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cherryheairt · 5 months ago

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Dragon Dreamer pt. I

When Rhaenyra followed Jacaerys' suggestion of sending her three eldest children as messengers to call upon bannermen for their queen, Daenys did not expect to be sent to the North.

Perhaps the Eyrie, to treat with Lady Jeyne Arryn, as the widow might have seen a princess coming personally to see her as a sign of great respect. Instead, Jacaerys was being sent to the Vale, and Daenys to Winterfell to treat with Lord Cregan Stark.

Daenys, although a Targaryen-Velayron princess, had never been gifted in politicking. Never sitting on council meetings as a cup-bearer, never paying much attention to her septas lessons, nor promenading with the court ladies during her time at the red keep. Her only company was her family, her five little brothers and parents. And, of course, her beloved dragon. Rhaenyra liked to jest of how Daenys was perhaps more dragon than girl, spending more time in Dragonstone's nesting caves than her own chambers.

When she was in the company of unfamilar people, she found her throat tightening and her eyes avoiding those of others. Most at court found this behavior to be rude, and indifferent, often ignoring her in favour of more approachable ladies.

Her time in the red keep, though now more of a distant memory, was spent in her chambers or with her dear aunt Helena, who was quite similar to her in most ways, besides the bug collection kept on her desk. Daenys shuttered at the sight every time but tolerated it in favor of spending time with Helena.

It was not always like this. Daenys was born a bright and charismatic young girl, charming the Keep's lords and ladies with her chatty demeanor. Rhaenyra lovingly named her after her ancestor, Daenys the Dreamer, in hopes of her to be blessed and beautiful as she was. Daenys had only one dream to be accounted for, the Doom of Valyria. After saving the Targaryen dynasty, it seemed to be a one-time event.

Daenys, unlike her ancestor, deemed herself cursed instead of blessed. Her dreams started to occur after her fifth nameday, waking up the Keep every night with blood-curdling screams of terror. Every night, guards would come in searching for a threat, only to find the little girl locked in a dead-sleep, thrashing and screeching.

Eventually the intensity of the dreams stopped, to the relief of Rhaenyra and Daenys both. Her dreams still haunted her day and night, but she was no longer waking the keep as she experienced them.

The Queen, Alicent Hightower, looked down upon Daenys as if she was a curse embodied. She called the girl mad, deeming it a fitting punishment for Rhaenyra for her adulterous behavior. Though the scorn was meant to spite Rhaenyra, the only one affected was Daenys.

Shunned by the other young ladies of court, whispered about by the young lords, Daenys found herself friendless and alone in the Red Keep, of all but Helena and her family.

After Joffrey's birth, Rhaenyra had decided she had enough of Alicent's ire and moved her family to Dragonstone. Daenys found it much more agreeable, no court to deal with, and the entire island all to her family alone.

Daenys never recovered from years of ostracizing, still quiet and seemingly rude to any guests of Dragonstone.

"Mother, surely Jacaerys would be a better fit for Lord Stark. I do not think he would be pleased to be sent a girl deemed mad by the queen over the heir to the Iron Throne," Daenys pleaded with Rhaenyra, while they waited for Jacaerys and Lucerys to come.

Rhaenyra, ever so regal in her father's former crown and fine deep-red dress, smiled down at her eldest daughter. Her eyes were still brimmed red with the recent loss of Visenya, though that never stopped her from performing her duty as Queen. "Lord Stark would be delighted to have a princess of the realm visit the north. Never mind what Alicent has said against you. You are gifted in ways only Targaryens will understand. You are my blessing, not my curse."

Daenys picked at the skin of her nails harshly, looking at the cobble she stood on and finding more interest in the damp stone. "I am not like you, mother."

"In what way, sweet girl?" Rhaenyra frowned, reaching to lift her daughter's chin gently, a nonverbal reminder.

Taking a breath in, "I am not so..perfect. You have a million things on your shoulders and never falter once. I..cannot even greet our guests appropriately. I can't do this. Please, let me stay here instead" Glossy-eyed, Daenys squeezed her mother's head with a plea.

Observing her daughter for a minute, Rhaenyra was silent a moment. "You were never meant to be like me. I was a reckless and perhaps foolish girl in my youth, always getting myself into trouble one way or another. You, my girl, are meant to be better. You always have been. It takes time, to learn and heal, there is only one way to do that."

"How can I learn to be like you?" Even the mere thought of it seemed like a dream, distant and unreachable.

"Practicing, tis all. It may seem like I am throwing you to the wolves now, but you can not get better without first trying. Locking yourself on this island has done you no favors, and for that I am sorry. You will see, that it is not so bad out in the world." Rhaenyra squeezed her daughter's hand back, kissing her forehead before stepping away as Jace and Luke finally came.

Holding a hand to the book of The Seven, the three princes and princess swore to only go as messengers for their queen, abhorring all violence.

Daenys said a swift goodbye to her younger brothers before she mounted Morningstar, who had been led to the perch alongside Vermax and Arrax. Fittingly, the dragons sizes corresponded with their ages, largest to smallest.

Morningstar had grown quite fast since her birth alongside Daenys' cradle, almost as big as Meleys now. Vermax and Arrax were smaller in comparison but no less loyal or fierce. The white scales and purple eyes of the dragoness perfectly matched Daenys. Purring at her rider's mount, Morningstar stretched her wings and waited for command.

With a last tight smile to her brothers, Daenys was off with Morninstar across the sea. The three dragons traveled together for almost an hour before splitting to their respective directions. Daenys silently prayed for the safe return of her dear brothers, knowing that they would be home even before she was done treating with the Starks.

◽️

The journey to the North was longer than she had anticipated, boredom and anticipation being her worst enemies. Or, perhaps that title belonged to the biting winds that nipped at her exposed face. Daenys cursed her lack of preparation, only bringing her house cloak for the flight. It was late summer, for the Seven's sake, why was it already so freezing?

To Daenys' surpirse, and also jealousy, Morningstar seemed to enjoy the cold. It was a harsh contract from Dragonstone's humid beaches, but the dragon seemed to have no problem adapting during their ride.

Finally, Winterfell's grey stone Keep was in view, larger than Daenys had anticipated and covered in blankets of pearly snow. Morningstar landing just outside of the gates, shaking off snow from her wings and grumbling at the guards who shakily approached the dismounted princees. It seemed even Northernmen were not brave enough to face a dragon.

Smiling at the sight of such a large man being so timid under the watchful violet eye of Morningstar, Daenys didn't move forward to give the man any peace of mind. Perhaps a little fear was good for rallying bannermen.

The man spoke now, northern accent different than any she had heard before. "State your name and buisness."

Eyeing the dragon at her side, Daenys almost sighed. How many female dragonriders of her age were there in Westeros? Perhaps there were some that she was made unaware of.

Sucking in a breath, and trying to keep her voice steady despite her shivers, Daenys answered. "I am Daenys Valeryon. Messenger to the rightful Queen Rhaenyra."

The guard paused a moment, glancing at his partner, who smartly chose to stay at the gate. There seemed to be a silent conversation happening before the other nodded to an unknown third party. The old gate creaked open, Daenys shifting awkwardly at the silence between the three of them. Why weren't they saying anything.

Finally, "Lord Stark will be with you shortly. You are welcome to warm your hands by the fire inside the keep." The guard said, bowing his head respectively towards the princess.

She nodded, for lack of words to say, thanking him quietly. She followed him into the walls of Winterfell, the stares of the commonfolk following her every step. The whispers started after, Daenys ducking her head and walking faster to attempt to avoid hearing them, but that made no difference when the guard stayed at his steady pace.

"Princess Daenys, 'e said?" A heavy womanly accent leaned into her friend.

"Aye. The mad one, I 'ear."

Daenys shuffled into the keep's dining hall, relieved to find it empty. The guard left fast, assuming his post once more. She took a seat by the hearth, allowing herself to warm up in peace. Curling up, in an unladylike fashion, Haze hoped Lord Stark would take his time. She needed to think about her words carefully and hopefully not stutter them out foolishly because she is still shivering like a dog.

The Gods must truly have it out for her, Daenys cursed, as the Lord himself strided into the room only minutes after she sat. Quickly, she stood to her feet, stumbling slightly at the vertigo hitting her head. "My Lord Cre-Stark." Daenys greeted, bowing her head shortly.

Lord Stark fixed his steel grey gaze on her, pinning her to her spot without so much as a touch. "My princess," he bowed his head, looking into her eyes all the while. His voice was husky with the Northern accent, which Daenys decided sounded best coming from his mouth. He folded his hands in front of himself as if trying to appear less imposing. Failing miserably, of course, with all those heavy furs, leathers, and the longsword strapped to his back. Did he carry that thing everywhere? Normally, lords carried swords at their belts, but longswords were too heavy for that. Daenys shuttered at the thought of such a burden.

"What do I owe the pleasure? Surely, the Queen's daughter does not simply wish to visit the forgotten houses of the North." Though his tone was straight and respectful, the words themselves were slightly bitter, knowing that royalty only visits houses when they need something.

Daenys looked down at her feet a moment, glancing between the floor and his eyes, which were intent on not leaving her own. Shifting, she found herelf lost for words and panicking at what response she should give him, knowing time was ticking by.

He was already upset by the burden of housing her, and knowing that her request was not a light one made her heart drop to her stomach. How does one simply ask for thousands of men to go to war?

Lord Stark hummed at her silence, politely looking to the fire instead of keeping that intense stare on her. "I apologize for my lack of hospitality, princess. I should've shown you to your chambers and allowed you to rest. Your journey was not easy, I'm sure."

Daenys looked up at him, surprised. Both glad to be rid of that intensity and sadden to not see the pretty color anymore, she felt her throat open again. "Of course, my lord. Thank you." The words came slowly, and much quieter than she intended.

As Cregan led her through the keep's halls, Daenya thought of how disappointing it might be to receive a fumbling girl instead of a regal princess. For the first time in over a hundred years, Targaryens visited the North. A shame it had to be her instead of Jace, who never lost his confidence even when being named a bastard.

Cregan stopped at a door, opening to reveal a comely guest chambers, a fire already running at the hearth for her. "I had the servents set up our best, for you. There are some furs in the wardrobe, I hope you'll find them appeasing. I'll see you at supper, princess?" He asked, looking down at her patiently.

From their close proximity in the doorway, Daenys could feel the warmth from him in waves. "I will be there." She told him, nodding shortly. With a charming smile finally adorning his stoic face, Cregan stark left the chambers with a polite bow of his head.

How could he be so kind to her, and patient? After watching that humiliating display she gave him, Daenys was confident he would sneer and send her away, as no lords ever had patience for her fumbling. It certainly didn't help her nerves that he was handsome, a quality not used to describe northmen.

Daenys had always heard of northmen as being fierce, savage warrior men, always loyal and dutiful, but never handsome and mannerly.

Handsome was a term to describe peacocking young southern knights, who have never experienced hardship besides an occasional tourney. It was not a term for scarred and weathered northerners.

Daenys wasn't sure if this was a good or a bad change from her expectations, but she decided not to dwell too much on it. Reaching her frosted window, she made out Morningstar's massivw white shape flying above the keep, most likely looking for a resting spot. She silently hoped that the dragon wouldn't take too much livestock and piss off local farmers.

Hours passed by fast, much to Daenys' misfortune. For hours she spun words around her mind, speaking in whispers to herself to practice what she might say to Cregan's questions. Startled by a maid entering her temporary chambers, Daenys stood from her seat. The woman, older than her mother, gave her a suspicious look. Daenys flushed, feeling her face grow hot in embarrassment at being caught mumbling. It was a nasty habit that didn't help the rumors surrounding her.

"Princess, supper is ready." The maid told her curtly, leaving the room even swifter than she came.

Daenys sighed, throwing a coat of white fur over her shoulders. The weight was heavy but comforting as she walked down the echoing halls of the Keep.

She entered the dining hall to see it dimly lit, the evenings in Winterfell becoming dark much faster than they did back home. "My lord," she greeted, earning a warm greeting back.

Cregan sat alone at the head of a table, reminding Daenys of his status. The Lord was made an orphan at three and ten, becoming lord of his house at six and ten. His brother had also passed years ago, leaving the lord family-less. She wondered how many times he had dined alone, not even being able to imagine such a fate for herself.

Daenys sat opposite him, only a few feet away from each other. For a few minutes, the only sounds were servants suffling about, pouring wine, ale, and serving plates.

"I picked out a sweet wine for you, princess. I know ale is not a preferred drink amonst royalty." Cregan started up, a light look in his eye as he glanced to her over his own cup of strong ale.

"Thank you, my lord. You needn't go out of your way for me, though. I am not picky." She said, voice quiet but loud enough for him to make out in the silent hall.

Cregan laughed, a graveling and husky one that made her stomach tingle with butterflies. "I wouldn't have expected a princess to be so humble. When I saw your dragon fly down, I was expecting a feast to be demanded, our finest accommodations presented for the princess' pleasure." He lifted his cup slightly to her. "You are quite different than what I pictured."

Her face felt hot again, a feeling she would apparently need to get used to during her stay here. She hid behind her chalice of wine, "I hope I do not disappoint my lord."

Shaking his head pointedly, he put his mug down. "That is precisely what I meant," his tone was amused, the bitterness from their first conversation long gone. "I suppose I was wrong about the Targaryens. I admit, I thought you would threaten me with your dragon and demand that I bend the knee, just as our ancestors did."

