#The Silver Abduction | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

pathologicalreid · 2 months ago

Text

that gold mine changed you | s.r.

in which Spencer won't open up to you following his release from prison and you've reached your breaking point

margovember

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: angst content warning: post prison/prison arc, lack of communication, chemist!reader, slightly proofread word count: 2.13k a/n: love this song. both the original and the phoebe bridgers cover.

i don’t wanna be here anymore; it all tastes like poison

You rifled through the dish that you kept on the entryway console, looking for your car keys so that you could get out. It was hard to describe the way you felt like a spinning top, not dizzy but out of control. Everything felt so out of control.

How could you let it get this bad? You breathed heavily as you fished your keys from the pottery and looped your finger through the key ring. Wiping your nose with the sleeve of your sweatshirt, your eyes caught onto some movement in your periphery.

“You’re leaving?” Spencer asked from down the hallway; his work clothes were rumpled and creased like he’d fallen asleep in them.

You had hoped that he would have the ability to ease himself back into society after three months of prison, and you always took the time to assure him that you would be there for him. Desperately, you tried to be a pillar of support, but you had reached your breaking point.

He’d been given six weeks to readjust. When that didn’t seem to be working, you thought maybe he needed to find his rhythm again, but going back to work at the BAU didn’t seem to help him either. It wasn’t until his first sabbatical hit that you finally considered the fact that things would never be the same between the two of you again.

When you didn’t answer, Spencer put his foot out but hesitated to take a step toward you. “Are you going to come back?”

Swallowing thickly, you looked down at the keys in your hand, “I don’t know.” You eyed the key to your lab, the one place you could always go to escape when you needed to, but you never imagined needing to escape from Spencer.

You weren’t even sure he had been sleeping in the same bed as you, and if he was, he was getting in after you and getting up before you. There was once a moment when you and Spencer shared every minute detail of your lives with each other, at least the parts you weren’t together for, but now you wouldn’t be able to tell anyone what he was teaching in his lectures, and he couldn’t guess which projects you were working on.

When Spencer was in prison, you thought that was the loneliest you would ever be, but now you were living with the ghost of the man who you once loved, and you had never felt more alone.

Last week, you had practically begged him, very nearly gotten on your knees and pled with him to have a substantial conversation with you. He didn’t seem interested.

you believe that you love me

Looking back up, your eyes widened at the revelation that Spencer had made his way to you in complete silence; he was standing in front of you, “You’re sneaking out?”

Your nostrils flared in frustration; you were sneaking out of your own apartment, a space that you and Spencer were supposed to share, but it didn’t feel like home anymore. “Did I do something wrong?” You asked him, studying his brown eyes as they appeared until the cool light of the moon.

He set both of his hands on your upper arms, and you pulled away from his touch. Spencer flinched back as surely as if you’d struck him. If you pulling away from him hurt, then he wouldn’t be able to fathom how you were feeling right now—how you had been feeling for the last seven months.

“Is it because of your mom?” You tried again, silver lining your eyes as you looked up at him, mercurial tears streaming down your cheeks as you begged for an answer. “I was at work when she was abducted,” you reminded him, having thrown yourself into work while Spencer was in prison. “Is it because I didn’t help her?”

Spencer’s lips parted in surprise, “I didn’t know you blamed yourself for that.” His arms hung limply by his sides, fists clenching and unclenching in an attempt to release nervous energy.

Blinking tears from your eyes, your shoulders slouched at what felt like a rejection, “How would you? You don’t talk to me,” you told him, your tone wholly accusatory.

“We talk every day,” he rebutted, the energy in your conversation veering toward hostility. That’s not what you wanted; you just wanted to feel at peace.

Three months in prison, six weeks of mandatory leave, one hundred days with the team, twenty days into his first sabbatical, and Spencer was refusing to face what you had already run into headfirst. “We haven’t had a real conversation since February, Spencer. It’s September.”

His eyebrows pinched together as he studied your body language, profiling you to deduce what you wanted from him instead of just asking you. “What do you mean ‘a real conversation?’”

You pressed your lips together in a thin line, and you searched every part of your brain for something to say that wouldn’t contribute to taking your life apart brick by brick. You couldn’t. The words simply weren’t there anymore. Maybe you had left them behind months ago, but right now, you shrugged helplessly, “You’re different, Spence.”

He peered down at you as if you had offended him, “Did you expect me to stay the same?”

It was pathetic. You felt pathetic. Staying in your entryway and begging for someone who previously kissed the ground you walked on for a reason to stay. You never had to ask him before. “I’ve never expected anything but love from you, and you know that,” you told him, pulling the truth from the depths of your soul and putting it on display for him.

Spencer took a step back, stumbling as if his legs were threatening to give out beneath him. “You don’t think I love you anymore?” His own tears welled in his eyes, glittering saline along his lash line that made your chest ache.

You blinked, letting more tears fall down your cheeks. You heard the droplets as they fell on the vinyl decal of your sweatshirt, the only noise in the midst of an otherwise deathly silence. “You have given me no reason to believe that you do,” you admitted, your voice tight with emotion.

so, lose your faith in me

“Don’t leave,” he gasped, struggling through his tears. He held a hand out to you, too hesitant to touch you because of the way you reacted earlier.

You felt like you were tearing your own heart from your chest. You held the organ in your hands, blood dripping to the floor and seeping within the woodgrain, and you asked him to put it back where it belonged. “I can’t do this anymore,” you told him.

He set a hand on the side of your neck, and this time, you didn’t pull away from him. Instead, you savored his touch, the warmth of his palm seeping into your skin as the two of you waited for something to give. Three months in prison had been a test of your relationship; you had very little contact with each other. Nothing face-to-face, and after a while, Spencer’s mail started to go missing—interference by a prison guard who had it out for him. You thought that getting him back would fix everything.

Spencer was exactly the same, but somehow, he was completely different after his release. You couldn’t fault him for what he had gone through in prison, but you refused to continue your pattern of dancing around each other.

“I love you,” he whispered, his voice so faint that you would’ve missed it had you not been searching for it. His breaths were quickening, and if it weren’t so dark, you’d be sure that his pupils were dilated in fear.

You pursed your lips, “Say it again.” You wanted to hear him. You needed to hear him. You so desperately wanted to hear him repeat himself so that you could throw your arms around him and let him know that everything was perfectly fine.

He panted, “I love you,” he echoed. “Please,” his voice broke, “I love you so much.”

“I want to believe you,” you breathed, looking back down at the keys that remained in your hand. As far as you were concerned, Spencer was the Patron Saint of Liars. He had the intelligence and the experience to become a master manipulator. He’d lied to you before. What was stopping him from doing it again? He knew that I love you was what you wanted to hear. When faced with telling a lie and losing you, the choice was laid out in front of him.

He nodded as if he understood, but you weren’t convinced that he possessed the bandwidth to fully comprehend why you were so unhappy. “I’m sorry for lying to you,” he whispered.

You lost your balance, your back slammed against the wall, and your eyes widened as a result of his apology, “Why?”

Spencer’s brown eyes widened as you slid down the wall, waiting until you were sat on the floor to speak again, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Mexico.”

“You could’ve told me,” you told him, “I could’ve helped you, Spencer. Then we could… Then maybe…” your voice trailed off, lost in a sea of hiccuping sobs.

Gingerly, Spencer lowered himself to the ground and took a seat next to you, “Maybe I wouldn’t have gone to jail. You’re right,” he admitted, “but maybe they would’ve killed you too. Maybe there would have been the same outcome as the one we got, or maybe it would have been much worse.”

Releasing a shuddering breath, you pulled your knees to your chest and wrapped your arms around them. “Lorenz,” you murmured, closing your eyes to relieve some of the burning.

“The Butterfly Effect,” Spencer commented, “Small changes can have large consequences. I made a decision that had massive ramifications and negatively impacted you, and I haven’t been doing enough to fix it.”

You sighed, “You can’t fix it, Spence. It’s like a band-aid over a bullet hole.” You thumbed the hem of your sweatpants, opening your eyes just to stare straight ahead at the wall.

He hummed in what you sincerely hoped was understanding, “I took six years of building trust with you and destroyed it, and now when I tell you I love you, you don’t believe me.”

“You told me you were going to Houston,” you whispered.

“I told everyone I was going to Houston,” he said softly.

Your head snapped in his direction, “I deserved more than what everyone else got. I deserved an explanation, and instead, you lied to me. You lied to me, and then you wouldn’t even let me see you while you were in prison.”

The corners of his mouth downturned, “I didn’t want you to see me in there, and I didn’t want anyone else to see you in there.” You’d heard second hand from JJ that the men at Millburn had ogled her the entire time she was visiting Spencer, and maybe he had explained himself in one of the missing letters, but he hadn’t mentioned it since coming home.

“Spencer, I just want to talk with you,” you whispered. “I want to have a conversation with my boyfriend that doesn’t end with him creating some arbitrary mental block because he doesn’t think I can handle it.”

There was a moment where you thought he was just going to let you go, but Spencer Reid liked to keep the things he cared about close. “It’s not because you can’t handle it, it’s because I can’t handle it,” he admitted.

You turned your body to face him, “What do you mean?”

