in her chair. “You wish. I’m just trying to avoid studying.”

“Always a good strategy,” Daeron replied, the sound of his car’s engine humming in the background. “Where are you?”

“The library,” she said, glancing around to make sure no one was close enough to overhear. “Supposedly studying, but really just looking for an excuse to talk to you.”

“Flattering,” Daeron said, his tone teasing. “But you know, I’ve got a pretty good excuse for not studying too. I’m driving. Makes it kind of hard to hit the books.”

“Where are you going?” Rhaena asked, curious.

“Just cruising around,” he answered casually. “It’s nice to be out on the road, clear my head. At least now, it gives me a chance to talk to you without anyone listening in.”

Rhaena felt a warm flush spread through her chest. “I guess we’re both sneaking around, then. This is becoming a habit.”

“Not a bad one, though,” Daeron said, and she could almost hear the smile in his voice. “It’s nice, having someone to talk to who actually gets it. Feels… normal, you know?”

“Yeah,” Rhaena agreed softly, twirling a loc of hair around her finger. “It really does.”

There was a comfortable silence for a moment, the kind that comes when two people are completely at ease with each other. Then Daeron spoke again, his voice lighter this time. “So, what’s your excuse for avoiding studying today? Or are you just procrastinating as usual?”

“Maybe a little of both,” Rhaena admitted. “But mostly, I just wanted to talk. Don’t get too cocky about it.”

“Oh, I’m already feeling pretty smug,” Daeron teased. “But seriously, Rhaena, you can call me anytime. You don’t need an excuse.”

Rhaena’s heart fluttered at his words, and she found herself smiling uncontrollably. “You know, Daeron, you’re actually not as annoying as I thought you’d be.”

“High praise,” he said, chuckling. “I’ll take what I can get.”

Their conversation continued, light and playful, with Daeron occasionally telling her about something he saw on the road or sharing a funny story from his day. It was easy, being with him like this, even if they were miles apart.

Eventually, the sun began to set, and Rhaena glanced at the time, realizing she’d been on the phone with Daeron for longer than she’d intended. But she didn’t want to hang up just yet.

“Daeron,” she said, her voice softening, “thanks for this. It’s been nice, having you to talk to.”

“Same here,” Daeron replied, and she could hear the sincerity in his voice. “You made coming back here alot easier.”

She blushed at his words, biting her lip to keep from grinning like an idiot. “Me too. But I should probably get going before the librarian kicks me out.”

“Alright,” Daeron said, sounding a little disappointed. “But promise me we’ll do this again soon.”

“I promise,” Rhaena said, her voice light with the promise of more conversations to come. “Goodnight, Daeron.”

“Goodnight, Rhaena,” he replied, and she could hear the smile in his voice.

With that, Rhaena ended the call and slipped her phone back into her bag, her heart still fluttering from their conversation. As she gathered her things and made her way out of the library, she couldn’t help but feel a warm glow inside. As she stepped out into the cool evening air, she knew one thing for sure: this was just the beginning.

It was a quiet Saturday morning when Rhaena finally dragged herself out of bed and headed downstairs, the scent of freshly brewed coffee drifting through the house. She didn’t expect to find anyone but her immediate family at this hour, so when she rounded the corner into the living room and saw her grandmother Rhaenys sitting on the couch, a smile spread across her face.

“Grandmother!” Rhaena exclaimed, her mood instantly lifting as she hurried over to embrace her. “I didn’t know you were coming over!”

Rhaenys, ever the regal presence, smiled warmly as she returned the hug. “Surprise, my dear. I thought it was time for a visit, and I brought a little something for you and Baela.”

Rhaena’s curiosity piqued as she noticed the small velvet pouch in her grandmother’s hand. “What is it?”

Before Rhaenys could answer Baela came bounding down the stairs, her face lighting up when she saw their grandmother. “You’re here!”

Rhaenys chuckled as Baela joined them, her eyes twinkling with delight. “Yes, and I brought something special for my grandbabies.”

She opened the pouch and carefully pulled out two sets of vintage jewelry, each piece intricately designed in red and black. The necklaces and bracelets were adorned with small dragon motifs, the craftsmanship exquisite.

“These belonged to my great, great grandmother,” Rhaenys explained, holding the jewelry out for them to see. “I thought it was time they were passed down to you.”

Rhaena’s eyes widened as she gently took one of the necklaces, the weight of it solid and reassuring in her hand. “They’re beautiful,” she breathed, awed by the delicate details. “Thank you, Grandmother.”

“Thank you!” Baela echoed, already fastening one of the bracelets around her wrist. “These are amazing!”

Laena stepped into the living room with a smile. “You always know how to spoil them,” she said, affection clear in her tone.

“Well, someone has to,” Rhaenys replied with a wink, before her expression turned more serious. “How have things been? I hear Daemon has been more difficult than usual.”

Laena sighed, her smile fading slightly. “He has. He’s been upset about those Hightowers again, more than usual lately. I think Otto is trying to push him out of the family business.”

Rhaenys snorted, her expression turning disdainful. “Daemon upset? What a surprise,” she said, sarcasm dripping from her words. “He’s always been far too hot-headed for his own good. If he spent half as much time thinking as he does rambling, he might actually get somewhere.”

Laena couldn’t help but laugh, nodding in agreement. “You’re right about that.”

Rhaena, who had always felt that her father could be overly dramatic, was quietly relieved to see that she wasn’t the only one who thought so. But before she could fully enjoy the moment, Rhaenys’s tone shifted.

“But let’s not forget,” Rhaenys continued, her voice taking on a somber note, “that the Hightowers are a real problem for our family. Targaryens should never be fighting among ourselves. It weakens us, and that’s exactly what they want.”

Rhaena looked at her grandmother, a question forming in her mind. “But what if one of them isn’t so bad?”

Rhaenys’s expression softened for a moment, but then she shook her head. “It doesn’t matter, Rhaena. The rift between our families started long before you or even that Aegon were born. Your father hated Otto Hightower with passion, and that animosity has only grown over the years. It’s not just about personal issues; it’s political. The Hightowers have always wanted more power, and they’ll use any means necessary to get it. That’s why they’re dangerous.”

Laena nodded in agreement, her brow furrowing slightly. “It’s true. All of them may not be horrible but there are serious implications if they manage to gain more influence within our family. It’s not something we can take lightly.”

Rhaena’s heart sank a little at her grandmother’s words. She had hoped that perhaps there was a way to bridge the gap between the families, to find some common ground. But hearing Rhaenys speak with such conviction made her realize just how deep the divide really was.

“Remember, Rhaena,” Rhaenys said gently, placing a hand on her granddaughter’s shoulder, “we Targaryens are strongest when we stand together.”

Rhaena nodded, deep in thought as she looked down at the ancient Targaryen jewelry in her hands.

Baela, sensing the shift in mood, quickly changed the subject, chattering excitedly about how she couldn’t wait to receive her college acceptance letters. Rhaena smiled, but her thoughts were still on her grandmother’s words and on the connection she was trying to build with Daeron.

The Targaryens might be strongest when united, but what happened when that unity was threatened from within?

Since her conversation with her grandmother, Rhaena had found herself pulling back from Daeron. The warmth and excitement she once felt when their texts popped up on her screen were now tinged with uncertainty. She texted him less frequently at school, her replies growing shorter and less enthusiastic. The phone calls that had become a nightly ritual were now fewer and far between.

She couldn’t help but feel a growing unease whenever she thought about him. An unease fueled by her grandmother’s warnings and the weight of her family’s expectations.

One afternoon, as Rhaena lay on her bed listening to music, her phone buzzed with a message from Daeron: Meet me at the café?

She stared at the message for a moment, her heart heavy with conflicting emotions. Part of her wanted to say no, to keep the distance she’d been trying to create. But another part of her, the part that still longed for the connection they had, couldn’t resist.

Okay, she texted back, feeling a pang of sadness as she got up to get ready.

When she arrived at the café, Daeron was already there, waiting for her with that familiar smile that had always made her feel so at ease. But today, it didn’t have the same effect. She managed a small smile in return as she approached him.

“Hey,” Daeron greeted her warmly, but his eyes searched hers as if sensing something was off.

“Hey,” Rhaena replied, her voice quieter than usual.

They ordered their drinks and sat down at their usual table, the conversation light and polite, but lacking the easy flow it once had. Rhaena found herself struggling to keep the mood upbeat, but the sadness lingering in her chest made it difficult.

After a while, Daeron suggested they head to the bookstore nearby. Rhaena agreed, hoping that being surrounded by books might help her relax.

They wandered through the aisles, browsing through the shelves and making small talk. But as they settled down on the floor in one of the quieter aisles, leaning back against the shelves with books scattered around them, Daeron couldn’t ignore the shift in Rhaena’s demeanor any longer.

“You’ve been different lately,” Daeron said gently, turning to look at her. “Is something wrong?”

Rhaena hesitated, picking at the spine of a book in her lap. She didn’t want to tell him, didn’t want to admit that her family’s influence was creeping into the one thing that had been making her happy. But she couldn’t bring herself to lie either.

“I don’t know,” she finally said, her voice small. “I just, I’ve been thinking about what my grandmother said, about our family’s rift. With the business and the fighting. It’s complicated.”

Daeron’s expression softened with understanding, and he let out a quiet sigh. “Rhaena, I get it. My family’s been telling me the same thing. Stay away from your side of the family, don’t get too close, all that nonsense. But I’ve been ignoring them.”

Rhaena looked at him in surprise. “You have?”

“Yeah,” he said, his tone earnest. “Because I don’t care about all that. I care about you. And I thought you felt the same way.”

Rhaena felt a wave of guilt crash over her. She did care about him, but the fear of what her family might think, of what might happen if they found out, had been eating away at her. She stood up suddenly, unable to bear the weight of it any longer. “Maybe we shouldn’t be doing this, Daeron. Maybe it’s better if we just stop.”

Daeron got to his feet as well, a look of determination in his eyes. “Rhaena, don’t say that. I know it’s hard, but we can’t let them control our lives like this.”

She shook her head, tears welling up as she turned to leave. But before she could take a step, Daeron reached out and gently took her hand, pulling her back toward him.

And then, without another word, he kissed her.

Rhaena froze, shocked by the suddenness of it, but the warmth of his lips against hers quickly melted away her hesitation. She found herself kissing him back, her heart pounding in her chest as all the emotions she had been holding back came rushing to the surface.

When they finally pulled apart, Rhaena was breathless, her mind spinning with the intensity of the moment. She looked up at Daeron, who was watching her with a mixture of hope and nervousness.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “I just… I couldn’t let you walk away like that.”

Rhaena didn’t know what to say. She was still processing what had just happened, but one thing was clear: she didn’t want to walk away either.

“I…I should go,” she murmured, her voice trembling slightly. “I need to think.”

Daeron nodded, understanding in his eyes. “I’ll take you home.”

They left the bookstore in silence, the weight of what had just happened hanging between them. When they reached Rhaena’s neighborhood, Daeron stopped the car a block away from her house, knowing it was safer..

“Thanks for the ride,” Rhaena said quietly, her hand on the door handle.

“Anytime,” Daeron replied, his voice soft. “Just, don’t shut me out okay?”

Rhaena paused, then nodded. “I won’t. I promise.”

She stepped out of the car and watched as Daeron drove away, her heart still racing from the kiss. As she walked the rest of the way home, she knew things had just become even more complicated. But despite the fear and uncertainty, she couldn’t deny the thrill that ran through her at the memory of Daeron’s kiss.

And as she slipped into her house, careful not to alert anyone to her late return, she knew one thing for sure: she wasn’t ready to give up on him just yet.

Rhaena couldn’t get Daeron’s kiss out of her mind. The memory of it lingered, confusing and exhilarating all at once. She found herself staring at her phone more often, wondering if he was thinking about it too, but she couldn’t bring herself to text him. The weight of everything her grandmother had said still hung over her, making her hesitant to reach out, even though part of her wanted nothing more.

A few days passed, and Rhaena continued her usual routine, but there was a restless energy in her that she couldn’t shake. It wasn’t until Saturday afternoon that her phone buzzed with a message from Daeron: Meet me at the park?

She frowned slightly, surprised by the change of location. They usually met at the café or the bookstore, but the park? It was less private, more open. Maybe that was the point, less chance of getting too serious.

Okay, see you in a bit, she replied, grabbing her jacket and heading out the door before she could overthink it.

When she arrived at the park, she found Daeron sitting on a bench near the pond, his face lit up by the sunlight filtering through the trees. He was tossing breadcrumbs to the ducks, looking almost serene. When he saw her approaching, he grinned and waved her over.

“You’re feeding ducks now?” Rhaena asked, raising an eyebrow as she took a seat beside him.

“What can I say? I’m a man of many talents,” Daeron replied, tossing another handful of breadcrumbs into the water. “Besides, it’s relaxing. You should try it.”

Rhaena couldn’t help smiling as she watched the ducks scramble for the food. “So, why the park? We usually go somewhere with, you know, actual walls.”

Daeron shrugged, a playful glint in his eyes. “Figured it was time to switch things up. Besides, I thought you could use a change of scenery.”

“Trying to keep things interesting, huh?” Rhaena teased, nudging him with her shoulder.

“Something like that,” Daeron said, grinning. “So, how’ve you been? You seemed a little off last time we talked.”

Rhaena hesitated, not sure how to answer. She wanted to be honest with him, but it was hard to put her feelings into words without sounding like a mess. “I don’t know. It’s just very complicated?”

“Yeah, I get that,” Daeron said, his tone more serious now. “But does it have to be? I mean, we’re not our parents. Why should we let their drama mess up something good?”

Rhaena bit her lip, looking out at the pond. “It’s not that simple, Daeron. It’s hard to just ignore everything.”

Daeron let out a frustrated sigh, running a hand through his hair. “I know but, it’s like, why should we be punished for something we didn’t even do? We didn’t choose to be born into this mess.”

Rhaena nodded, her emotions a jumble. She knew he was right in a way, but it still didn’t make the situation any easier. Rhaenys’ words echoed in her head. “I just don’t want us to get hurt, you know? Or make things worse.”

“We won’t,” Daeron said, though there was a hint of uncertainty in his voice. He was trying to be strong for both of them, but she could tell he was just as confused and scared as she was.

There was a moment of silence between them, the only sound being the rustle of leaves and the occasional quack from the ducks. Rhaena felt the tension building, like there was something hanging in the air that neither of them knew how to address.

Finally, Daeron broke the silence, his voice softer. “Do you regret it? The kiss, I mean.”

Rhaena blinked, caught off guard by the question. “What? No.”

He looked at her, a mix of relief and something else in his eyes. “Good. Because I don’t either.”

Rhaena felt her cheeks flush, the memory of the kiss making her heart race all over again. “Everything’s moving so fast. I don’t know how to keep up.”

“You don’t have to,” Daeron said, leaning back against the bench. “We can slow down if you want. No pressure.”

Rhaena sighed, leaning back as well. “I don’t know what I want, honestly. It’s all so confusing.”

Daeron chuckled awkwardly. “Welcome to being a teenager and a Targaryen, I guess. Everything’s confusing all the time.”

Rhaena laughed too, the tension easing a little. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

They sat in comfortable silence for a few more minutes, just watching the ducks and the people passing by. It was peaceful brief escape.

After a while, Daeron turned to her with a mischievous grin. “Wanna go for a walk? Maybe we can find a spot with fewer ducks and more privacy.”

Rhaena raised an eyebrow, but she couldn’t help smiling. “You’re not planning to kiss me again, are you?”

Daeron pretended to think about it. “No promises. But I figured we could, you know, talk. Maybe figure out what we’re doing.”

“Talking sounds good,” Rhaena said, standing up and offering him her hand. “Lead the way.”

They walked through the park, weaving between trees and taking in the sights. Eventually, they found a quiet spot under a large oak tree, away from the main path. Daeron plopped down on the grass, and after a moment’s hesitation, Rhaena joined him.

“So, what’s on your mind?” Daeron asked, his tone more serious now.

Rhaena sighed, hugging her knees to her chest. She didn’t answer but Daeron almost read her mind.

"We’re our own people.”

Rhaena frowned, staring at the ground. “But it’s not just about what they think. It’s about what they might do if they find out.” He had no idea, Rhaena was thinking, how her father was.

“Then we don’t let them find out,” Daeron said, his voice firm. “We keep this between us. No one else has to know.”

Rhaena looked at him, a mixture of fear and hope in her eyes. “You really think we can do that?”

Daeron shrugged, but there was determination in his expression. “I think we can try. I mean, I’d rather try than just give up because of what they might do.”

Rhaena nodded, feeling a little more at ease. “Okay. We’ll keep it a secret, then.”

Daeron smiled, and for a moment, everything felt right again. They talked for a while longer, the conversation lightening as they joked about school, their favorite movies, and anything else that came to mind.

As the sun began to set, Daeron walked her back to the park entrance where she’d left her bike. “Need a ride home?” he offered, nodding toward his car parked nearby.

Rhaena shook her head, smiling. “No, I’m good. I’ll ride my bike back. But thanks.”

“Alright,” Daeron said, though he looked a little disappointed. “But text me when you get home, okay? Just so I know you made it safe.”

Rhaena nodded, feeling a warmth spread through her chest. “I will. Thanks, Daeron.”

He grinned, leaning in as if to kiss her again, but then he hesitated, pulling back with a sheepish look. “I’ll see you soon?”

“Yeah,” Rhaena said, her heart fluttering at the thought. “See you soon.”

As she pedaled away, Rhaena couldn’t help but smile. Things were complicated, messy, and far from perfect, but for now, she was okay with that. They were figuring it out, one step at a time.

The weeks following their kiss turned into months, and Rhaena and Daeron’s relationship grew stronger, even as they continued to keep it hidden from their families. They found ways to meet up in secret, using the cover of being out with friends or running errands. Their meetups became a mix of excitement and fear, the thrill of being together heightened by the risk of being caught.

At first, their meetings were innocent. Long walks in the park, late-night phone calls, and stolen moments in the bookstore. But as time passed, they became more comfortable with each other, finding secluded spots where they could be close without anyone knowing. They would cuddle under the stars in quiet corners of the park, their conversations flowing easily as they shared their hopes and fears.

One evening, Rhaena had a close call that made her heart race with panic. She was at home texting Daeron when Baela grabbed Rhaena’s phone to order pizza, and for a split second Rhaena’s heart stopped. She quickly snatched the phone back, making an excuse about needing to finish a conversation with someone from school. Baela didn’t think much of it, but the incident left Rhaena shaken.

After that, Rhaena became more careful. She started locking her phone and deleting her texts with Daeron as soon as they were sent. She couldn’t risk anyone finding out about them. Not when things were going so well. They both behaved normally around their families, careful not to let on that anything was different.

As the months passed the school year came to an end, and summer break arrived. The weather grew warmer, and the long days stretched out ahead of them, filled with the promise of more secret adventures. But Rhaena knew that summer also meant more time at home, where the walls seemed to close in on her whenever she couldn’t see Daeron.

One afternoon, as she was heading to the living room, Rhaena heard raised voices. She paused just outside the doorway, curiosity getting the better of her. Peeking around the corner, she saw her uncle Viserys standing in the middle of the large room, his expression filled with frustration and desperation. Her father sat on the couch, looking thoroughly miserable.

“Daemon, this is important,” Viserys was saying, his tone pleading. “You need to make things right with the Hightowers. This business deal is crucial, and I need you there to show your support. We can’t afford to have any more infighting.”

Daemon scowled, his jaw clenched. “You know how I feel about them, Viserys. Otto Hightower would love nothing more than to see me fail. Why should I help him?”

“Because this isn’t just about you!” Viserys snapped, his patience wearing thin. “This is about the family—our legacy. If we don’t pull together, we’ll lose everything we’ve worked for. Do you really want that?”

Rhaena’s heart raced as she listened, hardly daring to breathe. The tension in the room was palpable, and she knew that if Daemon refused, it could have serious consequences for their family.

Viserys took a deep breath, his tone softening as he tried a different approach. “Brother, I’m not asking you to like the man. I’m asking you to do what’s best for the family. Come to the lake house this summer. Make nice with the Hightowers, just for the sake of the business. That’s all I’m asking.”

There was a long pause, and Rhaena held her breath, waiting for her father’s response. Finally, Daemon sighed heavily, his shoulders slumping in defeat.

“Fine,” he muttered, clearly unhappy. “I’ll go to the damn lake house. But don’t expect me to play nice.”

Viserys looked relieved, though he didn’t smile. “That’s all I needed to hear. Thank you, brother.”

