#I think this missive he sends me is supposed to come before all of that but it only appears if you start the dornogol stuff??

[sigurdjarlson]

I think Khadgar is pranking me

Bro keeps telling me to go to Dalaran and talk to him but he’s not there whenever I go :c

It’s funny tho I get the same missive every time I log in and I’ll go look because maybe they fixed it but nah

[wri0thesley]

gift wrap - wriothesley x reader (2.7k)

you're just so excited to show wriothesley your newest purchase - but the duke can't help but think it would look better on the floor.

cw: not sfw, minors dni. reader is afab and wears a dress, corset, stockings, etc, but no gendered terms are used. reader is implied to be chubby. soft dom wriothesley, pet names 'sweetheart, pretty baby'. reader keeps calling wriothesley 'your grace'.

“Do you like it?” You twirl in front of Wriothesley, making sure that the full dramatic effect of your new gown is not lost; that Wriothesley is able to see every ruffle, every carefully embroidered rainbow rose, every neatly tied bow. It’s a complicated confection of a dress, and you had delighted in sending missives to the dressmaker with every new idea you’d had, your measurements carefully taken by the Duke himself--

(“Tighter!” You’d urged, the tape measure around your waist. Wriothesley had huffed out a noise that might be fondness and might be exhaustion. 

“You’re not going to be able to breathe in it,” he’d said, but he’d pulled the tape more snugly even so. 

“I’ve got a new corset coming,” you’d told him. “And you’re not going to complain about it showing off all of my assets, are you?”

Wriothesley had paused. 

“ . . . No,” he’d said, and he’d shown you the number on the tape for you to rush off and scribble down before it went out of your head). 

“So,” you urge him, coming to a stop in front of him and striking a pose you hope is effective. You certainly feel good in it; the new corset underneath, and the new chemise (silk and trimmed with exquisite lace) and the new stockings and new shoes all working together to make you feel like the most exquisite flower in the garden - not that such a thing is hard, in the Fortress of Meropide. “Do you like it?”

Wriothesley rests his chin on his hand behind his desk and motions you over with the other, beckoning you to come closer. You eagerly follow instruction, and he reaches out and tweaks one of your ribbons, his expression not changing. 

“So this is what you’re spending my Mora on?” He asks you. You pout at him, and the tension breaks - he lets out a gruff bark of laughter. “Yes, yes, sweetheart. I like it plenty.” 

You beam at him, and he shakes his head, an expression as familiar to you as your own hands playing across his face - an attempt to be tough and maintain his reputation, tempered with his inability to say no to you and his tendency to break whenever you exert the slightest bit of pressure on him. Nobody else could say that they have the Duke of the Fortress wrapped around their finger the way you do. 

“It’s not the only new thing that arrived in the mail room for me today!” You chirp at him, and his eyes go dark as he remembers you chattering idly in bed next to him about all of the other fripperies and fancies you were having made. 

Nobody would accuse Wriothesley, normally, of excess in anything but the amount and variety of teas that he orders for himself. Unfortunately, when it’s you beside him, fluttering lashes and sighing and pouting and saying “Your Grace, please” . . . he has a lot of willpower, but he’s not made of stone. 

“I take it back,” Wriothesley says, taking a sip of the fragrant tea resting on his desk. It’s supposed to calm him before bed, but he’s no longer feeling sleepy at all - not with the promise of what might be beneath your gown calling to him. “I’d like it much, much more if it were on the floor.”

“I only just put it on--” You say to him, teasing, batting your lashes - and Wriothesley places the teacup down and puts his fists upon his desk. That dark cast in his eye does not abate, and he uses a voice that means business when he opens his mouth again; 

“Now.” 

You know what that tone means. You take a shuddering breath, and then say to him, your own voice wavering;

“I’ll need your help. Sigewinne helped me put it on . . .” As you speak, you turn slowly, showing the row of buttons down your back - they’re helped along by both ribbon lacing and hooks and eyes, and you can practically feel Wriothesley’s displeasure emanating off of him as he surveys them. 

“Blasted thing,” he grumbles to himself, and you hear the heavy footfall of his boots as he stands up and comes around the desk to be closer to you. You gasp as strong, work-roughened hands grab you by the indent of your waist and haul you bodily closer to him. “Why make this so complicated?” 

Despite his grumblings, his fingertips are tender as he undoes the first hook and begins to work on the small satin-covered buttons.

“I ought to just rip it off you,” he breathes into your ear, breath hot against your neck. “Save me all of the trouble.”

“I just bought it,” you repeat, helplessly, as the Duke deftly reaches the lacing at your hips, and you feel the gown fall from your shoulders. His lips press against the nape of your neck. “Th-that would definitely be a waste of Mora--”

“Anything that ends with you naked,” Wriothesley murmurs, “is not a waste of anything.”

“Your Grace--”

He chuckles roughly at the title, hand reaching around to pull your face towards him. Standing there in chemise and corset and stockings and heels, aware that you would be most embarrassed were anyone to walk into Wriothesley’s office looking for an audience with him, you are nevertheless helpless to do anything but let your lover draw you into a kiss as deep and hungry as there’s ever been. 

Teeth dig into your bottom lip and you whine into his mouth, as Wriothesley’s calloused hands trace the shape of you. Where the corset makes your waist smaller, your hips all the rounder, the swell of your chest as ripe and heaving as it can be. 

“You know,” he breaks the kiss to say to you, his voice dropping semitones with every syllable, his throat clogged with want. “I’m a simple man. I don’t need my gifts to be in fancy wrapping or anything; you could walk in here in brown paper and string and I would devour you just as eagerly . . . But,” and he cracks a grin, his teeth bright and sharp and wolfish. “Well. This makes a man re-evaluate.”

He squeezes the globe of your ass through your chemise and you whine, your hands coming up to rest on his chest, fingertips curling about the lapels of his waistcoat. 

“Still,” he slides his hands up, and deftly, without even looking - like a master criminal, a master thief - you feel your corset lacings loosen, and then the beautifully embroidered garment is falling from you too and you feel your chest, freed from the stricture of the corset, spill forward to fill out your chemise. “It’s hard not to prefer you . . . au naturel. You don’t need the ornamentation, sweetheart. You’re the nicest thing to look at down here for miles. In fact, every time I catch one of the inmates looking at you I wanna punch them out myself.”

“I like it,” you whisper, helplessly, because your stomach is rolling pleasantly and your head has gone light and fluffy like cotton wool, egged on by the palpable lust in the Duke’s voice as he slowly strips you of your accoutrements. “I know I don’t . . . need to . . . for you . . .”

Wriothesley’s fingers on your chin, smile on his face as he kisses you again, gentler this time. 

“As long as you know,” he murmurs, sweet as honey. “The day I don’t want to throw you over my desk and fuck your pretty little brains out the minute I see you, call the Chief Justice and have the idiot tried and incarcerated for impersonation.” 

He does this, sometimes; says the most vulgar things whilst sitting in his luxurious office, his title obvious in his regal bearing - and every time, it does not fail to make you wet. 

“This, though . . .” He tugs at the lace hem of the chemise; the fabric clings to you, the true shape of your body without any need for whalebone and ribbons. “Ooh, I daresay you can keep this on.” 

“What are you going to do to me, Your Grace?” You ask him, your heart pounding in your ears - or perhaps between your thighs. You feel a little too out of sorts to locate it properly. 

He answers by lifting you up, uncaring of how much you weigh - all of that time in the Pankration ring has made it so you barely ever see him break a sweat, regardless of what he’s doing. The only time you’ve ever really seen him sweating, he’s been above you, eyes fever bright, hips pistoning in and out of you, veins prominent on his scarred forearms as he caged you beneath him. You find yourself deposited onto the edge of his desk, and then Wriothesley is fumbling with his trousers and slotting himself between your thighs. 

“Another time,” he says to you, in between rough kisses and bites to your lower lip, your earlobe, your throat. “I’d take my time with you, sweetheart. Get on my knees, use my tongue on you until you’re nice and wet and trembling . . . Really taste you. But . . . Ah.” He heaves a wistful sigh. One of his fingers slides into the top of your stocking, twanging it against the fullness of your thigh where it pinches just enough to drive him wild. “S’taken me too long to get you out of all of that nonsense, and now . . . well, I’m only flesh and blood.”

You gasp out his name as you feel something slap against your thigh, slick and hard and hot. You can feel his shaft pulsing even now, and you let your eyes drift down to see Wriothesley’s impressive length in his fist, tip flushed purple-red with want, a bead of silvery precome dripping onto your new stockings. 

His other hand carefully drags the strap of your chemise down, urging you to shrug it off your top half - and then your chest is free, your nipples hardening in the cool air, the soft bounce of them being unrestrained making Wriothesley unconsciously lick his lips.

He’s still fully clothed, but for his cock, and the knowledge of just how exposed you are - thighs spread wide to allow him space between them, chemise pushed down to below your breasts and up to above your hips. Anyone who walked in on you right now would see how shameless you’re being for the Duke of the Fortress, and you could not care less. 

“At least you’re well-behaved,” Wriothesley grunts, pinching your nipple with one hand - the shock goes through you, straight to your cunt. “You’re wet, sweetheart. Ah. You want me to fuck you?” 

“Yes,” your voice comes out a soft little whine. You can’t think straight; his cock slaps against the outside of your cunt, your slick mingling with his precome, the head barely brushing your clit. 

“Can’t hear you,” he says, smiling down at you. “These old pipes get loud this time of night, y’know. Downside to the whole underwater fortress thing.” The calloused palm travels over your breast, over your collarbone, brushing your throat with the lightest of touches until he’s gripping your jaw firmly in his hand. His thumb brushes over your lips, gently pressing down on the lower one until your mouth opens for him. 

Your tongue shyly probes at his thumb, and you see a spot of colour high on his cheeks. 

“Say it again,” he says, though from the crack in his voice you can tell it’s taking all of his self-control to wait. Through the thumb in your mouth, you say to him, all want and need and soft panting;

“Please fuck me, Your Grace.”

“Good,” Wriothesley praises you - and then, he presses his hips forward and his cock catches on your opening and you lose the ability to do anything but let him push forward, opening you up. 

The hand formerly on his cock comes to grip onto your hip in order to act as leverage. Your eyes roll back into your head, your lips closing about his thumb so you can suckle on it as a distraction to the sting of being opened wider than your body thinks it can handle. It’s an almost-sting, not-quite-burn - Wriothesley’s thick length almost too much for you to bear, bullying itself inside of you and almost making the channel of your cunt mould to the shape of his. His tip bullies further and further into you, and he grits his teeth and lets a low guttural groan fall from his mouth. 

“Shit,” he grunts. “Always forget how tight you are. Ought to fuck you more.”

He spends every night inside of you that he can, and plenty of lunchtimes and ‘afternoon tea breaks’ too - but you’re not sure Wriothesley could be satisfied even if he had nothing to do all day but fuck you. His stamina is something to be marvelled at. You’ve lost count of the number of times you’ve been beneath him, whimpering out as he filled you with another round of his come, that you don’t think you can take any more - and every time, Wriothesley has soothed and kissed and cajoled - and every time, you’ve been left so full of his release that you feel it leaking out of your cunt and onto the bed sheets as Wriothesley turns ‘just one more’ into ‘just three more’. 

You wrap your own arms around his neck, fingers tangling into the mass of his hair, and let him set the pace as he always does. 

Thrust comes after fast, hungry thrust - Wriothesley is as merciless in this as he is in all things, though you know from experience he has it in him to be tender, when things get too much. Right now, though, he has no time for tenderness - you helplessly suckle on his thumb, grateful for the distraction, as Wriothesley snarls and grunts and teaches your body to take him with every squelching cant of his hips. You feel your own slick drip down your inner thighs to make a mess of whatever it is you’re perched on, and you hope Wriothesley wasn’t working on any important paperwork when you’d flounced in here to show off your newest wardrobe addition. 

The beautiful dress you’d waited to be delivered lies in a crumpled heap on the floor, though, and it seems far less important right now than the growing ache between your legs - the tension that builds with Wriothesley’s groans. You can’t breathe. You can’t do anything, as Wriothesley notices how you react and shifts his body just so, so that his cock batters against a sensitive spot with every fast-paced thrust he fucks into you. Your fingers twist deep into the hair at the nape of his neck, drool escaping your mouth and trickling down from around Wriothesley’s thumb. 

“You close, sweetheart?” Wriothesley murmurs. “Come on, pretty baby. Are you gonna come for me?”

You nod, dazed, and as Wriothesley presses a kiss to your forehead that’s as tender as his fucking is brutal, you feel your body contract and then explode into a hundred pinpricks of light. It’s a sharp kind of pleasure; an explosion of sensation that starts between your thighs and travels into all of your fingers, all of your toes. Sweat beads on your forehead and you whine out unintelligible drooling noises as your vision goes white in sparks of electricity, your cunt pulsating around Wriothesley’s length as he slows his thrusts just enough to let you crest over the hill of your orgasm. 

When you come back down, aftershocks of pleasure still making you tremble and shudder, Wriothesley’s cock is still inside of you. There’s a twist to his lip, an amused little smile. 

“Good?” He asks you, voice rough. You nod dazedly. “Good. There’s a reward for looking so fucking pretty in everything I buy for you.”

He pauses.

“Now. Are you gonna give me a reward for spending all my hard-earned Mora on you, huh?”

You blink at him, your eyelids syrupy thick. As the final waves of your orgasm ebb away, and your heart slows to a rhythm that no longer worries you, you’re once more made aware of just how hard Wriothesley is inside of you. How his thighs are flexing with want; the mess of his hair, his clothes in disarray. 

You lock your thighs about his waist, pulling him closer in. 

“Of course, Your Grace,” you murmur, your tongue heavy. Wriothesley lets out a chuckle, another kiss bestowed upon your forehead as he murmurs into your hair;

“That’s what I like to hear, sweetheart. How about we order you three new dresses tomorrow?”

[mercysought]

Forgive me if you've talked about this somewhere before and I missed it, but does Asharen believe there's an opportunity for her to reconcile with Solas? Are there specific steps that would need to be taken, or specific things he might do that could prevent this reconciliation?

character questions! // accepting // @keepslore

I don't think I have except in very few specific threads? Or drabbles maybe? And even then it's been scraps!

I went into Veilguard fully blind so I had no idea that the Inquisitor would even be there, I had hopes they would be but I couldn't have predicted that we'd even have a chance of influencing this. The reason why I bring this up is because I fully thought for most of the game that Asharen wouldn't have, that she would have moved on - and while writing her I think at most points until Veilguard comes that she believes this herself.

It's through Veilguard and that she is like: Oh. this is Not Good™️ Truthfully, it's not so much about steps to prevent her from reconciliation but getting her to a place where she might even consider that to be an option grounded in reality - because she fully believes that it isn't.

For a larger part, towards the middle of the eight year interval before Veilguard Asharen stopped drinking tea for the pleasure of it but just drinking the teas that keep her from dreaming. There is a quote from Critical Role that without going into too many spoilers that is "How am I supposed to get over you if you keep sending ravens to me?" and that quote is basically about how someone has moved on (in this case died) and yet they keep sending signs in the world that they are with her, watching her.

In part, as a non-dreamer, it's because she is concerned what information Solas might gleam and use against them as the Inquisition works towards getting him to stop. The other part is because Solas cannot tell her to move on and live in peace for the rest of her days and then continue to visit her in her dreams. It is not kind and while she loves knowing that he would visit because it tells her that he does still love her or she is in his thoughts, she also knows that sort of hope would serve neither of them. So when they meet again in Veilguard, it truly is like eight years of basically no contact, Asharen wouldn't even truly know if they even tried to continue visiting her in dreams lmao

All of this said though, It's already a labour of love, because it needs to be, to have gotten to this point eight years down the line and having sacrificed so much of her life and taken up a title that she never wished to pick up again - so there is no Asharen in Veilguard without a love for Solas. And she does continue trying to reach out to him, in ways that she knows she might reach him (for example, some spirits find unsent letters and unearth them in the fade much to her dismay, or other spirits upon wanting to help her do carry one or two missives), to get him to stop.

Especially in my canon universe with Orla as a Rook and in an universe where Varric is actually dead. What he does to Orla in putting her in the fade prison. The thought that she has been wrong about the person he was is a question that hangs really heavily in her mind, and she is glad to have an excuse to keep her mind busy. Though she holds on.

As for things that could fully stop a reconciliation: it's hard, I think that the crux of this is because I think that the first 'vhenan' is what really rattles her and all bets are off after so long of being away. And I think this is also one of the reasons why it's really so difficult to ship with Asharen in Veilguard.

I fully think that the going off into the fade is a fully spur of the moment, and though Asharen considered as a possibility, for herself, outside of Solas - honestly, she considered it mostly from the point of view of using the dagger and hoping the well and the magic within might be similar enough to allow her to fix this herself. So, this would certainly prevent a reconciliation lmao.

Asharen is ungodly hard to ship with during Veilguard but I did once say that if anyone could sway her it would be Emmrich and I do stand by that even if I think that's such an utter and thankless climb for him, he deserves better. So I will leave this as a maybe, a soft thing.

I would say that other people's opinion wouldn't be enough (Orla, Émilie). I think, maybe, the only two that would give her some pause would be Varric or Cole but even then, she has a thick and stubborn skull. I think that in most cases, though I rarely get to write it beyond drabbles, they both prefer to believe that the person that Asharen sees is still in there - the same way that they would with Varric.

[chambersandfogg]

October 2nd, 1923

I’m not entirely certain I like this decade. Granted, we are only three years into it, but if it continues on in the manner it’s been progressing so far, I think it will become one of my least favorite decades. Nothing can truly win out over the terror that was the teens, but I think I far preferred the nineties to now.

I suppose that’s a privilege that comes with my…nature? Predicament? Blessing? Curse? I’m still unsure how to feel about my everlasting life. But having a defined ranking of favorite decades seems a good a use of my unique perspective as any.

All to say, the twenties so far are much too boisterous and loud for my taste. It feels I’m invited to some party or new club every weekend. It’s jarring how much frivolity has overtaken the city and every social circle I’ve become acquainted with in the past few years. This is never quite as obvious as John Fogg’s summer solstice party, which I’ve attended the last two years. It is always nice to see him, I suppose, but I don’t much care for the crowd he runs with.

To be honest, I don’t know how he stands it either. Just last year, the man had some kind of fit when his guests broke an entire tray of champagne coupes. I’ve seen it before in men who have experienced combat: shell shock. John seemed disinclined to discuss it in the following days and then this summer, the party was similarly loud and destructive and he seemed perfectly fine. But it makes my stomach turn—the excess, the thoughtless joy. It isn’t that I resent seeing people amuse themselves, but it seems to be at the expense of remembering what brought us all here. Then again, perhaps it is only me who refuses to forget. Perhaps they’re right to grab happiness however and whenever they can, knowing how fragile it is. But every time I have just a tad too much to drink, I see the faces of the men who died by my poisonous innovations, I see John’s pale, wide-eyed face in his quiet library, a raucous gathering happening just outside the room. I far prefer the quieter days spent at his estate in the days following the solstice, when the two of us can converse openly about our strange lives and enjoy the comfortable companionship that is inherent in sharing a space with someone you know so well.

John has invited me to another fête—a Halloween party of all things. I don’t have plans to go, but I still need to send him my regrets. In fact, I’ll likely be sending him more than that—I know I should share the news that I’m leaving New York. Perhaps I can give him my address in London, but I don’t think I’m going to stay there very long either. For the first time in my life, I’m feeling a real traveler’s bug. I feel cooped up here in the States and if we’re all throwing responsibility and common sense out the window, I may as well do some of that myself and travel the world. It won’t be the quiet company of a friend, but it won’t be the loud and tinny noise of America either. I think it’s time for me to experience something entirely new.

[from the personal diary of C. X. Chambers]

[to read the pre-1917 entries, join Atypical Artists and get access to the archive of 24 entries (5,000+ words), as well as ad-free episodes of Atypical's whole catalogue. to receive future monthly missives straight to your inbox, sign up for free here]

[wickedlywonderful]

@thisshadeofred 🧹 🪄

The first letter was both the easiest and the hardest. Its writing he did without a second thought; its postage he agonized over for days, finally sending it triple-quick to reach her on her very important day—but sending it in a simple, plain envelope via a simple, plain postman.

Dearest Elphaba,

Congratulotions on this, your twelfth birthday! It’s come on an auspicidatious year—or perhaps I should say an Oz-picidatious year! This is, after all, our tenth year with our Wonderful Wizard. Included with this letter, because of that and you, is a special anniversaririum coin being passed around the Emerald City. It’s only a little memento, but I wasn’t sure what else to get you as a gift. There should be another gift with your anniversaririum coin, of course, the same gift every son and daughter in the Emerald City receives on their twelfth birthday: a City Scholar pin. It won’t be of much use all the way out in Munchkinland, but if one day you come to the City, it will give you free admission to every museum, library, and other place of study the City has to offer.

Gloriosky! I swear, if my head wasn’t attached to my shoulders, I’d forget it, too. I’ve written you so many letters before that I was never able to send, I almost forgot we haven’t been introduced! My name is Oz, and I was at one time very close to your mother. She was a wonderfully unique woman. I think she would have been proud of you, Elphaba.

Go on now, and enjoy your special day! I hope to hear back from you soon.

Your Friend in the Emerald City,

Oz

He waited. Agitated days became anxious weeks and then, before long, one month and three weeks had passed, and there was no answer.

A persistent man as well as a sentimental one, Oz returned to his writing desk and sent a second missive.

Dearest Elphaba,

I think the postmaster must have eaten your letter! That, or perhaps you don’t know how to reach me back. All you have to do is send a letter back addressed to “Oz of the Emerald City,” and it will always come to the right person. The postmaster is very good about that when he isn’t slurping down the letters for himself!

Or perhaps it was frightening to receive that first letter. I have been told before that I frighten people. Am I so scary to you? Let me fix that. People are scared of what they don’t understand, I know that and I have a sneaking suspicion you do, too, so perhaps understanding me a little better will make me less scary. Well, let’s see. My name is Oz, and I come from a very long way away—even further on the map than the distance between us now! I live in a big house in the Emerald City. I like to sing and to tinker, and my favorite color is green.

Now it’s your turn! What’s your favorite color, your favorite thing to do? I want to know everything. And not just the nice things! You can tell me the not-nice things, too. Everybody has some of those. I’ll even share a not-nice thing: sometimes, I miss my home very much. It makes me sad to miss it. But a reply from you would make me very happy.

Your Friend,

Oz

The second faired no better than the first in securing a reply. The days again became weeks and then full months—leading to a third letter. (What’s one more unanswered letter among the hundreds he’s written to her? The only difference he sees is that now his letters are posted, and the unanswering of them felt much worse when he didn’t have a reason for not knowing why.)

Dearest Elphaba,

I shall have to stop by the postmaster’s home to give him something better to eat than ink and paper. This is getting out of hand!

Until he decides to start sharing your letters with me, I suppose I’ll just have to keep writing to you. I would hate for you think you’d been abandoned. If you truly don’t want these letters, I would hope you know you only need to say the word, and I would never post another letter to you again! You matter more to me than some silly old letters ever could.

We had a parade earlier this week to celebrate the Wizard! Did the Munchkins get a parade, too? Everything was gold and jewel-tone. Why, you’ve never seen so many little gems as you would’ve there! The confetti looked like you could set in a ring and sell it! I wish I had thought to grab a handful, so I could have sent some to you. I’ll try to remember to get it next time, and we can have a little celebration all for wonderful you instead! Would you like that?

I hope you would.