“I don’t want to tell you about prison,” he clarified. “I barely want to tell my therapist about prison, but you—” his voice broke, and your heart went with it. “If I tell you everything I’ve done, you wouldn’t want to be with me anyway.”

You frowned, “Try me.” Your heart was racing; this bit here was decisive. His response would either mean letting go or moving forward.

He looked down at his lap, “Come to therapy with me tomorrow. It’s… there’s something about the leather couch that turns me into an open book.” He told you, nervously running his palms up and down his cloth-covered thighs. Instinctively, you reached out and grabbed his hands, putting a stop to his compulsive movements. He leaned his head back and stared up at the ceiling, “Please don’t leave.”

Shaking your head, you sniffled through your tears. If you’d had more energy, maybe you would’ve given him a soft smile, but for now, you answered him, “I won’t.”

#criminal minds #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds fanfic #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid angst #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fic #criminal minds fic #criminal minds angst #spencer reid x fem!reader #written by margot

969 notes · View notes

yandere-sins · 6 months ago

Note

Can I request a reluctant reader taking care of a very sick yandere? Yandere can be any character of ur choice >.< tyia

Thanks for requesting! ^-^

»»———————— ♡ ————————««

"You're hurt..."

The stench of blood, dirt, and sulfur filled the air in the underground hideout as you climbed off your bed, the heavy metal around your ankles rattling when you moved. You watched as the silver-haired man collided with the wall before sinking to the floor, his body sparely illuminated but his hair shining brightly, giving away his position. Your gut churned with hesitance, with the instinctive need to avoid all evil—especially the one that had threatened and abducted you. But it had been so long since he left. So long that you've been stowed away in secret. You were, unfortunately, drawn to him like a moth to the light.

Even though you kept your distance from your captor, your words barely a whisper as if not to disturb the man sitting on the ground, holding the side of his stomach, Calcharo flinched at the sound of your voice, cranking his head back to look at you. His gaze was unreadable, his whole face a mask free of emotions. But judging by the pool of blood collecting next to him, the wound must have hurt, even if he showed no signs of it.

"I promised I'd be back—" he mumbled as a ripple of tension tightened his muscles, everything in him readying his body to get up from his spot. As if greeting you properly was needed at that moment. But with his teeth bared, the gaping wound stole all of his strength, making him sack back to the dusty ground with a muffled groan.

"Give me a moment. It'll heal."

Curiosity killed the cat as you stretched your neck, bile rising to the top of your throat at the nasty sight of the gash. Even Calcharo's big hands—that you remembered so vividly squeezing and pulling at your body—weren't enough to cover the wound completely, blood soaking all of his clothes and staining the floor. Wasn't there medicine for that kind of injury? Although, seeing a doctor would probably be more appropriate. If it wasn't for the awkward situation you were in, you'd have freaked out at even the thought of seeing someone so badly injured, yet all you could do was stand in one spot, a good five steps out of his reach.

Even when you fiddled with your hands, wrenching and holding them, you were less anxious, knowing he wasn't in the condition to harass you that day. He'd been gone for a while, leaving you to your own devices and the evergrowing boredom. But you were still undecided if you preferred him being back and constantly hovering over you, watching and testing your reactions, or the loneliness and isolation you experienced, chained up and hidden away who-knew-where when he was gone. Both were unideal; both were destructive behavior on his part. You didn't have much choice in it, but him coming back severely injured was a situation you hadn't grown accustomed to yet.

"Is there anything I can do to help?"

His head jerked upwards, eyes narrowing at you suspiciously. Yeah... you surprised yourself, too. You weren't the type to offer help, especially not to him. You were his captive, nothing more, nothing less.

"Or not..." Hands falling to your side, you fiddled with the seam of your shirt instead, avoiding his gaze as always. To Calcharo, you were an object to be observed, one he owned now but still couldn't help but expect to be betrayed by. As if you were going to pull a knife out any second now and stab him, even after he immobilized you with the chains around your legs. He was that kind of man; that much you had learned about him, even if it barely seemed to graze the surface. You began hating the feeling of his eyes on you the moment he revealed himself to you in this shabby hideout, his gaze so incisive it hurt. As if his eyes were daggers that he dragged through your flesh, stabbing over and over in an attempt to rip out your soul for him to observe.

"There are some bandages behind the mirror in the bathroom."

Torn from your thoughts, you couldn't help but stare back at him, even as his head fell forward again, his gaze disappearing. You two didn't have that kind of relationship. You didn't help him when he was in need, so you felt surprised at the simple instructions. They held no weight as if he didn't care whether you followed them or not—as if he expected you not to, rightfully so. Glancing at the blood, you thought that a bandage might be useless, that he needed stitches at least. But Calcharo said nothing more, pressing his palm harder against the wound without making another sound. Your head turned towards the door leading to the bathroom, and although it felt wrong to consider helping him, a compassionate part of you recognized that he needed you, your feet slowly turning away, picking up the pace as you disappeared from his sight.

The mirror caught your reflection as you flicked on the light. You had seen better days that much was sure. You weren't famished, the bags under your eyes more from anxiety and stress than lack of sleep. However, the green glow of the light didn't do you any favors either, and although you didn't think of yourself as ugly, you could only wonder what your kidnapper saw in you that he had to take such drastic measures. You were just you. That seemed to have been enough for him, even if it was strange.

The chain around your ankle felt twice as heavy as you wondered how long you'd be in this situation. Would you ever be free? Would he let you go if you helped him? Calcharo had always been silent when you asked him for his reasons. He'd sit by your bedside and wipe away your tears if you cried, begging him to be reasonable, but he never gave you the answers to console you. That was the kind of man you had offered help to. Someone so cold and selfish.

Opening the cabinet, you realized you had never looked behind the mirror before. Why? you wondered, but you were surprised at the amount of medical equipment. There were a couple of first aid kits and a box of resonator-only medicine and tools. He had every shelf stocked fully, and although he only asked for a bandage, you took at least one of everything you could find.

Calcharo was eerily quiet when you returned to his side. It made your pulse rise momentarily as you feared he might have died in the minute you were gone. The chain you were strung to clattered as you ran over, dropping to your knees next to his, dropping some of the extra weight from your arms to the floor in a moment of panic. You realized your closeness too late, anxiety shivering down your spine with how little distance there was between you two. But your focus shifted instantly, relief filling you as Calcharo looked up at you again, his eyes dropping to the items crammed between your arms and body. He scanned over your haul, and you immediately felt silly for worrying about him at all. He was perfectly fine, it seemed.

But what would you have done if he died?

You didn't know how to get out of here in the first place. Calcharo had never shown you any keys to undo your chains or to open any doors. There were no windows, and if you got out, there was no guarantee you wouldn't be in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by Tacet Discords going for your throat. These thoughts made your heart sink with a sense of panic as if reality was finally hitting you over your head. Or perhaps it was the thought of living with a corpse until you found your demise here as well. Either way, you were glad when he reached for one of the packages, revealing some round pills that he slipped between his lips, glancing up at you for a moment as if to make sure you were watching him swallow them. You fiddled with the medical utensils until you found another package, wanting to give it to him, but he shook his head as you held it out.

"Just use the bandage."

"You want me to do it?" you asked, reluctant to simply act. Glancing at the first aid kit, you were sure you'd find some there, but so far, Calcharo had always handled himself around you. Even when you had an outburst, trying to hit him, he'd let you slap him across the face rather than stop you. You'd half-expected him to retaliate when you stumbled back, recognizing his strength as superior and bracing for the impact, but it never came. He had always remained calm and composed, even with the glowing red hand-mark across his cheek.

It was the same with food or bathing. Calcharo always had enough rations stocked, and if he was back at the hideout, he made you meals all the time, only eating your leftovers or getting something for himself after you had your share. And he never took a shower first, ensuring you had all the warm water that would eventually turn cold (sometimes you let it run out of protest). You thought it might have simply been resourcefulness, but you began overthinking your beliefs now that he wanted you to do something for him.

"Are you sure?" you asked him again. There was a sense of exhaustion when he looked up at you, and much to your own surprise once more, you quickly snatched the first aid kit when he reached for it. "I can do it! Just didn't think you'd want me to..."

Calcharo let out a short grunt before lowering his arm again, not fighting you on this, but his eyes followed every one of your movements as you fiddled with the first aid kit. Ridden with sudden determination, you almost dropped all the contents on the undoubtedly nonsterile floor, only catching the bandage midair while some of the tools clattered to the ground. Quick as lightning, Calcharo caught a small pair of scissors before they could graze your leg, his bloody fist wrapping around it so tightly, you could see his knuckles whiten through the red sheen.

You gulped, watching him drag the scissors and his arm back to his side, too afraid to straighten your gaze and see the wound in full glory. When you agreed that you could do it, you had temporarily forgotten about the truly gut-wrenching part of medical treatment, and suddenly, you were even less sure about all of this.

Calcharo grumbled under his breath, noticing your sudden stiffness. His free hand reached out to touch yours. "Open it," he muttered, and his words put your body into motion. Following his instructions was so much easier than working through the thoughts that made you hesitate. He grabbed the start of the bandage from your hands once you unwrapped it, waiting for you to get onto what he was doing as he placed it over his naval before pressing it down onto the wound.