Daenys met his eye, placing her own cup down. "Do not mistake me for my family. You'll find our methods are quite different in terms of treating. My mother is the queen of the seven kingdoms. This includes your own. I do expect bent knees, and loyalty to our Queen." She stated. "I am merely a messenger this day, I am sworn to peace."

Despite the undertones of a threat in her words, Cregan was not offended or taken aback like she had expected from her sudden mood switch. Insulting her was one thing, but Daenys didn't tolerate disrespect to her family.

He only smiled, corners of his mouth pulling up in a way Daenys couldn't describe. Almost a proud look in his eye gleamed, staring her down once more as she met his line of sight perfectly. Even sitting down their height difference was apparent, him looking slightly down his nose at her.

"And if you weren't a messenger for Her Grace? Would you threaten me with your dragon?" Cregan pondered.

Daenys, fighting the urge to look away, shook her head slightly. "Not unless you gave me a reason to. Would you have sent me away if I came on horseback rather than dragonback?"

"Its an honor to host a princess, dragonrider or not." He said firmly, dark brown tresses falling slightly into his face from the half-up style he decided on. Distracted, Daenys glanced at the way the veins on his hand twitched as he tucked the strand behind his ear.

"I am glad to hear it. I am pleased to be able to visit the North, despite the somber circumstances that we face. It is quite beautiful here, I've never seen snow." Daenys changed the subject, earnestly complimenting his home.

"You've seen enough of it to last a lifetime now, I venture." Cregan dug into his stew, whilst Daenys simply stirred her own.

"I do not fare well in the cold, unlike Morningstar." She mused, smiling to herself.

The two fell into a silence once more, this time more comfortable and less tense. Daenys took small spoonfulls of her meal, not wanting to appear rude or wasteful, simply having little taste for eating in front of strangers. Eventually, Cregan finished his bowl, and she decided that was a good time to let herself set the utensils down.

"Is now a good time to ask your purpose here again, my princess?" He asked her tentatively, as if she would break with a louder tone of voice. Perhaps Cregan thought from their first meeting that she was in some way incapable of her duties, much to her chargin. She swallowed thickly, shifting in her seat.

Daenys pulled out a small scroll from her belt, handing it to him. "The official message from Her Grace.'

He scanned it quickly, a solemn look on his face as he did. Cregan breathed out through his nose, a less dramatic version of a sigh, rolling it up again and pocketing it. "I had heard of Aegon Targaryen usurping the Queen's throne after King Viserys' death–my condolences–but I had only expected a raven to come from the Queen. You've traveled quite a ways just to ask for men."

Daenys nodded, "We thought it more earnest to see our allied houses personally. Ravens are slower than dragons, and do not leave room for negotiations."

"How many is the Queen expecting from me?" He asked, straight to the point. In every way, Cregan Stark proved to be different from court lords.

Picking at her nails again, Daenys winced when she pulled on the skin too harsh, drawing specs of blood. Under the table, they were hidden from his view. If Rhaenyra saw her now, Daenys was she she would frown and shake her head. But she wasn't, Daenys was alone with the lord of Winterfell. "How many do you have available?" She avoided.

He breathed heavily again, and she bit her cheek guiltily. How could she come into someones home and demand that they fight a war they will see no benefit from? Daenys was suddenly very glad that she was not heir. Even being simply the princess wasn't fit for her.

"I will take some time to think of our numbers, and what I can offer Her Grace." He stood from his seat, making his way around the table to her, holding out a gloved hand.

Daenys took it hesitantly, her uncovered hand a stark contrast to the pure black of his glove. She saw him glance at her hand, the red not yet rubbed away. After standing, she folded them carefully in front of herself, hoping he didn't notice too much. "Thank you, my lord. The crown appreciates your consideration."

He nodded, brow furrowed but not questioning her directly. Cregan guided her to her guest chambers, leaving her at the door. "If you need anything, I'm just down the hall." He gestured towards a door near the end.

Daenys settled into her bed after changing into a shift provided by a maid, fur coat drapped over a chair near the hearth. The bed was cozy, a small thing but covered in more furs, soft and warm.

Daenys fell asleep quickly, mind on the man sleeping a few rooms over.

#cregan stark #hotd #hotd fanfic #cregan stark x reader #cregan stark x oc #cregan x reader #dragondreamer

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vylewa · 8 months ago

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Over the last few weeks, I have been spending my time working on my save file because I'm gearing up to start a Let's Play series on Youtube. As I've been building the stories for the characters in my save file, I started thinking about the Sims universe as a whole and how I want my Sims to travel between worlds. It got me thinking that some worlds feel like they're just a short 4-hour car ride away, while others feel like you'd need a plane to get there.

So, I decided to map out my sims universe. I got a lot of inspiration from different Reddit posts as well as the EA descriptions of each world. This has been so helpful for me as I plan out the buildings I want to place in each world. It has been so helpful with finding inspiration for creating builds. I hope you can find this helpful too.

I'm really happy about my Sims universe turned out. I'd love to hear what you think about it! Are there any worlds you disagree with me on? Also, when are we getting an African world, EA?

North America

New Crest reminds me of suburban New York, mostly because you can still the city skyline from there.

Brindleton Bay reminds me so much of New England.

San Myshuno is quite obviously New York.

Willow Creek gives me a New Orleans vibe.

Magnolia Promenade is somewhere in the south because of the name (magnolias grow in the mostly in Southern United States - Mississippi, Louisiana, Alabama, Florida, Georgia, and South Carolina). I placed it close to Willow Creek for story telling purposes.

Chestnut Ridge gives me a strong Texas vibe.

Del Sol Valley is undoubtedly Los Angeles.

Oasis Springs I think of as Palm Springs with the desert and all, also the Langraabs live there.

San Sequoia I think of as San Francisco mainly because of the Golden Gate Bridge and Bay area, I have all my tech gurus living up there.

Strangerville is straight up Area 51 with all the weird stuff going on there.

Granite Falls gives me a National Park vibe, so I chose my favorite, Yellowstone which is mostly in Wyoming.

Copperdale seems to be in the rocky mountains, I placed it in Montana because of the old mining town description. Butte, Montana used to be a huge mining town.

Moonwood Mill reminds so much of the thick woods in the Pacific West somewhere Washington or Oregon.

Glimmerbrook I imagine is close to Moonwood Mill and the witches and the werewolves are always beefing.

Evergreen Harbor gives me a strong Pacific West port city like Vancouver (I know Vancouver is not in the US, but you get the drift).

Sulani reminds me so much of Hawaii, the beautiful beaches, volcanoes, and mountains and the culture portrayed by Sulanians.

Ciduad Enamorada reminds me so much of Mexico City, Mexico.

South America

Selvadorara gives a strong Amazonian vibe so I placed it in Brazil.

Europe

Britchester because of Britchester uinversity reminds me of Universtiy of Oxford, or University of Cambridge so I placed it in the UK.

Henford-on-Bagley gives off a strong English country vibe so I placed it South Central England.

Windenburg gives off a German vibe because of the style of buildings placed in the world.

Forgotten Hollow I think of as somewhere in Transylvania so I placed it in Romania.

Tartosa is undoubtedly mediterranean so I placed it in Italy.

Asia

Tomarang with the tuk tuks and the tiger sanctuary reminds me of Indonesia.

Mt. Komorebi, my absolute favorte world, is Japan. I can't wait to visit someday.

P.S. Batuu is not included in my sims universe because it is in space, I don't anticipate my sims ever traveling there, but if I ever feel otherwise, I will include it in here.

#vylewa #sims 4 #simblr #sims 4 map #sims 4 universe

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 3 months ago

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In The Gloomy Depths [Chapter 6: Bloodstone]

Series summary: Five years ago, jewel mining tycoon Daemon Targaryen made a promise in order to win your hand in marriage. Now he has broken it and forced you into a voyage across the Atlantic, betraying you in increasingly horrifying ways and using your son as leverage to ensure your cooperation. You have no friends and no allies, except a destitute viola player you can’t seem to get away from…

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), parenthood, dolphins, death and peril, violence (including domestic violence), drinking, smoking, freezing temperatures, murder, if you don’t like Titanic you won’t like this fic!!! 😉

Word count: 6.1k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Tagging: @nightvyre @mrs-starkgaryen @gemini-mama @ecstaticactus @chattylurker, more in comments 🥰

💎 Only 1 chapter left!!! 💎

You must not have heard him correctly. Down by the bow, third-class passengers are still laughing as they kick pieces of ice back and forth. Children who have been shaken awake are giggling as they dash around in their worn, patched coats. On the Promenade Deck, tycoons and aristocrats are flagging down stewards to fetch them fresh drinks. There is no more humming of the ship’s engines, although no one else seems to have noticed; they have quit and will never work again. In a few hours, they will be resting on the bottom of the North Atlantic Ocean. It’s just barely April 15th, and half the passengers aboard won’t live to see the sunrise.

Kill Daemon??

You’ve never even hit anybody, not unless they struck you first. “I can’t kill someone.”

“Yes you can,” Aegon insists. His tone is urgent; there isn’t much time left. “And you won’t have to do it alone. Like I said, I’ll help you.”

A drop in your stomach, a chill down your spine, wide-eyed primal fear like a prey animal’s. “Even if I wanted to, Daemon can’t be killed.”

“He’s not a monster. He’s just a man. He has blood and organs just like we do. I promise you, if we cut him he’ll bleed.”

“He’ll hurt me,” you whimper. “He’ll know what I’m trying to do and he’ll break my neck or push me overboard. You don’t know him, he’s…he’s…he’s relentless, he’s cunning—”

“We can have what we want,” Aegon says, grabbing your face with his hands, fingertips callused from years of playing viola on streets, in pubs, in small rented rooms, on the decks of ships. “We can leave Titanic together. We can stay with my family for a while in New York, and then we’ll go back to Ireland so you can be with yours, and when my father dies we’ll spend half the year in England and the other half with your parents, and you’ll get to keep Draco, and Daemon will never touch you again. You’ll be free, Petra. And you deserve that. But no one is going to give it to you. You have to fight for it.”

Is it possible? Is it really? You imagine having breakfast with your parents in Lough Cutra Castle, the table full: you, Aegon, Draco, Fern, everyone smiling over plates of fried eggs, bacon, beans, mushrooms, tomatoes, and white pudding, cups of tea breathing steam into the cool morning air. Are you willing to fight for that? Are you willing to murder? At last you say: “Daemon isn’t the only problem.”

“Who else?” Aegon asks, demanding, impatient, though his hands are gentle. “Rhaenyra? And the old woman, right? Draco’s governess. Dagmar.”

“And Daemon’s bodyguard Edward Rushton, we call him Rush. He carries a pistol.”

“Okay.” Aegon nods, his eyes distant, his thoughts whirling like Titanic’s colossal propellers once did and never will again. You know he’s devising a plan. We only have an hour or two.

“Aegon…I have to get Draco into a lifeboat first.”

