#HIS SWORN LOYALTY TO HER

[hawnks]

Seeing this guy animated will be my last straw I believe

[merge-conflict]

wip wednesday

“Being haunted by Johnny is one thing, but being possessed?” She shook her head. “There’s no cutting they could ever do to get him out. They’ll never trust me again. They’ll say the person you made that promise to is dead, and they wouldn’t be wrong.” She smiled crookedly. “I don’t want that, Goro. I never wanted that.”

He hadn’t thought she would ever actually say it out loud. She’d spent all her time shacked up with Takemura telling him what he wanted to hear and being an obedient little cog. Maybe she did have some backbone after all, even if it was just looking for an excuse to die. At least she wanted to do it on her own terms. He could work with that.

Takemura, on the other hand, looked like he’d just been slapped. “That will not happen.”

“If I survive whatever it is they plan to do with me, I’d be a lab rat for the rest of my life. They’re never going to let the only halfway successful test of the relic tech walk free.” V was calm and detached, like she was talking about someone else.

“V–“

“The decision is made,” she interrupted, standing abruptly. He could have held onto her, but he didn’t, letting her brush off his hands. “You can either accept it, or not.”

She walked away without waiting for his answer, although if Johnny had to guess she didn’t want to hear him either way. That was why she’d said it like it was some verdict handed down from God: the decision is made. More corpo doublespeak bullshit. Her favorite technique for distancing herself from everything she didn’t want to think about.

[widowshill]

you know what. v is almost exclusively lawful good but she violated girl code big time by going out with burke.

[swordgrace]

𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐋 𝐌𝐄𝐄𝐓𝐒 𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐋 𝐎𝐍 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒’ 𝐋𝐈𝐏𝐒.

⠀ཾ༵ 𑁍┆ jacaerys velaryon x female betrothed reader.

SYNOPSIS: jacaerys is reminded of his betrothed’s unwavering loyalty, and her affections. he is more than desperate to indulge.

note: jacaerys is nineteen, reader is eighteen.

format: one-shot — not requested.

word count: 5.8K.

warnings: SMUTTY SMUT (mdni), porn with little plot, risk of getting caught (dragonstone library), talk of insecurities, jacaerys is needy and sweet in this, oral sex (fem!rec), cunnilingus, handjob, lots of jace moans in this fic, brief dry humping, wet/rain jacaerys, table sex, making out, hair-pulling kink, unprotected sex, p in v sex, jace & reader have only been with one another, soft ending + aftercare

author’s note: I know that this isn’t What Honor Demands (please don’t be mad) but I did want to put a sprinkle of Jace content out there for you all! please be kind to one another, and thank you for reading & supporting my work! I love you all dearly! :))

𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐨𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐟𝐞𝐥𝐭 𝐬𝐨 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐠𝐧𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐬, 𝐰𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐞𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐟𝐥𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐛𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐢𝐚𝐧. 𝐓𝐨𝐫𝐜𝐡𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐨𝐫𝐬, 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐝𝐮𝐜𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐫𝐢𝐥𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐬 𝐦𝐨𝐯𝐞, 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐝𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐚𝐭.

Dragonstone’s hallowed hallways and winding corridors were scattered with the occasional Kingsguard, watchful gaze hovering about as you went on your way. Sleep eluded you, reclusive as ever, leaving you with nothing but a mind full of ceaseless thoughts.

Groggy footfalls fell across ancient stone as you carried yourself toward the library within the labyrinth of Dragonstone, in-search of your betrothed.

Pensive and frustrated as of-late, Jacaerys spent much of his evenings surrounded by endless piles of literature to preoccupy his mind, or nights spent on the back of Vermax beneath the open air. You did not begrudge him of his desire for space, but you sorely missed his presence — your bed felt exceedingly empty.

A silent yawn wrought your lips as you slipped between massive slabs of dark wood, the groaning of the doors reverberating throughout the cavernous alcove. Thunder shook the skies around Dragonstone, and with it, a torrent of rainfall that smacked against the dark stone surrounding the island.

It was there in the library that you saw Jacaerys, tousled curls slicked by the deluge, framing his face in such a princely manner that it stole your breath away. Your humble beginnings as a mere young maiden sworn to wed the heir to the Iron Throne had blossomed, flourishing into a loving relationship between yourself and the Prince.

All men that you had glanced upon paled in comparison to Jacaerys Velaryon, whose features were framed in such a regal light. The illumination of the hearth set his flesh ablaze with a burnished gold, brows creased in concentration as he leaned over a thick, dilapidated volume.

Prying his gaze away from dust-laden parchment, his eyes found you, his betrothed, captivating in your silken slip and woolen robe. His throat bobbed as he swallowed the sudden onslaught of nerves in your presence, an involuntary yet consistent response.

You treated him to a kindly smile, warm enough to soothe his shivering bones, doublet soaked from riding in the deluge. Part of him was stung with guilt for abandoning you each night to sulk in sullen silence, but he did not want to burden you with his feelings of inferiority.

Amber hues seemed transfixed upon you, taking in your ethereal sight, silks the color of Lady’s Lace, robe embossed with cerulean stitching. Your tresses were somewhat disheveled from rest, disagreeing with the pillows.

Abandoning his mindless studies, he sat straighter, shoulders squared as if to fill in the fullness of his height. You approached, aura gentle and thoughtful, as if you could pinpoint the source of his misfortune. “Is everything alright?” Jacaerys inquired, perplexed as to why you were out of bed so dreadfully late.

“It is,” A dismal yawn slipped through your teeth as you came to stand near him, circling around the stone table, noticeably lower in stature. “I fear that the raging weather has left me unable to find sleep.” You were from a place where such furious storms were uncommon.

As if he were to blame for this happenstance, Jacaerys appeared apologetic, fingers clenching together. “You have my apologies, my Lady. I hadn’t expected this deluge to carry on this late into the night.” With a begrudging sigh, he peered toward the stained glass windows littered throughout the library.

An amiable burst of laughter tore forth from your lips, head canting to one side as you rounded the table, gaze picking apart the various texts and heaps of parchment that lined the stone. “You’ve nothing to apologize for, Jacaerys. It seems you’ve taken advantage of the opportunity.” You gestured to his state of dishevel.

“Like yourself, sleep evaded me. I needed to find some reprieve; a thunderstorm seemed better than nothing.” His reply seemed strained with underlying frustration, as if the chord would snap within him at any given moment.

Your velveteen digits graced his shoulder, caressing circles into the muscle there, even if it were concealed by the thick wool of his doublet. Even if he did not speak it into existence, your comforting embrace brought him a semblance of warmth that little else could provide.

Drowning himself in reading now seemed incomprehensible, paling in comparison to the mere grace of your presence. “You seem very hard at work,” You chimed, lowering yourself into the high-backed chair to his left. “The subject of your studies?”

Jacaerys didn’t smile, yet the tension in his shoulders began to unfurl, as if your very presence willed him to do so. Nimble digits flipped through a page or two, the parchment worn and thin from many decades of dormancy and little use. “Targaryen bloodlines.”

There was some discomforting twinge within his tone, as if the very notion brought about complex feelings. It was his idea to invite Dragonseeds into their home, yet he hadn’t fully realized what harm it had caused to his claim. This vexation had developed into a thorn in his side, tearing open a wound that he thought he’d healed from.

He had dealt with the uncomfortable truth of his bastard heritage all his life — and now, he was made to confront it, see it in its unpleasantness. Even the unconditional love of his mother could not shield him from the vile insults, from the crass tongues of those who saw him for what he was — the bastard.

Your countenance wavered, empathy sinking into your gaze, brows softening as you folded your hands within your lap. Jacaerys had never fully confided in you the plain truth of his bloodline, but you had an inkling of his heritage — that hadn’t changed how you felt.

Wordlessly, you reached for his hand, and it was Jacaerys that brought your interwoven fingers to rest atop your knee. He did not need to vocalize it — he knew that you knew. Part of him was grateful that you never questioned it, or him.

“Understand that I will fight with you — fight for you. No amount of blood or worthiness shall change that.” You assured, collected and tender as you traced your thumb across his knuckles. They were disarmingly soft, pad of your finger brushing over the veins in his hand.

Jacaerys exhaled, sinking backward into the bite of the wooden chair, dark brows furrowing together. “It seems as if you are the only one that will.” His confession was a heavy-handed one, filled with an immeasurable melancholy that you wished you could rip away.

It was all that consumed him as of-late — his claim to the Iron Throne, the lack of reassurance from his mother, who seemed to drown herself in prophecy and history instead of his defense. Jacaerys felt as if he were adrift, alone in the black sea, threatened to be pulled beneath the tempestuous tides.

The touch of your hand was what kept him anchored, still bound to this reality, to the inevitability of war. Soon, he would face the Greens in the battlefield — and what then, if the war was won? His mother would sit the Iron Throne, and who would succeed her?

His half-brothers had all the hallmarks of a true Targaryen — violet irises, pale tresses, dragon eggs placed in their cradles. Who would follow him? Plain-featured, dark hair, amber-flecked hues that bore a striking resemblance to the former Commander of the City Watch.

With a sullen heart, Jacaerys glanced at you, his beloved, your countenance bathed in the waning glow of the firelight. An ardent fondness reached your stare, keeping his hand rooted against your knee. He idly plucked at the ivory silk of your shift, chest blossoming with a trembling exhale.

“You must forgive me for my absence as of-late,” Jacaerys felt as if he owed you an apology. For nearly a fortnight, he had kept you at arm’s length, for fear that he would tarnish your bond with his intrepid mind and distressed musings. “I haven’t intended to distance myself from you.”

“Jacaerys,” With a gentle hum, you brought your other palm beneath his, cradling his hand between your own, his flesh icy compared to your magnetizing warmth. “I know what burden you bear, and I know how distraught you’ve been. I cannot fault you for wanting space.” Even then, he felt as if that wouldn’t suffice.

“My misfortune is not an excuse to leave my betrothed unattended,” Resolute, he looked at you with such arduous devotion, one reserved only for a paramour. “Whatever burden I bear, I wish to endure it by your side, or not at all.” Whatever he did to deserve you, he was quite uncertain.

Betrothals were not easy to navigate — when he first found himself speaking to you, he feared the crushing weight of disappointment or a loveless match, something only formed from duty. He was pleasantly surprised by your willingness to discover the soul that rested beneath titles and propriety.

Another smile crossed your features, and it stayed this time, his heart galloping within his chest at your resplendent beauty.

There was a kindness that touched your gaze, one that he was unaccustomed to. He was often looked upon by strangers with indifference or contempt, and those who questioned his bloodline only glowered with vitriol and a thinly-veiled bitterness.

“Allow me to share in your sorrows with you,” At your insistence, Jacaerys did not make any attempt to protest the subject of your words — he knew that you wouldn’t allow it. “Whatever obstacles come hurling your way, know that we can brave it together, not apart.”

A lighter sentiment touched his features, then. He was no longer marred by frustration and helplessness, but newfound confidence. It was subtle, but you could see it reach his eyes, amber hues that danced with such an intense affection for you.

“As long as you permit me to assist in whatever tribulations you might face yourself,” It wouldn’t have been justified to make you wade through his obstacles without fighting your own hand-in-hand. “You are my betrothed. I should hope you will always rely upon me.” With a reassuring squeeze, you smiled at him.

“Rely upon one another, and let out hearts beat as one,” A tenderness gripped the tone of your resonance, as silky as the very gown you wore. “Until our last days or the end of our story.” The finality of your words filled him with an indescribable sense of optimism and hope.

Jacaerys adjusted his hand, but only to lift yours to his lips, gracing your velvet knuckles with his plush lips, eyelashes fluttering in your direction. Youthful eagerness and crackling ardor took over — he stared at you with a renewed compassion.

The sight of you in your evening slip made his heart pound against his ribcage, as if it had dropped right into his stomach. Sometimes he behaved as if he hadn’t touched you before — as if this were the first time all over again. “You continue to bewitch me,” Jacaerys murmured, canting his head to one side. “I love you for it.”

A smattering of heat blossomed across your features, the familiar warmth crawling down the length of your spine, resulting in a subtle shiver. “I wasn’t aware,” You mused, a certain flair within your voice that subtly invoked more than just romanticism and sweet words. “Is that a constant feeling?”

Swallowing the lump of boyish nerves that gathered within his throat, Jacaerys regarded you with a rather incendiary warmth, his gaze that of an unrestrained lover. “It is rather persistent,” Excitement began to stir within the pit of his stomach. “Especially now.”

Seven Hells, you deserved to be put to the lash for the lascivious thoughts you had.

It was as if the atmosphere had shifted entirely, from one of two youths navigating their troubles, to the first inklings of shared desire and appreciation. You hadn’t expected the suddenness of this shift, but you welcomed it regardless, belly stirring with butterflies.

Digits tightened into your silken skirts, in a valiant attempt to relieve some of the anticipation you were experiencing. Your intimate relationship with Jacaerys had always been in the sanctity of your bedchambers — achingly sweet and exploratory, but now, it had some element of thrill to it, especially if you opted to act.

Admittedly, the sight of him disheveled and dampened from the raging deluge had roused a familiar fire within your loins, producing a hint of slick between your thighs. Acting on impulse here, in the library of all places, broke all bonds of propriety — but neither of you paid it any mind.

Leaning forward within his seat, Jacaerys wordlessly beseeched you for a kiss, soft mouth inviting as ever, lips flushed and rosy. Without hesitation, you moved to meet him halfway, lost within the throes of your gentle entanglement. He was always gentle — that would never change, no matter his demeanor.

With all the tenderness of a gallant lover, Jacaerys ensured that he savored your kiss, eyelids fluttering shut as he reached to smooth his palm across your thigh. He shivered at the sensation, able to feel the outline of your pliant curves through the obscenely-thin silks.

He smelled of damp petrichor and old books, laden with dust, as if he’d spent all of his days rotting away within the depths of rain-soaked parchment. Your conjoined hands wove together, and you guided him until both of his palms planted themselves atop your thighs, sinking into their plushness.

Once the fire was stoked, it was difficult to smother it.

“Here?” Your shrewd voice interrupted his string of salacious fantasies, none of them pious enough to confess to. Jacaerys felt embarrassed for what he thought, for what he intended to do — perhaps he would seek absolution on the morrow.

“It is an ungodly hour,” Jacaerys reassured you, but in your defense, part of him feared the potentiality of being caught. “I don’t suspect anyone would come searching.” His suggestion was open-ended, but he did offer you an out, soothingly caressing along your legs. “Would you prefer if we retired to our chambers?”

Some sharp pang of exhilaration stoked the fire within your belly — coupling here filled you with the unfamiliar thrill of trying something daring. Instead of answering verbally, you resorted to action, rising from your rickety chair to toss one leg over his hips, sinking yourself down into the firmness of his lap.

Jacaerys’s expression was one of complete and utter bewilderment, but of the best sort — he was ensnared, simply put. A scarlet flush rose to his features, painting his visage with a bright-red shade. His breath audibly hitched within his throat, palms settling against the swell of your hips.

“It is the hour of the bat,” You agreed, heart hammering erratically beneath your breast, until you could bear it no longer. “Let that be our shield.” Once the words had escaped you in a breathy exhale, Jacaerys captured your mouth in an explosive kiss.

His passion would never be mistaken for roughness — your betrothed was as kindly and spirited as they came; you collapsed beneath his tender hand. Those dexterous fingers of his kneaded into your waist, traveling along your curves, longing to feel your naked flesh without obstruction.

A low groan blossomed within his chest when your digits flew to the nape of his neck, threading themselves into his soaked tresses. He was painfully handsome like this, damp from the rain, gaze full of ardor and silently pleading for your touch, hands wandering anywhere and everywhere.

Gathering your skirts as politely as he could, Jacaerys inched the fabric up along your legs, shivering in delight at the sight of your exposed skin. One would think he’d never glimpsed a woman before, the way he reacted whenever he saw you.

The soft pads of his fingertips glided along your bare thigh, allowing the silk of your shift to gather around your hips. His growing erection helplessly strained at the front of his breeches, and the desperate ache was only furthered when you ground yourself into him.

A gasp was shared between you both, skin becoming unbearably warm as you rocked your hips into him, finding your unholy friction. It only became increasingly heated, knowing that you wore nothing beneath your nightgown, and Jacaerys let out a wanton groan when you moved against him.

“Jacaerys,” Breathless and drunk upon desire, you felt his mouth seek yours again, coaxing you in for another kiss. There was desperation laced within his actions, finding his solace in the endless map of your lips, committing every detail to memory. “Touch me.”

Bringing his palm to your chest, Jacaerys needed no instruction when it came to caressing your breast, thumb rolling over your peaking nipple through thin silk. You were the first girl he’d laid with — if the Gods were kind, you would be the last.

Unexpectedly, your satiny lips found the column of his throat, pressing a string of appreciative kisses there as he kneaded your chest. A sweet, keening groan escaped him, abashed at your embrace. Between the ministrations of your fingers in his tresses and mouth on his neck, he feared oblivion.

A sharp clap of thunder shook the skies, yet it did not perturb either of you, ceaselessly carrying on in your needy coupling. One of your palms drifted to his chest, gripping at the embroidered velvet, pushing his collar aside to kiss his neck.

His digits tightened at the material bunched around your hips, eyes fluttering shut in a state of bliss, toying with your nipple as it pebbled beneath his touch. Jacaerys’s mouth watered involuntarily at the thought of tasting you, which he hoped would come soon, if you permitted him to do so.

You enjoyed his softness, his throat quivering beneath your lips, offering his subservience to you freely. A breathy grunt of your name cascaded from his mouth, prompting you to shiver within his embrace. Gods, that sound — it would be emblazoned in your mind for days to come.

With a gentle shrug of your shoulders, you let the woolen robe glide from your body, pooling on the cool stone below. Another downward brush of your hips sent the both of you reeling, clothed bulge grinding against your needy core, prompting you to shudder.

Jacaerys turned, bringing his soft lips back to yours, seizing your mouth in a blazing kiss. He continued to palm at your breast, cupping the pliant mound within his hand, evoking another whimper from you. Neediness took root, firmly planting itself within his stomach.

“Might I taste you?” He breathed against your lips, giving you pause as you regarded him with a simmering adoration. Jacaerys had done it once before, and he often thought of it in private moments, or sometimes recklessly at supper or during small council meetings.

Sheepishly, your head bobbed up and down in a lackadaisical nod, unable to mask your excitement at such a proposal. Wordlessly, he coaxed you up from his lap, nearly groaning at the loss of friction, though he suspected there would be ample opportunities for more later that night.

Using the table as a brace, you watched as your betrothed knelt before you, like a sinner coming to confess within the boughs of a sept; his confession whispered between your legs. Your woolen robe served as a suitable cushion beneath his knees, and he happened to unclasp his own cloak.

Peering at you through thick eyelashes, Jacaerys gingerly guided the silken slip up along your legs, watching with rapturous interest as you let it gather at your hips. He kissed his way up the length of your leg, letting them drape on either side of his shoulders.

Your hand came to rest against his crown of dampened curls, a shudder rolling down his spine at the sensation of your fingers gripping his tresses. Inhaling a gust of your saccharine scent, Jacaerys kissed his way to the gathering slick between your thighs, palms smoothing themselves against your legs.

A heat so feverish that it nearly destroyed you, his tongue raked hot embers over your cunt, tracing along the length of your slit before dipping between your folds. A gasp tore past your mouth; ecstasy beyond comprehension, gnawing away at your bones.

Jacaerys dutifully lapped at your core, nose brushing against your mound, tongue dancing from the pearl of your cunt to your entrance, his movements repetitive. A sigh of delight floated into the air, your pleasure made known as you lightly tugged on his tresses.

Soft, pleading moans reverberated throughout the library, and you were lost within the labyrinth of his affections. Your hips involuntarily jerked and jolted forward, rocking down into his mouth, evoking a throaty groan from your betrothed.

His name floated from your mouth like a prayer, reverent and gasping, as if it were the only word you knew. Your mind was foggy with the haze of desire, one that you found yourself caught within. A string of crass sounds emanated from below; soft, needy lips hungrily kissing along your cunt.

Steeped within your slit, the taste of you ambrosial, Jacaerys continued his ministrations, tongue flicking along your core, making a sluggish ascent toward your clit. Soft palms caressed your thighs, thumbs drawing patterns into your satiny flesh.

Even the finest of stouts could not contest your sweetness, arousal thick upon his tongue, like the nectar of an unfurling flower. Jacaerys’s mouth lapped along your cunt, until he found the clutch of nerves at the hood of your slit.

His eagerness was palpable through each flick of his tongue, lost within the oasis between your legs. A myriad of soft whimpers and whines escaped you, hand gingerly tugging on Jace’s hair as he showered your cunt in an alternation of steady licks to lingering ones.

Deliberately, he stoked the fire churning within your belly, teasing your pearl with feather-light kisses and circles of his tongue. A strained moan escaped you, prompting you to fist at his tresses, burying your digits within rain-slicked curls, involuntarily bringing him closer into the warm apex of your thighs.

Bathed in the sienna embers that crackled from the hearth, Jace appeared more handsome than ever, completely and utterly captivating. If it were up to him, he would’ve been content to stay here forever, pleasure you over and over again until you collapsed.

The short, dizzying gasp that tore past your mouth spurred him on, as he pressed another string of kisses against your slit. The continued sensation of your digits carding through his curls made him sigh with elation.

Again, he traveled to your pearl again, gently suckling upon the bundle of fiery nerves. Your poor thighs rattled on either side of his head, twitching with throes of ecstasy as he toyed with your clit.

“Jace,” Seven Hells, you sounded so divine. Through parted lips and wanton moans, you sighed his name, wanting him to continue exactly as he was. He could feel the pleading resonance within your sweet tone, bringing him to heel. “Gods, don’t stop!”

Jacaerys felt another groan stir within his chest, one that seemed caught within the bottom of his throat. He allowed himself a brief respite to catch his breath, peering at you from between your legs. “There?” He’d asked, watching your head ecstatically bob up and down.

A short, sporadic huff left you, followed by a string of incoherent pleas. “Y—Yes!” Your whine was somewhat shy, the vibrato of it quieting down, as if you suddenly feared becoming caught in the act. “Jacaerys, please!” You begged, and who was he to deny you?

Pursing his lips around your pearl, he gingerly suckled on the sensitive bud, drawing forth an unholy myriad of moans and whines from your mouth. Such sounds left their brand upon him, a shiver cascading down his spine as he pleasured you.

The incessant throbbing of his cock within his breeches made his yearning grow tenfold, feeling it strain against the woolen cloth. He continued to suck at your clit with a palpable gentleness, noticing the way in which your body quivered and writhed from pleasure.

Jacaerys alternated between the greedy suckling of your pearl and broad laps of his tongue, lulled into submission by the crescendo of your moans. You brazenly tugged at his damp curls, other hand snug against the wet fabric of his doublet.

Bliss and pleasure wracked themselves across your body, bringing with it a fire so great that it demanded to be extinguished. Jacaerys’s mouth was wonderful in every way imaginable, his pouty lips dancing wherever they pleased across your aching cunt.

Your hand skirted backwards, accidentally knocking over a stack of books, rolls of parchment fluttering to the stone floor below. With a needy desire to chase after your release, you rocked your hips forward, evoking a strangled groan from your betrothed.

He could feel the arousal mounting within his own body, and the constant quivering of your legs as he brought you closer to your release. Jacaerys continued to caress along your legs, from thigh to calf, mouth happily buried within the warm apex between your legs.

That sensation of your digits brushing across his scalp made him shiver, tongue delicately flicking from your entrance to swollen pearl before he began to suck on it again. Such noises would make a septa flush from their crassness, causing his belly to swirl with fire.

“Jace — Oh! Jace, Jace!” Abandoning the use of his true name, you sang his moniker to the high Heavens, feeling your release come swiftly, an incendiary wave of heat that threatened to consume you completely. You moaned, hips stuttering as you let bliss take over you.

Jacaerys caught the onslaught of your nectar, consuming every drop that you gave him with a neediness, cock twitching within his trousers. He cleaned you up with soft, short laps of his tongue, feeling you everywhere — burned into his mind, permeating his lips.

With a shaky exhale, you felt his head leave your legs, and your grip fell away, watching as he stood to find his place against you. “Such sweet torment,” Jacaerys murmured, nudging his forehead against yours. “You bring me to ruin.” He sighed, feeling your fingers move to the front of his doublet.

“I should be the one saying that,” Your laughter was brief and fleeting, a smitten smile tugging at either corner of your mouth. “Gods, you are so wonderful — so handsome, so perfect.” The sound of your resplendent praise made Jacaerys flush, wide-eyed and wanton.

His newfound closeness, standing in between your legs, allowed for your palms to cup his face, thumbs stroking along his cheekbones. “I need you,” Jacaerys confessed, his timbre husky, throaty with desire as he nearly pleaded with you. “If you’ll let me — please.”

Wordlessly, your hands flew to the front of his breeches, brushing against his clothed erection. Jacaerys groaned, countenance one of desperation as you untied the laces, freeing his cock from its confines.

You stroked along his length, causing him to shiver, cock warm and aching within your delicate grasp. Jace buried his face near your shoulder, brows furrowing together as you treated him to the soft embrace of your hand.

Dragging your palm along his cock, his hips involuntarily rocked forward, galloping after the friction. You felt his mouth plant strings of hasty kisses all along your shoulder, toward the dip of your neck, and then against your throat.

Gently guiding yourself backwards, various objects clattered against the stone table, a book being pushed off of the edge as Jacaerys moved forward. The tip of his flushed cock glided through your slick folds, prompting the both of you to sigh together.

“May I?” Jacaerys huffed, wide-eyed and completely and utterly flustered, so trapped within his own desire that it nearly rendered him speechless. With a quick bob of your head, he rocked forward, groaning in delight as your tight cunt throbbed around his aching member.

Using one palm to brace yourself against the table, your other arm flew to drape around his neck, mouths breathlessly clamoring together, seeking one another. You kissed him, doing little to mask your rapturous hunger as he sank forward, cock nearly kissing your womb.

A tempestuous clap of thunder made you jump, goosebumps cascading down your spine as an onslaught of rain ripped against the stone surrounding the library. The sight of his disheveled tresses and unbuttoned tunic made you unbearably hot, lips torn apart as soft, pleading whines escaped you.

One arm caged itself around you, his palm stroking at the curve near your ribcage, the other lifting your leg to hitch it around his hips. Jacaerys had not an ounce of desire to become rough with you — invigorated, perhaps, but he fully intended on savoring you.

His initial thrusts were somewhat sporadic and awkward, the follies of inexperienced youth, but he soon found his pace, cock gently gliding in and out of your cunt. Wanton sighs escaped his plump lips, brows creased in concentration as his head neared yours.

A soft groan resonated beside your ear as Jace adopted a sluggish rhythm, not wanting to intensify things too quickly. Your eyes fluttered shut, body content to bend to his thrusts, grow accustomed to his pace. He reciprocated your kiss, black curls falling in front of his temples.

There was something endearing about his slight clumsiness, the way in which his hand occasionally fumbled around your body. With time, he suspected that he would know you quite well — physique included. His digits kneaded into your leg, tracing from knee to haunch, holding you close.

The intermingled sounds of your desperate lovemaking soon floated into the air, a myriad of moans and sharp exhales; sighs of a deeply devoted passion. Your fingers raked across the nape of his neck, finding their purchase within his tousled curls.

He groaned your name, the sound only a lover could make, his eyes fluttering shut for a brief moment. Gods, he wouldn’t last long like this. Jacaerys felt your knee squeeze his waist, your other leg draped off of the table, legs spread apart for him.

The silk of your nightgown pushed toward your stomach, loins exposed to the brush of cooler air. “Jace,” You moaned, pressing a string of quick, rushed kisses all along his jaw, evoking another groan from between his lips. Your cunt clenched around his cock, drowning in the pleasure. “Jace!”

His pace was leisurely, yet twinged with desperation, as if he were burning with a longing to be close to you. His cock pulsed inside of you, throat blossoming with another throaty groan. Before you could whimper, he involuntarily smothered it with a kiss.

Each rock of his hips was intended to be disarmingly gentle, ensuring that every inch of his length bottomed out inside of you. Your stomach swirled with molten heat, coagulating as slick arousal as you felt it collect between your legs.

Every worry that had permeated his careworn mind was pushed to the recesses, something to be abandoned in the wake of your presence. His need for you, his love — it outweighed everything else. Whenever you kissed him, he could feel your ardor seep into his bones, consuming him to his very core.

Jacaerys’s breath became labored, another groan threatening to burst from his chest as his cock throbbed with an incessant pleasure. His muscles tightened, feeling your other leg move up to wrap around his hips altogether, drawing him into the warmth of your embrace.

Your arm lowered, and your back finally flattered entirely against the stone table, amidst parchment and tomes, dust-laden volumes that framed your head. The lick of firelight bathed you in an ethereal glow, stealing away Jace’s resolve.

He rocked into you, thrusts becoming a touch quicker in-spite of his encroaching release. Jacaerys covered you with his body, dark curls framing his countenance; a curtain of concentration. He moved to grab your hands, fingers twining together as he kissed you.

Gods, you were perfect — it was all he could think about, your grace and poise, your captivating beauty as he thrust his cock in and out of you, visage rosy and flushed. With another rock of his hips, length buried deep within you like a sword within a sheath, he shuddered.

His release felt overwhelming, a hot tidal wave that caused the tension in his stomach to unfurl completely. Hot ropes of his spend found its place within your womb, causing you to groan. Jacaerys rocked forward, gentle as could be, filling you with his seed.

With his composure in dire need of repair, he took a moment to catch his breath, lips curling into a smile. He could not mask his happiness in the wake of your tryst, moving off of you with a brief exhale.

“Are you alright?” Jacaerys’s warm timbre blanketed you immediately, and he went about correcting his trousers before attending to you. He adjusted your slip, assisting you in tugging it back into place until you seemed somewhat less disheveled.

“Of course,” Your own smile was demure, sheepish as you smoothed your palms across your silken sleeves. “And you?” With a gentle hum, you stepped forward to fasten the many silvery clasps of his doublet, noticing the flush of scarlet that had settled into his cheeks.

“Perfect,” Through thick eyelashes, Jacaerys gazed down at you with such adoration that you could drown in it. He held your waist, thumb drawing circles into your ribcage. “I wanted to thank you for ensuring my wellbeing. It is I that should be attending to you.”

With a brief shake of your head, you brought your palms to his chest, brows knitting together. “We are betrothed, Jacaerys. We can attend to one another,” You insisted, leaning up upon your toes to plant a kiss against his jaw. “We will do plenty of that once we are wed.”

Jacaerys’s countenance softened, and his muscles still burned from the exhilaration of your coupling. He looked toward the state of the table — parchment on the floor, scrolls scattered everywhere. “I love you.” He said through a thin smile, gracing the crown of your head with a kiss.

“I love you,” You assured, following the line of his gaze towards the disarrayed table. “Though, we should clean all of this up. What will Maester Gerardys say if he finds the library in this state?” You mused, a twinkling of mirth settling within your gaze.

“We could say that we were hard at work,” Jacaerys crooned, playful as could be as he retrieved your robe, bringing it over your shoulders before he scooped you up within his arms. “Studying.”

“Oh,” A gasp of surprise left you, but joy and happiness were soon to follow as he held you, forehead pressing against yours. “Are you saying that we should study more often?” You mumbled, and that caused Jacaerys to blush again, features unbelievably heated.

“At your earliest convenience.”

[novaursa]

The Dragon and The Wolf

- Summary: Rhaenyra sends her daughter instead of her son to fly North. You.

- Paring: velayrion!reader/Cregan Stark

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N, is second born child of Rhaenyra, has silver hair and violet eyes and is a dragonrider. For more of my works visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Mature 16+ (expect for rating to go higher in the next chapter)

- Word count: 3 681

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @21-princess

- A/N: I had this one stored away, but I've decided to post it on a request. Harwin Strong one is not yet finished, but will be posted in coming days. I'll see how both of these are received before posting more.

The wind whips across the snow-dusted fields, biting and cold, as you soar above on your dragon, Thraxata. The North stretches below like a vast, white ocean, with Winterfell looming ahead in the distance, its grey walls rising like ancient guardians against the winter sky. The sun hangs low on the horizon, casting a pale light that glimmers off the frost-coated land.

Thraxata’s dark scales gleam like polished obsidian, a stark contrast to the endless white beneath. Her massive wings carve through the air with graceful power, the membrane tinted in deep shades of violet and blue, like the twilight sky before night fully descends. She is known as the Midnight Fury in whispers—born of shadow and flame, a terror in the night skies. Her roar splits the silence, echoing across the fields, a sound both commanding and otherworldly.

From your perch on her back, you spot the waiting banners below: the direwolf of Stark, surrounded by lesser sigils of Northern houses. Lord Cregan Stark stands at their forefront, a tall figure clad in thick furs and armor, as still and stern as the land he rules. He expects a prince, no doubt, a son of Rhaenyra, a warrior with fire in his veins. But you are no prince.

You are Y/N Velaryon, the only daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen. Silver-haired like your mother, with eyes the color of amethyst flames, you are the embodiment of old Valyria—a sight that would capture any man’s breath, even in the frozen heart of the North. Unlike your brothers, there is no questioning the blood that runs in your veins. You carry both the fire of your ancestors and the steel of the sea, a daughter of dragon and salt.

Thraxata descends with a mighty sweep of her wings, stirring a storm of snow and ice as her talons dig into the frozen ground. Her head swivels as she growls low, a deep rumble that vibrates through your body, her violet eyes fixed on the assembled Northerners. You dismount with practiced grace, the long cloak of thick fur billowing behind you as your boots crunch into the snow.

The men whisper, their breath misting in the cold air, eyes wide with awe and trepidation. No prince, but something more—something wilder, something that belongs in tales and legends.