There was some visible comfort in the way his shoulders rose tensely as he covered the wound, but he dragged the now bloody bandage over the gash with skilled precision. As if he had done this countless of times, and you were almost certain he had. You reckoned that his life must not have been easy if he got so used to hurting himself for the sake of simply healing. But you quickly reminded yourself not to sympathize with him. To not forget how he wronged you despite this moment of unusual humanity. Usually, he appeared to you more like a monster, but right then, he was but a wounded soldier, and perhaps your parents had been right; you were too good-hearted for your own good.

Dragging the bandage to his side, Calchero stopped, huffing as you had stopped unwrapping more of it. He pulled his legs in so he could push his torso off the wall before he looked up at you. Gulping, you knew what you had to do. It wasn't like he wouldn't do it himself, but it was honestly ridiculous that you sat there frozen in place now that you had come so far. Inching closer, you positioned yourself between his legs, hesitating for a split second more before you reached out your arms, wrapping them around his front to reach behind Calcharo.

Carefully, perhaps with less pressure than he would have liked, you wrapped and pulled the bandage from his back to his front again. Calchero released it once he noticed you taking action, but when you reached the blood-soaked gash again, it was his hand that did the dirty work, pressing the bandage down. There was about one more round that you could make, and you quickly guided the wrap around him once more before making an amateurish knot on his healthy side. It was far from perfect, and you tried to ignore the feeling of his blood coating your hands now, too. It didn't feel like you helped him, but it was what he had wanted.

Placing your hands on the ground, you wanted to get up again, get some healthy distance between you two, and clean your hands if you got the chance. But before you could even slip one leg out from underneath you, Calchero's whole body suddenly collapsed forward. In a spurt of a moment reaction, you grabbed him by the shoulders, pushing your own between his collarbones to brace against his weight that could have easily buried you underneath it.

"H-Hey!" you called out, unsure what was happening, when you suddenly felt him inhale deeply, his hot breath releasing against your chest, sending shivers down your spine. And then, he chuckled.

"I didn't think you would."

His voice vibrated against your skin as he spoke them directly into your body. You didn't know what to say nor what he meant, but you felt the goosebumps rise across your arms and neck.

Calchero lifted himself just enough to nuzzle his face between your neck and shoulder, his weight so heavy as it rested on top of you. All you could do was curl your fingers into his body, and you cursed yourself for not immediately pushing him away, a small part of you afraid you might agitate the wound.

"Didn't think you'd care about me."

"I don't," you clarified, sounding pouty rather than confident. It had been a mistake, after all. You should have just let him sort out his own mess and stop being a busybody and help. Then, you wouldn't be in this situation now, your pulse throbbing in your ears as your heart began to beat faster with the anxiety and discomfort.

"I'm glad," he muttered. "Glad you care."

"I don't!"

This time, you did push. At least you tried. Calcharo didn't move an inch away from you, his head resting on your shoulder, his body threatening to bury you underneath if you didn't stay solid in your spot. The thought of Calcharo trapping you on purpose crossed your mind, and you hated yourself for not seeing it coming, walking right into the trap. And even if not, he was clearly exploiting the situation for all it was worth!

Of course, he'd take advantage of your kindness. Of course, he'd use your naivety and kindness to exploit you for something he wanted. Even if you questioned why it had to be you, why he kidnapped you of all people, his intentions—albeit disciplined—had always been clear. Although he held himself back from doing something regrettable so far, you had caught him touching you often: touching your hand while passing you a plate with food, brushing away hair from your face right after waking up, and letting his fingers glide over your arms or legs while you had dozed off, just to name a few. You should have been more careful. Should have listened to your body telling you to stay away. It might have just been something akin to a hug, but you should have never allowed him to go this far.

What if he took your kindness for consent?

"Please stop," you mumbled, feeling the tears shoot into your eyes. You didn't need to turn your head to know his eyes had opened, probably after hearing the sob in your voice. You wished you were stronger, able to push him away. Wished you could have fought him and caused him to stop liking you—wanting you. Wished you never even thought of him as anything but a monster.

"Just a little bit longer," he mumbled, lips brushing against your skin. Even when hiccups shook your body, Calchero didn't move, didn't budge. It seemed he didn't care anymore, getting exactly what he wanted. All you could do was sit there and wait for it to end, just like always. You felt his gaze vanish, the closeness allowing him to observe you differently, without needing to see when he could instead feel you.

His arms wrapped around your body, and you felt more trapped than ever, the feeling only registering when he said two more words that day,

"Thank you."

767 notes · View notes

arabellasleopardcoat · 6 months ago

Text

Daedalus (Aegon Targaryen x Reader)

Summary: On the eve of Aegon’s coronation, both of you disappear. Your mother imagines a thousand scenarios. But were you really abducted by him or is it a simple coincidence?

Warnings: Pretty mild. Aegon. Some mentions of marital rape (Viserys, we are looking at you) Mature language. Infidelity (Poor Helaena) Fluff.

A/N: My first Aegon fic! Whoever manages to catch all my Greek mythology references will get a gift ;) Try to claim it in the asks, replies or reblogs.

“THE INVENTOR IS trapped.” Helaena says, sitting down by your side with her doll. She drops it to the floor as if it means nothing, and you hurry to pick the babe up. You cradle the doll in your arms and give it a toothy smile.

Your Lady Mother sighs. It’s a long-suffering sound. You are too young to understand the why, but she is looking at Helaena in a weird way.

“Why don’t you go get dressed and ask your maids to take you to the courtyard?” She asks, tapping your head with a gentle finger. You jump up, overjoyed. You have been begging your Lady Mother to go out for ages! Your twin, Aemond, is always allowed out of the nursery, but for you, it’s a rare luxury.

In your excitement about finally going to see what he does when he is not visiting, you forget about Helaena’s words.

The maids pick a pretty green dress, that looks like a miniature of the ones your mother wears. You feel really pretty in it, so you give a few spins, shrieking with laughter at how the silk skirt opens up like a flower in full bloom.

Helaena blinks from her place on the floor.

“I am scared.” She says, tugging on your mother’s skirts. “There is a beast beneath the floorboards.”

Your mother’s gaze shift from you towards Helaena. Her face twists.

“It’s fine. There is nothing there.”

You stare at yourself in the mirror, and pretend you are a Queen, too. You puff up your small chest, and push your shoulders back.

“I want to see my knight.” You say, placing your hand inside one of the hand of the maid. The woman smiles, indulgently.

Your mother laughs.

“Of course.” She gives her blessing, carefully tracing the Seven Pointed Star on your forehead. “Aemond and you are just like your uncle Gwayne and I used to be.”

“Why is he not here?” You ask her, full of youthful impertinence. You cannot fathom why your Uncle Gwayne is apart from Mother, if they are like you and Aemond. Your twin and you can never be parted, for you are two halves of a whole.

“Because, sometimes, girls are sent away from their families, to start a family of their own.” She explains, brushing your hair back.

“I will not! I will stay with Aemond.”

Your mother sighs. She looks between Helaena and you.

“The maiden will be taken.” Helaena mutters, a chubby fist coming to grasp your skirt. You pull away.

“Run off!” Your mother orders. “Before I regret it.”

So you do. Your maid takes you to the courtyard, where Aemond is training. She gestures to Ser Cole, to notify him of your arrival, and the knight bows his head in acknowledgement. You change hands as fluidly as silver dragons do.

Ser Criston is careful to prop you up a set of stairs, from where you can safely observe what your twin is doing. At eight summers, you are a quiet but cheerful girl, who doesn’t dare stray from what she knows.

The trips outside the nursery are novelties for you. As you grow old, you will come to realize your mother was frightened by Helaena’s odd behavior, and didn’t want to let you out of her sight for very long in case you turned out like her. But unlike your siblings, you are no dreamer and you are no dragonrider.

You will build wings of your own, one day. But you do not yet know that, do you?

Currently, you do not dare stray away from the perch the ever watchful Ser Criston has placed you in. You like Ser Criston. He is a knight, and wears your mother’s favor each time there is a tournament. You find him very handsome, and like the idea of your mother having a protector on him.

Your own protector is Aemond. He says one day he will grow into a knight and slay all those that mock you for not having a dragon. You love your brother. He has kind eyes, and steady hands. He never minds playing dolls with you.

He is now busy playing with his own dolls, though. You feel a bit confused because you would never treat yours like that. He hacks at them with his sword, whacking them so hard some straw starts to come out of them. You frown.

Aemond will later tell you these are not dolls, but rather practice opponents, filled with the righteous fury boys get when accused of acting like girls. You do not know what is so shameful about it.

As you watch him, oblivious to the rest of the world, a heavy hand falls on your shoulder, making you jump.

“So mother finally left you out of the nursery, huh?” A boy, older than you and Aemond, ruffles your hair. You squeak, trying to get away. You had sat still for nearly an hour for the maids to braid you a crown like the ones your mother wore. He isn’t going to ruin it.

You take pride in imitating mother. You wear her slippers, sometimes, and practice your curtsies until they look just like the graceful drop she does when you see the King. One day, you will perfect them, but for now, your tiny knees and short legs don’t quite allow it.