“Right.” He kisses you, a quick brush across your cheek like a dusting of snow, and you think: I can’t lose him. “Over a thousand passengers are going to die tonight. Let’s make sure four of them are people who deserve it.” Then he takes your hand and together you descend the steps to B-Deck.

~~~~~~~~~~

Scarlet fever is named for the distinctive rash that marks its victims, tiny red dots like blood blisters, so itchy they are soon scratched raw, raised bumps of braille in the shape of ominous omens, corporal constellations of bad stars. Dagmar was reminded of them the first time she ever saw bloodstone, a dark green crystal freckled with red, a pendant that Dameon sent her from across the world where he was opening a new mine in Australia.

Valentin was the first one to get sick. He was the youngest, the only boy, and while perhaps mothers are not supposed to have favorites Dagmar knew in her bones that she did. She held him—three years old, white-blonde hair, loud and wild—as he grew quiet and weak and hot with fever, and then he was gone. After Valentin was Juni, and then Karin, and then Mikele, and finally Gunnar, a lumberman who worked hard and never complained, not even when he was dying of kidney failure. Dagmar was once a woman with four children and a husband, but then she was no one, untethered to the earth, unmoored from everything that had been, and people left adrift in the ocean are likely to drown and spend eternity in the crushing, sunless abyss.

She wandered for a while, too old to fathom a new life, too young to simply wait to die herself, and of course suicide is a sin. To keep from starving she took jobs as a governess; the only thing Dagmar knew how to do was raise children, and she was good at it. With each new household she found herself searching for Valentin’s eyes and hair and spirit, for a child that could make her believe he was alive again. But none of the temperate, blue-blooded little boys or girls of England—where Dagmar had fled to escape the memories of her homeland—came close to filling his footsteps, his handprints, the hemorrhaging puncture wound he left in her chest.

Then one brutally cold winter, Dagmar was referred to the 8th Duke of Beaufort Baelon Targaryen, deep in mourning for his wife Alyssa who had recently perished in childbirth and at a loss to handle his two sons. Viserys, the heir, was already eight years old and too set in his ways to ever see Dagmar as a mother. But Daemon, only four—so much like Val, Dagmar had thought as she lifted him from the floor—was sad and needy and vicious, furious at the world for stealing his mother from him, and this was something Dagmar could understand. She became his new mother. He became her reason for living.

Daemon grew up, as all children do if they are not preserved forever in youth by untimely deaths, and Dagmar drifted away to other castles and mansions, other families, other attempts to silence the ghosts that rattled doors and windows as she slept. But no one could replace Daemon, and each time she received a letter or a gift from him—photographs from his mining expeditions, bracelets and hair combs, taxidermied foreign beasts—Dagmar would write him a thank you note and always include the same postscript: Daemon my dear, my brave rogue prince, it would be the greatest joy of my life to one day help look after your own child. And at last, when Draco was born he summoned her, and little Valentin was alive once again.

Now unlike Daemon, Draco did have a mother, but she was young and easily managed, inexperienced with babies, eager to please her husband. Daemon was so sage and charismatic and renowned, and she faded into his shadow until all her colors were gone and she was black and white like a photograph, never knowing what to do or say, staring inanely from doorways. This was just fine as far as Dagmar was concerned. She could pretend that Daemon’s wife was dead like poor Alyssa Targaryen.

Here on Titanic, the baffling shockwave yanked Draco out of his dreams. He’s crying, soft disoriented whines, and Dagmar soothes him and reads him The Little Mermaid and tells Fern—also awakened by the shudder and now pacing restlessly around the staterooms—to make some tea. Just as Draco is finally dozing off again, there is a loud knock at the front door. Dagmar brings Draco out into the sitting room, leading him by one of his tiny pawlike hands, to find Fern speaking to a steward who will not come inside any farther than the doorway, as if he is in a hurry. Fern, puzzled, is clutching the white lifebelts he has given her.

The steward is explaining: “I’m sure it’s just a precaution, ma’am—”

“It’s not a precaution,” Daemon’s wife says as she sweeps into the room, and for some reason there is a man with her, a blonde man in a black wool coat. Immediately, Dagmar’s blood turns to dark viscid poison. What is she doing? Why can’t she disappear? “Thank you,” Daemon’s wife tells the steward briskly. “I’m sure you have other rooms to visit. You should be on your way.”

The steward is evidently too busy to be offended. He retreats into the hallway and vanishes, and the strange blonde man shuts the door behind him. Dagmar scrutinizes the intruder, and he glares back at her with eyes like deep water, a murky melancholy blue. He’s the same man she saw on the Boat Deck, the one who reminded her so much of Viserys when he was young, that solemn, grieving boy she could not coax into loving her.

Why can’t Daemon’s wife just die? Why should she live when so many have been lost? Why would God judge her more worthy than Valentin, Juni, Karin, Mikele, Gunnar?

“What’s going on?” Fern asks Daemon’s wife, her voice reedy and timid.

Instead of an answer, there is a question in return: “Is anyone else here?”

“No,” Fern says, perplexed. “Why? What’s happened?”

Daemon’s wife holds out an empty hand, not to Fern but to Draco, who Dagmar is still grasping with bony fingers gnarled by arthritis. She says: “Draco, please come with me.”

“Why?” he asks, but he has already taken a step towards her, tiny bare feet. Dagmar does not surrender him. She will not, she cannot. He stops when his arm is fully extended and then looks back to his governess, his surrogate mother, his pale eyes full of doubt.

“We have to go somewhere,” Daemon’s wife says. She is still reaching for him. “Draco, please. I need you to listen to me, we don’t have much time.”

“No,” Dagmar sneers. “You don’t know how to take care of him. You never have.”

“Can I go?” Draco asks softly, and Dagmar pretends she has not heard him.

“Draco,” Daemon’s brainless young wife pleads. Her eyes flick up to Dagmar’s, and there is a moment of terrible understanding between them, as if they are mirror images: neither can try to force him without driving him into the embrace of the other. He is not a child who is easily tamed; he is a wolf, he is a dragon.

“Dagmar?” Draco says, peering up at her, and he’s asking for permission but in another minute he might be stomping his feet and screeching loud enough for the entire hallway to hear.

Dagmar glances at the lifebelts Fern is gripping tightly. What’s wrong with the ship? Is it sinking? But no, Dagmar cannot believe this. Titanic is unsinkable; everybody in the world knows that. She tells the boy: “She’ll take you away from me. She’ll steal you. But she won’t keep you safe and warm and happy like I would.”

“I’m your mother,” Daemon’s wife tells Draco, and now her voice is choked and there are tears glittering in her desperate eyes. The blonde man looks at her like he would carry the weight of her anguish if he could, every last pound. Who is he? Why is he here? “I know it might not feel that way sometimes, but I am. And I love you more than anything. I would never hurt you. I’m trying to protect you. Draco, I need you to come with me right now.”

And horribly, unthinkably, he yanks his little hand out of Dagmar’s. She claws for him and he spins around to face her. “No!” Draco shouts. “I decide! Me! Not you!” She is stunned into silence. She watches him careen across the sitting room, and Daemon’s wife scoops him up as if he belongs to her. She holds him for a while, a minute or more, before she sets him down on the floor and quickly helps Draco get his socks and shoes on. The boy does not complain. Then she lifts him again and—with what appears to be great effort—passes him to Fern, who while bewildered accepts this task, now carrying both the boy and the lifebelts. Daemon’s wife grabs all the coats hanging from the coat rack and piles them into Fern’s already full arms.

“Fern, take him upstairs to the Boat Deck. Get to a lifeboat, do not wait. They will be launching them soon if they haven’t started already.”

“Lifeboats?” Fern repeats, blinking, stymied.

“Yes,” Daemon’s wife says, and she and the maid share a long, silent, meaningful look. Draco gazes worriedly around the room, gnawing on his fingernails. The blonde man watches Dagmar, his expression severe, hateful.

Fern asks: “How much time until Titanic…?”

“An hour or two. You won’t be in the lifeboat for long, a ship called Carpathia is en route. But she’s not close enough.”

“Oh,” the maid exhales numbly. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph…”

“Stay with Draco. Don’t leave him for a second. Get into a lifeboat, keep him warm, wait for Carpathia. I’ll follow you as soon as I can, but…there are some things I have to do first.”

“Like what, ma’am? What could be so important? You shouldn’t wait either.”

Instead of answering, she says, low like a dire warning: “If you happen to see them, do not speak to Daemon, Rhaenyra, or Rush. Don’t tell them what’s going on.”

“Yes ma’am,” Fern replies quietly, and nods like she suddenly understands. She takes Draco and hurries out of the room. Now Dagmar is alone with them: Daemon’s idiotic little girl of a wife, her inexplicable companion.

“This ship can’t sink,” Dagmar says; but is the floor tilting? She has only just noticed it.

“Of course it can,” Daemon’s wife counters. “Any ship can. I kept telling everyone how terrified I was of the voyage and you all treated me like I was insane. But I was right. I wasn’t a coward and I wasn’t stupid. And you can’t make me believe that I am anymore.”

Dagmar is about to reply—something cutting, something cruel—but then her steely Scandinavian eyes snag on the stranger and all at once it hits her like a man’s knuckles. She gasps, shocked, ferocious. Aegon. Viserys’ son. A villain, a traitor, an unworthy beneficiary of a grand inheritance. “I know who you are. How the hell did you get here?”

The man grins menacingly. “Fortune brought me a ticket. Best luck I’ve ever had.”

Dagmar screams, hoping he will hear her: “Daemon?!”

Aegon lunges, catches her around her long thin waist, wrestles her towards the door to the private promenade deck. Dagmar isn’t strong, but she is fierce; she scratches at his eyes and bites his hands when they try to smother her howls. They stumble together through the doorway and out onto the pine planks, knocking over lightweight wicker furniture. When her teeth close around Aegon’s fingers, Dagmar tastes blood like warm copper.

“A window!” Aegon is telling Daemon’s wife, but she’s already there after slamming the door to the sitting room shut, franticly turning the hand crank under the nearest window. The glass opens, and freezing night air pours in.

They’re trying to kill me, Dagmar realizes. They’re going to throw me overboard.

She jabs a bony elbow into Aegon’s throat, and he collapses to the deck, wheezing and helpless.

“Daemon!” Dagmar shrieks again. If he hears me, he’ll save me. My savior, my son. “Help!”

But it’s his wife who arrives instead. She collides with Dagmar, strikes her with two open palms, shoves her through the window. Dagmar’s hipbone cracks against the windowsill, a dry brittle snap, and then she tumbles out into the darkness.

Her last thought as she sees the stars—before she hits the frigid water and is knocked unconscious, then dragged under by the merciless weight of gravity—is that if they were red they would look like the dots on the skin of a child with scarlet fever, like the crimson flecks in a bloodstone.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Oh my God, I…we…” You stare down into the black waves that swallowed her so effortlessly, a flash of her long silver hair as it came undone and then nothing. “She’s gone. She’s really gone. We killed her. We’re murderers.”

In reply, Aegon coughs and gasps for air, still crawling around on the deck. You run to him and help him stand up.

“Thanks,” he croaks.

“Are you alright? What can I do?”

“I’ll be fine,” he rasps. “Just need a minute.”

You look down to see blood dripping from his fingers, thick beads of crimson like teardrop-shaped rubies, like oil paint. You ache for him, you feel his pain as if it is your own. “Your hands, Aegon, your hands…”

“I’m okay,” Aegon assures you, smiling. “The bitch chewed me up, but I’ll live.”

“I want to save your paintings,” you say. “We can’t let them go down with the ship. We’ll take them to the Boat Deck and give Fern your portfolio, make sure she and Draco get safely into a lifeboat, and then…then we’ll…” We’ll finish what must be done. We’ll free you and me and Draco.

Aegon is nodding as he rubs his throat, already bruising. “Any idea where Rush might be? The guy with the gun?”

Before you can answer, you both hear it: the sound of a door swinging open and heavy footsteps inside.

~~~~~~~~~~

He likes that Daemon calls him Rush. It’s better than Eddie, which is who he was when he was a boy being kicked and backhanded by his stepfather, and laughed at by the other kids at school for not having shoes to wear. Now he is someone brand new, and that boy Eddie could be a character in a book or a song, vaguely familiar but not real.

Daemon has never hit Rush, never even threatened him. He has never stolen his laborers’ promised wages or cornered maids to violate them, impregnate them, ruin their lives. He goes into the mines he opens and periodically travels the world to inspect, descending into clouds of dust and chipping gemstones from the walls with his own tools. He is kind to his son Draco. He is brave, he is brilliant, he knows how to have a drink with working men and captivate them with his stories. Rush would do anything for Daemon, who saved him from a life of obscure, powerless poverty. He would overlook any number of sins.

Rush gusts into the bedroom and sets about gathering up valuables and stuffing them into a suitcase: business correspondence, jewelry, sketches of designs, bundles of cash from the safe. Daemon will regret having to leave the taxidermied tiger head, but it’s simply too large and heavy to bring with them. Rush hasn’t located Daemon and Rhaenyra yet, but this isn’t so unusual; they are always sneaking around, evading being found purely for the sake of it, the deception, the thrill, ravaging each other in ever more inventive places. God knows where they were when Titanic struck the iceberg, or if they are aware of the impending sinking. Rush is not panicking yet; there’s still time, though perhaps not too much of it. With each passing minute, the ship lists further towards the starboard side. He is just about to get Daemon’s dagger from the writing desk when he hears the door open to the private promenade deck. Rush turns to see Lady Targaryen peeking in from the threshold, pale blue dress, white coat.

He has never felt any loyalty to her. She is a thoughtless, mollycoddled girl, raised in a castle with parents who loved her, and what would she know of what the world was like for everyone else? Daemon only roughed her up when she deserved it, when there was no other way to make her listen, and never too badly: no split bones, no scars. In Rush’s opinion, it was just enough to give her a taste of adversity.

He sighs. “Well, unless you plan on drowning or freezing to death tonight, you might as well follow me up to the Boat Deck. I’m just here to collect some things. They’re only putting women and children in the lifeboats now, but I’m sure first-class men won’t be far behind.”

She says nothing, only watches him from the doorway. The old witch Dagmar isn’t here; she must have already taken the boy to the highest level of the ship, where affluent passengers are waiting impatiently and still in denial that Titanic will soon disappear beneath the waves, asking stewards to fetch them drinks and cigars, calling out song requests to the string quartet.

“You wouldn’t happen to have seen Daemon or Rhaenyra, I assume?”

“I thought they were with you.”

“No,” Rush says, smirking. “I seem to have lost track of them. They’re not in either of their staterooms. But don’t fear. Daemon is more than capable of looking after himself. He’ll turn up soon enough.” Perhaps I missed them up on the Boat Deck; it was crowded, it was chaos. Perhaps Daemon is already helping Rhaenyra into a lifeboat, his large rough hands steadying hers as she steps inside. He would save her first.

“I’ll help you pack the valuables,” Lady Targaryen says suddenly, and starts towards Daemon’s writing desk.

“Just keep out of the way,” Rush snaps; and then he sees something and stops dead.

A painter’s easel has slid halfway out from beneath the bed as the floor tilts. This is a peculiar enough item, but the paper clipped to it is stranger. The image is of Lady Targaryen, that is certain, but she isn’t alone; there is a man with her, and while nothing is shown below the collarbones, the activity in which they are partaking is unmistakable.

If she’s found a lover, Daemon really will kill her this time.