As Viserys left the room, Rhaena ducked back around the corner, her mind racing. She couldn’t believe it. Her family was going to the lake house for the summer, and the Hightowers would be there too. Despite her father’s reluctance, she couldn’t help but feel a thrill of excitement at the prospect. It would be the perfect opportunity to see Daeron, even if it meant navigating the tense dynamics between their families.

She slipped away quietly, her thoughts buzzing with anticipation. Summer had just become a lot more interesting.

The car ride to the lake house was anything but peaceful. Daemon gripped the steering wheel tightly, his jaw clenched as he launched into yet another rant about Otto Hightower. The girls sat in the back, exchanging knowing looks as their father’s voice filled the car.

“And do you know what that cunt did?” Daemon spat, his eyes narrowing as he glanced at the rearview mirror. “He went around telling everyone in the business not to trust me. Said I was too unpredictable, too reckless. Can you believe that?”

Rhaena and Baela shared a glance, their expressions mirroring each other’s mix of skepticism and resignation. They both knew that their father wasn’t exactly the picture of innocence he liked to paint himself as. Daemon had a reputation for being volatile, and while Otto Hightower might have exaggerated, it wasn’t like Daemon hadn’t given him reasons to be wary.

Laena, sitting in the passenger seat, reached out and placed a calming hand on Daemon’s arm. “Daemon, we’ve talked about this. The past is the past. Let’s focus on making this visit as smooth as possible.”

Daemon huffed, clearly unhappy but not willing to argue with his wife. “I’m just saying, don’t trust them. And don’t be too nice to them, either,” he added, glancing back at his daughters. “They’ll take advantage of any weakness they see.”

Rhaena nodded, though she could feel the tension in her chest growing. The thought of spending time this summer with the Hightowers was enough to make her nervous, but with her father in this mood, she wasn’t sure how anything was going to go smoothly.

When they finally pulled up to the lake house, the tension in the car was palpable. The large, stately home loomed ahead of them, its windows gleaming in the afternoon sun. As they parked, Rhaena noticed Jace approaching their car, a friendly smile on his face. He opened the door for Laena, helping her out with a gentlemanly bow that made her laugh.

“Thank you, Jace,” Laena said, her tone warm and motherly. “You’ve grown into quite the young man.”

Jace grinned, then turned to Baela, his eyes lighting up as he saw her. “Baela, come on! I’ve got to show you this tire swing out back.”

Baela couldn’t help but smile at Jace’s enthusiasm, and she allowed him to take her hand and lead her away, casting a quick glance back at Rhaena as if to say, Wish me luck.

Rhaena watched them go, feeling a pang of envy at how easily Baela seemed to slip into the playful banter with Jace. But there was no time to dwell on it. Her father was already heading inside and Rhaena quickly followed, her heart pounding as she braced herself for the inevitable confrontation.

As they stepped into the grand foyer, the tension was immediate. The Hightowers were waiting, their eyes fixed on Daemon with a mix of curiosity and barely concealed disdain. Otto Hightower stood at the forefront, his expression unreadable as he extended a hand.

“Daemon,” Otto greeted him, his voice cool. “Welcome.”

Daemon took the offered hand, though his grip was noticeably tight. “Otto.”

Laena, ever the diplomat, stepped forward with a bright smile diffusing some of the tension. “It’s so lovely to see everyone again,” she said, her tone light and friendly. “Thank you for having us.”

Otto’s expression softened slightly as he turned to Laena. “Laena, always a pleasure. We’re glad you could join us.”

Rhaena, taking her cue from her mother, offered a polite smile as well. “Thank you for having us,” she echoed, though her voice was quieter.

As they exchanged pleasantries, Rhaena felt a pair of eyes on her and turned to see Aemond watching her with that familiar cold intensity. His gaze was piercing, and when he finally spoke, his words were laced with sarcasm.

“Rhaena,” Aemond said, his voice deceptively smooth, “I hope you’ll find our accommodations to your liking. It must be quite a change from what you’re used to.”

Rhaena stiffened at the comment, unsure how to respond. Before she could say anything, she caught sight of Daeron standing nearby, his expression darkening as he overheard Aemond’s words. He didn’t say anything, but Rhaena could see the frustration in his eyes.

Laena, sensing the shift in the atmosphere, quickly stepped in. “I’m sure Rhaena will be just fine,” she said with a smile, her tone making it clear that the conversation was over. “Now, why don’t we all get settled in?”

Rhaena nodded, grateful for her mother’s intervention. She gave Daeron a small, apologetic smile before excusing herself and heading upstairs to set up her room. As she climbed the stairs, she couldn’t help but feel a knot of anxiety tightening in her stomach. The summer had only just begun, and already the tension between the families was palpable.

As she unpacked her things and arranged her room, Rhaena tried to push the encounter with Aemond out of her mind. But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t shake the feeling that this summer was going to be anything but easy.

And yet, despite the unease, a small part of her couldn’t help but feel a thrill of excitement. Daeron was here, and as complicated as things were, she was determined to make the most of the time they had together. Even if it meant navigating the minefield that was their family dynamics.

Hours later, the tension in the air was palpable as the Targaryens and Hightowers gathered in the spacious living room of the lake house. The adults were already beginning to clash, as Rhaena could hear the sharp tones of Alicent as she argued with Rhaenyra.

“This is exactly why things are the way they are, Rhaenyra,” Alicent snapped, her tone icy. “You always think you know what’s best, but look where that’s gotten us.”

“And you think pandering to Otto and his schemes is the solution?” Rhaenyra shot back, her eyes blazing with barely contained anger. “You’re just as blind as he is!”

Otto, standing nearby with a glass of wine in hand, merely raised an eyebrow at the exchange. “If we’re going to talk about business,” he began smoothly, “it’s worth mentioning that certain individuals have been less than reliable when it comes to keeping their commitments. A little more discipline might do wonders for our standing.”

Daemon, who had been quietly seething in a corner, bristled at Otto’s words. “Discipline?” he echoed, his voice low and dangerous. “Is that your way of saying I should toe the line, Otto?”

Laena quickly stepped in. She placed a gentle hand on Daemon’s arm, her touch soothing. “Daemon, let’s not jump to conclusions,” she said softly, her voice a calming balm in the tense room. “We’re all here to work together, aren’t we?”

Daemon shot her a look, his anger simmering just beneath the surface, but Laena’s steady presence seemed to quell the worst of it. He let out a frustrated breath, his shoulders relaxing slightly as he nodded.

Otto turned to Laena with a genuine smile. “You always had a way of bringing peace to even the most tumultuous situations, Laena. It’s a rare gift, and one I’m sure your daughters have inherited.”

Rhaena, who had been trying to stay out of the fray, couldn’t help but smile politely at Otto’s words. “We have, thank you,” she said softly, hoping to keep the mood light.

Viserys, standing beside Otto, beamed with approval.

Daemon, however, wasn’t as pleased. His jaw tightened, and he turned away slightly, clearly irritated by the praise being heaped on his wife and daughters by those he considered his enemies.

Before the drama could escalate further, Jace appeared at Rhaena’s side, a bright smile on his face. “Come on, guys,” he said.

Baela was quick to keep up with him, clearly eager to escape the adult drama. “Yeah, let’s go sit by the lake,” she suggested, linking her arm with Rhaena’s.

Grateful for the excuse to leave, Rhaena followed Jace and Baela out of the house and down to the lake, where the water sparkled invitingly under the afternoon sun. They found a shady spot under a tree and sat down, the tension of the house already beginning to fade.

Jace stretched out on the grass, his usual playful demeanor returning as he leaned back on his elbows. “So, how’s the summer treating you so far?” he asked, looking between Rhaena and Baela.

“It’s been interesting,” Rhaena replied with a small smile, glancing back at the house. “But I’m glad we’re all here together.”

Baela nodded in agreement. “Yeah, it’s been a while since we’ve all been in one place. Let’s just hope things don’t get too crazy.”

They chatted easily for a while, the conversation light and full of laughter. Rhaena found herself relaxing more and more, enjoying the simple pleasure of being with her sister and cousin. But as the sun continued to climb higher in the sky, she noticed someone approaching out of the corner of her eye.

She turned to see Daeron making his way toward them, his posture a little stiff as he glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one was watching. When he reached them, he sat down next to Rhaena, his expression casual as he greeted everyone.

“Hey,” he said, his tone light. “Mind if I join you guys?”

“Of course not,” Baela replied, though Rhaena noticed the subtle tension in Jace’s posture as Daeron sat down.

Jace forced a grin, trying to maintain the friendly atmosphere. “Sure, Daeron. The more, the merrier.”

Rhaena couldn’t help but feel a flutter of nervousness as Daeron settled in beside her. He didn’t speak directly to her, instead keeping the conversation general, but she could feel his presence keenly, every brush of his arm against hers sending her heart racing.

Jace, who had been lounging casually on the grass, straightened slightly, his friendly demeanor faltering as he eyed Daeron. Baela, sitting on Rhaena’s other side, looked confused at first, her brow furrowing as she glanced between Daeron and Jace. It was clear she hadn’t expected Daeron to join them and the unspoken question hung in the air: Why was he here?

Daeron, however, kept his expression casual as if oblivious to the awkwardness settling around them. “So, what majors are you guys thinking about for college? I’ve been trying to figure mine out, but it’s harder than I thought.”

Baela blinked, the question catching her off guard. “Oh, um…I was thinking about something in the arts, maybe graphic design or animation,” she said, her tone cautious but warming as she spoke.

Jace, still wary, hesitated before answering. “I’m leaning toward something in engineering. My mom thinks it’s a good fit for me.” He glanced at Baela, who nodded encouragingly.

Rhaena didn’t mind being left out of the conversation. She was just happy to see the three of them talking, even if the tension hadn’t entirely disappeared. It was a small relief to watch them try to find common ground.

Baela, sensing the need to lighten the mood further, grinned and said, “You know, there’s this joke I heard about college majors. What do you call a person who graduated with a philosophy degree?”

Jace raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at his lips. “What?”

“A barista,” Baela said, laughing at her own joke.

Jace snorted rolling his eyes, and even Daeron cracked a smile. The three of them began to relax. The conversation flowed more naturally, with Jace and Baela discussing their plans and Daeron chiming in with his own thoughts. Rhaena listened contentedly, glad to see them getting along, even if only for a little while.

As the sun dipped lower in the sky Daeron shifted, glancing back toward the house. Rhaena followed his gaze and saw Aegon stepping out, lighting a cigarette as he made his way across the lawn. Behind him, Aemond emerged, his expression unreadable as he followed his older brother.

The sight of them seemed to jolt Daeron into action. He pushed himself to his feet, brushing off his jeans. “I should get going,” he said, his tone casual but carrying an underlying urgency. The implication was clear: Aemond wouldn’t be pleased if he found Daeron here, laughing and chatting with them.

Jace, still trying to mask his confusion and annoyance, just nodded. “Yeah, catch you later, Daeron.”

Baela offered a small smile, still a bit puzzled by Daeron’s sudden arrival and departure. “See you around.”

Daeron gave them a quick nod, but before he turned to leave he met Rhaena’s eyes, holding her gaze for a moment longer than necessary. It was a look that said so much more than words could. An apology, a reassurance, and a promise all at once.

Rhaena felt her heart squeeze, her earlier contentment giving way to a mix of emotions she couldn’t quite untangle. She watched as Daeron walked away, his pace quickening as he neared Aegon and Aemond.

From their spot by the lake, Rhaena, Baela, and Jace could see the three brothers talking, though they were too far away to hear the conversation. Aegon took a drag of his cigarette, then handed Daeron something. Rhaena squinted, realizing it was a can of beer.

As the brothers headed toward the water, stripping off their shirts to reveal the swim trunks underneath. She watched as Daeron cracked open the beer, taking a long drink before tossing the can aside and diving into the lake with Aegon and Aemond following close behind.

Rhaena looked away, trying to ignore the knot of worry tightening in her chest. She knew Daeron was trying to navigate the tricky dynamics between their families, just as she was. As the afternoon wore on, Rhaena tried to push her worries aside, focusing on the present moment. But no matter how hard she tried, the unease ling ered, a reminder that the fragile peace they had found was always on the verge of shattering.

The next day had been quiet for Rhaena. She had spent most of it finding a secluded spot by the lake where she could dip her feet in the cool water and lose herself in the pages of a book. It was a welcome escape from the tension that seemed to cling to the house, a place where she could pretend, if only for a little while, that everything was normal.

Her parents had been busy dealing with the Hightowers all day, their voices occasionally drifting through the open windows as they discussed business and tried to maintain a facade of civility. Rhaena hadn’t wanted to bother them, knowing how much effort it took for her father to keep his temper in check. She knew Jace and Baela wanted some time alone, so she let them be, content to enjoy the peace and quiet by herself.

But now, as dinner time approached, the quiet day gave way to a tense evening. The dining room was filled with the clinking of silverware and the low murmur of conversation, everyone seated around the large table, pretending to get along for Viserys’ sake.

Rhaena sat between her parents, her eyes downcast as she quietly ate her meal. Everyone sat composed but distant. The adults were engaged in polite conversation, their words carefully chosen to avoid any overt conflict, though the undercurrent of tension was impossible to miss.

“Of course, the partnership with the Tyrells has been beneficial,” Otto was saying, his tone smooth and practiced. “Their investments have brought in substantial returns, and I believe continuing this alliance will only strengthen our position.”

Daemon, who had been mostly silent throughout the meal, tightened his grip on his fork, his annoyance barely concealed. “And what of the risks?” he asked, his voice low but edged with frustration. “The Tyrells aren’t exactly known for their loyalty. If they decide to back out, we’ll be left holding the bag.”

Laena interjected. “Daemon has a point Otto, but perhaps there are ways to mitigate those risks. Maybe if we diversify our partnerships, we won’t be as vulnerable to any sudden changes in the Tyrells’ stance.”

Otto nodded thoughtfully, though his expression remained carefully neutral. “That’s certainly something to consider.”

Viserys, sitting at the head of the table, smiled approvingly clearly pleased with the conversation staying on track. As the adults continued their conversation, the teens sat in silence, their plates mostly untouched as they listened. Jace, seated beside Baela, noticed her pushing her food around her plate with a frown.

“You don’t like it?” he asked quietly.

Baela shook her head, wrinkling her nose. “Not really.”

Without a word, Jace swapped his plate with hers, offering her his meal instead. Baela smiled in thanks.

On the other side of the table, Aegon, clearly bored with the discussion, reached under the table and pulled out a can of beer. He cracked it open with a loud hiss, earning a few disapproving glances from the adults, but he merely smirked and took a long swig.

Jace deciding to extend the kindness Daeron had shown them earlier, glanced over and spoke “So,” he began, his tone friendly, “how are you guys enjoying the summer so far?”

Aegon let out a short laugh, clearly amused by the question. He leaned back in his wooden chair, giving Jace a mocking grin. “It’s been rather eventful,” he drawled, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

Aemond, seated beside Aegon, didn’t bother to respond. He simply stared at Jace, his expression unreadable but intense, as if daring him to speak to them again.

Rhaena shifted uncomfortably in her seat, feeling the awkwardness of the moment settle over the table like a heavy cloud. She glanced at Daeron, who was sitting quietly beside Aemond. For a brief moment, it looked like he wanted to say something, but he hesitated, his eyes flicking between everyone.

In the end, Daeron simply offered a small, tight-lipped smile, the tension in his posture betraying his discomfort. He knew better than to speak, especially with Aemond so close by. Rhaena could see the conflict in his eyes, the desire to at least try to bridge the gap between them warring with the pressure to stay loyal to his family.

The conversation at the table gradually resumed, the awkward moment passing but not forgotten. Rhaena quietly finished her meal, her thoughts drifting as the adults continued to talk business. The evening dragged on, the tension never fully dissipating, leaving Rhaena to wonder how long they could all keep up this fragile pretense of harmony.

The next day, the sun hung high in the sky, casting a golden light over the lake house and its surroundings. The adults were occupied with yet another round of tense discussions, and the others had scattered to find their own ways to pass the time. Rhaena had just started to wander along the shoreline when she heard footsteps behind her. Turning, she saw Daeron approaching, his hands shoved in his pockets and a cautious smile on his face. The sight of him instantly sent a wave of warmth through her, easing the tightness in her chest that had been there since the previous evening's dinner.

“Hey,” Daeron greeted her, his voice soft as he closed the distance between them.

“Hey,” Rhaena replied, her own smile tugging at her lips. “I was just trying to find some quiet place.”

“Mind if I join you?” he asked, his tone hopeful.

“Not at all,” Rhaena said, her heart beating a little faster as he fell into step beside her.

They walked in silence for a while, the only sounds being the soft lapping of the water against the shore and the occasional rustle of leaves in the breeze. It was a comfortable silence, one that Rhaena found herself sinking into, grateful for the rare moment of calm in the midst of everything.

After a few minutes, Daeron glanced around to make sure they were out of sight from the house before he spoke. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you,” he admitted, his voice low. “It feels like we haven’t really had a chance to be alone since we got here.”

Rhaena nodded, understanding exactly what he meant. “I know..”

Daeron continued walking his gaze fixed on the path ahead. “It’s like everyone’s just waiting for something to go wrong.”

They reached a secluded spot by the lake, hidden from view by a cluster of trees. Rhaena paused, taking in the quiet beauty of the place, before turning to face Daeron. “I’ve been feeling the same way,” she confessed. “It’s like we’re all walking on eggshells, trying not to set each other off.”

Daeron sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I hate it,” he said, his voice laced with frustration. “I hate that we have to pretend everything’s fine when it’s not. And I hate that I can’t just be with you without worrying about what everyone else will do.”

Rhaena felt a pang of sympathy at his words, knowing that she shared the same worries. “I know,” she said softly. “It’s not fair.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke, the weight of their situation settling over them like a heavy blanket. But then Daeron reached out, gently taking Rhaena’s hand in his. The simple touch sent a jolt through her, and she looked up to find him watching her with an intensity that made her heart skip a beat.

“I don’t care what they think, Rhaena,” Daeron said, his voice firm but quiet. “I just want to be with you.”

Rhaena’s breath caught in her throat at his words, and for a moment, all the worries and fears that had been swirling in her mind seemed to fade away. It was just the two of them, alone by the lake, with no one to judge or interfere.

“I want that too,” she whispered, her fingers tightening around his.

Daeron smiled, a genuine smile that reached his eyes, and Rhaena felt her own lips curve in response. He took a step closer, closing the distance between them, and Rhaena’s heart raced as she realized what was about to happen.

His hand gently cupped her cheek, and she leaned into the touch, her eyes fluttering closed as his lips met hers in a soft, tender kiss. The world seemed to melt away around them, leaving only the warmth of his kiss and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat under her fingertips.

When they finally pulled apart, Rhaena felt a little breathless, her cheeks flushed and her heart still pounding in her chest. Daeron’s hand lingered on her cheek, his thumb gently brushing against her skin as he looked at her with longing.

“I’ve been waiting for this,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Me too,” Rhaena admitted, her own voice trembling slightly. For a long moment, they simply stood there, their foreheads resting against each other as they basked in the warmth of the moment. It felt like a small victory, a brief respite from the storm that surrounded them.

Eventually, the reality of their situation began to creep back in. Rhaena knew they couldn’t stay hidden away forever.

“We should probably head back soon,” Daeron said reluctantly, clearly sensing her thoughts. “Before anyone notices we’re gone.”

Rhaena nodded though she wished they could stay here forever, away from the prying eyes and judgmental stares. She knew Daeron was right.

She squeezed his hand in silent agreement as they began the walk back to the house, stealing glances at each other that spoke of the promise of more moments like this to come.

Days had gone by before they got the chance to steal a private moment again. The kitchen was filled with the sweet scent of vanilla and sugar as Rhaena carefully measured out flour, helping Laena prepare a batch of cupcakes for everyone. It was a rare moment of peace, the steady rhythm of baking a welcome distraction from the tension that seemed to permeate the large house.

Laena hummed softly as she worked, her movements graceful and practiced as she mixed the batter. Rhaena enjoyed these moments with her mother, the simplicity of the task making it easy to forget about the conflicts and complications.

As they poured the batter into the cupcake trays, the sound of footsteps approaching caught Rhaena’s attention. She looked up to see Daeron entering the kitchen, a tentative smile on his face as he entered.

“Hey,” he greeted them, his tone casual but warm.

Laena smiled back, always the picture of kindness. “Hello, Daeron,” she said, her voice light. “You’ve come at just the right time. We’re making cupcakes. Care to join us?”