“Prince Aegon!” Ser Criston interrupts, rescuing you from the older boy. “Leave the Princess alone! Come, you and the other… Princes are late.”

You stare at the boy with interest. So this is Aegon. Your older brother, the one that never bothers with visiting the nursery. Your mother and grandsire speak of him in hushed tones, and Aemond is much more open about his disdain. He is meant to be a rowdy boy, forever teasing him.

You get the feeling he might be one of the boys that Aemond intends to slay when you are older. You are not too sure why Aegon would mock him for not having a dragon. No one mocks you, and you don’t have one either.

“Is Helaena coming too?” Aegon drawls. He doesn’t seem much enthused by the prospect. Probably because he thinks girls are icky. Aemond has told you so, especially when you want to cuddle.

You pout. No one is paying attention to you, Aemond too focused on his exercises and Aegon and Ser Criston carrying a whole conversation over your head.

“No, Princess Helaena is…” But whatever Ser Criston is about to say is interrupted because two brown haired boys are running in, carrying their swords. His face sours, twisting in the same way mother’s does when Helaena says something strange. “You are late.”

“Hello!” The bigger boy says, stopping in front of you. He has dark eyes and hair, so different from your siblings and Ser Criston. He looks a bit like mother, actually, and it makes you jealous. “You are Aemond’s twin?”

The mention of your beloved brother brings you out of your sulk.

“I am!” You are proud of your older brother. So much, you do not even mind being known as his twin. He is an accomplished prince, and very nice to you.

“She does have a name.” Aemond steps in, setting down his sword. Always your protector. “And it should be Princess to you.”

“I am a Prince too!” The boy is very cheerful. The notion makes you frown. You do not know a Prince or King with dark hair, but you have heard in Dorne there is a royal family who has it, so maybe he is from there. “Will you stay to watch us train?”

“I came to see Aemond.” You explain, meeting his eyes over this other prince's head. Your brother gives a smug little smile. “I’ll stay if he does.”

“In that case, can I have your favor, my Princess?” The other prince asks you, face serious. Ser Criston looks like he is tasting something bitter. You aren’t too sure why.

“This is not a tournament. Now, if we may begin…”

“Oh, Cole, let the boys have their fun.” The tallest, hugest man you have ever seen, says. He appears to have just entered the courtyard, and you watch, amazed, as he squats next to you. “Aren’t you going to be a little heartbreaker when you grow up?”

He boops your nose, making you giggle. You find you like his eyes.

“Of course you are here, Strong. Late, too.” Ser Criston looks even more annoyed. Aegon giggles. Aemond continues hacking at the doll. You wonder if you asked, they would let you try. “I am not bringing the Princess to practice again if the boys can’t focus.”

That makes you sad. You wish to come back, especially because you had never thought the world outside your nursery could be so fascinating. There are foreign princes, and giants, and knights, and Aemond. You have to know more.

“It’s not her fault.” The giant defends you. You decide that you like him already. “Prince Jacaerys is just curious. Let’s indulge him. You favor, little lady, to your knight?”

You giggle. The thought of giving your favor is an exciting one. You will be just like mother with Ser Criston, even if this is no real tourney!

“Are you serious?” Aegon asks, to no one in particular. “This is foolish.”

You check your pockets, but you have nothing beyond a few dust bunnies.

“I don’t have a ribbon. Or a handkerchief.”

“Here.” The giant says, and very delicately cuts a strip off your sleeve. You watch in amazement as he twists it and turns it into a ribbon. He presents it to you with a flourish.

“You cannot do that to the Princess!” Ser Criston intercedes, picking you up. He places you against the wall. His face is angry. “Enough!”

Suddenly, a guilty thought strikes you. Aemond is still hacking at his doll, shoulders set in a tense line. You came to watch him, not this boy. You have to support your twin.

“Ser Criston?” Your voice is small. You fear upsetting the knight further. “Can we give half my favor to Aemond?”

Aegon looks at you. He steps closer, and examines your face as if you are a particularly interesting creature.

“Why would you want to give your favor to him?” He complains. “He doesn’t even have a dragon, and he is at most four feet. Not much for a knight, is he?”

It angers you, how he dares make fun of your twin. Aemond suffers deeply the lack of a dragon, just as you do. Your jaw clenches, baby teeth clanking together with how hard you grit them.

“He is mine.” You turn towards Aegon, words failing you to convey exactly how much you support and root for your brother. “I am sure he will win.”

Something passes in Aegon’s eyes. Something like the look Aemond gets when there are talks of dragons, or the one you used to get when thinking of spending time outside the nursery and lessons. But it only lasts a second, and then he is tugging on the strip of cloth that has been cut from your dress.

“One for me, too. Wish me luck, sweet sister.”

“THE CITY HAS been turned upside down, my Queen.” Ser Criston says, frowning. “There is no sign of them.”

Alicent collapses in her loveseat, her knees falling to hold her. Her poor, precious girl. The one more like her, the kindest one. The perfect half and companion to Aemond.

Aegon had taken you, in an unexpected show of wickedness. Oh, that devious Aegon. She would say the crown had gone to his head, but he had barely had time to learn of his father’s death before fleeing the Red Keep.

It was all her fault. If Alicent had been firmer, if she had put a stop to his transgression earlier, he would not have dared abduct you. But she had been too lenient, excusing his deviance in his Targaryen blood, and refused to act when she found him touching himself in windows, or fondling the serving girls.

Oh, but to take such liberties with one’s sister! Oh! He would have never dared, had she not encouraged the match with Helaena. It was no wonder he had turned towards you, and thought himself with the right to take. Alicent herself was to blame. She should have never allowed it.

She lifts her hands to her temples, massaging them.

“Good Gods, what will we do?”

Where are you? Where has he taken you? Some coin is missing, and so are some of your cloaks and dresses. Your wretched brother, impulsive as he was, had planned this to the detail.

The clothes suggested something long term. Permanent. Alicent can’t bear the thought. What depravities does he plan to subject you to? Is he beating you? Threatening you? Keeping you bound? Her mind is driving her mad, imagining scenarios upon scenarios, each worse than the last.

“I think we should inform the Lord Hand.” Ser Criston hesitates. Alicent understands it all too well. Her first instinct had been running to her father. With his resources, he was bound to find you faster than the ragtag team of Ser Criston, Aemond and her. But then, she had thought of what he would do when he had his hands on you.

What is a Princess to a King? What is a girl to the Iron Throne? Her father had already answered that question once, and Alicent had suffered greatly for it. He had been willing to risk her honor to place her sons on the throne. He would torch yours if it meant sitting Aegon in that ugly chair.

She had always thought she was sparing you, by keeping you unmarried. After seeing Helaena’s misery in her marriage to Aegon, and her own torture at Viserys’ hands, she had hoped to save you from that same fate. Things would have been so different if she had married you off.

You would be safe. Either in a castle far away from King’s Landing, or under your twin’s watchful eye. Aemond had grown into a violent man, a terrifying one, but remained loving towards his sisters. Aegon would have had better luck stealing you from the Cannibal than from under his vigilance.

It was all her fault. If she had married you to him, you would be here, with her. If she closes her eyes, Alicent can see you still. Sitting on the windowsill, humming a catchy tune from Volantis. Mending your brother’s shirts alongside her. Laying with your head on her lap, talking about the latest developments of the Citadel.

But instead, you are the Seven know where, being brutalized by your older brother. On your hands and knees, or with your head shoved in a pillow, crying as he does as he pleases with your body and unable to run back home.

“Has Aemond found out anything?” Alicent asks Criston, as he offers her a handkerchief. She had not realized tears were leaking down her cheeks. Embarrassed by her display, she wipes them angrily.

“The Prince… The King is not at his usual haunts. Prince Aemond offered to scour Essos, but I fear…” The knight looks clearly uncomfortable at the thought. Alicent understands. If Vhagar is seen over Essos, both continents will know something is amiss. Not to mention, the essosi won’t take kindly to dragons in their sky. Some wounds are too fresh to be truly forgotten.

“We won’t be able to keep it concealed if we do.” Alicent purses her lips, trying to find a suitable solution. When she comes up blank, she decides she has no other choice. They are wasting precious hours already, precious hours Aegon might be using to brutalize you, or to take you further away from House Targaryen’s influence. “Inform the Lord Hand. Tell him the King has taken his sister, and that both Prince Aemond and Princess Helaena will scour Essos.”

“But that means leaving the Red Keep unprotected!” Ser Criston protests. Alicent stares at him. She had known that the succession issue might turn into war for quite some time, but she cannot bring herself to care about it now. The threat of Rhaenyra seems far away, not quite real. A villain from a storybook. It’s much different from the actual threat on your life. Aegon.

Alicent had never thought she would have to fight her son to spare the rest of you. You, from dishonor. Helaena, from the embarrassment and shame. Her grandsons, from the rumors that will sure surface.

But it has come to this. And let it be known that when Alicent Hightower goes to war, she does so in bright-green flames. There is no hiding, no pretense. She will send her best soldier, and sniff Aegon out like the dog he is.

“If Dreamfyre is left behind, it’s the same as if she goes. My daughter is no warrior.” She is referring to Helaena, but deep in her heart, she knows neither of you are. Alicent is frightened by the thought of you breaking and her finding you too late to stop it. “Perhaps, both dragons will find them faster.”