Rush gapes at the painting for several long seconds and then looks up at Lady Targaryen. “What the fuck is that?”

~~~~~~~~~~

Your hand hovers on the handle of the desk drawer. You can’t open it and take the dagger while Rush is watching. You know that beneath his coat he wears a shoulder holster containing a Colt 1911. Even with a blade, you are outmatched.

Aegon appears in the doorway to the private deck with a wicker chair. He hurls it at Rush as hard as he can, and as Rush curses and fumbles for his pistol, you seize Daemon’s dagger from the drawer and plunge it into Rush’s back, once, twice, three times, many more. You can’t help but scream as you stab him, because it’s horrible beyond description: the resistance of gristle, the muffled popping of organs, kidneys or a liver or a spleen, and Rush is groaning and contorting, dark blood spilling across the slanting floor. Aegon struggles with him for the gun, ultimately wrenching it out of Rush’s weakening, shaking hands. He’s dying, and while you harbor no affection for him and never have, you remember the children your parents lost. Life is not something to take carelessly. It is already so fragile, and each death creates mourners like heads springing from a hydra.

Over a thousand people will die tonight. Is that really possible?

Rush has stopped moving. You are kneeling with the gold hilt of the dagger in your fist. The gemstones are splattered with blood: amethyst, tiger’s eye, black opal, emerald, ruby, bloodstone, sapphire.

“Here,” Aegon says, trying to give you the pistol.

You recoil. “I don’t know how to use that.”

He laughs, a half-hysterical little cackle. There is a smudge of Rush’s blood across his cheek like a stain of lipstick. “I don’t either!”

“Keep the gun. I trust you.” You turn to the easel that has slid out from beneath the ruffled bed skirt—once white, now speckled with red—and realize that stray blooddrops have been flung across the painting, dots of red turning tacky on the thin layer of oil paint. “I ruined it,” you say, soft and mournful.

“No,” Aegon disagrees, smiling. “You just added some more color.”

You use the bedsheets to wipe the worst of the blood off your hands and the dagger. Then you pull Aegon’s leather portfolio out from underneath the bed, open it, and store the new painting safely inside. In the meantime, Aegon rolls Rush’s body into the closet and entombs him in a heap of gowns you’ll never wear again. You stand, pick up the dagger, and catch a glimpse of yourself in the oval-shaped mirror…and instead of looking away, you stay there for a while. The woman in the glass—like silver, like moonlight—has frightened eyes but a glinting blade as well. There are massive maroon splotches on the belly of your ice-blue dress; you button your coat to conceal them. Through the open door to the private deck, frigid night air floods in like the seawater slowly filling Titanic.

What does water that cold feel like? Like knives, like fangs? A thousand people will soon find out.

“Ready?” Aegon asks. He puts the pistol in the pocket of his stolen black coat.

“Almost.” You find your handbag from yesterday, green to match the emerald-colored dress you wore before Aegon painted you, before he uncovered you like a rare gemstone. Within is Aegon’s small aluminum lighter; you tuck the dagger inside as well. You yank out a handkerchief and clean the blood from Aegon’s cheek with it, then peer down at his swollen, bloodied fingers and knuckles, ravaged by Dagmar’s bitemarks. They are trembling. “Are your hands—?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he whispers, pulling you in and kissing you, touching your face and your hair, his lips warm and soft in a haze of copper-scented glacial air. Would you do this again for him? For Draco, for yourself? Yes. I’d do it a hundred times. “We’re halfway done.”

Up on the Boat Deck, people are finally realizing that the ship is in mortal peril. First-class women, shimmering in their gowns and their jewels, are being hastily loaded into lifeboats along with their maids and their children. You spot Fern in one vessel; she is wearing two coats herself, and has bundled Draco in at least four from what you can tell. She holds him on her lap, and Draco is uncharacteristically hushed, compliant, fearful, gawping with startled blue eyes beneath disorderly white-blonde hair. They are seated beside Benjamin Guggenheim’s elegant French mistress, Léontine Aubart. Ben himself is striding back and forth on the deck with a number of companions, all in pristine black suits and puffing on pipes or cigars, assisting the weeping women as they flee to the lifeboats.

“We are prepared to go down as gentlemen!” Ben is trumpeting. Nearby, a string quartet is playing not an Irish song that you have known since childhood but the mellow, merry, please-don’t-panic melody of Samson and Delilah by Camille Saint-Saëns.

“I guess my viola is long gone, huh?” Aegon tells you. “Oh well. I hope the fish enjoy it.”

Ben Guggenheim continues: “Let it be known for all time that we stayed until the end to save the lives of the innocent, our beloved women and children, and that they survived because of us. Our bodies may fail, but our Christian good deeds will last eternally.”

“Hear hear!” other men are shouting drunkenly, raising glasses of brandy. Stewards and officers cast them brief, rather impatient glances. You wonder if any of the aforementioned gentlemen have considered the women and children of the third class, many of whom must have already predeceased them as they were drowned below deck, ignoble, invisible.

You think for the first time: Are they going to let Aegon into a lifeboat?

“Mam!” Draco shouts when he sees you, reaching out with both arms. You sprint to where he is still secured in Fern’s lap and lean over the side of the lifeboat, clasping his cold little hands and kissing the top of his head. Then you give Aegon’s portfolio to Fern.

“Take this with you. Try to make sure it doesn’t get wet.”

“Are you climbing in now, ma’am?” Fern asks hopefully. “There’s room for one more if we squeeze together.” Her eyes dart to Aegon. “Perhaps two.”

“I can’t,” you reply. “Not quite yet. But I’ll be back soon.”

“No, you have to come with us,” Draco says. The ship’s officers are signaling for the vessel to be lowered into the water. You spy other familiar faces aboard: young pregnant Madeleine Astor, the glamorous Countess of Rothes, the newly-wealthy Margaret Brown. Being a first-class passenger will save her life tonight.

“I’ll get in another boat. I promise.”

“No,” Draco says, and now he’s sobbing. He can’t understand the scale of it, but he knows something is terribly wrong. “Mam, we can’t leave without you. There’s room in the boat. Please get in. Please.” And you think: Maybe he does need me after all. Maybe he always did.

“You can go with them,” Aegon murmurs through your hair. “I’ll finish this. I’ll take care of Daemon and Rhaenyra.”

But he might need your help…and you cannot leave him here alone to freeze or drown or be murdered when Daemon discovers his lethal intentions. “You’re safe,” you tell Draco, one last touch of your palm to his hair, one last reassuring smile you hope isn’t a lie. “Stay with Fern. I’ll be in another lifeboat and I’ll see you again when this is over.”

“No, no, no!” Draco cries, still grasping futilely for you; but the lifeboat is lurching down towards the water and he is soon beyond your reach. High above, a flare explodes in the inky night sky, gleaming silver rain to tell any passing ships that Titanic is doomed. The North Atlantic is like black glass, smooth and reflective. Distant constellations are mirrored there, and you remember a passage from a book you gifted Daemon for your second anniversary when you still believed he might one day love you, an ancient tale from India about the beauty of the ocean: Its huge white waves looked like clouds; its gems looked like stars; its crystals looked like the moon; and its long bright serpents bearing gems in their hoods looked like comets, and thus the whole sea looked like the sky.

“Lady Targaryen,” Ben Guggenheim says as he marches over. He is swaying like he might be drunk. If he is, you can’t blame him. The truth is cold, and poison is warm: alcohol, smoke, a lover’s hands, a gush of blood. “Do you require any assistance, my darling?”

“No, thank you,” you reply swiftly before he can inquire further, and Aegon’s arm circles your waist as you hurry towards the entrance of the Grand Staircase together. You clutch your green handbag close to your chest. Where are Daemon and Rhaenyra? When will this be over?

From back by the lifeboats you can hear Ben Guggenheim shouting: “Tell my wife and daughters in New York that I love them! Tell them that I died a hero, and that I shall see them again when one day we are reunited in heaven…pray for my soul…tell the newspapers of our courage tonight…”

You and Aegon escape into the very top level of the Grand Staircase, the dome of glass and wrought iron above, the English oak wood steps winding below. As you enter, a frenzied crowd passes you on their way out to the Boat Deck: shipbuilder Thomas Andrews, J. Bruce Ismay, a number of others. And then, just as you and Aegon are beginning your descent, you see her on the landing below, frozen in place where she gapes up at you from beside the clock. Soon its ticking will fall silent forever. It will live on only in the memories of the survivors.

Rhaenyra is alone on the staircase. She is wearing a red and black gown and a white lifebelt; she is on her way to evacuate the sinking ship. You have intercepted her not a moment too soon. But she is not looking at you. Her Targaryen-blue eyes are fixed on Aegon, incredulous. It is the first time she has truly noticed him since she came aboard, and she remembers his face from photographs, from portraits, from awkward, frosty visits when they were both children.

“Aegon?” she says. “What are you doing here?”

In response, he removes the pistol from his coat pocket. Rhaenyra screams and bolts down the staircase, Aegon right behind her, flying like a phantom, like a shadow in his stolen black wool coat.

You try to follow, but they are faster. You slip on the steps, one of your blue shoes clattering away as you grip the banister to keep from falling. You reclaim your shoe where the staircase meets A-Deck; outside the illustrious Promenade Deck encircles the perimeter of the ship. You steady yourself against the bronze cherub statue as you slide your shoe back on, then resume the chase…but you don’t know where Aegon and Rhaenyra have gone.

Farther down the Grand Staircase? Out onto the Promenade Deck? Into the maze of hallways?

You try to listen for them, but the turmoil outside is growing louder. You hear a gunshot, but you cannot tell from which direction; the sound reverberates through the steel of the ship and melds with the chorus of failing machinery: groaning joints, snapping beams, steam vented from the massive funnels. You pause in the doorway that leads out to the Promenade Deck, black freezing air drawn into your heaving lungs.

Which way?

Now there are footsteps on the Grand Staircase coming up from B-Deck. You race back to the bronze cherub, but it is not Aegon or Rhaenyra who meets you there. It is Daemon, appearing on the landing like a fogbank or a thunderstorm, black suit, glinting deep-set eyes, towering over you; and once again you are a seventeen-year-old girl climbing into the marriage bed with him and hoping he’ll like you, once again you feel yourself to be entirely at his mercy, in terror of him, in awe of him.

Daemon grabs you by your coat and pushes you against the bronze cherub statue, its edges prodding at your spine. You yelp and he chuckles, and he asks, so casually he must know nothing about Aegon or his pursuit of Rhaenyra like a hound after a fox: “And what are your plans for this evening, dear? Dinner and dancing? Or perhaps a nice brisk swim? Good for one’s health, I hear.”

You can’t find your words. Your fingers that grasp your handbag are numb and useless. Daemon is inside you again, not your body this time but your mind, snipping threads and dissolving mirages. How did I ever believe I could kill him?

Slowly, Daemon’s grin dies. He releases you, and then for some reason—a trick?? a trap??—offers you his empty hand. “Come on,” he says, as if relenting. “I’ll help you get to a lifeboat.”

You stare up at him, and the shock must show on your face, the disbelief, the cautious wonder.

“I can’t take you away from Draco,” Daemon says, answering a question you don’t need to ask. He owns all of you; you have no secrets. “He’s so young. And I know what it’s like to lose a mother.”

Draco, you think with abrupt glass-sharp clarity. I’m doing this for him, and Aegon, and me.

You don’t take Daemon’s hand. Instead, you open your handbag and rip out the dagger. You slash at Daemon’s throat, and you almost cut him deep enough, a fraction of an inch from the carotid or the jugular or the windpipe. But Daemon pulls away at the last second and you only wound him, scarlet rivulets spilling down his neck and staining the white shirt beneath his suit jacket, melting rubies, hard soulless gemstones in the sockets of his eyes.

Daemon throws you down the staircase and you hit the oak steps hard, bruising, twisting, rolling, the thoughts jolted out of your skull. The dagger is knocked from your hand and is lost. You fumble blindly for it where you are sprawled on the next landing, halfway to B-Deck. Your vision is blurred by stars like those in the mirror image on the North Atlantic Ocean.

But I need the dagger, I need it, I need it, I can’t kill him without it.

And as you lift your head you see Daemon coming down to meet you, a gemcutter here to break you over and over again, until there is nothing left but glimmering dust, until you have never existed at all.

#aegon ii targaryen #aegon ii #aegon targaryen ii #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon x reader #aegon targaryen #aegon ii targaryen x reader #aegon ii x you #aegon ii x y/n #aegon ii x reader #aegon ii fanfic #aegon x y/n #aegon x you

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scribbleseas · 3 months ago

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in love & in war, drabble 3: the one where he trips you up…?

Description: Join Ciel, the Earl of Phantomhive, as he embarks on one of the most difficult challenges of his professional life: getting you to fall in love with him in order to become the next chairman of TransAtlantica— your father’s vast shipping empire.

Warnings: There’s a minor mention of blood in this drabble—that’s all that comes to mind!

Author’s Note: I’m sorry this is a day late, haha! Last night, my amazing friend @mylostleftfootsock and I were having some crazy story breakthroughs for an upcoming work of mine. They were, in fact, hitting so hard that I had to make the fic outline as we were both losing our minds. That being said, here is a pretty long drabble! I hope you like it—and that it’s a nice palette cleanser from SL. I’m purposely trying to keep this one as light as I can <3

I’m also trying out the taglist for this post! If you would like to be added, just specify for which fics (or if all!) and I will tag you in all my content posts!

Happy Reading!

- Dan

Fun fact: I’m also 2,031 words into Staight Laced 10. I’m on a bit of a roll this week, woohoo!

⇐ PREVIOUS DRABBLE | NEXT DRABBLE ⇒

MASTERLIST

CIEL PHANTOMHIVE

The North Pier, Lancashire, 1895

“It is impossible to understate the importance of this promenade, my Lord,” Sebastian explained, matching Ciel’s walking pace to the centimeter as they walked down the cement, having exited the carriage a block away from the beachside pier’s entrance. Sebastian always remained in the same stride as Ciel, a fact that the Earl knew would only delight the demon if he commented on it.

Ciel had no desire to feed the ego of his condescending demon for a butler. Sebastian already gloated endlessly about his upholding of a certain ‘Butler Aesthetic’ that he’d created for himself the first night of his employment.

“You should tell her that her family always hosts the most inspired events, such as this—and you should be sure to show gratitude for her time. Dozens of men not unlike you would do anything for this opportunity,” Sebastian added, emphasizing his words purposefully when he caught on to Ciel’s lack of focus. His butler was correct: a promenade with Lady Y/n at one of TransAtlantica’s seasonal galas for its shareholders, business executives, family ties, and anyone from the business world who mattered. Every year, the shipping company rents out the entirety of the three piers, leaving its multitude of small shops and taverns open for the casual party.

TransAtlantica always picked a weekend that sat towards the end of the spring, the weather a weekend or two away from scorching the Earth. The decision always ensured the best weather—clearer skies, a light breeze, docile sun and seawaves.

Until this year, Ciel would send his regrets, in the same fashion as he would for the company’s fundraisers at the Langham Hotel each season. This event was too crucial to skip, especially after securing himself a promenade. A lot of Britain’s polite society—not just those typical of London’s social hemisphere—would be present. There were no dance cards restricting Ciel’s time with the heiress, and that meant he needed to be especially strategic with the time he managed to have in front of the Y/l/n family.

“I know,” Ciel grumbled. “The color of her gown brings out the…shine in her eyes, or something like that,” he said sarcastically, rolling his eyes to further his point. Another quick look around them assured him that there were no guests leaving their carriages blocks away from the entrance.

“And that cavalier attitude was what ultimately led her to all except rebuke you, sir,” Sebastian scolded, eyebrows drawing together in a brief show of frustration. “Make her feel as if she is the most important person to you—the deciding factor in which you succeed or you fail. She is just that, after all.” He said purposefully, mahogany eyes interrogating Ciel’s expression. The Earl kept his gaze resolutely forward, watching guests meet the Y/l/n family at the pier’s entrance archway, alongside a handful of the company’s executive board members. “We will be within their natural sightline in about fifteen paces, sir.”

Y/n was dressed sensibly in a light gown, the bodice appearing to resemble a man’s sophisticated white vest, which cut into a feminine design with ruffled short sleeves and lace lining the square neckline. A lot of her clothing tended to include a hint of masculinity—an effort to be taken more seriously in these executive circles, Ciel guessed. Her long blue skirts matched the clear sky, the shade matching the accents in her mother and father’s attire for the afternoon.

The Richmond Earldom always appeared as a matching set, stressing the importance of Ciel’s own apparel during these events. Lord Richmond, Y/n’s father, was searching for an intelligent man who could manage his legacy just as perfectly as his company’s prosperity. All of these simpering suitors could never seem to comprehend that they were vying for more than just a young woman’s hand. They were romancing a company and ultimately, Y/n wasn’t marrying anyone without her father’s approval.

“Remember, my Lord, I can only tip things in your favor so much when it comes to matters of the heart,” the demon lowered his voice, now that they were within earshot of the family, among the last few straggling guests stepping onto the pier.