Cregan Stark steps forward, his eyes fixed on you. They are grey like the winter itself, hard and sharp, yet there is a glint of something else—curiosity, perhaps, or a flicker of admiration beneath the layers of duty. He dips his head in a respectful nod, though his eyes never leave yours.

"Princess," he greets you, his voice deep and resonant, like a wolf's growl beneath the snow. "Winterfell welcomes you. I had expected a prince, but the Queen has sent a dragon nonetheless."

Your lips curve into a small smile, cold as the winter air. "My brothers may be princes, but it is I who bears the fire and ice that binds our realms, Lord Stark. I trust you will remember the oaths sworn to my mother, and the duty you hold to the true Queen."

His eyes narrow slightly, though there is no hostility, merely calculation. "The North remembers its oaths, Princess. But oaths are easily sworn and easily forgotten when the fires of war draw near. I would hear your words and judge for myself where our loyalties lie."

Thraxata’s tail lashes behind you, sending a spray of snow into the air. You can sense her restlessness, her desire to protect you, to assert her dominance in this land where dragons are more myth than reality. But you place a gloved hand on her scaled flank, a silent command, and she stills, though her eyes remain fixed on Cregan.

"You speak with wisdom, my lord," you reply, your voice firm but laced with the authority of the blood you carry. "But the North has never bent to whispers or empty promises. My mother’s cause is just, her claim undeniable. The realm needs strength, and you know as well as I that only fire can bring the long night to its knees."

There’s a flicker of something—approval, perhaps—in Cregan’s gaze. He steps closer, his boots crunching in the snow, until you are but a breath away. The North has always been a place where respect is earned through strength and resolve, not titles or finery. In that moment, you realize that your mother’s choice was not a mistake; you were sent because here, in this land of cold and iron, you are seen not as a delicate princess, but as something fiercer.

"Then perhaps the Queen chose wisely in sending you," he murmurs, his voice low, for your ears alone. "The North respects strength, and it seems that is something you possess in abundance, Y/N Velaryon."

There is a tension between you, a silent acknowledgment of the game you both play. He is the Wolf of Winterfell, and you are the Dragon sent to bind him to your mother’s cause. But there is something else too—a flicker of intrigue, of something more personal beneath the formalities.

“I shall make my case before the gathered lords,” you say, breaking the charged silence. “And I trust that Winterfell will extend the hospitality due to a dragon and her rider.”

He gives a slight incline of his head, a gesture of respect between equals. “Winterfell is yours, Princess. And I look forward to seeing just how fierce the fire of a dragon truly burns.”

With that, he steps back, signaling to his men. The banners dip in a formal show of respect as you walk forward, the Northern lords parting to make way for you. Thraxata stays behind, watchful, a dark shadow against the snow.

As you enter the gates of Winterfell, you can feel the eyes of Cregan Stark on your back, heavy with unspoken questions, and perhaps—just perhaps—the first stirrings of something that could grow amidst the frost and flame.

The warmth of Winterfell’s great hall is a great contrast to the biting cold outside. The stone walls are thick and ancient, adorned with tapestries depicting wolves in the hunt and battles long past. A roaring fire burns in the hearth, casting flickering shadows that dance across the rough-hewn beams above. The scent of woodsmoke and roasted meat fills the air, mingling with the faint tang of iron and earth, as though even the stone itself remembers the blood spilled within these walls.

You stride forward with measured grace, your fur-lined cloak trailing behind you. Eyes turn your way as you pass, curious glances that are quickly averted once they meet your violet gaze. The courtiers and bannermen of Winterfell are not accustomed to your kind—a dragonrider with Valyrian blood, a figure more suited to the tales of Old Nan than to the cold North. They murmur among themselves, voices hushed but thick with speculation, wondering if you are as fierce as the stories of your mother suggest.

Lord Cregan walks beside you, his stride steady and sure, the embodiment of Northern strength and resolve. He leads you to the head of the hall, where a carved wooden chair sits, draped in furs—a seat of honor, meant for you. As you take your place, his voice rings out, commanding the attention of everyone present.

"The Princess Y/N Velaryon graces us with her presence. Her arrival is most fortunate, for it seems the North’s business does not wait. House Glover has brought a criminal before us—a man accused of grave crimes—and they demand justice. Perhaps," he says, his grey eyes locking onto yours, "it would be fitting for a dragon to pass judgment."

There’s no mistaking the challenge in his words. This is a test, one meant to gauge your strength, your understanding of Northern customs, and how you wield your authority. He watches you closely, waiting for your reaction, as do the assembled lords. You know this moment is pivotal; how you handle this situation will determine whether they see you as just another southern princess, or as something more—someone who can command both fire and frost.

You meet his gaze evenly, a faint smile playing on your lips. "It would be an honor to dispense justice in the North, Lord Stark. Show me this criminal and let us see what manner of man he is."

Cregan gives a slight nod, and with a gesture, the doors at the end of the hall creak open. The sound echoes through the chamber as two men of House Glover drag a prisoner forward, shoving him to his knees before you. He’s a ragged, weathered man with wild eyes and a face marked by scars. His clothes are filthy and torn, his hands bound with rough cord. There’s a stink about him—of sweat, fear, and desperation.

One of the Glovers steps forward, bowing briefly before addressing you and Cregan. "This man, Wyl Gray, is accused of murdering his kin and stealing from their holdings. He fled north to escape our justice, but we tracked him down and brought him here, as is our right."

The hall falls silent, all eyes on you now. The weight of their expectation is palpable. You rise slowly from your seat, descending the steps with a regal grace. Your voice is soft but carries through the room with the authority that only a dragonrider can wield.

"Wyl Gray," you say, your tone cold as the Northern winds, "you stand accused of betraying your own blood and committing theft in the lands sworn to House Glover. What have you to say in your defense?"

The man’s eyes dart around wildly, searching for some hope, some mercy, but finding none. He looks up at you, trembling slightly. "I did what I had to," he snarls, his voice hoarse. "My kin treated me worse than a dog, taking what was mine by right. I took back what they stole from me—nothing more!"

The hall murmurs in response to his words, some in anger, others in grudging acknowledgment. You can see the flickers of approval from a few of the assembled Northerners—they value strength, even when twisted by desperation. But you know better than to be swayed by the claims of a desperate man. His actions speak louder than his words.

You step closer, your gaze piercing. "You claim they took from you, yet you took their lives. Blood demands blood, Wyl Gray. In the North, justice is harsh and swift, but it is also fair. A man who cannot protect what is his without resorting to murder is a man unfit to live among honorable men."

Cregan watches you intently, his expression unreadable, but you can feel the shift in the room. The lords are weighing your words, assessing how well you understand their ways. It’s not enough to be just, you must be decisive—and you must show that you are not ruled by softness.

"You are guilty of murder and theft," you continue, your voice unwavering. "But the North does not deal in mercy for such crimes. You shall face the punishment decreed by the Old Ways. Justice shall be meted out by the one who passes the sentence."

A heavy silence falls over the hall. This is the moment—where the test truly lies. You could ask Cregan to deal with the criminal himself, and none would question it. But you understand what is truly being asked of you. The North respects those who do not flinch from difficult decisions, those who stand by their words with action.

You turn to Cregan. "Bring me the sword," you command.

There’s a ripple of surprise among the lords, but Cregan’s expression shifts, a hint of approval crossing his stern features. He gestures, and a massive sword, long and sharp, is placed into your hands. Its weight is heavy, but you hold it with ease, feeling the cold steel beneath your fingers.

You step before the kneeling man. His eyes widen in terror, realizing that you intend to carry out the sentence yourself. You look down at him, feeling no pity, only the cold resolve needed to see justice done. "In the name of House Glover, for the blood you have spilled and the dishonor you have brought upon yourself, I sentence you to death. May the gods judge your soul as they see fit."

With a swift, clean stroke, you bring the sword down, severing his head from his body. The hall is silent, save for the soft thud of the head hitting the stone floor and the hiss of blood soaking into the rushes.

You let out a breath, handing the sword back to a waiting Stark guard. The lords nod with approval, respect in their eyes. This is not a land for those who shy away from harsh truths or difficult choices. You have shown them that you understand the North’s ways—and that you are as much dragon as you are queen’s daughter.

Cregan steps forward, a slight smile touching his lips. "Well done, Princess. The North remembers strength, and today, you have proven yours."

There’s a weight to his words, a subtle acknowledgment that you’ve passed his test. The respect between you has grown, forged not only by fire and ice, but by a mutual understanding of what it takes to rule.

As the hall begins to stir with renewed conversation, you feel Cregan’s eyes linger on you a moment longer than necessary, something unspoken passing between you. It’s not just respect now—there’s a flicker of something deeper, something that might grow, given time.

But for now, you’ve earned your place among the wolves. And in doing so, you’ve taken the first step toward binding the North to your mother’s cause.

A little more than two weeks have passed since your arrival at Winterfell, and in that time, you have come to understand the North in ways few from the south ever do. The cold no longer bites as fiercely, the rough customs of the Northerners have become familiar, and even the solemn howls of the wolves at night are a comfort rather than a cause for concern. You’ve spent your days among Cregan’s people, riding alongside his bannermen, sitting in council with his advisors, and breaking bread with his warriors in the hall. You’ve proven yourself capable in all the ways that matter to them—skilled with both words and steel, a dragon in human form.

The Northern lords have come to trust you, their respect won by your ability to speak plainly and match them in courage. They see in you a reflection of their own values—honor, strength, and loyalty. Even Thraxata, the Midnight Fury, has found her lair in the craggy wilderness nearby, roosting among the jagged rocks as if she, too, feels at home in this stark and wild land. The villagers whisper tales of the black dragon seen circling the mountains, her shadow long across the snow, a fearsome guardian from the days of old.

Today, you ride out with Lord Cregan and his men on a hunt. The sky is a bleak grey, thick with the promise of snow, and the air carries the scent of pine and earth. The forest is dense, the trees tall and ancient, their branches heavy with frost. It’s a test, of sorts—Cregan’s way of seeing how well you handle yourself in their world, not just as a rider of dragons, but as a hunter and a leader.

You ride astride a hardy Northern stallion, its breath steaming in the cold air, and you match the men stride for stride as they navigate the rough terrain. Cregan rides beside you, his expression more open than it had been when you first met. Over these past weeks, a bond has formed between you—one built on mutual respect and a growing sense of trust. He speaks more freely now, and there’s a warmth in his tone that was absent when you first arrived.

When the hunt begins, you do not hesitate to join the chase. The hounds bay as they track the scent of a massive stag, and you ride hard, your cloak snapping behind you in the wind. You’re no stranger to riding, and you handle your steed with ease, navigating the twisting paths and snow-laden ground. When the time comes to strike, you draw your bow with practiced precision, letting the arrow fly. It finds its mark true, and the stag falls. The men around you roar with approval, slapping their shields and calling your name in praise. They respect a woman who can hunt as well as any man, and here, they see you as one of their own—a warrior, not just a princess.

As the hunt winds down, Cregan approaches you, his face flushed from the cold and the thrill of the chase. "You’ve more than earned your place among us, Y/N," he says, his voice gruff but warm. "Few could keep pace with Northern men in their own forests, let alone best them. I see now why the Queen sent you instead of a prince. You’ve shown strength and wisdom—two things the North values above all else."

You incline your head in acknowledgment. "I’ve come to admire the North and its people. But admiration is not the same as allegiance. I must ask, Lord Stark—will you now stand by my mother and send your armies south to fight in her name?"

Cregan’s expression shifts, a shadow crossing his eyes as he considers your question. He’s silent for a long moment, his gaze turning toward the distant horizon, where the land stretches into a vast, icy wilderness. "The North is not like the South," he says finally, his tone measured. "Our duty is first and foremost to our own. With winter coming, my responsibility is to the Wall and to the people who must survive the cold months ahead. I cannot, in good conscience, march thousands of men south when their families might starve without them."

You frown slightly, frustration creeping in. "So you’ll abandon my mother’s cause? You gave your word, Lord Stark."

Cregan’s eyes meet yours, unwavering. "I do not break my word, Princess. I swore to uphold my oaths, and I will. But sending armies south would be folly with winter approaching. However," he continues, his tone softening as he watches your reaction, "there are those in the North who would fight, even in the harshest winters. The Greybeards—elders, warriors who have lived long and seen much. When winter comes, many of them leave their homes, believing it is better to pass in battle than to linger and be a burden on their kin. They are few in number, but each is worth a dozen younger men in skill and experience. I will send them to your mother, to fight in her name. They may not be an army, but they are a force to be reckoned with."

It’s a compromise, one that you didn’t expect but cannot wholly dismiss. You nod slowly, understanding the practicality behind his words. "Your support, even in this way, will strengthen our position. I thank you for honoring your oath, Lord Stark."

Cregan remains silent for a moment, his expression thoughtful. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter, more personal. "There is another matter I wish to discuss—a way to bind North and South even closer. You’ve proven yourself in the eyes of my people, and I have come to value your counsel and your strength. The North needs a Warden, but it also needs stability and unity. I am in need of a wife, Y/N."

His words catch you off guard. You had expected negotiations over troops and strategies, but not this. You study him closely, searching for any hint of jest, but there is none. His gaze is steady, earnest even, and the weight of his words is not lost on you.

"A marriage alliance," you murmur, more to yourself than to him. It’s a move that makes sense, politically and strategically. Your mother’s cause would be strengthened by such a bond, and Cregan’s position would be solidified, uniting the North under his leadership. But you know it’s more than just politics—there’s something personal in his offer, a recognition of the connection that has grown between you over these weeks.

Cregan inclines his head. "A marriage would do more than just bind our houses. It would be a show of unity between North and South, and it would ensure that whatever may come in this war, our strength remains undivided. You are a woman worthy of the North, and I would be honored to stand beside you as more than just allies."

You consider his words carefully, your mind weighing the implications. There’s a certain inevitability in the offer, a recognition that your paths have been converging since the moment you arrived at Winterfell. You could refuse, insist on keeping your independence, but you know that this is more than just a marriage proposal—it’s a partnership that could shape the course of the war and the future of the realm.

Finally, you meet his gaze, your voice clear and firm. "If this is the path we choose, Lord Stark, know that I will be as fierce in our union as I am in battle. The North will have a wife who is as much dragon as she is Velaryon. But I do not take such matters lightly—if we are to do this, it must be done with respect, trust, and understanding."

Cregan’s smile is genuine, his eyes gleaming with both respect and something warmer. "I would expect nothing less, Y/N. We’ll have much to discuss in the days to come, but I believe this could be the start of something greater than either of us alone."

The weight of his words lingers between you, and as you ride back toward Winterfell together, there’s an unspoken understanding—a shared resolve. You have won the respect of the North, secured their support, and now, perhaps, you are on the verge of something more—an alliance forged not just in duty, but in fire and ice, strength and trust.

[ninetailedfoxmanchi]

The Northern Winds (pt. 2)

PART 1

Plot: Arranged marriage between the Lord of Winterfell and a lady from a minor house

MASTERLIST

Warnings: profanity, mention of blood, violence & death, menstruation, miscarriage, sexism and medieval notions of women, mature NSFW content (18+), possessiveness/over-protectiveness, brief mention of r@pe

Summary: Whilst Cregan is on a march against the wildlings, Lady Y/N navigates the ruling of Winterfell in his absence as she awaits his return

Words: 15k

A/N: There will be a part 3, with which this series will end (I think). The intro of this part is a bit long but it gets better I promise! (Cregan comes back 🤫)

Taglist: @nixtape-foryou @accountforreading123 @melsunshine @lovemesomevesey @goldenxshine @beebeechaos @mckennah123

@blonde-scandinav1an @letaliabane @answer-the-sirens @lilyed777 @travelingmypassion (I hope I didn't forget someone! <3)

***

It has been a week since the Lord of Winterfell took his host north to Last Hearth, the seat of House Umber, to fight against the wildling invasions. The number of his warriors and those of his sworn bannermen was strengthened by some three thousand men provided by Lord Jonos Whytefort in exchange for his daughter’s hand in marriage with the Warden of the North. Lady Y/N and Lord Cregan Stark were wed for near half a turn of the moon before he was bound to ride north. Although Lady Y/N was instructed in the ways of Winterfell’s functioning and her duties before Lord Stark’s departure, it was one thing ruling the North with her husband by her side and a whole other to do it on her own. Lady Y/N had noble servants whose loyalties lied with Winterfell to advise her, yet the burden of duty and responsibility weighed heavy on her shoulders. The North was a vast and colossal place to rule with hundreds of thousands of people who looked to House Stark for leadership. Even in the days before Aegon the Conqueror, the North knew no king but the King in the North whose name was Stark.

Winter is coming. The words resonated with Lady Y/N as if they were those of her own House. She thought them every morning when she woke up for her duties and every evening as she laid to rest. The emptiness of her bed at night proved an even greater challenge to Y/N than the absence of her husband at her daily duties. She was surrounded by people great and small whilst the sun was still in the sky. Yet at night, Y/N grew lonely and yearned for home, yearned for Whytefort. No matter how hard she attempted to persuade herself that Winterfell was her home now, Y/N had yet made no memories in this place, felt no familiarity nor true comfort. She found consolation only in her mare, Blackspur, and her ladies-in-waiting, particularly Lady Ellyn Mormont. Whilst Y/N did not mind the company of the other ladies, she had grown the closest to Lady Ellyn. They would often share their meals and walked the castle grounds, although they could not ride together for Lady Mormont had a terrible fear of horses. She was thrown off her mount when she was but a child, which caused Lady Mormont to break her leg. Y/N had not noticed it until it was pointed out to her but there was a small limp in Lady Ellyn’s walk because of this accident. Lady Y/N did not wish to make her companion uncomfortable so she shared her rides with Ser Tybald Cassel, the master-of-horse, or lately more often with Ser Harwyn, the master-of-arms. Whilst Ser Tybald was undoubtedly a man skilled and knowledgeable when it came to horses, he often gave the impression that if Lady Y/N had not been Lady Y/N Stark, he would not have paid her the respect she deserved on the account of her being a woman. Ser Harwyn, on the other hand, proved himself a man as loyal as they come and a pleasant companion on adventurous rides around the grounds of Winterfell. Lady Y/N grew even fonder of him than of Maester Bennard, who was also a tremendous help in navigating the ways of her duties as the Lady of Winterfell.

One day, as Lady Y/N and Lady Ellyn walked the glass gardens of Winterfell that were warmed with hot spring water on which the castle was built, Lady Ellyn asked her mistress whether she had been able to grow accustomed to living at Winterfell after near a moon of staying there.

“I imagine it is not the same now that Lord Stark is gone as well,” said Lady Ellyn as they sat down on a stone bench beneath an orange tree.

“No … It is not,” thought Lady Y/N saddened as she played with the sleeve of her lilac gown.

Y/N gazed around the glass gardens. Half of the plants in them Y/N had only seen painted and documented in books. They did not grow in the north, especially not in an area as mountainous as Whytefort. They would not grow here either if not for the thermal waters. Most of the plants were brought from the south through White Harbor in large wooden crates, tended to by maesters specialising in botany and herbology. There was a type of fruit that looked much like an apple, red and yellow with fuzz on its skin that reminded Y/N of moss. She could not remember what it was called, however. And another which seemed like pumpkin yet its flesh was green and sweeter than that of a pumpkin although the foreign fruit smelled similarly. There were also strawberries the size of pebbles unlike those as small as raindrops that grew in the mountains. There were vegetables a plenty too: all sorts of green leafy plants that were often served at nuncheon or for supper along with grains, seeds, and eggs. There were many medicinal herbs and roots as well, particularly for the brewing of potions and infusions.

Nevertheless, Y/N’s favourites remained oranges. She looked up at the big round orange fruits. “Do you suppose we could take one and share it?”

Lady Ellyn smiled to herself. “Of course, my lady. Everything you see is yours.”

Lady Y/N smiled as well although she still felt like nothing more than a guest at Winterfell, especially without Cregan in the castle.

“It …” began Lady Y/N, unsure whether she could trust her thoughts into Lady Ellyn’s care yet she had to speak to someone or she might go mad. “It is hard being away from home,” said Lady Y/N whilst Lady Ellyn’s smile slowly disappeared as she listened.

“I know Winterfell is my home now but I cannot help but long for the familiarity of Whytefort. I miss even the people I thought I despised – and I do, I do despise them still!” Y/N laughed but she might as well have cried. “It is only … It is only this feeling in my chest …” told the Lady of Winterfell as she held a hand over her heart as if to keep it from falling apart. In that moment, she really did think she might cry for everything that she had to leave behind.

“It seems to me that everyone expects me to fail, that they think less of me because I am not from as a great and noble House as they would expect the Lady of Winterfell to be,” spoke Lady Y/N evenly as she tried to contain her emotions. “Lady Daela—” considered Y/N, remembering the comments she swore were meant only as jests and the looks given to her by Lady Manderly when she believed Lady Stark was unaware.

“My lady,” Lady Ellyn cut her mistress off. “I believe Lady Daela’s moods may be a consequence of her having harboured notions of becoming the Lady of Winterfell herself.”

Lady Stark’s gaze darted to her lady-in-waiting. She felt a sting inside of her, an itch she did not only want to scratch but cut out altogether. Suddenly, the thought of Lady Daela made Y/N’s stomach twist into knots; not only of Lady Daela alone but of her and Cregan.

“I had believed you knew, my lady,” said Lady Ellyn. “That is why I did not mention it sooner. I thought you did not wish to speak of it.”

“Tell me,” asked Lady Y/N when so many things about Lady Daela suddenly made sense. The looks and the comments, her little japes and glares.

“I do not know much, my lady,” said Lady Ellyn. “As you would know as well, she is the youngest of Lord Manderly’s four daughters and all of them are already married to men of great and noble Houses: Tallhart, Mallister, and Arryn. White Harbor is one of the largest harbours in Westeros and the largest in the North. The match between Lord Stark and Lady Daela would not be unseemly.” Not like the one between Lord Stark and me, thought Lady Y/N with a heavy heart.

“But Lord Manderly is already fighting his own war at sea with the pirates from Essos,” thought Lady Y/N aloud. There was often news from White Harbor at the councils Y/N attended as the Lady of Winterfell. “He has no men to spare whilst my father has nothing but men.” And sheep.

“Indeed,” agreed Lady Ellyn. “Yet as far as I am aware, the match was never proposed by Lord Manderly. The prospect of Lady Daela’s hopes of marrying Lord Stark are but that – hopes and illusions,” Lady Ellyn gave her mistress a reassuring smile.

“I see,” said Lady Y/N, her blood boiling at the thought of Lady Daela and Cregan, and yet at the same time, Y/N felt a heavy weight in her stomach. She had already felt like everyone was judging her before Lady Ellyn told her of this – a match between a lady much nobler than Y/N herself and the Lord of Winterfell – and now the feeling only grew worse.

“If I may be so bold, my lady,” spoke Lady Ellyn when she saw the storm of thoughts in her lady’s features.

“Of course,” said Lady Y/N, “I wish nothing more of you than to speak plainly and in the manner you feel.”

“I long knew I would be a lady-in-waiting for the Lady of Winterfell when Lord Cregan would wed,” began Lady Ellyn. “Yet when I left Bear Island, I felt just as you do, my lady. Lost and alone, with everyone staring at me and watching me. I too had to leave my home and my family, my sweet little brothers and my lord father,” spoke Lady Ellyn, a sadness to her voice. “Even with Lady Daela, with Jocelyn and Harryett, I could not find peace here at Winterfell… Until you arrived.”

“Me?” asked Lady Y/N, her big eyes widening still.

“You were so kind to me – to us. Even when you need not have been,” said Lady Ellyn quickly. “We … We all bear names of great Houses: Manderly, Dustin, Karstark, and Mormont. But we … Lady Daela is devious, Jocelyn barely speaks a word without being called upon, Harryett is in her own world of gallant knights and pretty maidens, and myself … I cannot even accompany you at the thing you love most because of my stupid, stupid fear of horses.”

“And yet it matters not because you are a friend to me,” said Lady Y/N honestly as she took Lady Ellyn’s hand and squeezed it. "A true friend."

“I … I cannot make friends easily,” confessed Lady Stark. “Acquaintances, yes, quick friends perhaps, but not true friends, not loyal friends.”

“If not for you, I …” said Y/N as she looked away. “I would have no one to talk to but Maester Bennard,” she said. “He would have tried to invent a healing potion for my thoughts or ascribe it all to moonblood,” Lady Y/N laughed and Lady Ellyn joined her.

Just so, both the Lady of Winterfell as well as the only daughter and the oldest child of Lord Mormont breathed a little easier and shared an orange on their way back to the castle.

***

It was a moon’s turn since Lord Stark departed for north. Lady Y/N’s days were still filled with council meetings, settling disputes, and listening to the woes of the smallfolk and trying to find solutions. She hosted lesser members of House Dormand and later House Flint. If Y/N could not find the time to take Blackspur for a ride, she would at least take a walk around Winterfell. Yet she would visit the godswood everyday even if the sun had already set only to pray for her husband’s safe return. For the longer he was away, the less news arrived, and the more anxious Y/N grew. She prayed for her family as well; for her lady mother and her brother, and even her father, who was fighting against the wildlings alongside Lord Stark. If there were no duties waiting for her, Y/N could sit beneath the heart tree for hours, wrapped in her thick fur coat as she would lean against the weirwood tree. Whilst her own bed brought her nothing but sadness these days, Y/N encountered what little peace she could find at the godswood and sometimes in the presence of Lady Ellyn, when Y/N found the strength for company.

The stars appeared in the sky that night and the moon was so bright it made the evening frost glisten like crystals. There had not been any snow in a week yet the cold was even greater than before. Lady Y/N was returning from the godswood, hardly needing a torch to light her way as the moon was bright enough. She was more restless then normally and her body felt as exhausted as if she had climbed up to the top of the Iceraven. There were weights bound to her legs and a pressure in her stomach. Y/N had venison for supper with buttered beats and a slice of blackberry tart. The sweet must have been too much because Y/N had to steady herself against a tree and catch her breath. Cold drops of sweat gathered on her chest and neck before she bent over with nausea. All that she had eaten that evening left her body. Y/N leaned against the tall pine and tried to find the strength to return to the castle. She slowly made her way up the cobbled path that lead back. She had to stop twice when she felt too weak to continue.

As Lady Y/N finally made it to the castle, she was awaited by Lady Ellyn.

“My lady,” gasped Lady Mormont as she hurried to her mistress’ side. She took her arm as Y/N leaned against her friend. “Somebody call the maester!” called Lady Mormont. The servant girl nearby dropped the linen from her hands and ran to fetch the maester whilst Lady Ellyn escorted Lady Y/N to her chambers, her skin as pale as the weirwood tree.

“I do not need the maester,” spoke Lady Y/N weakly when she laid in her bed. “I only need some rest.”

“My lady,” implored Lady Ellyn. “You have to allow Maester Bennard to see you.”

“Tomorrow,” whispered Lady Y/N. “If I do not feel better.”

“At least allow me to stay with you, my lady. You must not be alone like this,” said Lady Ellyn as she helped her lady out of her clothes. She brought Lady Y/N her nightgown and a cup of water which Lady Y/N could not be more grateful for. Yet even simply drinking some water made Y/N nauseous again. Lady Ellyn fetched the basin for washing and held back her lady’s hair.

“I beg of you, Y/N,” spoke Lady Ellyn gravely. “Allow Maester Bennard to see you. My lady, you could be gravely ill—”

“I am not ill,” said Y/N as her eyes let in hot tears. She had known it for some time now yet she did not want to admit it to herself. She realized it that afternoon in the gardens when she joked with Lady Ellyn about Maester Bennard.

Lady Y/N rose her gaze to her lady-in-waiting, who could read the answer from her mistress’ eyes.

“You are with child,” breathed Lady Ellyn. Y/N nodded as salty tears slid down her pale cheeks. Lady Ellyn put her arms around her mistress. Lady Y/N’s hands clutched to her friend’s back as she sobbed.

“Are … Are you not glad, my lady?” spoke Lady Ellyn carefully and not without compassion.

“W-What … What if he … What if he does not return?” Lady Y/N’s voice broke. The thought of her alone at Winterfell without him was unbearable, what more alone but with his child. The child who would never know their father nor could their mother tell them much about him as they were only wed for half a moon before he had to march north. The child that she would love with all of her heart but would remind her of the man she had lost.

“Lord Stark?” asked Lady Ellyn.

Lady Y/N nodded.

“He is one of the best swordsmen in all of the Seven Kingdoms,” said Lady Ellyn with every confidence. “Everyone says so and not only because he is our Lord of Winterfell. He will come back to you safely, my lady.”

Ser Harwyn said so himself, Lady Y/N considered, although that is not what concerned her. She had seen Lord Stark train with the master-at-arms herself and many other seasoned warriors with whom he won every time. Yet Lady Y/N also remembered her husband’s body, his scarred chest. If the savage’s arrow had aimed but an inch lower and pierced Cregan’s lung …

There was a knock on the door with Maester Bennard awaiting outside. Lady Ellyn got up to speak to the maester whilst Lady Y/N managed to change into more comfortable garments.

Lady Ellyn asked Maester Bennard to return in the morning, explaining of her lady’s sickness – but never mentioning the pregnancy – and how she was feeling better already.

As she closed the door behind her, Lady Ellyn’s heart grew heavy. She had not known Lady Stark for very long but they had grown quite close in the recent weeks. Lady Ellyn wished to help, to comfort her Lady Y/N but she could not find the words that would do so.

“Lord Stark will come back,” assured Lady Ellyn once more. “And he will be delighted with the news,” she tried to cheer Y/N up. It worked because Y/N’s dark thoughts were replaced with bright, happy memories the child would bring to her and Cregan. She imagined telling him, mayhaps sending a raven or a messenger to deliver the news. Or she could wait for him to return and see for himself.

Lady Ellyn was sitting on the edge of the bed beside her mistress, gently caressing her hair. Although they had spent a lot of time together, she noticed Lady Stark was shutting herself away from others. She would take her meals alone more often and spend much of her time in the godswood. It must have been since she found out she was with child, Lady Ellyn considered. Whilst herself, Lady Daela, Jocelyn, and Harryett could somewhat bond over their duties as the ladies-in-waiting to the Lady of Winterfell, Y/N had no one to share her burden with, not truly.

“Allow me to stay with you tonight, my lady,” asked Lady Ellyn, her hand pausing on her mistress’ shoulder. Lady Y/N nodded, allowing someone in properly for the first time in as long as she could remember.

Lady Ellyn laid down in bed beside Y/N, who turned around to face her lady-in-waiting. Her eyes were closed as her tears slipped down into the pillow. They fell asleep together in silence, Lady Ellyn’s hand tightly wrapped around Y/N’s palm.

It was in the hour of the owl when Lady Stark woke in terrible pain. She had felt it coming for hours but half believed the pain was only in her nightmares. Lady Y/N whimpered in pain as she sat up in bed, her nightgown wet with blood. The candles were out but there was still the light from the hearth and the brightness of the moonlight through the windows. Y/N cried in horror, waking up Lady Ellyn, who sat up immediately. Her gaze followed Lady Y/N’s, her mouth parting in shock at the sight of the blood.

“Gods …” breathed Lady Ellyn as her mistress’ hands shook uncontrollably. “Guards!” called Lady Ellyn and got up. “GUARDS!”

Ser Martyn, Lady Stark’s sworn shield, burst into the Lord and Lady of Winterfell’s private chambers.

“Get the maester! NOW!” shouted Lady Ellyn, surely waking half of the castle before she returned her attention to the Lady of Winterfell. “It’s alright, it’s alright, my lady,” whispered Lady Ellyn soothingly over and over again yet she could not mask the doubt in her quivering voice at the sight of all the blood.

“N-No, no, no … No, no …” cried Lady Y/N as she stared at her blood-stained fingers. “Wh … What is happening?” she whimpered. Lady Y/N clutched to her abdomen in the moment of another striking pain, more painful than anything she had been feeling throughout the night. Lady Y/N’s nightgown was soaked with sweat, her wet hair sticking to her chest.

Although an old man, Maester Bennard rushed to his liege lady immediately. His assistants were with him, all three of them freezing at the sight of all the blood. Maester Bennard knew then that Lady Stark had been with child but no was longer so.  

After the maester and his assistants did the best they could to stop Lady Stark’s pain and bleeding, they let her rest. Although Lady Y/N was given milk of the poppy, it only helped with her physical pain, which was nothing compared to what Y/N felt in her heart. The dawn had already broken and yet Lady Stark could not stop weeping since she had awoken in the hour of the owl.

All four of her ladies-in-waiting wept with her yet none could truly understand. Even Maester Bennard’s heart went out to his lady although he was a man of science, who placed logic and stoicism above most everything else, particularly feelings.

Nevertheless, Maester Bennard allowed himself to approach the foot of the bed. “Even if you had let me come see you last night,” spoke the maester gently, “I would not have been able to make a difference, my lady.”

Lady Stark was blaming herself for losing the babe and her eyes would not go out of tears like deep and endless dark pools do not run out of water.

“It is not uncommon for women to lose their first child, especially this early in the pregnancy,” continued Maester Bennard. “And they go on to have perfectly healthy children, my lady. Do not despair …” The old man wished to comfort her but Lady Y/N could not be consoled. A part of her believed Maester Bennard’s words. If one of her ladies-in-waiting had been in her position, Y/N would be sure to tell them the same as the maester told her. Yet she could not help but feel that it had been her fault. That she had not loved it enough, that she had not wanted it enough and feared for it too much, and that that is the reason why it went away.

Lady Stark’s chest broke into a heart-breaking sob as she clutched to her chest. Maester Bennard decided to leave his lady in the company of Lady Ellyn instead. She wrapped her arms around her lady but Y/N’s pain could not be contained. That day Lady Ellyn shared Lady Stark’s bed once again for Y/N could not bear to be alone with her thoughts. She took some sleeping drought prepared by the maester and drowned her pain in the depths of sleep.