“The Lord Hand will not…” Ser Criston says, uncomfortable. Alicent shakes her head. Despite his help all these years, he is no parent. If he were, he would realize that it doesn’t matter, whether Rhaenyra decides to burn Westeros to the ground or take the Red Keep. Alicent only cares about her children’s safety.

“I do not care. We will bring them back.”

Ser Criston makes a face.

“Perhaps it would be unwise to say that the King took his sister. We do not know if she…”

Alicent sees red. Does he dare deny it? Does he dare place the blame on your shoulders?

“The King took his sister. My daughter is a dutiful young woman, just like her twin. I will not have you drag her name through the mud!” She shrieks, slamming her hand down on the table. “How dare you!”

It’s a universal truth. Kings are born with grasping hands, and the thought that everything is theirs to take. And when you are a woman, no matter how modest, you cannot escape their attention once you are set in their sights. Alicent had tried once, to escape a King’s notice. But his hands had been too big, and she so small, and he had grasped at her, squeezing until she was unable to move.

Ser Criston looks concerned. He takes the verbal lashing without complaint, even if his eyes tell her he disagrees. But Alicent knows the truth, and it is enough. He is not a woman. He is not a mother. His opinion doesn’t matter.

“Of course.” Ser Criston bows his head, and begins to exit the rooms. “I’ll inform the Lord Hand, my Queen.”

The platitude sounds empty in her ears. Man that he is, he is no longer concerned with your honor but Aegon’s. Your grandfather will be the same. They will destroy your reputation only to save his.

It won’t happen again. Alicent thinks of Viserys’ hands, grasping her hips. Of how she had cried, forced to engage in acts no maiden should be exposed to. Of how she had to keep quiet, carry this great shame of hers because it was her King who ordered it.

But Viserys is dead. Alicent won’t be silent any longer. She grasps a lantern, and her sturdiest boots, and begins to patrol King’s Landing herself.

They will say later that the Queen dowager walked a thousand days and a thousand nights, searching for her daughter. And that she never stopped lighting the candles on your windowsill, not even when Queen Rhaenyra took the Red Keep, not even when the Prince Aemond was vanished after telling her upsetting news. When asked why, her words were simple.

“So she can always know her path home.”

THE WEDDING FEAST is not as grand as the one celebrated when your older sister married, but it is to be expected. Aegon is not heir to anything, regardless of your mother and grandsire say.

You had watched the whole ceremony from one of the benches inside the City’s Sept. Aemond had sat by you, tenderly holding a few handkerchiefs, just in case you started bawling. Most of them have been used by your mother, but you thank his gesture regardless.

There is not much to cry about, truly. Aegon and Helaena are nothing like the pictures of happiness mother described to you when talking of newlyweds. In fact, as Aegon changed Helaena’s cloak, she looked ready to bolt. And he looked miserable.

“Do you think we will marry too?” You ask Aemond, quietly. Ever since he has claimed Vhagar, he has grown more serious and brooding, shedding the last of his childhood innocence. He is a bit terrifying, now, which you think is wicked.

Your Strong nephews no longer mock him so easily. You are all the more glad for it. He would make a worthy husband, capable of protecting you. Or so mother says.

“If we are ordered to.” He answers, squeezing your hand. His face contorts into a strange mix of unbearable fondness and disgust. “Is it such a bad prospect? I heard talk of betrothing you to a Lannister.”

That had been your grandsire’s suggestion. Pawning you off for gold. Literally. At ten and two years of age, you were considered a comely maiden, with the regal Targaryen hair and none of the strange habits of your older sisters. It made you quite a commodity.

“Better a dragon riding husband than a lion of the Rock.” You smirk at Aemond, voice pitched low enough no one can hear you. “We could ride on Vhagar and find out if the world is flat or a sphere, as some Maesters say.”

The thought is enticing to you. A life spent learning the mysteries and secrets of the world that surrounds you. Getting to see far beyond the walls of the Red Keep.

Once, your prison had been a nursery. Now, it was a labyrinth made from red stone.

“I want more glory for my life than being a traveler. I want to leave fame and memory when I die.” Aemond complains. “Besides, the Lannister marriage may do you some good. You would be a Queen in everything but name. A much more secure….”

You shush him before he can say it. Your mother sits on his other side, absorbed by the wedding taking place, and ridding Aemond of the handkerchiefs he had brought for you. It would do no good to point out her failures when she is already that emotional.

Still, Aemond’s words linger around the two of you, silence charged. Marrying a Lannister would be a more secure position than the one afforded to Helaena.

“I like you better.” You finally say, before your mother can notice the lapse in conversation between the two of you.

“I suppose, if I had to… I rather it be you.” Aemond sounds still a bit disgusted by the notion. You know it has less to do with you, and much more to do with his inability to admit he has emotions. Knowing that trying to wrangle an admission of fondness out of him is useless, you decide to focus on the new couple.

“They don’t seem as comforted.” You point out, watching them exit the Sept hand in hand. Helaena is deadly pale, probably at the thought of consummation. You think if it were you marrying Aemond, you wouldn’t be as worried as she is. Being a twin means your built is pretty similar, so he cannot make cruel jokes about your appearance without insulting himself.

Aegon, though, seems much more cruel.

“Yet again, they are not us. We are closer.” Aemond takes your hand and helps you get up from the bench. The two of you wait patiently for the Sept to empty a bit before trying to make your exit. If you have one thing in common, it is that you both despise crowds.

“Wouldn’t that make it harder?” Because you think of having to muster up arousal to bed Aemond, and suddenly, the thought of marrying him doesn’t seem as palatable.

But before Aemond can answer you, probably making a mockery of your sentimentality and your inattention to your lessons, your grandsire interrupts you. He waves a hand to both of you, enthusiastically, as if you were about to run off.

Aemond and you exchange a glance. Your mother stops sniffling.

“What are you two youngsters up to?” He asks, as he reaches you. He gives each a little shove, and you grit your teeth not to let your annoyance show. “Come, to the carriages. You must attend the feast.”

“We know, grandfather. Aemond was escorting me.”

“Of course, young Aemond, ever the dutiful brother.” Your grandsire claps his hand on Aemond’s shoulder. “And you, my dear, the spitting image of your mother. Some could learn from you.”

He gives a glance to the entrance of the Sept, but the couple has already departed. You eye him in suspicion. Otto Hightower never says things without a reason. He must want something.

“Well, it is no matter. You should sit at the newlyweds' side tonight. Perhaps you might curb your siblings' impulses.” And there it is. You fight the urge to roll your eyes. It would be unladylike.

“It shall be done as you say.” Aemond says, and begins leading you to a carriage. He helps you up, careful not to let your puffy green skirts track into the mud. You are wearing a new dress, cut similarly to the ones your mother wears. You have recently flowered, and are enjoying the novelty of wearing grown up styles. The two of you settle across your mother and grandsire.

The night goes downhill from there. Aemond ends up seated next to Helaena, his intimidating figure helping ensure she doesn’t run and no one tries anything funny during the bedding. You end up next to Aegon, with the difficult task of stopping him from getting drunk.

You had heard once a story about a man condemned to roll a giant rock up a mountain, only for it to fall back down when he was reaching the top. The memory feels fitting. You imagine he must have been as miserable as you are. As soon as you snatch a goblet from Aegon’s hand, he is reaching for another.

The mummers are boring, the same old spectacle seen in all Westerosi weddings. A play about the Conquest, with a man who looks nothing like the Conqueror as the male lead. With how loud the musical parts are, you cannot even converse with Aegon.

So when you are at the edge of your wits when it comes to methods to stop him, you gesture for a servant to bring you parchment and a quill. Aegon pauses his drinking, if only to observe what are you trying to write during a wedding.

The note is simple, and prompts a scowl out of him.

Stop drinking. You are embarrassing Helaena.

For a second, it seems like he is going to ignore you. Then, he yanks the quill out of your hand, and messily scribbles.

Mother, you mean.

You have to lean in to write on the parchment, since he is childishly refusing to let go of it. Your eyes meet his. It strikes you, then, how young he looks, despite being the eldest. He has one of those faces, round and sweet, just like your mother’s. When he smiles, half drunk, he reminds you of a deviant cherub.

In a year’s time, you could be welcoming your first nephew. Aegon looks barely out of childhood himself. Even Aemond looks more grown up.

Her, too.

Aegon notices you are studying him, and looks away, uncomfortable. He still replies.

Why do you think I do it?

There is no longer any space in the parchment, so you take out a fresh one. You pen with careful letters, trying not to waste as much space as you did with the previous one.

Do you ever feel like you need to run away from everything?

All the time, sweet sister.

You stare at the words, feeling like you have discovered something you cannot yet name. But before you can match the intuition to an actual concept, someone is calling for the bedding, and Aegon stands up, mask firmly on. He makes a show of it, leering and hooting, much to Helaena’s discomfort.

The moment of vulnerability is lost, and all that is left is the note you hold inside your clenched fist.

AEMOND IS TASKED with finding you, a task that enrages him and fills him with pride in equal parts. He is torn between the hash feeling of your betrayal, of your abandonment, and the fact that he has been tasked with something of such importance. Finally, time for him to prove his worth.