Ciel fought the strong urge to roll his eyes at his butler’s joke. Tipping things. How cheeky.

Lady Y/l/n, Y/n’s mother, noticed Ciel first. Quickly excusing herself from the conversation she was entertaining, she aimed her publicity smile at him— Y/n always seemed to default to the same empty look without failure.

“Lord Phantomhive! How lovely it is to see you here,” she greeted, accepting Ciel’s hand in a firm handshake. Lady Y/l/n’s short lace gloves matched her daughter’s. “We’re all so thankful that you could make it all this way.”

“The pleasure is completely mine. You’ve picked an auspicious day for this gala once again,” Ciel answered, pleased with Lady Y/l/n’s social intellect. By greeting him so brightly, she had also caught the attention of her husband and daughter, allowing them to respectfully finish their current engagements.

Y/N Y/L/N

You watched Ciel enchant your mother with an entirely faux smile, not unlike the one you kept stretched across your glossed lips. He always managed to look painfully smug, no matter how he tried to soften his expression.

“Lord Phantomhive,” your father greeted, taking the Earl’s hand. He gave it two shakes, never one to waste words. “I understand you will be promenading with my daughter today?”

You flushed, now the object of Lord Phantomhive’s stare. You could also feel the craning necks of others around you, arming themselves with gossip about you.

‘Lady Y/n is promenading for the first time this season, with Lord Phantomhive!’

‘Do you think they will get married?’

You could already see the headlines. There were already peering camera lenses around each corner, the only warning being their blinding flash.

“If she wills it, we shall. A good day, my Lady,” it was your turn to offer your hand to the Earl, but not in a shake. Instead, he took special care in accepting your gloved hand and equally raising your knuckles to his lips and bowing his head to avoid moving your arm too high. His lips hardly grazed your glove.

“To you too.” You dipped into the shallowest version of a curtsy you could manage without being impolite. You hadn’t quite made up your mind about the Lord of Phantomhive, finding him to be contradictory. Sincere enough one moment, crude the other. He reminded you of a puzzle with pieces that didn’t quite fit together to make the complete picture.

Thankfully, he didn’t waste time in releasing your hand.

Lord Phantomhive righted himself, clearly attempting to dissect your tight expression. You suspected that you could see through one another as plainly quite easily, no more transparent than glass. You felt a small lump form in the back of your throat, as you were unsure how to proceed.

Unfortunately, your mother could also read you like an open book. “You’ve greeted most everyone already, Y/n. You and Daphne should join Lord Phantomhive and his butler,” she prompted in a gesture that was both helpful— and embarrassing. Particularly in front of your father.

“Right,” you answered. At the sound of her name, your maid appeared. Daphne was always close enough to be a call away—except for when she wasn’t, you thought about your first run-in with the Lord Phantomhive. Was he truly charmed by you from that encounter? You had been, admittedly, short with him because of how nerve-racking the situation was. “We will walk the pier,” you said, forcing your shoulders to drop. High shoulders suggested tenseness, which then, in turn, implicated anxiety.

You couldn’t help but feel the Lord Phantomhive could sense weakness. That was how breakout corporations like Funtom were made, weren’t they? With leadership at the helm.

“Be safe, please,” your mother gave your hand a meaningful squeeze and joined the rest of the guests with your father. Your stomach sank as if they had left you flailing in the middle of the cool sea beneath the boardwalk.

CIEL PHANTOMHIVE

“Did you hear about the ferris wheel they are constructing here? Apparently, it is set to open this July,” Ciel said, breaking the silence with one of the many anecdotes Sebastian armed him with. While the Earl preferred silence whenever possible, apparently long silences unnerved the social butterfly in Lady Y/n. Sebastian had instructed him to keep a steady conversation flowing between them at all times—he’d hypothesized she would feel they were compatible intellectually, if he could manage.

“Oh, I certainly have,” the heiress answered brightly. “Isn’t it fascinating? My father and I visited Chicago’s Columbian Exposition about two years ago. The fuel source are steam boilers with underground main pipes that then funnel the steam into pistons that then power thousand-horsepower engines. It’s an enormous axel,” Y/n explained with an intriguing willingness and clarity.

She knew the intricacies of engineering? How curious of a young noblewoman.

“Did you manage a ride on it?” Ciel asked, not offering his arm to her. That would foil his plan, and he figured Lady Y/n wouldn’t appreciate it at this stage. She valued her independence—or the appearance of being self-sufficient, at least. Ciel had yet to make his final verdict of her disposition. After all, the rumors were that her father trained her with the same intensity he would have a first-born son.

“Heavens, yes.” Lady Y/n said, making a clear effort to look ahead as they walked and maintain casual eye contact with him. Their servants lurked behind them, Sebastian entertaining Daphne with some mindless chatter while picking her brain for more information about her mistress. “There was no chance I would miss that sort of opportunity, being up so high like that.”

“I couldn’t imagine it, myself,” Ciel answered. They spoke aimlessly, cycling through topics they had in common: they were each accomplished linguists, readers, instrumentalists. Y/n even claimed to be a worthy fencing opponent, of all things.

“You are half my height,” not even the Earl could fight the amused twist of his lips at the thought of Lady Y/n parrying his advance. The top of her head just barely reached his chin by a handful of centimeters. And that was in addition to her stately heels.

“But Lord Phantomhive, all warfare is based on deception,” Y/n answered, blinking at him guiltlessly.

“Are you quoting The Art of War?” Ciel asked, raising an eyebrow. That would insinuate Y/n was competent in Classical Chinese, since Sun Tzu’s piece hadn’t been widely translated into English yet. A language that Ciel had still been in the process of mastering with Sebastian. The demon claimed to have been ‘around’ when the military strategist created the ancient military treatise. Presently, he felt it had important lessons for Ciel to understand.

Apparently, Y/n’s father—or her tutor—were incredibly insightful to pick such an ancient text to add to her studies. That was quite an advanced piece of literature. Honestly.

”Yes,” Lady Y/n said, as if this was obvious. “Who better to reference?”

Of course she read it. And learned it well enough to have quotes on hand. She could probably recite it in its original language, Ciel guessed. That wasn’t an unattractive quality in a woman—in fact, he felt a dim respect for it.

“I also quite appreciate Machiavelli’s inspired piece, The Prince,” Ciel answered, finding himself confident that Lady Y/n might understand his reference.

Y/N Y/L/N

His remark made you smile.

Of course, you’d heard the rumors about Ciel Phantomhive, The Queen’s Guard Dog, King of the Underworld, Police of the Underworld. While most of the public could only speculate the sorts of private investigative work that Her Majesty requested of the Phantomhive family, plenty of rumors swirled in the absence of the truth.

You heard whispers of no one daring to cross the Earl, for fear of severe repercussions. Life-threatening ones. You heard of the uncertainties surrounding the fatal inferno that burned down the manor so long ago, killing his family. His miraculous reappearance two years later. Apparently, now the Earl Phantomhive was reportedly a hardened man, callous and willing to crush any opponent in his path.

“You find you relate with the Italian diplomat?” You asked, curious about Lord Phantomhive’s response. Did he read this body of work as a step-by-step to creating a tyrannical regime, or did he perceive it as a frank reading of politics and the nature of diplomacy? It had been so long since you had a proper discussion about such matters with someone besides your father, your tutors, or Daphne, and you were decently assured they were weary of your constant need for knowledge.

The Earl seemed to enjoy this type of logical sparring, embracing it, even. It left you…curious to have more. If not, interested.

Lord Phantomhive took a brief moment to reply, leaving you to appreciate the scenery around you. The sky was impressively clear, no hint of any clouds near the horizon. Seagulls wailed to one another, fluttering about the long piers and across the empty coastline. As warm as it was, the weather wasn’t quite hot enough for there to be beach galas.

The air smelled of salt, gusts of air determined to pull strands of your hair astray. They were certainly doing a number on the Earl’s raven hair, tousling it playfully. This whole promenade, you had walked away from the direction of the gala, and now, as you reached the end of the pier, the two of you turned around, starting back.

“I think there’s more nuance—” Ciel started, “are you alright?”

Before you could process your fall, you were face-first on the sandy boards. Your knee erupted in pain, your bare skin touching your dress. You must have ripped your stockings? How could you have tripped? You had only allowed your mind to wander for a second, and there had been nothing obstructing your path, either!

Not to mention, your balance was typically impeccable. You were no ballerina, but years of fencing helped you regulate your posture and weight distribution.

It was as if the wooden board had simply decided to loosen, give somewhat under your weight, and catch your heel between the planks in order to trip you! How peculiar.

“I’m…fine. I only scraped my leg, I think,” you said, more mortified than pained. Your face reddened as you accepted Lord Phantomhive’s helpful hand, dusting off the sandy front of your dress with the other. You forced yourself to give him a weak smile, looking back down at the flooring. The wooden panel seemed to be perfectly in place.

“I’m not sure what could have caused that,” you added awkwardly, releasing the nobleman’s hand.

You were thankful that no one else was present to witness such an unbecoming moment of yours. It was a contender for one of your worst moments with a suitor.

CIEL PHANTOMHIVE

The panic in Lady Y/n’s face should have been enough to make Ciel regret his and Sebastian’s plan. However, he’d found it to be rather promising. If he could nail the proper response her ideal gentleman would give, Lady Y/n would feel vulnerable around him. That was key to making love inevitable. She might look to him for support going forward.

Of course she didn’t know what had caused her trip. Sebastian was fast enough to loosen the plank just enough for it to shift under her confident step and throw her off balance, only to re-tighten and return to Daphne’s side in milliseconds. Faster than a blink. That left Ciel to provide Lady Y/n with a helping hand, some validation…and apparently a young woman appreciated a man who could bandage her wounds.

“Oh dear,” Ciel said, his eyebrows drawing together in a construction of curiosity and concern. He ignored his own nagging thought that he sounded like his butler, swallowing down the embarrassment. He could feel Sebastian surveying his performance, having coached Ciel on this part of the interaction. “I wouldn’t wish for it to continue bleeding, you did scrape it,” he said carefully.

“Why don’t you take a seat? I have a handkerchief.” He gestured to one of the pier’s benches with his chin.

“It truly doesn’t hurt,” Y/n attempted to deflect, still staring at the plank curiously. Of course, she was smart enough to know that there had been something amiss, but of course, smart enough to never consider the supernatural.

Judging from the way her fist squeezed at her side, the superficial wound stung more than she wanted to admit. There was likely sand around the injury or near it, only an added irritant.

Ciel merely met her eyes, asking her if she truly intended to push ahead in mild discomfort. Y/n surrendered begrudgingly mumbling a mildly unladylike, “Oh, alright.” Not always so untroubled as she seemed, was that it?

“You’re not in any other pain?” Ciel asked, kneeling to get a closer look at Y/n’s scrape. Daphne, unconicidentally, didn’t have any medical supplies with her. Sebastian had conveniently hid them from the maid to afford Ciel the right to tend to his intended.

“No,” she confirmed, cringing at the light pressure Ciel applied to stop the bleeding and clean the debris. “Honestly, the plank had a mind of its own, it feels like,” she mused, her tilted head racing for some logical explanation. There was none.

“And you are positive you didn’t hit your head on the way down?” Ciel asked her, appreciating the ghost of a laugh that escaped her lips. That was the right thing to say, he could tell.

This battle of love was only growing easier. The Earl was growing confident, fashioning his dialogue to that of a novel protagonist’s. Bland and kind, slightly humorous.

“Positive. Unless I hit my psychotic break last week in agreeing to have you join me for a promenade,” Lady Y/n said, standing once Ciel tied the handkerchief around her leg tightly, stopping any more bleeding. “In which case, we might need some more urgent care.”

“Would it take another such reckoning for you to agree to meet me again?” Ciel asked, adding a new flair of seriousness to his voice as he righted himself in front of Lady Y/n. He took a quick moment to dust the fronts of his trousers free of sand before refocusing on Y/n, urging her for the answer he craved. The key to becoming an official suitor of hers.

One outing was a trial. Two was one step closer to serious consideration.

“No, it would not,” the begrudging grin at the heiress’ lips told Ciel that he’d offered her a masterclass in lying and deception. “Perhaps, the 1895 Grand National next weekend. My family loves to attend.”

Y/n Y/l/n was already inviting Ciel to the 57th renewal of the Grand National horse racing event? Perhaps, this endeavor was going to be easier than Ciel originally thought….

Tag List: @vixxzill, @theblueslytherin

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bloodstained-porcelain-doll · 6 months ago

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Heel to her Master, ch 2 - Sandor Clegane x reader

Read on AO3

Chapter 1 here

Summary: The handmaiden finds him terrifying yet intriguing. The Hound finds her wildly attractive. He stakes his claim. Warnings: Eventual smut, dub con, public humiliation, bdsm, Master/pet dynamic

The handmaid was walking with lady Sansa, enjoying a promenade through the beautiful blooming gardens. The gardens were her favourite part of King’s Landing save for the taverns. Sansa blabbered on about some song she used to sing as a child, and they spoke of her upbringing in the North. The handmaid said she would love the visit the North sometimes, and it seemed to sadden Sansa. She probably didn’t expect to return there again after the death of her father and after king Joffrey had begun showing his true colours.

It wasn’t long before the king and his guard dog approached them in the garden. Sansa and the handmaid both curtsied to the king, then the handmaid looked away as her lady and the king spoke. She felt the Hound’s eyes burning holes into her as they always did. She wondered what kind of magic was bestowed upon him to make her feel like this. To grant her the desire to step closer to him, but not the courage to meet his eyes. He seemed to eat her up with his gaze and she found her knees weak. Last night she had touched herself again to the fantasy of him, of calling him her Master while he did unspeakable things to her body.

“Escort Sansa’s handmaid back to the castle, she’s not needed anymore,” Joffrey spoke. Her eyes snapped to him and then to Sansa. Lost in her thoughts, she had failed to realise that the king wanted to take his lady for a walk alone. The Hound nodded and grabbed the handmaid’s arm roughly.

“Wait-” she burst out without thinking. Shockingly, the Hound let her go.

“Catch up,” he muttered and began walking. She said her goodbyes to Sansa and gave the girl a hug, hoping to leave her with an act of kindness before the boy king destroyed it all. She jogged to catch up with the Hound, briefly wondering why she had to be escorted.

“Good girl, heel to your Master,” he said once she caught up and placed herself on his left hand side. Her eyes went wide and she almost choked on her own spit. Had she just misheard him? Given by the smug smirk on his lips, she had not. She thought it best not to reply.

“Where’s the king taking Sansa?” she asked a few moments later. The Hound pushed her up the stairs unceremoniously. So rough, all the time, that man.

“You’ll mind your own business if you know what’s good for you,” he said. “But you don’t, do you, pup?” He backed her up against the nearest wall and she realised he had led her into the castle through a back door and they were all on their own, with no one in the corridor. Her voice wavered when she spoke.

“What do you mean?” she asked. He was so tall, towering over her. His gloved hand came up to grab her chin, forcing her to look at him. When he gave no answer she continued. “We shouldn’t be all al-” “You shouldn’t be all alone with someone like me. Who knows what could happen to a poor little pup like you? Stupid little girl… you haven’t got a clue, have you? What they’re saying about you?” His voice was dark and coarse and he leaned in closer. The handmaid’s breath hitched and her knees were weak. The Hound still held her chin firmly with his thumb and forefinger, squeezing and holding her in place when she tried to turn her face away from him. Her body was frozen cold in fear, yet it burned with desire.

“What who is saying?” she mumbled, fighting back tears in her eyes. The Hound chuckled darkly.

“You gonna cry for me, girl? Would be a pretty sight.” He licked his lips, looking down at her hungrily.

“Please…” she pleaded, not knowing what for. The Hound groaned, making her eyes widen again. His eyes roamed her body, landing on her breasts for a second before looking in her eyes again. “Beg, too? Must be my lucky day. Maybe they’re right about you after all. Maybe you really are that stupid.” He let her go. “Go on, back to work with you,” he said and backed off, turning away to return to the his post by the king. A sudden rush of bravery washed over the handmaid.

“Wait! What are they saying about me?” she asked, needing to know. The Hound stopped and looked back at her. He grinned, and she swore this time he looked even more smug than before.

“They say when I’m not looking, you look at me like a whore does a Lannister. Now back to work, pup.” The Hound left her standing there with her mouth hanging open in shock.

#sandor clegane #Sandor Clegane fan fiction #Sandor Clegane smut #the hound #the hound x you #the hound x reader #Sandor Clegane x you #Sandor Clegane x reader #smut #game of thrones

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blackpoolhistory · 8 months ago