Your Friend,

Oz

[shivunin]

aaaaand one for Elowen :3 something written by one of the advisors about your OC?

happy writing friend <3

Thank you again for sending all of these in! I've been rather more the tortoise than the hare with them, but we got here in the end c: Thanks, friend!

(Codex Prompts)

A Missive to the Deep Roads

(991 Words | No Warnings)

A letter tucked into a leather belt pouch. The paper was once fine and creamy, but now dirt smudges the surface and there are large splotches of blood on one corner. It is addressed to the Warden-Commander and reads:

My dear Arianwen, 

I do hope that this letter finds you well. This thing you have undertaken is a dangerous task indeed, though I do have my doubts that even an army of ogres could keep you from doing what you’ve set your mind to. 

No doubt you have heard about our troubles here on the surface. Surely you must have heard tales about the sky splitting open, no matter how deep you have delved in the Deep Roads. If matters were any less dire, I might say that it amuses me to think of you being safer below than we are above for once. As matters are very dire indeed, I will instead say only that we need your help. 

I know what you will say, and I know better than most what I am asking of you. The Inquisition is not the sort of organization you might be inclined to trust. For good reason, I suppose. The Chantry has not been the friend to you that it should have been. We both know this to be true.

Our networks, our might, and the faith of those who have pledged themselves to us will not sway you. Let me instead tell you of our Inquisitor and what she has already done. 

Several weeks ago, there was an assassination attempt on your favorite king. Many such attempts have been made before, plenty of them averted by your personal intervention, but this one involved an especially troublesome faction of mages from Tevinter. The Inquisitor sent our people to intervene—and just in time, too, it would seem. To hear him tell it, he was all but frozen solid before our people intervened. I have requested a contingent remain nearby in case there is any more trouble. 

There are many victims of this war between mage and templar, no shortage of bloodshed. Even so,  Lavellan has reached out her hand to the refugees and the downtrodden at every turn. I have watched her haul children from the muck of a ruined street with her own two hands. I have seen her hunt for supplies for the same families even when she was ill or out of sorts.  I have seen her clear the roads for people to move freely again. It is not so light a thing, as you very well know, for people to be able to escape when they are besieged. 

I have known Elowen to sit alone on the hills, the better to watch the pale hares move through the brush. I have watched the wild wolves heed to her call as if listening to a dear friend. I know that she would leave us for the wilderness and the roads if she could. I know that she stays because she feels there is no other choice—rather like somebody else I once knew well, if you will forgive the comparison. 

A teller of tales I may yet be, but I have related only the truth here. You already knew how dire our battles have been. Know, too, that the Inquisition follows one who leads with neither iron fist nor hope of recompense. Know that the woman we follow is worthy of the title in many ways beyond naming. 

Know that Thedas—that Ferelden—still needs you, just as it did all those years ago. If ever there was a time to take up the banner of the Wardens and lead those who remain to a worthy cause, it is now. 

If you will not come, Warden-Commander—and I hold no real expectations that you will—perhaps you will consider committing what resources you can to the fight in the world above. I cannot overstate how much that help is needed. 

Do give my regards to your Antivan beau. I would say that I hope to see the both of you very soon, but I hold no such expectations. Instead, I will say only that I will look for word from you, in whatever form it might come.

Your friend, then and now,

Leliana

A letter, wrapped in several layers of oiled leather and otherwise untouched by the elements: 

Leliana,

You’ve always been good with stories. I’ll give you that. 

I’m too busy to come myself. You know that. However great a mess the surface is right now, I cannot spare a single blade for your fight. I have more pressing things to turn them against at the moment. 

I wish you all the luck I can spare. I’ll throw in a few tokens for good measure, though I am sure you can find better on your own. You always were clever like that. 

You are my friend. It has been many years since I have said so, but it is no less true now than it was then. Be well, Leliana. You are greater than your words, however many of them you insist on tossing in my direction. 

The enclosed is for your Inquisitor. If even half of what you’ve said about her is actually true, I don’t mind her having it. 

Zevran says hello. 

—Wen

P.S. I did not say hello. I said that you will either have a grand tale to tell, Bard, or you will find yourself on the other end of a rather sharp knife. For your sake, I hope that it is the former and not the latter. How dreadfully dull it would be to leave all of this grandeur behind to attend a funeral and seek vengeance. You have no idea how often our adventures are interrupted to do silly things like that. 

Do take care of yourself. There is something here from me as well—have a glass by the fire and think of your good friends, yes? 

—Z

[fandomsnstuff]

One of these days ill post at a reasonable time

@taznovembercelebration

Day 22: silly

Lup's birthday is coming up, and the present from her long distance boyfriend is haunting her in all it's wrapped glory. Doesn't help that her brother thinks her boyfriend is fake.

Read it on AO3

Dearest Apologies

From: barry.j.bluejeans@gmail.com

To: luptaaco@gmail.com

Good morning Lup,

I would like to deeply apologise for being unable to provide you with the goodnight text you were expecting last night.

Turns out, it is unwise to use one's phone above a pot of boiling water when one is easily startled. According to the respectable phone repairman in my local mall, the damage is fixable and the repair will be cheaper than a new phone, but I am without said device until wednesday. In the meantime, I shall send my missives to you by electronic mail of the g variety.

I hope you slept well. I stayed up far too late, as usual. I write to you as I await the energising effects of my coffee.

Have a wonderful day, my darling.

Yours,

Barry

Re: Dearest Apologies

From: luptaaco@gmail.com

To: barry.j.bluejeans@gmail.com

Barry,

I suppose I can forgive you, given the harrowing phone experience you've gone through. I pray for your phone's survival.

I did sleep well, I had many dreams of you. I miss you more every day.

I would scold you for staying up late, but alas, I have done the same. But I suppose I have stronger coffee than you, as I'm already set to face the day.

I received the parcel you sent me. You're far too clever, putting a note on top telling me not to open it until my birthday. You're also a cruel lover for it. You know I adore packages, I long to tear it open and see what's inside. But I adore you, so I shall follow your instructions.

Forever yours,

L

“What're you writing?”

Lup jumps out of her skin as Taako's suddenly standing behind her. “Jesus fucking christ, maybe warn a girl next time?!”

“I made so much noise walking over here.” He grabs her phone from where she dropped it. “What's got you smiling like a fool?”

She snatches the phone back. “Nothing!” She finishes typing her name and sends the email. “It's just a silly thing with Barry.”

Taako groans. “Not this again. Lulu, I'm not stupid.”

Kravitz pokes his head out of the bathroom with a toothbrush in his mouth, “who's Barry?”

Taako gives her a look that says, go on. Lup sighs irritably, “Barry's my boyfriend.”

Kravitz's eyebrows go up. He ducks back into the bathroom, presumably to spit his toothpaste out, then says, “since when do you have a boyfriend?”

“She doesn't,” Taako interjects, “there's no way he's real.”

“He's real! I've shown you pictures! He sent me a birthday present!”

“You one hundred percent just googled pictures of white men and showed me one.” He looks to Kravitz, “she said his name is Barry Bluejeans. Tell me that's not fake.”

“Your name is taco twice.”

“Thank you!” She says. “See, Kravitz thinks my boyfriend is real.”

“Now I didn't say that.” She glares at him and holds up his hands defensively. “I have some followup questions.”

She crosses her arms. “Fine. Shoot.”

“Where does this guy live?”

“Connecticut.”

“On the other side of the country? How the hell did you meet him?”

“Conferences. We've been flirting for years.”

“Years, Krav!” Taako exclaims. “And I never heard a word about him, until a month ago! She went away for a week and came back with a boyfriend.”

Kravitz looks between the two of them, then says, decisively, “he's fake.”

Lup throws her hands up. “I get texts, I get calls, I get emails, I got a package, but he's fake! Sure!”

“I'm just saying it sounds a whole lot like the fake Canadian girlfriend I had in middle school before I knew being gay was an option.”

She pouts up at Taako, “I thought you wanted me to be happy.”

“I do, but this is closer to delusional.”

She sticks her tongue out at him then stands up. “Fine,” she says, marching to her room, “believe what you want, but one of these days you're going to feel real stupid!”

A few days later, her phone lights up with a text.

🐻E👖

> Hello

> I've returned to the modern world

> How are you?

Lup ❤️

> welcome back

> im trying to bully taako into letting me help plan the menu for my birthday party tomorrow, but he won't let me

🐻E👖

> how rude of him

> Are you going out for it?

Lup ❤️

> nah, it's cheaper and honestly more fun to stay in with the crew and be stupid than going out and being stupid

> other people's stupidity can interfere with our

🐻E👖

> I can understand that

> good luck bullying him, I gotta run

> I love you

Lup ❤️

> love you too, bear

> also when can I open my birthday present

🐻E👖

> I'll let you know

Lup ❤️

> mean

🐻E👖

> you'll love it, promise

Lup's birthday party is in full swing. There's lots of finger foods and cake, the games are as unnecessarily competitive as always, and Lup's having a blast. But she can't help but check her phone a little too often. Barry called her last night, and sent her a happy birthday text in the morning, but he said he'd be busy all day and wouldn't be able to talk until later. It's later, and she still hasn't heard. He hasn't even told her that she's allowed to open her gift yet, which has been sitting in her room taunting her for days now. She even shook the small wrapped box, but the faint rattling gave her nothing.

She's halfway through a very intense round of poker when she vaguely registers a knock on the door. She dismisses it, far too focused on watching every microexpression on Kravitz's face. Then she hears Taako say, “well I'll be damned.” He calls to her, “Lup! You've got a visitor!”

Confused, she turns her attention away from the game to the door. All her guests are here. Who else–

She practically knocks over her chair as she scrambles up and tackles Barry in a hug. She kisses him hard and says, “what are you doing here?!”

He laughs. “I wanted to surprise you!” His cheeks are tinged a little pink. “I hope that's okay? I don't want to intrude. I have a hotel room, so I can go if you–”

“No!” She fists her hands in his shirt and pulls him into another kiss. “You're not going anywhere. If anything,” she leans in close and lowers her voice, “you'll take me back to that hotel room later.”

“Yeah– yes. Absolutely.”

“Lulu, you gonna introduce me?” Taako says from behind her.

“Taako,” she extracts herself from Barry's arms and stands next to him, linking their arms together, “this is Barry, my boyfriend whom you and your boyfriend so rudely assumed was fake. Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

“Glad you're not a figment of my sister's imagination, my man. Come on in, we have hors d'oeuvres.”

Barry slots in seamlessly with the group. It's around a game of Monopoly that he says, “oh, Lup, your gift.”

She perks up, “can I open it now?”

“Yeah, I almost forgot after all the travel.”

She goes and gets it from her room, already tearing into it as she sits back down beside him. She lifts the lid of the box to reveal a folded piece of paper. She takes it out and unfolds it. It's booking confirmations. She turns to him slowly. “Did you book us a trip?”

He's gotten sheepish now. “I did. I thought… you know, you said you'd never really been on a proper tropical vacation, and you wanted to go to an all inclusive one day, and I had the money, and we're together now, so… yeah.”

“Barry, this is… holy shit. The only travel I've ever done is for work conferences.”

“I know. I've wanted to do this for you for a while, but it felt inappropriate as just a work conference friend that you flirt with. It's not until next year, so there's plenty of time to book off work and whatever. Otherwise, it's all taken care of, all you have to do is show up.”

“Thank you,” she breathes, still scanning over the page in her hands. She looks up and across the table, “a fake boyfriend couldn't do this, could he, Taako?”

[thiswaycomessomethingwicked]

I’m writing some stuff from Amos’ point of view just to get a handle on him, since he’s much more present as a character in the Redux and every few seconds I’m just like. AMOS. Please. Christ on a bike man. 

Here, have some Amos describing random things including, but not limited to, his children, the bad habits their grandparents have given them, that one time he killed a man, and the pleasures he has in life: 

--

My son would say that I am a present man. I believe I’ve heard him say as much to friends. He’s a flighty boy, prone to speaking before he thinks and acting before he thinks to think. But he’s sweet, in his way. Ruthless, too, which I am pleased to see develop for ours is a world cutthroat and merciless. I’d not relish a weak child. There’s something abysmally bleak in the thought of raising this being from babe to adulthood only for them to be eaten alive by the hounds of life.

-

Height—I suppose that is my most prominent feature. Strong nose and chin and jaw. Eyes are something or other—hazel, I think is what my wife has termed them upon occasion. Hair is mud. Netty has the better looks and I’m pleased our children took what they did from her. I’m also pleased they did not receive her nerves. Stalwart and stubborn rather than mousey and, at times, fearful. Of what? I asked her once. She just said, Well there’s that man out there killing women in their own homes. And I told her that she’s perfectly safe and to be reasonable about the entire situation. What is the likelihood of him choosing our family? While it’s not a zero per-cent chance, it’s still low. I had meant to add that this nerviness of hers predates Quayside Killer so I’d appreciate it if she wouldn’t lie to me. But it hadn’t been worth her clamming up for a week straight. Sometimes, she shakes like a leaf when she thinks no one is looking.

Still, despite this, she mothers and wifes well so I’ve no complaints.

 -

There was one night when William would have been seven or eight and he woke but I didn’t hear him come half-down the stairs to sit and grip the railing posts and stare through into the kitchen which is where I was finishing up work. There had been flooding—a bad summer, much rain, no irrigation, river banks do what river banks do which is to say: give way. My office was out of commission as a result so I had taken to doing work on the slab of a wooden table in the kitchen. Single lamp. Books open. Abacus out. &c.

There had been trouble at the docks. Rival merchants out for each other’s skin—we’d make suits of each other if we could. I was having none of it. It’s bad for business and I loathe all things bad for business. Anyway, one such individual had it out for me—Joss informed me only the night before. We had been at the Swan & Sword for a swift pre-supper drink and he said, Harry McGuire’s going to send someone after you.

Assassin? I asked.

Nothing formal, Jocelyn replied.

Timeframe?

Imminent. He finished his ale. Offered to get us another round which I accepted and let him take himself up to the bar. He has a horrid habit, and he keeps it wrapped up most of the time, but I track where a man’s eyes wander when he thinks he’s not being observed, and I see where Joss’ go from time to time and it’s unfortunate. Still, I suppose he knows his business and what risks he’s willing to take and the perversions he’s willing to allow in his own life. At the very least, he is discreet and limited.

Anyway, he returned and gave over my pint saying, Just keep some good men about you, in case. McGuire’s tenacious. You might have to send his messengers back to him in pieces.

So I was not surprised when a man appeared at the back door then he was inside the kitchen and at the table and held a knife and then I made sure he ended up on the floor and roundly beat his head in. It was short, sweet, to the point. Like a well-crafted missive.

I had thought I was alone until I heard a stair creak and lo’ there was William watching from between bannisters with big child eyes and I felt concerned that I might have disturbed him. For I should hope he knows he has nothing to fear of me. I told him to go to bed and he duly retreated upstairs after which I took care of the McGuire Messenger who proceeded to have an accident and fell into the river.

-

William has never asked me about it. The next morning I expected a question or two on the matter but he didn’t inquire. He ate his breakfast with his usual gusto and went about his day as a cheerful seven-year-old.

 -

The gods blessed Netty and I with four children who survived childhood—three girls, one boy. Magda is our eldest and takes after my side of the family in terms of her general appearance, save that she thankfully has her mother’s delicate facial features. Which are more appropriate for a girl. Then there is William who looks much like me save he has his mother’s colouring in his eyes and hair, so black and dark reddish-brown. I believe he also has her ears and his maternal grandfather’s easy temperament. Laure is our third. She’s a queer thing—lighter in her colouring, quiet, watchful, the opposite of her siblings. I have jested to Netty that Laure is a fey-child and Netty tells me to not be cruel about our girl. Sicily is the youngest of the surviving four and is much like William in appearance, save she is small how Netty is small. She’ll grow to have the head of a man, though, of that I’ve no doubt. Her husband had best watch himself. If her flaming rows with William are anything to go by. Savvy, cunning, if she had been born a son I would have her lined up to succeed me and let William do whatever it is he wants to do.

Which is, frankly, a mystery. I doubt that boy has any concept of the future beyond a month out at best. I have oft’ complained of this to Netty and Joss. Both have informed me that this is a perfectly normal situation to be in for a sixteen-year-old. I do not recall being so listless and wayward in my intentions at sixteen but I was less coddled than he.

 -

My father’s spirit occasionally comes to me at night and tells me I spoil the boy. But I cannot help it—I attempt firmness but then he pleads and argues and makes a fit before going into sweetness and charm and it’s all very, well, sweet. He’s an affectionate child, or wishes to be, though I’ve no real knowledge of how best to respond. Thankfully, he stopped attempting to hug me goodnight when he was seven.

 -

I shall quickly document my pleasure’s in life, which do include some vices I have attempted to drop but cannot seem to: cards & dice; strong cheese from Quirm—blue and stratified like a cliff face; the nature poetry of Randolph Turza; music—particularly that which is played on cello, fortepiano, and the lyre (William has taken up the guitarra and lute for reasons I have not come to completely understand but there was some talk of: boys who play such instruments are “hot stuff, father.” Laure plays the fortepiano beautifully, as does Magda. Sicily—well, least said about her aborted music lessons soonest mended); theatre—historical dramas and tragedies (I suffer comedies once a year on Netty’s birthday for that is her preference); fishing & hunting; attending the races; good, rich Brindisian wine; the touch of fox fur lined cloaks; a well-made cup of tea.

There are strange & private pleasures best not documented but if I were forced to, they would include Netty rolling down her stockings; the shape of the lips of the first girl I kissed; that strangely pleasurable pain that comes after a fist fight at the docks when every part hurts; scrape of sea salt on skin; Netty’s breasts; some bed-side things that happen between husband and wife that need not be spoken of save between the two parties involved; the feeling of someone whispering a secret which is the same as when someone with a Genoan accent speaks softly whilst explaining something with great intent and focus.

-

My father died when I was four-and-thirty. My mother when I was four-and-forty. Ten years and four days apart. My mother would have appreciated the symmetry of it. My children know better their maternal grandparents who are in and about giving them bad-habits such as hiding boiled sweets in a small pouch up sleeves and smoking strong-smelling tobacco and singing in the midst of supper.

[acrossthewavesoftime]

Hornblower AND WHO, though? (Or is it Hornblower and what?)

The title is a bit of a place holder as I don't have a proper name for the story yet. The idea was developed together with the wonderful @nordleuchten, who was just as distraught over Bush's death in the novels as I.

But, see, they never recovered any body(-parts) that were identfiably Bush... The story is set in 1824. Hornblower, a national hero, is trying to convince himself that the domestic idyll of having a wife, a son and a vast estate is all a man needs, but secretly suffers from severe nostalgia for his old days at sea.

Then one day, a curious letter arrives...:

Admiral Hornblower Smallbridge, Kent Grande-Bretagne.

My Dear Sir,

It is with some reservation I send to you this missive, for we have not been introduced to another, nor were we ever acquainted in another way, yet I am compelled to write to you following an incident in Le Havre—: at the harbour, I was approached by a sailor, a one-legged fellow who spoke French with an accent. At first, I was certain he would ask me for money, but he did not, though he appeared to be in some state of destitution and quite drunk: “Sir”, he pled with me, “Sir: from your dress, I can tell you are a man of import in this country, and thus beg your aid: I am but a poor sailor, and cannot write, and neither can I go home for the lack of funds that will not even allow me to send a letter: I have four poor sisters at home, and an ailing mother: will you please write to the good Admiral Hornblower of his Britannic Majesty’s Navy for me, with whom I served? He shall remember his old shipmate, and surely aid me, once he knows of my situation. He resides at Smallbridge in Kent, and shall no doubt accept the word of a gentleman such as you are.” I, moved by his speech and the destitution of the man, and no doubt his poor siblings and mother, asked him which name I was to give, but he was gone within an instant, only thanking me greatly, before disappearing from view amongst the alleyways.  

I have long thought on it, not wishing to accost a stranger with what might be but a mere trifle; yet those blue eyes seemed to haunt me until I put my pen to paper, and wrote this letter to you.

I am, etc. Gilbert du Motier, Marquis de La Fayette.

Thinking instantly that the man described can only be Bush (but how did he end up in this situation? He's supposed to be dead after all), Hornblower travels to Le Havre, who indeed finds Bush alive, and rather well; it appears that Bush had been rescued and returned to England by fishermen. Since at the time his demise had already been widely reported, Bush became an asset for the government as a spy, a position Bush only took on because the increased pay offered to him as compared to the Navy meant he could more efficiently care for his mother and sisters.

Bush admits to having tried to lure Hornblower over to France via La Fayette because he needs his help: the British government has received news that several British individuals are planning on kidnapping the Marquis on his way to his tour of the US as part of the 50th anniversary celebrations of American independence.

The people behind the kidnapping are Irish nationalists who intend to stir up trouble between America and Britain by kidnapping La Fayette using a ship sailing under the British flag, their idea being that perhaps Irish nationalism will be received with greater political interest, credence and perhaps even support (especially from France; they have not forgotten 1798 yet) abroad if there is a rift between the US and UK. They also plan on maybe using La Fayette as a hostage to negotiate arms deliveries.

The head of the group of people Bush and Hornblower are up against is Lucy Anne FitzGerald, historically staunchly true to her brother's, the famed Lord Edward FitzGerald's, (political) legacy, who, rather inconveniently for Bush and Hornblower, was married to the Royal Navy captain Thomas Foley, so the threat is sort-of coming from within.

They are joined on their mission by Hornblower's son Richard, who has followed his famous, but largely absent, father as a stowaway.

The people Hornblower perceives as antagonists are not meant to be portrayed in a negative way, on the contrary; Hornblower and Bush are set up against people with good intentions and reasons Hornblower might, in other circumstances even understand or even sympathise with to a certain extent.

I always found that Hornblower's antagonists are a tad shallow, from Barry McCool to the infamous "Wolfe" of the TV series, I thought the topic of 1798, or the fight for Irish independence could be dealt with with much greater nuance.

And, I think it would be interesting to set the oh-so-moral and correct Hornblower up against (gasp!) a lady.

While I have the faint outlinings of an ending in mind, I haven't fully planned it yet; the idea is however that there isn't a clear triumph or victory for one or the other side; the journey is what matters, a journey on which the newly resurrected friendship of Bush and Hornblower is put to the test, and Hornblower and his son grow closer over the mutual adventure.

Thank you for the ask! :)

[vina-writes]

The Pink Paradox

Written for the @drarrymicrofic​ prompt: Metamorphosis!

Rating: T

Length: 1.6k

Summary: Draco Malfoy has pink hair.

Notes: Thank you so much @fw00shy​​ for betaing!! Also just hire me for all your graphic design needs because hot damn I am proud of myself

(i)

Draco Malfoy has pink hair.

That’s not entirely correct when one gets down to the facts. Draco Malfoy has blond hair— a light, airy blond, the color of sunlight on snow. Harry Potter knows this because he’s spent many an adolescent winter watching Malfoy walk the grounds of a frozen Hogwarts and noticing it. The fact that he’s observed Malfoy that carefully is neither here nor there, although Ron would say it’s there (there being the Janus Thickey Ward). Harry’s Malfoy-stalking tendencies occupy their own corner of his mind however, and certainly don’t apply to the here and now.

Because here and now Malfoy has pink hair, and that’s not something unique to Harry’s observations. There’s not a witch or wizard alive who wouldn’t notice that head of bubblegum bobbing between the Auror cubicles.

It’s far too early for a Monday morning (nearing noon), and while their coworkers have been diligently ridding the Wizarding World of crime, Harry and Ron are tossing Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans into each other's mouths and gossiping over Lavender Brown’s pregnancy cravings. They were, that is, until Harry caught sight of Malfoy's pink hair.