Daeron seemed to relax at her invitation, “Sure, I’d like that,” he replied, stepping closer to the counter.

As he settled in on the bar stool, Laena glanced at him with a thoughtful expression. “You know, I’ve always liked the name Daeron,” she mused. “It’s the name of my cousin, actually. He has an adorable daughter named Daenaera.”

Daeron’s smile widened, clearly pleased by the compliment. “That’s a nice coincidence,” he said glancing at Rhaena, who couldn’t help but smile back at him.

Laena nodded, her eyes twinkling with warmth. “I think it’s a strong name, and it suits you.”

Daeron blushed, his gaze flicking to Rhaena again before he turned back to Laena.

As the cupcakes baked in the oven, Laena wiped her hands on a towel and turned to Rhaena. “I’m going to go take a quick shower while these finish baking,” she said. “Rhaena, can you handle the icing when they’re done?”

“Of course,” Rhaena replied, nodding.

Laena smiled at both of them before leaving the kitchen, Rhaena watched as her long curls disappear when the door swung shut behind her. The moment she was gone, the atmosphere shifted slightly.

Daeron turned to Rhaena, his expression softening as he left his chair to move closer to her.

Rhaena’s heart skipped a beat as he reached out to gently take her hand, his touch sending a familiar warmth through her. “Daeron,” she whispered, her voice low, “we can’t right now.n What if someone finds us?”

Daeron’s expression faltered, disappointment flickering in his eyes, but he didn’t let go of her hand. “No one’s around,” he said softly, trying to reassure her. “It’s just us.”

Before Rhaena could respond, the back kitchen door creaked open and they both turned to see Aemond standing in the doorway, his sharp gaze fixed on them. Rhaena’s heart leaped into her throat, and she quickly pulled her hand away from Daeron’s, taking a step back.

Aemond’s expression was unreadable, his eyes flicking between his brother and Rhaena with a cold intensity that made her stomach churn. He didn’t say anything at first, simply staring at them and the silence stretched out uncomfortably.

Finally, Aemond’s lips curled into a thin, mocking smile. “What’s going on here?” he asked, his voice dangerously smooth.

Rhaena couldn’t tell what he was thinking, and the uncertainty of it all made her pulse quicken with fear. She opened her mouth to say something, anything, to explain but Daeron spoke first.

“Nothing you need to worry about, Aemond,” Daeron said, his tone defensive as he squared his shoulders. “We were just talking.”

Aemond raised an eyebrow, his smile widening slightly. “Talking?”

Rhaena watched the tension between the brothers escalate, her concern growing as Aemond took a step closer to Daeron, his expression darkening. “You should be careful, little brother,” Aemond said, his voice low and threatening. “You wouldn’t want to make any mistakes that could get you in trouble.”

Daeron’s jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing as he met Aemond’s gaze. “Maybe you should mind your own business,” he shot back, his tone steely.

Rhaena’s heart pounded in her chest as she watched the confrontation unfold, the anger simmering between the brothers making her increasingly uneasy. “Stop it,” Rhaena said, her voice pleading as she stepped between them, trying to calm them down. “There’s no need for this.”

But her attempt to intervene only seemed to make things worse. Aemond’s gaze snapped to her, and the coldness in his eyes sent a chill down her spine. “Stay out of this, girl,” he spat, his voice dripping with contempt. “This is between me and my brother.”

Rhaena flinched at his harsh words, but before she could react, Daeron moved her, his expression fierce. “Don’t talk to her like that,” he growled, his voice filled with anger. “She hasn’t done anything wrong.”

Aemond’s eyes narrowed, his smile fading as he took another step closer, his presence looming over them both. “You’re getting awfully brave, Daeron,” he said quietly, his tone menacing. “I’d be careful if I were you.”

For a moment, it seemed like the tension might boil over into something worse, but then Aemond suddenly laughed, the sound harsh and mocking. He stepped back, shaking his head as if the entire situation was beneath him.

“Enjoy your little game while it lasts,” Aemond said, his voice laced with derision as he turned and walked out of the kitchen, leaving them standing there in the wake of his threat.

Rhaena let out a shaky breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, her heart still racing from the encounter. Daeron was still standing close, his protective stance relaxing now that Aemond was gone. He turned to look at her, concern etched in his features.

“Are you okay?” he asked softly, his voice gentle again.

Rhaena nodded, though the fear and unease still lingered in her chest. “I’m fine. I just don’t like seeing you like this.”

Daeron sighed, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “I’m sorry, Rhaena. I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

“It’s not your fault,” Rhaena assured him, her voice soft. “We have to be careful.That’s all.”

He nodded in agreement, though the disappointment in his eyes was clear. “I know. We’ll be careful.”

They stood in silence for a moment, the tension still lingering in the air, but now tempered by the understanding that they couldn’t afford to let their guard down. Rhaena wished things could be different, that they could be together without all the fear and complications.

The morning light filtered through the curtains as Rhaena walked down the hallway, her thoughts still swirling from the previous day’s events. The house was quieter than usual, a sign that most of the adults were still preoccupied with their own matters. As Rhaena roamed the hallway, she heard Baela’s voice, low and hushed, coming from one of the rooms.

Curious, Rhaena slowed her steps and quietly peeked inside. She saw Baela sitting on a loveseat, her phone pressed to her ear while she spoke in a soft, urgent tone. It didn’t take long for Rhaena to realize she was talking to their grandmother.

Baela’s expression was serious, her brow furrowed in concentration as she relayed the latest happenings at the lake house. “Yes, grandmother I told you, it’s been tense. We’re doing fine though.”

Rhaena frowned slightly as she listened, feeling a pang of unease. She hadn’t realized how much Baela had been confiding in their grandmother. Before she could dwell on it, Baela ended the call, letting out a small sigh of relief as she set her phone down.

Rhaena stepped into the room, making her presence known. “What did she say?”

Baela looked up, startled at first, but then she nodded. “Nothing, I’m just keeping her updated on what’s going on here. You know how she worries.”

She immediately went to fiddle with her nose ring, adjusting it into place.

Rhaena opened her mouth to respond, but before she could say anything, their father strode into the room. His presence was commanding as ever, and Rhaena felt her usual surge of wariness whenever he was around.

“Baela,” Daemon said, his tone brisk and direct, “what did your grandparents say? How are they planning to help us?”

Rhaena bit back a sigh, feeling a flicker of irritation at how single-minded her father could be. It was always about what he could gain, what advantage he could leverage. She wanted to tell him that their grandmother’s concern wasn’t just a tool for his cause, but she knew better than to voice such thoughts.

Baela seemed unfazed. “She thinks we should keep playing along for now, keep the peace while we’re here. But her and grandfather also plan to talk to some of her contacts, see if there’s any way to push back against Otto.”

Daemon nodded, clearly satisfied with the response. “Good. We need every bit of leverage we can get.”

Rhaena watched the exchange, her frustration growing as she realized that Daemon hadn’t even acknowledged her presence. It was as if she were invisible, her thoughts and feelings irrelevant to whatever schemes he had in mind.

Before Daemon could leave, he turned back to Baela, his expression hardening. “Remember what I told you about these people. Their blood is tainted, and we can’t trust them. Don’t let your guard down. We’ll be leaving soon”

Baela nodded dutifully, but then she hesitated, her gaze flicking to Rhaena for a moment before she spoke. “Daeron was nice to us, at least he’s not a creep like Aegon.”

Rhaena’s heart skipped a beat at Baela’s words, anxiety bubbling up inside her. She could see the anger flash in Daemon’s eyes, his expression darkening as he processed what Baela had said.

“Nice?” Daemon echoed, his voice laced with disbelief and anger. “They’re sending that boy over to be a spy, to gain your trust so he can report back to them. Don’t be fooled by a friendly smile.”

Rhaena felt her pulse quicken, a surge of defensiveness rising within her. She knew she had to be careful, but she couldn’t help herself. “I thought it was genuine,” she said quietly, trying to keep her voice steady. “He doesn’t seem like the type to do something like that.”

Daemon scoffed, his contempt for the Hightowers evident in every word. “You’re being naive, Rhaena. You don’t know what they’re capable of. The uncle who raised Daeron attacked me before you were even born. They’re savages, all of them.”

Rhaena wanted to argue, to defend Daeron, but she knew she couldn’t risk raising suspicions. Not with Baela and Daemon both watching her so closely. Reluctantly, she swallowed her feelings and nodded. “I’ll be careful,” she said softly. “I’ll be nice to them, but only to appease Viserys.”

Daemon seemed to accept her words, his expression softening slightly. “Good. We’re only here for two more days. Play nice for your uncle’s sake until we leave.”

With that, Daemon turned and left the room, his presence leaving a heavy silence in his wake.

Baela, seemingly oblivious to her sister’s inner turmoil, gave Rhaena a reassuring smile. “At least we get to leave soon.”

Rhaena forced a smile in return, though her mind was elsewhere. She knew she had to keep up the act, to play her part until they could finally leave this place. But the thought of what would happen when they were no longer under the same roof as the Hightowers made her stomach churn with unease.

As Baela left the room, Rhaena stood alone, the weight of her father’s words pressing down on her. She had two days to navigate this delicate balance, two days to figure out how to protect what she cared about without betraying her family.

And in those two days, she knew that every word, every action, would have to be chosen carefully.

Rhaena had been keeping to herself more than usual since the incident in the kitchen with Daeron and Aemond. She found solace in the quiet corners of the lake house, places where she could be alone with her thoughts, away from the constant undercurrent of tension that seemed to follow her everywhere.

Today, she had retreated to a small, rarely used sitting room at the far end of the house. It was a cozy space with a few worn armchairs and a dusty bookshelf, a place where she could disappear for a while without anyone bothering her. She had been avoiding Daeron, unsure of how to face him after what had happened. The last thing she wanted was to make things even more complicated than they already were.

She was lost in her thoughts, staring out the window at the tranquil lake, when the door creaked open behind her. Startled, Rhaena turned to see Aemond standing in the doorway, a smirk playing on his lips as he leaned casually against the door frame.

“Rhaena,” he greeted her, his voice smooth and deceptively pleasant. “What a surprise to find you here. All alone.”

Rhaena stiffened, immediately wary. “Aemond,” she replied, her tone guarded. “What do you want?”

He stepped into the room, closing the door behind him as he approached her. There was something unsettling about the way he moved, a predatory grace that made her skin crawl. “Just thought I’d check on you,” he said, his smile widening. “You’ve been avoiding everyone lately. Even Daeron.”

Rhaena’s heart skipped a beat at his mention of Daeron, but she forced herself to stay calm, to act as if nothing was out of the ordinary. “I’m just minding my own business,” she said, keeping her voice steady. “That’s all.”

Aemond’s eye narrowed slightly, as if he didn’t believe her. “Is that so? Because during school I’ve noticed Daeron’s been leaving the house more often lately. And when he comes back, he smells like…girl’s perfume.” He let the word hang in the air, his insinuation clear.

Rhaena’s pulse quickened, but she kept her expression neutral. “I wouldn’t know,” she said, shrugging as if it didn’t matter to her. “I haven’t been keeping track of him.”

Aemond’s smirk grew, his tone becoming even more mocking. “Really? You expect me to believe that? I’m not blind, Rhaena. I see the way he looks at you. And I’m not the only one.”

Rhaena’s breath caught in her throat, but she refused to let him see how much his words rattled her. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, her voice firm. “We’re all just family. Nothing more.”

Aemond chuckled, the sound cold and devoid of humor. “Family, huh? That’s an interesting way to describe sneaking around. But I suppose you’d say whatever it takes to keep up appearances.”

Rhaena could feel her anger rising, the urge to lash out at him almost overwhelming. She wanted to tell him off, to demand that he stop being so cruel and condescending, but something held her back. She couldn’t forget that he was Daeron’s brother, and no matter how much Aemond antagonized her, she didn’t want to make things harder for Daeron.

Instead, she took a deep breath, trying to keep her temper in check. “What’s your problem, Aemond?” she asked, her voice sharper than she intended. “Why do you feel the need to mess with me and Baela all the time? What did we ever do to you?”

Aemond’s smirk faded, replaced by a look of cold disdain. “You and Baela act like you’re above all of this,” he said, his voice low and bitter. “Like you’re too good for the drama, too good for the rest of us. It’s infuriating.”

Rhaena stared at him, taken aback by the venom in his tone. She had always known Aemond was resentful, but this level of anger was something new. “I don’t think we’re above anything,” she said quietly. “We’re just trying to stay out of the mess that’s tearing our families apart.”

Aemond’s eye flashed with anger, and he took a step closer, his presence suddenly more intimidating. “You think you can stay out of it? You think you can just sit on the sidelines while the rest of us deal with real issues? Daeron should’ve been there when I lost my eye. He should’ve been fighting with me, not running off and leaving me to deal with it alone.”

Rhaena’s heart pounded in her chest at his rising voice, but before she could respond, the door opened again, and one of the family’s workers stepped into the room. The interruption broke their arguement, and Rhaena seized the opportunity to escape.

Without a word, she turned and hurried out of the room, leaving Aemond standing there with his unresolved anger. Her mind raced as she fled down the hallway, a mix of fear and frustration churning inside her.

She couldn’t believe how unfair Aemond was being, taking out his frustrations on her just because he was angry with Daeron. He had no right to blame her for his own problems, and yet, she knew that arguing with him wouldn’t change anything.

As she reached the safety of her room, Rhaena leaned against the door, trying to calm her racing heart. Aemond’s words echoed in her mind, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that things were spiraling out of control.

But no matter what happened, she knew one thing for certain: she wouldn’t let Aemond’s bitterness drag her down. She had to stay strong, not just for herself, but for Daeron as well.

Rhaena and Daeron hadsitting in one of the studies of the lake house, sharing a light snack away from their looming family. The room was filled with the soft glow of the old dusty lamp, and for a brief time, it felt like they were the only two people in the world.

Daeron had just finished recounting a story about something silly his grandfather had done and Rhaena found herself laughing, the sound bright and genuine. It was a relief to laugh, to let go of the heaviness for just a moment.

Rhaena giggled, wiping away crumbs from her mouth. “I can’t believe he actually did that.”

“I know, right?” Daeron grinned, his eyes sparkling with amusement. Their laughter echoed through the room, the sound so natural and easy that it almost seemed to belong to another place, another time. But their moment was interrupted by the sound of footsteps approaching. Daemon had barged into the room, his expression as stern as ever, his gaze scanning the space before landing on his daughter. Rhaena felt her heart skip a beat, her laughter dying in her throat as she noticed the subtle shift in his demeanor when he realized she was with Daeron.

Her father was supposed to have been gone for the day, off hunting.

“Rhaena,” Daemon said, his voice clipped and laced with frustration before he scanned the room. Daemon’s eyes narrowed slightly, his annoyance clear. He had come looking for his brother, but finding his daughter laughing with a Hightower seemed to irritate him even more. “I see,” he said, his voice cold. I’s time you go find your mother.”

Rhaena could feel the tension rising in the room, her father’s frustration evident in his creased eyes. She was about to comply, but Daeron seized the moment.

“Actually, Uncle,” Daeron began, his tone as pleasant as ever, “I was just about to ask Rhaena if she’d like to join me for a ride on one of our sailboats. The weather’s perfect for it, and I thought it would be a nice way to enjoy the afternoon.”

Rhaena’s heart leaped at the suggestion, but she could see the way her father’s eyes narrowed even further, his annoyance deepening. He opened his mouth, clearly ready to dismiss the idea and curse the boy when Viserys entered the room.

“Did I hear something about a sailboat?” Viserys asked, his tone light and cheerful as he joined them. “What a wonderful idea, Daeron! It’s a beautiful day for it.”

Daemon’s expression hardened, but with Viserys now part of the conversation, he knew he couldn’t refuse without causing a scene. His jaw clenched, and he nodded curtly. “Fine. Just make sure you’re careful, Rhaena.”

Viserys, oblivious to the undercurrents of Daemon’d anger, clapped his hands together in approval. “That’s settled, then! Go on and enjoy yourselves. It’ll be good for you to get some fresh air.”

Rhaena shot a grateful smile, feeling the weight of her father’s gaze on her as she stood up. “I’ll go get ready.” She tried not to sound too excited about it.

As she left the room,she hurried up the stairs, her heart pounding with relief.

Daeron had managed to defuse the situation, and now she would have the chance to spend some time with him, away from the eyes and ears of their families. It wasn’t much, but it was enough.

As she reached her room and began to gather her things, Rhaena couldn’t help but smile to herself. The day wasn’t over yet, and there was still time for them to create their own little moments of peace, far from the watchful gaze of those who would seek to tear them apart.

The gentle lapping of water against the sides of the boat filled the air as Daeron expertly steered them out onto the lake. The sun hung low in the sky, casting light over the rippling surface. Rhaena sat beside him, watching his hands skillfully maneuver the sail, a mixture of admiration and melancholy filling her heart.

For a while, they didn’t speak, both of them content to let the moment wash over them. But as they drifted farther from the shore, Rhaena felt the weight of thepast week pressing down on her, and she knew she couldn’t keep it bottled up any longer.

“Daeron,” she began quietly, her voice barely rising above the sound of the water.

Daeron glanced at her, his expression shifting to one of concern as he noticed the seriousness in her tone. He adjusted the sail to let the boat coast gently before turning his full attention to her. “What is it, Rhaena?”

She took a deep breath, her fingers nervously playing with the hem of her dress. “It’s about Aemond. I had a run-in with him yesterday.”

Daeron’s jaw tightened slightly at the mention of his brother, but he remained silent, waiting for her to continue.

“He e was messing with me,” Rhaena said, recalling the confrontation. “ He said he could tell we were together because you had been leaving the house more lately and coming back smelling like perfume.”

Daeron’s eyes stayed peered on the water, butRhaena could see the tension in his posture. She hurried on before he could react, needing to get it all out.

“Then he started being his usual self, making rude comments, trying to get under my skin. I almost went off on him, but I didn’t. I didn’t want to cause more trouble for you at home.”

Daeron’s hands clenched into fists, his knuckles white as he struggled to contain his emotions. “Rhaena, I’m so sorry. He had no right to say those things to you. I should have been there.”

Rhaena shook her head, reaching out to place her hand on his arm, her touch gentle and reassuring. “It’s not your fault, Daeron. Aemond is angry and bitter, but it made me realize something.”

Daeron looked at her, his anger giving way to concern. “What do you mean?”

Rhaena hesitated, the words she was about to say weighing heavily on her heart. “I realized that our family. They’re too far gone. There’s too much bad blood, too much history. No matter how much we try to stay out of it, we’re always going to be pulled back in.”

Daeron’s expression softened, but there was a sadness in his eyes that mirrored her own. He knew she was right, even if he didn’t want to admit it.

They sat in silence for a long moment, the reality of their situation sinking in. The sun continued dipping lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the water as the boat drifted lazily.

Finally, Rhaena spoke again, her voice barely above a whisper. “Maybe.” She paused before continuing. “Maybe we should stop seeing each other.”

Daeron’s head snapped up, his eyes widening. “What? No, Rhaena, you can’t mean that.”

Rhaena felt tears prick at the corners of her eyes, but she forced herself to continue. “I don’t want to, Daeron. But what choice do we have? Our families will never accept us being together and I don’t want to keep living in fear.”

For a moment, Daeron didn’t say anything, his eyes searching hers as if looking for some sign that she didn’t mean it. But then, without warning, he leaned in and kissed her.

It was a kiss filled with all the emotions they had been holding back. The fear, the frustration, the longing, the love. Rhaena’s breath caught in her throat as she felt his lips against hers, warm and soft and insistent, as if he were trying to pour everything he felt into that one moment.

She kissed him back, her hands sliding up to his shoulders, pulling him closer as her heart raced in her chest. The world seemed to fall away, leaving only the two of them, wrapped up in the intensity of their feelings.

When they finally broke apart, both of them were breathless.

“I’m not letting you go, Rhaena,” Daeron whispered, his voice filled with determination. “We’ll find a way to be together, away from all of this.”

Rhaena blinked up at him, her heart aching with love and hope. “How?”

Daeron smiled, the first real smile she had seen from him all day. “We’ll run away together. After you graduate, we’ll leave this place, leave our families behind. We’ll go somewhere they can’t touch us, where we can be free.”

Rhaena felt a tear slip down her cheek, but this time it was a tear of relief, of happiness. She nodded, a small, hopeful smile tugging at her lips. “You really think we can do it?”