***

The days which followed were the hardest. Lady Y/N spend the first few days in bed, recovering from the loss of blood, but mostly from the loss she felt inside. Lady Stark commanded the maester not to send a raven north to the Lord of Winterfell. If someone was to tell Lord Stark of what had happened, it was going to be Y/N herself. She recalled their final night together at Winterfell and how he said she might be with child by the time he returns. A part of him spoke with hopefulness and Y/N’s heart broke even further at the thought of it.

The recovery was hard. Lady Y/N could not even think of food, much less make herself have an proper meal, which did not go unnoticed on her weight.

“The servants will prepare anything you wish, my lady,” said Lady Jocelyn as she helped her lady get dressed properly for the first time in days. “Lemon cakes, apple tarts, anything you wish. Lord Stark will not be pleased to find you like this when he returns,” begged Lady Jocelyn and did the lacing on Lady Y/N’s dress.

The mention of Lord Stark made Lady Y/N turn around to look at her lady-in-waiting. Lady Jocelyn Karstark was plain of face with brows which would always have one believe she was saddened. Her hair was like wheat, her frame slim yet hardy. She enjoyed wearing gowns in blue shades as she thought it would make her hair seem more golden than brown. Yet what Lady Y/N learned of Lady Jocelyn was that she was timorous in the face of authority and did not care much for Y/N personally, rather what the Lord of Winterfell and his maester will write to her family of her service at the castle.

Once when in her cups, Lady Jocelyn confessed she wished nothing more but to be married. She never wanted to come to Winterfell and doted on a boy from her family’s castle in The Grey Cliffs. She was Lord Karstark’s youngest niece through his only remaining brother for fever took the rest some years ago.

The boy Lady Jocelyn spoke of had only his name but no House he belonged to. He was the castle smith’s apprentice. Neither her father nor Lord Karstark would ever allow for them to marry but Lady Jocelyn refused to lose faith. She sometimes accompanied her lady to the godswood where she prayed that the Lord of Winterfell should send her home and she could marry the boy.

Lady Stark felt sorry for the girl. She was only four-and-ten, and although a girl flowered, Lady Jocelyn was not yet a woman grown. She had yet to learn that life was not as simple as a maiden’s dreams or Y/N would have been a stable master’s apprentice or a knight in some lord’s service, trained in swordplay and travelling on horseback throughout the Seven Kingdoms. She had always wanted to see the yellow sands of Dorne and the Red Keep of King’s Landing. She wanted to ride the Rose Road through The Reach and have wine in some meadow outside Highgarden. And if she would have found the courage, Y/N would have even boarded a ship to Essos.

“Go and break your fast with the ladies, Lady Jocelyn,” said Lady Stark as she fixed her earrings herself. She wore a gown of deep juniper green with a slim headpiece of yellow gold and a matching belt.

“And have the servants prepare stewed beef with wine and cloves for nuncheon,” Lady Y/N instructed her lady-in-waiting. Lady Jocelyn curtsied and left Y/N’s private chambers.

Alone at last, Lady Y/N sat down at the table and helped herself to some cheese to break her fast. She was not truly hungry. She had not been able to gain appetite in days. Nevertheless, as the sweet and savoury taste of bread and cheese mingled in her mouth, Y/N’s body recognized the need she had been avoiding. Y/N had some wine with her food when a knock came on the door. Ser Martyn entered and bowed, announcing that Maester Bennard wished to see his lady. Y/N had half a mind to ask him to meet her later when the council was to take place.

“He speaks of a raven from the north, my lady,” said Ser Martyn. Lady Y/N’s heart stopped in her chest as she looked up at her sworn shield.

“Send him in,” urged Lady Y/N and got up immediately.

Maester Bennard entered her private chambers, a scroll of parchment in his wrinkled hand.

“My lady,” the maester bowed. “A raven flew in from the north bearing Lord Stark’s seal.” He handed the scroll to Lady Stark. She took the letter eagerly, but once in her hands, the parchment paper seemed to her as heavy as an sword of steel. Even if the news were grave, Y/N could not wait any longer. She broke the direwolf in the grey wax and rolled out the parchment. Her heart beat savagely in her chest as heat crawled all over her body.

Y/N left out a shivery breath.

“What is it, my lady? What word comes from the north?” asked Maester Bennard with haste.

“They are well,” breathed Lady Stark as her eyes welled with tears. The scroll in her hand, she leaned against the table, her chest raising heavily as her tears soaked the walnut wood of the furniture. Lady Stark took a deep breath as she collected herself and brushed the tears from her face. She looked at the maester who was visibly relieved as well.

Lady Stark offered him the scroll to read.

“They had already pushed the wildlings north of The Gift. It is only a matter of time before the host is defeated and whoever is left flees back across the Wall,” told Lady Stark as she sat back at the table with great relief whilst Maester Bennard read the news for himself. He nodded, a hint of a smile hiding in his usually unemotional features. He was neither a tall nor a strong man but the wisdom of books and age made his presence as prominent as any.

“Will you sit, maester?” asked Lady Y/N and poured the man who brought such joyous news from a flagon of sweet Dornish red.

“If it pleases my lady,” said Maester Bennard. Although they have always been courteous to each other and Maester Bennard was an indispensable source of wisdom with a deep personal loyalty to House Stark, Lady Y/N never found a moment to form a personal bond with Maester Bennard unlike with Ser Harwyn, with whom it happened almost naturally.

“The wildlings are just that, my lady, wild and untamed,” commented Maester Bennard on the letter. “Their kind may fight in numbers but not in form and organization, nor is their steel any match for ours.” He never doubted the strength of Winterfell or its lord, yet strange things may happen when an army goes on a march – disease and weather being just two of them.

Lady Y/N saw a wildling once. He was caught in her father’s mountains stealing sheep from the shepherds. The men brought him to Whytefort to her lord father. The man wore sheepskin and leather and seemed to Y/N no different then any man she had met other than in his choice of garments and lack of courtesy. Lord Jonos made his men cut off the wildling’s hands at the wrists before he was hanged and made an example to warn both the smallfolk as well as any other wildlings that thought of sealing in his lands.

“If my lady would consider writing back to Lord Stark,” suggested Maester Bennard carefully.

“I will write to him,” Lady Y/N nodded.

“I am sure my lord would wish to know of my lady’s recent condition,” agreed Maester Bennard. Lady Stark’s gaze rose to him, an unusual coldness lying in her eyes.

“No,” said Lady Stark. “I would not worry him. He needs a clear mind,” she concluded although that was only half of the truth. The other half was that Y/N did not know how she would tell Cregan what had happened. She did not know how he would react and if he too would blame her as she blamed herself.

Maester Bennard wished to speak, to persuade her, but Lady Y/N got up.

“I would have the council gather today, Maester Bennard. It has been too long since I sat in it,” said Lady Stark. Near a week had passed since she fell ill. The North had been in the capable hands of Winterfell’s councillors in the meantime, but Y/N would not allow herself to disappoint the Lord of Winterfell in failing to rule the North in his absence as well. She mustered all of the strength she had left.

“As my lady commands,” said Maester Bennard and left her chambers.

Y/N sat on the edge of her bed, her fingers running through the soft furs laid on her husband’s side. He will come back, thought Y/N. The smile slowly faded off her lips at the thought of it. She was grateful to hear that the warriors were successful, that Cregan was alive and well. She could cry out of happiness. But Y/N could not imagine telling him, not even at the insistence of the maester.

***

Yet another turn of the moon passed before the raven came with news of Lord Stark’s return to Winterfell. Some of the warriors remained south of the Wall to make sure the wildlings were gone, one of those hosts led by Daeron Whytefort himself whilst Lord Jonos returned to Whytefort with the greater part of his army.

Lord Stark’s host was to return to Winterfell half the moon’s turn after the raven of the same news arrived. The castle was in upheaval with the preparations for its lord’s return. There would be a feast held in the honour of the victorious host of warriors. The lords and commanders were to dine in the Great Hall whilst a feast for the soldiers and warriors of Winterfell was to be held in the winter town.

Lady Stark ordered the servants to prepare sweet beef, pork-and-onion pies, roast venison and baked mallards for the feast in the Great Hall.

Lady Y/N paced around the watchtower in her skirts of deep blue with embroidery of flowers in the string-of-gold on her long bell sleeves and ornate bodice. She wore her tear pearls with yellow gold and a cloak of deep blue and fox fur for warmth. Y/N watched the horizon every day, waiting for an army of men to appear in her sight. It had been so for days until a rider came in one of the evenings, announcing the return of Lord Stark’s host on the morrow.

“My lady,” said one of the soldiers who was with her atop of the watchtower. Lady Stark’s gaze followed that of the young man where it found riders on the horizon. Y/N’s heart began to beat harshly against her ribcage, threatening to tear her chest apart and escape. She licked her dry lips when she saw the banners of House Stark flying in the cold, northern winds.

It was midday when the host of warriors reached the castle gates. Lady Stark was waiting in the courtyard with Maester Bennard, Ser Harwyn and Ser Martyn, and countless others. Even the smallfolk who served in the castle gathered in the courtyard to see their lord’s return, at least those who were not busy preparing the feast.

The sound of hooves approaching echoed through the castle walls. Lady Y/N’s arms prickled with goose bumps. She held her breath as the riders arrived into the courtyard, Y/N’s gaze immediately finding that of the Lord of Winterfell. Lady Y/N’s chest quivered. Cregan’s hair was longer and his cheeks covered in yesterday’s stubble. Other than that, Y/N felt like nothing had changed, and yet everything. For a moment, it seemed to her that she was looking at a stranger, someone from a dream she remembered but did not know.

The Lord of Winterfell and his men dismounted as the stableboys and squires took care of their coursers. Lord Stark made his way to his wife with Maester Bennard and Ser Martyn by her side.

“My lady,” spoke Lord Stark, a warm smile hiding in the somber line of his lips. He took Lady Y/N’s hand into his, kissing the top of her knuckles and held it a moment. The touch of his hand felt so familiar and yet so strange to Lady Y/N.

“Husband,” breathed Lady Y/N quietly. Their gazes entwined as neither could manage to fill the silence with words and yet their eyes spoke a thousand phrases.

Y/N remembered to breathe and curtsied gracefully, “Welcome.”  

“Thank you, my lady,” said the Lord of Winterfell and watched her as if he had just seen her for the first time. His grey eyes were neither cold nor warm, neither hiding nor revealing; at least not to her.

The Lord of Winterfell greeted the rest of his court whilst the commanders expressed their courtesies to the Lady of Winterfell. Y/N could hardly focus on them as her gaze kept escaping to her husband’s broad back hidden beneath a heavy cloak of wolf fur. Y/N’s eyes watered yet she was unsure whether it was from the icy wind or her husband returning. She could feel Maester Bennard’s gaze on her, however, hiding only one thought.

***

“I would have a bath, scalding hot,” Lord Stark instructed the servants as himself and the Lady of Winterfell reached their private chambers. The servants disappeared to fetch the water and the tub as Lord Cregan took off his heavy coat with a suppressed groan.

“Are you well?” asked Lady Y/N, not anticipating the strange awkwardness that lingered in the air after the comfort she had grown to feel in their time together but that was four moons ago.

Lord Stark smiled to himself whilst he hung his coat over one of the chairs. He had been longing to hear his wife’s voice in the long, lonely days that he had been away.

“I am well,” said Lord Stark as he took Lady Y/N’s hand and gently pulled her to him. “Only tired from the ride,” he spoke more quietly, leaning his forehead against hers. Lady Y/N wrapped her arms around her husband’s waist and came closer, resting her cheek against Lord Stark’s chest. He smelled of horses, smoke, and pinewood but she did not mind, not in that moment. Cregan held his wife, realizing how much he had missed her. There was nothing but blood and slaughter and battle everywhere around him, frustrated advisors and fellow commanders, and warriors impatient in the cold northern climate. Lord Stark’s mind often drifted to his lady wife, to Y/N. He longed for the peace of holding her in his arms, for the touch of her soft skin beneath his sword-calloused hands. He missed her big, pensive eyes and her warm, gentle voice.

“Have you been well, my lady?” asked Lord Cregan in turn. Y/N paused. The moment was perfect to tell him yet she could not do it.

“Yes,” spoke Lady Y/N quietly and nodded. In truth, she had been anything but. Ruling Winterfell in her husband’s absence was one thing, yet trusting her body and finding leave to grieve at the same time was a different matter entirely. When Lady Y/N was with her moonblood for the first time since she lost her babe, she wept. She wept from happiness of things going back to normal and she wept from sadness as the blood only reminded her of what she had lost.

The servants returned and prepared a bath for their lord. Lady Y/N stood by the window as she noticed the snow had begun to fall almost as if it knew the Lord of Winterfell had returned to his castle. The servants retired once they readied the bath, leaving their lord and lady alone once again.

Cregan began unclasping his thick, leather jerkin lined with warm wool.

“I can leave you if you wish,” offered Lady Y/N gently as Lord Stark pulled off his boots. He turned to her with a frown.

“I have been gone from you for neigh four turns of the moon, wife,” said Lord Stark. “I do not wish to be parted from you a moment longer.”

A blush crept to Lady Y/N’s face as her spoke those words, an even greater fever flushing though her cheeks when Lord Stark took off his tunic and breeches and stepped into the bath. The feeling lasted for but a moment, however, because Y/N’s gaze fell to Cregan’s built chest, which was bandaged beneath his armpits and across his left shoulder.

Lady Y/N hurried to him and knelt by the bathtub.

“What happened? You said you are well,” asked Y/N quickly, her eyes wide and her brows in a frown. She wished to reach out and touch the bandage yet she did not dare.

“I am,” assured Lord Stark, the hint of a smile returning to his lips. His wife’s concern for him warmed Cregan’s heart.

“But—” Lady Y/N shook her head, looking at the red-brown stain of a wound trying to disguise itself in the pale bandages.

“You have my word, my lady,” said Lord Stark as he reached his hand to Lady Y/N’s cheek. His thumb brushed against her soft skin. He leaned in slowly as Y/N’s hand reached just beneath his jaw and their lips met in a kiss not of lust and desire but of profound longing. Y/N wondered how she could find the strength to hold back and not kiss her husband the moment he climbed off his horse. An overwhelming set of emotions washed over Lady Y/N as she rested her hand on her husband’s cheek, his lips leaving ever so familiar kisses on her own. It has been too long.

Lady Y/N pulled away hesitantly and reached for air. Her husband’s eyes lingered on her lips before they shifted to her eyes, his gaze warm and full of longing.

“I should call Maester Bennard to attend to your wound. Gods only know what sort of pretender treated it on the battlefield,” said Lady Y/N, whose voice was grave with worry and even anger at the thought of some charlatan posing for a maester treating her husband’s injury.

“Later,” agreed Lord Stark to reassure his beautiful wife. “I would have this bath first.”

Lady Y/N nodded, still holding her husband’s hand that held her cheek only moments ago. It was wet from the water yet still Lady Y/N held it tightly, drawing shapes into his palm with her thumb. Her eyebrows were in a deep, troubled frown, her eyes like big pools of worry and sadness.

“What is it?” asked Lord Stark, not unkindly, yet his own voice was grave with worry and suspicion. Something was amiss, something must have happened whilst he was away for Maester Bennard’s eyes were also hiding something when he awaited Lord Stark in the courtyard. He saw the meaningful look the maester gave to his lady wife yet the meaning was still unknown to the Lord of Winterfell.

Lord Cregan’s brows hung formidably as he studied his wife.

“Hm?” Lady Y/N looked up. She felt as if she had been caught red-handed yet Cregan could not have heard her thoughts. “Nothing,” lied Y/N and pressed a soft kiss atop of her husband’s hand before she let it go. “I was only … I am glad you have returned.” Lady Y/N offered a small smile but she could not mask how troubled her mind was to Cregan. He had learned to recognize in their short time together when something was amiss with his wife even when no one else would notice. 

“I should prepare for the feast,” Lady Y/N changed the topic and got up. Lord Stark did not question her any further yet his grey eyes lingered on Lady Y/N as she walked to the dressing area.

Lady Y/N had a gown made especially for the feast in the white and green of the field of House Stark’s banner and string-of-silver for its grey direwolf. The base of the dress was white with the hems of the sleeves, collar, and the bodice embroidered with dark green jewels, Myrish lace, and string-of-silver. Lady Y/N wore her necklace of emeralds and pearls and matching earrings gifted to her by her mother and had her handmaidens braid her hair for the occasion.

When Lady Y/N emerged from the dressing area, Lord Stark was already in his dark boots and breeches yet held off the tunic and jerkin until the maester would change his bandages. As the servants and the handmaidens left, Lord Stark’s grey eyes fell upon his wife wearing the finest gown in the colours of his House. His mouth parted softly.

“I had it made for this occasion,” said Lady Y/N when her husband would not speak. She felt a mixture of self-consciousness under Lord Stark’s gaze as well as some satisfaction at his reaction.

“I hope it pleases you,” said Lady Y/N as she locked her hands, offering a small smile.

“Pleases me?” breathed Lord Stark and got up eagerly. Yet before he could even take two steps towards his wife, the door of the chambers opened, announcing the arrival of the maester.

Maester Bennard brought his assistant, who carried a heavy yet ornate wooden box of herbs, potions, and medical supplies. Lord Stark’s gaze lingered on his beautiful wife a moment longer before he sat back down and allowed the maester to change his bandages. Lady Y/N stood by, watching it all from a distance. When Maester Bennard revealed a gash in Lord Stark’s chest just above his heart, Lady Y/N’s brows returned to a concerned frown. Whatever blood there was was old, dry and crusted on the bandage whilst the wound seemed to be healing. It was a cut caused by a wildling’s short axe who managed to steal into the Lord of Winterfell’s tent one night. The savage came at him with a dagger but did not know Lord Stark was still awake. Cregan knocked the man on the floor and took his dagger but the wildling recovered as they rolled on the floor. When the man got up, he came at Lord Stark with his short axe but managed only a weak blow for the Lord of Winterfell broke his arm when he had knocked him on the floor. Cregan got to the wildling’s own dagger and stabbed him in his side and then in his heart.

As Lord Stark told the tale of his new scar, he did not look at his wife. Cregan could feel her worried gaze on him with every word he spoke and did not want to give her any more cause for concern. Lady Y/N, however, had to hold her breath to keep the tears from her eyes as she listened, refusing to show her feelings, least of all in front of Maester Bennard. They have been working relentlessly since Lady Y/N recovered from that night, never speaking of it once since Lord Stark’s letter from The Gift arrived – other than checking on her health once in a while to ensure the lady’s recovery. Lady Y/N did not want to give Maester Bennard any more cause to see her as weak or incapable of ruling Winterfell in her husband’s absence. She made all the efforts to keep the council happy and Winterfell functioning as it should.

“Considering everything, the wound is healing nicely, my lord,” concluded Maester Bennard after he changed the bandage and stored away his supplies.

“Thank you, maester,” said Lord Stark as he got up and pulled on his tunic and jerkin. His cheeks were shaven clean and one of the servants must have shortened his dark hair some. For a moment, it seemed as if the march north had never happened, thought Lady Y/N, although in truth she felt as if four years and not four moons had passed since Lord Stark marched.

“Will you join us at the feast, Maester Bennard?” asked Lord Stark.

“I will. Thank you, my lord,” smiled Maester Bennard and bowed courteously. “And if I may, my lady, you look exquisite,” he added, turning to his lady and bowed as well.

“Thank you, maester,” said Lady Stark, slightly taken aback by Maester Bennard’s comment.

The Lord and Lady of Winterfell joined the commanders in the Great Hall where the feast was held. The music was already playing merrily as the lords drank on ale, waiting for their liege lord to begin feasting on delicious foods as well. Once the presence of Lord and Lady Stark was noted with everyone rising in respect before they sat down together, the servants began to bring dishes of beef and venison, meat pies, buttered vegetables, and even baked mallards. When all of the food was brought into the Great Hall, the Lord of Winterfell rose with a cup of ale in his hand.

“My lords,” addressed Lord Stark firmly, his voice booming and as solemn as ever yet unmistakably pleased. “Another march north is behind us and once again we have defeated the wildlings and sent them beyond the Wall where they belong!” he spoke with a heavy northern accent as the Great Hall roared with cheers and fists and cups slamming against the heavy oaken tables. “We protected our homes and we protected our people; our wives and our children—” the Lord of Winterfell continued but Lady Y/N’s heart sank to her stomach at the sound of his words. Her eyes rose to Maester Bennard, who was holding onto his cup of warm honeyed wine and watching his lord address his noble commanders. Still, Y/N wondered whether the maester wrote to her husband in secret, whether he told him of what had happened without her leave.

“This feast is for you! The finest warriors in all of the Seven Kingdoms and PROUD NORTHERNERS!” Lord Stark’s voice thundered through the hall as he rose his cup. The men cheered even louder and got up as well as did Lady Y/N, all emptying their cups to Winterfell’s victory over the savages.

The men dug into the delicious food prepared for them, having lived off stew and porridge for too many days on end. It was difficult enough to cook anything in a camp, much less something that did not come from a big pot for a great many people.

The Lady of Winterfell helped herself to some sweet beef and some buttered potatoes, having no more than a cup of wine all evening as she feared it might make her say something she would regret. For a moment, Lady Y/N considered it was all in her head – Maester Bennard’s burning gaze that she seemed to feel on her at all times. Nevertheless, when she rose her eyes to the maester, he was already looking at her. He averted his gaze when the Lady of Winterfell caught it. A part of her was furious with the old man and yet a part of her understood. He would not have his lord remain in the dark about anything, not even his wife.

Lady Y/N lost her appetite even before the desserts came. She made the kitchens prepare blueberry tarts and rice pudding with spices that warmed up even the coldest hands.

The Lord of Winterfell did not care for sweets yet he nevertheless had a slice of the blueberry tart. The tension at the high table could be cut with a knife, the mood no longer reflected only in Lady Y/N and Maester Bennard, as well as Lady Ellyn who sat by her lady’s side, but also in Lord Stark himself. The uneasy looks, the silence on both sides, where there was usually at least talk of the weather, made Lord Stark’s thoughts drift into dark and unsettling places. A seed of anger and frustration grew inside of him and it did not go unnoticed in a man who was usually as calm and stoic as a rock. He was tired and his patience was thinning.

“Would you tell me what is it that you are hiding from me?” suggested Lord Stark to his wife as he washed down the slice of tart with a cup of ale. The tone of his voice was harsher than he intended but once the words lingered between himself and Lady Y/N there was no taking them back and his wife’s silence only frustrated him more.

Lady Y/N stared into her husband’s eyes as if she were searching for something, something she hoped to recognize from many moons ago. She squeezed the fingers of one of her hands inside the other until it hurt. Lady Y/N licked her dry lips as she realized she would no longer be able to keep her secret to herself. If it would not be she who tells Lord Stark, the maester surely will.

“Will you … Will you walk with me?” asked Lady Y/N as she avoided her husband’s gaze.

Cregan studied his wife as his brows rested in a formidable frown but agreed nevertheless. “I will.”

The Lord and Lady of Winterfell got up from the high table and walked the grounds of their castle, its walls filled with the sound of merriment of its warriors. They walked the path to the godswood, the crowns of the pine trees blocking the snow some. Lady Y/N slowed her pace once they were finally alone and away from even the smallfolk attending the castle.

“Do you …” began Lady Y/N, not sure where to start. “Do you remember what you said to me the night before you left Winterfell?” she asked, her voice small and shiver-like. Her breath came out in small, white clouds.

Lord Stark looked at his wife as they walked. His face was frowning in such a formidable way that made Lady Y/N’s stomach twist into painful knots. She remembered her father and his anger.

“You asked me to return safely and I said I would,” said Lord Stark, his voice clear and sombre. Lady Y/N nodded but he could see that that was not what she meant. They walked down the path of cobblestones towards the godswood. It was narrow enough for only one person to walk it at a time. Lady Y/N went first, Lord Stark following on her trail. Y/N could almost feel his warm breath on the back of her head from his closeness. Goose pimples rose on her arms and legs. She held up her skirts as she passed some stairs until they reached the godswood, the heart tree, and the black pond.

“I told you that I loved you,” tried the Lord of Winterfell as they stood beneath the great, haughty weirwood tree. Lord Stark’s voice turned quieter yet remained earnest.

Lady Y/N’s gaze rose to her husband’s grey eyes as her entire body froze. Her heart broke into a million small pieces like a figurine made of glass shattering on the floor. Her eyes watered with tears although she had been doing everything in her power to keep herself from crying. She turned her head away and bit her lip to keep her chin from quivering yet it was all in vain. Hot, salty tears escaped her eyes and stung her cheeks as she closed her eyes. She could not make the words pass her mouth.

Cregan watched his wife, his own heart aching at the sight of her tears. A thousand and one thought had passed his mind on their way to the godswood. If something had gone wrong with the ruling of Winterfell in his absence, if there had been a falling out with one of the Houses, Maester Bennard would be sure to write of it to him whilst he was away. Yet another, more pressing thought weighed heavy on Lord Stark’s mind, a thought that made him burn with anger, with fury and jealousy unlike he had ever known before. If his wife had been unfaithful … He would not allow himself to believe that thought. He did not know what he would do if it proved to be true. Yet when he saw Y/N’s tears when he mentioned the time he told her of his love for her, Cregan had almost believed it – believed there was another man. But as his wife turned away, her body shivering with tears and a sadness so great that it threatened to break her, Cregan knew it could not be the love of a man that made her weep.

Lady Y/N’s small, delicate hand rested on her stomach as she looked down, her cheeks stung with tears.

“You might be great with child by then,” the Lord of Winterfell remembered his words from the night they last lied together. Cregan’s heart dropped to his stomach and he could not swallow the heaviness that formed in his throat. Furious with himself for his foolish thoughts and his harsh behaviour, Lord Stark’s mind overpowered with concern for his wife. He understood now too why the maester was involved.

Although Cregan was saddened about the babe, the feeling could not be compared to the sight of Y/N, his wife, in such a state of sorrow.

Lady Y/N’s chest allowed a small sob to escape, her hand closing over her mouth.

“Y/N …” spoke Lord Stark, his voice deep and hoarse as he reached for his wife. Y/N took a step back instinctively, her shoulders tensing around her neck as if she believed he might strike her.

“I am so sorry,” whispered Y/N as she shook her head, tears stinging her cheeks.

“If you will ever … ever be able to f-forgive me,” Lady Y/N’s voice broke as she made to kneel.

“Y/N,” Lord Stark spoke again, this time even more gently as he took her shoulders. The frown on his face was no longer one of anger and frustration but one softened with sadness and worry. Y/N’s eyes were red, her lashes clumped with tears.

Cregan pulled her into his arms. Lady Y/N resisted at first but Cregan held her tightly. At last Y/N’s chest broke into a painful cry, one with sobbing so sorrowful it made even the Gods cry. The face of the heart tree was lined with red streaks as the Lord of Winterfell held his wife.

“I am so sorry … I am so sorry,” spoke Lady Y/N over and over again against her husband’s chest. Her fingers were buried in his coat as Lord Stark held her head close.

“It is not your fault, Y/N,” assured Lord Stark with all of the authority in him but it made no difference to Lady Y/N. “You are not to blame.”

“I was so afraid, Cregan,” cried Y/N. “I was so afraid you would not come back … And it … It made it go away …”

“That is not true, my love,” Lord Stark spoke more gently against Y/N’s hair. “It is not your fault.” Cregan kissed the top of his wife’s head and rested his chin there as he held her trembling frame close to his.

“Maester Bennard said there was nothing he could have done,” whispered Lady Y/N tearfully as her crying soothed down some. “There … T-There was just s-so much blood.” Lady Y/N's chin quivered as she remembered that night. “I was so scared …” she whispered so quietly she thought her husband would not be able to hear but he did.

“It is not your fault, my lady ... I am here now, my love,” spoke Lord Stark quietly against his wife’s hair as he caressed her head.

“I thought … I thought you would be so angry with me,” spoke Y/N in the same voice.

“Why would you think so?” frowned Lord Stark, his body tensing.

“I only thought … I thought you wished for it …”

“I did,” spoke Lord Stark gently and cupped his wife’s cheeks and made her look him in the eye. “But not as much as I wish for your happiness and health,” he said earnestly. Y/N closed her eyes. She could not look into her husband’s eyes no matter how much he wanted her to.

“We will have dozens of children if that is what you wish,” said Cregan but he could not stop his wife’s tears.

“Two dozen,” tried Cregan again. Lady Y/N laughed a small laugh through her tears and nodded. Cregan wiped away the tears from her cheeks with his thumbs before he kissed her forehead. Their lips met as snow began to fall. Lord Stark leaned his forehead against his wife’s, his eyes closed whilst he took in the scent of her hair. He longed for her; not only for her body but for her company.

“Come, my love,” spoke Lord Stark quietly, his hand caressing his wife’s cheek before they returned to the castle.

***

Neither the Lord or the Lady of Winterfell got up at the break of dawn that morning. Cregan laid on his side with his wife’s arm hung over his waist as she pressed against his warm back. Even in her sleep, Lady Y/N could not make herself part from the safety of her husband’s touch now that he had returned. As Lord Stark began to wake in the late hours of the morning, he took his wife’s hand absently and pulled it to his chest where it rested in his. Cregan could hear her sigh, her nose nuzzling against his broad back and making him smile. He turned around carefully.

“No …” murmured Lady Y/N as her source of warmth shifted, her eyes still shut tight.

Lord Stark smiled to himself and guided his wife’s small hand over his side once again. He pulled her closer and watched her catch the last minutes of sleep before the morning would turn into day. He studied the colour of her beautiful hair and the line of her jaw and her nose, the shape of her shoulder, which disappeared from his sight beneath the covers. Lord Stark guided his hand from his wife’s ribs down to the curve of her waist, which made his body warm with desire. The feeling did not linger long, however, as Lord Stark’s mind drifted to his time away on the march and the loss not only he but especially his wife suffered. Cregan reminded himself to speak to Maester Bennard about Lady Stark’s health and what happened. He caressed his wife’s head and shifted his body lower so that he could kiss her forehead. Cregan left soft kisses on Lady Y/N’s cheek until she smiled through her sleep and slowly opened her eyes.

“What time is it?” mumbled Y/N just before Cregan softly kissed her.

“Late,” said Lord Stark yet did not seem to care. He had just returned from a march – he was entitled to a good night’s sleep for once.

“I can get dressed,” said Lady Y/N but snuggled closer to her husband’s body. The Lord of Winterfell smiled yet could not hide the worry that settled in him. His body was tense and his hands secured its grip protectively around his wife’s body.

Lady Y/N rose her head and looked at her husband. “Is something the matter?” she asked softly. After they returned to the castle last night, they only went to sleep. They had not been together since Cregan returned although in truth it has only been a day’s turn.

“I’m sorry I was not here for you when it happened,” said Cregan, caressing his wife’s cheek. All of the sudden Y/N was wide awake. She hoped they had closed this matter last night in the godswood.

“Why … Why are you sorry if I … If I was the one …” Y/N tried to find the right words without triggering any tears but that was harder than she thought.

“You had to go through such a terrible thing alone,” said Lord Stark solemnly. “If I were here—” But Y/N could not hear it, she would not hear it, and so she placed her palm over her husband’s mouth.

“Please,” pleaded Lady Y/N. “Don’t make me talk about it any further … I just want to forget.” 

Cregan nodded and took his wife’s hand and kissed it. “Forgive me.” But Y/N only shook her head. She leaned in and softly kissed her husband. His large hand cupped her cheek instinctively as he brought her closer.

“You cannot imagine how I longed for you all this time, my lady,” said Cregan against Lady Y/N’s lips in a deep, husky voice of the morning. He shifted and leaned against his arm so that his wife laid beneath him. She wrapped her soft legs around his waist. Y/N realized how she too longed for him and his touch and how it was even possible they had not been together yesterday already. She pulled Cregan closer, her hands wrapped around his neck as she tugged gently on his hair. A soft moan escaped Y/N’s mouth when Cregan’s hardness brushed against the inside of her thighs. She gathered the hem of his shirt, yearning to see his body. Cregan pulled off his loose tunic, revealing his strong, built chest but also his injury that sobered Y/N some.

“Are you in pain?” asked Lady Y/N quickly. “Should we—”

“I am only in pain from not having you,” Cregan cut her off and pulled off his nightbreeches before entering his wife. The pleasure he felt was so great that when Lord Stark steadied himself against the headboard, the wood cracked beneath the grip of his fingers. Cregan could not be bothered as he savoured the delight of his wife’s body. He tried to go slow and gentle but his desire was too strong. Instead, he slid an arm behind Y/N’s waist and turned them around without leaving her. Cregan laid on his back and let his wife take control or he would lose it.

Y/N pulled her hair to one side of her neck as she leaned down to Cregan’s lips and kissed him passionately. She almost leaned her arms against his chest before she saw the bandage that she had forgotten about in her pleasure. Y/N steadied herself against the bed instead whilst Cregan’s hands wrapped around her hips as she moved steadily against his waist. Her heart beat hard against her chest when she began nearing her climax. She both wanted to stop and have Cregan take over but at the same time Y/N would do anything for the feeling never to end.

“Fuck,” muttered Cregan when he saw how close Y/N was. He sat up, drunk on desire, and helped her by moving his hips as well. His hands reached for her soft breasts that he squeezed and kissed, his fingers brushing against her nipples that made Y/N whine in pleasure.

Y/N was almost there. Her thighs quivered and her nails dug into Cregan’s back. She leaned against his body when a series of quiet whimpers escaped her mouth and her entire body trembled with pleasure. Her shivering breath disappeared in her husband’s loud groan with his arms locked around her waist tightly. They were breathing heavily in each other’s arms, incredulous how they could bear so long without each other. Cregan was still inside of her as they already laid back on the bed, him unable to stop kissing Y/N. His strong arms were wrapped around her bare shoulders, holding her to him as if he feared she might disappear if he let go.