“Kneazle got your tongue?” Ron asks after Harry fails to finish his sentence for the fifth time. Ron can make fun of him if he wants— his chair is facing away from Malfoy and that rosy fringe. The fact that Harry has never passed up a chance to watch Draco in all their years of training and employment (with or without pink hair) is irrelevant. The pink is distracting, and it’s more so on Malfoy.

“Malfoy,” Harry repeats to himself quietly, just to feel the familiar shape in his mouth. It’s lacking the venom and suspicion it should have on principle.

Ron turns unpleasantly green at that. “Malfoy’s got your tongue?” he asks.

“What?” Harry finally looks away from Malfoy. “No. Ew. Of course not.” He says it far too blandly, like a child denying their love of sweets, and Ron gives him a Look. Harry tries (unsuccessfully) to change the subject. “What’s he doing with the— why did he— what’s… erm.”

Ron regards him like he’s lost his mind. He seems to think Harry is confused about Malfoy’s business in the DMLE, when he’s usually with Hermione down in Mysteries. While that is out of the ordinary, it’s not nearly as pressing of an issue as Malfoy's pink hair.

“He’s consulting,” Ron explains slowly, “for the Finley case?” Then, when Harry only stares back blankly— “Harry. Can you even read?”

“Occasionally.”

“Tacky romance novels don't count.”

“Oh. Then, no, not really.”

“It was in our missive just last week. They’ve pulled in the Unspeakables. I was hoping they’d send ‘Mione, since she and the Ferret work together, but no such luck.”

“Oh.” Harry turns back to watch Malfoy shake Robards’ hand. Robards' grip is strong, and his thick fingers nearly engulf Malfoy’s delicate wrist. Harry doesn’t like that.

“Are you worried he’s going to cause trouble?” Ron asks. His voice sounds different, and when Harry glances at him again he’s got both feet slung over the armrest of his chair. Robards will skin him alive if he sees.

“No!” Harry says too quickly. He coughs. “Just wondering about the— er, how long has he had…?”

Ron doesn’t seem inclined to help him out.

“For fuck’s sake, Ron, when did he go and do—” Harry waves his hands frantically “—that?”

“Do you mean the hair, mate?”

“Yes, the bloody hair!” Harry’s had his fair share of existential crises in his life. He’s well acquainted with the feeling, and this one is going near the top of the list.

Ron, the bastard, shrugs. Shrugs! Like a pink-haired Malfoy is not only a normal occurrence, but is even expected.

“I didn’t notice it at first, to be honest,” he says, and Harry throws him a look of such vicious resentment that the potted Dragon Snap in the corner stops smoking and curls its leaves over its head. Ron just gives him a shit-eating grin in return.

Discouraged by his apparently un-threatening aura, Harry glances away in time to see Malfoy get a hearty pat on the shoulder (he doesn’t like that, either) and turn towards— towards them.

“Er, Ron?” Harry asks. “Who was assigned to the Finley case?” He knows the answer before he gets it, but still can’t look away from the cutting figure Malfoy makes as he saunters towards them in swirling black robes.

“That would be us,” Ron says cheerfully. “Buckle up and tuck in, mate. Your hard-on is showing.”

Harry is not hard, not even a little, but his panicked struggle to tug the mercilessly short Auror robes over his lap leaves him wrinkled and guilty-looking when Malfoy reaches them.

“Gentlemen,” Malfoy says cooly, and Harry thinks his cheeks must be the color of Malfoy’s hair.

“Harry’s hot for your hair,” Ron says. Harry chokes. “He’s also not read the case file, so I’ll leave you two to it. Don’t come looking for me, I’ll be taking an extended lunch. Looking forward to working with you.”

He throws them both a saucy wink and leaves with all the smugness of a man who’s done his yearly good deed. Harry’s going to murder him before the day is done.

Silence descends over their cubicle. Malfoy eyes Ron’s chair, but wisely chooses to remain standing. Harry notices belatedly that his robes are trimmed in silver, the same shade at his eyes.

“Potter.”

“Malfoy,” Harry acknowledges with a polite nod. The stillness around them is most certainly plummeting towards awkward.

“I heard you like my—”

“Have you read the—”

They both speak at the same time. Malfoy blinks, startled. When he doesn’t finish his sentence, Harry tries again.

“Have you not been debriefed on—”

“I noticed you changed your—”

They wisely decide to shut up. There’s a used staple on the corner of Harry’s desk, and he reaches over to fiddle with it just for something to do.

“Staples,” Malfoy says out of the blue. He looks like he regrets his volume, and it occurs to Harry that he probably feels just as uncomfortable. This is the first time they’ve spoken beyond polite greetings in four years, and neither is sure what to expect. It makes Harry feel better, somehow, to know that he’s not the only one feeling utterly wrongfooted.

“Yes,” Harry says. “Staples?”

Malfoy swallows. His neck is a long expanse of smooth skin, and Harry vaguely wonders what it tastes like. “We might make use of them on the case. Staples, I mean. Have you any more?”

Harry frowns, his discomfort dissipating. “Yeah, in the supply closet. But we just use Sticking Charms— don’t you?”

“Yes,” Malfoy says quickly. “We do. But we could try staples from the supply closet.”

It’s Harry’s turn to deploy the Look. Malfoy frowns at him like he doesn't get it, but Harry’s not really in the mood for deduction.

“So,” Harry says instead, “Auror work. Are you looking forward to it?”

There’s a shift in Malfoy’s stance, and his grey eyes skim over the lines of Harry’s body. “Parts of it,” he says. His tone is a little off. Husky.

“Sore throat?” Harry asks in what he hopes is a sympathetic manner.

“Sometimes,” Malfoy says cryptically. Harry’s not having the greatest time puzzling out his strange behavior and responses— they leave him floundering for something else to say.

“Are you going to tell me what’s in that fancy file or do I have to read it?” Harry finally asks, jerking his chin towards the papers tucked under Malfoy’s arm. He sincerely hopes Malfoy will volunteer to summarize for him. It’s because Harry’s glasses are giving him a headache and not at all because he likes the sound of Malfoy’s voice.

Malfoy’s cheeks flush a little. Harry wonders if he’s coming down with something, even as he struggles not to think of the color as attractive. “Protocol dictates that you read case information yourself,” Malfoy says, “but I suppose I wouldn’t mind speeding things along so we can get started. Maybe… over coffee? Or lunch?”

Harry tries not to let his dismay show on his face. “We have to work through lunch?” he asks. It sounds pathetic even to his own ears.

“Oh my fucking Merlin, he’s asking you out!” Cho shouts over the cubicle wall. Harry and Malfoy both jump.

“No, he’s not!” Harry shouts back, cheeks flaming.

“Yes, I am,” Malfoy says. Harry drops the used staple.

“You are?”

“Am I?”

“I don’t bloody know!”

“Well,” Malfoy starts, but seems to realize he doesn’t have a leg to stand on. “Well— you like my hair.”

“And that’s enough reason to ask me out for coffee?”

Harry really has no idea why he’s arguing. This is Malfoy— pink-haired, blushing Malfoy— handing himself over on a silver-trimmed platter, and he mentally slaps himself for putting up any sort of resistance.

“I like your hair,” Malfoy admits. He seems to regret saying it, and tries to make up for his embarrassment by adopting a suave position leaning against Harry’s desk. He misses and stumbles slightly before righting himself.  

“Don’t worry, Malfoy,” Cho calls again. “He’s been wetting himself over you for years, he’s bound to say yes.”

“Well, he’s not saying it,” Malfoy mutters.

“Yes I am.”

“You— you are?”

“Am I?”

Malfoy stops and stares at him. Opens his mouth, frowns a little. There’s a wonderful feeling in Harry’s chest.

“I’m just fucking with you,” Harry says over a smile. “Let’s go.”

Malfoy orders a strawberry milkshake at lunch. Harry doesn’t get dessert, but he still feels very… pink.

Read on Ao3

[ikeromantic]

Loyalties

A Mitsuhide Akechi fanfic. Approx. 1700 words. Takes place in the romantic epilogue - spoilers!

First: Mitsuhide and the Maiden

Previous: Hero's Welcome

The next few weeks passed in a blur. Kyubei kept busy running messages between Mitsuhide and his city contacts, and fetching items for the chatelaine. Though he supposed she didn’t really hold that title now. Now she was . . . well, a princess of the Oda. Soon to be Lady Akechi, if the two lovers had their way.

In all the years he’d served Mitsuhide, Kyubei never saw his lord so at peace. Though he was confined to the manor and still under suspicion - officially - and they had years of work to make the ‘new’ shogun fit, he seemed . . . happy. He spent hours in the garden or in his room with his fiance. And in the halls, the servants could hear their laughter. It was such a change. One Kyubei firmly hoped would continue. But life had taught him that these moments were treasures because they were ephemeral. Sweet because they were rare.

He waited for the axe to fall because it was inevitable.

When trouble finally arrived, it came bearing a box of sweets and an angelic smile.

Kyubei welcomed Ranmaru with a slight bow, and showed him to the chatelaine’s room in Mitsuhide’s manor. Though she spent her nights with his lord, her days she spent here - sewing. This was her passion, and it showed in the quality of her work.

Ranmaru thanked Kyubei, and as the door slid shut, he was already chattering away about his day and the sweets he’d made.

***

Mitsuhide folded and sealed the last of the days missives. He stared at the pile of letters and sighed. As the left hand of Nobunaga Oda, his work was never really done. There would be more reports, more letters, more planning and orders to send . . . and his lands needed him as well. He had projects to authorize and titles to bestow. And all he wanted to do was to curl up beside his little one and remind her how much he loved her with a thousand kisses.

He stood and stretched. This time of day, she was probably in her room working. His little one didn’t know that he already knew about the haori she was making for him. It was her surprise and he wasn’t going to ruin it by admitting he’d seen it, albeit in pieces, already.

As Mitsuhide approached her room, he heard the sound of another voice, high and young and full of forced joy. Ranmaru. He knocked lightly before sliding open the door.

His beloved sat across from the page, a little tray between them. There were sweets and tea. A little wooden box sat open beside her.

“My little mouse, I didn’t know you had a guest.” Mitsuhide smiled at Ranmaru.

The page stood. “I was actually just about to leave. I only came to drop off this gift for the princess.” He gestured to the box of sweets.

“They’re really good,” she picked up a small, colored sweet. “Do you want to try one Mitsuhide?”

Ranmaru pretended a gasp. “My lady! Those are only for you.” He glanced at Mitsuhide out of the corner of his eye. “I made them myself - so you could enjoy them.”

She laughed. “Well then you can’t complain if I share.”

“It’s alright. Such things are wasted on me.” Mitsuhide kept smiling but something in his chest tightened at the glib expression on Ranmaru’s face.

“Well good. I want you to eat them all up! Then I’ll bring you something else next time I try out a new recipe.” Ranmaru tittered.

His glee was grating on Mitsuhide’s nerves. He knew the boy was a spy for the Kennyo and this forceful mask he wore in his role here was bothersome. Still, Mitsuhide had all but promised he wouldn’t out the abbot’s protege. “I’m sure she would like that,” he said, “now, let me walk you out. I want to send a message along to Nobunaga.”

“Bye Ranmaru! I hope you can visit again soon,” the princess called as they left.

Mitushide walked alongside Ranmaru, his mind turning over the facets of this relationship. He wanted the page to stay away but did not want to make an unsubtle threat. This needed a cautious touch.

“She’s a very trusting girl,” Ranmaru said into the silence between them. “She thinks the best of everyone. Even you.”

“And you.” Mitsuhide stopped, looking down at the bright-eyed page. “Why were you really here today?”

Ranmaru smiled wider. “To bring her a gift, as I said. She’s used to accepting things from my hand. She doesn’t even question where it came from. Or what might be in it.”

Mitsuhide felt something in him turn hollow. His mouth curved in a sharp smile. “I see.” He gestured toward the front entry. “Thank you for stopping in. I do hope you have a safe walk back to the castle. Azuchi can be a dangerous place.”

“I’m not worried.” Ranmaru’s fixed grin betrayed nothing. “Didn’t you have a message for Lord Nobunaga?”

“I’ve decided it would be best to speak with him in person.”

Ranmaru shrugged, his smile going a little crooked. Then he turned and left.

Kyubei appeared from a nearby doorway. “Should I . . .”

“No. But I will bring you what remains of these sweets. Check them carefully.”

“Yes my lord.”

Mitsuhide returned to his beloved. She appeared fine. In high spirits after her visitor, even. She didn’t mind it when he sent the remaining goodies to the kitchen, suspecting nothing.

“Do you like Ranmaru very much?”

His little mouse laughed softly. “He’s really sweet. And I think a bit sad. Why? Are you jealous?”

Mitsuhide pulled her into his lap and nipped at her neck. “Mmm, no. I know you are mine. But, do you trust him little mouse?”

She straightened, her expression suddenly serious. “Why? Is there a reason I shouldn’t? Do you know something?”

It was tempting to tell her. Afterall, he’d promised no lies between them. But he’d promised Kennyo that Ranmaru’s secret was safe with him. It seemed he would never be free of conflicting promises and unintentional betrayals. Mitsuhide sighed. “Has he told you anything? Mentioned his past or his friends? His family?”

“No. He doesn’t talk much about himself at all, actually.” She was thoughtful, still in his arms. “I don’t think he would hurt me but . . . I don’t think he likes you very much either.”

Mitsuhide nodded. “I have that impression.”

“So . . . maybe I should find out more about him.” She sighed. “I guess as your wife, I can’t really trust anyone. Well, except maybe Hideyoshi. I don’t think he’d ever do anything underhanded.”

“Not well,” Mitsuhide laughed.

“It’s hard to think about people that way. I want to believe everyone is good.”

Mitsuhide gently combed his fingers through her hair. “I want you to still see the world that way. But please, little one, be careful.”

“I will be.” She smiled and kissed him. Her mouth was sweet and hot and what started as a light kiss deepened quickly between them.

No matter how many times Mitsuhide tasted her, it felt like the first time. New and exciting, forbidden. His desire for her only grew with their time together.

“My lord?” Kyubei called from just outside the closed door.

Mitsuhide reluctantly broke the kiss between them. “Come in.” His little one tried to slide off his lap to sit beside him, but he held her in place. Damned if he was going to let go just because they were interrupted.

“I am sorry to interrupt, my lord. I came to let you know dinner will be late today.” He glanced toward the princess. “I should have left you those candies awhile longer! If you want to eat the rest, the box is in the kitchen.”

His little mouse shrugged. “That’s ok, Kyubei. I’m not that hungry yet. Thank you for dropping in to tell us.”

“Of course, my lady.” Kyubei bowed again. Then he left.

Mitsuhide felt a coil of tension release inside him. Ranmaru might be an enemy by loyalty, but he hadn’t hurt his little one. The conversation between them was a warning. He leaned his head against his little one, inhaling her scent. “I think perhaps we need to get away from the city for a time. Would you like that, little one?”

“Hmm, where would we go? There aren’t any Sengoku resorts or amusement parks.” She laughed. “Where do warlords go on vacation?”

“Vacation? Another word from your time? It means to get away?”

“From work, yes. Like, to take a break away from the place you live.” She relaxed against him.

Mitsuhide considered. “We could visit my lands. You’ve yet to see them. Or, is there some place you want to visit?”

She closed her eyes. “I wish . . . I wish I could show you my home. All my favorite places. There’s a coffee shop by my flat where they make a cat face in the froth and the barista always gives me a free cookie. And a movie theater with the best soda. And I could take you on a roller coaster!” She laughed. “I’d love to see your face on the first hill.”

“I would like that.”

“Yeah. But we can’t.” His little one took a shaky breath. “I can’t regret deciding to stay here with you. I love you more than anything. But I sometimes wish that you could meet my mom and dad. My friends. I wish they could know how happy I am. How lucky. I mean . . .”

Mitsuhide waited for her to continue, but she said nothing for several long breaths. “What is it? What do you mean?” He tilted her chin up so that he could see her face. She was fighting tears.

“It’s just, I don’t want to cry. There’s nothing to cry about.”

“Little one, if you need to cry, then do. You don’t have to pretend in front of me.” He pulled her closer. This sudden sadness surprised him. He’d thought she was as pleased as he.

“They probably think I’m dead. My parents. My friends. Or worse. I wish I could at least tell them I’m ok.” The words came in little gasps as she let her tears out.

Mitsuhide stroked her back. He wished he could do something to cheer her, but this was beyond his abilities. Or was it? The ninja from Echigo - the one from her time - he might know of a way to get a message across at least. It was a long shot, but the kitsune warlord would not let his beloved taste more sorrow than her share. Not if he could help it.

Next: Lunches with Friends

[bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher]

Don’t Take the Money

(cross-posted from my AO3 and based on the Bleachers song of the same name; you should give it a listen ‘cause it definitely shaped this story)

-vomit tw, depression tw, lots of angst and emotional whump with a happy ending, of course-

Jaskier had received six urgent messages in three weeks, each delivered by a different exhausted messenger in the same oddly familiar livery. They showed up outside of inns, in the corner of taverns, and one of them even had to trek through the deep woods to find their hidden campsite; Geralt almost felt bad for them. Almost.

After the seventh strange man appeared with a scroll for Jaskier, the bard didn’t even bother reading it. He merely tossed the rolled and sealed piece of parchment into a refuse pile on their way out of town and didn’t look back. Geralt picked it up when the bard wasn’t paying attention, letting his eyes scan the fancy, swirling script of the Viscountess Pankratz.

Julian Alfred Pankratz,

Return home immediately! Your wedding cannot be put off any longer! Lady Ainsley will not wait another month for your foolish adventures with that Witcher to come to an end. If you do not return for your wedding in three weeks time then you shall be officially disowned and your name will be stricken from the family records.

With Urgency,

Lady Pankratz

Geralt swallowed hard. Jaskier was betrothed? He was to be married in three weeks? But they weren’t anywhere near Redania. Or Lettenhove. Jaskier had never mentioned anyone by the name of Lady Ainsley before, or anything about his past if he could avoid it. Did that mean...?

“Why aren’t you going?” the Witcher asked. Jaskier whirled around, his eyebrow already raised in confusion; he went three shades paler than normal when he saw the limp paper hanging from Geralt’s fingers. “We’re not even remotely close to your hometown and we’re traveling in quite the opposite direction.”

Jaskier made a face and waved his hand dismissively.

“I know. I don’t want to marry her.”

“Why don’t you want to marry her? They’re going to disown you, Jaskier. Isn’t this” - he shook the letter for emphasis - “the life you’re used to living, anyway? You should go home and be with...with someone like you .”

“What’s that supposed to mean, Geralt? You think I belong with someone foppish? Loud? Annoying?” The bard was spitting mad already. The Witcher had touched on a sore spot, apparently. “Should I be with someone more breakable and human and petty?”

“Don’t you want- aren’t you-”

“C’mon big boy, use that fantastic Witcher brain of yours. Figure it out.”

Geralt didn’t understand.

“Wouldn’t you be happier with her than on the Path with me?”

Jaskier looked...hurt. His expression changed from indignant to heartbroken in the measure of time that occurred between split seconds. It did something awful in the Witcher’s gut. Something unfamiliar and painful. The bard’s next words were barely above a whisper. Even with his enhanced hearing Geralt had to focus hard: “Would you prefer me to be married off and out of your way?”

“No, that’s not what I-”

“I don’t even know what we’re even getting at here, Geralt. I’m sorry. I can return home if you’d like. If I send a messenger first thing tomorrow then the family’s hired mage can portal me back in time for the wedding.”

“Jaskier,” the Witcher was pleading. He didn’t know why or for what, but the pitch of his voice left room for no other possible interpretation. “I just don’t want to see you get hurt again.”

“Then don’t ask me to marry her, Geralt.”

The Witcher dropped the letter back onto the refuse pile and shoved it deeper with the tip of his boot. Jaskier’s bright smile returned and the soft notes of his lute filled the air once again. For some inexplicable reason Geralt felt triumphant. As if he’d won a battle he didn’t know he’d been fighting against an enemy he’d never met before.

---

“Are you Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf?” a well-dressed stranger asked, approaching the table where the Witcher was seated. It had been a week since his and Jaskier’s argument over the summons. Neither one had brought it up again and the bard had seemed almost unusually affectionate since. The amount of casual touching they did had significantly increased, even when the sun set and it was growing close to bedtime. Jaskier seemed to be happy touching Geralt and the Witcher had no reason to complain; he liked knowing that his best friend wasn’t scared of him.

He regarded the messenger with a suspicious gaze, “Aye. I am Geralt of Rivia.”

“I have a contract for you.” The man slid a piece of paper across the table and folded himself into the chair across from Geralt’s. The pattern stamped into the red wax seal was familiar but the Witcher couldn’t quite remember where he’d seen it before. His strange visitor smiled benignly, “It doesn’t even involve killing.”

“Then why hire a Witcher? That’s kind of our schtick.”

“This agreement is of a more personal nature,” the man shrugged, leaning back in his chair and waiting for Geralt to read his missive. The Witcher took the delicate stationary in his large hands and unfolded it until he could see the printed words:

To Sir Geralt of Rivia,

Witcher and Friend of Julian Alfred Pankratz

We, the Pankratz Family, come to you and offer this agreement:

Return Julian safely to our ancestral home within two weeks and you shall be paid the sum of 1500 crowns. Consider it a bodyguarding mission, if you so desire.

You are also formally invited to attend the wedding of Julian Alfred Pankratz of Lettenhove to the Countess Ainsley DeStael of Rinde, which will occur three days after your mission ends.

In order to complete the job and claim your payment, however, you must leave the wedding party without Julian at your side and return to your Witcher duties alone. He isn’t cut out for such a hard life on the road. He is of noble blood and has responsibilities here at home. Please return him to his kind of people and claim your coin in recompense.

Sincerely,

Francois Reginald Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove

&

Constantina Charlotte Pankratz, Lady de Lettenhove

Geralt glanced up from the contract and out into the main dining room where Jaskier was currently jigging atop one of the surprisingly sturdy tables. The bard’s smile was bright, his voice was strong and clear as he sang of lovers meeting in secret, and his blue eyes twinkled with joy. He loved the attention of performing. How could Geralt take that away from him, even if he would be safer at home? Even if he would be married to another, spending his time with another, caring for another…

But didn’t Geralt care about Jaskier? Isn’t that why he’d risked life and limb over and over to keep the bard safe? Because Geralt loved him? He pushed the thought away with haste and tried to keep his expression neutral. His amber eyes strayed to the upturned hat at Jaskier’s feet. People had been depositing coins there all night and a rather decent pile had sprung up but -

But he could be doing better, Geralt thought. He could be taking a warm bath every night and buying expensive oils from real apothecaries and not sketchy traveling salesmen. He could be dressing in silk every day and never complain about having to wear a woolen doublet for warmth again. He could sleep next to a fire in a real feather-bed. With blankets. He could stay healthy and safe and never go near another angry monster for all his days.

Something in the Witcher’s heart withered and died when he realized just how much he’d been holding Jaskier back; something important. Something the bard had helped him cultivate over six long years of traveling together. In an instant the Witcher had hidden it away in a dark corner to die.

“Alright.”

“Huh,” the messenger smirked. “They thought it would take more bribery to get you to agree, Witcher.”

“It’s not about the crowns,” Geralt shrugged, gaze flitting back up to Jaskier. The bard’s twinkling cornflower-blue eyes met with his and Geralt quickly glanced away, already ridden with guilt and shame over his decision. “It’s about making him happy and keeping him safe.”