“I know we can,” Daeron said, his voice steady and sure. “We’ll start over, just the two of us. We don’t need anyone else.”

Rhaena felt a weight lift from her shoulders, the fear and uncertainty that had been plaguing her for so long finally beginning to fade. “Okay,” she whispered. “Okay, we’ll do it.”

Daeron’s smile widened, and he kissed her again, a soft, lingering kiss that made her heart jump. When they pulled apart, he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close as they turned to watch the sun sink lower on the horizon.

They sat together in silence, the boat gently rocking on the water as the sky turned from blue to pink to deep hue of orange. The sounds of the lake surrounded them. The gentle lapping of the water, the distant croak of frogs beginning their evening chorus.

As the first stars began to appear in the sky, Rhaena rested her head on Daeron’s shoulder, feeling more at peace than she had in a long time. They would have to face many challenges to come, but for now, she was content to simply be with him, to hold on to the hope that they would find a way to be together.

And as the night settled in around them, the two of them remained there, wrapped in each other’s arms, watching the stars and dreaming of the future they would build together. They were already far away from the pain and conflict that had once defined their lives.

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0fantasma0 · 9 months ago

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Petals to Thorns

{Chapter One}

General Fic Warnings: NSFW, dubcon, stalking, manipulation, possessive behavior, canon typical violence.

Chapter Two:

The sun was up, but you saw no reason to move from your spot at the kitchen table. A beautiful orange glow streams through the white curtains of your dining room. The soft light gleams against the tiny metal-tipped tool you use to whittle the chunk of alder wood in your palm.

This was your routine.

Sleeping well into the early evening to spend your nights at the kitchen table carving. It keeps your mind focused and your hands busy. You’d never thought your hands being unoccupied would be a bad thing until you started picking your lips raw. A nasty habit you haven't been able to kick since your games.

The other positive of sleeping through your days was that you missed all the people who came to your door. It had been a little under a month since you returned, and people were still dropping by. Most came to leave flowers or bottles of booze; some even left a few cords of wood. Thoughtful, but it would be several more months before you could put your new fireplace to use.

Nobody ever knocked, but just knowing they were on the other side of the door was enough to make you want to disintegrate. You couldn’t imagine trying to greet any of them. The walk from the train station to your new home in Victor's Village proved to be challenging enough.

Seeing the faces of your fellow District 7 inhabitants was somehow worse than being goaded by Capitol cretins.

Some cheered, some cried, and some didn’t say anything at all.

They were disgusted by you.

You slam the tool on the mahogany table below. Rubbing your eyes with your thumb and pointer finger, you were in desperate need of background noise. Your old radio busted a week ago, and you hadn’t worked up the courage to buy a new one.

You really should go to the market.

It was only a half mile from the Village, and walking might be pleasant. You could perhaps trade some of your woodwork for goods like you always have. Though, you didn’t need to barter anymore. The Capitol’s generous compensation for your efforts ensured that you never had to worry about the usual obstacles of District life again.

Maybe tomorrow.

Bracing yourself on the table as you stand from your chair. You drop your chin to your chest and stretch your achy limbs briefly before starting the long trek to the bathroom. This house was much bigger compared to the one-room shack you once called home. You weren’t sure who, but somebody had taken the liberty of moving all your belongings into your new home in the Village. They had even organized your clothes in the closet and hung your family pictures on the walls.

It had to have been Flora.

You fail to keep her son alive, and yet she still takes the time to make your transition easier. The mother of three was well known for her compassion and willingness to help others—traits very few people still possess.

What you did to still deserve her kindness, you were unsure.

Finally arriving at your destination, you nearly melt at the sight of the porcelain tub. Twisting the silver handle, you let the warm liquid slide down your hand before reaching its final destination.

A bath and then bed.

You had only just managed to fall into a dreamless sleep when the sound you had been dreading hearing echoed up the hall.

A knock.

Remaining still in your bed, perhaps whoever it was would think you weren’t home and go away.

Another knock.

Throwing the covers back, you grab the pair of trousers you left to rot on the floor. You tuck your white long-sleeve shirt into the waistband while searching for a belt or suspenders to hold your pants in place. Most of your pants and shirts once belonged to your father, and to say they were ill-fitting would be an understatement. Finally finding a pair of suspenders, you clip them on and shrug them over your shoulders as you walk down the stairs to your front door.

Hovering for a moment over the door knob, you take a deep breath. It was probably just a child or maybe even somebody you went to school with. You didn’t have a lot of friends per se, but you were friendly with almost everyone.

So why were you scared?

Turning the lock and twisting the handle, your eyes squint as the hot summer sun blinds you momentarily. Your vision slowly brings the figure in front of you into focus before a familiar, icey voice clues you into who your visitor is before you can finish fitting the pieces of their face together.

“Good morning.”

Coriolanus Snow.

He is as well put together as the last time you saw him. His hair combed back, and a perfectly tailored black vest hugged his torso and made the white of his dress shirt shine against the rest of his dark ensemble. Did he know it was a million degrees outside?

“Good morning,” You manage to choke out. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t expecting anyone.”

He smiles kindly, like you would greeting an old friend.

“That’s quite alright. May I come in?”

No, you can’t come in.

“Of course.” You move to the side and open the door a little wider.

Why was he here? Gamemakers never usually leave the safety of the Capitol. There was more hate for Gamemakers than for Peacekeepers; plenty of disgruntled family members of fallen tributes would gladly hang if it meant there was one less Gamemaker in this world.

He’s here to arrest you.

Coriolanus takes his time surveying the state of your home, stopping at a picture of your mother laughing as you dangle from the maple tree that once grew outside your childhood home.

He’s alone. You could take him.

“Can I get you something to drink? I don’t have much right now, but I do have coffee.” You ask as you move towards your kitchen, hoping to create a little distance between you.

“A glass of water if you could.” He calls back, seemingly still looking at the picture on the wall. It takes a few tries to find the cabinet with your cups in it; still unfamiliar with the layout. Bringing the glass over the sink, you stare out the window as it fills with water.

If he were here to arrest you, you would have already been dragged through the mud and on your way to a cell or the hanging tree by now. Any chance they could take to make a spectacle of a rebel’s torture or death, they would.

Is that what you are now? A rebel?

You didn’t feel like one, but the secret you harbored was undoubtedly an act of rebellion.

“Did you make these?”

You jump at the sound of Coriolanus’ voice behind you. Looking down, you see the cup has been overflowing for some time and has soaked your shirt sleeve. Shutting the water off, you quickly grab the washcloth next to the sink and wipe off the outside of the cup.

Turning around, you see the Gamemaker has one of your sculptures in his hand. A chickadee. It looked so much smaller in his hand. Coriolanus seems to consider the wooden bird before moving on to another sculpture. A rabbit whose ears you were still working on defining.

“These are lovely,” He muses, carefully returning the rabbit to its place in the ecosystem you have amassed at your kitchen table. “Do you only carve animals?”

Why do you care?

“No, I uh,” You hold out your hand, inviting him to sit across from you, placing the cold glass of water in front of him as you take your place at the head of the table. “I can make tools and cutlery, too; I was commissioned to make a jewelry box a while back. That was a unique challenge.”

There is a moment where you almost forget you're talking to a Gamaker—the very same man who boasted about his involvement in creating your prison cell.

Especially when he’s looking at you like that.

His expression is much softer than it was when you first met him. The threatening air that you felt before is nowhere to be found, and he seems content to let you continue talking if you so choose. His blue eyes don’t leave yours as he lets the quiet hang for a moment longer before straightening his back.

“I apologize for showing up unannounced. But I’m here on behalf of The Capitol.”

You’re fucked.

Like the young man could sense your immediate unease, he continues calmly.

“There have been reports of increased rebel activity in District 7. Now, this isn’t unusual. We’ve found there is a spike in this sort of conduct following a particularly emotional game like yours.”

You remain silent.

“I’m here to investigate these claims and ask a favor of you.”

A favor? That’s brave.

“The Capitol sends Gamemakers to deal with rebels?” You can’t help but scoff.

Coriolanus seems to find it funny as well. He chuckles and shakes his head.

“I studied military theory in university and served as a Peacekeeper in District 12. They send whoever they believe best represents and upholds Panem’s values.”

Silence fills the room once more.

You cross your arms in front of your chest and shift as far back in the chair as possible. You catch a slight twitch in the Gamemaker’s cheek when he notices the albeit small but important change in your posture.

“We’ve found that Victors tend to be the best at dissuading these acts,” He intertwines his fingers in front of him on the table. “I’m not asking you to make a speech. Just to be an example to the others in your District.”

“An example of what exactly?” The weight of your exhaustion is starting to wear you down.

“An example of compliance, order, loyalty. Show them the truth. That we are better and safer united as one.”

He wants you to be a mouthpiece.

To have you whisper Capitol rhetoric into their ears under the guise that it’s coming from one of their own. Easier to swallow that way, perhaps. But there was no way you’d be able to convince anyone that their children weren’t worth fighting for.

Not that you ever would, for anybody, at any cost.

“I would love to help with your rebel problem.” You mutter. “Unfortunately, I hold very little weight in the minds of the people in this District.”

The Gamemaker’s brows bunch together like he couldn’t tell if you were facetious. He nods slowly before you watch his eyes wander back to the chickadee. The first time his gaze has left yours, this entire conversation.

Coriolanus slowly unlaces his fingers in front of the bird, lingering like he wished to hold the tiny wooden creature once more. It seems to be a fleeting thought, though, as he quickly tangles his fingers back together

Had this been a different conversation and him a different man, you might have even offered to let him take it.

“I think you will find that to be quite the contrary.” Coriolanus abruptly pushes himself away from the table. You flinch before mimicking his actions and stand. “In any case, I will be available to you should you encounter anything troubling.”

He pushes in his chair, taking extra care not to knock the table. You feel dizzy from getting up so fast but try not to let the heaviness in your head become apparent to the Gamemaker.

The last thing you needed was Coriolanus Snow, knowing you were barely put together.

“I have to meet with Commander Ward, but there are other things I would like to speak with you about.”

Of course there is.

“You know where to find me.” You give a practiced, polite smile, which he returns. For a second, the blonde looks as though he has more to say. His lips part, and you find yourself holding your breath.

“Thank you for your time. I’ll see myself out.”

You wait until you hear the sound of the door opening and closing before you rush down the hall to lock it behind him. Steadying yourself on the wall, you gulp down some much-needed air. The late morning heat was starting to fill the house, but you felt cold and clammy. A symptom no doubt brought on by the Gamemaker.

Finding your way back to the kitchen, you stop in the door frame, your gaze settling on the untouched glass of water. Your chest burns with an emotion you can’t put a name to. It weighs heavy, and you feel the need to cry.

The promise of return made by Coriolanus only further fuels the flame growing beneath your sternum.

Next time you won’t open the fucking door.

Stomping over to the table, you snatch up the cup. Water spills over the edge as you raise your arm in the air. You aim at the empty hutch located behind the table and watch as it shatters into countless glistening pieces all over the floor.

It felt cathartic for a fraction of a second before your senses return as you realize the mess you’ve made.

A problem for later

On unsteady feet, you start for the stairs. White knuckling the railing as you climb your way up, perhaps your bed would grant you the relief you hoped you would find in the broken glass.

#coriolanus snow #coriolanus x reader #coriolanus fanfiction #tbosas #weee #gonna make a masterlist in da morning #hope you like #let me know your thoughts

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hoeforalbedo · 2 months ago

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Chapter 3

———————— ♱ ————————

WARNING: PLEASE READ

Sensitive topics including vague details of SA. Reader will display many mental health such as depression, PTSD, and anxiety. I will also discuss after effects of said trauma such as hyper sexuality, over-sexualizing oneself, over trusting, and many more. (Many cope in different ways however I am more familiar with this side of the spectrum as I have taken this information from my experience.) Suicidal topics. Horror. Manipulation. Blasphemy. Religious horror and possibly hints of religious trauma. Demons. Paganism. Witchcraft (I try to depict witchcraft as accurate as I can however if I make it too accurate, it will seem boring so I did add magical abilities. I write it based off of how I practice it). Possession. Death. Murder. Exorcism. Sex. Ritualistic sex. Female reader. A bit of crack (reader doesn’t take things seriously. Humor is the way of coping 😭)

If any of these themes trigger you, please do not read. You have already been warned.

Writing criticism is appreciated since I want to get better in writing.

Summary: Agatha Harkness decides to create the new Scarlett Witch. I’m joking. It’s just you know. . . Agnes. . . Agatha. It was Agatha all along. Also, I swear all men are liars. HEAVY MENTIONS OF TRAUMA. READ AT YOUR OWN RISK.

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A low melodic hum drowns out the sound of lightning and thunder. There’s a lack of rain, making it a dry storm. Three men are gathered in the middle of the woods before a huge oak tree. An altar is set right under. The hums continue, a combination of sopranos and bass notes.

You can’t see who the man is. It’s as if you are seeing through his eyes. He intertwined a red string around a red candle and a white candle. It has engravings but you don’t understand what it means. He spilled wax of a black candle onto a small dish before placing the bound candles onto the dish. The black wax holds the candles stable.

The more the man moves, the more you notice that there are other things on the altar. Incense is being burned. Silver jewelry and crystals litter the table as well as food. What stood out is the antlers of a deer. There’s a bowl of water, although it isn’t too deep, and the man submerges the candles. The water ends a few inches over the candles, allowing the candles to burn for many inches until it hits the water. Right in front of the bowl is black candle. Now that you’re looking at it, you realize that it has a sigil carved into it.

“Earl Furfur, I invoke the past, present, and future of my undying love. Please accept my offer so that you guide us to clarity,” The man says sternly. He sounds familiar and comforting. The two men behind him ring a bell, waking and sending a message throughout the woods. Many deers poke their heads out of the bushes to witness what these men are doing. “Earl Furfur hear me for I request assistance once more.”

You then feel a sinking pressure and you’re back in your room. You try to look around but you can't move. Your door opens and a shadow is cast against your walls to what seems to be antlers. What emerges from the door is a woman dressed in green. Her brown hair is unkempt and disheveled. She doesn’t look like she belongs in the era. She walks to you with a curious look. “I’ve seen you before, but I believe you don’t know me.” She sits on the edge of your bed. “You saw something you shouldn’t have,” She hums. “Wake up,” She blows on your face and when you blink, she’s gone and you can move again.

—————————————————————

“You finally decided on therapy,” The man before you cuts through outer breading before slicing through the meat.

“I didn’t realize my psychiatrist would be you. Is that even legal?” You ask. “Yunho, this is some good Wellington, by the way. It’s not pork or beef.”

“I’ve been experimenting. It’s deer," he states. The deer perched over the fireplace, looking over the dining table, makes you shiver in your chair. Yunho places his cutlery down then pushes his glasses up his nose. He always looks so professional and he makes a turtleneck look so good. “I can also make a few adjustments. If you really insist I be your psychiatrist, we can even informally arrange appointments.” He clears his throat, “Or what you call hangouts.”

“I only trust you. Only you.”

Yunho chuckles, the sip of wine leaves a sweet taste in his mouth. “You’re putting too much trust in me.”

“You’re my best friend. Well friends who fuck but you know. . .”

“For all we know, I could be a serial killer,” He scoffs.

You take his hand, looking deep into his eyes. “That would be so hot.”

“I fear therapy isn’t enough for you. You’re too gone. I know of an amazing psychiatric facility. They’d treat you amazing,” Yunho jokes, however he has the most serious face. You’ve grown to differentiate his jokes after the many years you’ve known him.

“Wow, can’t even handle a compliment,” You roll your eyes sarcastically. “Between the both of us, I’m the one with the best skills for the scalpel.”

Yunho smirks, placing his chin on his folded hands that are propped up the table. “I think you forget that I was a prodigy as a student. I would have been an amazing surgeon if I hadn’t switched over to forensic psychiatry.”

“We lost one of the good ones,” You sigh. “Neurosurgery would have loved you.”

“I bet so, too. I promise you, I’m still very much skilled with a scalpel, and a knife.”

“I can tell,” You pick up a thinly sliced cucumber from your salad. Each and every cucumber looks identical, knowing that it takes great precision to cut so thinly and accurately with each one.

“I’m making use of my talent.”

“You remind me of Hannibal Lecter too much. The Mads Mikkelsen one.”

“You tell me every chance you get.”

“And you still haven't watched it!” You huff.

“I’m a busy man. How else do you think I get these meats? Hunting takes time,” He shrugs.

“But you don’t hunt- oooh! Good one,” You laugh after grazing over his joke.

His lips curl as he watches you bite into the meal he took the time to make. “Would you like to tell me what happened when you came back to your hometown?” He asks ever so professionally.

“Is this one of your psychiatrist thing, again?” You frown.

“My apologies, I mean this as a friend,” He definitely does not. Sometimes, he can’t help but see you as a patient. Oftentimes, you have the tendency to self-destruct.

“I hated it. My parents are shit. The town is shit. Everything is shit,” You huff, the way you’re cutting through the meat becomes more like stabbing into flesh. Yunho takes notice.

“What about it is shit?”

“You’re mean,” You glare at him.

“But you love it,” He leans back on his black leather chair, swirling the red wine around his glass.

“The first thing I got was getting slut-shamed,” You sigh.

“And how did that make you feel?”

“You should be getting paid for this.”

“Why? We’re just close friends discussing our experiences.”

You abandon your food, no longer finding it delectable. “Sometimes I feel like they are right. I know that it’s wrong but then again, I never fought back.”

“That is very common within victims, not just rape, sexual assault, and everything of the spectrum. It also often happens during any sort of abuse. Your brain triggers your fight or flight when it senses danger. Some may fight but others won’t. That’s the brain’s idea of flight. Some may just freeze, their brain not understanding what action they will take. Others take it kind of like how animals play dead to survive. Of course there are other explanations to explain your cause. Merely, your body does what it can to survive,” Yunho explains, making you feel suddenly aware of yourself. You don’t like it. It feels strange and Yunho’s psychoanalyzing is making you feel small.

“Oh,” Is all you can say. “So it’s normal?”

“Normal to a specific person. People respond differently to threats.” Yunho states. “And how about your parents?”

“Still misogynistic as ever,” You roll your eyes. “Women should stay in the kitchen blah blah blah,” You mock them.

“And yet you can find that men populate most jobs involving the kitchen,” Yunho points out the fact that contradicts their logic. “I prefer keeping the kitchen to myself. I can only trust the food that I make.’

You chuckle, “Just like Hannibal Lecter.”

“Of course,” Yunho plays along. “And that’s not deer. His name is Philip who just happened to irritate me.”

“You’re getting too scarily good at this,” You shiver and now that you're looking at him, you realize just how empty his eyes look.

“You make the correlation, I indulge you.”

“You’re so hot.”

“Thank you. So, anything new in the town?”

“Sit tight because you’re not going to believe this,” You warn him as you start ranting about everything you encountered including your affairs with Hongjoong. “Yunho, I think I’m becoming schizophrenic.”

“I see,” He hums, eyes empty and unfazed. You don’t know what he’s thinking. You never do.

“I hope you have room for dessert.”

Yunho pushes the chair back and disappears to the kitchen. A thud comes from the front door so you get up to check, as Yunho is taking out the desserts and plating them so elegantly. When you open the door, there’s nothing. You look around and you see a deer walking across the road into the forest. That’s not strange at all when Yunho lives by the forest.

“What was it?” Yunho asks you from behind, making you jump.

“Oh my god don’t do that!” You gasp.

“Sorry,” He brusquely says. You both go back to the dining table where the desserts are placed.

“This is good,” You hum.

“I apologize for not paying attention to your deteriorating mental health,” Yunho says so suddenly. “I am a psychiatrist but I didn’t bother to pay attention to the signs. I was terrified when I saw your name in the files.”

You remain quiet, eating the tarts on your plate. You admit that you’re a little mad at him. He’s supposed to help you. He’s supposed to notice but you admit that only those who want to be saved can be saved, and those who admit they need help will be helped. Yunho tells you that all the time. He’s seen people who make little progress only because they aren’t actively trying to let him in and help.

“Did you know you can substitute blood for eggs,” You spouted a random fact to change the topic.

“No, I did not,” Yunho laughs. “Who’s the cannibal now?”

“Yunho, this trauma is cockblocking me. I wanna fuck you right now, but I’m scared that some random flashback is going to stop me.” You sigh. Ever since you left the town, you’ve become a party freak, getting into trouble here and there, but you’d be fine because Yunho is there to take care of you. You’ve always been a hypersexual person and maybe God punished you for it.