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Cliffs Hotel on the North Promenade in 1937. The building was constructed in 1921.

#cliffs #promenade #north shore

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ominouslywritinginmyhead · 4 months ago

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@anonimusunnoaniswriting @erebus-et-eigengrau our Regency-era vampire lover is back, and this time, there’s something he wants to tell you…will you hear him out? 😇

Part 1 is here.

wc: 2033 (holy shit this got LONG)

Notes: Regency au, fem!reader, dark-ish romance, some form of mind/body control but it’s still sfw (for now)

There is a ball two days before your wedding.

As the soon-to-be wife of the season’s most eligible bachelor, your presence is required. All eyes are on you as you enter the room, wearing a brand-new gown paid for by none other than your future husband, the jewels and hairpiece a gift from him as well.

Even those who give you sour looks have to admit you are the luckiest woman alive. To have a man who spoils you so much and asks for nothing but your affection is what they all hope for as well. They cannot help their envy as you hesitantly enter the room, your attire a sharp contrast to your demeanour.

People pretend to forget who you are and where you come from when they greet you, focusing instead on your upcoming nuptials and offering their congratulations. You thank them with all the graciousness you can muster, fighting back the urge to turn and flee for home.

To your relief, he finds you within minutes, and sweeps you into a corner; this is his last chance to see you before the wedding ceremony, and he is going to make the most of these fleeting moments.

You think his eyes glow from the light of the fire nearby, but it’s strange how they become this red. Or how the colour never flickers with the flames. His hand rests on the small of your back; the sensation steadies you, keeps you grounded amongst all the compliments and stares.

“How are you, my dearest?” He asks, kissing the back of your hand. His teeth flash white as he smiles.

“I am well,” you reply. “A touch apprehensive, but otherwise well.”

“Apprehensive?” He repeats. “Are you having doubts?”

You shake your head. “No doubts. But our match has the eyes of the ton. There are far too many people stepping in.”

“Not to worry, my dear.” His voice drips with honey, soothing you. “Pay no attention to this ton. You and I are the only ones who matter. Once we are wed, we shall return to my estate in the far north and never see their eyes again if you don’t wish it.”

That does sound like an appealing prospect. “It’ll be like the days of my girlhood again,” you sigh, reminiscing on the past, when all was well and you could only see the vast meadows around your father’s home, rolling hills just beyond.

“It will,” your betrothed assures you, voice still honeyed. “Come, let us dance. We shall show the ton what they are about to lose.”

It might be the wine you drank earlier, or perhaps it’s the sheer nervousness, but you cannot seem to control your legs. They walk to the centre of the ballroom as if commanded by some other force. But when you look up into your dearest’s still-red eyes - how odd - you know you are safe.

He has always made sure of it.

You curtsey and look into his eyes as the dance begins. Are they still red? How odd. The lights here do not glow the same way as the fire does, so how are his eyes still the same from then? It makes no sense.

But there are many things about your future husband that make little sense.

He is incredibly averse to sunny days, and only reluctantly agrees to promenade with you when the sky is clear and bright; his preference leans towards courting you indoors. He rarely attends daytime events during the season - you have long grown used to seeing him at the latter half of balls.

Not that it matters when he comes to your side. When he smiles at you and takes your hand in his, nothing else matters.

You know that despite his oddities, you will be happy with him. Perhaps what you feel isn’t love yet, but whatever it is, you are confident love will grow.

It is unbearable to think of the alternative.

As the music crescendos and dies down, you curtsey to him again and he bows as well, signalling the conclusion of the dance. As the dancing pairs drift away, he offers you his gloved hand. “Shall we walk?”

****

The gardens are illuminated by a thousand miniature lights. Guests linger in the shadows, seizing an opportunity to experience the world in a way their chaperones will never permit.

Your own chaperones have begun to leave you to your own devices at balls since the official announcement, particularly when your soon-to-be-husband is with you. In two days, you will no longer be their problem. You will no longer be anyone’s problem. Instead, you will be cherished and kept happy. Or so you hope.

“Come,” he says, gesturing to a nearby stone bench, voice honeyed again. What is it about these tones that makes you lose control of your body? In this moment, your movements do not feel like your own.

When the two of you are seated comfortably, his voice changes. Gone is the honeyed voice that takes control. Gone is the confident man who met you all those balls ago and said you should have more suitors. In his stead is a man who is all seriousness, whose handsome face looks darkly solemn as he faces you.

His eyes are still red. Even if a little dull.

“My darling,” he begins, “there is something I believe you must know. It would not be right for us to wed without you being aware of it.”

Your stomach lurches. What does he mean? Does he no longer care about you anymore? Is there someone else in his life? Will you be a wife in name alone?

He smiles and takes your hand. “Don’t be so distressed, dearest one. We will be married. If you still wish for it, that is.” His face falls.

“What do you mean?” You ask hesitantly. “Why would I not wish for this? It’s all I have wanted since I met you…”

“Perhaps you will not want it once I tell you,” he says. “I will not hold it against you if you change your mind. But I would like you to promise me that you will keep my secret.”

“I will. And I’m certain that nothing will change my mind,” you tell him earnestly. You care for him too much to let go, and the shame of returning to your relatives after a broken engagement would be too much to bear. No matter what it is, you will marry him in two days.

His expression is almost pitying. What does he know that you do not?

As you gaze at him, you find that he is far more relaxed under the moonlight than he is on your afternoons together this season. His fingers lace through yours - hesitantly. The first time they have ever been this way.

“Dearest,” he begins, “I am no ordinary man.”

“You are not,” you agree. “You are better than most of them in the ballroom.”

He shakes his head. “That is not what I mean.”

Then what does he mean?

“I am no ordinary man,” he repeats. “I haven’t been one in many years. Or should I say, many decades…”

Decades. The word lingers in the air. He looks only a few years older than you do. And yet, there is something about his gaunt yet handsome face that suggests he has seen more of life than anyone else - including the old Papas and Grandpapas back in the ballroom.

The puzzle pieces begin to fall into place.

“What I truly am has many names,” he tells you softly, perfect white teeth glowing in the darkness. You were not imagining their sharpness when you first met him; that’s real. “I travelled the world these last two decades and have learned all the things they call me. But in our language, it has one name.”

“Vampire,” you finish, heart pounding in your chest.

“Correct, my darling,” he whispers. “I am a vampire. I relish the darkness. I watch my friends age and die while I remain unchanged. And I thirst for one thing and one thing alone.”

Blood.

The pulse on your inner wrist throbs as he keeps your hand in his. It knows what he wants. You know what he wants.

“I have thirsted for you since the very first day I saw you,” he whispers. “I can sense the richness of your blood as it courses through your veins. You are the only one who can end the thirst I’ve been enduring for over a century.”

“Is…is that why you want to marry me?” You ask, almost accusingly. “A free and regular source of blood?”

He shakes his head. “My inner nature drew me to your blood. But my heart - silent as it may be since my change - drew me to you. To your smile. To your kindness. To everything you are aside from your veins.”

There is no honey in his voice - honey which you now suspect has something to do with his “inner nature.” He means every word he says.

“I will not take your blood if you do not wish it,” he continues. “I can endure, and you matter far more to me than my thirst. And if you wish to end our engagement, I will not stop you so long as you keep my secret. I will take the blame for our failure. But I did not want to conceal the truth from you any longer.”

The sadness in his red eyes makes it clear that he is telling you the truth. Even if it pains him, he will let you go if you do not want to marry him anymore.

You have read books about him and his kind. Like everyone else in the country, you believed that they had all fled to the Continent or been taken down by the Hunters. But he is here despite all that. He hid from everyone. From you. He danced with you and courted you, all the while seeking your blood. He wanted to marry you for you, but you know full well that your veins played a significant role in that decision.

…and is that really so bad?

Here is a man who wants you. A man who desires what you have. A man who has revealed his true nature so that this marriage will not be founded upon deceit.

And is blood such a big price to pay for that?

You doubt it.

But there is one question that remains to be answered.

“W-will you kill me once you have slaked your thirst?” You ask quietly.

“Never. I want you to stay by my side forever. I want to make you mine one day…but again, that is only if you wish it.”

Forever. He wants to be with you forever. To make you one of his kind.

He leans in and tucks a stray lock of your hair behind your ear. “What do you want to do, dearest one?” He asks, and is it your imagination? Or is his voice shaking as he speaks?

Well, it won’t have to shake for much longer.

“I want to marry you,” you whisper, forehead pressed against his. “I want to be by your side forever. I want to love you and be happy with you. That is the only thing that matters to me.”

Some might say you have made a rash choice. To marry a vampire is to run risk after risk. But you are not afraid.

Crowds frighten you. The ton frightens you. But this man, who cares for you and will not take your blood without your consent…he will never frighten you in that way.

He wants you.

He longs for you.

“Then,” he chuckles, voice steadying, “we will marry in two days.”

He leans in even further, lips brushing against your ear. “And when we are married and far away from this crowd, I will make you happy. I will give you the moon and stars and everything you desire.”

Perhaps you shouldn’t be surprised when his honeyed tones return. But what does astonish you are the words accompanying it:

“I will love you and give you a place you can truly call home.”

Part 3 coming soon, and I’m warning y’all in advance, it’s not gonna be sfw from any angle whatsoever 🤭🤭🤭

Update: It’s here! (WARNING: nsfw content)

#vampire x reader #vampire lover #vampire #vampire romance #saber writes

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xxfaithlynxx · 5 days ago

Text

Promenades and Imaginations

Pirate!Sylus x OC!Aria Harglow

Mentioned: Zayne, Philip and 'Blonde' Xavier.

Ice Dance- Ashton Gleckman (Edward Scissorhands)

ENJOY the next installment!

NOT PROOFREAD!

Please DON'T steal or plagiarize my work. Much appreciated! As always. ~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter 2:

“You know, brother. One could misconstrue your insistence of being present during my bath as less than gentlemanly. I am a grown woman now.” I sat idly inside the deep copper bathtub, water and suds covering up to the upper quadrant of my shoulders.

“Poppycock, woman or not, you are still and forever will be my baby sister! And I can’t stand idly by while you waste your time galivanting about like you have nary a care in the world. You need a marriage match, Ari.” I dunked myself beneath the surface of the water, exhaling through my nose, letting the bubble smack the surface, some popping while others decided to stay, occupied with my breath, my lifeforce.

Closing my eyes, I could still hear the lilt of his voice, but the clarity was no longer pure. Garbled it was now, and drifting I was. My mind wandered back to that terrace, and that voice, and its hidden owner. Had quickly such a voice had been memorized within my mind, within my very nerves. I was sure… as much as I would have loved to put a face to it, without it, I could pick that voice out within a crowd and find my way to its owner.

“The darkness is no place for a dove.” Dove… he thought me a dove. Honestly, I should take that as a compliment, but they way he’d said it… made it seem like it wasn’t. Doves were beautiful birds, aviaries used them for passing along messages, used them for navigation and they bird itself was durable and had the ability to fly long distances. Something I couldn’t do…. Biblically, it’d been used as a messenger from one of the Gods, to show that the flood waters had receded. Not that I held any faith in such a thing, all of that seemed like a load of hogwash to me, but who’s the say. Opening my eyes from beneath the water again, I released the last of the air from my lungs, before curving my fingers up and over the edge to pull myself upright once again. Pinching the water away from my eyes.

“Ari, were you even listening to me?” I’d shoved my littlest fingers into my ear canals to clear them of water, only hearing Caleb speaking once the appendages had been pulled free.

“Yes, Caleb…” I lied, but then thought better of it, “Well, no not really. What did you say?”

“Father condones that of a love match, but things with the north and the south have been heating up as of late, and we need to rectify allegiances sooner, rather than later. So, we must consider some form of arrangement.” He paused, sighed and continued, “Did either the Viscount or the Baron catch your eye?”

“Caleb, those boys are like my own brothers, I could never see them as marriage material. I thought you perused the guest list, several times if I’m not mistaken, so why just invite them?”

I heard him release a rushed breath, a heavy sigh, “I did invite several other titled Lords of the realm, but none seemed to take an interest in you, for that I do apologize to you, dear sister. Why they even accepted the invitations leaves their allegiance to father something to be desired.”

“As sad as it is to admit, brother… you have no one to blame but yourself.” I lifted a leg from beneath the water, hoisting it above the surface just to run a sponge over my glistening skin, making sure to clean between my toes as I went, “You barely let the men who arrived anywhere near me, the only two you allowed me to dance with were the Baron and the Viscount. How else would you think the others would react to being first invited, only to be rejected by none-other than the invitee.” Repeating the action with my other leg, I could only hear silence from the other side of the black room partition divider. “I apologize, I did not mean to offend.”

“No, no. You need not worry, dear sister. You… are correct. I should’ve been less diligent in my, what do you call it? My mother-hen tendencies. By your leave, I hope you have a good night.” I could imagine him bowing his head, always the dutiful gentleman, before leaving the room. Sighing, I hoisted myself out of the bath, and with one hand resting along the edge of the tub again, I stretched to fetch the towel hanging from one of the metal stands. Damnit, Jen… why’d you move it so far away. Finally, I managed to pinch the plush fabric between two knuckles and pulled it quickly towards me.

I squeaked in a throw of panic as I felt my feet slip an inch over the bottom of the tub before catching myself. Sleep sounds nice right about now….

Drying myself quickly, I donned the silk scarlet robe that hung over that same partition wall and wandered into my room, toweling the mess that was my hair now that it was unbraided and free of all the ornaments and gems. Again, my mind couldn’t help but wander back to the little event that had imbued itself in my mind like a brand. The warmth, and jest of his words… but the underlying sadness that seemed attached to the man himself, not just his voice. How could I know that? I hadn’t even seen him… how would I know with just a few cryptic words?

“Miss, I’ve turned down the covers for you, be wary of the warming pan. I’ll be back to remove it later.” Yvonne, Jenna’s daughter and my other lady’s maid, said near the door to my room.

I nodded at her, showing a light smile, “Have a pleasant night, Nonny.” A nickname I’d adopted from her mother when she’d been employed. She preferred the use of her full name, but the monicker had stuck and she never complained about it. She smiled kindly at me before exiting the room, shutting the large wooden door silently behind her.

Sitting on the edge of my bed, I braced my hands on the edges the mattress, hair towel forgotten where’d I’d absentmindedly draped it over a hanger near the fireplace to dry while lost in my thoughts. Who was the owner to that voice?

“Why do I need to know…?” I whispered to no one in particular. I could feel my eyes glazing over as my imagination ran rampant, picturing a face and body to match the voice. I was entirely sure the man I pictured would not be anywhere close to the likeness of the actual man, but… a girl could dream.

A vibrant image of a tall, handsome man with dark hair and hard eyes appeared in my mind. A narrow, but straight nose sitting between heavily lashed brown eyes, plush lips in the shade of soft pink blossoms. Broad shoulders, and long arms, leading down to soft but large hands. A wide chest and narrow waist, long but muscles legs. Clothed in the darkness, black shades of velvet and satin for his cloak and overcoat. Shined to perfection shoes and burgundy gloves.

Opening my eyes, I couldn’t help the tinge of blush that rushed into my cheeks and ears. I’d never willingly imagined the visage of a man before, and as dressed as my mind had made him, there was a small part of me that desired to remove those clothes. No… let’s not go that far. Striking up the image of the persona who I thought belonged to that voice was bad enough, let’s not wander down lecherous trails.

“If he even remotely falls under any of the categories, I’m imagining… he would be the ideal man, wouldn’t he.” Why was I talking to myself…. Oh great, I must be getting old. I recounted a time several years ago when I caught Caleb having a conversation with himself in his study. He’d been twenty-two at the time. I shuddered at the thought.

I slipped under the covers of my bed, pulled them up to cover my shoulder and turned to face the window where the remaining moonlight cast soft beams through the sheer royal purple curtains, beyond stood the stone rail of my personal balcony, it was lit up from the moonlight, and just as my eyes began to drift shut, I could’ve swore I saw a massive black bird hop along the railing, a bright red eye flicking in my direction.