“If I didn’t know any better about your kind and their lack of feelings,” the messenger snorted, “I’d say you might even love the Little Lord Pankratz.”

“If I didn’t know any better about myself,” Geralt replied, “I might agree.”

“See you in two weeks, then. Hope you can make it to Redania in time.”

“Why not just portal us there? Jaskier said his family had a hired mage.”

“Busy with wedding preparations,” the man shrugged. “Anyway, I must be going. The Viscount and her Ladyship are eager to hear your reply. See you soon, I’m sure.”

The stranger stood, bowed, and disappeared back to Lettenhove with the signed contract. Geralt swallowed back a mouthful of bile. He hated himself. He really did. But this is what’s best for Jaskier.

---

“Who was that, earlier at the table?” the bard asked. He was lounging on the bed with a tin of lute polish in one hand and a rag in the other. “Did he have a contract?”

“Yes. In Redania, actually.”

“Oh, lovely! It’s almost time for the summer festivals to begin; I can show you the best alehouse in all of Novigrad while we’re there.”

“My job is near Lettenhove. Do you want to go with me?”

“Sure. Might be fun to swing by my old stomping grounds. This doesn’t have anything to do with my canceled wedding, does it?” the bard shot him a pointed look. Geralt schooled his features into some sort of passivity and shook his head.

“Vampires rarely attend the weddings of minor nobility,” the Witcher lied through his teeth.

“Vampires, huh? Nifty. Haven’t had one of those to write about in awhile.”

“Hmm.”

---

“Geralt, help! Geralt, please! GERALT!”

The Witcher tossed and turned, unable to sleep. He kept hearing Jaskier’s raw, heartbroken voice ringing in his ears. He could still smell the desperation and panic that clung to the bard’s soft skin as he struggled to get away from his captors. To get back to where the Witcher stood with Roach and the gatekeeper. Geralt kept imagining those eyes, those fucking beautiful eyes, brimming with tears of betrayal as a liveried servant handed him a velvet pouch stuffed fat with crowns. Oh gods, the way his bard had looked at him…Geralt shoved his head out the window and vomited. There was nothing but the sour sting of bile against his tongue and the back of his throat. He heaved in a breath but choked back the sob threatening to come with it.

“Please don’t leave me here, Geralt! Don’t take the money! I’ll be better, I promise! I won’t talk as much, I won’t touch Roach again, I won’t write any ballads about you, Geralt please, I lo-”

The guards had dragged Jaskier inside and slammed the heavy oak door shut before he could finish his sentence, but the Witcher had gotten the general idea. The bard thought he was doing this out of hatred and not out of the sincerest, purest love Geralt had ever felt. He thought this was a punishment and not a slightly backwards form of rescue. If only the bard could understand.

Jaskier’s love wasn’t unrequited.

The bard stole the very breath from Geralt’s lungs every time their eyes met. Every time Jaskier crowed with pride after finishing a new song about their adventures together the Witcher felt his icy heart melt a little more. Each casual brush of their hands as they walked side-by-side sent his emotions reeling. The way his exuberant bard looked as he strolled beside Roach, the sunshine bringing out streaks of dark red in his chestnut hair and lightening the embroidery on his travel jerkin, it was ethereal. Magical. Overwhelming in all the best ways.

And he’d given it all away for a measly pouch of a coin and a slightly clearer conscious. Or was it?

Geralt retched again as he came to another realization.

He had forced Jaskier into something he didn’t want. Geralt had always given his friend free reign. The younger man came on and off the Path like a bee between flowers, visiting and traveling with the Witcher when he pleased and leaving again for odd jobs or festivals when Geralt wasn’t in the mood for company. But he’d given him no choice about the marriage. No, he’d wrestled Jaskier to the ground and bound his hands. He’d gagged him. He’d flung the bard into Roach’s saddle and tied his crossed wrists to the pommel so he couldn’t pick the knots free and escape. He’d passed Jaskier off to the guards and watched them drag him away as he spit out the gag and started yelling.

As he confessed his love to Geralt after six long years on the Path together.

Fucking hells, what have I done to him?

The suddenly panicked Witcher tumbled from his rented bed and reached for his boots. There was no time to spare. There was no time to waste.

There was only Jaskier.

---

Jaskier couldn’t believe it.

After all this time. After all their adventures. After all the songs he’d written and rooms he’d gotten them at comfortable inns, this is how the Witcher repaid him. Trading him back to his parents for a bag of coin like he was some sort of slave or whore.

He was a bard.

He was Geralt’s bard.

Well, he used to be Geralt’s bard. Now he was going to be Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove and Lord of Rinde by marriage.

He wished he could just stop breathing and disappear. His heart thudded dully in his chest and it felt as if he was floating several feet below the surface of deep water. He was unable or unwilling to surface; maybe both. There was no point anymore, really. Geralt, the only person he’d ever really loved, had trussed him up like a market goose and traded him for silver.

The food his family’s servants brought him laid mostly untouched. He knew how to eat just enough to keep from dying. He’d been in plenty of dungeons and bandit camps before. Jaskier had spent six years following the Witcher’s Path and surviving off of whatever Geralt caught or he traded for. There was no reason to eat any more than what he needed to keep his body alive. There was no reason to get out of bed. Or bathe. Or change clothes. These clothes still smelled like the road. Like lute polish and chamomile oil and Roach and mud and Geralt.

“Please,” his mother begged, clasping his limp hand in both of hers. She’d been sitting at his bedside for maybe an hour, watching him stare listlessly up into the green velvet canopy above him. “Just eat something substantial. Say something. Do something, Julian. We know you aren’t happy with us or our decision but you can’t just lay here all day and wallow in self-pity. You have responsibilities to take care of; Ainsley has grown worried and her father is impatient.”

“The wedding is tomorrow,” he’d replied. There was no emotion in his voice and the monotony was soothing to his own ears. Geralt didn’t like it when he got too excited. Best to be calm and quiet like a good little noble. “I will be presentable. I will be at the altar. I will do my duty for the family.”

“Thank you, Julian.”

“But I will not love her.”

“You never have to love her,” his mother smiled. She gave his hand another small pat before standing and moving towards the door. Her job here was done, after all. “We only need you to marry her.”

---

Geralt pounded up the steps of the keep two-at-a-time. His usually slow heartbeat was now pounding in his ears like a warlord’s drum. He had to save Jaskier, he had to - the door slammed open and something hard went flying into his chest, knocking him back a step. The Witcher reached out a hand to steady the person he’d collided with but his amber eyes were still focused on the castle’s front door. He moved to step around the stranger and into the building when they suddenly spoke. The bard’s voice was pitchy and low from crying all morning: “Geralt?”

“Jaskier?” the Witcher gasped. His grip tightened around the younger man’s upper arm. “Are you okay?”

“Am I okay?” Jaskier looked truly flabbergasted. His expression shifted from shock to anger quickly, however, and the hurt in those blue eyes nailed Geralt to the ground where he stood. “Am I OKAY? You absolute fucking moron; of course I’m not okay. The love of my life tied me up, handed me over to my horrible fucking family like a Beltane offering, and disappeared into the night with a fat bag of crowns. The one person I love most in this world, the only person I’d ever trust with my life or my lute, treated me like a transaction of some sort. I am very much not okay, Geralt of Rivia! Now pick me up, take me to Roach, and get me the fuck out Lettenhove before I have to marry that horrible, terrible, hideous woman!”

The Witcher cracked a smile. Jaskier jabbed a finger into his chest and frowned even more deeply. “Why the fuck are you smiling, Witcher?”

“Because I missed the sound of your voice.”

The bard blushed, his righteous anger faltering.

“I love you too,” Geralt added. Jaskier’s eyes somehow grew even rounder and more watery. “I’m so fucking sorry but I didn’t know how else to protect you. I thought that maybe after coming home and seeing how much nicer it was than being on the Path you might want to stay here and be safe. Live your life normally. I thought you’d be happier here than you were with me. You’d certainly wouldn’t be hurt as often.”

“Did you just say that you love me?”

“Yes.”

“Did you hear me say that I love you, mere moments ago?”

“Yes.”

“Then why the fuck would you try to get rid of me?” The Witcher tried not to flinch when Jaskier placed a gentle hand against his cheek. He’d expected a slap. A kick to the shin. A knee to the groin. Screaming. He hadn’t expected that look of soft understanding to dawn on Jaskier’s boyish face. Despite the knowing sparkle in his eyes, the bard’s voice was sad. “Caged birds never sing, Geralt. What an awful cage it would have been; I'd never see my handsome Witcher again. I'd never attend another royal wedding as entertainment. I'd never write another line of song, much less be able to sing it. I would have been miserable Geralt. I probably would have died much sooner here than I would on the Path.”

“Can you ever forgive me?”

“As soon as you do as I say and get me the hell out of here, then yes, I’ll consider forgiving you, Witcher.”

“Well I suppose we shouldn’t waste any time.”

Geralt flung the bard up and over his shoulder and took off back down the steps at a sprint. He wasn’t going to let those people have his darling Jaskier back. Not if they tried to cage him and take his voice. He knew better now. He understood. 

They loved each other.

The bard was laughing brightly, bouncing along as Geralt made for the stables. He could see his family exiting the Great Hall and making their way in his direction. It didn’t matter. They’d never catch up with his Witcher. He shot them several naughty hand gestures and grinned widely when Geralt swung them both up into Roach’s saddle. “Sorry girl,” he apologized. “Time for our daring escape into the woods.”

---

"Fifteen hundred crowns, huh?" Jaskier asked, eyeing the hefty purple velvet bag.

"Actually there are only fourteen hundred left," Geralt shrugged. He reached into his saddlebag and brought out a small leather pouch, which he handed to Jaskier. The bard opened it, peered inside, and gasped in very genuine surprise.

"Geralt..."

"Do you like it?" the Witcher was worrying his bottom lip between his teeth in the cutest way. Jaskier wanted to answer but his heart was caught somewhere between his throat and his stomach so he couldn't quite form words. He nodded.

"Can you help me put it on?"

"There's no clasp. They aren't meant to have clasps."

"I know."

Geralt's heart soared as he lifted his gift for Jaskier out of the bag and lowered it over his head. The medallion rested just between his collarbones, framed by a tuft of the bard's chest hair. It was a copy of Geralt's wolf medallion, only this wolf held a flower in its mouth. Gently, as if unwilling to break the stem or let it go.

"It's perfect," the bard beamed. His eyes were watery and he blinked the tears free to keep staring at his new jewelry. "Thank you."

"Hmm."

"What do you want to do with the rest of the money?"

"I don't know," the Witcher shrugged. "Maybe go to the coast?"

"I've always wanted to go there!"

Geralt pressed a tender kiss against Jaskier's lips, reveling in the sensation of his bard melting against his chest. They'd spent the last few nights wrapped around each other, whispering secrets and stories into each others mouths until sleep overtook them. Tonight would be no different, except that now Jaskier felt truly safe. He felt loved. He felt utterly surrounded by the happiness that came with being on the Path next to his Witcher. "What are you thinking about, little lark?"

"I'm glad you came back for me. I'm glad we're together now."

"Hmm. Me too."

[holycatsandrabbits]

Tollense, an original serial romance by Dannye Chase, Chapter 3

A history professor falls in love with his best friend, a 3000-year-old vampire.

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Chapter 3

1996 (Three years later)

Liam got a letter in the mail that morning, another one, from New York this time. Liam didn’t know anyone in New York who would send this kind of letter. In any case, they were all from the same person, no matter the constantly changing postmark, and they all said the same hateful, frightening things.

Liam had just tossed this one into the drawer with the others when Kurt appeared out of nowhere, as only he could. Liam had done a bit of research on vampires in the three years he’d known Kurt (as much study as he could on something that was supposed to be fictional), and teleportation was not a common vampire ability. But then Kurt was not a common vampire.

“Morning,” Kurt said, dropping into a kitchen chair. He looked a bit bed-rumpled, but Liam honestly wasn’t sure whether it was because Kurt had been sleeping or because Kurt thought that humans should look bed-rumpled in the morning. “Been for your run yet?” Kurt asked.

“I was just getting ready to go.”

“Want company?”

“You’re not dressed for it,” Liam pointed out, waving a hand at Kurt’s blue jeans, and that caused Kurt to vanish again. Liam was lacing his shoes when Kurt reappeared, this time wearing athletic shorts and, crucially, no shirt. Liam’s fingers tripped over themselves and got tangled in his shoelaces like clumsy people with jump ropes.

Liam had seen Kurt without his shirt on occasionally over the last three years, most memorably when Kurt had shown Liam the scars he still carried from the earliest thing he remembered— a Bronze Age battle. There was a scar above his heart and two on his left shoulder, the marks of flint arrowheads, presumably the wounds that caused his death.

But that was not what caught Liam’s attention when Kurt was shirtless. Kurt had the build of a fighter: a slender waist, sturdy legs, broad shoulders and strong arms. His chest was smoothly muscled around the scars. Meanwhile Liam had the body of a thirty-year-old history professor who went for a run most mornings, but also had a fondness for rocky road ice cream.

Liam wasn’t sure if Kurt knew about the threatening letters. He was also not sure if Kurt knew how fervently Liam desired him. If he was aware of either, or, most importantly, felt any desire in return, he had never said. And while Liam was sorting out the shoelace mess, Kurt pulled on a shirt, so the distraction passed.

The morning was cool, with fog still gathering around the trees. While they ran, Kurt told Liam about a morning in 1914 outside of Ypres, when snow had fallen silently, covering fallen leaves and fallen soldiers alike.

Liam had learned by now that Kurt did not feel the cold. It must have been obvious during a winter campaign, when Kurt’s fingers did not stiffen with frostbite, or his toes blister with trench foot. Sometimes, Kurt had told him, his fellow soldiers thought of him as an indestructible good luck charm. Sometimes they looked on the only member of their group to emerge from a battle unscathed and called him a demon.

A countless number of Kurt’s stories ended with him holding a fellow soldier as he succumbed to injury and passed out of this world.

When they turned back onto Liam’s street, there was a blue car in Liam’s driveway that belonged to one of Liam’s students, Martina. She was standing beside the car, waving at them. Of course, she wasn’t there to see Liam.

When Liam got out of the shower fifteen minutes later, he was surprised to see Kurt in the kitchen alone, drinking the coffee that Liam kept on hand for him. Coffee and water were the only things Liam had ever seen Kurt eat or drink. “Martina didn’t stay?” Liam asked.

“No. She was just returning my jacket.” Kurt looked melancholy for a moment, a brief flash across his features before it faded back into his usual somewhat detached expression. “She met someone else. He’s moving in.”

Liam looked at him in shock. “Oh. I’m sorry.”

Kurt shook his head. “I’m happy for her. She’s about to graduate anyway, so we were going to break it off.”

Martina was not the first of Liam’s students that Kurt had dated. Kurt was very good about it, really. The students he chose were from the graduate program, so all in their mid-twenties or older, and they’d all known what Kurt was. They’d chosen to be a part of his life for a while, providing him with companionship, and, though they didn’t usually state it so plainly, with blood.

“I don’t get attached,” Kurt said. “And I pick those who won’t get attached to me. I don’t have the patience for a line of angry exes. Better to be with those who will part as friends.”

“Have you ever been wrong?” Liam asked. He didn’t look at Kurt, carefully focusing on the toaster and butter dish.

“Accidentally broken someone’s heart, you mean?” Kurt asked. “Or lost my own?”

“Either.”

“Not in a long time.”

“Ah.” Liam buttered his toast with perhaps more force than was called for.

“I investigated him, though. Martina’s new boyfriend. His name is Devon.”

“Investigated,” Liam repeated. He sat down at the table opposite Kurt, accepting the cup of coffee Kurt passed to him.

“He seems like a very nice man. And he loves her.”

“So you read his mind.”

“I can’t read minds.”

“I’m not sure I believe you.”

Kurt looked amused. “I know. But not because I read your mind. In any case, Martina is my friend. She’s under my protection. And so are you.”

This last part was said gently, but Liam caught its meaning as overtly as he was meant to. He let out a groan and pushed away what was left of his toast. “How long have you known?”

“Long enough. The letters are mailed from around the country, but I am almost certain the sender is local. He probably travels a lot, and also has other people mail the letters without knowing what’s in them.”

“That’s what the police think. They also think they’re not serious.”

Kurt seemed immensely unimpressed by this opinion. “So did you do something that some bastard holds a grudge for? Murder his wife? Steal his parking space? Or do you think it’s because you’re gay?”

Liam’s sexuality was not something that had come up in conversation before, so Liam was a bit startled to hear it accurately described. “I have no idea,” he said. “I certainly don’t recall murdering anyone.”

“I’ve looked over the letters. No fingerprints, and I can’t find anything distinctive about the printer he uses.” When Kurt got emotional, he wore it strangely, as if he could be both agitated and unaffected at the same time. Right now his green eyes were bright and his mouth tight. His fingers curled sharply around his coffee cup, blanching white where they gripped too hard. But the rest of his body was still relaxed in the chair, stretched into the sort of lazy pretzel shape that sore legs often took after a run. Liam sometimes wondered what Kurt would be like if he stopped trying so hard to seem human.

“They’re not serious,” Liam told him.

“I’m not convinced of that. You really don’t have suspects?”

Liam shrugged. “Nobody in particular.”

“Ex-lovers?”

Liam focused on his coffee. “I haven’t had one of those for some time.”

“Family?”

“It’s just my sister and me, and we get along fine as long as she can pretend I’m not gay.”

Kurt’s fingers clenched around the coffee cup again. “This is a very intolerant period of history.”

Liam laughed, not unkindly. “It is all history to you, isn’t it? This is just another era to walk through. How odd to—”

“Stop trying to change the subject. Colleagues?”

“I’ve never had any problems. Anyway, the letters are all anti-university. Anti-technology. Unabomber-type stuff.”

“I’m not sure I trust the subject matter. Why send anti-technology missives to a history professor? It still feels personal to me. The one you got today talks about kidnapping you, Liam. That’s a very intimate threat.”

Liam groaned. “How the hell—”

“I read it while you were in the shower.” Kurt did look a little regretful, at least. “Look, I know you don’t like me being all— the way I am—”

“If I minded the vampire stuff, I’d never have agreed to work with you. What I object to is your being sneaky and intrusive on an entirely human level.”

Kurt seemed surprised, which was not a common look on him. He stared at Liam for a moment before saying, “Well, I object to being kept in the dark about your safety.”

“Kurt—”

They were interrupted by the ding noise that Liam’s computer made when he received an email. Normally Liam might ignore it, but at the moment, he welcomed the distraction.

The email was from a colleague in Germany, and as Liam read it, he forgot all about their argument. “Kurt,” he said, in an entirely different tone than the one he’d just used. Kurt was behind him in an instant, moving with that silent speed he had.

Liam traced his finger across the screen, aware that he wasn’t supposed to do that, but he hadn’t quite yet learned not to treat emails like they were pieces of paper. “Look at this. Someone found an arm bone with a flint arrowhead in the bank of the Tollense River in Germany. It’s not— it’s not a giant battle, not yet, just with one body, but it’s the right place, the right time. My colleague thinks this could be what we were looking for, and I think he’s right. Your earliest memory. Your origin. It could be Tollense.”

Kurt had knelt down so that he could read the screen more easily. When he turned his head it brought his mouth so very close to Liam’s. “You did it,” he said softly. “You found it.”

“Well, I didn’t find anything. Someone else—”

“But you put your neck on the line, theorizing about a battle in a time and place no one expected.”

“It’s not like I don’t have eye-witness evidence.”

“But no one knows that. You’ve endured a lot of controversy, trying to help me.”

“Oh, I don’t care about that. I care about—” Liam cut himself off before he could say it.

Kurt seemed to hear it anyway, because he leaned forward and pressed his mouth against Liam’s.

It was a light kiss only for a few seconds, until Liam made an intensely hungry noise and Kurt responded to it, bringing his hands up around Liam’s face to hold him steady. Kurt deepened the kiss, sweeping into Liam’s open mouth with his tongue.

Liam had thought about a kiss like this, thorough and overwhelming, fantasized about it, wondered if it might happen someday because Kurt would read his mind and know how much Liam wanted it. But Liam was suddenly sure in that moment that Kurt could not read minds, or at least, that he’d left Liam’s to its secrets. If he had read it, he would have known not to kiss Liam. Because unlike the students Kurt sought out, Liam was already attached, far too much, to this utterly alien man who kissed with a technique undoubtedly honed over millennia, ranging from soft to strong all in a single lick of his tongue, instinctively knowing which parts of Liam’s mouth were most sensitive, and all with a kindness Liam had never before felt.

It was the kindness that made Liam put his hands up and push Kurt gently away. Liam didn’t want kindness at that moment, didn’t want Kurt offering this kiss out of gratitude or friendship, or because Kurt knew Liam was attracted to men and would probably enjoy it. Even because he was worried about Liam’s safety. Kurt was three thousand years old, and he’d no doubt live for many thousands of years after this. Liam’s lifespan was a drop of water in the river of Kurt’s life. Kurt had said it just this morning— he would never allow himself to get attached.

After the kiss broke, Kurt looked at Liam searchingly for a moment, and then moved away.

“We should— we should visit Germany,” Liam managed to say. Kurt just nodded.

************

The battle of Tollense is a real thing! Here is the wikipedia and another article.

************

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Want to create fic, art, or other works based on this series? Please do! Just dm or tag me.

My previous serials are for Good Omens: Mr. Fell's Bookshop and Love's Endless Light

My Carrd

[flautistsandpeonies]

Prominence Part 1

Read My Prompt [Here]

Word Length: 2,710

Tags: Not for JC Fans, JC’s Canon Characteristics, Not for Madam Yu Fans, Madam Yu Canon Characteristics, Not Jiang Friendly, No Sunshot Campaign, Original Character, Vampires

Almost everyone had heard of Wei WuXian. Picked up from the streets of Yiling at the age of nine and brought to YunmengJiang to be trained amongst its disciples, the orphan was a reoccurring topic through the many sects, taverns, brothels, and businesses of china. For thirteen years, the young cultivator sparked many a sordid story and salacious talks of infidelity, bastard children, bloodlines, and even sword naming of all things.

Some thought positively of the young cultivator, wondering of his promise and imaging what he might accomplish with his cultivation. Others saw the prodigy as a blight on the normal way of life, an arrogant servant who didn’t understand his station. Both acknowledged his strength with a sword, his intelligence, and wit.

All in all, it was common to talk about the young master, whether it was scorn or adoration, it was almost impossible to not pass by one person and not hear the name “Wei WuXian” on their lips.

Especially now...

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The YunmengJiang Sect was hosting a discussion conference next month.

‘Not surprising, ‘Lan Qiren thought as he set the missive down, ‘Considering the situation’

The letter was short and concise, the way he preferred them. Jiang Fengmian meant to clear up some “misconceptions and rumors” about sudden events and offer a chance to the young disciples of the sects.

A two week discussion conference was to be held, the first dedicated to multiple lectures and the second a week long night-hunting competition.

Sitting to his right, Lan XiChen picked up the letter with inquisitive eyes and stared to peruse. After few minutes, he smiled and set the paper back down on the table with a hum.

“Young Master Wei has certainly come a long way, “XiChen smiled, “Will we attend?”

“There is no reason not to, “Lan Qiren stroked his beard, “It is an opportunity to learn something new, so we shouldn’t squander this opportunity...no matter how unseemly the events surrounding it are.”