“Gods, I love you,” murmured Cregan against his wife’s lips. Y/N pulled away some, looking up in to her husband’s grey eyes, the warmest she had ever seen them.

“And I you,” spoke Y/N softly.

***

After breaking their fast, the Lord and Lady of Winterfell attended the council together. Lady Y/N wore a grey dress with embroidery of string-of-silver in the pattern of tree branches with small red leaves representing the heart tree. She wore her pearls and the ruby necklace of her wedding day.

Lady Stark sat beside her husband at the long table whilst the councillors discussed the matters of the past few moons. Lady Y/N spoke herself at times, adding and taking from some of the words of the lords. Some would make things seem better or worse than they were to please the Lord of Winterfell and look good in his eyes. Y/N did not say anything then but after the council, in the private audience only between herself, Cregan, and Maester Bennard, the three could discuss plainly what was said and where the real truths lied.

“Thank you, Maester Bennard,” said Lord Stark as they came to the end of both daily matters as well as things concerning his recent absence. “I will see you in the evening should there be more ravens and matters to attend to.”

“Of course, my lord,” said Maester Bennard. His small eyes glanced between the Lady of Winterfell and Lord Stark. “Would you allow me a private audience, my lord?” asked the maester carefully. He looked down in respect and Lady Y/N did not think twice of it. She told Cregan everything and if the maester wanted to check on that, she would let him. If it was about another matter, Y/N could not be happier to be relieved of her duties for once.

Lady Y/N looked at her husband but Cregan was already waiting to hear her wishes. Y/N smiled reassuringly and curtsied.

“I will take Blackspur for a ride. It has been too long,” said Lady Y/N and left the maester and her husband to speak privately.

Lord Stark leaned in his chair and watched his loyal advisor take a seat before him. He had been meaning to speak to Maester Bennard himself ever since he learned of what had happened in his absence.

“My lord,” began Maester Bennard hesitantly, which was rather untypical of the maester. He usually spoke with conviction and certainty.

“If you mean to speak of my wife’s passing condition in my absence, I would have you know she had already spoken to me about it, maester,” said Lord Stark neither kindly nor upset. The maester seemed relieved at the news and nodded.

“It gladdens me, my lord,” said Maester Bennard. “Lady Stark commanded she should be the one to tell you.”

“I see,” said the Lord of Winterfell. “And if she had not spoken to me prior to this audience?”

Maester Bennard paused as he sensed tension in his lord’s voice. “I was of a mind that a raven should be sent to you when my lady fell ill,” said the maester. “These things rarely happen without complications. If nothing else, the loss of blood can be significant.”

The maester’s words made Cregan sick to his stomach. He had seen men’s limbs torn from their bodies, their heads hacked in half and cut off; he himself cut off many a man’s head be it as punishment or in battle, but the thought of his wife in a puddle of blood made Lord Stark’s stomach twist.

“But my lady recovered well,” said Maester Bennard encouragingly. “I believe she found solace in work although she is spending less and less time with her ladies-in-waiting, even with Lady Mormont, who was a comfort to Lady Stark in her darkest hours.”

The Lord of Winterfell listened.

“Whilst losing a babe, especially if it is the first, is nothing unusual and the body oft heals relatively quickly,” said the maester, “The healing of the heart, especially a woman’s heart, is a different matter.”

Cregan nodded to himself. “Thank you, maester,” said the Lord of Winterfell, understanding now.

“My lord,” bowed Maester Bennard and left Cregan be. Lord Stark looked through the window on his right. The sun glistening in last night’s snow blinded his eyes. He wished he knew what to do.

***

Buried in his work, the Lord of Winterfell lost the sense of time. One of his personal servants came to call him to a late nuncheon, making Lord Stark realize how long he had been chained to the desk.

"I will join the Lady Stark in a moment," said Cregan and pressed his seal into hot, grey wax.

"My lady has yet not returned from her ride, my lord," said the servant cautiously.

"What do you mean she has not returned yet?" said the Lord of Winterfell, his stern, grey eyes rising to the servant's. The young man looked down.

Lord Stark rose from his desk and stormed to the master-of-stables who informed him that Lady Stark had left only with Ser Martyn as her escort.

“How could this happen?” Lord Stark rose his voice mindlessly at his servants. They all bowed their heads and looked at the ground, even Ser Tybald. “She is the Lady of Winterfell! She should have an escort of at least a dozen knights!” thundered Cregan with anger boiling within him. His fists were squeezed tight as he stormed outside and called for his men to gather. The hour grew darker by the moment with a snow blizzard on the horizon. A party of two dozen men was gathered, most of them horsed save for the master-of-kennels, Ser Jon, and his apprentices that held the hounds on their chains.

The cruel northern winds whistled mercilessly as Lord Stark mounted his courser Nightkeeper. The snowflakes were dancing in the air, not a single one reaching the ground in the wild wind seeming more like ash than snow.

The party did not even make outside of winter town before they ran into the Lady of Winterfell and her sworn shield, Ser Martyn. He looked as pale as the weirwood tree in the face of his lord’s anger yet his sword was bloodied and his armor soiled red.

The Lord of Winterfell dismounted immediately as did Lady Y/N and Ser Martyn. Cregan stormed to his lady wife, grasping her shoulders before he pulled her into an ardent kiss of relief never minding his men watching. Lady Y/N was knocked out of wind and would have stumbled backwards if Lord Stark had not held her arms so securely.

“Where were you?” demanded Lord Stark from his lady wife. He still held her tightly by the shoulders, his brows in a terrible frown. Lady Y/N’s cheeks were flushed red where the cold wind lashed at them but not only that. The redness masked the small cuts that neither bled nor remained insignificant. Her neck, where visible, was more of the same and her head of long hair loose from its braid and windblown.

“And you!” snapped Cregan before Lady Y/N could manage a word and grabbed Ser Martyn’s breast plate. “How could you leave without an escort?” Lord Stark roared at one of his best men, but in that moment, Cregan could just as well kill him with his bare hands for endangering his wife. Lord Stark could not tell what angered him more: the thought of his wife alone with another man or that man, her sword shield, allowing Cregan’s wife to leave the grounds of Winterfell without a proper escort to protect her.

“Please, everything is alright now,” urged Lady Y/N as she came up to her husband, “A host of bandits attacked us ... ” She touched Lord Stark’s arm but he winced livid with fury, his cold, grey glare snapping to his wife.

“I should think,” snapped Lord Stark. Lady Y/N took a step back and lowered her gaze. Cregan was breathing heavily, still holding onto Ser Martyn’s breast plate although his eyes were on his wife. Lord Stark’s breathing began to calm although not so much his anger born from concern.

“I will hear of your pretensions later, knight,” the Lord of Winterfell growled at Ser Martyn as he let go of his breast plate with a yank.

A shivery breath of relief escaped Lady Y/N’s chest as she stared at her lord husband. He turned as did she, intending to mount Blackspur.

“No,” commanded Lord Stark, his insides still boiling with anger. Lady Y/N’s big eyes found her husband’s furious glare as he took her hand and led her to his courser. The dark brown stallion paced restlessly as he sensed his master’s rage. Cregan grabbed a hold of his wife’s waist and lifted her effortlessly on his courser. Y/N gasped soundlessly but dared not say a word. She had never seen her husband so furious or his anger so slow to cool. She wanted to tell Cregan what had happened and how Ser Martyn was not to blame but the wind whistled so loudly she could barely hear her own thoughts. They had to get back to the castle and quickly.

Heavy snow began to fall as the Lord of Winterfell climbed up into his saddle, one of his arms tightly wrapping around his wife’s waist. Lady Y/N held onto his strong, tense arm as Cregan spurred his mount around and they rode back to the castle. One of the men took Blackspur’s reins and led her to the castle with them. Y/N could almost sense the white-hot anger radiating off her husband’s body as he held her to him. Lord Stark’s anger only cooled some when he began to realize his wife was unharmed for the most part but was fuelled yet again as he knew none of it would have happened if a larger party escorted her. A tempest of thoughts ran through Cregan's mind. He doubted they could have got lost and were ambushed. Ser Martyn may not have been born in Winterfell but he had been a squire for his father since he was a boy of seven. He knew Winterfell as well as any.

Cregan’s heart pumped furiously as a seed of jealousy began to grow in him once again. Just the thought of Y/N alone with another man, any man. The foolish idea in Lord Stark's mind was soon overpowered by a thought that could prove to become all to real if Ser Martyn had not brought Y/N back safely. A pack of bandits, if they had prevailed over Lady Y/N's sworn shield ...

Cregan’s grip on Lady Y/N’s grip tightened even more just as they passed the castle gates. Lady Y/N squeezed Cregan's forearm, trying to tell him wordlessly that the grip was too tight but Lord Stark was too deep in his thoughts. The more Y/N tried to peel his arm off her waist, the stronger Cregan’s grip became.

“You’re hurting me,” said Lady Y/N at last. Her words sobered Lord Stark immediately and woke him from his poisonous thoughts. His hold softened immediately and he released a long held breath.

They reached the castle where one of the stableboys took the reins of Lord Stark's horse. The Lord of Winterfell dismounted and took his wife’s waist carefully. As her feet reached the floor, Cregan towered over her easily. He was suddenly acutely aware of his strength and how his thoughts carried him away.

“Forgive me,” asked Lord Stark of his wife, “It was never my intention to harm you.” Lady Y/N looked up into her husband’s eyes, taken back by the change in his voice. Cregan was far from calm, she could tell, but calmer still than he was only moments ago.

“Only if you can forgive me, my lord,” said Lady Y/N and bowed. Her hands began to tremble as she remembered the group of bandits. Neither herself nor Ser Martyn were sure they would be able to escape and it was her fault for persuading the knight they do not need more men with them. But she was no longer the young Lady Whytefort who no one knew of. She was the Lady of Winterfell, wife to the Warden of the North, and therefore much more valuable to bandits and delinquents.

“There were six of them,” told Lady Y/N once in her husband’s solar. “One of them was slain by Ser Martyn and another lost his arm at the wrist but the rest of them remained unscathed. Some of them had swords and short axes, and two of them were ahorse – one of those died at the hands of Ser Martyn when they chased us through the Wolfswood,” said Lady Y/N quickly, her words flying out of her mouth as if they were in a race to be heard by Lord Stark and Maester Bennard.

“Is there anything else you remember, my lady?” asked Maester Bennard as he wrote down the details for there would be a search party and an award for anyone who would provide information of the delinquents.

Lord Stark stared at his wife, wondering what it would be like if her and Ser Martyn had not returned, if he could not find her in time. Cregan had only just returned home only to neigh lose his wife, the woman he dreamed of every night on his march north.

The snow blizzard raged outside but that was the least of Lord Stark's concerns. If Lady Y/N could not have managed to escape the bandits … The wax stick in Cregan’s hand snapped like a twig. He had been rolling it around his fingers to keep his focus and pace his temper.

Lady Y/N’s eyes moved from Cregan’s eyes to his hands and finally to the maester. She shook her head.

“Thank you, my lady,” said Maester Bennard curtly and put the quill away. Lady Y/N nodded and finally felt at ease enough to remove her cloak. She hissed when the heavy fabric drew across a deep gash on her shoulder that she had forgotten about in the midst of it all.

Cregan jumped up hastily at the sight of the wound. The sleeve of Lady Y/N’s riding gown was drenched in blood.

“I think I caught a branch when we were running away,” said Lady Y/N, her fingertips red with blood as she inspected her wound.

“Why didn’t you speak before?” asked Lord Stark, rushing to his wife’s side. Lady Y/N looked up into her husband’s eyes, his formidable frame looming over her. He looked the wound before he tore off a strip of his tunic and wrapped it around her upper arm to stop the bleeding, whilst the maester went to fetch his things.

“I forgot,” said Lady Y/N quietly yet in all honesty. Cregan frowned at her, hardly believing what she was saying. Only then could Cregan see the tremble in her hands and the fear in her eyes. The small cuts on her face became more prominent once the blush from the wind drained from her cheeks. Lady Y/N should have taken a larger escort but the bandits had no business lurking the grounds of Winterfell in the first place, much less attacking its high lady. If Cregan feared for his wife's safety, how frightened must she have been in the face of it all.

Cregan caressed his wife’s cheek gently and pulled her closer, careful not to brush against her shoulder. He kissed the top of Y/N’s head as he felt her small hands reach around his waist.

“Please forgive me,” said Y/N quietly. Tears soaked her voice as she leaned against Cregan’s steady frame. "I was a fool not to heed Ser Martyn's advice. I never thought ..."

“Forgiven,” murmured the Lord of Winterfell against her hair. A different kind of anger rose inside of Cregan as he caressed his wife’s hair.

“I will have their heads and hang their from the walls of Winterfell, my lady. You have my word.”

***

It took a week for the snow blizzard to settle and near another three for any traces of the bandits to be found. Ser Martyn led one of the search parties, knowing full well what the men looked like. Just so, it was his group of knights who found them. Ser Martyn delivered the news as the Lord and Lady of Winterfell had their nuncheon in private. They had trout prepared in a skin of herbs with baked potatoes and a flagon of dark ale.

Lady Y/N’s heart paused in her chest when she heard the news.

“How did you find them?” asked Lady Stark. It has been so long everyone began to lose hope of ever catching the group of delinquents.

Ser Martyn hesitated a moment, showing a clear discomfort. “We found them despoiling a peasant girl,” he told.

Lady Stark’s lips parted but she could not find the words she wanted to say. Her stomach twisted and turned into knots and Y/N had to do everything in her power to keep her meal down. Blood began to boil in her veins. Out of nowhere, Lady Y/N could see the men’s faces in her mind as if it were yesterday that she encountered them in the Wolfswood. The man slain by Ser Martyn, the one who lost his hand, the short one with missing teeth, the two lanky men who seemed to be kin and the one who remained on horseback. Y/N did not know why but she wanted to see how the life would leave the bandits’ eyes. She wanted to be there when Cregan would pass the judgement and condemn them to whatever punishment he saw fit.

“I will see them,” said Lord Stark severely and got up from the table. Lady Y/N's eyes followed him.

“There are only four of them left, my lord,” informed Ser Martyn. “We interrogated the men separately and all claim the fifth was taken by the snowstorm.”

“After I am through with them, they will believe the frozen fool fortunate,” said the Lord of Winterfell.

***

The bandits were brought to Winterfell in chains, unharmed at the command of the Warden of the North. When the day of their execution came, most of Winterfell and the winter town gathered in the main square to witness the deaths of the men who had been pestering their lands. The Lady of Winterfell was not the first person they attacked and the peasant girl would not have been the last if not for Ser Martyn and his knights.

As the four men were led to the scaffold, not one of them walked without a limp. Their faces were broken and bruised but Lady Y/N could recognize them still even with the blood drying on their wounds. As per law, their heads were to be cut off for their crimes, but the Lord of Winterfell ordered their carcasses be hanged above the main gates of the castle as a warning to others.

The morning already broke but the snow was falling heavily in the silver-blue light of day. Lady Stark was standing with Lady Ellyn on the dais beneath a canopy that shielded them from the worst of the late autumn snow. Lady Y/N had trouble sleeping and had been feeling uneasy all morning. She could not find comfort not even in her husband’s embrace. Y/N could not stop thinking about the peasant girl nor of the day herself and Ser Martyn were ambushed. She could have ended up as the peasant girl or worse. The whole of it made her sick to her stomach. Lady Y/N wanted to be there for the execution, she wanted to see, and yet she wished for all of it to be over as quickly as possible.

The Lord of Winterfell marched on the scaffold where the prisoners waited in line. Thick snowflakes nestled in his heavy fur cloak and his long, dark hair. Ice hung solemnly on Lord Cregan’s back as the charges were told to the prisoners and the crowd that gathered.

“The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword,” Cregan told Lady Y/N when she asked last night who will bring doom to the bandits in the morn. The words rang almost as profoundly of House Stark as those of “Winter is coming”. Y/N had long thought it an old-wife's tale yet the longer she stayed at Winterfell, the more she began to believe there really never was a Stark without honour.

An eerie silence filled the square when the Lord of Winterfell unsheathed his great longsword. Cregan took off the prisoners’ heads one by one yet before he could reach the third, Lady Y/N’s head grew light as a summer cloud and a sickness settled in her stomach. She could not watch any longer but it was too late. Y/N tried to grasp Lady Ellyn’s hand to steady herself but her grip was no grip at all, merely a touch before she came crashing to the ground and darkness swallowed her vision.

Lady Y/N could feel the pillows beneath her as she began to wake but even the slightest movement of her head sent her head spinning. Y/N groaned and steadied herself against the mattress, slowly opening her eyes. She recognized the ceiling of her private chambers. There were voices speaking but there was ringing in her ears and she could not understand them. Suddenly, a heavy nausea came over her and she threw up, a basin already by her side. Someone took her hair and held it back as sweat coated Lady Y/N’s neck and forehead. The ringing in her ears gradually stopped as did her vomiting. She was offered a cup of water by someone. Lady Y/N rose her gaze and saw her lady-in-waiting.

“It’s alright,” whispered Lady Ellyn with a small smile.

“What happened?” asked Lady Y/N as she looked around her chambers. Cregan was standing by her side, his eyes bright and restless and his brows in a concerned frown. If this were a battle, he would have been swinging his sword and shouting orders. But this was no battle although his body was just as tense.

Lady Y/N noticed Maester Bennard was there as well as were her other three ladies-in-waiting. The ladies wore cheerful smiles and exchanged silent whispers.

Maester Bennard offered a small smile. “I am pleased to say that your ladyship is with child again.”

[faesdreaming]

𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐲, 𝐥𝐞𝐭’𝐬 𝐜𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 - 𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐕𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐱 𝐊𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

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content warnings: yandere themes/behaviours, possessiveness, forced companionship, threatened self harm (not reader), reader can be read as afab or amab

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆:

His royal highness, your sworn liege. You swore an oath, forever binding yourself and your service to him. Knights, of course, he has a plenty. But you? You’re different. Special. He sits above all upon his throne. The burden of his crown is a heavy toll. And unlike the other knights he has in his command, you don’t simply act to obey.

You’re his most trusted advisor alongside being his most loyal soldier. You act to soothe his woes and offer insight. You traverse not just his kingdom but many others on your journey, enabling you to provide a different and rather refreshing perspective. Knights are made to uphold values of honour, loyalty, and nobility but the King has never met one quite as earnest as you.

He remembers the day you were knighted. How you knelt before him and pleaded your eternal loyalty. It’s a fond memory, one he replays whenever your admirers fawn over you or when you go on quests. It acts as a balm to soothe the possessive jealousy that rears its head. And how he loathes your seemingly never ending desire to go on quests. Certainly, before you endeared yourself to him, he hadn’t cared. Attain glory, uphold your honour. It is what knights are meant to do.

Alas, now, he cannot help but detest when you leave. His attempts at making you stay only delay it slightly longer. His orders for your aid, for your company all interrupted by the endless demands for your talents. It drives him mad. You’ve won more than enough glory. You’ve proven your honour and how noble you are countless times.

Stay with him, he’ll grant you every knight’s dream. A castle, large and built with grandeur. And what better castle than his palace? He’ll construct an entire wing, or perhaps an entirely new palace for you. He’ll shower you in all the gold and jewels you could ever want and more. He’ll throw the grandest of feasts and balls in celebration. Whatever your heart desires.

Or perhaps he’ll lock you away in a tower as all mad kings tend to do. Keep his knight all to himself, dressed in the finest silks and draped in exuberant jewelry. Oh, but you’d hate him wouldn’t you? Eyes once filled with shining loyalty showing nothing but contempt and bringing him despair. He couldn’t take it. Yet, he’s slowly and surely waning. Look at what you’ve done to him. Your mighty king beholden to your wishes.

He’s desperate, hungry, yearning for you. His knight, his soldier, his advisor, his confidant. His. Heed his commands, won’t you? For even the kindest rulers committed the worst atrocities when driven mad, and you’ve certainly ignited his descent.

“𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐲 𝐛𝐲 𝐦𝐲 𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫, 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭’𝐬 𝐚𝐧 𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠.”

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐒𝐒:

The loveliest damsel across the lands, her highness, the princess. Locked away in a tower by an evil wizard, waiting to be saved by you. Her gallant knight. Do you know how long she’s awaited your arrival? It’s to be expected, of course. Princesses being kidnapped by evil wizards, dragons and other malevolent entities are a common occurrence. As is a knight saving them. It’s destiny.

Certainly other knights have tried before. But all perished at the hands of the wizard who abducted her when she was but a girl and locked her away. She was beginning to think it was hopeless until you came along. Silly her, she knows how it goes. Damsels are saved by honourable knights, then, they live happily ever after. Her entire life she has waited to be saved by you. And now that you have, you’ll wed her of course!

Except you don’t. You refuse to, politely declining her advances. She doesn’t understand. Do you not know how these stories are meant to end? She’s supposed to be your reward, your prize for your heroic deeds. But then, you tell her she’s not a reward, eyes shining earnestly. And oh, even that doesn’t make her fall harder.

No one has ever afforded her autonomy before, she’s always been an object, a prize. It’s like a switch is turned. Suddenly, it’s not a duty, but a desire. She needs you to be by her side. You’re the only person who sees her for who she is.

The princess grows obsessive. She wants to be with you and will do anything to achieve it. Thus, she schemes. She fakes kidnappings and attempted assassinations, all conveniently timed and placed so you’ll be the one to save her. Yes, it may be a tad suspicious but you wouldn’t question her. She’s a hapless damsel and you’re a noble knight, after all.

Of course, she’s not the only damsel you’ve ever saved. She isn’t the first either. But the princess is determined to be the last. Whatever true dangers that require your skills will be shoved to the side when she grows more dramatic with her plots to gain your attention. You must see she’s in need of you. Always in danger. She needs you by her side to protect her.

And if you still refuse to be with her? The princess will have no other option than to take the most drastic measures. You’ll find her up at the edge of the top of the castle’s towers. Dagger poised above her chest, plump eyelashes wet with tears, and a wobbly bottom lip. But in her eyes, all you can see is the madness only lovesick lass could have. She can’t live without you. Thus, you must choose: to be with her or to have the crushing guilt of her death haunt for eternity. Either way, you will hers. Whether through life or death.

“𝐲𝐨𝐮’𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐬𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐦𝐞, 𝐦𝐲 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐨.”

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐆𝐎𝐍 𝐋𝐎𝐑𝐃:

The fiercest creature known to man, the dragon lord is your natural enemy. He is able to shift from dragon to man in a matter of seconds. Not that it matters, of course. For all knights will fall to his prowess. Then, you come along. At first, the dragon lord dismisses you as yet another fool attempting to slay him. He sighs, bored. Stupid mortals and their useless prides. Did they not understand they would never be able to win? He is the best of both worlds, the mightiest of dragons and men.

Yet, you don’t. You don’t try to slay him. You don’t try to steal his treasures. You reason with him. Your sword is a powerful tool, but you’re a reputed charmer for a reasons. Your words are crafted from a silver tongue. There isn’t a hint of the usual arrogance that men of your station usually hold. This intrigues him. Genuineness is something he hasn’t encountered for centuries. Especially not from a mortal. So, he entertains you. He leaves the village he’s terrorizing, not because he’s swayed by your words, more so you amused him. Yes, that’s it. He returns to his cove of golden treasures, not anticipating to waste a single moment thinking back on you.

Unfortunately for the dragon lord, you plague his mind. He’s an old creature, far older than even your kingdom. And he’s been so very bored for so very long. It leads to him shifting into his human form to gain more information. Only to sate his curiosity, though. Certainly not for any other reason.

His interest is once again peaked when he hears tales of your immense talent. You were holding back against him, weren’t you? Oh, how vexing you are. A simple knight, daring to try and swindle the dragon lord. And how vexing it is for him to have fallen for your coy act. It should irritate him far more than it does. But he’s lacked true companionship for so long. Dragons are a dying species and mortals are unworthy. Well, except for you.

Yes, you’d make a suitable companion. The dragon lord decides that you are his new companion and sets off to find you. Shifting back into his dragon form, he scours the land for you. Upon recognizing your scent, the dragon lord swoops down and nabs your unsuspecting form. You try and protests but he’s far too strong and large for you to fight off. He flies you back to his trove of treasures. The dragon lord sets you amongst his precious possessions, at the center, of course. For you are the most precious of all.

You’re smart, aware you cannot escape him with strength. So you try with wit. You bide time, keep him entertained and try to slip out. It’s a process you repeat multiple times, with the dragon lord catching you each time. He’s never cross with you, if anything, he’s amused. You truly are entertaining. The dragon lord will never take your attempts seriously. You’re a game to him. You may be his companion, but you’re more akin to a bird in a cage than an equal. You’re still his possession, after all. He’s a dragon lord, possessive instincts demanding he hoards you away from everything and keep you all to himself.

“𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞, 𝐦𝐲 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐞.”

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐂𝐇:

The mistress of the black arts, the witch doesn’t expect to fall for someone such as yourself. She doesn’t expect to fall for anyone at all. Witches are, by nature, deceitful. They are beautiful and cruel. They engage in the dark arts. However, they are not all pure evil. Some have a modicum of compassion in their hearts. And you seem to draw out hers. Perhaps it’s because she’s known you since childhood. Before you were a glorious knight and she an infamous witch, you two were just children with seemingly impossible dreams and the weight of the world on your shoulders. But time changes things, it’s made what should be enemies out of you by the nature of your positions. Yet she cannot bring herself to hate you.

Not when you are truly noble, as knights are supposed to be. She’s encountered many a proclaimed knight in her time. All eager to vanquish her. Yet they all fail. And they all contribute to her disdain towards the blinded citizens of kingdom and the selfish aristocracy. What are knights but dogs to the nobility and monsters to the innocents? She’s seen knights and paladins set villages ablaze, slaughter innocents in the name of either their king or their whims. All knights disgust her. All except you, of course.

You’re her dreamer. You’re her innocence. You’re still the same person who believed in fairytales and noble values because you uphold them. That’s why you’re so beloved. By everyone, but most of all, her. You’ve never turned on her. You understand her nature as not evil. You even go as far as to bring her potion ingredients. She’s your dearest companion. The witch relishes in the thrall she has over you. In the thrall you have over her. You two, bound by mutual past, shall be intertwined in the future.

The witch strives to protect you. She patches up every wound you receive, regardless of how small, with her potion brews. She enchants a charm to ensure your safety— and if it happens to allow her to watch over her at all times, then it’s only because she wishes to keep you safe. And perhaps she may curse her rivals for your affection, so what? A light hex never hurt anyone. She’s indefinitely more relaxed than your other options, though. Witches, while some join covens, prefer independence. She would never want to stifle you.

So, the witch does what she does best. She casts curses and creates enchantments to keep you out of harms way. You may embark on your quests, you may indulge in your whims, but she is certain you will always return to her. And if you don’t? Well, she is a master of the dark arts. She can easily summon you and tether you to her. But she won’t. Probably.

Overall, the witch is concerned about your safety. She may guard you from a distance, but she guards you viciously. You are the only connection to her past, you are the only one who understands her. She cannot bear to lose you to anyone or anything.

“𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐞, 𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐜.”

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐏𝐀𝐋𝐀𝐃𝐈𝐍:

A rival, a friend, an equal. This is what they are to you. The paladin, once a squire alongside you, now a sworn knight of the Holy Order. How your paths have differed. Yet, in some ways, you remain the same. Namely, the competition between you. The paladin is always one step behind, has been since your days as a squire. You best them at spars, at races both on horse and foot, in accolades as well. They’re a paladin, and yet, you receive more recognition than them. It drives them mad. You drive them mad.

For one, they should be above the petty jealousy you stir. They should be satisfied with their status. But they are not. They always compare themself to you. They want so desperately to share the light you unwittingly bask in. Alas, none of it is for them. They resent you, they loathe you. Even worse, they respect you. Beyond your skill, you’re the paradigm of a true knight. You’re noble and good-hearted in a cruel world. You’re pure in a way no one else is. It inspires nothing but admiration. The paladin has admired you since your shared youth, they even tried to convince you to take up the Holy Vows

They’ve yet to succeed, but they won’t stop trying. After all, you’re all they’ve been chasing after. You’re the peak they seek. They train relentlessly to improve. Not to become your equal, but to become your better. They want to surpass you, to prove themselves worthy. They want you to look at them the way they’ve looked at you. The paladin wants to be the center of your world.

They work tirelessly. And yet, you always seem to far away. Their obsession grows deeper, more dangerous. The more attention you gain, the more desperate they become. How can the paladin reach you if you’re so far away? It calls for more drastic measures. Perhaps sabotaging your reputation, or ruining your quests. Ensuring you have no one to turn to beside them. Maybe even a maiming is in order, something to incapacitate you and keep you in the paladin’s grasp.

Don’t worry. They’ll be worthy someday. Until then, the paladin will watch from afar, stewing with jealousy and yearning. Be careful though. One wrong move could have the paladin turning towards the more unsavoury means of attaining you. They’d be remiss to, of course, but they cannot let you slip from their hold.

“𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐲 𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬, 𝐦𝐲 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐨𝐨𝐧, 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬.”

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a/n: I’m back, from a very long hiatus. Special thanks to @forbidden-sunlight for motivating me to get back into writing :)

more yandere fae + new works coming soon

[revolutionary-thoy]

Re-verse Nathalie Sancoeur / Catalyst

In this universe instead of being hired by Gabriel, Nathalie was hired by the Supreme and worked as his personal assistant for years. She was never given a miraculous because she didn't really need one.

She met Gabriel during the brief time he was working for the Supreme as well. After Gabriel left, he tried to take her with him, but she refused due to her sworn loyalty to the Supreme. They crossed paths a few times after that. She kept her meetings with Gabriel a secret from the Supreme and even she wasn't sure why. Eventually the two would fall in love and she would be convinced to join the resistence.

Her joining the Resistence would be the final piece that leads to "Heroes' day". Gabriel would kamikotize her into Catalyst, who has the power to upgrade anyone's power, similar to the canon version of Catalyst but without the ugly red color scheme. Gabriel would gain the ability to kamikotize multiple people and would assemble the full resistence team, culminating in a massive battle between the Resistence and all of the Supreme's active miraculous holders from Paris. That would be the first time the general public is made aware of Superheroes, and would go down in history as Heroes' day.

Full Re-verse cast below:

[bluerosefox]

Over Tea

A sudden chill sweeps through Gotham, almost like Mr. Freeze had just attacked only thing was the man was currently locked away in Arkham, and was felt by all. And talked by all via word of mouth and on social media as well.

The clouds and smog that covered their dark city shifted and swirled, a rumble beginning deep inside them as the weather turned from smoggy to rain and thunder with no real warning. The strangest thing was the green glow that could be seen when thunder rumbled inside the gray clouds.

Then like a candle being blown out, the rumbling stopped, the rain ended, and the clouds parted all over Gotham.

For the first time in a while Gotham had a clear sky and it felt... it felt like something heavy had been lifted off the city.

It was this sudden shift and the all felt chill that had set off alerts for Batman and his family. Since early morning since the first change and shift happened he was in front of the Batcomputer trying to narrow down where it started.

After hours of searching with the help of Red Robin, Oracle and strangely enough Red Hood, they managed to narrow down where the odd power had been coming from.

Was still coming from, only very low.

The old and abandoned observatory tower.

-x-x-

"More ecto-tea Lady Gotham?" Danny asked, his hand waving towards the steaming pot nearby.

The woman smiled lightly, her dark painted lips curling up to show her sharp fangs for a moment before saying "No but thank you Young Kingling though I would like more cookies if you don't mind. Now where were we?"

Danny nodded towards her and signaled towards a maid skeleton ghost who walked forward with a tray of cookies. The maid swiftly placed a few more cookies on the spirit embodiment of Gotham plate before bowing and stepping away.

"We were just about to discuss the sentience of the Court of Owls." Danny said as he lightly tapped the large almost mountain of paperwork on the table they were sitting at, floating high above the floor as shooting stars and planets drifted around them. Many ghosts floated around as well, servants that had sworn their loyalty to the Young King, and were preparing things like snacks and drinks for two powerful beings in the room as they discussed business. Nearby doors and windows though were ghostly knights that stood tall and alert, making sure no interlopers interrupted the meeting taking place and ready to defend not only Lady Gotham but their King.

"Ah yes them." Lady Gotham grimaced as she took a drink of her ecto-tea. "That will take some time for us to discuss, they've been running around unchecked for to long and even with my limited abilities to hinder them has been less than ideal."

"You, Lady G, were deeply cursed for many, many years and I just broke most of it." Danny cut in quickly, he was not about to let this wonderful and powerful city spirit blame herself for something out of her hands "Due to said curse you couldn't do much so please don't go blaming yourself. Its mostly broken now, so you can freely start healing yourself and your city self now that jerk demon that cursed you is in Walker's prison for his crimes."

Lady Gotham grew silent for a moment, her dark eyes staring deeply at the young King but then warmly smiled, well as warm as she could seeing how she was Gotham itself. "You reminded me of my Knight, Young King, treating me like this. Not afraid to point out the truth and facts."

Danny gave a light laugh as he took a hold of one of the cookies on his plate and gave a bite "I'll take that as a compliment Lady Gotham. Now about those Court of Owls...."

[entitled-fangirl]

A change of sigil.

Robb Stark x Baratheon!reader

Summary: After wedding Robb Stark and becoming the Lady of Winterfell, the reader learns about the king's death and the treason of Ned.

Masterlist

..............................................................

The newly wedded Y/N Stark (once Baratheon) ran through the corridors of Winterfell. 

Her eyes fell upon the Stark's Maester. Her eyes lit up. "A letter from my father? Has he finally written me back?"