But oh, your betrayal stings. It’s not like he is surprised, having known that you intended to travel the known world, but he is bothered that you didn’t seem fit to inform him. Aemond is the other half of your soul, after all.

At least you had taken Aegon with you, removing an obstacle for his path to the Iron Throne. When he caught up with you, he might forgive you only for that. He had the best motive, after all. Protecting his sister was an honorable excuse to save him from the title of Kinslayer.

With Aegon dead, he would force you to wed him, saving you from dishonor. It would be your punishment for leaving. Aemond would enjoy your enraged face as you were forced to sit with him on the Iron Throne. Unlike Aegon, he didn’t want to bed you, but he enjoyed annoying you for sport. Nothing would annoy you more than being forced to be Queen.

His sweet sister. His milk and cream sister. Aemond had been so worried at first. He had bought on Mother’s crazy theories, thinking you were abducted against your will or whisked to a pillow house in Lys, like it had happened to that Swann lady a few years back.

Then, he realized the absurdity of it all. He had checked the dragonpit first when sent to pursue you. Sunfyre was gone, and Aemond had known this had been your plan all along.

Truly. How foolish Mother was, to think you, Aemond’s other half, could be subdued by Aegon. You were not Helaena. You were made of sterner stuff. Pure Valyrian steel.

Besides, he had heard all about how you needed a dragonrider to take you around the world during your childhood. You had proposed it to Aemond plenty of times. If anyone was abducted, it was probably Aegon. In a strike of brilliance, you had strengthened your beloved twin position and got to take the vacation you had been moaning about ever since you knew how to talk.

His biggest clue about it had been the lack of clues left in your wake. The escape had been too well planned to be born out of Aegon’s head. No dragonkeeper recalled unchaining Sunfyre, yet it was clear someone did because dragons don’t take flight on their own while chained.

No key was missing. No one saw anything the night the two of you vanished. Aemond decides to check Flea Bottom, but he already knows that no trace of you will be found there. This has your fingertips all over it, and even if it didn’t, Aegon was too devoted to you to take you there. He was no Daemon Targaryen, no matter what your mother thought.

This is how he knows it: A secret he has kept for years because it had suited him to do so.

When both of you had been four and ten, your mother had taken you to visit Daeron in Oldtown. Since neither you nor her were dragonriders, Vhagar had been left behind. The journey had taken weeks, almost an entire moon. And there was, of course, the three moons you had spent there, exploring your mother’s childhood home.

The months of the road had changed both of you. During that time, Aemond had actually needed to begin shaving, if he didn’t want to walk around with three miserable hairs on his chin. He had also hit a growth spurt, shooting up like a weed, and his shoulders filled.

In contrast, your changes had been much more dignified. You had stayed the same height, a fact he had used to mock you for ages. Your hips had filled, and you had suddenly grown teats.

The night of your arrival, you had been upset. There had been a mix-up, and the dress commissioned for you to wear on the welcome feast had been made to your old measurements. You had not been able to squeeze into it, and had cried ugly tears in Aemond’s bedroom, refusing to leave because you had gotten fat.

Your mother had solved the problem, of course. She had dug out one of her old dresses, belonging to her mother before her. It was a black one, sequined and embroidered in such a manner it emulated the flames of Hightower. You were enchanted. Called it a priceless heirloom, and danced the night away.

The dress had elicited mixed reactions. Your father and grandfather had both stumbled, as they were seeing a ghost. But Aegon? Aegon loved it.

You had turned into a woman, and looked and behaved so much like mother….

He had been unable to keep his eyes from you during dinner, salivating over you despite having his lady wife next to him. Helaena had been uncaring, not particularly interested in what Aegon did. She had done her duty, having birthed him babes already.

Helaena had been happy to see you, and told you all about the collection of bug-embroidered napkins she had been making for you in the meanwhile. Perhaps your excitement over getting a gift from your sister, prompting you to chatter endlessly with the couple, had been what confused Aegon.

Aemond had kept a careful watch on his brother, noticing that for once, he seemed to be drinking little. A measly two goblets, when usually, he took four. Instead of gorging himself on the drink, he had been gorging himself in you.

His eyes wandered all night. Drinking in your new teats, still blossoming for you were just a girl. Your pretty arse, thanks to the days spent riding horses to get back home. And he had thought himself entitled enough to do the unspeakable.

You had gotten up so you could pass the bread to your mother, when Aegon glanced at your prone form, and gave you a hearty slap on the arse.

The noise had resonated in the hall, making everyone freeze. You had started crying immediately, embarrassed, while Mother berated Aegon. Helaena and Aemond had exchanged a look, both too stunned by the display to speak.

The rest of the guests watched, before laughter rang across the silent hall. It was Daemon, lifting a cup to Aegon. The other guests followed in the merriment, laughing at the fondling you had just received.

Your face had crumpled. More tears fell, face red from public humiliation. It was a feeling Aemond was intimately familiar with, and couldn’t stand to see in his beloved twin’s face. You gathered your skirts and fled the hall, your perfect night ruined.

Aemond had lunged then, grabbing his brother by the collar.

“How dare you dishonor our sisters so!”

But Aegon was standing already, and running after you. He was a tad uncoordinated from the wine, but managed to catch up, Aemond hot on his heels.

Oh, when he got his hands on him, he was going to kill him, Aemond had thought. Daring to pursue you to humiliate you further!

You were huddled in an alcove, hands pressed to your mouth to muffle your cries. At the sight of you, Aegon had looked like someone had struck him.

“I… Apologies, sweet sister… I…” Aemond had never heard him stammer such, much less apologizing for his deviant behavior. He had even leered at Helaena during his own bedding, by the Seven! “I confused you with a serving girl and I…”

You had looked at him, eyes full of betrayal. It was how Aemond imagined he must have looked just before he had lost his eye. You had not spoken a word, shoving both of them in favor of running off again.

Aegon had never touched another girl after that. No longer servants were being dismissed from the Red Keep, with small cups of Moon Tea. No longer Helaena cried because he had visited her drunk. Even the whoring had gone down to reasonable levels.

It was why Aemond doubted you were in as much danger as your mother thought.

YOU BEGIN TO spend more time around Aegon. After that upsetting night, you had chosen to believe in his apology. It hadn’t been as bad, really. Just a spank, that had blown out of proportion when your uncle had laughed.

Your mother had noticed that Aegon had reacted to your consternation in a manner he had not to her scoldings over the years, so she had asked you to keep an eye on him. You find out it is no hardship. He cannot anticipate your every thought like Aemond, but it is expected. He is not your twin.

He is much more fun, willing to engage in any silly games you come up with. Aemond no longer has the patience for them, but Aegon does. Or perhaps he is just feeling guilty. You do not particularly care, as long as you get a companion.

You sit next to him at meals, and ask him to join you for tea in the gardens daily. He stops complaining about there not being any wine after the first moon of your routine. Exercise and sunlight do wonders for his mood, too.

Your newest game consists on slipping him notes during the day, exchanging them in the corridors as you bump shoulders and pretend not to know each other, or tucking them in the pockets of his doublets. Aegon even slips you some back, into the pockets of your cloaks.

You love it. You feel like you are partaking in some sort of courtly intrigue. Exchanging secrets while no one looks, carrying a conversation no one is privy to. You should burn them afterwards, Aegon says, to make it more real, but you find yourself holding on to the notes and saving them.

You will show them to Jaehera and Jaehaerys when they are older. Perhaps the twins will develop a secret language of their own, like Aegon and you. Or perhaps they will become more like Aemond and you, twisted mirrors of each other. Whichever they are, you are sure they will be great. The coin flipped right with them, you can feel it.

Aegon waits patiently for you to tire of playing spies, like you do from all else. You do not have a good track record, with a short attention span and an overeager imagination. You have ceased in your attempts to learn to play Cyvasse, invent a card game, and implement a new communication method using kittens. You had even attempted once to train a bird, but had grown frightened when it started bringing you rats as presents. This, too, shall pass.

He is mistaken. Three moons go by, and you are still at it.

“Isn’t it a bit silly?” He asks you, when it's clear you weren’t going to tire of the game soon. “Passing me messages as if we are spies, when you could just speak to me?”

You cannot explain to him the secret thrill you get every time you see him, the swooping feeling in your stomach when he appears in the hallways and calls you his sweet sister. Much less, how at night you lay in bed, and hold the notes tight against your chest, close to your heart.

How you reread the jokes and the compliments, and imagine him next to you, speaking them into your ear.

It's wrong. Aegon is a married man. And yet… Yet. You have always been the perfect daughter, mirror to Aemond in your dutifulness. A pious lady, respectful of the Seven and her elders. You can have this small thing, surely.

You cannot voice it. He would find it odd, he would no longer want your company. So instead, you give him a secret, coquettish smile. It’s an expression you have seen on your half sister’s lovely mouth, when she bends men to her will. You have stolen it, sharpened, made it deadly.

“Indulge me, brother.”

And Aegon looks at you, and his breath catches. It’s only for a second, but it feels like an eternity. You hear it, the pause of his even breaths, his pulse quickening. You would know him by heartbeat alone, this brother of yours.