While gossip was forbidden in the Cloud Recesses, it certainly was not in Caiyi Town. The many shop and tavern goers always had something new to talk about almost everyday, spreading rumors from the farthest brothels in Runan to the classiest restaurant in Laoling. Due to the town’s proximity to the Lan Sect, it’s disciples often picked up on the gossip whether they wanted to or not.

Lan XiChen gave a slight wince, knowing what his uncle was referring to due to his recent trip to the Unclean Realm, “I...have heard about Young Master Jiang’s injury.”

For the past couple of weeks, the YunmengJiang Sect was the talk of the Cultivation and Civilian worlds. It started with a simple event that exploded into a frenzy of rumors and tales.

Wei WuXian, Head Disciple to YunmengJiang, had recently published several cultivation manuals and even a few night-hunting tools. Now, this, while completely normal, did raise a few brows as no one expected someone so young to suddenly put multiple books out on cultivation. However, no one who truly cared about learning batted an eye and went at the books with a critical eye.

To name a few, there was:

Talismans for the Everyday Life The Hunter: Archery and Tracking Talismans Musical Cultivation: The Difference between the Xiao and Dizi The Stygian Lure Flag and Demon Wind Compass: Uses and Dangers

Due to the books being sold by a well-known and influential merchant, the books were being sold in small shops throughout the cultivation world in the matter of days. The books contained many research notes from various night-hunts, creation processes, and even notes on the failures and set backs found during the research phase; it would be an understatement to say they were a huge success and cultivators sought out these items as soon as they got wind of them.

The problems started soon after.

Everyone who wasn’t living under a rock knew how troublesome the marriage between the Jiang Sect Leader and his madam was. An arranged marriage that left neither participant with any benefits, the two were not a good fit. Even worse, the amount of gossip surrounding the home life of the Jiangs left many secretly wondering how they were still married, no matter how unpractical a divorce would be.

The Violet Spider’s reaction to the books and tools was not pleasant. Having been out on a night-hunt with her son at the time of their publication, she apparently found out by word of mouth. Customers at a restaurant in Ouyang having described the woman shouting in rage, destroying the table of a couple of rogue cultivators, and then rushing out with her heir and retinue.

As the Madam stormed her home, the doors to the sect were left wide open and the close distance to the civilians gave everyone a view of Yu ZiYuan shouting down her husband. Jiang Fengmian’s supposed infidelity and favoring of a bastard child were aired out once again for all in Lotus Pier to hear.

Even worse was the reaction of the heir, Jiang WanYin. Having been given Zidian by the Violent Spider for their night-hunt, the young heir took the whip to his da-shixiong, and the young author ended up brandishing his sword to defend himself. The end result of the fight left Jiang WanYin with a broken arm, and rumors spread that the Madam was now seeking to throw Wei WuXian from the sect.

Truly unpleasant.

Lan Qiren sighed, “Regardless, the Jiang Sect is offering for us to learn directly from Wei WuXian, and the competition their holding would be great experience for the junior disciples.”

Lan XiChen nodded in agreement, “Then I’ll look at our list of disciples and choose whom to take with us.”

Standing, Lan XiChen fixed his robes and then bowed to his uncle, “I have other duties to attend to, but I’ll get to the list as soon as possible. I’ll ask WangJi if he will attend as well. Do you need anything before I go, uncle?”

Shaking his head, Lan Qiren replied, “All is well. I will see you and WangJi later tonight.”

Watching his nephew leave, the elder Lan flicked his beard before standing and fixing his robes. Walking over to his bookshelf, he retrieved one of the newest additions to his personal library.

“Dao: Golden Cores and the many Paths of Cultivation by Wei WuXian”

Having acquired the book from his youngest nephew, Lan Qiren would never admit to having lost sleep trying to finish the book. Giving a thoughtful look at the materials, Lan Qiren couldn’t help but give a huff of amusement.

‘It seems that boy has learned some discipline after all.’

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The air around Lotus Pier was tense.

Purple clad disciples shuffled into each other, eyes downcast as they bowed at the retinue to Nie disciples, their sect leader, and second heir.

“Chifeng-zun, Second Young Master Nie, “a lower disciple said almost in a whisper, “Welcome to Lotus Pier.”

Nie Mingjue couldn’t help but frown as the Yunmeng disciples tittered about the gates, whispering amongst themselves. Servants quickly tended to their luggage, hastily informing them of where they would be staying for the discussion conference before scurrying off. Some of their faces were ashen and jittery, as if staying in one place for too long would bring some omen upon them.

‘Perhaps coming was a mistake, ‘he thought

“Da-ge, “the Nie Sect Leader looked to his little brother, “I don’t like this. I really don’t like this.”

“What? You want to go back to the Unclean Realm, “MingJue rasied an eyebrow

“No!, “Huaisang almost screamed in reply, “I...I’m worried about Wei-Xiong.”

Standing in the training ground with their disciples, the Nie brothers watched as disciples and servants alike scurried through the halls of Lotus Pier. All had their heads held downward as if they didn’t want to be noticed.

Nie Huaisang gave his brother a worried frown, “I’ve tried sending letters to Wei-Xiong before we came. The courier told me that Wei-Xiong was to be in seclusion until the discussion conference tomorrow.”

Returning his brother’s look, “Nie MingJue turned to observe the people of Lotus Pier once more

There were a couple disciples on the training grounds practicing their swordsmanship while others were a ways away practicing their archery. The sword training was going poorly, he observed, watching each disciple flinch as the loud *THUMP* of arrows hitting posts reached their ears.

The sight gave him a foreboding feeling.

“Nie Zongzhu, “Nie MingJue turned at the sound

“Jiang Zongzhu, “he nodded at the smiling man, “Thank you for this opportunity.”

“No need, “Jiang Fengmian shook his head, “This type of knowledge should be shared”

Jiang Fengmian turned to look at his training disciples. At the sight of their flinching, the man frowned at sighed.

Nie Huaisang walked to stand beside his brother, eyeing the Jiang Sect Leader.

“Is...is Wei-Xiong alright?, “Nie Huaisang asked while tightly gripping his fan

Jiang Fengmian paused, thinking for a bit, “Ah.....a-Xian is preparing for tomorrow.”

“Is that why he went into seclusion?, “he questioned

“It’s..., “the Jiang Sect Leader sighed, “I’m afraid that’s a personal matter, Second Young Master Nie.”

“But he’s okay, right?, “Nie Huaisang pressed

“He’s fine, “Jiang Fengmian’s smile returned, “You’ve known a-Xian for years. He’s always smiling no matter the adversity.”

Huaisang frowned at the reply, “Yeah...he’s...he’s really great.”

Placing a hand on his littler brother’s back, Nie MingJue nodded at Jiang Fengmian and started to lead his brother away, “Till tomorrow, Sect Leader Jiang.”

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The first week of the discussion conference seemed to go by in a flash. Each day was dedicated to a specific topic, invention, and/or book, Wei WuXian going into detail and answering any and all questions.

“Young Master Wei, do you intend to publish more?, “a sect leader asked one day

Smiling, Wei WuXian replied, “With more time and research, I plan to improve upon what I’ve already written, but more ideas will follow, I’m sure.”

After each lecture, minor sect leaders clamored to talk with the young man. Others sequestered Jiang Fengmian to a corner, talking up the young man and inquiring about tutoring for their heirs.

“My son is young and brash, perhaps a couple of week under Young Master Wei’s tutelage would straighten him out.”

“Jiang Zongzhu, my daughter has recently come of age and I was looking into decent matches for her. If you’d be inclined, I could get in touch with a matchmaker?”

The first seven days were almost repetitive in this way. Soon, however, the lectures came to an end and the final banquet before the competition was underway.

Like with the lectures, minor sect leaders cornered the Jiang Sect Leader and hounded him with questions and offers. The Jiang Sect Leader could only sigh and smile while he tried to talk down and placate the people around him.

Unlike with the lectures, disciples now felt more comfortable talking to the young Jiang cultivator now that wine was being circulated. Laughing and chatting up the young man, Wei WuXian found himself talking with disciples from multiple sects at once.

The banquet continued like this for a couple more hours. Both sect leader and head disciple moving about the room to talk to as many people as possible before the night’s end.

Said head disciple was currently talking with the leaders of the Lan contingent.

Wei WuXian, “Lan Zhan! It’s been far too long; how are you?”

Lan WangJi, “Wei Ying, “he nodded, “I am well”

Wei WuXian laughed, “That’s great!”

Facing the other two, he asked, “Lan-Laoshi, Zewu-jun, how are you?”

“We’re well, Young Master Wei, “Lan XiChen replied, “It’s been a long time since we’ve last spoken.”

‘It has, “Wei WuXian, “the last was back during the Qishan Archery Competition, wasn’t it?”

“Five years, “Lan Qiren replied, “You seem to have grown.”

“Ah, Lan-laoshi, “Wei WuXian gave a smirk, “Is that a compliment?”

Giving the younger man a blank look, Lan Wiren sighed before walking a little ways away.

“He still hates me, “Wei WuXian laughed at the Twin Jades

Lan WangJi shook his head at the man, “Xiaozhang and I enjoyed your books, “he stated

“Oh?, “Wei WuXian pondered

“Indeed, “Lan XiChen smiled, “I read your book on the Xiao and Dizi and was fascinated. I was wondering if you’d be willing to play a duet with me. Or maybe, try something on a night-hunt?

“A duet?, “Wei WuXian’s eyes widened before he grinned, “Of course, First Master Lan! No one else here plays the flute you see., “he chuckled

“Great, I’ll imagine we’ll have a lot of fun, “Lan XiChen grinned, “I’ll send an invitation for you to come to Cloud Recesses after we’ve settled back at home”

The air around the three men was light and cheerful. Lan XiChen and Wei WuXian chatted away, reminiscing about the past few years, and Lan WangJi added in his commentary when prompted.

Across the room, Yu ZiYuan was like a pot ready to boil over. A dark cloud surrounded the woman, making those not used to her temper and personality stay as far away from her side of the room as possible. Standing next to her was her best friend, Madam Jin.

“I guess it’s true then, “Madam Jin eyed Wei WuXian while he talked with the Twin Jades of Lan, “Has Jiang Fengmian finally admitted that he’s his bastard?, ”she turned to look at her friend

“Hah, no, “Yu ZiYuan laughed harshly, “he still denies it. Says this whole affair was to boost YunmengJiang’s relations. To attract promising disciples to the sects and bolster the coffers”

“That‘s not what most are going to believe though, is it, “Madam Jin scoffed, “He might as well admit it; he’s trying to depose his legitimate child for some half-breed”

At those words, the Violet Spider grew eerily quiet. The voices around them echoed through their ears, laughter and all matter of chatter going on around them. Madam Jin eyes her friend with a curious glace, wondering about the thoughts going through her friend’s head.

As if on auto-pilot, Madam Yu strode forward.

“ZiYuan?, “Madam Jin questioned

Yu ZiYuan stode the the bodies of cultivators, eyes focused on a singular target. Some eyed her warily as she pushed passed them; the rumors from before popping up in some of their heads as they looked to see where she was headed.

“Zewu-jun knows how to jest! Unexpected, “Wei WuXian chuckled, “Ah, Lan Zhan, you never told me your brother was this funny.”

“I wasn’t jesting, Young Master Wei, “the Lan sect’s heir smiled, “I’ve heard about your ChenQing and the melodies she plays.”

“Indeed, “Wei WuXian grinned back, “Oh, Lan Zhan, we could play a duet as well! What do you say? I’ll even let you pick the song. Or, the three of us could play something together.”

“You”

Wei WuXian paused and turned around, “Oh, Yu Furen-

*SLAP*

The sound of the slap silenced the entire room. Eyes turned to see Wei WuXian holding his cheek and Yu Ziyuan’s manicured hand raised high.

“You son of a servant!”

Reaching out, Yu ZiYuan yanked at Wei WuXian long tresses and threw him to the ground. Fisting his hair in her hand, she growled.

“You think you can do as you please in my home? Need I remind you who is the master here? Huh!”

Raising her other hand high, Yu ZiYuan brought it down with force.

*SLAP* *SLAP* *SLAP* *SLAP* *SLAP*

“You think you’re above my A-Cheng. You think you’re the master of YunmengJiang?!”

*SLAP* *SLAP* *SLAP*

“Well, let me tell you something. I am the Madam of YunmengJiang, and you will always be the son of whore!”

With a snarl, Yu ZiYuan threw Wei WuXian’s head back and at the same time kicked him harshly in the face.

“Mother!, “Jiang Yanli‘s voice broke through the crowd, “A-Xian!”

Everyone was frozen where they stood. The vehemence that radiated from Madam Yu shocked them so much she might as well have turned them to stone.

Wei WuXian coughed and sat up, One hand was covering his nose as blood rushed and stained his robes.

The dark cloud around the Violet Spider seemed to grow ever larger as towered over the young man. Her eyes were full of malice and an ugly snarl was stretched across her face.

Zidian unfurled.

“Conniving Dog!, “the Violet Spider seethed with hatred

With a scream, the whip lashed toward Wei WuXian. In front of everyone, the sight of Zidian tearing across his back was burned into their minds.

Flesh and blood flew as the whip dug deep and tore the skin. Rearing back, Yu ZiYuan let out a roar and striked again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

“Sanniang enough!”

For what seemed like forever, the Violet Spider vented her rage at the young man, her grunts, shouts, and insults filled everyone’s ears and bounced around in their heads. After what seemed like an eternity, Yu ZiYuan finally lowered the whip.

Voices cried out.

“Wei-Xiong!”

“Young Master Wei!”

“Wei Ying!”

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Author’s Notes:

-If there’s any confusion, this is a No SSC fic. So far, the only thing Wen Ruohan did was the Waterborne Abyss, but has not made a move in seven years.

-If you didn’t read the tags, I’ll remind you that this isn’t a fic for JC or Madam Yu fans. I will write them with their canon characteristics, I will not woobify them to fit your fanon nor will I excuse their abusive actions.

Read my other Prompts and WIPs [Here]

[ficsilike-reblogged]

Blood in the Rivers: I

A/N: I don’t even know, fam. This was supposed to be just smut but then The Plot happened and now this is 13.4k words and nowhere near finished. Now, it is somehow righting the wrongs D&D (and GRRM, let’s be real) trolled us with. There will be obvious canon-divergence right off the bat. 

Pairing: Oberyn Martell x Ellaria Sand x F!Reader (Tully) 

Rating: M for canon typical violence, canon typical sexism, things get hot and heavy (or at least I try to make them...? Whatever. you be the judge) and my overuse of italics

Word Count: 13.4k (jfc)

Summary: Y/N Tully always knew how to play the part of the perfect lady when someone was watching. It was a game she liked to play, knowing how to act in order to get what she wanted. But now, as the War of the Five Kings rages, Y/N knows she needs allies if she wants to keep her family safe and her head on her shoulders. But in this game, everything has a price.

Chapter One: Plots, Plots, Plots

Smuggling Sansa out of King’s Landing had consumed the youngest Tully. While she played the part of dutiful peon, renouncing her father, uncle, and cousin and their actions against the crown, she was plotting. Sansa was sweet and kind and everything Y/N knew she should be as a highborn lady. Watching Joffrey command Meryn Trent to beat and strip her cousin’s eldest daughter in front of a crowd had only driven her to near madness in her quest to protect Sansa. It only took a handful of weeks for the plan to be finalized. Murmurs of Stannis Baratheon’s impending attack were quickly sweeping through the Red Keep and all of King’s Landing. 

She set off toward the Keep’s rookery with two small missives neatly stacked together. An aged maester had been the same guardian of the ravens for decades. Blind in one eye and slow to walk, she knew her window was reasonable but still limited. He was also a loyal dog to the queen. Each of her movements would be whispered in Cersei’s ear by lunch.

She stepped into the rookery and resisted the urge to wrinkle her nose at the scent of shit and dirt and dust. It was just another reminder of how far away she was from Riverrun and its clean air, always scented with the mist and overgrown grasses.

 The Maester stood slowly from his cluttered desk and offered her a small smile. “Ah, Lady Tully. How may I help you?”

 She held up the slips of parchment to make it look like a single letter. “A missive for my Uncle Hoster.”

 “Ah,” the maester said, the sound catching in his throat. “Another plea for him to see reason?”

 “Of course.” She handed over the carefully written and brief letter while tucking the other into her palm.

The maester read it and nodded. “You are a service to your house, my lady.”

She pressed a pleased smile to her lips and dipped her head demurely, as she had half a dozen times before. Edmure and Hoster were aware that she would be pressed to write stupid letters like the one in the maester’s spindly fingers. The only truth written in those missives were that she loved them. “I thank you for that.” She then plucked it from his fingers with another smile and started to walk backward toward the cage.

 “May I send it for you, my lady? The ravens here tend to be fickle beasts if they do not know your face.” The maester smiled kindly and held out his hand for her letter again.

But she shook her head and continued backward. It was true, usually her letters were taken directly from her desk and sent off without having to go to the rookery herself—but this called for a change. She’d visited the rookery last week to see how it was divided between the realms and she could time how quick she needed to be in her task; it had been under the guise of being lost looking for the Grand Maester to “ask for guidance as to how to bring her errant father and uncle back under the guidance of the Crown.” It was all so easy to play the part of mindless crown loyalist. “The ravens of Riverrun have always adored me—I do not see why these would be any different. But I do thank you for the offer.”

She skittered through the door and quickly found the correct batch of ravens and fastened the small slip of parchment to the raven’s leg and set it loose before flittering over to the ravens meant for Riverrun and tying the other. She set that one loose a little slower as she heard the maester step into the large cage with his uneven gait. She made a bit of a show of watching the raven fly away in the window and turned and heaved a hearty sigh.

“They seem to like you.” He chuckled, another dry, rasping sound.

“Yes, I suppose.” Another exaggerated sigh. “I do hope Lord Tully listens to reason this time.” She then curtseyed and walked away. The maester looked relieved as she said goodbye to him and took her leave of the rookery.

But it was done.

And when the Red Keep was essentially barricaded against the coming attack, she knew her time had come. She slipped out of Maegor’s Holdfast without too much fanfare. Cersei was drunk and had requested more wine anyway. Y/N saw the opportunity for what it was and left the Holdfast under the guise of serving the Queen, just ahead of schedule.

Sounds of the battle echoed through the strangely empty halls as she hurriedly made her way toward her destination. Quiet footsteps soon followed her and she skirted around a corner and pulled out the small dagger she’d hidden in her sleeve. But it was poor Sansa who had followed her—much earlier than what they had agreed upon.

“I-I’m sorry!” Sansa whimpered as she stared at the sharp edge of her “cousin’s” blade.

“You are fine, my little one. I’m sorry I almost cut you.” She quickly hid the dagger away and took Sansa’s hand, leading her back toward her chambers. The older of the two was equal parts relieved and shocked to see the Hound waiting in Sansa’s rooms. “Sandor.” His name came like a rushed breath. “You are early.”

“I’m not doing-”

“Take Sansa to Dorne.”

Both of them gaped at the request.

“What?” It was Sansa who finally broke the tense silence of the room. “Dorne? B-but, I-”

She gathered the Sansa’s hands in her own and kissed her shaking fingers. “You will be safe. Sandor will see you there without harm. Everyone will think you’ve gone North and scavenge and pillage looking for you. No one will think to look for you in Dorne. The Martells have no love for the Lannisters even with the betrothal of Trystane and Myrcella. They will know of your story.” She knew it to be a shaky alliance to begin with, especially with Myrcella being betrothed to Trystane. But betrothals could be broken and their memories were long. And this was the best option for Sansa. The only.

“You won’t come with me?” Tears gathered in her eyes.

She shook her head. “I must let them think they’ve won. I still have a part to play in this game.” She then turned to the taciturn soldier. “What say you, Sandor? Will you deliver Sansa to Dorne? Keep her safe, unharmed, and untouched?”

His burnt face twisted in a grimace. “I should take her North. Like I said-”

“But you will not. South is safe. Keep her safe.” She bent and pulled something from her skirts—a small satchel of coin. She pushed it into his hands when he didn’t move to accept it.

“I don’t want your fuckin’ coin-”

“This is for food and shelter during your travels. Take it. Now.” She only let herself smile when he did. “You may not believe in knighthood, Sandor. But you are the only man I’ve met who even compares to a true knight.”

The burnt man frowned at her words but didn’t say anything. He took several steps back as Sansa flung her arms about Y/N’s shoulders in a fierce embrace.

“I love you.”

“I love you, too, little one. Now, you must stay alive.” A handful more of quiet encouragements and goodbyes were spoken before she pulled a small sack from beneath Sansa’s bed and handed it to her. “A few dresses for the warmer weather. And I stole some lemon cakes from the kitchens.”

Sandor snorted.

Sansa nodded with tears in her eyes and let out a shaking breath as Y/N kissed her forehead. “Go, Sansa. Live.” She watched Sansa place a shaking hand in Sandor’s before they quietly disappeared into the night. 

Outside, the battle raged on. Y/N slipped out of Sansa’s chambers and walked toward the Holdfast once again. She hid away in a darkened passageway and once again drew her dagger. It didn’t take long for her to complete the final task of her plan for the night. She had grabbed a jug of wine from the kitchens and let it slip from her fingers with a crash before turning the blade on herself. Pain bloomed through her stomach and her dagger clattered to the ground, slipping from her now-slick, reddened grip. “Help me!” She screamed, forcing tears to her eyes. “Help me!” 

                                                            **

Life in King’s Landing hadn’t particularly changed since the Tyrells had arrived. Of course, people whispered about Sansa’s disappearance—her favorite rumor was that Sansa turned into a wolf and raced into the battle herself. And Y/N’s stab wound had earned her a strange sort of awe around the court. Stabbed for wine, the stupidity of it all. The official story was that a kitchen maid had tried to steal some jewels (or just food, depending on who was asked) and little Lady Tully had caught the maid in the act before she fled into the night. They stopped by the time her wound had healed. As she sat across from Olenna Tyrell in the gardens, Y/N suddenly wondered if she had finally met an adversary worthy of her time or another ally. Margaery, the beauty and new betrothed to the Brat King, Joffrey after the ‘victory’ of the Battle of the Blackwater, seemed amiable enough as she sat beside her grandmother but a beautiful face often hid an ugly heart. Cersei was proof of that enough.  

“You know, a cousin of mine was nearly scandalized by your father,” Olenna said as the tea was poured.

“Scandalized?” she parroted, feeling a smirk touch the corner of her lips. She knew exactly the story she was thinking of. “Surely not.” 

“Oh yes. Our father tried to marry her off to Brynden Tully and he said no. ‘No!’ like she was some underfed calf.” She laughed. “It was the most childish fit she’d ever thrown.” Olenna waved away the servants as soon as the plate of lemon cakes was placed upon the table, nearly tipping the bowl of berries. “She eventually married some Vyrwel boy. And your father,” Olenna’s dark eyes suddenly pinned her guest, “married your mother.”

“I’ve heard stories of them, even in The Reach,” Margaery said with a kind smile.

Something tight twisted in her stomach at that, as it always did when a beautiful woman fixed her with a gaze. “I’ve heard a song the Valemen sing. I was unaware that my parents’ union was such fodder for stories across The Realms.” She stirred a bit of honey into her tea, fighting a smile as she always did when she heard of her parents. Some claimed to know her parents as they truly were, but few did. Few knew their story as it actually happened.

“Well, when someone as lofty as a Tully marries a lowborn girl nearly half his age--from Pentos, no less--it is sure to cause quite a stir.” Olenna arched an eyebrow, daring her to refute it. “No matter how pretty.”

“Love is a precarious thing. I cannot fault my father for whom he loved.”

“Love! Pah! Love is for stories and songs.” 