The older man's eyes softened with guilt, "I'm afraid not, my lady."

Her face fell but she quickly recovered it, "oh. M… May I still see it?"

"This," He held it back from her, "Is for Lord Stark to read."

Embarrassment flooded her cheeks and she nodded. "Right. How foolish of me."

His lips pulled into a smile and he held his arm out. The North did like the gentle girl, after all, "C'mon, my lady. Walk to me to him so we may discuss the reason for such a letter."

She smiled back and took his arm.

…

"Treason?" Robb's brows furrowed and his teeth grit, "Sansa wrote this?"

"It is your sister's hand, but the queen's words."

Y/N's eyes remained on the table, unsure of what to think. Her mother was a cunning woman, and it did not surprise her of such a thing.

"You are summoned to King's Landing to swear fealty to the new king."

"My father is dead?" She interrupted quietly.

The men's eyes flickered to her.

Robb's anger did not falter, "Joffrey puts my father in chains, now he wants his ass kissed?"

The Maester sighed, "This is a royal command, my lord." His eyes flickered between the lord and lady, "If you should refuse to obey-"

"-I won't refuse," Robb quickly butted in. "His grace summons me to King's Landing, I'll go to King's Landing. But not alone."

He rolled the letter up and handed it back to the maester. "Call the banners."

"All of them, my lord?"

"They've all sworn to defend my father, have they not?"

"They have."

"Now, we see what their words are worth."

"Very well." The maester left quickly.

Y/N's eyes remained on the table, not once wavering. Robb noticed it and rounded the table to sit by her. His head tilted to study her further. His hand reached up to gently grab her jaw, moving her head to face him.

Her eyes connected with his, and they were filled with tears, "My father is dead?"

His lips pull into a line as he looks to Theon and back, "I'm afraid so."

She took a shaky breath in to keep the tears from falling. "Murdered?"

Theon stood at her words, angered a bit inside. He quickly bowed his head and left the room in a huff.

Robb shook his head, "No. Animal attack while hunting is all Sansa wrote."

She was quiet a while before she spoke again, "He loved me."

Robb gritted his teeth. "He had a funny way of showing it."

"But he did love me. I am worth nothing now."

"Hey." His voice lowered at his words. His grip on her jaw tightened. "Do not say such things. You are worth everything to me. Winterfell is your home. Its people are your people. They are loyal."

"Loyal to you. To your name."

"No." He pushed. "They will be loyal to you. You are still a princess after all, aren't you?"

She nodded.

"And more importantly," he kissed her forehead gently, "You are my wife."

She nodded again before a thought came to her. "What is keeping those that rule from killing your father and sisters just the same?"

His eyebrows raised and he shook her head, "Nothing, I suppose. I must hope they fear the North enough or I drive my sword through your brother before they can touch the Starks." He tilted his head, "I need your loyalty. I know I have it. But the people need it."

"I am loyal to you, Robb. You are all I have."

He smiles and caresses her face before shaking his head, "I don't want loyalty for fear or power. Your loyalty should be of trust and honor. I ask again, are you loyal to me, my love?"

"Without my father, the Baratheon sigil means nothing to me. I belong to House Stark now."

His smile grows and he kisses her gently, "I will win this. For you. For my family. I promise you."

..............................................................

A/N: I feel a series coming onnnnn

[farity]

Always

"Not like this!"

You listened to your husband and his mother, frustration growing inside you as Alicent stalled and hesitated when faced with attacking Rhaenyra.

From your perch across the room, you could see the moment Aemond understood, the moment it sank in that his own mother would not act against her friend. Against the woman who had never answered for her transgressions. The woman who did as she pleased. The woman who wanted him "sharply questioned" as a child as he sat, bleeding after losing an eye.

Aemond stormed off, and you discreetly blended back into the shadows and took a different route to where you thought you would find him.

Your slippers made no sound as you went around the side of the keep, heading to the fields that led to where Vhagar rested.

"Your Highness."

You turned back to see Ser Criston Cole. You knew how loyal he was to Alicent and considering the rumor that he and Rhaenyra had once been close meant that you regarded him with some wariness.

"Ser Criston, I am in a hurry-"

"I know," he said, and leaned in closer. "I am at Prince Aemond's bidding." He looked troubled and almost apologetic as he continued. "I cannot support this waiting, this delay of action." He bowed to you and went back to the armory, and left you wondering if the tides were turning.

You ran the rest of the way, seeing your husband walking along, head down. He heard you approaching and turned. "This is not a good time, wife."

"I swore to be by your side in both triumph and turmoil, Aemond. 'Until the end of my days', remember?"

He whirled around, silver hair shimmering in the afternoon light. "I will not tolerate any more betrayal. Many have sworn their fealty," he spat out, and grabbed your arm, "and many have broken that trust."

You stared levelly at him. "Yet others may be breaking their oaths to come to your side. And I," you grabbed the front of his jacket, pulling him to you, "will not be doubted in my loyalty and devotion to you."

His blue eye bore into yours, and you did the only thing that came to mind - you rose on your tip toes and kissed him. He was still for a moment, and then you caught his lower lip between your teeth, squeezing gently before letting go.

"You do not want me right now, wife."

You smiled softly. Did he know? Did he realize that just the sound of his voice or the scent of his skin was enough to undo you? "I always want you, Aemond."

When he didn't move, you slowly began to sink to your knees before him, looking up to gauge his reaction. There was something else in his gaze now, not just the anger and resentment that had been there before, and you knew you'd chosen right. You reached up to run your hand down the front of his breeches and he quickly caught your wrist. "Be careful, little wife. I am not in the gentlest of moods."

In response, you ripped off the laces on your bodice, letting the top of your gown fall loosely around your bare shoulders. You raised an eyebrow at him, daring him to walk away.

When he lunged at you, you gasped, finding yourself on your back a moment later, his hands busily pulling the fabric until your breasts were bared and then his mouth was on one rosy peak and you moaned, arching into him, feeling the desperation in his hands, in the way he was kneeing your legs apart.

You whimpered when you felt him reach between your thighs, finding you already soaked for him. "All this for me?"

"You. Only you." You let his tongue invade your mouth, his need to taste and touch one you were more than ready to satisfy. Reaching down, you began to undo the lacing at his breeches, wanting more and more now that you were both so frenzied. His fingers continued to reach deep inside you, and you could feel the simmering heat of an orgasm not too far away. "Please, Aemond," you begged. "Please."

He pulled out his fingers, sucking on them while he reached down with his other hand and stroked himself once, twice, and then began to push inside you.

He snapped his hips, filling you to the hilt, and you gasped, breathing to let your body adjust. "I told you," he murmured, "I am not in the gentlest of moods."

In response, you wrapped your legs around him, reached up to pull him down to you. "I don't want gentle," you whispered against his mouth.

He began fucking you, and you knew it would be quick, brutal. There was no room for gentleness, not in the way his mouth clamped down on your jaw, not in the way your nails sank into his ass.

The swirling heat inside you flared into an almost painful orgasm that had you screaming while Aemond grabbed fistfuls of your hair, desperate to keep you in place as he continued pounding into you.

You were still contracting around him when you felt him harden even more inside you and then he buried his face in your hair, groaning as he came, his breathing loud in your ear as he reached his own release.

Neither of you moved for a long time, other than you stroking his hair while he nuzzled your cheek. Eventually, he rose on his elbow, placing a gentle kiss on your lips. "Did I hurt you?"

You smiled against his mouth. "Never."

He pressed his forehead against yours. "You are the greatest treasure in my life."

You reached up to caress his scarred cheek. "I think that honor belongs to Vhagar. I would not wish to incur her wrath."

"Vhagar is the biggest treasure in my life," Aemond replied, smirking, "you are the greatest."

You would tell him about what Ser Criston had said, later, but for now, you were happy to simply hold him in your arms, a rare moment of peace amidst the happenings in the realm.

[idkyetxoxo]

Davos Blackwood- Sworn To Her

Summary - Set out to command loyalty. She captures the attention of Davos Blackwood, whose admiration turns into a desperate yearning for her command. He is left begging her to dictate their fate, blurring the lines between duty and passion in a world on the brink of chaos.

Pairing - Davos Blackwood x Velaryon reader

Warnings - Sexual content (smut!)

Word count - 2671

Masterlist for Davos • House of the Dragon General Masterlist

As I descended from Silverwing's saddle, her silvered wings casting long shadows over the gathered men, I wasted no time. 

Steeling my shoulders and crossing my arms, I surveyed the assembly with a steady, unyielding gaze. 

"What would you do for your queen?" I asked, each word deliberate, carrying the weight of command. My voice was as resolute as the steel at my hip, and the men before me, some of the Riverlands' most notable lords, could only stare back, captivated and uncertain.

I had not anticipated taking on the task of rallying allies myself. 

This was not my mother's plan, nor mine. But circumstances had grown desperate, and when the tides of war demand action, sometimes it is best to seize the reins oneself. 

With Jace far off in the Vale, seeking support from its reluctant lords, I had been left to stand here alone, face to face with the lords of the Riverlands. 

We had both become sick of the sluggish, uncertain steps our allies were taking in this conflict. 

If loyalty to our mother had to be secured with words of fire and a glimpse of dragon wings, then so be it.

Despite Baela's cautions about appearing before these men alone, here I stood. I let my gaze fall slowly across each face, daring them to look away, to doubt the resolve that burned in my eyes.

The scent of wet earth and moss filled the air, the Riverlands heavy with the coolness of dusk. 

I felt the prickling bite of evening mist, seeping through my clothes and clinging to my skin, as though the land itself resisted my presence.

"I expect an answer," I said, my voice sharpened with an edge of impatience. 

Behind me, Silverwing shifted, her massive frame rippling, the low rumble from her throat a reminder of her presence and the deadly promise she held. Her groan cut through the silence like a blade, the sound echoing over the valley and making several men visibly shiver.

I wondered if my mother would approve of what I'd done here, of this choice to face these men alone. 

She'd taught me to lead with strength, but she'd also warned me that loyalty was not always won through power. 

Yet here I was, wielding Silverwing's shadow and my own authority like a blade, desperate to secure the allies we needed.

After a tense pause, a young man with curly brown hair stepped forward, his shoulders squared in reluctant acceptance. 

He was near my own age, yet I could see the weight of his house's loyalty bearing down on him. Oscar Tully, son of House Tully, the Rivermen's pride, looked up at me with a solemn expression.

"We swear fealty to the true queen, Rhaenyra Targaryen," he proclaimed, his voice clear and unwavering as he knelt, head bowed in respect. 

A ripple of movement followed his action as, one by one, each man lowered himself in allegiance, their fealty pledged not to mere words but to the queen herself.

My gaze swept over them, searching for any hint of insincerity, any flicker of hesitation. 

My eyes settled on a knight of House Blackwood, his lips curling into a smirk even as he knelt, meeting my gaze with a glint of something—admiration or challenge, perhaps—that caught me off guard.

The men here had sworn themselves to the queen—and they knew, as I did, that the true cost of their oaths would soon be paid in fire and blood.

Later that evening, as the sun dipped below the Riverlands and cast a warm amber glow across the hall, a feast was prepared in my honour. 

It was modest by the standards of a royal banquet, but the lords of the Riverlands had done their best, arranging tables heaped with venison, fresh-baked bread, and flagons of wine. 

Musicians played soft, lilting tunes, and candles flickered warmly in the sconces along the stone walls. 

I accepted each polite nod, each murmured "Princess," but my mind was elsewhere, fixed on the allies we would need and the battles to come.

Yet, amidst the formalities, a pair of dark eyes followed my every movement. Davos Blackwood. 

I'd noticed his gaze in the crowd before, but here in the soft candlelight, his attention was both bold and unapologetic. 

He was older than me by a few years, yet young enough to wear his loyalty openly. 

I caught him watching me as I moved between tables, his look tinged with something both admiring and dangerous—a lingering intensity that quickened my pulse.

As the feast wore on, the hall grew rowdy and loud, the laughter of men drunk on wine and the thrill of new alliance filling the air. 

I slipped quietly away, leaving the raucous sounds behind, and wandered through the corridors, searching for a moment of solitude. 

But I soon found I was not alone.

Davos stepped out of the shadows as if he had been waiting, his expression holding that same dark smirk I had noticed earlier. 

He met my gaze, his face half-illuminated by the light of a single torch flickering nearby. 

We stood in a small, dim room, the air thick with the tension that had simmered between us since that moment in the hall. 

He was quiet, his eyes fixed on mine, a slight tilt to his head that spoke of restrained intensity.

"You commanded them well, Princess," he said, his tone both respectful and tinged with that same smouldering intensity I'd felt earlier. "I don't believe I've ever seen men twice your age look so humbled—captivated, even." 

His eyes held mine, his admiration palpable. "It's no small feat to command a room of lords as you did."

I arched a brow, letting a slight smile play on my lips. "The men of the Riverlands needed a reminder of who they serve."

"They did," he agreed, his voice just above a whisper. "And it's clear to me now that you are every bit your mother's daughter."

A quiet heat simmered between us as his words sank in, and something unspoken passed in the space between us, making my heart quicken. 

"And will you serve as loyally as the others, Ser Davos?" I asked, testing the boundaries of this strange new familiarity.

He took a step closer, the flickering torchlight casting shadows across his face. 

"I cannot speak for the others, Princess," he began, his voice low and steady, "but know that I would gladly lay down my life for the queen." His eyes searched my face, lingering with a heat that made my breath catch. 

"And for her daughter."

My heart quickened at his words, but I kept my composure, arching an eyebrow. "Oh?" I replied, my tone light, even teasing. "And what, Ser Davos, would you do for the princess?"

The corner of his mouth lifted as he stepped closer, his gaze never wavering from mine. 

"Absolutely anything she desires," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, the words filled with an intensity that left no room for misunderstanding.

The space between us was small, the warmth of his presence close enough to feel, and yet I held my ground, unwilling to break the tension. The air felt electric, charged with an unspoken promise. 

I leaned in, my voice a soft murmur. "Anything, you say?"

His eyes darkened, the smirk fading into something sharper, fiercer. 

"Anything," he confirmed, his gaze holding mine as if daring me to command him.

For a heartbeat, the only sound was the crackling torch on the wall, and the distance between us felt like a thread, thin and taut. 

Here, in this quiet room away from the feasting and noise, with Davos looking at me as though he would march into fire if I asked it, I felt the heady power of my position, and something more—a stirring that felt as dangerous as it did exhilarating.

"I am pleased to hear that," I whispered, my voice barely more than a breath, but he caught every word. 

Davos inclined his head slightly, his eyes never leaving mine, a mark of respect mingled with an undeniable longing that set a spark between us.

"For there is much I would like," I continued, letting the words linger, each one wrapped in the promise of something unspoken. 

The insinuation was clear, and I watched a small grin lift the corners of his mouth, as though my words had unlocked a wish he dared not voice. He looked at me like he could scarcely believe his fortune, his gaze dark with wonder and disbelief. 

A princess, standing close enough for him to touch, and more than willing.

His eyes dropped for a brief moment, almost as if he needed to remind himself to breathe, and then his voice, roughened and warm, found its way back. 

"With a dragon as mighty as yours, I'm certain there is little you would be denied," he murmured, his hand lifting as though moved by some magnetic force. 

His fingers brushed against my cheek, a soft, tentative touch, almost as if he expected me to draw back, to laugh at his audacity, to reassert my place above him. But I didn't. 

I leaned into his touch, allowing his hand to linger, my skin tingling beneath his fingertips.

The briefest flash of surprise flared in his eyes, tempered quickly by something darker, something more consuming. 

My pulse quickened, the heat between us simmering into something almost unbearable. 

I was a princess—he knew that. And yet here we were, standing inches apart, the gap between duty and desire swiftly fading into nothing. 

For the first time, his loyalty was not to some distant queen or some abstract ideal; his loyalty, his yearning, was here, directed entirely at me.

Slowly, I leaned in, letting my words drift just past his ear, so close that I felt his breath catch. 

"I do not wish to take my pleasures by force," I murmured, my voice a soft invitation, a promise that was as powerful as any order. 

A shiver ran through him, and his fingers tightened just slightly against my cheek as if anchoring himself in this impossible moment.

The air was thick with the unspoken, and I felt him hesitate, battling the disbelief that a princess would want someone like him, a knight whose station fell far below hers. 

Yet his longing was palpable, a heady tension that electrified the space between us. 

When he finally spoke, his voice was low, almost reverent. "What would you have me do, Princess?" he asked, his tone weighted with more than just desire. 

It was devotion, his words woven with a quiet, reckless yearning as if he would tear the stars from the sky if I asked it.

I looked into his eyes, letting the silence stretch, each heartbeat a steady thrum that only deepened the pull between us. 

"Anything," I replied, a whisper that held within it the hint of a command and a promise all at once.

His gaze fell to my lips, and his breath shuddered like he was grounding himself in the impossible reality that he was here, with me, alone and permitted to wish for more. 

He let his hand trail down, tracing the line of my jaw with a featherlight touch, his fingers lingering near my neck where he could feel my pulse racing under his fingertips. 

His eyes were dark, wide, caught in some quiet awe, his body tense with restraint.

"Say it," he whispered, his voice rough. "Say what you would want of me, and I am yours."

"Command me," he begged, his voice softened by that same restrained yearning that had chased me all night.

For a moment, the gravity of our situation fell away, leaving only two people drawn together by a desire as dangerous as it was irresistible. I leaned in, my mouth a breath away from his. 

"For now," I whispered, letting the moment dangle like a thread between us, "I only want this."

His lips brushed against mine, tentative at first as if he could scarcely believe that I'd allowed him this close. 

But then, the restraint fell away, the delicate thread snapping, and we were pressed together in a kiss that held every bit of tension, every unspoken promise.

My hands slid to his clothes, and his eyes flashed with surprise before yielding, allowing me to undress him piece by piece. His gaze clung to me, astonished, as though he still couldn't believe I was here with him. 

I stripped off my riding leathers as fast as my hands could manage, hungry to feel the pleasure I'd been craving for far too long.

The war had stolen much from me, stripping me down to my bones, and tonight, I wanted only one thing: to lose myself, to drown in a rapture that would make me forget it all, even if just for a night.

"Bed me," I whispered when we were bare before each other, skin flushed, breaths mingling in the cool night air.

He froze, his gaze tracing my form as if I were a vision, something ethereal, almost too good to be true. His lips parted in silent awe, eyes raking over every line and curve as though I were an angel who had slipped into his grasp.

"Your wish," he breathed, finally snapping back to himself, "is my command." 

He guided me down to the stone floor, its chill biting into my skin, a startling contrast that only heightened my senses.

His lips found my neck, pressing fevered, insistent kisses that sent shivers racing across my skin. A contented sigh slipped from me as I surrendered to the sensation.

He gently parted my legs, settling between them, and I welcomed the feel of him, my thighs wrapping around his waist, pulling him closer, deeper. 

He moved with urgency, as though he sought release from something unspoken, a fever only I could soothe. 

Each thrust sent waves of pleasure rippling through me, the feeling consuming, erasing all else.

"Oh gods," he murmured, his voice reverent, as he looked down at me, his face filled with wonder. "You...you are a vision." His words, filled with awe, only stoked the flames in me. 

I met his gaze, my body pliant beneath his, feeling like I could stay lost in this moment forever, his desire feeding mine, each of us chasing the other's heat, until the rest of the world faded away.

My heart thudded in time with his, our bodies aligned and perfectly matched, an effortless rhythm that made me feel whole as if this one night could wash away a thousand memories of darkness and despair.

I held his gaze, feeling myself surrender completely, caught in his spell, in the heat and warmth of his presence as he chased pleasure from me with a patience that made my body tremble. 

I was unravelling, each touch, each movement, pulling me apart in the most exquisite way, and I realized I wanted to let him, to let this moment consume every hidden part of me.

His breaths quickened, and he pressed his forehead against mine, grounding us both in that intimate space, and I could feel his heart pounding, as though echoing my own. 

I held him there, one hand tangling in his hair, the other tracing the contours of his back, feeling the strength of him as we both surrendered.

Finally, in a crescendo of pleasure that took my breath away, I felt myself shatter beneath him, lost in the haze of pure, undiluted bliss. 

He followed close behind, his body tense before he released in a shudder that shook us both, his face a picture of utter, unguarded ecstasy.

Slowly, he leaned back, brushing a strand of hair from my face with a tenderness that seemed almost out of place here on the cold stone floor, surrounded by shadows and memories. 

He traced his fingers along my jaw, as though I were something precious, rare, his eyes softened by the afterglow.

And there, entangled together in the flickering dark, we let the silence embrace us, lost in the warmth and comfort of knowing, for this moment, we were exactly where we both wanted to be.

A/n - This was fun to write, teeny tiny bit inspired by Jude and Cardan from 'The Folk of the Air' series (if you squint basc)

[randomdragonfires]

Pieces of a Woman | One Shot

Text Divider by @saradika-graphics

SUMMARY | Even when his life takes a turn for the worse, Aemond Targaryen endures.

WARNINGS | 18+; Canon Divergence AU; Smut; Insanity; B&C; Gore; Delusions; Miscarriage; Yearning; ANGST

WORD COUNT | 7.2k

A/N | This is my personal favourite out of all the stories I've ever written, reposted with a new header and all that fun stuff! Beta read by the lovely @ewanmitchellcrumbs ❤️

They say madness is a slow disease, and that nobody truly knows when it begins. 

They were wrong. Aemond Targaryen knew very well the exact moment the madness had sunk its claws into his wife. He had watched as her once bright and hopeful eyes became empty and devoid of emotion. He had watched as she was pulled into the darkness completely, becoming a shell of the woman she once was.

As much as he wished he could turn back time, he had accepted his fate. He accepted that he would never have his wife back. He would never hold her in his arms again and never get to lay his head on her lap as she embroidered. She would never read to him in her mellifluous voice ever again, despite the fact that he would give everything he had to have her with him once more. 

What good was all this power and wealth, if he could not protect his own family? What good was his title as Prince Regent, if he did not have her to stand by his side? If he could not protect his little boy?

His hair, once braided to the side by her deft and nimble fingers with love, remained uncared for, left loose in all its glory. Training his one dark-rimmed, tired eye at the crypt that held the ashes of his heir, Aemond Targaryen let the sadness take him - for when his son’s life was brutally snuffed out, his wife’s very soul had been too.

There was nobody to blame for it all apart from himself.

Ever since their wedding, she had been a steady and calm presence in his life. She was the quiet to his rage, the water to his fire. He had always been a sullen and lonely child that harbored resentment for those who had wronged him, but he felt his heart steadily calm down with every moment he spent in her presence.

It wasn't until he met her that he realized he was lacking love and consideration, both of which he believed had never received before - not like this. She gave him an opportunity to be a better man; one that he took eagerly with both arms. 

In return, he was a respectful husband who did his very best. He wasn’t adept at great gestures of love, but he always made sure that his wife woke with a kiss to her hair and his arms enveloping her body. He wanted her to never know loneliness for as long as he lived, he would make sure of it. 

For all his reading and knowledge, Aemond was not good at making his appreciation known verbally. Instead, he would bring her huge tomes from the library so he could read to her. These books covered topics that he was passionate about, so everytime he brought one, he was offering up a part of his soul. Who better to give it to than the woman he has sworn his heart, soul and loyalty to? 

He needed her. He needed her from deep in his soul, and he needed her carnally, always. She was all that was missing in his life, and now that he had her, he would always need her. 

But right now, as her screams erupted through the halls of Maegor’s Holdfast, Aemond’s heart lurched in his chest, becoming heavier with each passing moment. The babe was arriving, and it would seem that the child was taking her for all that she was. Everytime she groaned in pain, he held onto the railing tighter than ever, as though it would make her pain go away.  

They would not let him in, no. Childbirth was a woman’s fight, and the men would have to wait outside - much like the women did when the men went to battle. There was nothing he would not give to hold her hand right now; to tell her that she would be an absolutely beautiful mother, and that all she had to do was summon all her strength and emerge victorious. 

As though she had heard his thoughts, her pained wails slowly died down, replaced by the first cries of a newborn. Boy or girl, the babe had an incredibly strong pair of lungs on them, their mighty cries could overshadow even the loudest of thunderstorms. The cries echoed through the halls of Maegor’s Holdfast, and the servants outside immediately jumped to work. A new royal babe had been born after all - there was work to be done, celebratory feasts to be organized, chambers to be prepared, nothing but the best for a Targaryen.

His mother stepped out of the chambers and laid a hand on his back in comfort. She kissed him on the cheek and smiled in congratulations. “Mother and babe are well, my son. She has made me so proud. The little one is beautiful, he would go on to achieve many great things. Just like you.”

A son. She had given him an heir to carry his bloodline. How would he ever repay her? 

He walked into the chambers with speed that he did not know he possessed, his purpose made clear with each stride. The midwives and maids moved to make way for the One-Eyed Prince, and in he went. 

She laid in the middle of the chambers, looking like she had braved the worst experience of her life. Her hair was askew, with sweat coating her entire body, her fatigue was palpable. Blood and waters coated the floor, and the chambers smelled like death. The bloody spots on her shift alarmed him, and it concerned him to see his usually happy and energetic wife look so thoroughly worn out. But then she smiled. 

Through all her weariness from the challenges of the birthing bed, she had meekly smiled at him - and all was alright in his world again. He held her cheek in his palm and kissed her forehead, heart full from knowing that she was alright. She reached for his other hand, holding onto it like it was the last thing that kept her tethered to reality.

“Are you well, wife?” 

The seemingly simple question certainly did not project the waves of concern that had plagued him outside while he waited with bated breath, but she knew. She saw it in the crinkles on his forehead and the widening of his good eye.

“I am now.”  

She had braved battle, and had never looked more beautiful to him than she did now. Her voice was hoarse from all the pained screaming, and she certainly had no business being awake right now - but by the Gods, he was the happiest man in the realm. 

The maids were done with wiping the blood off of the babe and had handed the boy to her. Aemond knew right then that he would have to compete for his wife’s attention from then on, for his little son had clearly stolen her heart, and his, within moments of his birth. 

Her weak voice called out to him once more. “Aemond, husband… look what we made.” 

He was exquisite. Aemond reached out to the babe, his son, and his son's pudgy rose finger latched onto his long, sturdy one as he continued to cry. “He has a strong grip. He shall be a storied warrior." She smiles at the possibility, and he cannot help but kiss her hand once more.

"You’ve given birth to a boy as strong as you are, wife.” He watched as she nudged her nose to the babe’s and smiled, her face glistening from sweat and tears. His newborn son’s cries got louder with each passing moment, but despite being a man of silence and solitude, Aemond had never felt more at peace.

“Thank you.”

Aemond would be the first to deny that he was a doting paragon of a husband that the bards would sing about, but he certainly was a good man who loved and respected his wife. 

In the days that followed the birth of his child, he had spent every waking moment that he could spare with the pair of them. Both mother and son had the fierce One-Eyed Prince wrapped around their fingers. Between sparring sessions and battling his family’s idiosyncrasies on the daily, his little family had given him quite the reprieve, one that he was infinitely thankful for. 

But now, his son is gone, and his wife is too.

“The heirs need to be kept safe. The twins, little Maelor, all three of them,” his mother said.

He may be in the middle of a war, but it was moments like these that seemed hardest to him. Aemond sat quietly by the hearth, in the very same chair where he always rested. His wife used to sit by him or at his feet as she embroidered. Now, her absence was a gaping hole each time he sat.

“Aemond…”

He turned to the sound of his grandfather calling out his name, looking cold and calculated.  It did not escape Aemond that he was discussing the safety of his brother's children while he had lost his own child. The irony of it all was stark and jarring.

“Yes,” he curtly responded.

“It is in our best interests that you…” His grandfather paused midway through his words, and Aemond knew well that the man did that only when unsettling news was to follow. “...that you take a new wife. We’re in need of an alliance, and she can be sent to the motherhouse at Oldtown. She will be cared for, she will be fed-”

He saw red. “My son is dead!” The words tumbled out of Aemond’s mouth like shards of glass before he could even comprehend the gravity of his grandfather’s heavy, cutting words. 

"My son’s death is on my conscience, his blood is on my hands. I did not do the deed myself, but it certainly feels like I was the one who wielded the knife that killed him.” The people had taken to calling him a kinslayer, and Aemond felt it in his bones everyday - not because of Lucerys Velaryon, but because of how his rash actions had resulted in the death of his little boy.

“My son is dead, and my wife has not been the same ever since. How do you think I can start a new family, with a new woman, when I know very well that I have caused all the grief that has driven my wife to madness? When I caused the death of my own child?” 

Aemond Targaryen always made for a menacing sight, but his grandfather was not prepared for the kind of anger that his grandson had kept stored in him - for himself, his wife, and his son. They were not here, and he was angry enough for all three of them.

The Dowager Queen watched the entire conversation unfold, and she held her hand to her chest, feeling her heartbeat become frantic with each moment that she saw her son in distress. She knew how content he was in his wife's presence, and how much he loved her. To watch a child grow and fester in his own resentment - no mother should have to witness it. And yet, the Gods saw fit to give Alicent Hightower the closest view to her son's heartbreak.

“Get out,” he seethed. Otto Hightower took Aemond’s raw and angry words in stride before walking away, his head still held high. 

His mother stood in front of him, held his hand and kissed him on the cheek. “I’m sorry, my boy. I’m so sorry…”  

She wept until she could not, and it took everything Aemond had in him to not do the same.

When he tossed and turned in his bed in the middle of the night, he would always reach out for her. 

She would always welcome his touch and curl into him, her forehead resting on the smooth planes of his chest and her warm breath making goosebumps rise on his skin. He would hold her tight until neither could ascertain where one ended and the other began, and sleep that normally eluded him would come to him faster than anything else.

Tonight, her spot on the bed is empty.

When he woke in a hurry, he noticed the crumpled sheets and the pillows left askew, the only evidence of her having retired to bed alongside him. He quickly rose from the bed and tried to calm his rapidly beating heart, wondering as to where she could have gone at this ungodly hour. 

Gods, was she hurt?

He did not have to wait for the divine deities to answer, for his answer came in the form of the sweet humming sounds that he had grown to love. He followed her voice as he walked through their apartments, and it led him to the chamber where his son’s crib was kept. She was sitting next to it in her white shift, her head peeping in as she let her hands rest on the crib. She hummed softly and happily, marveling at how beautiful her little boy looked as he slept - looking much like the man she shared her bed with.

Aemond wanted to ask her to come back to bed immediately. The maesters had advised lots of rest for his wife, given the stress of the labors and the damage her body had taken. But as he watched her and his boy, he knew he couldn’t. He needed a moment to drink in the sight of his wife and son - his entire world, all in one chamber.

He held so much love in his heart for them both despite seeing them only with one eye. Perhaps he’d be able to love them more if he could see them with two.

“He’s going to be there when we wake, wife. Come back to bed.”

She turned to him and smiled, a warm smile that he wished he could brand into his mind for all eternity. “Did I wake you?”

“You did not. Your absence from our bed did.” 

She chuckled softly, and he walked over to her. He positioned himself behind her chair and kissed her temple, letting his hands rest on her shoulders. “I don’t think I shall ever tire of looking at him,” She said.

“Hm.” His gaze rested on the sleeping babe, tired from all his crying throughout the day.

“My son, a dragon prince,” She mused. “He’ll be charming, strong and intelligent, just like his father.”

At that, he chuckled darkly and she rose, turning around to face him. Her hand found his cheek and he leaned into her touch, leaving a light kiss on her wrist as he held her hand in place. “What’s so amusing, husband?”

“Charming is not the first word anyone would use to describe me, wife.”

“Well, you are. To me.” Her whispering siren-like voice was like music to his ears. 

She reached up on her toes and left a light kiss on his brow, and Aemond was quick to hold her to him by the waist, wanting to have this - this quiet solace - all to himself for a time.

Who was he to argue with the woman around whom his entire world revolved? The very one that held his heart in her hands?

He stands in the middle of what used to be their shared chambers and sighs. 

The entire room is covered in pieces of her - fragments of her that he desperately clings to for dear life. Robes and dresses that she had not worn in a long time, but still manage to somehow retain her scent. Quills and ink that she used to write her correspondence with, now left to gather dust. Ten Thousand Ships, her favorite book, one that he had given to her as a name day present, laid abandoned on the bedside table. 

This was the very same chamber where he had claimed her. This was where he had first admitted to loving her. This was where she had told him that she was with child. This was where they had spent countless nights talking well into the night, their bodies entwined and voices coming out in hushed whispers and low giggles. This was where they had discovered and learned of the passions of the marital bed, together. This was where their marriage had grown and bloomed.

If he walks a little further, his feet will take him to the adjoined room where his son used to sleep - but try as he might, he does not have the strength for that. Not yet.

He sits by the edge of their bed, the sunlight passing through the windows in streaks of yellow gold. He closes his good eye, hoping for a little time to adjust to the light. Perhaps if he closes it hard enough, he will be able to picture her sitting by the window with her focused eyes trained on her embroidery or one of his books, waiting for him to come back to her after his daily duties. 

His nose flares at the unearthly reminder that his wife is no longer his by side. She had been full of happiness and life, and she had brought light into his life. He welcomed it for as long as she was around, but now that she was gone, he closes his eye and avoids it like the plague, much like he does with the sunlight that now warms his skin.

Her world has become dark because of him. How can he sit in the light in good conscience, when he knows he has lost all right to it?

The waves crashed by the shores of Blackwater Bay and she sat on the sands, watching them. She had a book in her hands, and a basket of food that she had the maids prepare for them to take.

Her eyes closely followed her husband as he held their baby son’s hands upright, his little pudgy feet resting over his huge boot-clad ones as he led them forward. The little boy’s gurgling and laughing echoed through the wind, and she took a bite of a juicy apple while holding a book in her other hand. 