“You are a child.” Aegon complains, after clearing his throat.

“Yes. And so are you.” You poke him in the ribs, forcing him to jump to avoid you. It makes you laugh.

“I am a man grown.” Aegon argues, trying to sound dignified.

You pause. You remember your mother’s words, asking you to guide him onto the right path. He is just a boy, underneath it all. Young, foolish and hurting. No one has ever paid him attention, so he acts out to obtain it.

Aemond and you resort to other, more unconventional methods. Both of you do everything right, and pretend not to need anyone.

To this day, your father hasn’t noticed either of you.

But perhaps, you can help him. Give him what he requires and help your mother too.

“I will believe you when I see it. Whoring, drinking. That is not what men do.” You scold, softly.

“Daemon does.” Aegon’s brows furrow, as if sensing a reprimand. You can tell that if you do not hurry, he will sour to you as he has to your mother.

“Does father? Grandsire?” You challenge.

“I do not want to be like them.” He confesses. You take his hands in yours.

“Neither do I. But if we wish to be different, we need to be sober.” And while Aegon looks unhappy, he still squeezes your hands back. “I need you to be.”

He has to do it for himself one day, but for now, he can do it for you.

HELAENA AND AEMOND give chase for days. Their mother sends them in the same direction, but with opposite instructions. While Helaena is not supposed to venture too deep into Essos, Aemond is supposed to scour the farthest Free Cities.

Their meeting date is two weeks into their travels, in the last of Helaena’s destinations. Volantis is as colorful as it is beautiful, and Aemond finds himself fascinated by the sights. He has to agree with you, the world is full of wonderful places just begging to be seen.

Helaena has stationed Dreamfyre at the edge of the city. She comes with a few trusted guards, while Aemond travels alone. He doesn’t need protection when he has Vhagar.

“No success?” He asks her, as he dismounts. They do not dare go further on dragonback, as to not upset the citizens. Starting a war with the Free Cities is the last thing they need right now.

“I heard a rumor.” Helaena says, sliding off Dreamfyre’s back as if it were nothing. Aemond marvels at it. Despite being so ungraceful on land, Helaena looks like a true queen on dragonback. Like she belongs here, and not like she walks a path between realms that would be unfathomable for any man. “About a silver girl and her gold dragon.”

“What do you make of it?” Aemond asks her, hoping she will speak plainly. He also hopes she is not hurt by the news. He was never good at comforting people.

Helaena isn’t the most affectionate of his siblings, but she loves in her own way. Aegon is the father of her children. Some love might be there. Any woman would be furious to hear her husband has run off with her sister. It’s an insult so low, Aemond wonders how she is keeping herself together.

“The rats won’t come for us now.” She answers him, cryptically. Her expression is calm. If she is bothered by what her siblings have done, Helaena doesn’t show it. “Best to keep them there. They can’t touch them there.”

“Who is they, Helaena?” He prods, gently. His sister doesn’t answer. She pets Dreamfyre and gets that faraway look she sometimes wears, when a picture it’s forming in her mind and she can’t quite express it.

Aemond remembers a story about a seer, cursed to walk the earth sprouting prophecies no one believed in but that always ran true. He wonders if dragon dreams are a curse of their own, making those who see the future unable to communicate it.

“I want to find them.” He pleads, holding her by the shoulders. “Please, Hel, this is important.”

Helaena looks at him. Or through him. Aemond doesn’t know. What does she see when she stares at his features? What threads of fate do the Seven weave for him? Helaena can probably read his tapestry, but she would never tell him.

She takes her time, examining his features in search of something. Her shoulders slump under his hold.

“Spare them their chains, Aemond.”

So Helaena knows where you are. They. Aegon and you. But this time, it is not that she cannot tell him. It’s that she won’t.

“Just to see them.” He lets go of her shoulders to grab her hands instead. Helaena’s hands are cold and clammy under his. Aemond knows physical contact bothers her, but he cannot help himself. He needs to know. There is a hunger in him, gnawing at his bones, consuming his flesh. It might devour him alive, if he doesn’t make sure you left willingly. “Will I succeed?”

“The maiden no longer walks alone. The King has taken her. Now she is a Queen, and feasts in a garden full of delights.” Helaena squeezes his hands. Do you understand? Her eyes seem to say, do you understand what I am telling you?

Solve my riddle. Figure it out. For I cannot, I will not tell you more.

Aemond knows this story too. About an older man, who nobody loved, who takes a younger woman and makes her his Queen.

“Did she go willingly?” Aemond asks her because the versions of the story vary, and he doesn’t exactly know which one she is referencing.

Helaena smiles at him, full of pity. Poor man, who understands nothing.

“You may walk out of the Seven Hells, after seeing the one you love. But you will turn back.”

Aemond stares. Helaena climbs back up on Dreamfyre and departs, leaving him standing there.

YOU LAY IN the gardens, feeling sun drunk. Your cheeks are red from the heat. The grass is staining your dress, but you do not care. The warmth feels so good against you, so nice and inviting. Your eyelids drop. Resting your eyes for a few minutes can’t hurt, right?

“Again?” An amused voice says. You open your eyes to look at Aegon. He carries two goblets in his hands.

“It’s so warm.” You mutter. You don’t question how he has found you. Earlier this morning, when you slipped him a note, you mentioned you would be in the gardens. In the Red Keep, immense as it is, that could mean anywhere. But you always find yourself under the same trees.

Your spot, as Aegon calls it. You like it because the trees are positioned just so as to protect your eyes from sunlight, but not the rest of your body. You can read without being blinded, but also nap in the sun.

“Mother says princesses shouldn’t tan.” He sits beside you, handing you a goblet. It’s full of cold water. “You are not some commoner working the fields.”

“Mm.” You mutter, still sleepy. You understand cats so well, sleeping under the sun rays. You wish you were a cat to nap all day in a windowsill and be hand-fed morsels. That sounds like a great life.

“It does, doesn’t it?” Aegon sounds amused, and it’s then you realize you didn’t share those thoughts with him. Did you spoke them aloud? “Yes, you did. Get up, you are getting heat stroke. Drink your water.”

You obey him, sipping at your goblet. The coldness from the water helps you clear your head, and notice that your face feels hot, and your chest is red.

“Not again.” You complain, tucking yourself more into the shadow the tree produces. Aegon simply watches you, a smirk on his lips. “Mother will murder me.”

“I warned you.” He laughs at your expression, a petulant mix of a pout and a scowl. “Drink. I want to teach you a card game while you cool down enough to be presentable.”

Aegon aids you drink from your goblet, careful to not let the water spill. He tucks your sweaty hair behind your ears. Meanwhile, you marvel at how much he has changed, during these years.

He is still undeniably fun, much more than Aemond or you. But he is no longer drunk all the time, and spends his time trying to get you to lighten up and learn new diversions. You like this version of Aegon, who calls you his sweet sister still, but whose face has lost the bloated look alcoholics have. He looks healthier, hair thicker, dark circles less pronounced.

You have been trying to make him work on his tan. He refuses. Your serious nature has not rubbed on him, but he is healthier and treats you with the utmost kindness.

“I would like to learn how to bet.” You tell him, confidently. Truth is, you want to go for another ride on Sunfyre. He has grown just enough to carry two riders, and you miss flying. Aemond no longer takes you in Vhagar, more focused on martial exercises.

If you manage to win a bet, perhaps you can claim a ride on Sunfyre as your prize. Aegon is wary of taking you again because last time, mother had caught you and scolded you until your ears were ringing.

“Betting, sweet sister…” Aegon sips from his goblet, giving you a half smile. “It’s an art one cannot learn in one afternoon. Depends on the game you are playing.”

“An art? By the Seven, I never knew Flea Bottom was full of artists! Someone should tell Daemon, for he has been a real patron of the arts and never knew.” You say, tone flat.

Aegon snorts so hard, the water comes out through his nose. You laugh.

“As I was saying, depends on the game. With cards, you look at them, but if there are cocks involved…” His tone turns lecherous. You gasp, outraged. You are not a prude, but dirty jokes still embarrass you. Were it not by how sunburned you are, you are sure a blush would already be present on your face.

“Um, hello, as in the animal!” Aegon tells you, as if it were obvious. There is a telling little dimple in his face, though, one he gets when he is fighting laughter. “Get your mind off the gutter. What would mother say?”

“Oh.” You say, eloquently. Is he being serious? He has not burst out laughing yet, so he might be, and his amusement could be out of your dirty thoughts. You feel even worse. Perhaps your mind is really in the gutter.

“Those, you choose carefully. Look for the bigger. The girthier…” You shriek in indignation, not allowing him to keep speaking. You hate being so gullible. He always gets you.

“Shut up! I thought you were being serious!” You tackle him, beginning to tickle his sides. When the two of you stop laughing, Aegon places his arm for you to use as a pillow and you curl into him. The two of you nap under the trees the rest of the day.

He has found out a better way to get drunk by the end of the afternoon.

ALICENT IS AT the end of her tether. She hasn’t slept in days. Every time she lays down, she imagines the terrible violations you must be being subjected to. Her poor girl, forced to submit to her deviant brother’s whims.