“Grandmother, please. I am to be married soon—you said you loved grandfather and I know my lord father loves mother.” 

“They learned to appreciate each other, dear girl. There is a difference.” 

“I believe in love,” Margaery said, full of conviction but still smiling.

“And you, Lady Tully? Little Fish? Do you believe in love? You are past the age of majority. How you have not yet been married off is a mystery. You are highborn. Wealthy. Beautiful. Did your parents always plan for you to be a septa? A silent sister?” Olenna asked. 

A poorly hidden titter nearly sloshed the tea from her cup. “Truly, I do not know.” 

The older woman hummed. “I still find it strange that you were not at least introduced to someone after your first flowering.” She sipped her tea. “Have you spoken with your father?” 

“No, my lady. He has taken to King Robb’s service.” 

“Oh, yes, and to leave your unwed daughter in the Lion’s Den.” She huffed. “Lord Tully, too.”

“Grandmother,” Margaery softly chided. 

“It is true and you know it.”

“It is true,” she acknowledged. But she trusted them just as they trusted her.

“But your uncle—he must have had some sense of duty to you.”

Y/N nodded. “Hoster Tully’s duty to me was to see me educated and fed. He succeeded at both. Exceeded at everything else a doting uncle usually deems necessary.” He had allowed her to train with blades and horses when she had excelled past her Maester and Septa’s teachings. It had been hidden from Court at Riverrun. But she had been a natural in that regard, too. She loved to spar and run wild with her horse in the fields and lands around Riverrun. It felt like another life. Or a lifetime ago.

Olenna leaned forward with an odd gleam in her eye. “Oh yes. I’ve heard you were sent as part of the Riverlands delegation when that band of raiders was running amok. The rest of the company left after Eddard lost his head—but not you. You stayed.” 

“Leaving Sansa alone in the capital was not an option.” 

“Yes, yes. Sansa Stark. The disappeared.” 

Margaery shifted in her seat and took a bite of lemon cake, eyes warm but still calculating. But she continued to let her grandmother steer the conversation. “I have been told you were quite close to your cousin’s daughter. She confided in you, did she not? About King Joffrey.” 

She took a sip of her tea and regarded the pair. Oh, yes. A formidable match indeed. This was either a half-hearted attempt at tricking her into admitting treason or a true plea for fact.

“Only Sansa would be able to divulge all the small details, I assume. But you will have to do, won’t you? Who else would know better in this wretched city?” Olenna pinned her with another stare. “We’ve heard some troubling tales. Is there any truth to them? Has this boy mistreated Sansa?” 

She hummed and spied a man passing by, almost hidden by the bushes and greenery. “King Joffrey, His Grace is very fair and as brave as a lion.”

Olenna huffed as her granddaughter rolled her eyes. “Oh, yes, all Lannisters are lions. And when a Tyrell farts, it smells like a rose.” 

Margaery finally spoke, leaning forward in her seat, a sea of pretty blue fabric washing across the stone pavers as she moved. “But how kind is he? How clever? Has he a good heart, a gentle hand? I’m to be his wife; I only want to know what that means.”

Keeping quiet at a time like this was a simple tactic. Needing information made people desperate. Or agitated.

“Are you frightened, child?” Olenna huffed. “No need for that. We’re only women here.”

“And the men in the bushes behind you?” 

“Loyal to me and only me.” 

“And who are you loyal to, Lady Olenna?” 

A small smile touched the woman’s lips. “You are a brazen one, aren’t you? Your father must be so proud.” 

And she could not stop her own smile. “He is. I’m sure.” 

“I am loyal to my family and my family alone. No harm will come to you, Little Fish.” 

That was enough for her, satisfied that the Tyrells were self-serving enough to keep her counsel. “Eddard Stark always told the truth.”

“Yes, he had that reputation,” Olenna said with a nod.

“And they named him traitor and took his head. Joffrey did that. He promised he would be merciful and he cut Eddard’s head off. And he said that was mercy. Then he took Sansa up on the walls and made her look at it.” Rage bubbled under her skin as she remembered how broken Sansa had been, bleeding lip and tearful eyes, as Sandor lead her back to her chambers after that terrible scene. Someone as kind and pure as Sansa never deserved it. On the other hand, Margaery did not either. But there was a steely resolve and cunning tenacity that made her believe the Tyrell girl could bend just about anyone to her will. “He’s a monster.” There, she had said it.

“That’s a pity,” Olenna said, her tone making it seem like she’d had believed all the rumors anyway. Margaery sighed, looking disappointed. 

“Will you stop the wedding?” She asked. 

Olenna shook her head. “Have no fear. The Lord Oaf of Highgarden is determined that Margaery shall be queen. Even so, we thank you for the truth.”

For a while, they simply spoke about the wedding details and she did find the pair’s wit quite enjoyable. They never minced words and appreciated how they instantly seemed to know that she could hold her own. 

“But if I never see another stitch of that red and gold, it will be too soon.” 

“It is as if you are marrying a Lannister instead of a Baratheon,” Y/N hummed, plucking a berry from the plate. “Would you prefer the black and gold?”

“She looks quite fetching in gold,” Olenna said with an easy smile, one of the few she noticed the Queen of Thorns only reserved for her granddaughter. “But what of you, Little Fish? Your colors are blue and red.” 

“I’ve never been fond of them. My father took the moniker of Blackfish and I have taken it as well. I much prefer black and red.”

“Black and red,” Margaery laughed lightly. “Like a little Targaryen.” 

“Well,” she said with a light laugh, “we both have scales.” 

Olenna tilted her head to the side, purveying the young woman in front of her for a moment. “Have you ever been to The Reach?” 

“No, my lady. I do hope to visit Oldtown one day.” She answered honestly, confused by the change of subject. 

Olenna clucked, smirk pulling at her lips. “Well, I have a proposition for you.” 

“Lady Tully.” The small group of women turned to see Tywin Lannister strolling into the gardens. “Lady Olenna, Lady Margaery,” he added, with a tip of his head. “May I speak with you, Lady Tully?” 

Y/N turned to Olenna, eyes pleading. Please do not make me leave with him.

“Now.” Apparently that wasn’t an option.

She sucked in a breath through gritted teeth and stood, pressing another smile to her lips. “Of course.” She turned back to Olenna. “Thank you, Lady Olenna, Lady Margaery, for the tea.” 

“Of course, dear. You are always welcome at my table.” The Queen of Thorns, for her all her prickly nature and stinging words, actually looked troubled for the younger woman. “Take Ella with you. No young woman should be unaccompanied.” Another woman, probably one of Olenna or Margaery’s retinue, appeared as her name was said and tipped her head toward Tywin and Y/N in turn.  

Y/N nodded at them and made her way to Tywin’s side who quickly made it clear that Ella was to stay several paces back. Ella did as she was told but arched an eyebrow as she made eye contact with her one-time charge. “How can I help you, Lord Tywin?” She let him lead, further into the gardens, the greenery growing higher and thicker with each step. She never wanted to be near the old lion. His reputation preceded him in every way and the fact that he felt the need to be alone with her only served to increase her trepidation. They had been introduced only two days prior, by a smirking Cersei, who had boasted of her father’s achievements at length before mentioning, however briefly, that Y/N was “much more amiable than her cousins.” A tentative compliment, to be sure. The old lion had kissed her hand and smirked at her, rolling her stomach, but she knew how to tip her chin demurely and curtseyed out of practiced politeness before she was dismissed.  

But now she was here, in the gardens, largely unaccompanied by the man responsible for the death of the dragons an age ago and the one who set in motion all of her family’s tragedies. 

“The Queen speaks highly of you.” 

“Her Grace is too kind. It is I who should speak highly of her. She has fed me and housed me when my family has taken the side of traitors.” The words were acid on her tongue. Lies upon lies upon lies. “I am forever in her debt.” Tywin smirked and she fought the urge to let her lip curl in a snarl. “But I’m sure you did not ask me to walk with you to speak of your daughter.” 

“You are correct. The Realm is still at war. Your family has held Riverrun for generations. While it is possible for the Crown to raise another family to Lord Paramount of the Trident, it always ends in more bloodshed. But you are smart—loyal.” 

The conversation was quickly spiraling into unfamiliar and dangerous territory. “I thank you, my lord. I know the Realm needs stability now more than ever.”

“Yes. Stability.” The word sounded strange on his tongue. “Exactly.” 

Frantic footsteps behind them drew their attention and she was thankful for it, whomever it was, and turned to see who had come. It was her handmaiden, a pretty girl named Daisy from the Stormlands who had once been Myrcella’s chambermaid before the princess was shipped off to Dorne.

“My lady!” She was out of breath and then blushed a violent shade of red as she noticed Tywin and quickly dropped into a curtsey. “Lord Hand, I beg your pardon.” 

“What is it, girl?”

Ella started to laugh at his displeasure but hid it behind a sneeze. 

“You have a raven, my lady. I know you prefer to read them promptly.”  

Relief washed over her like a wave. “You are a treasure, Daisy. I thank you.” She turned to Tywin and curtseyed. “I must take my leave, Lord Hand. I am hoping it is from my father or uncle. I do believe I might have reached their hearts and minds in regards to this traitorous alliance with my Northern-wed cousin.” 

“I will speak again with you soon, my lady.” He grasped her hand before she could leave and pressed another kiss to her knuckles. “I wish you luck with your troublesome family.” 

She pressed a smile to her lips and knew it appeased him with the smirk he gave her as she curtseyed again and then quickly walked away, Daisy struggling to keep pace. She made sure to touch Ella’s hand in thanks before she rejoined the Tyrell retinue, and then quickly made her way to her chambers. 

As the door to her chambers closed, Daisy quickly pulled the letter from her skirts with a small smile. It was still sealed with not a trace of one trying to decipher its inner secrets. She pulled a gold dragon from a small satchel tied about her waist and dropped it into Daisy’s palm, as she did every time the maid gave her a letter and guaranteed her secrecy. While the ravens from Y/N were many, those coming to her were few—a precious few. Daisy was tasked with retrieving them from the rookery before the maester could read them and then make a false report to one of Cersei’s many spies about its contents. The girl was trustworthy, worth her weight in gold—and she paid her thus. Daisy’s own vendetta against the Lannisters had started when the Lannister men stormed the streets of King’s Landing in an attack against Eddard Stark and his Northern bannermen. Jory Cassel, head of Eddard’s personal guard, had been killed. No one knew of Jory’s torrid affair with young Daisy, but Daisy had sworn retribution, something she knew she could use and quickly schooled the maid in how to play the part of dutiful, whispering servant. 

The pair would have their vengeance. But it was a long game and Y/N didn’t mind parting with the gold dragons Hoster had sent her with to keep an ally. “Who did you say this was from today?”

“Your cousin, Edmure, my lady. Saying that he wishes you well but cannot see your reasoning.”

“Perfect.” 

Daisy preened with the praise and helped herself to Y/N’s jug of wine as she usually did when Y/N read her letters. 

The seal popped open and left a smear of red across the parchment. It creaked under her grip, like it had been baked and then left to dry in a desert sun. 

Your bird has found her way to Sunspear. 

The letter took her a moment to understand—her bird? What could that possibly…Sansa.

Y/N pressed the letter to her chest with a relieved sigh. She’d made it—far faster than she anticipated. She quickly read the rest.

Your letter to my brother Doran was a most welcomed surprise. She is unused to the heat but becoming accustomed to it. She is a loved guest—but she understands she cannot fly in certain halls. We do have golden cats here at the palace. House Nymeros Martell will keep her safe until she is ready to fly home. 

The sigil stamped at the edge of the brief message was a sun pierced by a spear, standard of the Dornish ruling house, but a red viper was also wrapped around the tip of the weapon—mouth open and hissing.

“Oh little one,” she mused, finger brushing against the snake. “You have found yourself quite a champion.” Whispers of the Red Viper of Dorne had reached even her chambers in Riverrun. Bold, brash, and deadly, she was well aware of the Prince of Dorne. Oberyn. She always thought it a beautiful name. And if the rumors of his eight bastard daughters were true, he must have a face to match. And, if the rumors that he liked the company of both men and women were true, she’d found a kindred spirit.

“Good news, my lady?”

“Very good, Daisy.” She quickly touched the parchment to the flame of a nearby candle and watched it burn and smolder until only the corner was left and the tips of her fingers were near burnt. She scooped the ash into her palm and dumped it out of the window, watching the evidence of their subterfuge disappear in the wind.

                                                          **

The letters continued come at uneven intervals, keeping her informed at how Sansa was faring in Dorne. His missives, however brief, always left her a bit warm in the face. 

Your little bird speaks of you often. Of your sweet nature and devotion to your loved ones. I am honored that you have deemed my House worthy or your trust. We will not fail you.  

But I do wish to know you; to know your face as I know your heart.

And then another:

Your bird misses you. My brother has taken her under his tutelage and she is flourishing. I grower curiouser and curiouser about you with each passing day. 

Words like that were scrawled across each letter she received and she treasured each new one as much as the last and always hated when she had to burn them to ash. They had become a small bright spot to her strange life in the Red Keep. A secret all her own that made her smile without care. 

But, she knew she was being watched when she was not in the haven of her rooms. The Mountain had returned from “the Westerlands” and had resumed his place in King’s Landing—but she knew he had been the leader of the band of raiders in the Riverlands all those months ago. He had been the reason she was here in the Red Keep. 

And he surely made his presence known. 

Ser Gregor seemed keen to keep her within his sights. The Mountain leered at her and was unrepentant when he would make wildly inappropriate comments in highborn company about the shape of her hips or the heaviness of her breasts. Y/N was sure the only reason he had not approached her was because someone with enough power had expressly forbidden him from touching her.  

But he was waiting—she knew. She could feel his eyes on her wherever she moved.

It unnerved her to no end. The small blades she had sewn into her dresses and hidden in her chambers gave her a small bit of comfort but she continued to play the part of a woman unaware of the eyes she caught and persisted to find a small amount of joy in her quiet chats with Daisy and her infrequent letters from Dorne or her quiet prayers to the Seven for the safety of her family.

But that was irrevocably torn asunder with new from The Twins.

The Red Wedding, they called it. Whispered the crude name for it in the halls as she passed. She held her head high and kept her tears silent in the darkness of night, soaking her pillow until she exhausted herself. Her cousin Catelyn, her son—her beautiful Robb who had made her laugh when she’d been fostered at Winterfell for two years—gone. Edmure was imprisoned and her father in the wind. Her family…gone in a single night. 

It took the Queen and her father three days to summon the last “loyal” Tully to the throne room. Joffrey was there too, perched on the Iron Throne with a sneer. She curtseyed and smiled at them as if she hadn’t felt like a dagger had wedged its way between her ribs and twisted. 

“The King in the North is dead,” Joffrey jeered. “Yes, I’ve heard, Your Grace. A great victory.” Her voice was steady. 

That was not the emotion Joffrey wanted nor expected because he continued, “your traitor family—wiped out! Dragged to-”

“That is enough, Joffrey,” Tywin said with an even tone as he eyed her, quickly shutting up his grandson.

“What my family did was treasonous and stupid. Rebelling against the Crown was an act of war. Their deaths are only another act of war. Men die, Your Grace. It is better that it happened sooner rather than later for the betterment of the Realm.” 

Joffrey seemed placated and looked so much like his mother as he held his nose in the air. “I see you are a reasonable woman. It is a shame your family could not follow your example.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.” She could feel the bile turn in her stomach and then rising like a terrible wave up her throat. “Is there anything you require of me?”

“The Freys have been raised up to Lords of Riverrun.” 

And now something cold gripped her stomach. But what of what Tywin had said just a few suns ago? “Oh.” It was all she could say.

“But,” Tywin continued, “it is only temporary. Until you find a suitable husband.” 

“That is very kind, Lord Tywin.” It was not kind. It was a threat. They meant to shackle her to someone they knew was loyal, too. Shaping the Riverlands into another realm under their thumb. And if they thought she was loyal, they would probably assume she would leap at any match they sought to bring. 

Cersei, with almost a sincere smile, stepped down a few steps toward her. “We will make sure the match is agreeable to you, Lady Tully. I would not see you married to a brute.” 

That was when her chin wobbled, a crack in her mask. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

A brute. A brute. A brute.

All her life, marriage had seemed like some far off arrangement. Her father had never pressed her to marry and Uncle Hoster had avoided it entirely. Being confronted with its inevitability had shaken something in her marrow.

                                                        **

Daisy had told her to spend some time in the market to “buy something overpriced and shiny” for some semblance of happiness.

“I do it all the time when my thoughts fall to my Jory.” Daisy gave her a soft, sad smile but quickly waved it away. “It is why I have so many beautiful things!” 

That is how she found herself surrounded by the thrum of King’s Landing, weaving between people as she looked at various stalls of goods and wares and foods. Daisy had left her side a few moments ago to barter with some woman over a filigreed hair pin. She was in need of a new inks and parchment and possibly a pair of earrings to wear to the wedding ceremony in just a few days. Finding the ink and parchment was easy—and the ink was a pretty blue, almost the Tully shade and she had swiftly purchased three wells of it. Daisy flittered by for a moment to check on her before disappearing into the crowds again. 

As she looked over the various “shiny things” Daisy insisted she look at, Y/N collided with someone. The scent of citrus and foreign, floral perfume engulfed her in a cloud as she was caught at the wrists and saved from falling to the cobblestone street. 

“Forgive me, my lady,” she quickly said as she righted herself, not even looking at the woman she had nearly toppled. “I must take care to look where I am going.” 

A delightful laugh pulled her attention and her tongue quickly glued itself to the roof of her mouth. The woman in front of her was stunning. Dark, luscious hair tied in a loose braid, away from her sharp, unfairly beautiful features, and draped in shades of orange and yellow which only highlighted the tan tone of her skin. She was the most beautiful woman she had ever seen. Cousin Edmure, if he was at her side, would have surely nudged her by now, used to how she would become tongue-tied around women. The Tullys had been aware of her partiality to women—Edmure had once caught her being kissed by one of their sworn houses’ ladies in the dim light of Riverrun’s halls and had simply sighed. She had always been drawn to both men and women. It was just that it seemed like beautiful women greatly outnumbered the men she could tolerate.

And now she was basically awestruck by this woman. 

“I am no lady,” the woman said. “And I do believe it was I who stumbled into you.” 

The man behind the stall they were standing in front of loudly cleared his throat and raised his eyebrows, silently telling them to buy something or move.

The woman laughed again and grabbed Y/N’s hand and led her down the nearest alleyway and leaned against the cool stone of the building as she released her hold. A basket of flowers was tucked under her arm and golden, swirling earrings dripped from her ears. “You are a quiet one, aren’t you?”

“N-no, I just…” 

“Have never seen a Dornishman before?” The woman supplied, head tilted to the side with a soft smile.

“No, I mean. I have, but you are very—what did you mean, ‘I am no lady’?” She quickly stopped her poor stumbling and bit at her bottom lip, trying to will the embarrassment away.

“I am a bastard. Born of passion.” 

“Oh.” She paused. And then held out her hand. “I’m Y/N Tully.” Being a bastard or low-born mattered very little to Y/N. Her mother’s own low-born, foreign standing had been held over her head for as long as she had remembered. It wasn’t fair. Her parents loved each other, loved her. It was a mindset that made her differ from most of her peer group but she did not mind. (Even when her cousin Catelyn had told her that Jon Snow, Eddard’s bastard, was not to be associated with. She had found him great company and loved his soft, low voice when they would speak in the cover of moonlight at Winterfell. It all seemed like ages ago, now.) 

The woman paused, eyebrow cocked, before she smiled and took her hand, soft, long fingers curling around her own and Y/N shivered. “Ellaria Sand.”

“What brings you to King’s Landing?” She asked, finding her footing with speaking with the woman—finally. “Surely it is not the markets. I have heard the bazaars of the Shadow City are one of the wonders of the Seven Kingdoms.” She lowered her voice. “And I assume Dorne smells much better.”

Ellaria laughed. “It does. That is why I came to the markets.” She held up her basket of flowers. “For something sweet to smell in my rooms while I am in the capital.” Roses and lavender and little red flowers known as dragons breath were piled high and already smelled sweet and fragrant.

“Wonderful choices. I have resorted to keeping perfumed oil under my nose.” She grimaced at revealing her silly secret. “But I shall not keep you any longer. My apologies for pulling you from your day.” 

Ellaria pulled a rose from her bundle and quickly plucked the thorns and cut the stem before tucking it behind the younger woman’s ear. “Apologize for nothing, Lady Tully.” She stood straight and smiled, making her poor heart flutter. “I shall see you again.” And then she walked away, leaving Y/N with a flower in her hair and her heart in her throat. 

                                                          **

Olenna was sitting behind a dark wood desk as Y/N was led into her chambers. Sunlight filtered through the sheer curtains and the room smelled of cinnamon and tea. She waved a hand, signaling the younger woman to sit at the chair across from her and for the servant to leave. As the door closed, Olenna offered her a bowl of berries which she quickly helped herself to with a soft ‘thank you’ and matching smile.

“I will be frank. I know the Lannisters wish to marry you off to some oaf of a man who will do anything they say.”

She choked on a berry. 

“You are a smart girl, Little Fish. Far smarter than you let anyone see.”

“Lady Olenna-”

“You have helped my family, let us help you. While I would prefer to present you to Willas, he is heir to Highgarden and Tywin Lannister is sure he would see you as the Lady of Riverrun. We will present Loras as a potential suitor for you. He would make a fine husband for you and I know you will understand his leanings.”

Without a berry to choke on, she now wheezed out a breath. Ser Loras’ leanings were an open secret to many. While it did not bother Y/N any, she didn’t understand the logic. “I am failing to see how this will help my cause.” 

“I’ve seen the way you look at women—far more often than you look at men. You are not nearly as subtle as you think you are.” 

“Hm.” Was all She could say. Denying it was a fruitless and draining endeavor. Olenna seemed to be at peace with Loras and his proclivity for the male form so she didn’t see the need. 

“So, you two could put to rest any sort of whispers and then reign in the Riverlands without the press of the Lannisters at your throats.” 

“And of children? Heirs?” Children had always been a hope for her, not out of duty but she had always wanted a little one to hold and call her own.

“I’m sure you two could work something out,” Olenna tittered. “You’re resourceful.” 

Y/N let out a soft laugh. “I will take your offer into consideration, my lady.” 

Olenna waved her away with a small smile and Y/N left her rooms feeling a little strange. It was a blessing to have an ally such as Olenna Tyrell, but knowing that she would not truly see or help in the goal to see the Lannisters wiped from existence left something sour in her mouth. 

The only true allies she could identify, outside of her family, were the Martells. 

Just the thought of Sansa being safe—being alive—usually had her standing a little straighter. And now she had Oberyn, the faceless-but-surely-handsome Oberyn, to lift her spirits, too. It had been some time since his last letter, stating that Sansa had taken to reading to his youngest daughter, Loreza. It seemed Sansa had found a happy life in Dorne. 

She just hoped she could make it last. 

She rounded the corner, nearly at her chambers when the familiar scraping of metal against stone stopped her. It was the Sabaton and Greave of a heavy armor, stomping through the halls of the Keep. And she knew who those steps belonged to—only one man could shake the ground like that.

“Tully.” 

She froze. 

Gregor Clegane stood at end of the hall, just in front of her chamber door with his helmet shoved beneath his arm. He sneered as he looked at her and, despite the distance between them, she felt like she could feel him breathing, sticky and disgusting, against her neck.