They were the picture of a happy family, the stories of whom may be immortalized in songs for years to come.

He had not yet begun to walk, and his words were all a blubbering mess - but Aemond Targaryen was not known for being patient. He insisted on guiding his son to his feet so his first steps would come to him quicker, and spoke to him in High Valyrian in hopes that his first words would be in his native tongue.

Her boys had walked all the way toward her with her baby’s toes pressing onto Aemond’s feet harshly. He picked him up and held him then, and his son’s hands landed on his eyepatch. It had become his favorite little plaything these days - the boy took to wrangling it off his father’s head and swinging it with his two fat fingers until he grew tired - that was if he did not notice the sapphire first. By the Gods, if he did, he would insist on taking that off to play with too. His son, like him, had a taste for the finer things in life, it would seem.

“He’s taken well to the waters, I think,” she said. Her fondness for the little lad and her husband was evident in her face as she watched them. Her son had taken to swinging his arms in all directions, occasionally hitting his father’s face.

“Water does not mix with fire and blood. He should not be taking so well to the waters.”

“Suppose he can embrace it all then. Perhaps he’s… special.” She rose to meet her son’s eyes, leaving a kiss on his cheek. The boy smiled, a handful of his father’s alabaster hair in his hands as he pulled. Aemond winced, and she giggled. 

“Zaldrītsos…” Aemond murmured, a quiet plea to his son to stop. It fell on deaf ears, but he did not mind. [Little dragon]

A maid had come to inform them that their presence was requested in the keep, and Aemond handed the boy over to her before walking back to give his wife his hand. He pressed a kiss to her knuckles and rubbed her hand with his before leading them away, their steps slow and relaxed.

“We should have another,” she said. Her smile, the source of all his content, was as bright as the sun. “You should take me tonight,” she murmured then, eyes quickly blackened by lust. He watched as the girl with childish wonder transformed into a seductress, and he lost even before he tried - defeat had never felt sweeter.

He could never deny her anything she wanted.

“Do you want me, wife?” He muttered darkly as he halted his steps, turning towards her. He held her by the waist and kissed her brow, waiting for her to respond. 

“I always want you,” she murmured, eyes fluttering at the closeness of his lips. Her bright eyes sought his lilac one as the sound of the waves rippled through the air. “I also want to bear you another child. Would you like that, husband? Another little babe for us to love…”

He nodded and kissed her, pouring all his passion into it as he devoured her lips. “You do look beautiful, belly round and full with my child.”

That night, he choked her name out like an urgent prayer while he spilled into her, his peak following soon after hers. He then peppered kisses across her face and neck as the smell of sweat and coupling engulfed them, while she held onto his hair and let her hand wander over it in a soothing manner. He rubbed a hand over her belly, praying that his seed had taken. If not, he would seek her out and touch her everywhere once more - he would never be tired of her.

If another child was what she desired, then she shall have it - for how could he ever deny her?

The burns and injuries had ruined any spirit Aegon may have had as King.

He had watched his brother as he grew into a fierce protector of his family soon after being crowned. Ser Criston had made clear the dangers that they posed to Rhaenyra with their very existence, and it was all Aegon needed to grow into his role as the rightful monarch. However, he had gotten ahead of himself and underestimated his skills as a dragonriding fighter and gotten himself hurt.

Aemond’s role as Prince Regent was something that he slid into seamlessly - he had always known that he was the better fit for the throne after all. His first action was to ensure the safety of his own wife, Helaena and her three children.

“They’ve been moved to our father’s old chambers. Deep in the Holdfast, far away from any possible intru-”

“I know where the chambers are, Aemond. Will you shut up? You’re giving me a headache.” Aegon interrupted, words slurred as he sipped on Arbor Red. The wine sloshed in the cup as it moved in his unsteady hands. 

His eyes were trained on his brother, a tired and tested man who was now incharge of running a Kingdom. Aegon knew that the crown was heavy, but it did not compare to the weight of the world that Aemond always carried on his shoulders. It only seemed to have gotten worse since his son’s death and his wife’s isolation.

“Does she fare any better?”

“No.” It is all Aemond wishes to say on the matter.

While he may not want to speak of the family he had lost, Aemond knew that he would protect those he was left with every breath in his body if need be. He may not have been there for his little boy, but he would die before he let a hair on any of his remaining family members’ heads be touched. The regret of being an inadequate husband and father pricked at him like the heat from the bright blaze of the fire in the hearth, and he walked out with purpose.

He knew where he was going next. After all, his feet always carried him to her at nightfall.

When Aemond came home dripping wet from the rain that had drenched him at Storm’s End, he was convinced that he had ruined everything good that he had. He could not imagine a simple scratch on his little boy without feeling angered - how could he expect Rhaenyra to simply accept her son’s death? 

He had to get them safe. He had to keep them safe. He had to keep them safe. Safe, safe, safe.

She had just left the babe with the nursemaid and come to their chambers to find a moment of quiet before her son’s inevitable crying began again. Her eyes widened when she opened the door to find her husband completely drenched, looking like he was inviting death with open arms. He may as well have.

“Aemond..” She rushed to him immediately, hands going to his damp hair and clothes. “Gods did it rain on your ride back home? Let me fetch you some clean clothes and something to dry yourself with.” He reached out to her before she could go too far, and she gasped at how cold his touch was.

It was always warm, and tonight it was not.

“Stay, please.”

“I need you to put on something warm first, Aemond. You’ll catch a chill.”

She was too distracted by his wet state to notice the tears mixed with the raindrops. He said nothing as she walked away and brought back fresh garb for him to change into. She quietly bade that he raise his arms and he obeyed, not having the strength to do anything else. Slowly, each garment fell with a wet thwack to the floor and she took to wiping all the water off of him. 

His grave silence unnerved her immensely, and she knew something was wrong. She would wait for him to say it.

She dressed him in a linen undershirt and breeches and took him to his beloved chair by the fire, in hopes that it would warm him up and encourage him to tell her of what plagued him. He sat in silence for a long while as she sat cross-legged on the floor, her forehead leaning on one of his thighs while her finger drew mindless patterns on the other. 

His hand always reached for her hair when they sat like this, but tonight, that was not the case. She looked up at him with inquiring eyes, and as he caught her vision with his one eye, he did not have the heart to tell her what he had done, but he had to.

“I killed Lucerys Velaryon.” His voice is hoarse and the words are choked out with difficulty, and while the weight of his actions hit him hard, it was harder to watch his sweet wife’s concerned face morph into something else entirely.

“What?”

“He was sent as an envoy. I only meant…” He gulped, and the tears fell freely once more. 

She quickly lifted herself up and straddled him, holding his face in both her hands. Her fingers caught every tear that fell in quick succession. “Tell me, go on.”

“I only meant to scare him. I need you to believe me, I did not mean to kill him.” 

Her husband was a proud man, and it made her stomach churn to see him sound so broken. She feared that she may not like what she was about to hear, but she had promised to be his other half for all his life, and now he needed her. 

He may be fearsome, but he was not a cold-blooded murderer. He did not mean to kill him - but how much weight did his intent hold, now that the boy was dead?

“I believe you. Go on.”

“The dragons…” He let out a hoarse breath and she continued to wipe at his tears with the tips of her thumbs - softness that he right now felt very undeserving of. “Arrax breathed fire at Vhagar and she retaliated, she bit into the dragon’s neck and Luke fell, so did Arrax.” 

She felt light headed with worry. How could she stomach the thought of a young boy falling to his death from the skies? How could she, when she was a mother to a little boy herself?

His uncle, Daemon, was going to come for them, Aemond was sure of that. But he could not bring himself to think of much else as he watched his wife digest all that he had told her, never once ceasing to remind him that she believed him, even if nobody else would. 

When they rose, Aemond’s anger knew no bounds. The possible consequences ran through his mind as he pushed his desk onto the floor with brute force. The sharp edges of her vanity had drawn blood from the back of his hand as he moved in frustration, and she was quick to hold onto him and remind him of her presence. He was not alone, he had her.

“Take me. Take it out on me.” Aemond could not think straight, and she could not bear to see him hurt himself, any more than he already has. It is this very thought that drives her to take his hand and lay it upon her clothed chest.

He took her from behind that night, hands clutching onto her bouncing breasts. Every string that was stretched had snapped with each rough thrust into her, the sounds of skin slapping skin somehow seeming too rough that night. “We’re going to be fine, wife,” he groaned - and she did not know whom he was trying to placate - her, or himself? 

“I will keep you safe, the both of you.”

When he was done with her, she was left looking ragged with dried tear tracks on her face. He wanted to apologize - it seemed as though he hurt everything he touched, and after his now dead Stong nephew, his own sweet wife was his latest victim.

She held him between her breasts that night as they both wept, at a loss for words at what he had done. She did not know how to comfort him or rid him of the guilt or paranoia that his mind now played host to.

What she did know is that her husband needed her, and that she was not going anywhere. So when he suggested sending her and their son away, fearing for her safety, she begged him to let her stand by his side.

“If something were to happen to me, there would be nobody to protect you and our boy.”

“If something were to happen to you, our son and I would much rather follow you than brave many years alone.” 

He reluctantly gave in, thinking that an increased guard and his constant presence around them would be enough to keep them unharmed. 

How wrong he was.

He had walked away only for a moment. 

His wife had wanted to eat some cake during the night - he suspected that she was with child again. Little did he know that it was the last moment of their happy marriage. The sight that he had walked back into was something that would never fail to haunt him.

Dead guards, a whole litany of them. His wife in her bloodied white shift, holding onto their son’s decapitated body. All the light in her eyes had dimmed as he stood frozen in place, his eye widened at the harrowing sight before him. 

She wailed as she clutched the corpse to her chest, with no care for the injuries on her own body, or the blood of their babe that was now mixed in with her own.

“My boy, my precious boy…”

The rest of the royal family soon followed and his mother pulled her away from the babe’s lifeless body. He fell to the floor with no one to hold him, and Aemond could do nothing but watch.  Aegon’s angry calls for his nephew’s head to be brought back along with the killers slipped into one ear and slipped out the other, and he went numb as he realized that the consequences of his actions had caught up to him. 

Him, he could understand. But his sweet wife, his little son? What had they done?

A son for a son.

The rational part of his mind would have argued that Luke’s death probably left Rhaenyra feeling the same tragedy that he was faced with - but he was anything but rational in that moment. His fists clenched as his knuckles met the wall, and Aegon had to physically restrain him from walking out to catch the rats himself.

“She needs you. She needs you. She needs you. Listen to me, Aemond!”

Helaena had collapsed onto the chair entirely, repeating ominous words that he did not register at all. 

“Blood and Cheese. Blood and Cheese. Blood and Cheese.”

Aegon had gone to join in the hunt for his nephew’s killers, and she kept rocking herself back and forth at the sight of the blood that now painted the walls and floors of her brother’s chambers until she was led away. Aemond stood, all alone in a pool of his son’s and wife’s blood. 

When the Silent Sisters were led into the chamber by his grandfather, Aemond froze. His wife had held their lifeless son to her breast as she cried, but he could not bring himself to look at him, much less touch him.

Hours later, with patches of his own son's blood soaked through his clothes, he had gone to see her. He held her in his arms as she sobbed through the night, trying to push him away with each firm hit to his chest. Aemond shushed her over and over to no avail, holding her closer each time she tried to separate herself from him. Sometime during that night, her eyes had become lifeless; a deep abyss. The sight of it finally drove him to tears too, with his good eye becoming a glistening violet ring floating in a sea of angry red.

They say madness is a slow disease, and that nobody truly knows when it begins. They were wrong. Aemond Targaryen knew very well the exact moment when the madness had sunk its claws into his wife. 

It was right then as he held her, comforting her and apologizing like a madman for tainting her life with his presence. 

The moonlight diverged through the stained glass windows that directly faced the room where she now resided. She had been kept in these chambers before their wedding, and she often spoke of how beautiful the lights were when they fell directly onto the corridors, reflecting the colors of the glass that they slid through. He wondered if she still thought the same. He wondered if she even looked.

In the day that followed their son’s death, they had burned their little boy and watched as his body was wheeled around the streets of King’s Landing for their benefit. Aemond had wanted to retch then, but he held his wife tight as the people empathized with the kind princess whose time as a doting mother had been brutally cut short. 

She fared worse - she looked dead in her eyes, and he was sure she was lost on the inside too. He did not know if she even sensed his hold on her as she kept muttering their dead boy’s name in a series of weak whimpers.

Two days later, she had lost their second child. He held her from behind and rocked her gently as the blood flowed from between her thighs for hours, the babe coming out in clumps of bloodied skin, having never drawn breath. Every moment of his wife’s torture plagued Aemond’s existence, and he questioned his abilities as a protector while grieving his son and his unborn child all alone. 

The Gods were cruel to him in their games. They made him watch as his son’s life was taken, and they took bits of his wife’s mind and soul with each passing day. He supposed that this was the hand that kinslayers were dealt.

It was a slow death for Aemond, and it had begun the day his son was killed. Now he had to watch as his once vivacious wife completely lost hold over all her senses, and lived in a world where he could not reach her.

On some days, she would receive him with love, as though his presence in her life had not destroyed her completely. He would be able to revel in her touch once more, if only to simply be able to remind himself that she was still alive - in body, if not soul. He missed her, his wife, his woman, his entire heart. But his actions had killed her from the inside - did he have a right to his yearning anymore? He did not want to know, for he feared that he may not like the answer.

On other days, she would be the complete embodiment of madness. She would fight the maesters and scream at them, begging for them to let her die and throw herself off the window. She would pull at her beautiful hair, blame him continuously and shriek, mourning the loss of their child. 

When she was done, she'd lower her voice and murmur words into the air. Speaking to no one in particular, almost like a ghost, she'd fidget with her dress and say, "His body twitched after they hurt him. My baby boy suffered. Oh, my boy!"

He may not have wielded the knife that removed his head, but his actions caused it. He may as well have killed his son himself. Guilt was not an emotion that Aemond Targaryen knew well as a boy, but it was all he now knew as a grown man.

She would bawl and cry at him to go away. She would scream at him to leave her alone, and blame him for killing her children - and rightfully so. And though it pricked at his heart, he would come back every night. 

He wonders how she is feeling tonight. He wishes she was ignorant and unaware, for he is desperate for her touch, her company. It has been weeks. He is brought back to reality when the Maester’s gown billows behind him in the night wind. 

“Your Grace.” he bows. 

“How is she?”

“Somewhat calmed tonight and not lucid, my prince.” The old man sighs before continuing. “The Princess continues to ask for her little prince. We have given her milk of the poppy, so she may fall asleep soon enough.”

 “Hm.”

He is mildly relieved to hear that she is not herself tonight - for it allows him to relive some of their happier days. 

In his hand is a book - Ten Thousand Ships, the very one that he had gifted her. He dismisses the maester and his stewards follow behind him. Aemond walks into the room with his mind steeled, ready to be brave - for himself and for her.

“Husband! Come, come!” Her cheery voice is not quite hers, and it unnerves Aemond - her words are not from her heart, and it takes everything in him to not fall to his knees and apologize once more for what he has done to her. “The Maester said our boy’s learning to walk! Did you see him? I was promised that you would bring him tonight! Where is he?”

Gone, where we cannot see him, he wants to say. But how could he, without wanting to throw himself at her feet in regret? “He is tired. All that walking has exhausted him.”

“I suppose, yes! They tried to force me to take that vile concoction once more tonight, I managed to push it away and evade them! Look!” His gaze follows her hand and sees the spilled milk of the poppy on the floor. His wife was a calm and steady woman, and now she was behaving like a child and mistreating maesters.

I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

“You should not do that, wife. It is not proper.” 

He holds her hand and kisses her knuckles, before leaning his head back to look at her. Her hair has not been combed today, and he gently turns her around to run his fingers through her hair, digits trembling at touching her once more. She could come to at any moment and remember who had caused her such distress, and then she would cry until he walked away - the very real possibility rakes at Aemond, so he remains prepared for her to push him away any time now.

I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

"I know. I drank it the second time. I'm sorry."

He then turns her back to face him and notices the dark rims around her empty eyes. He sighs and lets out a long, heavy breath. If he was drunk enough and she was unaware, he would fool himself into thinking that they were alright. But they aren’t. 

“It is time to go to bed, wife. Will you come with me?”  I love you, I miss you and I am sorry. Will you come back to me? Please?

He kisses both her eyelids and leads her to the bed in her shift. He gently helps her lay down, following her immediately as he lays next to her. She leans into his hold seamlessly and he tightens his arm around her - it hurts him how despite her madness, her penchant to seek out his touch never changes.

He takes the book from the bedside table, and she squeals. “Will you read to me tonight, husband? I do love it when you read to me. Perhaps a quiet moment between the both of us before the maids bring our son back? You know how he makes a fuss and refuses to give us a moment of quiet!” She laughs, and Aemond holds his tears back once more.

“Of course.” He kisses her temple.

He begins reading and the dry sounds of his throat lull her to sleep in his arms as he rakes his fingers through her hair. When she has completely drifted away from him, he allows himself a moment of thought and kisses her on the lips - watching as she murmurs his name.

He had taken her to wife, and sworn to protect her from any harm that may come her way. In the end, the only one she had to be protected from, was himself. He failed her, and now, he would not rest until he picked up all the pieces and put her back together.

When morning comes, she may still be unconscious of her surroundings and allow him some more time, or she may be lucid and scratch at his face until he leaves her alone. The uncertainty kills him, but he will allow himself to enjoy her tonight. 

It was on this very day that he had kissed her for the first time, in the Sept, between the statues of the Mother and the Father. On this day, four years ago, they were married. 

And on this day, he continues to read to her because she had asked, even when she had fallen asleep - for how could he ever deny her?

BONUS CHAPTER FOR THIS FIC, HERE.

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MASTERLIST

[zico-if]

This story is not one, where at the end, you find yourself surrounded by your loved ones. No, this is a one of how you die.

[ DEMO - tba ]

Ever since the death of your parents by those who'd been sworn to protect you, there has been something inexplicably wrong with you.

At first, they were just headaches—small manageable aches, even at their worst. But then came the voice. A voice that wasn't yours, whispering things you couldn't possibly know, helping you do things no one should be able to do.

Everything about you was just...wrong.

But then you were saved, taken in by people who gave you shelter and taught you control. And over time, that voice became nothing more than a whisper, offering you insights when you least expect it.

You became a scalpel in their organization, an invaluable asset who cut away whatever rot they pointed you to, and you did so without question.

That is, until one day a job lands you in hot water and the next thing you know, you're told to cut the rot that lies a little too close to the heart. Suddenly, the truth becomes lies, friends turn to foes, and the fine line between loyalty and betrayal begins to blur.

That begs the question: just how far are you willing to go to cut out that rot before it spreads?

Become a vessel for an Eldritch that grants you abilities like no other, yet endure the consequences that follows it.

Customise your vessel, including their pronouns, identity and physical appearance.

Romance 1 of 4 options: the rot, the grace, the protector or the stranger.

Confront old friends, create new foes, run some errands and try not to die while doing any of it.

Pluck at the fraying strands of your mind. Teeter to the edge of Insanity.

Trust that no one is who they say they are.

And most importantly: Abandon All Hope.

The Rot: Ilya Roson [m/f/nb] - romanceable by all MCs.

A person who you've long since thought was gone. They've betrayed you once and they've come to do it again. Then again, betrayal requires trust in the first place and you've since learned your lesson from the first time.

The Grace: Vira Duval [f] - romanceable by nb!MCs and f!MCs only.

She is beauty, she is grace, yet monstrous all the same. There is something about her that strikes you: the scars that creep from beneath her neck line, the cold calculation in her eyes. She is more than the Blueblood you think she is.

The Protector: Aurius Duval [m] - romanceable by all MCs.

A scion of everything you've come to hate, he dares to call himself a protector—a shield to the people above all else. While he is kind and polite, you can't help but see the blood that he carries on his hands...even though you carry more on yours.

The Stranger: Rhian Scott [m/f/nb] - romanceable by all MCs.

They are the trouble that follows you, the herald of misfortune. Why is it that every time they're near, something always goes wrong? Is it the charm, leeching all the luck you have to fuel it? Or is it maybe that they are just not the friend they claim to be?

The Night Abridged is rated 18+ for violence, strong language, blood & gore, sexual content and more.

Hello, my lovelies. Here is a new intro post for the remake of The Night Abridged, reblogs are much appreciated :)

[kiwriteswords]

Between Almost and Always

AN: This one got away from me! I meant for it to be, like...a few thousand words, but now we're at over 10k...so...

Other Writing | Ao3

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Female!Reader

Word Count: 14.2k !!

Rating: Mature

Tags/TW: Canon-typical violence, canon-typical themes, angst, fluff, kinda fade-to-black smut, read-between-the-lines-smut, happy ending...but it takes some time to get there!

Summary: You and Aaron Hotchner share a bond that runs deeper than either of you dares to acknowledge. Caught between the demands of the BAU and the unspoken pull toward each other, you both struggle to balance your feelings with the fears that keep you apart. As fate and duty continue to intervene, Hotch's silent sacrifices and your unrelenting hope create a tension that neither time nor distance can dissolve, leaving you both to wonder if love will ever break through the almosts and become an always.

The BAU had been your home for as long as you could remember. The team wasn't just a collection of brilliant minds and seasoned agents—they were your family. Together, you moved through darkness, confronting the most twisted parts of humanity. You learned to trust each other with more than just your lives; you entrusted one another with your secrets, your flaws, your fears.

And then, there was Aaron Hotchner.

Hotch was more than just your boss; he was the still center of the storm that raged around you all. He was the steady force that pulled you back when the horrors of the world threatened to consume you. You could always find him standing in the eye of the chaos, unyielding and calm, eyes that spoke of experience, wisdom, and a profound sadness he rarely allowed anyone to see.

But with you, he was different.

From the start, there was something unspoken between you—a magnetic pull that neither of you dared to acknowledge, yet both of you felt with every fiber of your being. It was in the way his eyes lingered just a heartbeat too long, the softening of his voice when he said your name and the brief touches that seemed to hold entire conversations in their warmth.

In quiet moments, when the rest of the world faded, you’d find yourself stealing glances at him, and he'd catch you, the corner of his mouth lifting ever so slightly as if you were sharing a secret no one else could understand. You knew there was something more—something that danced just beyond the reach of words, beyond logic and reason. A bond that went deeper than friendship, stronger than mere attraction. Yet despite the simmering undercurrent, despite all the things you never said, the timing was never right.

Hotch had always been a man of unwavering principle. After Haley’s death, he’d sworn to himself that he would never let his personal life interfere with his work. The guilt he carried from losing her was a shadow that darkened even his brightest moments. It wasn't just the fear of losing someone he cared about—it was the dread of watching the life he touched crumble under the weight of his own demons. He vowed to protect those he loved by keeping them at a distance, believing that his presence was a curse rather than a gift.

But you slipped through his defenses, inch by inch. You, with your unwavering loyalty, your quiet strength, your ability to see straight through his carefully constructed walls. You were the one who saw the Aaron behind the Agent, the man behind the mask. The way you looked at him—like he was not just the leader of your team but a man worthy of being loved—made something inside him soften, something he thought he'd lost long ago.

And maybe that was why he yearned for you. Because you made him believe in a life, he thought was no longer possible for him. You made him dream of stolen moments in a world that wasn’t constantly closing in on him, of lazy Sunday mornings and the warmth of a hand that never let go.

But he was afraid. Afraid that the darkness within him would eventually touch you, hurt you, consume the light you brought into his world. He convinced himself that walking away was the only way to protect you, even if it meant tearing himself apart.

There was an unspoken understanding between the two of you—a silent thread that bound you to Hotch from the moment you joined the BAU. It was the kind of connection that didn’t need words, a gravity that even the team couldn’t ignore. 

JJ, ever the quiet observer, would offer you soft smiles of encouragement, always ready to be your confidante if you ever chose to cross that invisible line. 

Morgan, on the other hand, would tease with that trademark grin of his, throwing out playful jabs to lighten the weight of the tension, hoping his humor might just snap the taut string between you and Hotch. 

Penelope, never one to miss the signs of a budding romance, was less subtle—her eyes practically sparkling with mischief each time she saw you together. 

But it was Reid’s comments that surprised you the most; when even he, with his logical mind, started to speak of soulmates and fated bonds, you knew the connection between you and Hotch wasn’t just something in your head—it was written all over your lives for everyone to see.

It was Seattle, but it could have been anywhere. The rain fell in that relentless way it does in the Pacific Northwest as if the sky itself was unburdening its sorrows. The case had been brutal, a sickening reminder of the cruelty humans are capable of, and though you were all seasoned in darkness, this one had taken a toll on the team.

The unsub had left behind a trail of devastation, each victim a silent cry for help that no one had answered in time. You’d felt it gnaw at your spirit, the failure, the grief, the knowledge that no matter how hard you fought, you couldn’t save them all. The team had dispersed after the long hours of paperwork, retreating to their rooms, each of them carrying the weight in their own way.

But you and Aaron Hotchner—you never went to your rooms. You both sought out the solace of the hotel bar, that quiet space where the world could blur at the edges, where reality was softened by the amber glow of dim lights and the low hum of meaningless conversation. You sat side by side, both of you holding drinks you barely touched, more for the comfort of their warmth than the promise of their escape.

Hotch looked different in the dim light—more human somehow, less like the unshakeable leader who never flinched in the face of terror. The lines etched in his face seemed deeper, the shadows under his eyes more pronounced. He was a man who carried the world on his shoulders, and tonight, it was almost too much to bear.

You’d been through enough with him to know that silence was sometimes the best language, that the quiet between you could speak volumes. You didn’t need to fill the air with words because everything you could have said was already there, in the spaces between your breaths, in the way your hands rested on the bar, inches apart but worlds away.

Then, in a voice that was softer than the rain outside, you said, "Aaron."

It was the first time you’d called him that—not Hotch, not sir—just Aaron. His name felt like an invocation, a secret on your tongue, like you were stepping across a line that you could never uncross. His name tasted like honesty, like the beginnings of something that had been simmering for so long you’d almost convinced yourself it was only in your imagination.

In this moment, you knew everything you wanted to say--all of those stolen looks, touches, and feelings that were so powerful between you two--was written all over your face. Written so clearly not even a profiler was needed to decipher your looks. Yet, here he was, the best known to man.

He turned to you, and in his eyes, you saw a flicker of vulnerability, a glimpse of the man beneath the armor, the man who had been shaped and scarred by his past. For a heartbeat, the world seemed to pause; the weight of a thousand unspoken words filled the air between you.

"Sometimes, I think about how different things might be if I wasn’t who I am," he said, his voice barely a whisper, like he was afraid the confession might break something sacred between you.

He wasn't just talking about the job; he was talking about the man he had become because of it. The man who had lost his wife, who carried the guilt of her death like a second skin. The man who was both the protector and the prisoner of his own choices. You knew what he meant because you had seen it in his eyes so many times before, that yearning for a life untouched by tragedy, a life where he could love without fear, without the shadows of the past lurking in the background.

You opened your mouth to tell him that none of it mattered to you—that you’d take him as he was, battle-scarred and beautiful, that you’d hold every shattered piece of him and never let go. You were ready to say that you didn't need him to be anything but himself, that you’d seen all his flaws and loved him not despite them, but because of them.

But then, his phone buzzed, its vibration cutting through the fragile moment like a knife. You saw the shift in his eyes, the way the warmth turned to a kind of resigned acceptance. It was Jack, his son, his anchor to the real world. Jack was the reason Hotch still fought and still believed in goodness even when everything around him suggested otherwise.

He looked at you, and in his gaze, there was a depth of regret that you felt in your bones. An apology for the life he couldn’t lead, the words he couldn’t say. An unspoken I wish things were different, echoing louder than any spoken declaration ever could.

You forced a smile, swallowing the ache in your throat. "Go," you said gently. "He needs you."

And as he stood to leave, his hand brushed yours, a touch so fleeting yet so full of longing that it nearly undid you. It was the softest of goodbyes, a promise wrapped in sorrow. You watched him walk away, the rain outside blurring into streaks against the window, and all you could think was that love wasn’t supposed to feel like this—like reaching out in the dark, only to find that the light you’d longed for had slipped through your fingers once more.

You were left sitting there, alone in the bar that smelled faintly of smoke and regret, with the knowledge that sometimes the cruelest thing about love is knowing it exists but remains just out of reach. You knew, even then, that no matter how many almosts there were between you, fate would always find a way to keep you apart.

Because Aaron Hotchner was a man bound by duty and sacrifice, and you were a dream he could never quite allow himself to have.

From that quiet night in the Seattle hotel bar, time seemed to stretch out like a thin, fraying thread—pulling taut with every stolen glance, every touch that lingered just a second too long. You and Hotch fell back into the rhythm of your work, the familiar dance of chasing monsters and saving lives. Yet, something between you had shifted, a barely perceptible change that echoed louder than words.

In the weeks and months that followed, you found yourself noticing the small things—how Hotch would watch over you during tense moments in the field, his eyes always tracking your movements as if to ensure you were safe. The way his hand would brush against yours as he passed you a file, the touch so brief and unintentional, yet burning like a brand. There were times, in the quiet of the bullpen, when you’d look up from your desk to find him already watching you, his gaze softening in a way that he never let slip when anyone else was around.

You tried to convince yourself that you were imagining it, that you were reading too much into the way his voice grew softer when he spoke to you, or the way he always seemed to stand just a little too close. But then there were moments that shattered that illusion—like when your laughter would ring out in the middle of a tough day, and his eyes would light up, his guarded expression slipping for a fraction of a second, as if you were the only thing in the room he could see. The unspoken words hung between you like stars on a cloudy night, visible yet just out of reach, a constellation of almosts that never entirely formed a complete picture.

And through it all, you both remained silent, bound by your own hesitations, afraid to name what was so painfully obvious. For Hotch, the shadows of his past and the weight of his responsibilities were chains that held him back, making him believe that to love you was to invite disaster into your life. He buried his feelings under layers of duty and self-sacrifice, convincing himself that he was doing it for your sake, that by keeping his distance, he was somehow protecting you from the darkness that seemed to follow him wherever he went.

So you carried on, both pretending that the universe hadn't already decided for you—that fate hadn't already entwined your lives in a way that neither of you could untangle. And yet, as much as you tried to ignore it, there were those fleeting moments when the world seemed to fade away, and all that was left was the space between you—the space that felt like both a chasm and a promise, waiting for one of you to be brave enough to cross it.

It was in that aching silence that the night at Rossi’s found you, once again surrounded by your team, the people who could see more clearly than you could what was hidden in plain sight. And though you tried to bury the truth, to tuck your feelings into the corner of your heart where they couldn’t hurt you, you knew. You both knew. The gravity that pulled you toward each other was unyielding, relentless—a force that neither time nor circumstance could weaken, even if it was never enough to bring you fully together.

The evening at Rossi’s had a kind of stillness that only follows a storm. The team had just closed the book on a case that left its mark, one of those that burrowed under your skin and lingered in your thoughts long after it was over. The shadows of the day seemed to melt into the twilight as the sun dipped low, painting the sky in hues of amber and rose. Fireflies blinked like tiny lanterns, and the warm breeze carried the scent of pine and summer grass.

The team was scattered across Rossi’s backyard, laughter ringing out beneath the string lights that swayed gently in the evening air. You were there, surrounded by your found family, your laughter rising above the hum of cicadas, infectious and free, as Garcia told some outrageous story that made you double over with mirth. Your joy was like sunlight breaking through the clouds, and for a moment, the weight of the world seemed lighter.

Aaron Hotchner stood on the outskirts of the gathering, a glass of whiskey cradled in his hand, his eyes fixed on you. He didn’t join in the laughter, but his expression had softened, the hard edges of his face smoothed out by the glow of the setting sun. There was something in the way he looked at you—something almost tender as if he were memorizing the way you threw your head back when you laughed, the way your eyes crinkled with genuine delight. At that moment, he wasn’t SSA Aaron Hotchner, leader of the BAU; he was just a man standing at the edge of a life he wished he could have.

Morgan, always the perceptive one, followed Hotch’s gaze, shaking his head with a knowing smile. He stepped closer, clapping a hand on Hotch’s shoulder, breaking the spell for just a second.

"Man, you’re hopeless," Morgan said with a chuckle that was both amused and sympathetic. "We all see it. You look at her like she’s the only thing that matters. When are you gonna do something about it?"

Hotch’s eyes never left you, but the smile that touched his lips was small and tinged with sadness—a bittersweet acknowledgment of everything he wanted but couldn’t have. His voice was quiet, almost resigned, as he finally spoke. "I can’t, Derek," he said, his words heavy with a truth he could never quite shake. "She deserves more than the life I can offer her right now. She deserves someone who can give her the world, not a man whose world is constantly at risk of falling apart."

The admission was laced with more than just sorrow—it was drenched in regret, a painful awareness that his love for you would never be enough to protect you from the darkness that seemed to follow him wherever he went. Hotch knew better than anyone that love wasn’t just about wanting someone; it was about knowing what you could give them in return. And he feared that all he had to offer was a life shadowed by danger, weighed down by the ghosts of every case that stole another piece of his soul.

Morgan opened his mouth to argue, to tell him that love didn’t wait for the perfect moment or the perfect person, but he stopped himself. He knew that when it came to matters of the heart, Aaron Hotchner was a fortress of caution and restraint, too afraid to let the cracks show, too afraid to believe he could have something beautiful that might one day break.

And you—you didn’t hear the words exchanged between them, but you felt the gravity of Hotch’s gaze, that unguarded moment when his eyes met yours across the yard. It was the kind of look that pierced right through the armor you both wore, a silent confession in the space between heartbeats. He looked at you like you were the axis his world revolved around, like every laugh, every smile you gave, was a flicker of light in his otherwise dark universe.