~~~

My little rendezvous with the mysterious voice remained my very own secret as the days moved on, but I found myself looking for the image I’d conjured up, looking for a man whom I had no actual idea for how he looked like.

“Ari, are you even listening to meee?” My attention snapped back to Tara in that moment, my eyes had been scanning through the throngs of meandering folks promenading through the court’s gardens. I gave her a weak smile in apology before she started in on another scandal she’d heard from one of her lady’s maids. I tried to focus, I really did… but my mind was drifting. Between the dreams of that bird, the voice, and picturing an entire scene between him and I. Of course, my own imagination running rampant to fill in the blanks, the biggest of which was what the man looked like.

“… so, I suppose now she would be with child, no?” My eyes snapped back to Tara, having missed the entirety of her conversation once again. She looked hurt, but also curious. “Darling, you have been downright spacey all day, what is going on in that mind of yours?”

I smirked, always the observant one. Should I tell her? Of course. “The other night… at the coming-of-age ball… I met someone.” I glanced around for listening ears as I said the last three words. Thankfully Nonny and Tara’s maid were walking several paces behind us, giving us our privacy. I watched as her eyes blew wide and a broad grin stretched her puffy cheeks.

“Tell me, tell me, tell me!” She all but squealed, I patted the hand she’d left curled around my arm and smiled at her, another blush running up into my face.

We were coming up to my mother’s willow tree now and I dragged Tara to the base before casually taking a seat, my skirts draping around me like a fan. Tara followed suit and clasped my hands with her own. My eyes fixed on the little white lace gloves she wore for a moment before I took a deep breath and explained.

“It wasn’t exactly… a true meet.” That caught her attention tenfold, “right after you cajoled my brother into conversation, allowing me to escape… I went to the south terrace for some air.” I directed my gaze upward, seeing the underside of the same terrace above, “Only, I guess I hadn’t been alone.” I left out the bit about my crying, “He hid himself amongst the willow bows, I never saw his face, but he spoke to me.”

“What did he say?” She asked, completely enthralled with my Romeo and Juliet style fairy tale. She was an even bigger romantic than I was… than most girls our age who knew nothing different but expected entirely opposite results as we’d been told since childhood.

“Honestly, not much.” I looked down at my hands, thumbs twiddling together, the friction of my own lace gloves roughing up the edges of my fingernails. A small smile pulled my cheeks upward, “He called me a dove.” Not the entire truth, but he did.

I could feel Tara staring at me, “How romantic!” She reached out and gripped my hands between hers again. “What was his voice like?” She was breezing right over the fact that a strange man had basically cornered me on the terrace, I could’ve been scandalized- her favorite topic.

Yet another blush rushed up into my face, “It was….” I had no words. How does one describe a voice such as his? “Confident and relaxed but also seemed to hold a sliver of sadness to it.”

“Honey, that’s not what I meant… but I am surprised you picked up on those without seeing his face. What I was getting at was pitch.” I looked up at her, I was surprised as well.

“I suppose you could say gravelly and low. A baritone, with a rough timbre.” My brows pulled together as the image I’d come up with of what I assumed he looked like appeared behind my minds eye.

“Do you think you could pick it out if you heard it again?” She asked me, reaching up to brush a willow leaf from the braid that wrapped around my head.