“Clegane.” She spit out the name. Her heart was thundering behind her ribs in an angry beat. The very sight of him made her wish for a blade. While Sandor was (reluctantly) kind at heart, there was nothing redeemable about his older brother. His three dead wives, the suspicious death of his younger sister, Sandor’s mutilating burn. All of it was Gregor. His soul was charred ash. 

His face split in a sneer. “You have been hiding from me, girl.” 

She held up her chin, defiant. “I hide from nothing. Certainly not a mindless sword such as you.” 

His sneer disappeared, lips curling to bare his teeth, yellow and crooked. “I’ve killed men for less.” 

“I’m sure you have. But not me.” Her fists curled into the skirts of her dress, slick with sweat. “You will never touch me.” 

“I will break you, girl. Have you screaming beneath me like a common whore.”

“Lady Tully!” Tywin Lannister strode into the hall, light eyes focused solely on her. 

And she had never been so thankful to see the old lion. “Lord Tywin.”

His gaze turned to The Mountain and his thin lips pressed into a hard line. “You are dismissed, Ser Gregor.”

The knight bowed and walked away, but not without raking his eyes over her one last time. She tried not to shiver as her stomach rolled in disgust. 

“He is a fine swordsman but an embarrassment to high-born company.”

That was an understatement. “How may I help you, Lord Tywin? I assumed the Small Council was still in congress at this hour.”

“We adjourned early.” He stepped closer and she had to will herself to not take a step back out of reflex. Just as she was with Gregor, she was alone with Tywin Lannister. She had traded one monster for another. “Walk with me.” He grasped her arm and gave her very little choice in the matter, almost dragging her through the stone halls. “His Grace’s wedding to Margaery Tyrell is in a few short days. As you will be the only member of your household attending, I would deem it wise to have you sit at the head table, at our side. It would not be appropriate for you to be unattended.” 

The fact that he seemed to believe his own logic was infuriating. It was only exacerbated by the fact that she could not refute it. But she knew there was more than her propriety at stake. “That is most gracious, Lord Tywin. But would it be polite? I am not of His Grace’s family nor a Tyrell.” 

Tywin stopped and forced her to do the same. He turned to her and his cold fingers slid down her arms, barely touching before he grasped her hands and held them up, just under his chin so she could feel his breath against her fingers. “Your concern for my family’s reputation is honorable, Lady Tully. But I insist. You will sit beside us.” He looked her in the eye and pressed a kiss to her knuckles before releasing her hands.

She quickly curtseyed. “Of course, Lord Tywin. As you wish.”

“Wonderful.” He drew out the syllables. “I have one other gift for you. I would have you attend the Small Council meetings so that you may learn how to properly govern Riverrun when we seat you on your ancestral throne.”

The invitation was shocking. Very few women were privy to such gatherings and she knew, in any other life, that she would be enamored with the idea and anyone who offered it so openly. But this was Tywin Lannister. And Lannisters always pay their debts. But he was never going to let her refuse. She knew it. “It would be an honor, Lord Tywin. I thank you for the guidance.” 

He smirked, as if knowing he’d won, and they said their goodbyes before she quickly walked to her chambers, desperate for her original destination. She flung open the door and then quickly locked it behind her. Hot, angry tears blurred her vision as she leaned her forehead against the wood. They slid down her cheeks in thick rivulets and only served to make her angrier. She pushed away from the door and flopped onto her bed with a huff, feeling very much like a child—petulant and powerless. 

Everything was quickly slipping away from her and out of her control. All of it, all of the placating gestures, the twisting of her morals to survive to help Sansa escape, the planning. All of it. All of it was falling apart. She should have left with Sansa. Everything would have been easier. She curled a pillow into tried to will herself to sleep.

“Will you be my champion, Ser Aemon?” She tried to make her voice airy and breathy, how she assumed Queen Naerys had spoken. They were deep in the wolfswood outside Winterfell. But the colors were wrong. Instead of the cold tones of white and grey and brown, everything was red and gold and orange, like she was seeing it through candlelight. She watched as her younger-self placed a crown of twisted branches over her head with a giggle she tried to suppress. Both of them were just past their one-and-ten nameday and had taken to making mischief as often as they could. Their favorite stories were of Queen Naerys and Ser Aemon, the Dragonknight. Their history was filled with tales of valor and heartache--perfect fodder for their growing imaginations.

Robb kneeled in front of her, taking his role very seriously. “Yes, my queen.”

Young Y/N stifled another giggle but quickly attempted to regain her composure, staying in her role. “Arise, my Dragonknight.” 

Robb did as he was told, fighting a smile of his own before they both burst into a fit of laughter. Y/N took the wooden sword from its place on a broken stump and handed it to him with a flourish and he grasped it and held it aloft, yelling into the cold, morning air as if he had already won a great battle. His cheeks were flushed against the cold but his lips were warm as he pressed them against her hand. She could remember it all so easily. “I shall avenge your honor, my queen. I swear it.” 

“Lord Robb!” Maester Luwin called out, voice echoing in the forest. It echoed and echoed and echoed and grew louder until all it was, was a roar that shook the trees. 

Robb suddenly grabbed her hand and started tugging her through the trees. “Run, my queen. Or we’ll be forced to suffer more Valyrian lessons!” The trees twisted as the pair ran away, forming a wall and climbing higher and higher into the sky until it blotted out the sun. Then the trees twisted and reached out to her and their wooden fingers circled her throat and choked the air from her lungs.

As she woke with a gasp and the dying light now filtering through her small window, she could still hear Robb’s laughter ringing in her ears.

                                                         **

The Small Council Chamber was nothing she had dreamt of when she had let herself believe she could one day be powerful. It was just a stone room with a few windows and a large table. She counted the chairs and frowned when she couldn’t place all the titles that went with each.

“You are early.” 

She leapt at the sound of the voice and quickly turned at curtseyed in front of Cersei who smirked and settled herself into the chair closest to the head seat. “I wanted to be sure I was not late, Your Grace. It is a great honor to be invited.”

Cersei looked at her and her smirk widened. “Yes. It is, isn’t it? I asked my lord father to invite you. When the Riverlands are yours to govern, we would not have you mishandle them.” She pulled out the chair beside her. “Sit.”

She quickly did. “I do not want to disappoint you, Your Grace. But, would it be imprudent for me to take notes? To see how the duties are presented.” There was a bit of parchment and ink she could use, sitting on the edge of the table. Cersei nodded and Y/N had to will herself not to scramble for it. While this invitation would surely be used against her at a later date, there was no use in completely forgetting what happened in the chamber. “While we are waiting, Your Grace, may I fetch you anything?”

“The last time you went to fetch me wine, Lady Tully, you nearly died. I would have you close for now.”

The quill in her hand nearly snapped at that, even if delivered in Cersei’s usual droll. An admission of somewhat reluctant care for her well-being had not been what she had hoped to earn when she woke this morn, but it was definitely a welcome surprise, even if it did make her all the more suspicious of the Lannisters’ intentions. All she said in response was, “Yes, Your Grace.”

And Cersei seemed fine with that.

Other men filtered in, casting questioning looks in Y/N’s direction but never voiced them as they looked at Cersei at her side. 

Well, except for Grand Maester Pycelle. “Are you lost, Lady Tully? This is no place for a lady!”

“I requested her presence.” Everyone scrambled to their feet as Tywin entered the chamber. “She is to see how a functioning government is kept.” Tywin looked at her as he took his seat and she quickly glanced down at her empty bits of parchment.

Pycelle muttered something else under his breath but took his seat and cast a side-eyed glance at Y/N one more time before the meeting actually started.

Soon, the parchment was filled with notes and she was scrambling to tidy them as the meeting was adjourned. To his credit, it seemed like Tywin was the only one who knew how to have a functioning council but it was still a mess. But perhaps he intended it to be like that—so he could be the smartest man in the room. 

“My lord,” she started as the others had started to leave. “I noticed there are more seats than people. Will there be more lords on the council after the wedding?”

Tywin looked at the empty chairs and then back at her, a smirk pulling at his lips. “Everything is a piece to played, my lady. You’ll see.” 

He escorted her back to her rooms and left her with another kiss to her hand and a promise to invite her back to the Small Council “soon.” And she was happy to be alone again. Daisy had been excused after helping her dress and ready for the day, leaving her by herself. 

It had been almost two weeks since she’d received her last letter from Dorne. It was probably for the best; it wasn’t as if she had any family left to write to her so it would be suspicious if she had received a letter from the Riverlands now. She hoped Sansa and Oberyn were well. Safe. Happy. All of it. If she couldn’t have it, she hoped someone else could. When she was feeling particularly melancholy, she would pull the rose she’d received from the mysterious and beautiful Ellaria from its hiding spot under her carefully, gently folded chemises and press it under her nose. The scent was faint now, but it still brought a smile to her face. (She had never actually found the earrings she was searching for that day.) After the meeting, she had stayed to the quiet of her rooms instead of the godswood. The chattering from the guests arriving for the wedding in the gardens had bled into that small haven and forced her retreat if she wanted to save her sanity. She was reading a book on the War of the Ninepenny Kings when there was a knock at her door. She grumbled and placed her book down before walking to the door and hauling it open, prepared to see some Lannister or Tyrell handmaiden requesting her presence somewhere—but instead, she saw a handsome young man with black hair pulled into a small bun on the back of his head. His robes were tan with golden thread with a burnt orange undershirt left open. “Lady Tully,” he said, a soft accent touching her ears. “I have a delivery for you. From Dorne.” His smile was small, but knowing. “Prince Oberyn send his regards, my lady.” Before she could even thank him, he disappeared and left an ornate chest just on the inside of her chamber door. The chest was of a reddish wood, inlaid with golden suns and thick, bold metal strappings. It smelled faintly of citrus and was slick with a fine varnish.

Before she could even open the chest, Daisy had scurried into her rooms, cheeks flush with worry. “The Queen is on her way, my lady.”

And she was right, Cersei arrived soon with a thinly veiled look of curiosity in her green eyes as she looked at the chest. “A gift from Dorne?” 

Y/N and Daisy quickly curtseyed as Y/N easily thought of a lie. “Not quite, Your Grace. I wanted to have the finest gown for His Grace’s wedding to Lady Margaery, behind yours of course. And my dresses are much more suited for the climate of the Riverlands. The seamstresses in the capital were all far too busy for my liking and I wanted to be sure that I would not embarrass myself with a poorly-hewn frock.”

“My seamstress could have found room for you.”

She pressed a look of shock to her face. “Your Grace is far too charitable. I have taken enough of your time and resources when my family has caused the Crown such irksome troubles.”

Cersei looked pleased with her answer, nose held a little higher in the air. “You are a credit to your bloodline, Y/N. But do ask for her when the next opportunity arises. I would not have you dressed like a Dornish tart.”

Anger rolled her stomach but she smiled as if she had been complimented. “Thank you, Your Grace. I will.”

Cersei excused herself and Daisy finally lifted her head from its tuck to her chest and she softly shut the door, rolling her eyes the entire time.

“Help me to unseal this.” 

Daisy quickly did as she was told and they attempted to pry it open but were unsuccessful until Y/N gave in and pulled a knife from under her featherbed and cut the seal.

“Oh…my lady. That is a mighty fine dress.” 

And it was. Nestled in the chest was a soft, sunshine yellow samite dress of a Dornish style. It would show off an ample amount of cleavage with a near-scandalous neckline but did preserve most of her modesty with long bell sleeves made of matching Myrish lace. Small, golden suns were stitched throughout along with silver stars and moons, and she knew a train of modest length would follow her even with her heeled shoes. It seemed her lie had been prophetic.

Daisy bent and pulled something else from the chest: a neatly folded bit of parchment. 

Y/N carefully set her dress on her bed before taking the letter. She unfolded it and laughed even as more heat took to her cheeks. 

So that I may know you on sight. 

The familiar viper was pressed to the corner in red ink.

                                                      **

The date of the wedding had arrived and she grew more nervous with each passing moment, even as Daisy attempted to make her laugh as she helped her into her dress and uncomfortable heeled boots.

“You are not the bride, my lady. Cease your shaking.” Daisy grasped at one of her hands and squeezed. “And if the whispers I hear are true, your Prince had been in the capital for a few days now.”

“You are not helping, Daisy. Why would that information give me comfort?”

The girl laughed and finished lacing the black closure of the dress with a flourish. “You are finished. Lady Margaery has asked for you in the Maidenvault. You must hurry.”

She squeezed Daisy’s hands in thanks and told her to help herself to the wine and relax in her chambers for the rest of the day before leaving and quickly making her way to the Maidenvault. It was awash with Tyrell green and gold and nearly vibrating with energy as women went this way and that, preparing for the ceremony. 

“You’ve made it!” Margaery exclaimed, seeing her through the crowd. 

She quickly made her way to the side of the soon-to-be-queen and curtseyed. “How may I help you-”

“You look quite beautiful. Dornish, is it not?” Margaery reached out and trailed a finger across one of the suns just above her breast. If she felt her poor heart leap, Margaery blessedly didn’t mention it.

“It is.”

“Nearly scandalous,” Margaery said with a wink.

And Y/N nearly snorted at that—Margaery’s dresses were, largely, much more bold.

“But don’t change. It will be nice to see some color beside red and gold on my wedding day.” Maegaery squeezed her hands and then scowled as a handmaiden shoved a pin into her hair.

“Forgive me, Your Grace,” Y/N said, noticing how Margaery preened with the title, “I was told you asked me here for a reason.”

Margaery smiled again. “Yes, I wanted to personally ask you to save a dance for my brother, Ser Loras. He has been asking to make your acquaintance for some time now.” The twinkle in her eye did little to settle the knots in Y/N’s stomach. Almost everyone in the entire room, and there were quite a few, had taken a look at her then, at the mention of Loras’ name.

“I would be delighted, Your Grace.”

Margaery suddenly pulled her into a hug, ignoring the squawk her handmaiden let out as she had just about placed another pin, and held her tight. “You’ve made me very happy, Little Fish.”

“I am glad to hear it. It is your wedding day, after all,” Y/N said as she pulled back. “Now, you must excuse me.”

“Of course,” Margaery said, still smiling. “I shall see you in a moment.”

Y/N quickly exited, ignoring the strange looks she was receiving on her way out form the Tyrell retinue, and made her way toward the Great Sept of Baelor, filling in with the crowds and finding her place. It was more toward the front of the crowd than she had anticipated and her thoughts once again turned to how the Lannisters were planning something. At least with the Tyrells, she knew whom she could expect. Lords and Ladies from the Westerlands were at her back and was soon greeted by Ser Kevan Lannister and his wife, Lady Dorna Swyft in her row. They greeted her warmly, mentioning how both Cersei and Tywin mentioned her and she did her best to act pleased.

A flash of gold caught her eye a few rows ahead and she turned to see a golden headdress, rows of golden chain looped together, placed over a head of shiny, inky black hair. It was preposterous to believe it could be Ellaria, she knew. But, oh, she hoped. The man next to the woman with the golden headdress was handsome, from what she could see of his face. A strong nose and pouty lips that smiled as he looked at his companion and he was draped in a soft tan fabric that shimmered only slightly when the sunlight hit it just so. Perhaps it was Oberyn. Again, a fanciful thought. But his letter and the dress had made his intention clear that he would be at the wedding and there, of course, had been the usual whispers that Prince Oberyn had travelled in Prince Doran’s stead to represent Dorne during the festivities. He could and should be here.

“It is a marvelous moment, no?” Kevan asked, whispering in her ear. “The dawn of a new era.”

“Indeed,” Y/N said as the soft music started, signaling the arrival of the bride. “It is.”

                                                         **

It was a pleasant surprise to see she was to be seated beside Tyrion and Tommen at the festivities following the ceremony. While still Lannisters, they were decidedly the best of the brood. Tyrion made her laugh and Tommen was kind.

“Have you tried the boar, my prince? It is quite good.”

Tommen speared some of the meat from her plate with a playful smile as Tyrion softly, fondly chided him. “It is good, my lady.” The young prince quickly stole another bite.

“My lady,” Tyrion started as he stood from his chair, “would you be so kind as to join me for the next dance?” He held out a hand toward her with a small smile.

She did not want to. Not because of his stature but because of his family and how it echoed in her mind that the Lannisters were set on marrying her off. He was kind, it was true, but that did not make this easier. “Of course, Lord Tyrion.” She stood and grasped his hand, letting him lead her away from the large red and gold tent and into the fray of couples arranging themselves in two lines as the musicians readied for the next song.

The music started and she quickly tried to remember the steps that this dance required. A few steps forward toward her partner then a turn to the side to grasp a hand, turn once, twice, then step back and the partner on the left would step to the side and the dance would begin again with a new partner, again and again, until the entire line had been turned and the original partners were reunited again. For what it was worth, Y/N had to admit that Tyrion chose a smart dance to share with her—they hardly touched or spent any time looking at each other. Almost as if he knew her discomfort.

He bowed to her and she to him and they began the dance. He was mindful not to step on her gown as they circled each other and he gave her another fond smile before they switched partners. There was an older Lord from the Stormlands, followed by a knight from the Westerlands and then a familiar green and gold brocade gathered her attention as she stepped in front of her next partner.

Ser Loras looked relieved as he recognized her. “Lady Tully.”

“Ser Loras.” He was undoubtedly handsome, with his soft blonde curls and dancing, blue eyes and Y/N could let herself pretend, for a moment that she could be happy being married off to someone like him— strictly aesthetically, anyway. “I have been told to save you a dance by our new queen.”

He laughed as he grasped her hand and they turned. “Would you?”

“Yes, Ser Loras. I’d be happy to.”

He smiled again and they finished their turn before the next partner came. The dance eventually finished and Tyrion took her hand again and led her back to their table. Tommen now had a heaping pile of the boar on his plate and was devouring it. She stole a bite from his plate and he laughed. His laughter, however, drew the eye of Cersei and Tywin Lannister.

They both looked at her at the far table and she pretended not to notice as she laughed with Tommen and let Tyrion fill her chalice with more wine. It would be better if they didn’t think she was putting on a show.

Another set of musicians stepped up in front of Joffrey and Margaery and played another round of ‘The Rains of Castamere.’ It had been the fifth one already and it was hardly an hour into the festivities. Joffrey lobbed a handful of coin at them and sent them on their way.

Another song for the dancing couples went by, and another followed. The wine was making her head swim the smallest bit as she spotted Loras making his way toward her. Olenna was at his side, required to make the introduction for niceties sake and then they were off.

The musicians called out the dance and Y/N had to arch an eyebrow at Loras. This one would keep her close, almost intimate, but still playful enough that it wouldn’t be imprudent for mixed company. He shrugged and held her hands in his, easily guiding her through the steps. “Surely you know what they’re planning,” he whispered in her ear.

“Oh yes. We could make quite a match.” She twirled under his arm, following the steps, and let herself be caught in his arms, her back to his chest as the dance continued. “But why would you agree to such a thing, Loras?” Her voice was low. “King Renly…” Words had to be chosen carefully. “You loved him. I’ve heard tales about it. Why would you tether yourself to someone you could never love?”

The knight’s grip tightened just a fraction. “When the sun has set, no candle can replace it.”

And her heart broke with the pain in his voice. Thankfully, the dance needed her to turn and face him, placing her hands over one of his shoulders as she kicked, letting her dress flutter and glisten in the sunlight. “We can be friends, can we not? To find some happiness in this arrangement?”

He smiled then and almost laughed as she nearly missed a step. “I would like that, very much.”

They finished the dance, her heart a little lighter than it had been and he gently took her hand and started to lead her toward her table before she noticed him blushing. Y/N tried to find where he was looking and found Ellaria hand-feeding berries to the most beautiful man she had ever seen. It was a wonderful surprise to realize the woman she had been ogling during the ceremony had been Ellaria. But who was the man? Seeing him in the sunlight, completely, was beautiful. Just as beautiful as Ellaria. No wonder they seemed so besotted with each other.

“That is Prince Oberyn,” Loras whispered in her ear. “Gorgeous, isn’t he?”

“He is.” Why lie? Anyone with eyes could see how he was meant to be painted, immortalized for everyone to revere.

“Shall I introduce you? I made his acquaintance earlier today.” There was a slight shyness to Loras’ tone that made her smile. He was like a little boy with an infatuation.

And she would finally meet him. But would their easy companionship filter over from their letters? Nerves had twisted her stomach when she thought of Oberyn not deeming her worthy of his beautiful word any longer. “I would be grateful.” 

Loras led her through the crowd and Ellaria spotted them first. A happy smile touched her lips and she whispered something in Oberyn’s ear. He let his gaze slowly slide over to them, almost disinterested but she could see the playful glint in his eyes. And his own smile widened when he looked at her. Ellaria slid off his lap and walked over to them, dragging Y/N from Loras’ side.

“Finally. Someone worth speaking to.” She pressed a kiss to both of Y/N’s quickly warming cheeks and tugged her toward the table. “Come, Ser Loras. You can join us.”

Loras awkwardly sat across from Oberyn as Ellaria planted Y/N between herself and Oberyn, a hand already fond of tracing the suns stitched into her dress. “I was unaware you knew Lady Tully.”

“We met in the market. She has yet to meet my prince.”

“Yes, well, Prince Oberyn, I present-”

“Lady Tully. Yes.” He grasped one of her hands and brought it to his mouth to kiss the tips of her fingers, somehow making a shiver shoot down her spine as he never broke eye contract. “I have heard of you. And that is a fine dress. Dornish, isn’t it?” He smiled at the last question.

“It is—I’ve never had such a beautiful dress. I’m very fortunate. And, of course, it is a pleasure to meet you, Prince Oberyn. I hope your travels to the capital were pleasant.” Y/N was proud of herself for keeping her voice so steady despite his piercing stare. Perhaps it was the hidden joke, the secret in their verbal volley who made her a little more at ease. None of her nerves had been proven correct just yet. And she hoped they never would.

“The Capital is never pleasant, and the journey was tedious. But the company, it seems, to have finally evolved into something enjoyable.” He then smirked at Loras and pulled a berry from the bowl in front of him and tossed it into his mouth.

Loras’ pretty cheeks filled with pink and he averted his eyes and the cogs in Y/N’s mind quickly started to turn. “Ellaria, I have heard there is quite a display of Lysene contortionists somewhere around here. Shall we let the men talk?”

Ellaria laughed and let a finger trail across Y/N’s cheek. “I know exactly where these contortionists are. I will show you.” She stood and Y/N followed and they linked arms as they set off away from the dancing couples and the food tables. Ellaria’s hand covered hers as it rested on her arm. “That was very kind of you, my lady. To let Oberyn have his fun with that pretty knight.”

“Yes, well,” Y/N chanced a glance over her shoulder to see that Loras had switched to the other side of the table and Oberyn was whispering something in his ear, “it seemed Loras had been a bit smitten and who am I to stand in the way of that?”

“You do not mind that he likes both? My Oberyn?” The question was asked quietly, Ellaria’s lips close to her ear.

“I like both. It is comforting to know there is another like me.” And it felt like a weight had been lifted off her chest to finally say it aloud. Of course, the Tullys knew of it, but they had very little patience to understand it so she had been forced to only live it in shadowed corners. And when she had moved to King’s Landing, it wasn’t an option for her to explore. There was an easy air about Ellaria, open and honest. That is perhaps why Y/N had felt so nonplussed to reveal her own secret.

“More than just Oberyn,” Ellaria said, her grip tightening just a fraction.

And Y/N’s heart leapt and bounced. “Truly?” The word was almost strangled from her throat as they neared the area of the fire-breathers and contortionists and jugglers, slipping through a display of the gifts the Brat King had received from his guests.

“You are not alone,” Ellaria whispered with a teasing smile. But then another question had Ellaria’s brow arching. “And what of your thoughts of loving more than one?”