Your breath hitched at the intensity of his stare, and for a split second, you thought that maybe—just maybe—he might finally cross the line he’d drawn so carefully between the two of you. But then, as always, you saw that familiar wall go back up, the flicker of vulnerability snuffed out by the burden of his unspoken promises and his own fears.

You turned away, laughter still ringing in your ears, but your heart was heavy with a sadness that you couldn't quite shake. You knew he was holding back not because he didn’t care but because he cared too much. And it ached, that knowledge—that you were both standing in your own way, two people reaching out from opposite sides of a canyon that life and circumstance had carved between you.

As you walked away, you felt the weight of his gaze on your back, a tether that pulled at you even as you drifted further apart. You wanted to turn back, to tell him that you didn’t need the world or some perfect life. All you needed was him—flawed, guarded, and broken in all the ways that mattered. But you knew he wouldn’t believe you, wouldn’t let himself believe that he could be someone’s happiness without also being their ruin.

And so, you let the moment pass, another almost in a series of almosts, knowing that sometimes love wasn’t about grand gestures or perfect endings. Sometimes, it was about the quiet moments in between, the ones where two souls recognized each other even when they were too afraid to meet halfway.

After that evening at Rossi’s backyard, the dynamic between you and Hotch seemed to settle into an unbearable kind of stillness, a delicate balancing act of emotions held just beneath the surface. 

He’d let his guard down for a fleeting moment, letting you glimpse the ache he tried so hard to hide, only to pull it back up as if regretting that he’d ever let it slip. 

You went back to the familiar routine of the BAU, solving cases and chasing unsubs, but something between you both had shifted—like a door that had been cracked open only to be slammed shut again. Each day felt like another opportunity slipping away; another chance lost to the silence of everything that went unsaid. The weight of his unspoken words hung in the air, suffocating, and you could feel time pressing in on you like a vice, the years ticking by with no promise of change. 

You tried to convince yourself that maybe this was all it would ever be—glances that lingered too long and conversations that always stopped just short of the truth.

So when a kind, reliable man came into your life, someone who was willing to build a future without hesitation, you let yourself be swept into the idea of a relationship that wasn’t built on waiting. 

You told yourself you couldn’t spend your life pining for a man who stood so close yet always seemed miles away, a man who looked at you like you were his entire world but still refused to reach out and hold it. 

And with that, you let go—at least on the surface—even though a part of you would always belong to the moments you’d shared with Aaron Hotchner, the almosts that could never quite become enough.

The day you started seeing someone new was the day you felt the invisible thread between you and Hotch snap—an agonizing, almost audible break in the connection that had always existed between you. 

You hadn’t planned on it happening like this, hadn’t intended for your heart to be caught between what could never be and what felt like a practical choice. But you were in your late twenties, and the ticking clock of your life seemed to grow louder with each passing year. You wanted a family, stability, a love that wasn’t constantly waiting in the shadows, and when he came along—a man who was kind, steady, and good on paper—you thought, maybe this was what you needed.

The team noticed almost immediately. You’d see their eyes dart toward Hotch whenever you mentioned your new boyfriend, a flicker of sympathy crossing their faces as if they knew what was happening but didn’t dare voice it. You tried to ignore it, tried to convince yourself that you were doing the right thing, that this man who wasn’t Aaron Hotchner was exactly what you needed to build a life you could actually count on.

But Hotch—he changed in a way you never expected. The warmth that used to live in his eyes when he looked at you vanished, replaced by something colder, something that felt like stone. He started keeping his distance, treating you with the same detached professionalism he gave to the world outside of the BAU. The touches that once lingered were gone, the secret smiles erased as if they’d never existed. He barely spoke to you unless it was about a case, his words clipped and precise, stripped of any softness.

It was a cruel irony, really. The more you tried to move on, the further he pulled away, until it felt like the bond you’d shared—the bond that had carried you through late-night stakeouts and whispered conversations in empty corridors—had disappeared entirely. It was as though the universe had taken back every promise it had silently made between the two of you.

One evening, you caught him watching you across the bullpen as you spoke on the phone with your boyfriend, your voice soft and your laughter genuine, or at least you tried to make it sound that way. You could feel Hotch’s gaze burning into you, a raw, aching sadness in his eyes, but there was something else too—something darker, twisted with regret and jealousy.

He turned away before you could meet his gaze, his jaw clenched, the tendons in his neck tight with restraint. And later, when you tried to approach him, to bridge the widening chasm between you, he was cold, distant in a way that sliced right through you. His answers were short, his tone indifferent, as if you were just another colleague, just another piece in the puzzle he had to solve.

“Hotch,” you said one evening when the distance between you became too much to bear, when you needed to understand why he’d turned his back on you so completely. “Why are you shutting me out?”

He looked at you then, his eyes hardened, his face a mask of stoic control, but there was a flicker of something beneath the surface—something that looked like hurt. "I'm not shutting you out," he said, his voice a low rumble. "I respect your choice. You made it clear that you’re moving on, and I’m just...following your lead."

The words stung more than you thought they would, like a slap to the face disguised as an apology. You wanted to scream that it wasn’t about moving on—it was about not being able to wait forever, not being able to live in this limbo of almosts and what-ifs--That you were tired of loving a man who wouldn’t allow himself to be loved back.

How could you move on when he could never take the leap of faith to even admit he felt what you were feeling so deeply inside. 

But you couldn’t say those things to him. Because deep down, you knew that your new relationship was a compromise, a safety net you’d cast beneath your heart to keep it from breaking any further. This man you were seeing—he was everything you thought you should want. He was stable, he was kind, he was willing to build a future. But he wasn’t Aaron Hotchner.

And maybe that was the cruelest part of it all—knowing that no matter how hard you tried to move forward, your heart would always circle back to him, to the man who stood just out of reach, the man who’d chosen duty and sacrifice over a chance at happiness. The man who watched you from the shadows, yearning for a love he could never let himself have.

You turned away, feeling the weight of his gaze on your back, the ghost of what you could have been haunting every step you took. And as you walked out of the bullpen, you couldn’t shake the feeling that with every step you took towards a life without him, you were leaving a part of yourself behind—the part that knew, no matter how good on paper anyone else might be, they would never be Aaron Hotchner.

The offer came quietly, slipped into Hotch's hands like a whisper of a storm—an undercover mission, months long, treacherous, the kind that could pull a person so deep into darkness that they might never find their way out. It was the sort of assignment that made sense for a man like him, a man who thrived on control and strategy, who was willing to sacrifice anything and everything to keep the world safe, even if it meant losing pieces of himself in the process.

You heard the news from someone else, the rumors swirling through the BAU like a slow poison. Hotch hadn’t come to you, hadn’t even asked for your opinion or told you he was considering it, and that omission cut deeper than any of his words ever could. When you finally confronted him, it was late in the evening, the bullpen mostly empty, and the quiet hum of the building seemed to amplify the anger simmering just beneath your skin.

"You’re really going to do this?" you demanded, your voice trembling more from hurt than from anger. "You’re considering risking your life on a months-long mission without even telling me? Without asking how I feel about it?"

He looked up from his desk, surprise flickering across his face before it quickly hardened into that mask of stoic control he wore so well. "It’s my job," he said simply, his tone cold and clipped as if that were all the explanation you needed. "I don’t need anyone’s permission to do my job."

"That’s not the point, and you know it," you snapped, the frustration boiling over now, your hands shaking. "This is about you making a decision that could get you killed without even thinking to talk to me about it. Do I really mean that little to you?"

For a moment, something vulnerable flashed in his eyes, a crack in the armor that you almost thought might break open, but then he shut it down, shut you out. His face hardened, and when he spoke, his words were like ice—sharp and cutting, each one landing like a blow.

"You have someone else in your life now," he said, the bitterness in his voice barely concealed. "Why would my decisions matter to you? You made your choice to move on, to be with someone who can give you what I can’t. I’m just following your lead, remember?"

You stared at him, disbelief turning to anger, your voice trembling with the force of emotions that you could no longer hold back. 

"My choice?" you repeated, the words laced with bitterness and hurt. "How can you stand there and talk about my choice when you never even gave me the chance to choose you? You kept me at arm’s length, Aaron. You decided from the start that I didn’t get a say in this—in us. Every time I got close, you shut me out before I could even show you that you were the one I wanted." 

The raw honesty in your voice cut through the air, and you could see the moment the truth of it struck him, a flicker of pain crossing his face, but he said nothing. He just stood there, silent, letting the distance grow between you like he always had, because it was easier to act like he was protecting you than to admit that he was protecting himself.

"You need to stop looking at me like I’m something I’m not," he continued, his voice steady but softer, almost as if he were pleading with you to understand. "I’m not the man you want me to be, and I’m done pretending like I could ever be enough for you. I’m going on this mission because that’s where I belong—in the field, doing something useful. And maybe when I’m gone, you’ll finally stop waiting for something that was never going to happen."

You stood there, stunned, the sting of his words ringing in your ears. It was like he’d taken everything between you—all the almosts, all the shared glances and whispered moments—and tossed it aside, reducing it to nothing. He was pushing you away, cutting the ties that bound you both, but not because he didn’t care. He was doing it because he cared too much because it was easier for him to hurt you now than to let himself believe in a future that could never exist.

"Fine," you said, your voice cracking despite your best efforts to hold it together. "Go on your mission, Aaron. If it’s so easy for you to walk away, then maybe you’re right. Maybe I was wrong about everything."

He flinched at that, just barely, a shadow of pain flickering across his face before he forced it away. He gave you a stiff nod, his jaw clenched so tight you thought it might break, and then he looked at you with those dark eyes that used to hold a world of unspoken words, now empty and closed off.

"It’s better this way," he said, but the words sounded hollow, even to him. "For both of us."

He turned back to his desk, the finality of it crashing down between you like a wall that could never be scaled. And in that moment, you knew—you knew that he’d made up his mind, not just about the mission but about the two of you. The bond that had once felt unbreakable was now shattered, the pieces scattered like ash in the wind.

As you walked away, your vision blurred with unshed tears; you couldn’t shake the image of him sitting there, rigid and unmoving, the weight of his own choices pressing down on his shoulders. You knew that this wasn’t just a job to him—it was his way of escaping, of punishing himself for wanting something he thought he didn’t deserve. And maybe, in the end, it was easier for him to go on that mission, to risk his life in a world of shadows, than to face the light of what he could have had with you.

And as he watched you leave, he knew he was making the only choice he thought he could live with—the choice that meant hurting you now to save you from the heartbreak he was certain he’d cause later. So he resolved to go on that mission, to bury himself in the danger and the darkness, where feelings didn’t complicate things and yearning for something he could never have didn’t make him feel so much like a man who’d lost his way.

In the aftermath of the confrontation, the tension between you and Hotch became palpable--especially leading up to his departure--a crackling silence that echoed through the bullpen. 

The rest of the team felt the shift immediately; they had seen the glances that used to pass between the two of you, the unspoken words that lingered in the air, and now, the cold distance that had replaced it was impossible to ignore.

Morgan was the first to approach Hotch. He found him in his office, staring out the window as if searching for answers that would never come. “Hotch,” Morgan said, his voice softer than usual, no trace of the teasing smirk he usually wore when talking about you. “You know you’re screwing this up, right? Whatever you think you’re doing to protect her, all you’re doing is pushing her away. And from what I’ve seen, she didn’t want protection—she wanted you.”

Hotch didn’t turn around. He kept his gaze fixed on the horizon, his shoulders tense, jaw clenched. “It’s not that simple, Derek,” he replied, his voice a low rumble of frustration and resignation. “I’m not the man she needs. She has someone who can give her a real future, not just a life spent waiting for me to come back in one piece. She deserves more than this.”

Hotch was just as surprised to hear his honesty come out to Morgan, as Morgan was surprised to hear the vulnerability pour out of Hotch.

Morgan let out a slow breath, shaking his head. “Man, you’re lying to yourself if you think this is for her sake. You’re afraid of getting hurt, of losing something else that matters. But you can’t live your whole life like that, Hotch. You’re gonna lose her either way if you keep this up.” 

Down the hall, hours later, there was a different conversation happening with you. As you sat there in the break room, the warmth of Garcia’s hug lingering on your shoulders, doubt started to creep into your thoughts like a slow-moving fog. You bit your lip, your fingers tracing the rim of your coffee cup, trying to steady the swirl of emotions that threatened to pull you under.

“Maybe he’s right,” you said quietly, your voice barely above a whisper, the words tasting bitter on your tongue. “Maybe I’m just fooling myself. What if I’ve been making something out of nothing this whole time? What if he never felt the same, and I’m just… delusional?” You laughed, but it was a hollow, shaky sound that betrayed the insecurity you’d been fighting to keep at bay. “I feel like I’m going crazy, holding onto every little look and touch like they mean something when maybe they never did.”

JJ’s eyes softened with understanding, and she reached out to cover your trembling hands with her own. “You’re not crazy,” she said firmly, her voice leaving no room for doubt. “I’ve known Hotch for a long time, and I’ve seen him shut everyone out, even when he didn’t have to. But with you—it’s different. He lets you in more than he ever has with anyone else. He cares about you in a way he doesn’t know how to handle.”

Emily, who had been listening quietly until now, leaned forward, her expression a mix of frustration and compassion. “Hotch isn’t the kind of guy to wear his heart on his sleeve,” she said, her tone sharp with conviction. “He’s terrified of getting close to someone and then losing them. But trust me, we’ve all seen it—the way he looks at you, the way he lights up when you walk into a room, even if he tries to hide it. He’s not fooling anyone but himself.”

Garcia nodded fiercely, her eyes blazing with determination. “Honey, you are not crazy,” she insisted, shaking her head. “He has feelings for you, and we all know it. He’s just too stubborn and scared to admit it to himself, let alone to you. That man looks at you like you’re the reason he keeps breathing. If he’s pretending he doesn’t care, it’s because he’s protecting his own heart, not because there’s nothing there.”

You felt the tears welling up, but this time, they weren’t just from the hurt. It was the relief of knowing that maybe—just maybe—you hadn’t been imagining things. That all those lingering glances, the stolen moments, the softness in his eyes when he thought no one was looking, they were real. You weren’t crazy, and you weren’t alone in this.

“But what if he never lets himself admit it?” you asked, your voice breaking, the vulnerability laid bare before them. “What if I’m just waiting for something that’s never going to happen?”

JJ squeezed your hand a little tighter, her smile gentle but determined. “He’s afraid, yes, but that doesn’t mean he’s lost to you. He’s hurting, and he’s hiding, but deep down, he feels it too. Sometimes, the right thing is the hardest thing to do. But he’s worth fighting for, and you are worth more than settling for half-truths and what-ifs.”

Garcia nodded in agreement, and Emily reached out, her hand warm on your shoulder, grounding you. “You’re not crazy for loving him,” Emily said softly. “He’s just scared of letting himself love you back. But one thing’s for sure—we’re not letting you give up on yourself, and we’re not letting you give up on him without a fight.”

You took a shaky breath, nodding, the tightness in your chest easing just a little. Because if they could see it—if the people who knew Aaron Hotchner better than almost anyone else believed in his feelings for you—then maybe, just maybe, there was still hope. Even if he was too afraid to see it, even if he was about to walk away, you weren’t as alone in this as you thought.

Hotch left quietly, like a whisper that faded into the darkness before you even realized he was gone. One moment he was there, stoic and silent in the bullpen, his eyes never quite meeting yours, and the next, he was just...gone. There was no goodbye, no last look, no chance to say what you’d been holding onto for so long. Just an empty desk, a hollow ache in your chest, and the knowledge that he’d chosen to walk away without a word.

You found out from Rossi, of all people, his expression grim yet resigned as he broke the news that Hotch had accepted the mission. The words felt like they echoed in slow motion, each syllable another crack in the fragile hope you’d clung to. Hotch had left for the dangerous undercover mission without telling you, without even giving you the courtesy of a goodbye. The hurt was immediate and sharp, slicing through the fragile shield you’d built around your heart.

He hadn’t come to see you, hadn’t given you a chance to plead with him to stay, and you knew why. Deep down, you knew that if he saw you one last time if he let himself look into your eyes filled with all that unsaid love, he wouldn’t be able to leave. He was running from the feelings he couldn’t control, from the bond that scared him more than any danger in the field ever could. He was a man who would rather face death head-on than confront the possibility of losing you.

But knowing his reasons didn’t dull the pain. It hurt like hell, like a betrayal you couldn’t shake. It felt like he’d taken the easy way out, choosing the mission over you because that was simpler because that was what he knew how to do. It felt like he was giving up on everything you’d never quite let yourself believe in.

That night, when you sat across from your boyfriend, the man who had tried so hard to make you happy, you felt a heaviness in your chest that you couldn’t ignore. He was everything you thought you should want—steady, dependable, willing to build a life with you without hesitation. But he wasn’t Aaron Hotchner, and that truth settled into your bones like the weight of something that could never be lifted.

“I can’t do this anymore,” you said, the words heavy with exhaustion and resignation, your voice cracking under the strain of holding yourself together. “It’s not fair to you, and it’s not fair to me. You’re a good man, and you deserve someone who loves you the way you deserve to be loved.”

He looked at you, confusion and sadness clouding his eyes, and though he tried to mask it, you could see the hurt there. “I thought we were building something real,” he said softly, the disappointment lacing his words. “Was it always him?”

You opened your mouth to deny it, to say that it wasn’t about Hotch, but the words died on your lips because that would have been a lie. Even though Hotch had walked away, even though he had chosen his mission over you, your heart was still tangled up in him, in the idea of what the two of you could have been if he’d just let himself believe in it.

“I don’t know how to love someone halfway,” you admitted, tears brimming in your eyes. “And I’m sorry, but my heart is somewhere else, with someone who might never let himself love me back. I didn’t want it to be like this, but it is, and you deserve more than I can give you right now.”

He gave you a small, sad smile, nodding as he accepted the truth, even though it clearly hurt. “I hope he’s worth it,” he said quietly, a hint of bitterness in his voice, and you couldn’t blame him for that.

As he walked away, leaving you alone in the quiet of your apartment, you felt the full force of your heartbreak crash over you. Hotch was gone, and you were left holding onto pieces of a future that never came to be. All you had now were memories, unspoken words, and the hollow ache of knowing that, in the end, he chose to walk away when you would have chosen him every single time.

The night Hotch left for the mission, Rossi insisted on driving him to the airport. It was late, the kind of late that makes the world feel hollow and deserted, and the car ride was quiet, punctuated only by the soft hum of the engine and the distant lights flickering by. Hotch had barely spoken a word since they left the office, his hands gripping the envelope in his lap like it was his lifeline, even though he knew he would never allow himself to deliver it.

Rossi watched him out of the corner of his eye, his seasoned gaze taking in every detail—the way Hotch’s jaw was clenched, the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers trembled ever so slightly around the edges of that letter. Rossi knew his friend too well, knew that look on his face wasn’t about the danger of the mission ahead but about the danger of something much closer to home.

“Don’t suppose you’re planning on actually giving that to her, are you?” Rossi asked, his voice soft but pointed, breaking the silence with a tone that brooked no argument.

Hotch’s eyes flickered over to Rossi, a flicker of surprise quickly masked by his usual stoic expression. “It’s not for her,” he said quietly, his voice laced with a kind of resignation that came from making hard choices. “It’s better this way. She’s better off without knowing.”

Rossi let out a slow, frustrated sigh, shaking his head as he pulled the car over to the curb just shy of the airport’s main entrance. He turned in his seat to face Hotch, his eyes sharp and filled with a kind of exasperated compassion. Without a word, Rossi reached over and plucked the letter from Hotch’s hands so smoothly that Hotch didn’t have time to react.

“Dave, don’t—” Hotch started, but Rossi cut him off, holding the letter up between them.

“You think you’re protecting her by keeping this to yourself?” Rossi asked his voice a low growl, softened only by the underlying empathy in his eyes. “You think walking away with all these words stuck inside you is some noble sacrifice? All you’re doing is making sure she never knows how much she meant to you. You’re making sure she never gets the chance to choose you.”

Hotch’s defenses crumbled just a little, his face tightening as he swallowed hard. “I’m doing what’s best for her,” he insisted, the words sounding hollow even to his own ears. “If I give her that letter, if I say these things out loud, it’ll only make it harder for her when I’m gone. It’s my job to keep her safe—even from me.”

Rossi leaned in closer, his eyes boring into Hotch’s, unwavering. “You’re a damn fool, Aaron,” he said, his voice softer now but no less fierce. “She’s not some damsel in distress who needs you to protect her from the truth. She’s strong, and she’s got a right to know how you feel. And if you walk away from this without giving her that chance, then you’re not protecting her—you’re just protecting yourself from getting hurt.”

Hotch opened his mouth to argue, to say something—anything—that might justify the fear that kept him chained to his own doubts. But he couldn’t. All he could do was watch as Rossi tucked the letter into the inside pocket of his jacket, his expression unreadable yet determined.

“Dave,” Hotch sighed, his voice cracking under the weight of vulnerability he could no longer mask.

“No,” Rossi replied simply, shaking his head. “I’m not letting you get on that plane with unfinished business. You can be mad at me all you want, but someday you’ll thank me for this. She deserves to know that you loved her enough to be afraid and that you were man enough to admit it.”

Rossi’s words hung heavy in the air between them, and for the first time in a long while, Hotch didn’t have a comeback. He didn’t have the strength to fight the truth he had been running from—the truth that he was terrified to lose something he never really had the courage to hold onto. And in that moment, as he watched Rossi’s car pull away, he knew that this mission wasn’t about risking his life for the job; it was about trying to outrun the love he was too afraid to face.

As Rossi drove off, he knew exactly what he had to do. He would wait until the time was right, and when Hotch was safely away, he would give you that letter. He would give you a chance that Hotch had never allowed himself to take—a chance to understand the truth that had always been hiding behind his stoic gaze, the truth that he loved you too much to let you see him break.

The mission was supposed to take months, long enough for everyone to settle into the idea that Hotch would be gone and that life at the BAU would continue without him. But something went wrong in the field--something unpredictable and chaotic that pulled him out of the operation sooner than expected. 

The whole team was gathered around the screen at the BAU, watching in real-time as events unfolded like a nightmare they couldn’t wake up from.

You watched in silence, your heart lodged in your throat as Hotch risked his life in a split-second decision to save the mission’s integrity. 

You knew he was trained for this, that he was capable of facing danger head-on, but seeing it happen right in front of your eyes, seeing the bullets fly and the chaos ensue with Hotch at the center of it—it tore something inside you apart.

Your hands clenched into fists, nails digging into your palms as a mixture of fear, anger, relief, and heartbreak churned within you. You hated that you still cared so much, hated that watching him put himself in danger made you want to scream at him, to tell him he had no right to scare you like this after everything he’d done.

When it felt like the scene from a horror movie had ended on the scene, and Hotch was declared safe, a wave of relief swept through the room, followed immediately by a heavy silence. 

The rest of the team exchanged glances filled with sympathy and understanding, but you couldn’t look at them. You couldn’t look at him. You turned away, biting back the tears that threatened to spill over, feeling betrayed by your own heart.

Hotch returned to the BAU not long after, weary and haunted, but alive. And when he stepped back into the bullpen, his eyes searching for you, you couldn’t bring yourself to meet his gaze. The hurt and betrayal were too raw, too fresh. He tried to speak to you, to offer some kind of explanation or apology, but you turned on your heel and walked away, leaving him standing there with the words dying on his lips.

Rossi watched the scene unfold with a frown, his hand brushing against the letter still tucked away in his jacket. He’d thought the mission would last long enough to give Hotch the chance to come to his senses, to see the truth he’d been too afraid to confront. But now, as he watched the unspoken agony between you and Hotch, he knew that the letter might be the only way to bridge the chasm growing wider by the day.

The tension between you and Hotch was suffocating as you stepped onto the jet for your first case back together. The team tried to maintain a semblance of normalcy, their conversations forced and awkward as they pretended not to notice the icy silence between you and Hotch. But the pain was palpable, hanging in the air like a storm waiting to break.

As the jet cut through the sky, the two of you could barely put your differences aside long enough to discuss the case. Every exchange between you was clipped, your voices low and sharp, each word laced with unspoken accusations. Hotch’s usual calm demeanor was replaced by a tightly controlled frustration, and you could feel your own anger boiling over, fueled by the fear and hurt of watching him almost die and then come back as if nothing had changed.

When he snapped at you over a minor detail, something in you broke. “You don’t get to do that!” you said, your voice rising despite the presence of the team. The pain in your voice was unmistakable, the hurt you’d been holding back finally spilling out. “You don’t get to act like everything’s fine and then snap at me like I’m the one who’s out of line. Not after what you put me through, not after you left without a word.”

Hotch’s eyes flashed with something between guilt and anger, his own control starting to crack. “I’m doing my job,” he said, his voice clipped and colder than you’d ever heard it. “We have a case to solve, and I need you to focus.”

The words stung, cutting deeper than any blade. “Focus?” you said, incredulous, your voice trembling with barely contained emotion. “I watched you almost get yourself killed, Hotch! I watched you risk your life without a second thought, and now you expect me to just sit here and act like none of that matters? Like you leaving didn’t tear me apart?”

The rest of the team exchanged uneasy glances, shifting uncomfortably in their seats. Morgan looked like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how to, while JJ’s eyes were filled with empathy for both of you. Emily stared down at her hands, biting her lip, and even remotely through a screen, Garcia seemed to have lost her usual words of comfort.

Hotch opened his mouth to respond, but whatever he was about to say died on his lips. He couldn’t meet your gaze, couldn’t face the truth of what he had done--the loss of your trust, the pain--and that made you even angrier. The silence between you was thick--heavy with all the words left unsaid, the accusations that neither of you was brave enough to voice.

Rossi had been watching everything unfold, his gaze steady and knowing, his years of experience seeing straight through the walls both you and Hotch had built. He’d seen the way you fought on the jet, the way your voices trembled with hurt and frustration, each word a thinly veiled cry for something that neither of you knew how to reach. He knew that you were both hurting in ways that went beyond words, that the love and the pain you shared were tangled together like a knot neither of you could untie.

He’d hoped that Hotch would find the courage to say the things he’d written in that letter, that seeing you again and almost losing his life would finally push him to confront his feelings. But as the days went by and the distance between you grew, Rossi knew that the time had come to step in. He could see that Hotch’s stubbornness and your heartbreak were tearing you both apart, and he could no longer stand by and watch.

One evening, after the team had returned to the BAU from the case, Rossi found you alone in the dimly lit kitchenette. You were leaning against the counter, staring into your coffee cup like it might hold some kind of answer to the mess your heart was in. The rest of the building was quiet, the hum of the lights the only sound in the room. This was the moment—private, away from the eyes of the team—when Rossi knew he had to act.

He approached you slowly, his footsteps soft against the tile floor. You looked up as he entered the room, your eyes red-rimmed and tired, and for a second, you tried to force a smile. But Rossi knew better; he saw right through it.

"Y/N," he said gently, his voice softening with the kind of understanding that only years of watching lives unravel could bring. "I think it’s time you knew something. Something he should have told you himself."

You furrowed your brow in confusion, but before you could ask, Rossi reached into the inside pocket of his jacket. He pulled out the letter, the envelope worn from where his fingers had traced over it time and time again, waiting for this moment. He held it out to you, your name scrawled across the front in Hotch’s precise, careful handwriting.

Your eyes widened as you took in the sight of it, your heart suddenly pounding in your chest. "What is this?" you whispered, though you already had a sense of what it might be, the truth of it hovering just beyond your grasp.

“It’s from him,” Rossi said quietly, his gaze never leaving yours. "He wrote it before he left on that mission. He never meant for you to see it, but I think you need to. You need to know what he’s been holding back all this time."

Your hand shook slightly as you reached out, taking the letter from Rossi. His fingers lingered for just a moment as if transferring not just a piece of paper but the weight of all the unspoken words that Hotch had never been able to say. You could feel the letter’s weight, heavier than you ever imagined a piece of paper could be.

Rossi’s voice was low, almost a whisper, as he said, “Read it, Y/N. It’s time you knew the truth he’s been too afraid to tell you.”

You stared down at the envelope, your fingers trembling as you traced the letters of your name, written by the man who had torn your world apart—the man you still loved, even after everything. The rest of the world seemed to fade into the background as you turned the envelope over, slowly breaking the seal, your breath catching in your throat.

And as you began to unfold the letter, your heart racing with every inch of paper revealed, you knew that whatever was written there would change everything between you and Aaron Hotchner—forever. The truth that had been hiding in the darkness was finally coming to light, and you braced yourself for the impact of words you’d been waiting to hear all along.

The world seemed to fall away as you stared down at the letter in your hands, the one that Hotch had written in a moment of unguarded honesty. His handwriting, precise and steady, almost mocked you with its calmness as you unfolded the paper, knowing that the words on it held the power to either heal or shatter you all over again.

Your hands shook slightly as you began to read, your eyes scanning the lines that laid his soul bare. The letter was filled with the words he could never bring himself to say—the truth he’d hidden behind layers of stoic professionalism and self-sacrifice. He wrote about how he had fallen in love with you so completely that it terrified him, how every time he saw you smile, it felt like the light was breaking through the darkness that had wrapped itself around his life.

He admitted that he had left not because he didn’t care but because he cared too much. He was afraid that if he stayed, he would put you in danger, that the chaos of his world would consume you, and he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if anything ever happened to you because of him. He wrote that he was a coward for not letting you in, for not giving you a chance to love him back, and that leaving was the only way he thought he could protect you from himself.

But the most painful confession was how much he regretted not being brave enough to stay. How every day away from you felt like he was living half a life, pretending to be fine while his heart was still tethered to you. He poured out all the vulnerability he’d never let himself show, the raw edges of his love and fear, and by the end, you could barely see the words through the blur of your tears.

You felt your heartbreak and heal all at once, the anguish of his departure mixed with the overwhelming relief of knowing that you hadn’t imagined it, that he did love you—he always had. And yet, there was still anger, still hurt that he could be so selfless and so selfish all at the same time.

You felt reactive, but you knew this moment needed privacy, a space where you could let the raw hurt and anger spill out without holding back. That’s why you found yourself standing in front of Hotch’s apartment door, your heart pounding in your chest, the letter clutched tightly in your trembling hand.

You had rehearsed what you were going to say, how you would confront him for all the pain he’d caused, but the moment he opened the door, everything you’d planned to say disappeared in the face of his shock. He stood there, eyes wide and startled, his hair disheveled, looking as though he’d been caught in the middle of a moment he wasn’t ready for. When he saw the letter in your hand, his face went pale, and you saw something crack in his expression—fear, regret, the realization that there was no more running from this.

“Why?” you demanded, your voice shaking with the weight of everything you felt. You stepped into his apartment without waiting for an invitation, your eyes blazing as you faced him. “Why would you write all of this down, admit that you love me, that you were too afraid to stay, and then just leave? How could you walk away when you knew how much it would hurt me?”

Hotch looked like he’d been punched in the gut. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out at first. He looked down at his hands, then back at you, his eyes glistening with a vulnerability that broke through his stoic facade. “I—I didn’t want you to read that letter,” he said finally, his voice raw and unsteady. “I thought if you never knew how I felt, you could move on, be happy without me holding you back.”

You let out a bitter laugh, shaking your head, feeling the tears you’d held back for so long start to spill. “You still don’t get it, do you?” you said, your voice cracking with a mix of anger and heartbreak. “You never gave me a choice, Aaron! You decided what was best for me, like I was some kind of problem you needed to solve, without ever asking me if that’s what I wanted. You left me here, broken, thinking that I wasn’t enough for you, that you didn’t care, when all along you were just too scared to let me in!”

Hotch’s face crumpled as he took a step toward you, his hands shaking slightly as he reached out, only to stop himself. 

“I thought I was protecting you,” he said, his voice almost a whisper, filled with the kind of pain you’d never heard from him before. “I thought if I stayed, if I let myself love you the way I do, that I’d put you in danger, that I’d ruin everything good in your life. But I see now that I was wrong. All I did was hurt you.”

You looked at him, your eyes blazing with hurt and love all at once. “I was ready to fight for you, Aaron,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper, each word trembling with the force of your emotion. “I was ready to take on the risk, the danger, all of it, because I loved you that much. And you never even gave me the chance to choose you back.”

Hotch’s breath hitched, and you saw his eyes fill with unshed tears. For the first time, his stoic mask slipped completely, and he looked like a man laid bare, all his defenses shattered. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “I thought I was doing what was best for you, but all I did was run away from the one thing that mattered most. I didn’t trust myself to be the man you deserve, and I was a coward for that.”

The apartment felt too small, the walls closing in around the two of you as you stood there, your heartbreaking and mending all at once. You wanted to yell at him, to shake him and make him see just how much he’d hurt you, but you also wanted to reach out and hold him, to tell him that you understood, that you were just as scared as he was.

“Aaron,” you said, your voice shaking but steady, your eyes meeting his. “You don’t get to make these decisions for me. You don’t get to push me away to protect me. I don’t know if I can forgive you yet, but I know that I want to make that choice myself. I want to decide if this is worth the risk if you are.”

He nodded slowly, his gaze never leaving yours, his expression raw and pleading. He felt tension both leave his shoulders, but a new weight appear.  

“I promise,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper, filled with the kind of vulnerability he never let anyone see. “No more running. No more hiding. I’ll fight for this, for us, if you’ll let me. I don’t want to lose you again.”

You took a shaky breath, feeling the gravity of his promise settle into your heart. The anger and hurt were still there but softened by the truth of his words. “I’m not saying it’ll be easy,” you said softly, the tears still glistening in your eyes. I’m not saying I’ll forgive you right away. But if you’re willing to stay and fight for this—for us—then maybe we still have a chance.”

Hotch let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, a small, tentative smile breaking through the pain in his eyes. He reached for your hand, and this time, you didn’t pull away. His fingers curled around yours, trembling slightly as if afraid this was all a dream that might slip through his grasp.