“It takes time and a person you trust to get over that fear. Instead of pushing the thought back and stopping everything you’re doing, you could always acknowledge it and remind yourself that you’re the one in charge.”

“I can’t even masturbate,” You scoff. Even when you know you’re in charge, memories play through your mind. Those sorts of memories were an exaggerated version of what happened, but it was enough to turn you off.

“I can help you.”

“Please,” You pleaded with him. “Right now.”

“Get on my bed. I’ll follow you right after I clean up.”

You nod, scrambling up the stairs to find his bedroom door at the far right. Yunho quickly cleans up the leftovers, putting the tray of tarts in the row over bags of defrosted meat and organs he got from a trusted butcher.

You lay on his bed, inhaling his comforting scent. This isn’t the first time you’ve done something sexual with Yunho. However, this is the first time you’ve done anything with him after the incident. You’re scared. What if you can’t do it? What if you mess up? What if you can never have sex again?

“I promise you, you're safe with me,” Yunho assures you as he takes his glasses off and places them on the nightstand next to you. “I would never hurt you without your consent,” He crawls over you, his body easily engulfing yours. “And I’ll make sure no other bastard hurts you ever again,” He whispers low, words radiating with anger. He’s so sexy.

You pull him into a kiss, melding with him perfectly. This feels familiar. It feels right. You feel safe. You don’t know what Yunho could possibly do if anyone ever hurts you, but you know that you can trust him. He always makes you feel loved.

“Can I touch you?” He asks breathlessly, and your core aches, missing his touch.

“Please do. I miss you,” You whimper.

His large hands easily engulfs your breasts, squeezing them through the fabric. He wants to test your limits. He’s so attentive, watching what makes you squirm and what makes you repulse back.

“Yun,” You mumble, begging for more of his touch. He helps you out of your blouse and expertly removes your bra to allow your tits to spill out.

“So beautiful,” He gazes at you hungrily. “You’re always so beautiful, a goddess. Remember that.” You try to ignore the wetness between your thighs, wanting to take this slow.

Yunho rubs one of your nipples testingly, watching to see if he’d get a positive response. When he notices the way you squirm, he pinches them between two of his fingers. “I hope you don’t mind if I indulge myself.”

“Yunho please,” You look at him pleadingly, eyes so innocent and doe-like.

“Fuck,” He mutters, his turtleneck suddenly feeling suffocating. He discards it immediately, exposing his lean body. His head dips down to suck on your right nipple as his fingers pinch and tweak with the other.

“Oh shit!” You moan, running your fingers through his hair and giving gentle tugs with each tingly feeling that clouds your senses. He doesn’t neglect the other, as he alternates nipples, nipping and sucking at it. “Oh my god,” You mewl, lifting your hips up to grind on his thigh.

Yunho parts away, a trail of saliva connecting him to you. He kisses you once more before mumbling between you. “I want you to touch yourself. I want to watch you, and I’ll guide you. Understand?”

You nod obediently as he pulls away to sit at the foot of the bed. You sit up, removing your dress pants and discarding it to the pile of clothing on the floor. Your pussy is drenched, and if Yunho didn’t have any self control, he would have ravaged it by now.

“I want you to trace your slit,” He instructs you. You rub up and down the entrance of your cunt with your middle and ring finger. “Yes, just like that. Up and down. Don’t put it inside yet.”

Your lips tremble as you revel in the stimulation. It’s teasing you. You want more. It’s not enough.

“Now press down on your clit for me,” Yunho tells you, eyeing your pussy like a starved man. He is a sophisticated man but your cunt makes all sense of control crumble.

“Yunho, I need more,” Your voice trembles.

“You can rub it, sweetheart. Go on.” You thank him with a moan as you circle your fingers around the nub. “Good girl. I need you to go faster than that. Can you do it for me?”

“Yes, yes I can,” You nod as your eyes flutter close as you quicken your pace. The fact you haven’t had any action made you so sensitive, and it’s enough to quickly drive you close to your orgasm.

“Are you enjoying yourself? Does it feel good?” The man of your trauma appears behind Yunho. He then shifts to the woman from your sleep paralysis. She wears that familiar green dress. “Oh how you’ve fallen from your past graces,” She chuckles. “Looks as if one isn’t enough! Although I can’t argue. You do have good taste,” She scrunches her nose.

“Get out!” You scream at her which made Yunho jump. She scoffs then vanishes.

“What happened?” Yunho asks heavily with concern.

Tears prick your eyes as your fingers slow down and you give up in frustration. “I’m sorry Yunho, I couldn’t do it,” Your voice trembles.

Yunho is quick to cup your face, whispering praises. “You did so good for me, my love. Wanna tell me what happened?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” You sigh.

“That’s absolutely fine.”

“I wanna go again,” You tell him. “But I don’t think I can. Not right now. Can we do this again next time? I really want to get further but right now, I just don’t think I can.”

“That’s absolutely fine, my love. I won’t rush you. We can do this at your own pace,” Yunho comforts you.

“Thank you.”

—————————————————————

“How unfortunate. This isn’t the first time you’ve summoned Earl Furfur and yet here you still are,” Wooyoung chuckles in amusement. “What does he even do?”

“The Earl works in ways that we can’t understand. You know that as much as I do myself. We’re never one to give a straight answer.” Hongjoong growls, a wave of pain and vertigo surging through his body. He gulps down the red wine, hoping it’d do something. “This priest!” He hisses, smashing the glass in his hand. “I need that damn grimoire!”

“Why don’t you choose someone more suitable?” Seonghwa suggests, lighting an incense.

“I owe this man a reward. He was the best medium there is,” He swells with pride. “He was a great devotee.”

“That is unfortunate. You are a demon! You are a king! And yet here you are wallowing in your pain because some angel cursed your vessel,” Wooyoung scoffs then glares at Seonghwa.

“Don’t start with me Lilith,” The deacon growls at Wooyoung.

“Oh I wasn’t talking about you, but if the shoe fits. . .” He hums mockingly.

“This is only temporary. Once I get my hands on my grimoire then I can open hell from here,” Hongjoong interrupts their argument.

“You didn’t tell me this!” Seonghwa bursts in anger.

“Relax, angel. This town is infested with those angels already, it’s bound we introduce them to the concept of balance,” The priest rolls his eyes. “Why do you care anyways? You were casted out by them and then you came running to me for help.”

Seonghwa’s jaw clenches but he doesn’t say anything.

“I will continue the killings, not just because it benefits me but because it’ll get the attention of those angels,” Hongjoong states. “It’s about time they start coming out.”

—————————————————————

You approach the patient on the table, instruments laid out as surgical technicians and other surgeons gather around you. She’s a young woman with a tumor in her brain. It’s unfortunate. Why is it that people who want to live are threatened with death, but those who deserve rest for their pain are forced to continue enduring?

“Scalpel,” You say, words muffled behind the surgical mask. The area has been shaved of hair, allowing you to make a cut directly where the parietal lobe would be, the middle top of the brain. You make a precise cut, watching how the red quickly seeps out the wound, pouring out. You look in confusion. It shouldn’t bleed that much. “Gauze. Give me gauze,” You panic to try and stop the bleeding. You turn to the machine but it isn’t beeping to indicate some sort of abnormalities. “What’s going on,” Your brows furrow as you look back at the patient. The woman’s eyes open suddenly.

“Come back Y/N! Come back!” The patient grasps your wrist making you gasp.

“Doctor! Doctor!” Another surgeon calls you, snapping you back to reality. You find that all you saw was not real and you have been sent into panic. “Doctor, I think you should step out for a bit,” The surgeon tells you. A technician aids you out, helping you take off the surgical gloves and scrubs you’ve been wearing.

Your lips tremble. You feel so guilty. You’re the best surgeon there is in New York and yet this breakdown has made you useless. Your feet have taken you to the huge lobby of the hospital. Patients pour in and out of the sliding doors with all sorts of illness. People are dying in this hospital and yet here you are, wallowing in self pity. You don’t deserve your license. You could have killed that patient.

“Y/N,” A voice breaks you out of your stupor.

“Yunho!” A sob breaks within you and you claw at him.

He thought it's best that he took you to your apartment. The skyscrapers blanket your surroundings. People are bustling about, running errands, going to work, or whatever else. Everyone seems to have their own things going on. Traffic is also heavy. There’s constant sounds of horns and curses from other drivers. Amidst that, you were sobbing. By the time you get to your place, your cries have been put to rest.

“Would you like to tell me what happened?” Yunho asks as he takes his shoes off. He places his keys and wallet down the small little table at the front door.

“I’m taking a leave. I think I need it. Everything has been too much,” You nod, voice hoarse as you speak. “Yeah. It’s the best way.”

You look at the city skyline before you with a sad smile. The sun is still bright and the city is busy. Even when it’s night, there’s no difference in noise. You like it that way. The cacophony silences the loud thoughts in your head. At the same time, it makes you feel small and irrelevant. Nobody in this city actually cares for you. The world keeps spinning regardless of the things you’re going through.

Yunho doesn’t understand sadness. He doesn’t understand your pain. You can’t truly understand someone unless you’re them. You haven’t had their dark thoughts cross your mind. You didn’t experience it yourself. You aren’t them so how can you understand them? Empathy is so complicated. The reason he became a psychiatrist in the first place is to create a formula in his mind that is foolproof and would help him understand human emotions. What kind of psychiatrist doesn’t have good interpersonal skills? However, Yunho can feel his heart clenching with the way you look so vulnerable and sad. He doesn’t understand how you feel but he doesn’t like the tears you shed. He wasn’t given the task to protect you and he failed.

“Look, if you need to talk, I’ll always be here,” He comes up from beside you, wrapping his arms around your waist as he rests his chin on your head. He’s a tall man, easily towering your physique.

“Thank you,” you croak weakly.

“I have something for you. I was going to give it to you after an eventual date but I believe it’s a good time to give it to you now. Let me just get it.” He goes to the closet, taking a box out of the inner pocket of his jacket. He goes back to you with long strides.

He opens the box and takes the jewelry out. He places the sliver of the necklace against the skin of your chest. The black pendant rests above your collarbone. Intricate designs of silver wraps around the oval crystal.

“Looks beautiful on you,” He whispers.

You’d look much better with the necklace wringing your neck, just like the way a noose would hug your neck. Yunho gave the chain a tug, and one tug turned into a pull. You choke, trying to get his name out your throat. What came out were strangled cries.

“What do you think?” Yunho’s voice asks warmly. He holds the phone camera to reflect you. You’re fine. You haven’t been choked. You’re seeing things again.

“It looks beautiful. Thank you,” You force a smile as you admire yourself on his phone.

“It’s so that,” He starts speaking in a low soft voice. He tucks away a strand of hair behind your ear then kisses your neck. He presses his lips off just enough so that his lips graze upon your skin. “Whenever you’re feeling down, I want you to remember that I’m always with you.”

You turn to face him, wrapping your arm around his neck. “Thank you Yunho. Really. You’re the one and only who has to deal with my problems.”

“I failed you once. If I fail you again, I give you permission to kill me,” He says, pecking the tip of your nose.

“I don’t think that would ever happen,” You shake your head then lean up to reach for his lips. He hurriedly obliges you, locking his lips with yours.

A loud slam makes the both of you jump. You look around to see what it was, and when you turn to your floor to ceiling windows, there’s an evident mark of blood. It was a crow that slammed into your window, and it is sliding down the glass.

“That doesn’t happen. That has yet to happen.” You feel a chill down your spine.

“I think you’re reading too much into it. Go rest. I still have a few things to do but I will check in on you tonight, is that okay for you?” Yunho asks.

“Yeah, you’re right,” You nod, ignoring the growing pit in your stomach.

—————————————————————

Focus.

A shrill makes you suddenly aware of your location. You stand behind a purple couch adorned with yellow pillows. It’s a weird color for a couch but once you observe your surroundings, you notice that everything seems out dated besides the tv. Above it, many frames are nailed onto the wall. Each frame has a mother, a father, and a child. Each picture shows them progressively aging.

Odd, isn’t it? Your mother doesn’t seem to be aging.

“No! Abel!” A shrill of a familiar voice snaps your neck to turn to the direction. You start to run to the stairs out of pure instinct. Before your foot makes contact with the first step, you freeze.

Do you really want to go there? You won’t be able to unsee the events that are about to unfold.

You ignore the voice and continue climbing up the stairs. “Stop it! Stop it!” The woman continuously screams as she drives the end of the crucifix into the chest of a man. Her 50’s-style yellow plaid dress is stained red with blood. The same shade of red lipstick that adorns her lips is also splattered over her well maintained makeup.

“Oh fuck!” You gasp and you quickly slap a hand to your mouth. You look at the woman before you. She doesn’t hear you. “Mother,” You tremble as you walk closer. She looks like a mess. He She straddles the lifeless body of a priest. Of Hongjoong. After tiring herself, your mother collapses on her side.

You want to puke. It’s disgusting. A mix of blood, bones, and flesh spill out from where he was stabbed repeatedly. “Hongjoong!” You gasp.

Oh no! Is he dead? How unfortunate. Such a handsome man too.

“Will you shut up and help me?” You snap. By your side appears a woman in a green dress. The same woman who’s been terrorizing you.

“Help you?” The woman cackles. “Why would I help you?”

“Please,” You whimper.

“Ask my name first at least,” She chuckles as she stands by your side.

“What’s your name?” You mumble.

“Agnes.”

“Agnes, please help me.”

She sighs, twirling her hair around her finger. “Cross my heart, hope to die. Go on. You know the spell!”

“What?” You scoff. “That’s it? The fuck is that supposed to do.”

“Do you want him to die?” She raises a brow.

You turn to the lifeless body. “Of course not! But you’re not much help either!”

“Oh I am of great help. The spell. You should know it,” She looks at you coldly, pressing her body against yours intimidatingly. “Do you remember? You said it to me, it’s a blessing or a curse. You cursed me, but you can bless him. Go on,” She pushes you towards where he lays.

You kneel down next to him. You don’t know. You don’t know what to do. “Say it. The more time you take, the more his soul gets deeper into the underworld.”

You take a shaky breath, “Cross my heart and hope to die. Take apart and see eye to eye.” You’re confused. Suddenly the words come out naturally.

“You’re gonna need a knife for this part,” Agnes smiles giddily as she holds out a dagger.

“What is this for?” You ask.

“Oh you think that’s all? You need to give half your heart. I still have your previous one here,” She pats her chest.

“Wouldn’t I die?” You ask.

She rolls her eyes “You’re not even awake!”

“Will it hurt?”

“Of course not. Do you need help?” She offers.

“Yes.”

Without hesitation, Agnes stabs into your heart excitedly. “Oh how I’ve waited for this!” She laughs.

“You lied! This hurts like a bitch!” You cry as she pulls out your beating heart. The fact that there’s no blood is a miracle in itself or this is just a very vivid lucid dream.

“Do you want me to cut it in half too?” She offers.

You take the organ and the knife. “I’ll do it myself.” You cut your heart in half. “What’s mine is yours and yours is mine,” You hover your heart over Hongjoong’s chest and yours. “Take these two souls and make them one.” You slip the hearts into your body as well as his. You turn to Agnes. “Now what?”

A gasp is heard from behind you. You turn around and there is Hongjoong, sitting up as if he never died.

—————————————————————

Yunho notices many things once he opens the door of his house. The music box he placed by the entrance plays the tune of the nutcracker. It’s a good song, and he enjoys the classical songs, however that’s not something he should feel good about. He’s charmed the music box so that it plays if something has slipped past his protection wards.

Second, he can feel a pit in his stomach. It hadn’t left him. In fact, he had felt it since he was at your house. Something is off. For now you should be fine. The necklace he gave you has an obsidian pendant. It should protect you for the time being, but if this being managed to slip through his powerful wards, he’s unsure of how long a crystal can protect you. Whatever that being was, it did nothing, not even a hex or curse. It’s like it walked in and walked back out.

He hangs his jacket in a closet then walks through the narrow hallways to get to the living room. His gray couch and loveseat are positioned exactly at a 90 degree angle. A black carpet is laid pristinely under the black coffee table. Yunho is a minimalist besides the deer heads perched on the walls, a trophy for his kills.

A fruit fly whizzes past his head. Perhaps the fruits have started attracting them, but that’s not usual for a home like Yunho’s. He enters his massive kitchen. The fruits on the kitchen island look fine. A bigger fly buzzes and lands on his hand. Something must have gotten really bad. Now that he noticed it, something smells really bad. He circles behind the island to check his fridge. When he opens it, a wave of flies fly out, invading his house.

He looks at the food and bags of organs and meats he planned on cooking that day. They all look fine but it seems flies have made their way into the bag containing a deer’s heart. Clicks his tongue and sighs. He’ll still have to throw everything out. He isn’t risking any contamination. At this point, he should also cleanse his house.

His phone lights up before it starts ringing. Your name is displayed. There’s nothing unique to it. It’s just your name the same way he does it with everyone else. He picks up your call then immediately scrambles out his door. A protection spell can wait. Lord Asmodeus would have his head on a platter if you were to be in danger. The last time he felt his wrath, he wished he was dead.

—————————————————————

“The grimoire? Where is it?” Agnes demands, sending electric currents throughout your body.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” You cry in pain. You have already been confused about the spell that came to you so naturally. You don’t even know if that was real.

“You don’t know?” She hums. “Have I not awakened you enough?” She mumbles in thought. “Well if that’s the case, I’ll just take a peek into your soul.” She places her fingers on both sides of your temples. “I’d like to warn you, this will hurt,” She smirks as dark waves of magic intrudes your head, causing you intense pain.

You can’t move and you feel like your head is about to explode. You can’t even scream. Every fiber of your being hurts and it feels that one small movement would bring you worse pain. It’s like being burned alive.

“No, that’s not it either,” Agnes mumbles. “Oh how scandalous,” She gasps as she sees images of you at clubs, flirting and fondling both men and women. “Who knew a previous convent girl could be this shameful,” She says with amusement. “Oh where is- oh what’s this?” Agnes enters a darker part of your soul.

These memories aren’t yours, or not from this current time. The first moment that plays through your mind is an angel holding you in his arms as you bleed out, life being sucked away from you slowly. It rewinds back further to a bloody scene, most of the coven massacred by angels. The high priestess cries as you stand before her, not knowing what to do.

Agnes goes further back and sees a shadowy dark figure with a head of a bull, a man, and a ram. His figure would shift from something demonic to a beautiful man as he gently leads you to a large bed covered in velvety blankets. He lays you on your stomach and pushes your hair over your shoulder to give a clear view of your bare back. He shifted his form into something human as you can tell by the way he leaves soft pillowy kisses down your warm skin. “The mark of Asmodeus,” Agnes gasps as she feels your pain. She feels the way the burning sensation turns to pleasure, something Asmodeus gives the pleasure of, if you were a trusted and loyal devotee. You must have done something special. It is something that both parties must give consent to. You allowed him to brand your soul.

“Now it’s bound to be here.” She goes deeper, as deep as she can go but suddenly she’s crying tears of blood and your pain begins to subside.

“I recommend not going there,” You say as you can see your memories play through your mind like a VHS recording. You don’t know why, but you feel like something bad will happen if she dives even further.

“What?” She scoffs. “Now why would I stop?” She laughs as she ignores the pain creeping through her skin. Suddenly, she’s forced to stop. It’s like an iron door keeping her out. “There it is. It has to be here!” She says excitedly as she forces this metaphorical door open. She uses a huge wave of magic to make an attempt of opening it, but with each second, it feels like she’s being drained.

“Oh Agnes, you never learn,” You chuckle mockingly.

She hesitantly looks into your eyes and she quickly scrambles back. They are red like the pits of hell.

“Do you think that with guarding something so powerful, I wouldn’t put up some safety precautions from thieving witches? Don’t get me wrong, you are the least of my worries but I’m not stupid,” You walk towards her, each step feeling heavy and intimidating.

“What did you do?” She looks bewildered as she looks at the way her hand turns black as coal. It hardens and starts to chip slowly.

“I cursed myself and everyone who enters what they shouldn’t. You taught me that,” You smirk. “But I guess I owe you a thanks for waking me up. I need to make a few preparations before the prophecy is in full swing and while I’m still awake.” Agnes grunts as mystical chains appear out of nowhere and bind her. Around her appears a binding circle with glowing sigils. It is an automatic response for triggering the curse. “Have fun escaping this one. I have no doubt you will, but this should keep you entertained while I find a better place to contain you and get my magic back,” You smirk. You walk out the bedroom only to turn back on your heels and walk back into your room. “Sorry, I forgot I’m still in pajamas.” You walk into your walk-in closet, perks of being a neurosurgeon, then come out a few minutes later in a cute off the shoulder white long sleeve sweater and tiniest pink skirt.