“More than one person at a time? I have not loved one person. I would not know how to love two.” She frowned as she thought of it. There was love for her family, and a companionable affection for people like Daisy. But love? Real, romantic love? It had always been a distant daydream. Stolen kisses in shadows from pretty ladies and the occasional second son of a lord was as close as she had ever come to it.

“There is love in your heart, I know it. Can feel it. Passion waiting to be unleashed.” They turned a corner and a burst of fire greeted them. They had found their destination. The fire-breather danced away, leaving the scent of smoke and ash behind. “In Dorne, we embrace our passion. Lords and ladies have their paramours and lovers and take what they want.” She let her fingers trail down to take Y/N’s hand and raised it to her lips and kissed the pads of her fingers, just as Oberyn had done a moment ago.

Y/N swallowed the hard lump in her throat as Ellaria’s dark eyes lifted to meet hers. “Dorne sounds like a paradise.”

“It can be. If one has the right soul for it.” The older woman stood straight and continued to lead her toward the tables filled with contortionists.

“Do I?” Y/N asked. Could she be happy in a place like Dorne, unfettered by the social constructs she’d been born into?

Ellaria looked at her and smiled, wolfish and hungry. She said nothing and pulled her along to see the men and women twist and turn in almost unnatural ways and would murmur the position names in her ear like an illicit secret.

All of it was bubbling into something strange under Y/N’s skin, making her warm with each passing syllable and each new position they encountered only coiled something tighter until they were all a blur in her mind and all she could hear was Ellaria’s melodic hum in her ear and smell her perfume. Y/N was not so innocent to not understand that she was roused and yearning for some indelicate headiness, but she had never before been so close to achieving it. Only her own fingers had given her reprieve in the past but now Ellaria was staring at her like a tiger faced with a meal and she couldn’t wait to be devoured.

“Come. Surely there is a quiet place for you to catch your breath.” Ellaria had not let go of her hand yet and it seemed unlikely she would do so now as they walked through the masses, slipping out of the festival grounds and into the gardens. It was decidedly quieter but the music from the bards and musicians and the laughter of the crowds still filtered through the greenery, now muted and soft. The pair walked for a moment before finding a corner with a stone wall in the shadows, a reprieve from the heat of the sun. 

And, as Y/N went to thank her companion for the respite, Ellaria pushed her against a wall and pressed her mouth to hers and stole her breath. Coaxing her mouth was easy and Ellaria almost laughed as Y/N whined against her lips. The quiet desperation that she had felt was now bursting forth as Ellaria easily coaxed her lips apart and delved her tongue into her mouth.

“Responsive, that’s good,” Ellaria hummed as he broke for a moment. Her hands slid from the other woman’s shoulders down her sides to grab handfuls of the yellow fabric at her hips and dragged her waist closer and wedging a thigh between hers. A choked breath pushed through Y/N’s lips at the delicious pressure against her core. “You taste so sweet.”

“Oh, please,” Y/N gasped, not knowing what she was begging for. To stop. To never stop. “Please.”

Ellaria suddenly grabbed at the back of Y/N’s neck to pull her head closer, angling her abruptly so she could kiss her thoroughly, devour her with spit-slicked lips and smiling teeth and dominating every sense she had despite Y/N’s some-what apparent lack of experience. And Y/N could have sworn she’d never felt such ecstasy in a touch like this—until Ellaria trailed her fingers against Y/N’s heaving chest, feeling the warmth she exuded and how soft her skin was before dipping beneath the fabric to cup Y/N’s breast and this time she did laugh as Y/N gasped again. She kneaded her and felt Y/N’s heart hammering and racing as she continued to draw whines and whimpers from her pretty little mouth. Deft fingers found her pebbled nipple and circled and tugged again and again before once again starting her slow torture of simply massaging the tortured flesh.

Y/N’s hands tried to find purchase in anything, the cold stone behind her, the fabric of Ellaria’s dress, but finally grabbed at Ellaria’s neck so she could thread her fingers into the hair at the back of her head, barely mindful of the golden chains in her locks, and hold her close—she needed her closer.

“You sing so prettily for me,” Ellaria said as her nose trailed against Y/N’s cheek, her other hand still anchored around her neck. “I’ve barely touched you.” A final squeeze to her chest and then her fingers retreated…only to start to trail down toward her skirts. “Do you want me to touch you?”

“Yes,” Y/N blindly answered. “Touch me.”

“Oh.”

Y/N instantly stiffened at being caught, her own hands pulling away from the other woman.

“That will have to wait, I’m afraid,” came a voice just over Ellaria’s shoulder.

Ellaria’s lovely touch withdrew and she carefully pulled Y/N’s dress back to cover her chest with a wink before she turned, almost leisurely, to see who had stumbled upon them.

Loras was blushing a pretty shade of red and looking steadfastly up into the clouds while Oberyn simply smirked at the pair of women. The sight was a welcome one—surely these two could keep a secret.

“You’ve nearly made a mess of our young Lady Tully, my love,” Oberyn said as he stepped forward to grasp at Ellaria’s hand and he tugged her close to press a slow kiss against her lips. “And does she taste as pretty as she looks?”

“She does,” Ellaria agreed as she looked back at Y/N who was still pressed against the garden wall. “A taste from the source would be much sweeter.” The innuendo was not lost on anyone present.

“I’m sure it would.” Oberyn’s hand curled around Ellaria’s hip and he drew her closer. “But that will have to wait. Her absence has been noted by too many.”

Y/N sagged with the news. It had to have been the Lannisters. No one else would mind if she disappeared with a fellow guest for a few moments at a celebration such as this. “Thank you for finding us first, my prince.” She brushed her hands against her skirts to help them lay flat and straightened her shoulders before pressing the back of her hand to her cheeks to help them cool before starting to walk toward the banquet again. Only to be stopped by a roughened hand on her arm. Oberyn’s grip was not hard, she knew she could wriggle out of it without any effort.

“Your appearance will not keep a secret in that state, my lady.” Then, without much fanfare or warning, he started to gently right her mussed clothes and straightened the filigreed back across the top of her head to once again give her the air of a civilized lady.

His touch was always gentle, taking care to never pull or tug too harshly, and Y/N felt her heart trying to escape her chest for the second time that day and leap into the hands of a Dornishman. She tried to focus on the golden chain around his neck instead of staring at his face but then all she managed to do was appreciate his defined chest and how he smelled like ripe berries and sandalwood with a touch of spice she could not place. His full lips were parted and nearly pursed as he worked, making them ever more tempting and she felt foolish to even let such a thought cross her mind when she hardly knew him. 

But, she hardly knew Ellaria who had her panting like a whore only moments earlier. He was every bit as entrancing as Ellaria, she was rue to admit. His gentle touch only exacerbated how flustered she felt. The pair was dangerous. 

“Shall I pass inspection, my prince?” She asked, clasping her hands in front of her to keep them from shaking as he finished.

“Tell them you’ve been enjoying the less polite entertainment if they ask where you’ve gone, my lady.” It was said with a smirk and his thumb brushed against her bottom lip, making her shiver again.

“Thank you for the guidance.” She bid them adieu and squeezed Loras’ arm as she walked away and rejoined the festivities.

A/N: All right...so, that’s part one. I’ve tried to draw on a few plot lines from the books that didn’t make it into the television series, but if you have any questions, please just ask. I welcome feedback. The next chapter will (hopefully) be shorter and out soon. Cross your fingers. 

[loveafterthefact]

Love After the Fact Chapter 77: Three

The ending is in no way significant of anything at all. Definitely.

First  Previous  Next

Lance comes back in from the gardens with a frosty-furred, very happy wolf cub. Their quarters are still dark, lit only by the crackling fire. “Okay, go find Keith! Come on.”

The cub yawns, walks slow and tired over to the nightstand sniffing Keith’s ignored breakfast curiously. After a varga of play in the frost, Lance is surprised the cub’s got that much left in him.

“Beloved?” Lance gazes at Keith’s curled up form, burrowed into the blankets of their bed. “Are you alright?”

“Fine.” It’s not convincing. “I’m just nauseous.”

Keith’s nausea has gotten a lot worse in the last two movements. He’s been skipping breakfast on the regular, and now sometimes lunch. It’s worrying them both that he’s not getting enough nutrients.

Lance frowns, runs fingers through Keith’s hair. “You can tell me if something’s wrong. I can help.”

Keith shakes his head. “I’m just not myself today.”

“Is there really nothing I can do?”

“Just go to breakfast, okay? I’ll be fine... But maybe come visit me later?”

“Of course. I’ll come back as soon as I can.”  That at least earns Lance a small smile. He’ll take it. “What are your plans for this afternoon? Lay here and be sick?”

“Mhm. Maybe play with Wolfy and Bleeps a little bit. Try not to freeze to death.”

“Use your cloak. And mine if you want it.” Lance bends down to kiss his temple. “I love you. So much.”

“I love you so much too- Ugh.” Keith curls tighter around his unhappy insides. “I love you as much as I hate nausea.”

“Trash can’s right here if you need to barf; I’ll send food for you if you want it; I’ll come check on you as soon as I can.” With a kiss to Keith’s cheek, Lance leaves their quarters, hoping he’s not too late to breakfast.

In the dining hall, Lance takes his place, picking food off of platters as servants bring them over to him. As he digs into some flowers with honey, he can’t help but notice his father’s keen eye.

“It’s nice of one of you to join us,” Alfor murmurs. Next to him, Coran rolls his eyes, but says nothing. “Where is Keith?”

“Not feeling well. He’ll eat when he’s hungry.”

Alfor’s ice-blue eyes narrow. “I see. Did he contract something on Daibazaal?”

Lance slows his chewing rate, appearing thoughtful. “Possibly. He wasn’t examined very thoroughly when we returned, and Tavo only gave him two injections. I assume it’s because he’s Galra, so there are fewer concerns.”

“Really?” Coran finds an actual reason to cut in. “Perhaps you should talk to him about a more thorough exam?”

“If Keith has any concerns, he will consult Tavo or his own physician back on Daibazaal. I don’t need to do that for him.” Lance shoves a frost lily into his mouth, licking the sweet floral nectar from his lips. “I have a lot to do today. There’s legislature regarding our colonies that needs to be updated, and I need to have new machinery sent to Arus, which requires a completely unnecessary amount of paperwork.”

“If that’s your way of asking to be excused, you may go,” Alfor murmurs, gaze searing into his son. Lance has gotten pretty good at lying lately. But not good enough.

“Thank you.” Lance wipes his mouth, sips his water, flies from his seat.

“And do tell Keith I hope he starts feeling better soon.”

Lance’s hesitating footsteps tell Alfor everything he needs to know. He tucks into his own breakfast, not looking at his husband.

“Dear… Don’t you do it.”

“Do what?” Alfor whines. “I haven’t even done anything!”

“Ah, but you were thinking about it!” Coran’s dark eyes glint with amusement. “Remember what we were talking about? About minding your own business?”

“Yes, but-”

“But nothing.”

“...But I want him to know that we will be here for him if he needs us?” Alfor asks, hopeful. Trying.

Coran nods slowly, considering that. “Yes, alright.”

“What, really?” Alfor almost never wins when versus his husband.

“Yes. I think he’d appreciate knowing you want to be there for him. And me of course, but I have to speak with Admiral Sonne on Arus to see what the quiznak is going on. If Lance is this stressed about it, I might have to hop over and knock a few heads together.”

“I hate it when you travel,” Alfor sighs, rising from the table, grunting at the pain in his knees as he straightens his legs. Coran follows suit.

“I know, but it would only be for a few quintants. Maybe a movement or two.”

“That’s so long,” Alfor bemoans.

Coran kisses him, sweet and familiar. “You’ll live, my darling. You always do.”

“Well... If you have to go, I guess you have to go.” Alfor tips forward to rest his head on Coran’s shoulder. Their arms wind into an embrace. “We have some fantastic kids, don’t we?”

“I’m astounded every day.” Coran draws back. “I’d best go contact Arus. I love you.”

“Love you too.” Alfor kisses Coran’s cheek, lets him go. His lips fall into a frown, deepening with every tap of his footsteps as he winds his way through the castle.

Lance jiggles his foot, heaves a sigh as he tries yet again to finish his draft. He’s preoccupied, worried about Keith. Aside from persistent morning sickness, he hasn’t been himself the last few quintants. Subdued, quiet- He’s begun isolating himself again, like he did last time he arrived from Daibazaal-

“Lancel.”

Lance looks up, rising from his chair. “Father. Can I do something for you?”

Alfor waves his hand, dismissing formality, and takes a seat by his son. “I want to talk to you about Keith. And what you’ve decided not to tell me.”

Lance’s hand freezes, releases the stylus. He turns to his father. “I beg your pardon?”

“Keith. And his pregnancy.” In hindsight, Alfor would realize that he could have used a bit more tact.

“What about it?”

“You hid this from me. Without any regard of what it might mean or how it might shift our priorities.”

“You haven’t exactly proven yourself to be trusted with the lives of children,” Lance bites, not missing a beat for even a second.

“What’s that supposed to mean-”

“That my husband is afraid of you, and what you’ll do to our children!”

Alfor licks his lips, a trait he’s passed to his son. “I regret what I have done to Keith. His fear is understandable. I would apologize, but I don’t think it would mean anything.”

“No, it wouldn’t.”

“Still, I am happy for you. I understand the joy of becoming a father-”

“Father, you didn’t even want children!”

“How can you say that?-”

“Because you waited!” Lance snaps. “You waited until you and Mom absolutely had to have us! I’m not stupid!”

"Watch your mouth!" Alfor barks. "Don't you dare disrespect your mother like that. Or me."

Lance closes his mouth with a snap, shaken by his father's sudden anger.

“Lance, we-” Alfor runs a withering hand through his shaggy hair. “We waited to have you kids because I’m fucking gay! Not because we didn’t want you. I loved your mother, dearly, but it wasn’t exactly an easy thing to father children with her. And, for the record, it wasn’t easy for her, either.”

Lance averts his gaze, sheepish. He hadn’t thought of that.

“I put my hands on your mother, not loving her or wanting her. And she knew it. And she didn’t want it either. But that is the way it is done. So no one can question it, no one can doubt your blood. We did that, to each other, for you . And your sister. So don’t you so much as insinuate that we did not want you. Understand?”

Lance gulps, nods. "Yes, sir. I'm sorry."

Sometimes, Lance still feels like a boy. It’s rare that Alfor’s ire is so well-deserved, and it’s been a long time since Lance has been on the receiving end. He waits to see if his father is finished.

“Now, I wanted to talk to you because we now find ourselves in a potentially difficult situation. Keith’s health is far from perfect. Add to that the burdens of a fetus and the current political climate, what we have uncovered- we need to think very carefully about how to protect you and your family.”

Lance nods, sits back in his chair. “What about you and dad?”

“Not important. You, Keith, and this child are our future. The lynchpin that holds this society together. Were something to happen to you, it’s unlikely our people could recover. But you know that.”

Lance gulps, forces himself to meet his father’s gaze. “Am I- Am I a bad person? All this stuff is happening and-”

“No. Oh, Lance-” Alfor takes his hand, squeezes it tight. “Lance, you are not a bad anything. The truth is, there’s never a good time to start a family, or have a child. The Galra are not the only people who hold a grudge against us, and tragedies and freak accidents happen every day. Why, as we speak, our ships are shifting an asteroid away from our planet so we aren’t destroyed in a collision.

“Let me ask you something. Did you want this child?”

“Yes.”

“Did Keith want this child?”

“Yes.”

“Then this baby will be far luckier than some, just for that. And from what I’ve seen of you, and seen of Keith, and seen of you both together… This child will be blessed indeed. Far better off than you were.”

“You think so?” Lance asks, eyes stinging.

“I know so.” Alfor smiles, squeezing the hand still in his grip before releasing it. “I can’t believe I’m going to be a grandfather twice.”

“Hopefully, you’ll be a grandfather at least four times,” Lance laughs, sniffling a little, but willing to be happy with his father now that the tension is over.

“Mnh. I know you must do your duty to Daibazaal. So perhaps I’ll be a grandfather more times than that. Your sister doesn’t want more than two children. It may give you and Keith an opportunity to indulge in a larger family, should you so desire.”

“We do currently. I’m curious to see how Keith will feel after baby number one.”

“Very true. Child-bearing is some freaky shit.”

“Seriously. I don’t envy him. I need to get back to him.” Lance sighs. “But right now I need to finish this draft. I never know how to finish off these missives.”

“Oh, that’s the easy part. Summarize what you need done, how you want it done, why it’s important. Three sentences. Then say something encouraging. And then say, ‘Many thanks, Crown Prince Lancel.’ Simple as that. Wash, rinse, repeat until your paperwork is done.”

“That’s… actually pretty useful. Thanks.” Lance finishes typing, sending it along to Adam to look over before it’s passed along to their Admiral on Arus. “I still have all this…” Lance scrolls demonstratively through his list of tasks. “To complete before thaw, but I need to get back to Keith. He’s not himself today. In a different way than normal.”

“What actually needs to be done with it?”

“It’s all crusty, outdated, discriminatory, no longer applicable, or otherwise in need of a rewrite.”

“Why don’t I get started on it and you and Adam can look over it when it’s done?”

Lance hesitates a moment, tapping his stylus on the table. He’s reluctant to entrust policy to anyone else, even Keith, but he has more than one responsibility now. Alfor can do this paperwork. He can't be a husband to Keith. He nods. “Send them to Adam and myself directly. I’ll let him know to expect it.” Lance stacks his tablets carefully on the table for someone to put away for him later. “Thank you.”

“You’re a good man, Lance.” Alfor rises with his son, smile deeply fond.

“Keith says the same thing.”

“He’s a remarkably smart young man. Now, go take care of your house.” Alfor kisses the top of his son’s head. “I’ll send dinner to your quarters if you don’t show up.”

“Thanks. I love you, Father.”

“I love you, too.”

And he actually believes it.

Keith’s not in their quarters. Yet, strangely,  Wolfy and BleepBloop are, Wolfy by the garden doors, BleepBloop glaring at the cub from the loft ladder. Has Keith actually gone outside?

Lance goes to pull his cloak from the closet, and notices that Keith’s is still hanging there. Cursing, he hurries to fasten the heavy fabric under his chin. He should give it a minute to warm up to his body temperature, but with Keith potentially out in the cold, he doesn’t want to wait. He’ll just have to hope it’s good enough.

On his way out, he snatches up Keith’s cloak.

The good thing about the frost is that he can see a set of footprints. The bad news is that those footprints are fading quickly as the frost creeps back up into the frozen moss. Speeding along, Lance squeezes through the gap in the garden wall, following the tracks into the forest. They’re getting a bit more clear, the dulled colors of the mossy forest floor showing through more clearly.

It dawns on Lance quite suddenly where he’s going, and he breaks into a run.

Panting, breath pluming, he skids to a halt outside the grotto where he learned to swim. His foot slips on an icy patch of frost, and he scrambles for a second before his hip hits the frozen ground.

Ouch.

Whatever.

Inside, Keith’s curled up on the icy pond, bundled in an enormous swathe of black fabric. The only thing Lance can see is a mess of long, black hair tumbling over the ice.

“Beloved?” The bundle twitches, curls tighter. “Beloved are you alright? Are you sick? Are you hurt?” A head shake.

Lance creeps over the frosty ground, sitting down next to his husband, throwing the red cloak over his form. Lance gently reaches out to Keith, brushing up against him, feeling what he feels-

A well of homesickness, deep, hollow, aching. Whimpering, Lance curls around his husband, hurting with him but refusing to let him go despite hot tears dripping down the side of his face.

“You know, I-” Lance gulps. “I know how you feel. A little. Remember that night at Thace and Ulaz’ place? I feel like- like I met myself that night. Like for those few vargas, I knew who I was, and I liked that person. But now… There’s no place for that person here. Here, I’m Crown Prince Lancel, and there I was Lance, and there’s no room for Lance here.

“It’s like I lost a piece of me. And lost a piece of us.”

A deep sigh, and Keith rolls over, cuddling closer in Lance’s arms. “I see him every now and then.” The man dredges up a sad smile, lays a hand to Lance’s cheek, brushes his thumb over red-tinted scales. “He’s never really gone.” A long silence, tender companionship. “I’m sorry.”

“You scared me a little bit.”

“Everything is dead here. And it’s all so quiet. Lying there by myself… All I could do was wish you were there with me. Like when we went home, and you were there all day, every day. I guess I got used to it.

“And I miss the red earth, and the afternoon heat, and the moons. I miss them so much. I-” Keith breaks off on a chirp.

“Hey, hey.” Lance pulls Keith closer, strokes his hair. “You’ll see it again, beloved. We’ll go together.”

It’s a few minutes before either speaks again, preferring instead the comfort of touch.

“Sorry, I think I’m just having a mood swing.”

“Your feelings aren’t invalid just because you’re having a mood swing.” Lance kisses his husband’s forehead. "Ready to get out of here?"

"Yes, I'm very cold."

Lance rises first, helps Keith to his feet. "I'm going to come up with a better plan for keeping you company. You're being neglected, and you haven't had anything to do lately."

"You know I can advocate for myself, right?"

"You can, but you don't."

"Right." Keith doesn't argue. He even sounds a little guilty. Lance counts it as a win.

“Where did you get that ridiculously huge cloak?”

“It was Shiro’s,” Keith murmurs. “He gave it to me as a gift when he found me. I didn’t have any clothes, so he gave it to me to cover myself with and help me stay warm. It was the first thing anyone gave me in all that time. The first kindness I’d seen.”

“And you left it behind,” Lance concludes. He knows by now that everything Keith brought with him -himself, his blade, and the clothes on his back- were taken from him upon his arrival. They never found his original clothes.

“Yeah. But now I have it again!” Keith grins. “ I was thinking, since it’s so big, we could use some of it to make a blanket for the little one?”

“Aww, Ke-eith! That’s so sweet!”

Keith hums, pleased by his mate’s enthusiasm. “The Galra used to have this philosophy that kindness doesn’t go back around, but forward. If someone does something kind for you, you’re meant to pay kindness to someone else.”

“I like that,” Lance whispers, swinging their hands back and forth between them. “You know, my father has discovered us. He’s… happy for us. I mean actually for us . Out of all the scenarios I imagined, that wasn’t one of them.”

“I’m glad you two are getting along better.” It’s a white lie, one Lance appreciates.

“He seems… excited. Like he’s really looking forward to being a grandfather. I’m really looking forward to getting to know my father, and watching him grow.”

Keith smiles. “You’ve been waiting a long time to have a relationship with Alfor, huh?”

“So long,” Lance breathes. “Obviously, I’d never allow him to do anything to endanger our child, but I really, really hope I never have to face that.”

Keith leans over to bump their shoulders together. “I hope so too.” He smiles. “You’re going to be an awesome father. I hope he gets to see that.”

“Thanks, beloved.”

The winter's silence falls around them, but it's not quite so crushing, so lonely anymore. There's two sets of footsteps, the warmth of a second body.

“Lance?”

“Yes?”

“I actually do miss Daibazaal. And how we were when we were there.”

“Me too. We’ll go again. As soon as we can.” Lance throws his arm around Keith’s shoulders after the squeeze back through the garden wall. “After all, little one’s gonna have to see where their daddy came from, right?”

“Definitely. I want them to be proud of what they are, Lance.”

“Absolutely. Hybrid children are the future. And we get to create that. It’s gonna be beautiful. I can’t wait to see it.”

“I can’t wait to share it with you,” Keith whispers, gazing at his smiling mate.

It’s time for the turning of the age.