And as you stood there in the quiet of his apartment, your hand in his, you knew that whatever happened next, you were finally on the same side, facing the fear, the risk, the uncertainty—together. The story between you and Aaron Hotchner was far from over; in fact, it had only just begun.

As the words between you and Hotch settled into the quiet of his apartment, a heavy silence filled the space—not the kind that was strained or uncomfortable, but the kind that wrapped itself around you like a blanket, pulling you both closer to a truth that neither of you was ready to let go of. There was something fragile in the air, something tender that neither of you dared to name, but you both knew it was there. It was the moment you’d both been waiting for, even if you’d never admitted it to yourselves.

You were still standing so close to him, your hand resting in his, and for once, neither of you pulled away. The soft light from the lamp in the corner cast shadows across his face, highlighting the vulnerability in his eyes and the quiet desperation that said he didn’t want this moment to end. He was holding onto you like you were his lifeline, like letting go meant he’d lose more than he could bear.

Hotch took a shaky breath, his thumb brushing gently across your knuckles, his touch so tender it almost broke you all over again. "Stay a little longer," he whispered, his voice barely more than a breath, the vulnerability in his words laying everything bare. "I know I have no right to ask, but please... just stay."

Your heart ached at the rawness of his plea, and you couldn’t bring yourself to leave, not yet. You nodded slowly, letting out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. "Okay," you said softly, your voice laced with the same longing that echoed in his eyes. "Just a little longer."

Without a word, he led you to the couch, and the two of you sat down, closer than you’d ever been before. Hotch’s arm rested along the back of the couch, his fingers brushing the fabric near your shoulder as if he was afraid to reach for more but couldn’t bring himself to pull away. You turned toward him, your knees almost touching, and for the first time, the distance that had always seemed insurmountable between you felt like it was finally closing.

He looked at you with such intensity, such quiet longing that it made your chest tighten. Slowly, hesitantly, he reached out and tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering near your temple as if memorizing the way you looked at this moment. "I never thought I could let myself have this," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, his eyes searching yours like he was afraid of what he might find.

You felt the tears well up in your eyes again, but this time they were softer, a mixture of relief and sadness and everything you’d kept locked inside for so long. You placed your hand over his, holding it against your cheek, and closed your eyes for a moment, just feeling the warmth of his touch, the way his thumb traced gentle circles against your skin.

"I’m here now," you whispered, your voice breaking slightly. "I’m here, Aaron. And I’m not going anywhere—not unless you make me."

For a moment, it was as if the world outside had ceased to exist, and it was just the two of you in that small, quiet space. Hotch’s forehead touched yours, the breath between you shared and steadied, and in that touch, there was more intimacy than any words could convey. You could feel the rise and fall of his chest, the way his breathing matched yours, and you knew he was holding onto this moment as if it were a lifeline.

He closed his eyes, his voice so soft and broken that it almost didn’t reach you. "I don’t deserve this," he murmured, his lips just inches from yours, not in a kiss but in a closeness that held more promise than any kiss ever could. "I don’t deserve you."

You opened your eyes, meeting his gaze with a determination you hadn’t felt in so long, your voice trembling but sure. "Maybe you don’t," you said, a hint of a smile breaking through your tears. "But I’m giving you the chance to prove me wrong."

Hotch let out a breath that was almost a laugh, a sound so soft and genuine it made your heartache. He pressed his forehead against yours, his hands coming to cradle your face with a gentleness that you didn’t know he possessed like you were the most precious thing he’d ever held. "I’m not going to let you down again," he promised, his voice raw and filled with something that felt like hope. "I’ll fight for this—for us."

The two of you stayed like that; the world narrowed down to the space between your breaths, the gentle touch of his hands against your skin, and the unspoken promise of everything that lay ahead. You didn’t need to say anything else, didn’t need to break the silence with words that could never capture what this moment meant. You just held each other, the two of you finally, truly, being—no masks, no walls, just you and Aaron.

Neither of you wanted to let go, but you knew you had to eventually. So, when you finally pulled back, his hand still lingering on your cheek, you let out a soft sigh. "I should go," you said, your voice gentle, though your heart ached at the thought of leaving.

He nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving yours, his thumb brushing one last tender stroke across your cheek. "I know," he said, his voice filled with the quiet acceptance of a man who had found something he didn’t want to lose. "But not too far, okay?"

You gave him a small, tearful smile, your fingers wrapping around his for just a moment longer. "Never too far," you promised.

And as you stood up, reluctantly letting go of his hand, you both knew that something had shifted between you, something irreversible and true. You weren’t sure where this would lead, how much more pain or healing lay ahead, but for the first time, you both believed in the possibility of something real—something worth fighting for. And that was enough.

As fate would have it, just as you and Hotch finally seemed to find solid ground, the world pulled you back into the chaos that had always been your reality. A big case came barreling in like a storm, sweeping the entire BAU into its relentless grip. The details were brutal and time-sensitive, and there was no room for hesitation as you all packed your bags and headed off to the next city to face yet another battle in the war against darkness.

You and Hotch barely had a moment to catch your breath, much less to explore the fragile new beginning you’d carved out in his apartment. The case consumed you both, the demands of the job dragging you into late-night briefings, endless strategy sessions, and the exhaustion that came from running on adrenaline and sheer determination.

But through it all, there was something different in the way he looked at you—something softer, something that made your heart skip a beat even in the midst of chaos. There were stolen glances across the conference room, fleeting touches that lingered a second too long when no one was watching. It was like you were both holding onto a secret, a promise whispered between the cracks of what had always been left unsaid.

It was late—long past midnight—and the case was at a standstill for the night. You were in your hotel room, staring at the ceiling, mind racing with the pieces of the puzzle that didn’t quite fit together when a soft knock came at your door. You knew it was him even before you opened it, your heart pounding as you turned the handle to find Hotch standing there, looking more unguarded and raw than you’d ever seen him.

He was still in his suit, but his tie was gone, the top buttons of his shirt undone, and he looked like he’d been carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders for too long. He met your eyes, his own filled with something that looked like vulnerability like fear and longing tangled into one.

“Can I come in?” he asked, his voice low and almost hesitant like he was afraid you’d turn him away.

You nodded, stepping aside to let him in, your pulse thrumming in your veins. Hotch walked in slowly, closing the door behind him, and for a moment, he just stood there, looking at you like he wasn’t sure if he should say something or stay silent.

"I thought I could do this," he said, his voice barely more than a whisper. "I thought I could keep it professional, keep my distance. But every time I look at you, every time I see you put yourself in danger for this job, it terrifies me. And I can’t keep pretending that I’m not in love with you."

The words left you breathless, your mind reeling, and before you could even think, you closed the distance between you, reaching for him like he was the only solid thing in your world. His hands found your face, his touch gentle but desperate like he was afraid you might disappear if he didn’t hold on tight enough.

"Aaron," you whispered, your voice trembling with all the emotions you’d kept bottled up for so long. "You don’t have to keep pretending anymore. I’m here. I’m right here."

And then his lips were on yours, and it was like the world stopped spinning. The kiss was soft at first, tentative, almost like he was afraid to believe it was real. But then it deepened, all the years of longing and restraint shattering in an instant, replaced by a raw, desperate need that neither of you could hold back. His hands slipped into your hair, holding you to him like he was afraid to let go, and you felt his breath hitch against your lips.

You broke the kiss just long enough to whisper his name, to look into his eyes and see the love and fear and desire that mirrored your own. "Stay with me," you said, your voice so soft, almost a plea.

He didn’t answer with words; he didn’t have to. He kissed you again, harder this time, more certain, his hands trailing down your sides as he pulled you closer. It was a kiss that spoke of everything you’d both been too afraid to say, everything that had been locked away in silence for so long. He poured himself into it—all the loneliness, the longing, the love he’d kept hidden.

You moved together in a blur of tangled limbs and whispered words, the unspoken promises and all the almosts finally becoming something real. You couldn’t recall at what point whose clothes ended up on the floor first or how it felt like it took no time for your skin to feel on fire under each brush of Hotch’s fingertips against your skin. 

Hotch’s touch was reverent, almost worshipful, as if he was memorizing every inch of your skin, the way you felt beneath his fingertips. His eyes never left yours, even as he kissed a trail down your neck, his breath warm and shaky against your skin.

When he finally laid you down on the bed, his movements were slow, almost hesitant, like he wanted to savor every second, like he couldn’t quite believe you were really here with him. You reached up, brushing your fingers against his cheek, guiding him closer, and he let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

As he hovered above you, his forehead pressed to yours, you could see the vulnerability in his eyes—the love and fear and hope all tangled together. "I’ve never let myself have this," he whispered, his voice rough with emotion. "But with you, I can’t pretend anymore."

You pulled him down into another kiss, softer this time, filled with the tenderness that had always been between you, even when you were too afraid to acknowledge it. And then you were lost in each other, in the feel of his hands on your skin, his lips trailing fire across your body, the way he breathed your name like it was a prayer. 

It was as if his hands and body knew you already--knew exactly how you ticked.

When he finally sank into you, it was with a sigh that seemed to echo in the quiet room, a moment so full of love and longing that it brought tears to your eyes. You moved together, slow and gentle, the world outside fading away until there was nothing left but the two of you, the rhythm of your breaths and the way his eyes held yours like you were the only thing that mattered.

It wasn’t just about desire—it was about finding each other in the dark, about all the broken pieces of yourselves fitting together in a way that finally made sense. It was about love, pure and simple, the kind of love that had always been there, waiting for the right moment to unfold.

When the morning light filtered through the curtains, you woke up wrapped in his arms, your head resting on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. For once, Aaron Hotchner looked at peace, his eyes soft as he watched you, his fingers tracing gentle patterns on your back.

"Good morning," he said, his voice still rough from sleep, a small, tender smile playing at his lips.

"Good morning," you whispered back, feeling the warmth of his smile settle over you like a blanket.

He brushed a strand of hair from your face, his eyes filled with something that looked like wonder. "I don’t want this to end," he said softly, his voice filled with an honesty that took your breath away. "I’m done pretending, done pushing you away. I want this—I want you."

You leaned up and pressed a gentle kiss to his lips, your smile growing as you pulled back just enough to look into his eyes. "I’m not going anywhere, Aaron," you said. "Not anymore."

And as you lay there in each other’s arms, the promise of everything you’d both been too afraid to dream of was finally within reach. No more running, no more hiding. Just the two of you, facing whatever came next—together.

When the case was finally over, thee unsub was in custody, and the tension that had bound the team so tightly for the past few days had begun to loosen. You and Hotch had done your best to remain professional throughout the investigation, maintaining a careful distance despite the undeniable connection between you. Every stolen glance and fleeting touch during the case had only reminded you of the night you’d shared together, the secret that seemed to hang in the air between you.

Now, as the jet hummed quietly on the journey back to the BAU, the rest of the team settled into their seats, some rifling through case files while others engaged in quiet conversation. There was a sense of relief in the air, the kind that came after a job well done, but you could still feel Hotch's gaze on you, lingering with something softer, something unspoken that only the two of you understood.

Hotch was sitting directly across from you, his posture as calm and composed as ever, but the way he was watching you betrayed the quiet storm of emotions he was trying to keep in check. He shifted slightly, then cleared his throat, drawing the attention of not just you but everyone around.

Your name slipped from his lips, steady but tinged with a hint of vulnerability that made your pulse quicken. "I was thinking," he said, his voice a little softer than usual, his eyes locked on yours, "when we get back, maybe we could have dinner sometime." He paused for a fraction of a second, his gaze never wavering. "A real dinner. You know, a date."

There was a split second of silence before Morgan let out a low whistle, his face breaking into a wide, knowing grin. He leaned back in his seat, folding his arms over his chest as he shook his head in amusement. "Well, damn, Hotch. I didn’t think you had it in you," he said with a teasing smile, his eyes twinkling with genuine happiness for the two of you. "Took you long enough, man."

JJ and Emily exchanged quick glances, both smiling like they’d just witnessed something monumental. JJ’s smile grew wider, and she gave you a look that was equal parts supportive and relieved. "It’s about time," she said, her tone gentle but filled with a knowing warmth. "I think we’ve all been waiting for this."

Even Reid, who had been lost in a book just moments before, looked up with a surprised but pleased expression. "Statistically speaking," he said thoughtfully, tilting his head slightly as he processed the scene, "the odds were always in favor of you two ending up together. It’s good to see that probability playing out."

You couldn’t help but laugh softly, a mix of embarrassment and joy coloring your cheeks. Hotch, who rarely let his guard down in front of the team, surprised you again by not hiding his smile—a real, genuine smile that lit up his face and made the corners of his eyes crinkle.

"So," he said, his voice lower now, meant just for you even though the whole team was listening. "Is that a yes?"

You nodded, unable to suppress the smile that spread across your face. "Yes," you said softly, your eyes meeting his with a warmth that spoke of everything unspoken between you. "It’s a date."

Hotch’s smile widened just a touch more, and you saw a flicker of relief in his eyes, a quiet kind of joy that made your heart swell. It was such a simple thing—a date—but it felt like a promise, a beginning, a chance for something real outside the chaos of your lives.

As the moment settled between you, the jet full of your colleagues who had become your family, Morgan let out another chuckle. "Just remember, Hotch," he said, grinning as he looked at both of you, "we’ll all be expecting a full report."

Emily smirked, giving you a playful nudge with her elbow. "And we’ll be rooting for you guys," she added, her eyes sparkling with genuine happiness. "All the way."

You felt a warmth spread through you, not just from the support of your team but from the quiet certainty that you were finally on the same page with Hotch. This was more than just a fleeting moment; it was the start of something that neither of you was willing to let slip away this time.

As the jet continued its journey through the sky, you could feel the shift in the air, a sense of hope that was shared by everyone in that small space. It wasn’t just about the kiss you’d shared or the night you’d spent together. It was about a future, a chance for happiness that you both finally believed in.

And it all began with a date, a new beginning that held the promise of everything you’d both been too afraid to dream of—together.

Tag List:

@zaddyhotch

@estragos

@todorokishoe24

@looking1060

@khxna

[novaursa]

The Flames We Carry

- Summary: Ser Criston Cole expected for Rhaenys and Meleys to appear over Rook's Rest. To Gwayne's horror, Rhaenyra sent her sister instead: you.

- Paring: targ!reader/Gwayne Hightower

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N, is Rhaeyra's younger sister and is bonded to Silverwing. These events happen after Skyfall. If you want to read all the parts in chronological order visit my blog, the list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Mature 16+ (there is no adult content, but there are visual descriptions of violence, blood and gore)

- Word count: 3 712

- A/N: this was scheduled to be posted tomorrow, but I've decided post extra today. Enjoy.

- Tag(s): @deniixlovezelda @duck-duck-goose2 @aadu2173 @sachaa-ff

Ser Gwayne Hightower had always been a man torn between loyalty and desire, but never more so than in the days leading up to the siege at Rook's Rest. The tension between him and Ser Criston Cole had grown sharper since that fateful day when he let you—the Princess, Y/N—slip through his grasp before their march on Duskendale. He could still feel the warmth of your skin against his, the taste of your lips lingering like a ghostly memory, a sweet torment. You had been his time and time again, even if only in stolen moments, and each encounter had deepened the scars on his heart.

Gwayne knew he should be focusing on the battle ahead, yet his thoughts strayed back to you, his mind replaying that night over and over. The look in your eyes when you realized he would let you go, when you understood the depth of his feelings despite all the bitterness that lingered between your Houses. He had set you free, knowing full well it was an act of treason in all but name, and yet he would do it again if it meant sparing you the horrors to come.

But now, at Rook's Rest, everything was escalating rapidly. Ser Criston's scorpion ballistas and archers were poised in ambush, waiting for the dragon they expected: Rhaenys on Meleys. The war council had been clear, and Gwayne had heard it all through gritted teeth—Aemond and Aegon would flank her on Vhagar and Sunfyre, trapping her in dragonfire and steel. It was a ruthless plan, one that made his stomach churn. He had sworn to protect his family, his king, and yet all he could think about was you.

The skies darkened, a shadow sweeping over the encampment. The men tensed, eyes raised to the heavens as the flap of wings grew louder. Gwayne’s heart pounded in his chest as he looked up, expecting the crimson scales of Meleys. But what he saw instead made his blood run cold.

Silverwing.

The graceful, silvery-grey dragon, once ridden by Queen Alysanne, now bonded to you. Gwayne’s heart twisted painfully in his chest. This was not supposed to happen. It was not supposed to be you in the skies above, facing down two monstrous dragons with only the loyal Silverwing at your side. Panic clawed at his throat, his mind racing. He could see it in Criston's eyes too—the slight widening, the realization that their ambush had just become a slaughter. Not for Rhaenys, but for you.

“No…” The word slipped from Gwayne’s lips before he could stop it. Without a second thought, he rushed toward the nearest scorpion, where soldiers prepared to take aim at Silverwing. His vision tunneled, anger and fear boiling together in his veins. He couldn’t let this happen—not to you.

"Stand down!" Gwayne shouted at the soldiers, shoving one aside with enough force to send the man sprawling. The crew looked at him in confusion, but Gwayne didn’t care. He grabbed hold of the crank, making it impossible for them to load the bolt.

“What in the Seven Hells are you doing?!” Criston’s voice was a venomous hiss as he stalked toward Gwayne, eyes blazing with fury. “You’re sabotaging the plan! Move, or I’ll have you—”

Gwayne spun around, his hand already on the hilt of his sword. “I won’t let you do this, Criston. Not to her.”

Criston’s lip curled in disgust. “Her? You would betray your king, your House, for a traitorous whore who—"

The sound of steel rang out as Gwayne drew his sword, slashing at the scorpion mechanism, rendering it useless. The soldiers scattered, unwilling to get caught in the confrontation between two knights who had both earned their deadly reputations. Criston’s eyes narrowed, and in the blink of an eye, his sword was in his hand, the tip leveled at Gwayne’s chest.

“You’ll die for this treachery, Hightower,” Criston spat, the words laced with venom.

“I would die a thousand times before I let you kill her,” Gwayne growled back, his voice low and dangerous. “I won’t let you harm her.”

Above them, the roar of dragons filled the air as Silverwing engaged with Sunfyre and Vhagar. Dragonfire crackled like thunder, the heat from the flames casting an eerie glow over the battlefield. You were up there, fighting for your life, for your cause. Gwayne’s heart ached with every fiery burst, knowing that each moment could be your last.

Criston lunged, and Gwayne barely parried the strike in time. The two knights clashed, steel against steel, each strike filled with desperation and fury. Gwayne fought with everything he had, driven by the need to protect you, even if it meant cutting down one of his own.

“Do you think she cares for you, Gwayne?!” Criston taunted between strikes. “She’s a dragonrider, a princess—she’ll never be yours! You’re a fool!”

“I know what I am,” Gwayne snarled, knocking Criston’s sword aside and slamming his shoulder into the other man’s chest, sending him stumbling back. “But I also know what I feel. And I’ll not stand by and let you murder her.”

Criston recovered quickly, rage twisting his features as he advanced again. “She chose Daemon over you! The Rogue Prince—do you think she’ll remember your name when she’s ash?”

Gwayne roared in fury, his blade a blur as he pressed the attack. The sounds of battle, of dragons shrieking and flames roaring, were deafening, but all Gwayne could hear was the pounding of his own heart, the desperate need to get to you, to save you. But with every second that passed, his hope dwindled, and fear gnawed at the edges of his resolve.

Then, the ground trembled, a shockwave of heat and force rippling across the battlefield as a massive burst of dragonfire erupted nearby. Gwayne staggered, the distraction costing him as Criston’s sword sliced across his side. Pain flared, but he gritted his teeth, refusing to fall. He couldn’t afford to fall—not when you needed him.

But as the flames subsided, a silhouette emerged through the smoke—Silverwing, descending, with you astride her. Your eyes, burning with determination and fury, locked onto the scene below: Criston standing over a wounded Gwayne, ready to deliver the killing blow.

“Y/N!” Gwayne shouted, his voice raw with desperation.

You didn’t hesitate. With a command, Silverwing unleashed a torrent of dragonfire, forcing Criston to leap back, narrowly avoiding being consumed by the flames. In the brief reprieve, Gwayne stumbled to his feet, clutching his side.

Your gaze met his, and for a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. The memory of that last kiss, of your shared moments, hung between you like an unspoken vow. Gwayne knew he had only seconds before the battle resumed, but in those few heartbeats, he saw the truth in your eyes—the love that had never truly died, the bond that still connected you, even through war and betrayal.

But there was no time for words. With a final, lingering look, you turned Silverwing toward the sky, preparing for the next wave of the fight. And as you ascended into the chaos once more, Gwayne knew he would fight until his last breath to protect you, even if the whole world stood against him.The battle raged on, but in that moment, Gwayne Hightower’s heart belonged to only one—you.

The battlefield below Rook’s Rest was a symphony of chaos and death, the sky a canvas painted with fire and blood. Gwayne could only watch in helpless agony as you and Silverwing clashed in the heavens with Sunfyre and Aegon, two dragons locked in a deadly dance of tooth and claw. Overhead, the monstrous shadow of Vhagar circled like a vulture, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. Every screech of agony, every roar of defiance, was a knife twisting deeper into Gwayne’s chest.

On the ground, Criston Cole barked orders, his eyes fixed on the battle above. The soldiers scrambled, trying to reload the scorpions, but the dragonfire raining down made their task near impossible. Bolts flew haphazardly, striking neither dragon nor rider, only adding to the carnage below as men screamed, burning alive in dragonflame. Gwayne’s heart pounded in his ears, but he couldn’t tear his gaze away from the clash in the sky.

Silverwing and Sunfyre circled each other in a blur of flashing claws and snapping jaws, the air thick with the scent of burning flesh and blood. Gwayne could see the desperation in the way you leaned into every attack, urging Silverwing forward with a fury that matched his own. Aegon, though armored in golden scales and atop his mighty Sunfyre, was losing ground; he was not the rider you were, and Sunfyre, for all his pride, was no match for Silverwing’s speed and power.

“Hold fast, Sunfyre!” Aegon’s voice cut through the air, laced with both command and fear. But the king’s bravado was slipping. The once-proud Sunfyre shrieked in pain as Silverwing’s talons raked across his side, tearing through scales and flesh. Blood sprayed like rain, glistening in the sunlight before falling onto Criston’s soldiers below, causing them to scatter in panic.

Gwayne could feel his grip tightening on his sword as he watched, torn between the desire to cheer for your victory and the dread that this battle would consume you. Criston, standing nearby, had forgotten Gwayne entirely, his eyes alight with a mixture of awe and hatred. “If Sunfyre falls, so falls our king,” Criston muttered to himself, though Gwayne could hear the edge of panic in his voice.

But you would not give Sunfyre a moment of reprieve. Silverwing descended with fury, slamming into the golden beast with the force of a hurricane. The clash was brutal, teeth and claws tearing through scales, blood and fire mingling as the two dragons grappled. Sunfyre roared, a cry filled with both pain and rage, as Silverwing’s jaws clamped down on his wing.

“No!” Aegon’s scream echoed across the battlefield, his eyes wide with disbelief as Silverwing’s powerful muscles twisted and tore, shredding Sunfyre’s wing almost completely from its body. The golden dragon thrashed wildly, his flight faltering as the wing dangled uselessly by a thread of sinew and bone.

Gwayne’s breath caught in his throat, torn between elation and horror. You were winning, but at what cost? He knew what was coming next. Vhagar, that ancient beast of war, had been waiting for this moment. With a bellow that shook the very ground, the monstrous she-dragon descended like a nightmare from the skies, her jaws wide and hungry.

“Look out!” Gwayne shouted, knowing full well you couldn’t hear him from so far below. His heart thundered in his chest as Vhagar slammed into both Silverwing and Sunfyre with the force of a landslide. The three dragons collided in a tangle of limbs, scales, and teeth, a storm of rage and destruction. The impact was so fierce that Gwayne felt the ground shudder beneath him.

“No! No, no, no…” Gwayne whispered, his voice cracking as he watched the entangled dragons plummet toward the earth. You and Aegon were mere shadows against the backdrop of fire and smoke, barely visible as the dragons twisted and fell in a deadly spiral. Criston’s soldiers, caught between the descending juggernauts and their own fear, broke ranks, fleeing in every direction as the ground rushed up to meet the falling beasts.

Gwayne felt a cold dread settle in his bones as he watched you, desperately holding onto Silverwing’s saddle as the world blurred around you. You clung on with a ferocity that spoke to your will to survive, but against Vhagar’s ancient fury and Sunfyre’s desperate thrashing, even the mighty Silverwing was struggling.

Criston’s eyes were wild as he watched the battle unfold, his voice a harsh whisper of disbelief. “Vhagar will end it… she must end it…”

But Gwayne wasn’t watching Vhagar anymore. He was watching you. You were still fighting, still urging Silverwing to fight back, but the odds were overwhelming. Sunfyre’s golden scales were slick with blood, his roars more pitiful now as he struggled to right himself in the air. Silverwing’s wings beat furiously, trying to break free from Vhagar’s crushing grip, but the elder dragon’s jaws clamped down on Silverwing’s neck, dragging all three dragons toward the ground with terrifying speed.

The earth shook as the three dragons smashed into the battlefield, the impact sending up a cloud of dirt and debris. The sound was deafening—a sickening crunch of bone and screech of metal as the dragons collided with the earth. Gwayne’s heart dropped into his stomach, his eyes searching desperately through the smoke and dust for any sign of you.

“No…” he whispered, stumbling forward as if he could somehow reach you, somehow pull you from the wreckage of dragons and death. But even from here, he could see the carnage—Silverwing’s body twisted and battered, Sunfyre writhing in agony, and Vhagar looming above them all, a monstrous shadow of death.

For a heartbeat, the battlefield fell silent, every eye fixed on the wreckage of the fallen dragons. Gwayne’s breath was ragged, his eyes straining to catch a glimpse of you amidst the chaos. The dust began to settle, revealing broken bodies, shattered armor, and the mangled forms of the dragons.

And then he saw you—barely visible, still moving. You crawled from beneath Silverwing’s wing, blood streaking your face, your expression fierce even in the face of such overwhelming odds. Gwayne’s heart leaped into his throat. You were alive. Against all the odds, you had survived the fall.

But the battle was far from over. Vhagar’s malevolent eyes fixed on you, a deep rumble echoing from her throat as she prepared to finish what she had started. Aegon, still clinging to the last shreds of his pride, shouted commands to Sunfyre, but the once-majestic dragon was crippled, struggling even to rise.

Gwayne turned to Criston, his voice hoarse with desperation. “Do something! Call them off—she’ll be slaughtered!”

But Criston’s eyes were cold, devoid of mercy. “It’s too late, Hightower. She made her choice.”

Before Gwayne could respond, a deafening roar split the air as Vhagar reared back, ready to unleash a final torrent of fire upon you and Silverwing. Gwayne’s breath caught, knowing he was powerless to stop what was coming. All he could do was watch in helpless horror as the monstrous she-dragon prepared to strike.

But in those last moments, your eyes locked onto his. Even from across the battlefield, Gwayne saw the fire in your gaze—the unyielding determination, the refusal to surrender, even in the face of certain death. It was a look that would be seared into his memory forever.

And as Vhagar’s jaws parted, ready to unleash death upon the field, Gwayne did the only thing he could—he prayed. For you, for Silverwing, and for the love that had been forged in the fires of war.

It felt like time itself had slowed, the moments stretching into agonizing eternity. His breath hitched as the flames began to build in Vhagar’s throat, the light of impending destruction flickering in her maw. It would be over in seconds—everything would be lost.

But then, with a burst of speed that took even Gwayne by surprise, Silverwing jolted forward, her wings beating with desperate strength. As Vhagar’s jaws parted to unleash her fiery death, Silverwing struck. The smaller, silvery dragon lunged at Vhagar’s exposed throat, her teeth sinking into the tender scales. Her bite was unrelenting, fueled by both fury and the need to protect you. Vhagar’s flame sputtered out in a roar of agony, the ancient beast thrashing wildly as she tried to shake off the determined Silverwing.

Gwayne’s eyes widened in awe and terror. Silverwing’s tail snapped like a whip, striking Vhagar’s head with a force that reverberated across the battlefield. The blow landed squarely on Vhagar’s eye, the sound of bone and scale cracking sickeningly loud. The she-dragon’s roar of pain was a monstrous, guttural cry that seemed to shake the heavens. Even Aemond, usually so composed in battle, shouted in fury and alarm, yanking hard on the reins to regain control of his wounded dragon.

Gwayne knew he had only moments to act. Blood was streaming down your face, and even from a distance, he could see the exhaustion and pain etched into your features. You laid on the ground, barely holding on to life as Silverwing thrashed against Vhagar’s deadly strength. It was a miracle you had survived this long, but that miracle was on the brink of shattering. Gwayne’s decision was made in an instant, despite the searing pain in his side and the chaos around him.

Nearby, a riderless horse whinnied in terror, its eyes rolling as it tried to flee the madness. Gwayne gritted his teeth, limping toward the panicked creature. “Easy, girl,” he rasped, wincing with every step. The horse reared, wild with fear, but Gwayne moved with surprising swiftness, grasping the reins and swinging himself into the saddle with a grunt of pain. Blood stained his tunic from his earlier wound, but he forced himself to push through it. There was no time to dwell on it—not when you were up there, fighting for your life.

“Where are you going, you fool?!” Criston’s voice rang out behind him, filled with fury. “You’ll die, Hightower! Come back!”

But Gwayne was deaf to Criston’s commands. He spurred the horse forward, urging it toward the burning wreckage of dragons, toward you. The horse resisted at first, terrified by the scent of blood and fire, but Gwayne was relentless, guiding it with strong hands and determined resolve. The animal finally obeyed, its hooves pounding against the earth as it charged through the smoke and debris.

Criston cursed behind him, and Gwayne heard the clatter of armor as the Lord Commander sprinted after him, but Gwayne didn’t care. All that mattered was reaching you.

Above, the struggle between Silverwing and Vhagar intensified. Aemond’s curses mingled with the roars of his dragon as he tried to force Vhagar to tear herself free, but Silverwing was like a vice, her jaws locked onto Vhagar’s throat. The she-dragon’s great wings buffeted the air, but even Vhagar, with all her size and strength, was struggling against the tenacity of her smaller opponent. Silverwing’s wings were shredded, her silvery scales bloodied, but she refused to let go. She was holding on not just for herself, but for you.

“Y/N!” Gwayne’s shout cut through the chaos as he neared the spot where you lay half-alive below Silverwing’s wing. He could see that you were barely conscious, your grip weak on your sword as you fought to stay awake. Desperation fueled his every move as he urged the horse closer, reaching out to you. “Hold on! I’m coming!”

Through the haze of pain, you blinked up at him, your eyes unfocused. “Gwayne?” Your voice was faint, tinged with disbelief. “You… you shouldn’t be here…”

“I’m not leaving you!” Gwayne snapped, his voice rough with emotion. With a final burst of strength, he dismounted down beside you, reaching for your arm. The moment his hand grasped yours, you seemed to come back to life, your eyes clearing just enough to recognize him fully.

“Gwayne… you need to run,” you gasped, wincing as another jolt of pain coursed through you. “She’s going to kill us all…”

“Not today,” he vowed, pulling up with him and onto his horse. You were light in his arms, weakened from battle and injury, but there was still a flicker of the fierce spirit he had always admired in you. “I’ll get you out of here, I swear it.”

Criston’s voice was closer now, filled with anger. “Hightower, you’ll be executed for this!” he roared, but Gwayne didn’t even spare him a glance. He dug his heels into the horse’s flanks, and the animal surged forward, carrying you both away from the hellish scene behind you.

As the horse galloped across the field, Gwayne glanced back over his shoulder just in time to see the moment when Silverwing’s strength finally gave out. Vhagar’s claws found purchase, tearing deep into Silverwing’s side, and with a heart-wrenching cry, the silver dragon was forced to release her grip. Vhagar reared up, triumphant and bloodied, but the cost of the battle was clear—her eye was ruined, her scales cracked and bleeding. Silverwing collapsed onto the battlefield, her wings crumpling beneath her, but even then, she snarled defiantly, refusing to bow.

But there was no more fight left in her. Gwayne’s heart broke as he watched the light fade from Silverwing’s eyes, her body slumping in exhaustion. Aemond’s laughter echoed through the sky, dark and cruel, as he urged Vhagar to take the final blow. But before Vhagar could finish her fallen opponent, Gwayne’s eyes caught the movement of Criston as he halted his pursuit.

“Cole!” Aegon’s voice was a ragged gasp, filled with pain and panic. The king lay on the battlefield, unmoving, his once-golden armor scorched and twisted from the flames. His face was barely recognizable, the flesh blistered and raw, his body wracked with agony. Criston’s eyes widened in horror as he realized what had happened—their king was grievously injured, possibly dying. All thoughts of pursuing Gwayne and you evaporated as Criston sprinted toward Aegon, screaming orders for a healer.

Gwayne tightened his hold on you as the horse raced away from the carnage, his heart pounding with a mix of fear and determination. You clung to him weakly, your breath shallow, your strength fading fast. “Stay with me, Y/N,” he urged, his voice trembling with barely contained desperation. “Just hold on a little longer. We’ll find safety. I won’t let you die.”

Your eyes fluttered, and for a brief moment, you leaned your head against his chest, your voice a faint whisper. “You saved me… again…”

Gwayne’s throat tightened, his emotions threatening to spill over. “And I’ll keep saving you, no matter what it costs,” he promised, pressing a fierce kiss to your temple as the wind whipped through your hair. “I’m not losing you. Not today, not ever.”

Behind them, the battle raged on, but for Gwayne, the only thing that mattered was the woman in his arms and the fragile hope that somehow, despite everything, they would both live to see another day.