“You look like a prostitute,” Agnes scoffs.

“Well prostitutes have to look hot to pull this off, right?” You ask innocently. “Modern clothing is so fascinating. It’s like borderline being naked rather than having to hide these ankles.”

“You might as well go out naked,” The other witch rolls her eyes.

You gasp, “Should I? Oh I’m just kidding. I still have some human decency.”

“Oh who would have guessed,” Agnes rolls her eyes.

“Well time for me to go,” You wave and walk out the room. You slam the door behind you.

Agnes heaves a sigh of relief only to hear the door creak open.

“Behave,” You say before closing the door for real.

“Y/N, I’m here!” Yunho slams the front door open in a frenzy.

“Oh what took you so long? Whatever. You’re coming with me to Oakheart, Asmodeus’s dog,” You say nonchalantly.

Yunho freezes and he’s tempted to pull out his wand. “What?”

“Just saying, you do a poor job at being his dog. You’re a puppy at best. Seriously? A crystal? I do love my obsidian but seriously you should have given me a boulder instead!” You hand him the necklace with the broken pendant. “I guess it did its job. Barely. An actual protection spell would have worked better. A warding too.” You shake your head and click your tongue in disapprovement, “Not even a sigil!” You go on, looking at Yunho who looks aggravated by the second. “I got distracted. Let’s go.” You wave your hands, expecting fire to engulf the both of you and dissipate once you’ve arrived at your destination. That didn’t exactly happen. “I forgot I’m stuck with realistic witchcraft!” She curses. “Oh I need that grimoire so bad! I’m gonna lose it!”

“I can drive,” Yunho offers. It’s the least he can do. Asmodeus has prepared him for this. It’s his only purpose, to serve the King and his bride.

#ateez #ateez fanfic #ateez fic #ateez imagines #ateez scenarios #ateez smut #ateez x reader #hongjoong x reader #yunho x reader

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hometoursandotherstuff · 11 months ago

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My fascination with the way different people have wildly differing interpretations of how to convert a church still has plenty to see. Now, this 1868 church is like nothing we've every seen before. The variations are amazing. It's in Carlinville, Illinois, has 3bds, 3.5ba, and is an affordable $399K.

The entrance hall could be beautiful.

Look at the work they did on the ceiling, alone, in the main room. And, the original lights are still up. This is the Great Room and it has more than 10,000 metallic silver stars. (Who got up there and stuck those up?)

They put up wall partitions. Good idea.

They kept the original altar and moved it to the side of the room, making a fireplace out of it. They are having a moving sale and there is plenty of room in here for that.

A pink dining room with original doorways and wainscoting, plus a tray ceiling.

A glass wall and doors have a clear view of the great room.

There are also approximately 30 chandeliers and fixtures.

Check out the kitchen. Very high end cabinetry and a colorful backsplash.

In this sitting room, an amazing piece was turned into a fireplace.

Each of these beams have different faces carved faces on top. This looks pretty goth, doesn't it?

The half bath has a beautiful sink.

Choir loft stairs. The checkered floors are terrazzo.

The choir loft is so pretty- look at the lacy details on the iron railing.

The primary bedroom has a view of the great room and look at the architectural details.

Room for exercise equipment outside a shower room. That's pretty neat.

And, this bath is nice. Are you noticing the lighting fixtures?

How cute. This bedroom is a few steps down.

They're not kidding about the chandeliers.

Bedroom #3.

They didn't change the building's original structure so some of the baths are a bit awkward, but that's okay.

Looks like they're not quite done with this loft.

I suspect that all of these commercial tables and chairs came with the building. Can you imagine the parties you can have w/all of these? Shoot, I would even rent them out!

8,233 sq ft lot. Looks like there's a nice vine-covered fence, too. The yard has potential.

#church conversion #converted churches #houses #house tours #home tour

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cvlutos · 2 years ago

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MUNDANE!!

♰ | Apr.17th.2023 | —K |

♰ | Epel Felmier | Gn!Reader

♰ | Synopsis: This is your life with him. It's utter bliss.

His hands do so much for you...

Light-blue eyes focused solely on your face, dancing across your skin, drinking in your features, forgetting about the multiple papers scattered across the old wooden hand carved table, a old wedding gift passed down generation to generation. That now rests in your dining room with a wobbly leg that needs to be replaced, yet always brushed off until the table tilts and knocks over his morning apple tasted coffee. A old table covered in scratches and cuts, yet hidden beneath both you and his work.

His hands gently cup your face, thumbs slowly dragging along the fullness of your cheeks, dragging along your nose and lips that taste slightly sweet. Your heart beats fast in your chest as you smile. Watching his eyes practically light up at the subtle motion, he fights back a widening grin, yet his sun redden cheeks flush with subtle color.

No matter how many times you sit in front of him, facing each other as your knees touch, as you gently press your palms against the back of his hands. No matter how many evenings after a long day of picking apples and managing the numerous jobs that come with running an apple orchard. From fighting off pesky crows or nosy children hungry for ripe fruit. It's a mundane life. One of routine yet freedom.

You watch his lips curl upwards, his nose slowly rubbing against yours. Earning a soft laugh, as he promises the entirety of your and his lifetime to this. To this simplicity.

From busy hot days, to carrying heavy apple crates, that he demands he carries, or chatting with neighboring farmers, sharing their fresh vegetables for a delicious apple pie.

To simply ending the day by sitting on the porch and watching the sunset. With mugs of tea. Or coffee. Or of whatever it is you fancy, growing cold and forgotten as you sit in silence. Comfortable silence. While he holds your hand in his tight, silently promising that this and yet to come, would be alright, and that he'd be here for you. Always.

He do so much for you...

Holding his hands, your fingers grazing over his knuckles and you pull them from your face. Squeezing them tightly, before pressing your lips against his skin. His hands littered in the tiniest scars from working, from splinters to accident cutting himself with a knife cause of his impatient, that he simply laughed as you rinsed his hand under cool water. Hands that have changed from his school years, hands that he feels slight shame for. Hands that you love and kiss, that has him sucking in a breath.

"..."

His voice above a whisper as he stares at you with wide eyes. No matter how old he grows, he's never once lost his pretty features, his long lashes and pink lips. Light-blue eyes that never change, that's filled with such love and adoration. With admiration. And as you pull away, entwining his hands in yours and pressing them against your knees, your eyes lock onto Epel's.

I love you...

It's like a whisper of wind, one that makes you laugh as flurry of kisses graze your face. Laughing between each kiss, practically lunging onto you, forcing you further into the back of the dining chair, still clinging onto your hands. While a silver ring band, bumps against yours.

#t.manor.writings #twst epel #epel felmier x reader #epel felmier #epel x reader #epel x y/n #epel fluff #epel felmier fluff #twst wonderland #twst x reader #twst fluff #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland fluff #twisted wonderland x gender neutral reader #twisted wonderland x reader

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bucking-mustangs-with-wings · 8 months ago

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Buck x Bucky Sorcerers vs Fae AU - WIP

I've got this one now in the works, as well as more for the Rodeo AU, my brain is fluttering back and forth between them atm, but I wanted to show a small bit of one of the scenes I'm working on for this. (Rough Draft).

The trees blurred in his peripheral, everything disappearing like the breath disappearing from his lungs, the panic pushing everything to the forefront. Just an adrenaline fuelled staccato beat thundering in his chest. Sweat beading at his brow.

Keep running. Just keep running, don't look back. Don't look back, or you're dead!

It was second nature to avoid the roots underfoot, the gnarled branches grabbing at the edges of his clothes and brushing his skin like long dead fingers trying to pull him down to the depths of hell. A cruel voice echoed in his head, that he was already there. He had already seen it. Hell was not far behind him, left in the debris littering familiar streets and captured under crumbled walls and burning in the flames of deliberate blue fire.

He could feel tears prick at the corners of his eyes, stinging and harsh. Could still feel the remnants of those flames licking at his skin. Could still hear the screams, anguished, terrified. Dead.

The sounds of magic, whirling like bullets past his ears still echoed in his skull, still kept their grip on his psych. It was as if he could still feel that dangerous energy in the air nipping at his heels like savage dogs, maws foaming with the need to watch him fall, clip his wings like a bird and send him tumbling down into the dirt.

"You can always tell, when that magic is about," his mother would always say, sitting in her chair at the dining table with a pair of knitting needles between her fingers, silver yarn spread over her lap and trailing off somewhere throughout the house. "It's like when a storm is coming, you can feel the shift in the air, the un-easiness settle in your stomach like you've swallowed iron weights. The hair on your arms stands on end like it's trying to sway away from it. You can taste it, on your tongue. You'll always know when it's close, Gale. When they're close. You'd do best to listen to what your instincts are telling you."

He tries to shake the image from his mind, vaulting himself over another moss covered root as thick as his arm. Of a familiar mouth, usually in a smile not unlike his own, now parted in shocked slack, crimson dripping from it's corners. An old, worn calloused hand with red painted nails outstretched in his direction, but still, lifeless. Eyes the same. Boring into his soul, frozen forever in an expression of pain and fear and emptiness. Nothing behind them. No light, no gleam. Just vacant and haunting and carved forever into the back of his mind like an etching in cement.

The air around him burned with every inhale, searing his over-worked lungs. His whole body was screaming at him to stop, that it couldn't take much more. It couldn't keep him going. It was on it's last legs, starved and exhausted and battered and bruised. Everything hurt.

A split second decision had him digging his heels into the soft forest floor, banking a hard left and flattening his back against a huge tree about three times his width. His shoulders heaved and shuddered, trying to draw in air, trying to keep his breath steady enough so that no un-necessary noise was made. The blood pumping through his terrified nervous system sounded like crashing ocean waves in his ears, his vision pulsing in and out with his heartbeat. He couldn't hear anything around him, could hardly see.

Squeezing his eyes closed, he kept his focus on the rhythm of his breath, palms squeezing, nails cutting into his flesh with enough force he was half expecting blood to drip between his fingers into the moss covered ground below.

His father's voice echoed in his head now, low and gruff but strong, serious and brave.

Controlling your breath can mean the difference between life and death out there, Gale. You control your breathing, you control your heart. They can sense your heartbeat, they have spells for that now. Shows them the echoes of it like damn fireworks. You don't want the wolves to hear you. Don't want them to see you. Or they'll empty those fireworks out of your chest and show it to you before they crush it under their boots.

Lifting his chin skyward, he focused what little eyesight he could properly see with with on the small sliver of blue sky peeking through the branches above his head. So plain and bare, normal. Completely oblivious to the horrible events taking place under it's enormous expanse. The more he stared, the more the roaring of his blood quieted in his skull, the more the incessant pulsing behind his eyes settled and he was able to take in the complete and utter silence that was enveloping the forest.

The thump-thump-thump buried deep in his sternum flowed more smoothly, but that hint of fear still had it's grips on him. Was still sinking it's teeth deep into his core like a splinter that would never be able to truly be plucked out.

If he could just get his bearings, could just sit for a moment, he could gather what few sensible thoughts were rattling around in his head and figure out where the hell we was supposed to go from here, what he was meant to do.

He could feel his legs trembling underneath him, his knees all but ready to give out and send him sinking down onto his haunches. He had to find somewhere safe. He had to find somewhere to rest for a few moments, a few hours if he was lucky enough.

He was just about to give in to his body's inconvenient exhaustion, let himself sit and allow his muscles and his still mildly racing heart to calm just that tad more, but the indistinct snapping of a branch far off to the right made every muscle in his overworked body freeze. His eyes shot down from the sky to stare straight ahead, his breathing caught in his throat, even though his lungs still protested at having their much needed supply of oxygen once again denied them fully.

But he couldn't let himself.

An acrid, sour taste crawled up his throat, coating his tongue like he'd just licked a copper penny, sparks dancing over his teeth and sending painful pulses through the very bone of his jaw. The fear quickly followed it again, his heartbeat beginning it's frantic and loud race and gripping his very soul like a cold blanket of electricity. He felt the sensation creep it's way through every cell, every vessel, every nerve. Like being submerged in freezing water.

Like a deer cornered by a wolf, he flickered his gaze down to his arms, held down by his sides.

Every hair was lifted and pointed skyward like they were trying to get away from something sinister.

"We got another one up ahead!"

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vee-crytraps · 7 months ago

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Good Luck, Babe! | CH 1-1 | Ice Cream for Breakfast

{Trigger Warning/Themes Masterlist} This is split into a billion parts because it's long as hell! Read on Ao3 to avoid the headache!

It isn’t unusual to be up before everyone else in the house. To say that the people in your adoptive family were night owls is a total understatement. Most mornings, Wayne Manor was full of the haunting sort of quiet you would expect in any normal residence during dead of night. Only a handful of years ago, you couldn’t stand the eerie halls of the East wing before ten am. The tall windows leaking pale light onto the antique dark wood, the ornate, unblinking portraits that loomed over you with eyes that seemed to follow. Total daylight horror vibes. You still felt like that sometimes. Especially as you grew older, and nearly everyone else moved out.

Dick was out in California with his West coast lollipop brigade before he settled in Blüdhaven. Jason, you had barely gotten to know before he died, and upon his resurrection (and subsequent rehabilitation), he moved out and never looked back. Tim was…Tim. Overworked, overtired. He’d moved out before he was even legally an adult- but he basically a CEO at that point anyway. It only made sense that he carve out a little something for himself in the world, especially when Damian came along and assumed the Robin mantle. And then there was Damian- the only current permanent resident aside from yourself, Bruce and Alfred. You wouldn’t say that you were friends exactly, but you had certainly developed an understanding in the quiet moments you ended up spending together. So yeah, most of your older brothers were onto greener pastures. As much as it sucked to see such a large house so empty, you knew better than to whine about it. It had been a long time since your brief stint as Robin when you were about eight years old, but even then you could register that the vibe in the bat cave was…tense, to say the very least. You had felt it in the manor, too- the anger and sadness swirling around your family of vigilantes. And Bruce, your godfather, Batman- at the very center of it all. There was a saying in the city- that if you ever saw Batman, trouble wasn’t far behind. He was Gotham’s own Mothman, bringing omens of collapsing bridges, bizarre hostage situations and stuck up banks. Still, chasing Batman made for cool stories and dynamic photos, with only a minor threat of personal harm on a good day. Despite the good sense of the Batman Rule, Gotham city residents leaked into the streets for a peak of the curling cape and badass rocket car. If you saw the bat family, however, you were well and truly fucked. These days, your family only really got together on cataclysmic occasions, the stuff one step down from the bone chilling, universe ending Justice League shit. Well, that. And your birthday. It was why you seized every opportunity to take advantage of the situation, seated in the large dining hall with a plan in place. Pressing the tips of your fingers together in a super-villain worthy steeple, you rest your elbows on the ancient oak of the dining table. You were at the far end- the very head, in a chair that was usually reserved for Bruce. “You wouldn’t want to set a bad example by reneging on your promise to me, now would you?” A mischievous smirk curled on your lips as you released your hands from their position, to point to the paper birthday crown you’d fashioned for yourself in the early morning. “For my first decree,” you started, offering a dramatic wave. You gestured to the table, littered with spoons, bowls, and most notable- several pint sized containers of ice cream. Smaller silver dishes housed sprinkles, cherries, crushed candies and other fixings. “Ice cream for breakfast.” Part 2

#v.fic #dick grayson x reader #tim drake x reader #jason todd x reader #damian wayne x reader #glb!

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averagejoesolomon · 10 months ago

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Wowza! What a doozy. Thanks for your patience on this one—lots of moving pieces. I hope you're enjoying the action as much as I am. If you're new here, you can read Full Circle from the beginning on Ao3. Happy Friday!

Chapter Six

As a general rule, Matt’s not afraid of a little silence. These days, a good silence has a way of bringing him back to the ranch, on a cool morning after he’s let all the animals out to graze. He used to spend hours in that barn all by himself, cleaning the stalls and filling the feeds, interrupted only by the occasional bird or barn cat. There was a peace about it—the sun cresting over a windy wheat field, sparkling across the morning dew, as muscle memory took over and left his mind to wander. The silence gave him space to think. Gave him time to take a step back and appreciate the little things in life. A silence, when done right, is a lot like a prayer without any of the effort.

This is not one of those silences.

In the twenty minutes since a man named Edward Townsend—apparently of MI6 and apparently not scheduled to arrive in Moscow midway through a mission—was dragged by his collar into the Baxters’ scanned and secured bedroom, Matt hasn’t heard one peep from his London partners. Hasn’t heard a peep from Rachel, either, which is far more disconcerting given there ain’t an inch of soundproofing between the two of them. She’s always had a way of making her silences seem loud, but this one has a bite to it. There’s frost in her features. There’s ice in her eyes. She’s a frozen pond too late into spring, closer to cracking by the second.

She’s furious about the hubbub at the Bolshoi—at least, Matt supposes so, if her car ride spent glaring at Townsend is any indication. The second they got back to the safe house, she changed from black silk to denim-on-denim, and dove straight into a pile of passports. She’s elbow deep in the accompanying paperwork by the time Matt completes his scan of the main room and approaches the small dining room table, wishing he knew how to thaw her out. “Hey,” he starts, with a clumsy clearing of his throat. “Don’t beat yourself up about how tonight went. This place has a way of taking the best laid plans and shoving them through a meat grinder.”

This is probably an understatement, given the scene they caused by rushing out of the theatre during the second act, and Rachel doesn’t miss the opportunity to say so. Pencil still looping through a sloppy and efficient cursive, she glances up from the top of her eyes. “That wasn’t a meat grinder,” she says. “That was a slaughterhouse.”

It’s nice to see her back at her usual level of cynicism. He slides easily into the seat opposite her, resuming his role as the silver lining to all of her gray clouds. “Nah,” he assures her, leaning onto the hind legs of his chair. “I’ve seen slaughterhouses, and there’s always a lot more bloodshed. All of your people are alive, and that counts for a lot. Plus, we got what we came for, didn’t we?”

He gestures toward her small collection of emerald and navy vinyl, every booklet placed neatly in a grid. Knowing her, they’re alphabetized by last name and he wonders which one reads Morgan. Wonders how his own name fits into her report. “We did,” she agrees. “And then some.”

Cold front, moving through. Her severity fractures throughout all of her features. A crease in her brow. The appraising squint of her eyes. Her not-quite dimples are back, carved from a tight frown, and Matt reckons she must know something he doesn’t. With Rachel, it’s always a pretty safe bet.

Even so, he’s got this urge to chip away at her and get back to the softness he saw at the Bolshoi. She’s nearly there, hair tied up in a baby pink scrunchie, pins and jewelry stripped, but there’s still something at the core of her that needs a little more work. “See?” he says. “That’s good news you can take right back to Virginia.”

This doesn’t land the way he hopes. In fact, it winds her up even more. Rachel takes on a particular type of grace when she’s trying hard to appear calm. It’s the kind of subtle thing that might go unnoticed by most, but Matt is in the business of noticing Rachel Cameron and he has been for years. He spots it in her now, moving with the practiced ease of forced fluidity, rather than the natural, absentminded elegance she usually keeps. It’s an act. It’s spycraft.

With steady, thoughtful hands, she collects each of the passports one by one. They sit neatly in her grip, a manicured hand wrapped around their spines. Intention guides her every move as she tucks them back into the beaten up messenger bag. “Matthew?”

He rocks on the unsteady lean of the chair, entirely thoughtless. “Yeah?”

“Why isn’t your passport in this bag?”

Now it’s his turn to freeze, right where he sits, midway through a rock. She doesn’t meet his eyes, focused instead on latching the patinated golden buckles that secure the bag’s leather flap. “What do you mean?” he says. “It’s not in there?”

When she does finally look up, dark brown eyes hold the depth of the mountains, long after the sun goes down, when the whole world feels black and imperceptible. She doesn’t reply with a yes or no, but she doesn’t need to. More of that bitter silence bleeds into the open air between them, and her expectant pause is answer enough.

“Well that’s more good news,” he tries, but he spots a pulse in her jaw, something tight and terse with all kinds of hesitation. All at once, it feels like Townsend isn’t the only one being interrogated, so Matt jumps in with a question of his own, just to even the scales. “That is good news, isn’t it?”

Her hands settle onto the table, folded into a purposeful clasp. “It could be,” she says, and now her words have adopted that same careful cadence as her movement. He wants to shake it out of her, and loosen her back into something genuine. “But it’s my job to consider other possibilities.”