The pictures in her head won’t let her sleep. They remind her of another young girl, barely of age, taken by a Targaryen King. Being summoned, asked to lay still and spread her legs. To bear it with a grin. To sacrifice herself for the good of the realm, for her family.

Her honor, broken. Her sister believing her a whore. Warming the bed where another bleed.

A dutiful daughter. A dutiful wife. A dutiful whore. Nursing him by day, working over him at night, until her thighs hurt, and she thought, is this what being a Queen is like? She had not felt Queen of anything, except the Seven Hells.

Whore, mother, daughter, wife. It makes no difference. Girls, all over the world, were just vessels for men. Even Princesses, even Queens.

Despite Aemond’s reassurances that you are probably fine, and that Aegon would never hurt you, Alicent cannot stop herself from worrying. Aemond doesn’t know what she does, after all.

Deep within her heart, to take to her grave, she carries a secret. A dark secret. One Aemond is not privy to. Alicent doesn’t dare tell him, either. It would mean further stain on your honor, and more anguish to your twin.

It’s better only she knows. This way, it’s her burden alone. It will not drag you down, or worry your siblings. Safe within the confines of her mind, the secret cannot hurt anyone.

Inside Oldtown, there is the Hightower. In the highest tower there is, next to the powder used to change the color of the flames atop the beacon, is another box. The box has three locks, and a chain wrapped around it, for good measure. It’s made of pure valyrian steel.

Inside the box, Alicent keeps the secret: She had caught Aegon kissing you once.

It had been shortly before your father’s death. You had been helping with the preparations for receiving Rhaenyra and her sons, overseeing the cleaning of the locked rooms. Alicent had tasked you with the responsibility, and you, her brilliant, dutiful girl, had not disappointed.

She doesn’t remember why she had been looking for you. Perhaps, to ask you about where you intended to place the babes, if in the old nursery or in the rooms set aside for their parents. She does remember it had been early afternoon.

The door had been open, so Alicent had not knocked. Alicent had entered Rhaenyra’s old chambers to find your brother crowding you against a wall. Aegon held you in a passionate embrace, his hands helping themselves to your hips and buttocks.

Your dress was bunched up around your waist, and your hips darted nervously from side to side, surely trying to avoid his touch. You were yowling like a kitten, hands pushing on his shoulders.

Alicent heard your distressed cries, your twitchy little movements, and saw red.

“How dare you!” She screamed, uncaring if someone else heard her. Aegon jumped away from you as if your touch burned you.

You had wiped your mouth, face red.

“Mother… I… I am so sorry…” You were so ashamed, so small, and you had reminded her so much of herself it hurt her. The nights where her father ordered her to go to the King, and she couldn’t refuse. How she had been told fighting wasn’t ladylike, that she had to submit to men, let them throw her around as if she were a thing and not a person.

It filled her with rage. It made her want to scratch Aegon’s eyes off with her own nails. Throw herself to the floor, and scream loud and never stop.

“Don’t say a word, my love! Aegon, how could you!”

It was anger, and pain, but also guilt. Guilt, because she knew what Aegon had been up to with the serving girls. Because Alicent had encouraged him to see his sister as a woman, and not a simple sibling. Because she had taught you the same things that she had been taught, that you weren’t to resist or fight, that you were to bear it all with a grin.

Her poor, poor girl. If she had given you a sword, would you have defended yourself? Screamed? Pushed him off?

But instead of a shield and a sword against the world, she had handed you a mirror and forced to make your peace with it. Only Alicent was to blame.

“Mother…” You tried again, tears coming to your eyes.

“Go to Aemond. Now.” Alicent had ordered. She had then berated Aegon until he confessed everything was his fault, and slapped him for his attempt on his sister’s virtue.

She wished she had gelded him, then. A King with no heirs would have been one of the usual tragedies, just like girls being hurt were. None would have merited more than a footnote in the history of Westeros.

YOU ARE COMING of age, and the whole realm is celebrating. Twins are unusual, and the royal family being blessed with two pairs in two generations merits some celebration.

Both Aemond and you have managed to survive until adulthood, a marvel on itself. Sometimes, it felt as if you wouldn’t make it. Especially Aemond, after claiming the biggest dragon in Westeros and losing his eye. You worried about your twin, sometimes.

As always, you embrace the frivolity with gusto. You commission a gown for the occasion, and dance with every single person attending the feast. Not even your father had been spared, holding you close and swaying to the music before growing too weak.

Your grandsire, despite his objections, had been dragged into the merriment too. As had Daemon, your nephews, your twin, your brothers, your friends, and your sister. Twirling in the makeshift dance floor, you had been the life of the feast, allowing Aemond to quietly brood.

Everyone was enchanted by the beautiful princess, and her joyful manners. There was already talk of how lovely a bride you would make, and how happy your future Lord Husband would be with you by his side.

But you wanted none of it. You had started to develop conflicting feelings for Aegon, and wished to untangle them first, before thinking of marriage.

In truth, you didn’t imagine a life outside the Red Keep, one where you had children and stayed in the same place forever, even in death.

When you dared to dream, you always saw yourself on dragonback.

When Ser Martyn Reyne asks you for a dance, you do not hesitate. You agree to let him twirl you between the tables because he is a friend of Aegon. Even if you do not like the way he smiles at you, like he wants to eat you whole.

It is then you hear it and your smile freezes.

After you dance, you go get a refreshment, and noticing you haven’t danced with Aegon yet, you approach the group he is with. Ser Martyn is also there, well on the way to being drunk.

“And I swear, your sister has the prettiest teats in the Seven Kingdoms!” He bellows, before burping.

You cannot see Aegon’s expression from where you stand. His back is turned to you. The other men have not noticed you yet, so you creep closer. Has he gone back to his old ways? Your heart feels like it’s breaking, but you need to know. Especially if these new feelings are what you think they are.

He had started kissing you, recently. But you cannot tell if this is just a game to him or if it is more. You cannot risk it. You have to know. Your childhood infatuation with him has grown teeth, nails, and become a monster that threatens to devour you. He is a married man, but the heart doesn’t know of vows or Septons. It only knows of want.

“Bet she is a little freak, just like your brother. I know her cunt must be so sweet, too. Princesses are meant to be.” This is Eddard Waters. You know he is one of your brother’s friends, and even more boisterous than the others.

“And you intend to sample her, then?” Ser Martyn asks him. You make a face. As if you would let any of these fools between your legs.

“You know what they say… The wettest the cunt, the…” But whatever rude thing Water was going to say is lost because Aegon punches him in the face.

It’s glorious. It’s ridiculous. Your brother fights like a commoner, slamming the wine jug on his friend’s head. A brawl breaks out around you, more people jumping in trying to separate the Prince from the knights, as he screams, bites and trashes.

“My sister is off limits!” He screams, fiercely. Aemond materializes by your side, tugging you away from the fight that has ruined your nameday feast, but you stay there.

Even as he throws you over his shoulder, and gets you out, not hesitating to unsheat his sword to get you to safety, you stay there.

Looking at Aegon holding his knuckles, probably having broken them. He has never been good at fighting.

Looking at Aegon, standing up to his friends for the first time in years. For you.

It strikes you then, standing in the middle of the Hall, as if it were lighting. You love him. You love him.

Love. You love him, and it changes everything.

How can people speak of love as a choice, when in reality it is an arrow that strikes you, lighting hitting you in the middle of a storm? When it roots you to a spot, and shatters all your bones? Choice. As if. You do not choose Jaehaerys, you do not choose your Daemon. You do not choose the rain that will soak you to the bone as you leave the hall.

WHEN AEMOND FINALLY finds you, you are holding to Aegon’s hand as the two of you stroll through a market in Braavos. There, your features aren’t as recognizable.

He sees it, then. Not with his eye, but with his heart. Out of all the possibilities, he had been right.

The silver girl, with her golden dragon. Spurring him up, higher, faster, further. And while wax melts, dragons do not burn.

You look happy. There is a playful smile on your face, when you tug on Aegon’s hand and force him to run, Aemond hot on your heels.

He vows to remember you as you are, his fierce, brave twin. Your ferocious grin as you disappeared into an alleyway, twisted towards a gate, whistled loudly.

“Tell mother I chose to run. Not Aegon.”

And then you are running towards Sunfyre, Aegon helping you mount. Aemond, having not dared bring Vhagar inside the city, doesn't follow.

He has to inform his mother. She refuses to believe in his words, thinking he is doing her a kindness, fabricating the story of a couple in love, of a runaway Princess.

But with the clarity of death, she decides to visit your rooms one last time. Despite her aches and pains, and the recommendations of the Maesters.

The eve before Queen Alicent’s death, something compels her to get out of her bed and search your old rooms. The pain doesn’t let her sleep, tortures her at night. Her own mind is a labyrinth that traps her, filled with monsters that will kill her.

The first one reads:

Everything is as you had left it. In this place, no time has passed. And beneath the bed, in a box, she finds it. The tale of your romance.

Do you ever feel like you need to run away from everything?

Underneath your elegant scrawl, Aegon’s chicken-like letters answer,

They say she died of a broken heart, in her old age. But perhaps, and just perhaps, knowing the truth set her free.

All the time, sweet sister.

542 notes · View notes