I looked her directly in the eyes, allowing the gleam within my own to shine through, “Without a doubt.”

~~~

Tara and I had made it our mission to try and seek out groups of men throughout the promenade, and through town while we did our minor ribbon, bow and jewel shopping. Trying to hear the voices within the groups, attempting to search for this mysterious voice I’d heard.

At one point, I’d come close, or I thought I did, to finding the man. He was handsome, big green eyes that smiled down at you from his much taller vantagepoint, dark hair that draped over his eyes, although being a whopping five-foot-two made everyone around me seem giant. I’d focused on his looks versus his voice and had run right up to him on a whim, latching on to his arm. I’d been so embarrassed when I remembered that it wasn’t an actual man we were searching for, but the voice of one.

Tara and I were sat at one of the nearby cafés, a small bowl of sparkly apricot sorbet sat before us, delicate silver spoons sticking out of each edge. Apricots were a specialty here… My family had hundreds of massive orchards amongst the mountains around our land, that was another way our family to maintained wealth, not to mention the apricots we grew were one of a kind. An ancestor had managed to create a strain of fruit that sparkled upon being bitten. From then on, people deemed our orchards that of the sparkling Harglow.

“I don’t know what came over me, Tara.” I was bent over in my seat, in a very unladylike position with my face in my hands. “I saw that man and just lost control. Argh. I am such a fool.”

“Don’t blame yourself, Ari. He didn’t seem all that insulted by the fact that a beautiful young lady had thrown herself at him.” She giggled, which made me feel even more embarrassed. “Besides, he was quite gorgeous.” She snapped her fan open and waved it at herself, that shit eating grin in place, making me smile back and sit straight again. “Now, shall we enjoy the sorbet before it melts?”

“Yes, we shall.” I responded, pinching that tiny spoon betwixt two fingers and digging into the fruity dessert. We giggled and talked our usual gossip before mingling for a while longer just to try and listen in to the surrounding conversations.

It was only after the sun had dipped low in the sky did, I heave a soft sigh and shake my head forlornly. Was I ever going to find the source of that voice?

We were just standing to return to the castle when someone behind me spoke a single word, and I froze. “…like a dove.” That same timbre, the same gravelly edge, that confident brusque and relaxed tone. Tara saw me freeze in place and was already darting her eyes around. I snapped up once my shock had dissipated some and looked around. How do you find the owner of the voice when there were so many bodies already moving their mouths!

“A dove, you say?” Another voice said, a softer pitch, slightly higher in tone. I scanned every man I could see, looking to watch they way their mouths moved. I saw the tall dark-haired man with green eyes that I’d latched on to earlier, he was stood beside a taller man, looking at him. His back faced me, a tall hat sat atop his head, a long black cloak flowed down off his shoulders, stopping mid calf, to reveal shiny black shoes and black pleated trouser cuffs. The two of them were walking away from us, toward the pier, but the way that one word was spoke… that had to have been him!

“Tara….” My eyes were fixed on the back of this man, memorizing the cut of his shoulders, the way he walked. Even slightly hidden from his cloak, everything I could see my mind memorized. She came up beside me and wrapped one of her arms through mine, following my gaze. The two men were beginning to disappear down a hill that led to the docks.

“Was that him, do you suppose?” She whispered to me, but I couldn’t find my voice. My nerves were rattling with heat and recognition. It was him.

~~~

That night, I was pacing in my room. Okay, so I saw him… sort of. I saw his back. Wait, had he been standing with the dark-haired man when I latched on to his arm?! No… he’d been talking to a shorter… blonde man. With a groan of frustration, I threw myself on to my bed, burrowing my face into one of the lavender down pillows and screamed into it, feeling the resolute vibrations move from within my chest into the pillow, the warmth of my breath heating the fabric around my cheeks.

“Miss? Are you alright?” I peaked an eye to look towards my door, Yvonne had poked her head in, fingers gripping the edge of the door.

“Yes, Nonny… I’m fine, thank you for checking on me.” I pushed myself to kneeling on the bed, as I gave her an authentic, but soft smile to reassure her.

“Oh, good, miss. I was worried! Um… Master Harglow has requested your presence in his study.” Her soft voice betrayed her nerves. Caleb rarely summoned me, and when he did… it was usually to do with some near scandal that I may or may not have been involved in. Oh boy….

“Thank you, Nonny. Please let him know I’ll be right down.”

As I swept into Caleb’s study like a princess, albeit, clothed in my night gown and a robe, looking nothing the sort, I curtsied and lowered my head. “You summoned me, brother of mine?” Lifting my head, I came face to face with an angry looking Caleb. He looked like a puppy that was denied a treat!

“Dear sister, do tell me how your promenade was this afternoon.”

I blinked, what why? “It was fine, Tara and I roamed the gardens, we sat beneath mother’s willow and even enjoyed some sorbet at that cute café down by the docks! I even managed to find some ribbons that matched my color pallet! Truly, a splendid affair.” I tossed him a fake smile, only to find him with steepled fingers, white knuckles and a glare to end all. Yup, he saw right through that.

“Would you care to explain why gossip monger extraordinaire, Madam Burke, saw you dangling off the arm of a gentleman today?” Shit… Burke had the biggest mouth amongst the gaggle of women who took every ounce of information gathered and spread it around, no matter the consequences.

“It was a misunderstanding, Caleb. I swear, nothing untoward happened, I thought I recognized him, that was all. I apologized immediately after.”

“Did you see him at the ball? What do you mean you recognized him?”

Rock and a hard place… “I thought I might have, but I was mistaken.” I tried to keep it simple, less directing but with how Caleb was glaring at me, I knew I was in shit. It was always the same when I got called in here, it was never for anything good. No praises, no good news. Always bad, always the sour end of the blame.

“Fine. Just… make sure you look next time, please.” He looked down to the papers on his desk again, retrieving a quill from its stand before pausing with it above the paper, his head tipped up, his eyes meeting mine. “You may go.” I stuck out my tongue at him. Fumbler fop. Dismissing me like I’m a servant. Even I wouldn’t be so cold. I sighed as I exited the room, leaning against the solid surface of the door. He must be very cross with me to act in such a way. Silver lining, at least he said please.

I decided to head back to my rooms and met my father along the way. A loose fitted sleep shirt hung off his shoulders, a red velvet robe with black dressings hung atop. He smiled at me before he tied the belt around his waist. “My girl, what are you doing up at this hour? Should you not be dreaming by now?”

“Caleb summoned me.” He bit his lip and nodded, reaching out a hand. I took it and he curled it around his arm as he led me up the stairs to the living quarters.

“With you of age, he has had to pick up a great number of new dealings. He informed me of an incident this afternoon, I did try to admonish the situation as best I could, but he would not hear head nor tail of it.” I was cowed by my father’s words and stared off at the carpet as we walked. I felt his eyes slide to me once we were outside of my bedroom, he turned me to face him fully and held his hands over my shoulders, “He loves you, dearly, my little melody. Do not let one little thing ruin a vast lifetimes worth of experiences. It is simply a bad day, nothing more.” He leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to the crown of my head.

“I love you, father.” I whispered before wrapping my arms around his frail frame. Pressing my cheek against his chest, feeling and hearing the thrum of his strong heartbeat against my ear. He hummed as he hugged me in return, I hadn’t realized just how much today had gotten to me, not until now, being enveloped within the arms of my aging father.

“No more tears, my girl.” He leaned back and held me at arms length, before raising a single hand to grip my chin between forefinger and thumb, “Keep that chin up, darling. Everyday is a gift, treat it as such.” I smiled up at him and sniffed as he let me go and walked on down the hallway toward his chambers. I watched him go, folding away his words into the bank of information in my mind of things he’s ever told me.

Ever the wise old Duke. I smiled softly, before pushing open my bedroom door and stepping beyond the threshold into the dimly lit room. I wasn’t sure who it was, be it Nonny or Jen, but they’d lit the hearth, the soft snaps of the thin logs drawing my attention as I stopped in the center. My head is always in the clouds… and it almost ruined me and my family today. That’s what rumors did, what gossip was. I needed to do better.

Once I’d calmed down before the fire enough to feel that familiar pull of the sand man at the corners of my eyes, I drifted into my bed like a ghost and laid down, pulling the covers to my shoulders. Rolling over on to my left, I bent my arms to grip the corner of the pillow beneath my cheek and stared out the window. The curtains had been pulled away from the doors, allowing a clearer view of the night to be seen. I could see the stars and their vast constellations, shapes and tales behind each one.

“Maybe I should just give up….” I wasn’t sure what I was giving up on, my dreams? My search? My one wish? My body, too tired to unwrap the thought, took it upon itself to slip into a daze of sleep and wakefulness. Just as the haze of sleep drooped my eyelids, I swore I saw that black bird hopping along the stone rail of my balcony once again, the beady red eye staring right at me.

I wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but I could hear the silence of my room, if that made any sense. I could hear the rustling of the blankets as I moved, the soft subtle pops of the remaining coals in the hearth, my own breathing and the heartbeat that thumped away in my ears. What had woken me?

My eyes pried apart; the image of my room came into view through my lashes. My end table, with its small candle and its base, long since melted down. The book I’d been reading sat besides, the dried red datura flower bookmark placed between its pages. Beyond stood my small bookcase, lined with books and novels about fantasy and worlds unparalleled. Rolling, I faced the balcony again. Weren’t those doors shut?

“Sleep now, little dove.” My eyes fluttered shut at the sound of his voice, so soft, so melodic and gruff in its tone, as I swore, I felt the backs of fingers trace the curve of my cheek. I had to be dreaming, had my imagination gone so far? “You will see that horizon soon enough….”

Wishful thinking, even for me. Why would my mind conjure something so alluring? So asinine. Of course I wouldn’t see beyond what I was shackled to. Impossible…. The feel of another brush of fingers across my cheek drew my sleep addled mind back to its depths. Vibrant images of forests, animals, and adventure flashed behind my lids, causing my eyes to whip from side to side as I tried to grasp them all, experience them firsthand as the dream regaled me with the possibilities.

~~~

He watched, seated beside her on the bed, as her eyelids drifted shut and almost immediately started their rem cycle, flipping back and forth. Those eyes, the very ones that had stolen his breath up on that terrace. The eyes that looked out to the horizon, much the same way he did.

He canted his head, looking down at this young girl, with the vastness of the universe locked within her galaxy blue orbs. Crying for freedom. For something she couldn’t have. What am I doing…? He asked himself as he reached up to brush a strand of her hair behind her ear.

He’d been mesmerized from the moment he’d seen her that night. Something about her… reminded him of himself. A need for freedom, and desire for adventure. Not to mention she was one of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen. Hair that rivaled his own, a mouth as succulent as a rose. Cheeks that never quite gave up the pink hue of a blush. A slender neck and soft shoulders. He’d been drawn to her that night but had shooed her away instead. He’d seen the hurt in her eyes when he’d called her a dove, although, he’d meant it as a compliment. What she’d said to him had solidified his desire for her.

“Even a dove has more freedom to roam the darkness than I do.” He’d wanted nothing more than to protect her from that moment on, from the future that had been planned for her. Had been chosen for her. He despised society in its cruel banality. Always the same, wherever he went, never changing. Females by any title weren’t given the right to think, to choose, to want. Seen, not heard. Simply put, they were to bare children and nothing more. Continue the bloodline no matter what.

Where he was from, he’d made sure that people of every sex, race, and nationality were respected and accepted. An ongoing revolution.

When he’d seen her sitting outside that café, he’d nearly gone to her, but he’d stopped. Only to watch her run up to one of his men, Zayne, his doctor and cook, and latch on to his arm. Something inside of him had nearly snapped the man’s head off, a jealousy that surged through him like he’d never known before.

He’d been watching her for days now, even having his shoulder pet, Mephisto silently watching over you as well each night. He’d made sure to stay just far enough away, for he knew if she’d hear his voice, she’d come running. He’d seen it in her eyes. So, he simply watched, watched her mannerisms, the way she spoke, the way she carried herself and spoke to others. She never treated her lady’s maids poorly, she treated them like they were humans, not items. The few friends she had, she seemed to trust the smaller brown-haired girl the most, even having her join in on her little quest to search him out.

He chuckled in the dim lighting of her room, eyes drifting over her possessions. Minimal frivolous items that many ladies of her age would tote or flaunt. No… her room was far more mature than she seemed to let on. Opposite her bed stood a bookshelf, full to bursting with more books than he’d seen in some time. Not since he’d been home. He noticed that night at the party that she’d worn a vibrant dress of red, black and silver. A striking match to the outfit he’d chosen to wear.

I’d been invited to the soiree, but wasn’t given a chance to interact with the girl… was the boy who’d managed the event a family member? He had to be, older brother maybe? He stood, and faced the girl in the bed, eyes roaming over her face for the hundredth time. The way her lashes brushed her high cheeks made his lips part in wonder. She’s truly beautiful…. At first, after seeing her, he’d chocked it up to having been out to sea for too long, figuring that any female would seem as enchanting as she was, but he’d been wrong.

Philip had taken him to a brothel near the docks after he’d returned to the ship, out of sorts after his encounter, and the boisterous women held no salt to the young lady he’d met earlier that evening. What’s wrong with me…. He was known as the Serpent Emperor. Swashbuckling rogue of the Aetherium seas. His land dwelled where folklore had dubbed sea serpents lived, and he had no problem with that little fairytale, it kept the wrong people away, and the right people nearby. A typically hard mannered man, ready to fight at any given moment… and yet, had been rendered a mushy puddle of feelings and protectiveness by a single insignificant chat with the princess of the region.

By no counts had anyone successfully tame the man prior, not for lack of trying. Many a woman and some men had tried and failed. So why now… why had he fallen victim to the beauty of this little female? He crouched down beside her bed, leaning to press his nose to her hair, silently breathing her in. Apricots, honeysuckle, amber spice and the smell of the ocean wafted into his senses, molding to his memory, into the very fibre of his being.

“You… are my next horizon, my little dove.” Was all he found himself able to whisper, before he drew back, stood and strode to the balcony she always looked to, every night, with a single glance over his shoulder, he stepped up and on to the railing, and dropped over the edge.

~~~

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