“Other possibilities,” he cautions, but it leaves too much space behind. He doesn’t want her to fill it in on his behalf—Heaven knows the sort of nonsense she’ll think up. He supplies his own nonsense instead. “As in, someone else might have it? Took it before the trade?”

“Maybe.” It drives him crazy, the way she holds everything back. Each of her sentences have their very own miniature silences hidden in the cracks between each word. “Or maybe it was never there to begin with. Maybe, despite all of the work you do in the East, despite years spent dancing behind the Iron Curtain, despite the file Langley has on you, three inches thick, your passport was never going to be traded to the Soviets.”

She has a remarkable talent for making good news sound bad. “In other words, nobody wants me dead today,” he says. “In my book, that’s a success.”

“It’s not about whether you have enemies that want you dead,” she challenges. “In Moscow, with your mission history, that’s a given.”

“Then what is it about?”

“It’s about whether you have friends keeping you alive.”

Crack. His chair’s front legs land loud against the tile, sharp as a gunshot. Rachel doesn’t even flinch, and all it only makes him want to draw it out of her. Maybe she doesn’t know how scary he actually is. Maybe he ought to show her. “Hold your horses, here,” he says, cresting toward anger. “I don’t think I like what I’m being accused of.”

She meets him right at the edge. “I would think not,” she huffs. “Most people don’t like being accused of treason.”

He leans in, elbows poised on the table. “I don’t have friends in the Soviet Union.”

She mirrors him. “You have friends everywhere. You’re friends with everyone you meet.”

Unbelievable. “I’ve got allies and informants, but I don’t have friends. Not here.”

“My intel says you’re a top target. And all of those unsanctioned missions—”

“You’re serious?” But of course she’s serious. She’s always serious. “God, you’re serious, aren’t you?”

“Matthew.”

His name on her lips sends a burning buzz through his bones. “You’re impossible, y’know?” He jumps up, trying to shake the feeling from his body, but it’s no good. This is what people mean, when they talk about their blood boiling. “What the Hell happened to reliable and trustworthy? Remember that?”

She bolts up beside him. Maybe she’s boiling, too. “Well, what am I supposed to think?” she hollers. “Some of the CIA’s top Soviet agents are on the verge of exposure, and your name is conveniently left off the list?”

He ain’t usually the type of guy to pace, but she brings it out of him. “Let me get this straight,” he says, and his own movements get the better of him. He’s not sure how to stop it. Hands flying. Shoulders shaking. “It’s a problem when my identity is getting sold, because it suggests I’m a Soviet spy. But it’s also a problem when my identity isn’t getting sold, because it suggests I’m a Soviet spy. Is there any scenario here where I’m not accused of being a Soviet spy?”

She’s totally still. Got fists where her hands ought to be. “Where did the woman go?”

His hands, running through his hair. “What?”

Her jaw, set in place. “Don’t play the fool, Matthew. I saw her. I saw a woman with the passports, and you let her go.”

“I didn’t—Christ, I didn’t let her go. Townsend came bursting in—”

“Do not treat me like an idiot.”

“Then don’t act like one.”

This, at long last, gets something real out of her. None of that performance she puts on for the profession. Her jaw drops, and her cheeks flush, and Matt’s finally looking at the woman instead of the spy. “How dare you—you complete…you—” It can’t be the first time he’s ever heard Rachel fumble over her words, but he’s hard pressed to remember another. “Argh! You have a lot of nerve calling me an idiot when you—”

“Alright, alright.” He holds out a halting hand, drowning her voice in his own before she can say something she regrets. Lord knows it’s already too late for him, which is why he drops back down to something softer. “You’re right. That was out of line. I’m sorry. Name calling ain’t gonna get us anywhere, it’s just—I mean—” He spins on his heel until he’s firmly facing her, wringing out the heat in his veins for good. “God almighty, what are we even fighting about?”

More silence. He misses mornings in Nebraska. “I don’t know,” she admits, small and sincere. “But I think we’ve been having this same fight for years.”

It’s just another thing she’s right about. Another thing Rachel can see from her mile-high view of the world, that Matt wouldn’t stand a chance at spotting from his place down in the day-to-day dirt. “Yeah,” he realizes, thoughts stretching back to Baltimore, and a Chicago ballgame, and a bathtub in Italy. “I think so too.”

The safe house soaks up all the sound in the room, and it’s just her, waiting for him, waiting for her. This is usually the part when she tells him what’s next. When she gives him an outfit to wear, or a list to follow, or a codeword to use later on. For as long as they’ve known one another, she’s been the lady with the blueprints, telling him which ducts to crawl through and when. She’s supposed to hear all, see all, know all. But obviously there are some things not even Rachel can understand, because she asks, “So how do we stop having it?”

And in matters like these, Matt’s inclined to turn toward the experts. “Well,” he starts. “My mama always says that fights ain’t nothing but friends who can’t say what they’re really thinking.”

She nods, slowly, like maybe that sounds right after all. “Okay,” she says. “So what are you thinking?”

It’s the same thing he’s been thinking since he arrived in Moscow. Since her phone call. Since Baltimore. Now seems like as good a time as any to finally say it, because in a life led with nothing to lose, Matt’s starting to feel like he doesn’t want to lose her. “I’m thinking that I’m sorry,” he says. “For everything. For all of it. I’m sorry about how we left things after that big fight and I’m sorry you’ve always got to tell me what’s right and what’s wrong. I’m sorry for all the hollering. For all those nasty things I said. I’m sorry I can’t tell you everything. And I’m sorry I keep asking you to look the other way, because I know—I know—you can see when I’m lying through my teeth. But I hope you can also see that I’ve got a good reason for it.”

He doesn’t mean to say all that. Doesn’t even mean to say half of it. The truth of it all sends his heart racing, and the telltale taste of adrenaline sparks in his mouth. Matt’s been shot at, chased down, stalked, and beaten to bruises, but none of it holds a candle to the white hot overwhelm zinging through his every muscle in this moment.

When Rachel doesn’t answer, frosting up around her edges once more, Matt takes a crack at her before she can turn back to ice. “What are you thinking?”

The words don’t come as easy for Rachel, caught like hose water in the middle of March. “I’m scared that I was wrong about you—that I’m still wrong about you,” she starts, and it sounds like honest torture, the way she has to pull it out of herself. “I’m scared that the best double agents are the people you never suspect, and I’ve never suspected you for a second.”

This sounds like the end of it, but the momentum builds up, and she clears away whatever block keeps her words down, one second at a time. “And I’m scared that I don’t know you anymore,” she goes on. “Or that maybe I never knew you to begin with. Or that, worst of all, I’m wrong about being wrong, and you’re actually exactly as good as I think you are. That you’re kind, and smart, and humble. That in a world of liars, you’re the first one I’ve met who doesn’t find any glory in it. That in a world of men who don’t listen to me, you do. That you’re loyal, loyal, loyal all the way down. And I’m scared that I’ve gone and messed it all up and now… now you won’t even call.”

In the past five years combined, Rachel hasn’t said anywhere close to the number of kind things she’s just spit out in the past ten seconds. The whole thing leaves Matt’s head feeling a little dizzy, though he can’t name why. There’s too much to pull apart, so he starts with the last thing. The most important thing. “I’ll call,” he promises, and he reaches a hand out to her arm just to make sure it lands. “I didn’t know you wanted me to call.”

Her brown eyes strike again. This time, she’s looking up at him, and the light catches on flecks of glassy gold. “These last two years, I was scared I’d spend my whole life waiting for you to call again.”

She’s been waiting for him. “I didn’t know you cared about me that much.”

“Well,” she sniffs, “don’t you care about me?”

“Of course I do.”

“Of course you do.”

And that’s his answer. He should have known. He should have just done what Abby told him to do ages ago and manned up. Made the call. “I’ll call.” Two years. They’ve wasted two perfectly good years. “I’ll always call.”

Her breath falls. With it, her shoulders. She’s been holding that one in for a mighty long time. “I’ll be waiting.”

There’s more to say. They’ve got years to catch up on, after all, but they don’t get the chance. Just like that, a door opens and they’re all out of time.

Abe’s voice booms into the small room. “Well, the good news is, he’s not a double agent,” he says, leading Townsend out of the bedroom by the crook of his elbow. “Bad news is, he’s a bloody idiot.”

Abe shoves Townsend into one of the dining chairs with the sort of force that makes it clear Townsend won’t be getting back up without permission. This doesn’t stop Townsend from tearing his arm out of Abe’s grip, then crossing both over his chest. With a scoff and the roll of his eyes, he grumbles, “Why on earth you would think I’m a double agent, I have no idea.”

Grace struts into the room at her usual lean and limber pace. “Honestly, Townsend,” she trills. “We’re waiting for the second half of a trade, then you walk through the door. You do the maths.”

“You know me.”

“Yes, I know you,” Grace allows. “I know you to be an Oxford prick.”

This prompts another roll of Townsend’s eyes, this one even bigger than the last. The movement suits his boyish features, pairing nicely with the too-long curl of his hair and his perpetually turned up nose. Unfortunately for him, Townsend probably still has another year or two before he fully fills into himself, and his lankiness undercuts any weight he might be trying to throw around. Matt says a quick prayer of thanks for the fact that he himself is no longer in his early twenties, and never will be again.

Rachel, who has never been one to let youth stand in the way of a good lecture, locks on to Townsend like she’s got his heat signature on radar. “So,” she says, taking the seat opposite Townsend. “You’re the one who broke into the Bolshoi.”

Townsend sits up a little straighter, accepting her challenge. “And you are?”

Oh boy.

Matt’s ready to restrain her, in the event that this kid sends her teetering over the edge, but Rachel remains cool as ever. Rather than justify his question with a response, she shoots back one of her own. “What were you doing at the theatre tonight, Townsend?”

He slides his stare up to Abe, looming nearby. “I already explained that in great detail to your friends—”

“I’ll find out what you told them,” she assures him. “Right now, I’m interested to hear what you’ll tell me.”

Townsend is all huffs and puffs, with a tantrum just below a perfectly posh surface. “Fine,” he relents. “The woman you saw tonight? I’ve been tailing her for eighteen months.”

“Why?” says Rachel.

“That’s classified,” says Townsend.

For the first time all night, Rachel smiles. It’s a wry, amused sort of thing, which she immediately cuts in half. “Listen, bub, you just busted into the middle of my mission.” Townsend, who has almost definitely never been called bub once in his life, actually startles at the shift in her tone. “And because I’ve spent a lot of time planning that mission down to the minute, I can guarantee that you weren’t supposed to be there. In fact, I’d bet my salary you aren’t even supposed to be in the country, so you’ll tell me why you were tailing her, or so help me god, I will have MI6 open up an investigation on you that’ll have you sitting at a desk for so long, you’ll forget what fieldwork feels like.”

A fella’s got to admire the way Rachel can humble the Hell out of a guy, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Maybe it’s the light, but Matt swears he sees Townsend blush a little. “I have reason to believe this particular woman is working within an underground network of compromised agents.”

Freeze. Panic. Joe, Joe, Joe.

Every shred of Matt’s awareness wraps around Townsend’s voice, as though he can somehow tie it up and tug it away from the others. He runs through each word, picking out the important ones—woman, network, compromised—and hoping beyond hope he can yank them straight into the shadowed parts of his soul, where no one else can spot them for what they really are.

But before Matt is able to cut in, Townsend continues to explain. “I was attempting to corner her tonight, before she could trade the passports, but—”

“But instead you scared her off and made us look like fools in front of half the Russian government,” Abe finishes. “Job well done, mate.”

Townsend cuts Abe a look. “She’s slippery,” he defends. Then, with a renewed spark in his tone. “But she’s also desperate, and we have something she wants.”

When Townsend’s eyes fall to the messenger bag, everyone else in the room follows suit. Silently, a plan starts to form in Matt’s head, and he realizes that Townsend isn’t as inexperienced as he looks. This mission suddenly takes on a whole new meaning, slotting itself neatly into the behemoth of a mission that has run Matt and Joe’s lives for years. Moscow, in an instant, feels so much bigger.

Rachel’s laugh cuts through the thought, short and sharp. “Absolutely not,” she says, grabbing hold of the messenger bag and “These are going straight to Langley, no detours.”

“Send them back to Langley and they’ll end up right back in her hands,” Townsend argues, and Matt knows he’s right. But Matt also knows that Rachel ain’t likely to be swayed, once her mind is made up. “This is bigger than the passports. This is about a network of spies infiltrating our agencies and—”

“No detours.” There it is. Rachel’s nos are dense, immovable things and this one weighs down the room. “Especially not at the recommendation of someone I just met.”

“This is important.”

“Bring it up with your superiors, Townsend,” she says. “In the meantime, I trust Langley more than I trust you, not least because they’ve been around longer.”

“And this network has been around longer than your beloved CIA.”

“It sounds like you’re an expert. And you know exactly how to find them without our help.” She stands, slinging the strap of the messenger bag over her shoulder. “Although, next time, I recommend giving your agency a heads-up before you endanger the lives of everyone around you.”

“You have to listen to me.”

“No, you listen to me,” she says. “You’re going to spend the night here, with one of us keeping watch over you all night—because we don’t trust you—and then you’re going to get on a plane with Abe to London. After that, I’ll let MI6 decide what happens to agents who blow covers and cause potential international incidents.”

Townsend seems to shrink where he sits, and Matt recognizes the look. Months of hunting the Circle of Cavan, thrown aside in the span of a moment. It’s a special brand of fury and frustration, mixed with the sort of despair only a spy can ever truly understand. It's the sense that something is bigger than oneself. The sense that something is more urgent than anything else. And the sense that no one will ever truly understand the way you do, because nobody is allowed to know everything you know.

But Matt understands. So maybe that’s why he says, “I can take first watch.”

Betrayal crashes across Townsend’s face, with the realization that everyone else in the room is against him. Matt hates to think the kid was holding out hope.

Rachel eyes Matt, then lands back on Townsend. “Fine,” she says. “I need to get all of this hairspray out of my hair anyway. I’ll be nearby if you need anything.”

“Sure thing,” he says. Then, to Townsend. “You want some coffee?”

“Coffee,” Townsend sneers.

Matt gets to work anyway, and it has just the effect he hopes for. Rachel retreats to her room and the Baxters, uninterested in what Abe once called “Matt’s bean water” find far more entertainment in one another, and lock themselves into their government-funded honeymoon suite until further notice. It takes time, but eventually it’s just Matt and Townsend.

Matt brings a cup of hot water and a tea bag to the table, as a peace offering. “You’ll have to forgive my partner,” he says, taking a sip from his own mug. “She’s been working on this for more than half a year.”

Townsend doesn’t take the tea. Instead, he props his head into his hand, listless. “I’ve been working my op for three times that long.”

If Matt can play this right, it'll be the biggest break in the Circle mission yet. “Sounds like you really know your target.”

Townsend huffs. “Understatement of the century.”

It's almost too easy. “Do you really think she’d come for the passports, if we offered them?”

“Not a doubt in my mind," says Townsend, and the facts fall out of him easy. Matt's mama always said he just has one of those faces. "As far as I can tell, she’s about as low as it gets on the totem pole, and she’ll do whatever she can to crawl her way up the ranks. Suppose it is a bit of a long shot though. I don’t know how to reach her.”

Joe, Joe, Joe. “What if I told you," says Matt, "I could deliver a message to her.”

Townsend smiles, his hope in Matt apparently restored as he drops the tea bag in his mug.

#full circle #HA #haha #everythings going to be FINE

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miffy-junot · 3 months ago

Text

Felix Yusupov on the murder of Rasputin

As I was alone in St. Petersburg, I was staying with my brothers-in-law at the Grand Duke Alexander's palace. On December 29, I spent most of the day preparing for my examinations which were to be held next day.* As soon as I had a free moment I went home to make the final arrangements. I intended to receive Rasputin in the flat which I was fitting up in the Moika** basement: arches divided it in two; the larger half was to be used as a dining room. From the other half, the staircase which I have already mentioned led to my rooms on the floor above. Halfway up was a door opening onto the courtyard. The larger room had a low, vaulted ceiling and was lighted by two small windows which were on a level with the ground and looked out on the Moika. The walls were of grey stone, the flooring of granite. To avoid arousing Rasputin's suspicions - for he might have been surprised at being received in a bare cellar - it was indispensable that the room should be furnished and appear to be lived in. When I arrived, I found workmen busy laying down carpets and putting up curtains. Three large red Chinese porcelain vases had already been placed in niches hollowed out of the walls. Various objects which I had selected were being carried in: carved wooden chairs of oak, small tables covered with ancient embroideries, ivory bowls, and a quantity of other curios. I can picture the room to this day in all its details, and I have good reason to remember a certain cabinet of inlaid ebony which was a mass of little mirrors, tiny bronze columns and secret drawers. On it stood a crucifix of rock crystal and silver, a beautiful specimen of sixteenth-century Italian workmanship. On the great red granite mantelpiece were placed golden bowls, antique majolica plates and a sculptured ivory group. A large Persian carpet covered the floor and, in a corner, in front of the ebony cabinet, lay a white bearskin rug. In the middle of the room stood the table at which Rasputin was to drink his last cup of tea.

My two servants, Grigori and Ivan, helped me to arrange the furniture. I asked them to prepare tea for six, to buy biscuits and cakes and to bring wine from the cellar. I told them that I was expecting some friends at eleven that evening, and that they could wait in the servants' hall until I rang for them. When everything was settled I went up to my room where Colonel Vogel, my crammer, was waiting to coach me for the last time before my exams. The lesson was over by six o'clock; before going back to dine with my brothers-in-law, I went into the church of Our Lady of Kazan. Deep in prayer, I lost all sense of time. When I left the cathedral after what seemed to me but a few moments, I was astonished to find I had been there almost two hours. I had a strange feeling of lightness, of well-being, almost of happiness... I hurried to my father-in-law's palace where I had a light dinner before returning to the Moika. By eleven o'clock everything was ready in the basement. Comfortably furnished and well-lighted, this underground room had lost its grim look. On the table the samovar smoked, surrounded by plates filled with the cakes and dainties that Rasputin liked so much. An array of bottles and glasses stood on a sideboard. Ancient lanterns of coloured glass lighted the room from the ceiling; the heavy red damask portieres were lowered. On the granite hearth, a log fire crackled and scattered sparks on the flagstones. One felt isolated from the rest of the world and it seemed as though, no matter what happened, the events of that night would remain forever buried in the silence of those thick walls.

The bell rang, announcing the arrival of Dmitri and my other friends. I showed them into the dining room and they stood for a little while, silently examining the spot where Rasputin was to meet his end. I took from the ebony cabinet a box containing the poison and laid it on the table. Dr. Lazovert put on rubber gloves and ground the cyanide of potassium crystals to powder. Then, lifting the top of each cake, be sprinkled the inside with a dose of poison which, according to him, was sufficient to kill several men instantly. There was an impressive silence. We all followed the doctor's movements with emotion. There remained the glasses into which cyanide was to be poured. It was decided to do this at the last moment so that the poison should not evaporate and lose its potency. We had to give the impression of having just finished supper - for I had warned Rasputin that when we had guests we took our meals in the basement and that I sometimes stayed there alone to read or work while my friends went upstairs to smoke in my study. So we disarranged the table, pushed the chairs back, and poured tea into the cups. It was agreed that when I went to fetch the starets, Dmitri, Purishkevich and Sukhotin would go upstairs and play the gramophone, choosing lively tunes. I wanted to keep Rasputin in a good humor and remove any distrust that might be lurking in his mind.

When everything was ready, I put on an overcoat and drew a fur cap over my ears, completely concealing my face. Doctor Lazovert, in a chauffeur's uniform, started up the engine and we got into the car which was waiting in the courtyard by the side entrance. On reaching Rasputin's house, I had to parley with the janitor before he agreed to let me in. In accordance with Rasputin's instructions, I went up the back staircase; I had to grope my way up in the dark, and only with the greatest difficulty found the starets' door. I rang the bell. "Who's that?" called a voice from inside. I began to tremble. "It's I, Grigori Yefimovitch. I've come for you. I could hear Rasputin moving about the hall. The chain was unfastened, the heavy lock grated. I felt very ill at ease. He opened the door and I went into the kitchen. It was dark. I imagined that someone was spying on me from the next room. Instinctively, I turned up my collar and pulled my cap down over my eyes. "Why are you trying to hide?" asked Rasputin. "Didn't we agree that no one was to know you were going out with me tonight?" "True, true; I haven't said a word about it to anyone in the house, I've even sent away all the tainiks.(* Members of the secret police.) I'll go and dress." I accompanied him to his bedroom; it was lighted only by the little lamp burning before the icons. Rasputin lit a candle; I noticed that his bed was crumpled. He had probably been resting. Near the bed were his overcoat and beaver cap, and his high feltlined galoshes. Rasputin wore a silk blouse embroidered in cornflowers, with a thick raspberry-colored cord as a belt. His velvet breeches and highly polished boots seemed brand-new; he had brushed his hair and carefully combed his beard. As be came close to me, I smelled a strong odor of cheap soap which indicated that he had taken pains with his appearance. I had never seen him look so clean and tidy. "Well, Grigori Yefimovich, it's time to go; it's past midnight." "What about the gypsies? Shall we pay them a visit?" "I don't know; perhaps," I answered. "There will be no one at your house but us tonight?" be asked, with a note of anxiety in his voice. I reassured him by saying that he would meet no one that he might not care to see, and that my mother was in the Crimea. "I don't like your mother. I know she hates me; she's a friend of [Grand Duchess] Elisabeth's. Both of them plot against me and spread slander about me too. The Tsarina herself has often told me that they were my worst enemies. Why, no earlier than this evening, Protopopov came to see me and made me swear not to go out for a few days. 'They'll kill you,' he declared. 'Your enemies are bent on mischief!' But they'd just be wasting time and trouble; they won't succeed, they are not powerful enough ... But that's enough, come on, let's go..." I picked up the overcoat and helped him on with it. Suddenly, a feeling of great pity for the man swept over me. I was ashamed of the despicable deceit, the horrible trickery to which I was obliged to resort. At that moment I was filled with self-contempt, and wondered how I could even have thought of such a cowardly crime. I could not understand how I had brought myself to decide on it. I looked at my victim with dread, as he stood before me, quiet and trusting. What had become of his second sight? What good did his gift of foretelling the future do him? Of what use was his faculty for reading the thoughts of others, if he was blind to the dreadful trap that was laid for him? It seemed as though fate had clouded his mind... to allow justice to deal with him according to his desserts... But suddenly, in a lightning flash of memory, I seemed to recall every stage of Rasputin's infamous life. My qualms of conscience disappeared, making room for a firm determination to complete my task. We walked to the dark landing, and Rasputin closed the door behind him.

Once more I heard the grating of the lock echoing down the staircase; we were in pitch-black darkness. I felt fingers roughly clutching at my hand. "I will show you the way," said the starets dragging me down the stairs. His grip hurt me, I felt like crying out and breaking away, but a sort of numbness came over me. I don't remember what he said to me, or whether I answered him; my one thought was to be out of the dark house as quickly as possible, to get back to the light, and to free myself from that hateful clutch. As soon as we were outside, my fears vanished and I recovered my self-control. We entered the car and drove off. I looked behind us to see whether the police were following; but there was no one, the streets were deserted. We drove a roundabout way to the Moika, entered the courtyard and, once more, the car drew up at the side entrance.

As we entered the house, I could hear my friends talking while the gramophone played "Yankee Doodle went to town." "What's all this?" asked Rasputin. "Is someone giving a party here?" "No, just my wife entertaining a few friends; they'll be going soon. Meanwhile, let's have a cup of tea in the dining room." We went down to the basement. As soon as Rasputin entered the room, he took off his overcoat and began inspecting the furniture with great interest. He was particularly fascinated by the little ebony cabinet, and took a childlike pleasure in opening and shutting the drawers, exploring it inside and out. Then, at the fateful moment, I made a last attempt to persuade him to leave St. Petersburg. His refusal sealed his fate. I offered him wine and tea; to my great disappointment, he refused both. Had something made him suspicious? I was determined, come what may, that he should not leave the house alive. We sat down at the table and began to talk. We reviewed our mutual acquaintances, not forgetting Anna Vyrubova and, naturally, touched on Tsarskoe-Selo. "Grigori Yefimovitch," I asked, "why did Protopopov come to see you? Is he still afraid of a conspiracy?" "Why yes, my dear boy, he is; it seems that my plain speaking annoys a lot of people. The aristocrats can't get used to the idea that a humble peasant should be welcome at the Imperial Palace. ...They are consumed with envy and fury... but I'm not afraid of them. They can't do anything to me. I'm protected against ill fortune. There have been several attempts on my life but the Lord has always frustrated these plots. Disaster will come to anyone who lifts a finger against me." Rasputin's words echoed ominously through the very room in which he was to die, but nothing could deter me now. While he talked, my one idea was to make him drink some wine and eat the cakes.

After exhausting his customary topics of conversion, Rasputin asked for some tea. I immediately poured out a cup and handed him a plate of biscuits. Why was it that I offered him the only biscuits that were not poisoned? I even hesitated before handing him the cakes sprinkled with cyanide. He refused them at first: "I don't want any, they're too sweet." At last, however, he took one, then another... I watched him, horror-stricken. The poison should have acted immediately but, to my amazement, Rasputin went on talking quite calmly. I then suggested that he should sample our Crimean wines. He once more refused. Time was passing, I was becoming nervous; in spite of his refusal, I filled two glasses. But, as in the case of the biscuits - and just as inexplicably - I again avoided using a glass containing cyanide. Rasputin changed his mind and accepted the wine I handed him. He drank it with enjoyment, found it to his taste and asked whether we made a great deal of wine in the Crimea. He seemed surprised to hear that we had cellars full of it. "Pour me out some Madeira," he said. This time I wanted to give it to him in a glass containing cyanide, but he protested: "I'll have it in the same glass." "You can't, Grigori Yefimovich," I replied. "You can't mix two kinds of wines." "It doesn't matter, I'll use the same glass, I tell you." I had to give in without pressing the point, but I managed, as if by mistake, to drop the glass from which he had drunk, and immediately poured the Madeira into a glass containing cyanide. Rasputin did not say anything. I stood watching him drink, expecting any moment to see him collapse. But he continued slowly to sip his wine like a connoisseur. His face did not change, only from time to time be put his hand to his throat as though he had some difficulty in swallowing. He rose and took a few steps. When I asked him what was the matter, he answered: "Why, nothing, just a tickling in my throat. " "The Madeira's good," he remarked; "give me some more." Meanwhile, the poison continued to have no effect, and the starets went on walking calmly about the room. I picked up another glass containing cyanide, filled it with wine and handed it to Rasputin. He drank it as he had the others, and still with no result.

There remained only one poisoned glass on the tray. Then, as I was feeling desperate, and must try to make him do as I did, I began drinking myself. A silence fell upon us as we sat facing each other, He looked at me; there was a malicious expression in his eyes, as if to say: "Now, see, you're wasting your time, you can't do anything to me." Suddenly his expression changed to one of fierce anger; I had never seen him look so terrifying. He fixed his fiendish eyes on me, and at that moment I was filled with such hatred that I wanted to leap at him and strangle him with my bare hands. The silence became ominous. I had the feeling that he knew why I had brought him to my house, and what I had set out to do. We seemed to be engaged in a strange and terrible struggle. Another moment and I would have been beaten, annihilated. Under Rasputin's heavy gaze, I felt all my self-possession leaving me; an indescribable numbness came over me, my head swam...

When I came to myself, he was still seated in the same place, his head in his hands. I could not see his eyes. I had got back my self-control, and offered him another cup of tea. "Pour me a cup," he said in a muffled voice, "I'm very thirsty." He raised his head, his eyes were dull and I thought he avoided looking at me. While I poured the tea, he rose and began walking up and down. Catching sight of my guitar which I had left on a chair, be said: "Play something cheerful, I like listening to your singing." I found it difficult to sing anything at such a moment, especially anything cheerful. "I really don't feel up to it," I said. However, I took the guitar and sang a sad Russian ditty. He sat down and at first listened attentively; then his head drooped and his eyes closed. I thought he was dozing. When I finished the song, he opened his eyes and looked gloomily at me: "Sing another. I'm very fond of this kind of music and you put so much soul into it." I sang once more but I did not recognize my own voice. Time went by; the clock said two-thirty... the nightmare had lasted two interminable hours. What would happen, I thought, if I had lost my nerve? Upstairs my friends were evidently growing impatient, to judge by the racket they made. I was afraid that they might be unable to bear the suspense any longer and just come bursting in. Rasputin raised his head: "What's all that noise?" "Probably the guests leaving," I answered. "I'll go and see what's up." In my study, Dmitri, Purishkevich and Sukhotin rushed at me, and plied me with questions. "Well, have you done it? Is it over?" "The poison hasn't acted," I replied. They stared at me in amazement. "It's impossible!" cried the Grand Duke.

"But the dose was enormous! Did he take the whole lot?" asked the others. "Every bit," I answered. After a short discussion, we agreed to go down in a body, throw ourselves on Rasputin and strangle him. We were already on the way down, when I was brought to a halt by the fear that we would ruin the whole scheme by our precipitation: the sudden appearance of a lot of strangers would certainly arouse Rasputin's suspicions. And who could tell what such a diabolical person was capable of doing? I convinced my friends with great difficulty that it would be best for me to act alone. I took Dmitri's revolver and went back to the basement. Rasputin sat where I had left him; his head drooping and his breathing labored. I went up quietly and sat down by him, but he paid no attention to me. After a few minutes of horrible silence, he slowly lifted his head and turned vacant eyes in my direction. "Are you feeling ill?" I asked. "Yes, my head is heavy and I've a burning sensation in my stomach. Give me another little glass of wine. It'll do me good." I handed him some Madeira; he drank it at a gulp; it revived him and he recovered his spirits. I saw that he was himself again and that his brain was functioning quite normally. Suddenly he suggested that we should go to the gypsies together. I refused, giving the lateness of the hour as an excuse. "That doesn't matter," he said. "They're quite used to that; sometimes they wait up for me all night. I'm often detained at Tsarskoe Selo by important business, or simply to talk about God.... When this happens I drive straight to the gypsies in a car. The body, too, needs a rest... isn't it so? All our thoughts belong to God, they are His, but our bodies belong to ourselves: That's the way it is!" added Rasputin with a wink. I certainly did not expect to hear such talk from a man who had just swallowed an enormous dose of poison. I was particularly struck by the fact that Rasputin, who had a quite remarkable gift of intuition, should be so far from realizing that he was near death. How was it that his piercing eyes had not noticed that I was holding a revolver behind my back, ready to point it at him? I turned my head and saw the crystal crucifix. I rose to look at it more closely. "What are you staring at that crucifix for?" asked Rasputin. "I like it," I replied, "it's so beautiful." "It is indeed beautiful," he said. "It must have cost a lot. How much did you pay for it?" As he spoke, he took a few steps toward me and, without waiting for an answer, added: "For my part, I like the cabinet better." He went up to it, opened it and started to examine it again. "Grigori Yefimovich," I said, "you'd far better look at the crucifix and say a prayer."

Rasputin cast a surprised, almost frightened glance at me. I read in it an expression which I had never known him to have: it was at once gentle and submissive. He came quite close to me and looked me full in the face. It was as though he had at last read something in my eyes, something he had not expected to find. I realized that the hour had come. "O Lord," I prayed, "give me the strength to finish it." Rasputin stood before me motionless, his head bent and his eyes on the crucifix. I slowly raised the revolver. Where should I aim, at the temple or at the heart? A shudder swept over me; my arm grew rigid, I aimed at his heart and pulled the trigger. Rasputin gave a wild scream and crumpled up on the bearskin. For a moment I was appalled to discover how easy it was to kill a man. A flick of the finger and what had been a living, breathing man only a second before, now lay on the floor like a broken doll. On hearing the shot my friends rushed in, but in their frantic haste they brushed against the switch and turned out the light. Someone bumped into me and cried out; I stood motionless for fear of treading on the body. At last, someone turned the light on. Rasputin lay on his back. His features twitched in nervous spasms; his hands were clenched, his eyes closed. A bloodstain was spreading on his silk blouse. A few moments later all movement ceased. We bent over his body to examine it. The doctor declared that the bullet had struck him in the region of the heart. There was no possibility of doubt: Rasputin was dead. Dmitri and Purishkevich lifted him from the bearskin and laid him on the flagstones. We turned off the light and went up to my room, after locking the basement door.

Our hearts were full of hope, for we were convinced that what had just taken place would save Russia and the dynasty from ruin and dishonor. In accordance with our plan, Dmitri, Sukhotin and the Doctor were to pretend to take Rasputin back to his house, in case the secret police had followed us without our knowing it. Sukhotin was to pass himself off as the starets and, wearing Rasputin's overcoat and cap, would drive off in Purishkevich's open car along with Dmitri and the Doctor. They were to return to the Moika in the Grand Duke's closed car, after which they would take the body to Petrovsky Island. Purishkevich and I remained at the Moika. While we waited for our friends, we talked of the future of our country, now that it was freed once and for all from its evil genius. How could we foresee that those who ought to have seized this unique opportunity would not have the will, or the skill, to do so?

As we talked I was suddenly filled with a vague misgiving; an irresistible impulse forced me to go down to the basement. Rasputin lay exactly where we had left him. I felt his pulse: not a beat, he was dead. Scarcely knowing what I was doing I seized the corpse by the arms and shook it violently. It leaned to one side and fell back. I was just about to go, when I suddenly noticed an almost imperceptible quivering of his left eyelid. I bent over and watched him closely; slight tremors contracted his face. All of a sudden, I saw the left eye open... A few seconds later his right eyelid began to quiver, then opened. I then saw both eyes - the green eyes of a viper - staring at me with an expression of diabolical hatred. The blood ran cold in my veins. My muscles turned to stone. I wanted to run away, to call for help, but my legs refused to obey me and not a sound came from my throat. I stood rooted to the flagstones as if caught in the toils of a nightmare. Then a terrible thing happened: with a sudden violent effort Rasputin leapt to his feet, foaming at the mouth. A wild roar echoed through the vaulted rooms, and his hands convulsively thrashed the air. He rushed at me, trying to get at my throat, and sank his fingers into my shoulder like steel claws. His eyes were bursting from their sockets, blood oozed from his lips. And all the time he called me by name, in a low raucous voice. No words can express the horror I felt. I tried to free myself but was powerless in his vicelike grip. A ferocious struggle began.... This devil who was dying of poison, who had a bullet in his heart, must have been raised from the dead by the powers of evil. There was something appalling and monstrous in his diabolical refusal to die. I realized now who Rasputin really was. It was the reincarnation of Satan himself who held me in his clutches and would never let me go till my dying day. By a superhuman effort I succeeded in freeing myself from his grasp. He fell on his back, gasping horribly and still holding in his hand the epaulette he had torn from my tunic during our struggle. For a while he lay motionless on the floor. Then after a few seconds, he moved. I rushed upstairs and called Purishkevich, who was in my study. "Quick, quick, come down!" I cried. "He's still alive!"

At that moment, I heard a noise behind me; I seized the rubber club Maklakov had given me (he had said: "one never knows") and rushed downstairs, followed by Purishkevich, revolver in hand. We found Rasputin climbing the stairs. He was crawling on hands and knees, gasping and roaring like a wounded animal. He gave a desperate leap and managed to reach the secret door which led into the courtyard. Knowing that the door was locked, I waited on the landing above, grasping my rubber club. To my horror and amazement, I saw the door open and Rasputin disappear. Purishkevich sprang after him. Two shots echoed through the night. The idea that he might escape was intolerable! Rushing out of the house by the main entrance, I ran along the Moika to cut him off in case Purishkevich had missed him. The courtyard had three entrances, but only the middle one was unlocked. Through the iron railings, I could see Rasputin making straight for it. I heard a third shot, then a fourth... I saw Rasputin totter and fall beside a heap of snow, Purishkevich ran up to him, stood for a few seconds looking at the body, then, having made sure that this time all was over, went swiftly into the house. I called, but he did not hear me. The quay and the adjacent streets were deserted; apparently the shots had not been heard. When I had reassured myself on this point, I entered the courtyard and went up to the snow-heap behind which lay Rasputin. He gave no sign of life.

But, at that moment, I saw two of my servants running up from one side and a policeman from the other. I went up to the policeman and spoke to him; I stood so as to make him turn his back to the spot where Rasputin lay. "Your Highness," he said on recognizing me, "I heard revolver shots. What has happened?" "Nothing of any consequence," I replied, "just a little horseplay. I gave a small party this evening and one of my friends who had drunk a little too much amused himself by firing his revolver into the air. If anyone questions you, just say that everything's all right, and that there is no harm done!" As I spoke, I led him to the gate. I then returned to the corpse by which the two servants were standing. Rasputin's body still lay in a crumpled heap on the same spot, but his position had changed. My God, I thought, can he still be alive? I was terror-stricken at the bare thought that he might suddenly get up again. I ran toward the house, calling Purishkevich, who had disappeared indoors. I felt sick, and Rasputin's hollow voice calling my name still rang in my ears. Staggering to my dressing room, I drank a glass of water. At that moment Purishkevich entered the room: "Ah! there you are! I've been looking for you everywhere!" he cried. My sight was blurred, I thought I was going to faint. Purishkevich helped me to my study. We had scarcely reached it when my manservant came to say that the policeman I had talked to a few moments before wished to see me again. The shots, it seems, had been heard from the police station, and my constable, whose beat it was, had been sent for to make a report on what had happened. As his version of the affair was considered unsatisfactory, the police insisted on fuller details. When the constable entered the room, Purishkevich addressed him in a loud voice: "Have you ever heard of Rasputin? The man who plotted to ruin our country, the Tsar and your brother-soldiers? The man who betrayed us to Germany, do you hear?" Not understanding what was expected of him, the policeman remained silent. "Do you know who I am?" continued Purishkevich. "I am Vladimir Mitrophanovich Purishkevich, member of the Duma. The shots you heard killed Rasputin. If you love your country and your Tsar, you'll keep your mouth shut." I listened with horror to this amazing statement, which came so unexpectedly that I had no chance to interrupt. Purishkevich was in such a state of excitement that he did not realize what he was saying. Finally, the policeman spoke: "You did right and I won't say a word unless I'm put on oath. I would then have to tell the truth as it would be a sin to lie." Purishkevich followed him out.

My manservant then informed me that Rasputin's body had been placed on the lower landing of the staircase. I felt very ill, my head swam and I could scarcely walk. I rose with difficulty, automatically picked up my rubber club, and left the study. As I reached the top of the stairs, I saw Rasputin stretched out on the landing, blood flowing from his many wounds. It was a loathsome sight. Suddenly, everything went black, I felt the ground slipping from under my feet and I fell headlong down the stairs. Purishkevich and Ivan found me, a few minutes later, lying side by side with Rasputin; the murderer and his victim. I was unconscious and he and Ivan had to carry me to my bedroom. Meanwhile Dmitri, Sukhotin and Doctor Lazovert came back in a closed car to fetch Rasputin's body. When Purishkevich told them what had happened, they decided to let me rest and go off without me. They wrapped the corpse in a piece of heavy linen, shoved it into the car, and drove to Petrovsky Island. There, from the top of the bridge, they hurled it into the river. On regaining consciousness I felt as though I had just recovered from a serious illness. The air I breathed in so deeply seemed fresh, clean and pure, as after a storm. I seemed to come to life again.

With the help of my servant I washed up all traces of blood which might give us away. When everything was in order I walked out into the courtyard... I had to think of some story to explain the revolver shots. This is what I decided to say: one of my guests while considerably the worse for liquor had tried to shoot one of our watchdogs in the courtyard when he was leaving. I then sent for the two servants who had seen the end of the tragedy and explained what had really happened. They listened in silence and promised to keep my secret. It was almost five in the morning when I left the Moika to return to the Grand Duke Alexander's palace. I felt full of courage and confidence at the thought that the first steps to save Russia had been taken. I found my brother-in-law Fyodor in my room. He had spent a sleepless night, anxiously waiting for me to come back. "Thank God you are here at last," he said. "Well?" "Rasputin is dead," I replied, "but I'm not in a fit state to talk about it; I am dropping with fatigue." Realising that I would need all my strength on the morrow to face the cross-examinations, the investigations, and perhaps even worse, I went to bed and at once fell into a deep sleep.

*Felix Yusupov was undergoing military training at the Corps des Pages at the time of the murder.

**the Yusupov palace on the Moika canal.

source: Lost Splendour by Felix Yusupov, chapter 23

#felix yusupov #imperial russia #history #rasputin #grigori rasputin #murder of rasputin #grand duke dmitri pavlovich #dmitri pavlovich

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